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setaripendragon · 11 months

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Cress - Part 2

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 Happy Halloween everyone! This isn't exactly spoopy, but it is something =D I think this is the part I'm least pleased with, mostly because I think it has pacing issues, but I honestly have no idea how to fix it =/ I really like writing from Hob's PoV though. Hob gets a gift in the middle of the night.

Hob wakes with a start at an ungodly hour, heart racing, absolutely certain that just a moment ago he’d been standing over Robyn’s cradle. Which is very strange, and a little disorienting, because Hob hasn’t actually dreamt since the Great War.

Then a baby wails, again, and Hob jolts upright, eyes wide in alarm. He is very definitely awake right now, and he can still very definitely hear a baby crying. He’s pretty sure he didn’t leave his window open last night – four hours ago, god’s wounds – so it’s far too loud to be outside. In fact, it sounds like it’s coming from his living room.

“Shit,” he whispered, swinging his legs out of bed and standing. He’s… pretty sure robbers or murderers or witch-hunters wouldn’t bring a baby with them to break into someone’s house, but all the same, he’s cautious as he pads to the door and peers out.

There is a portable baby-seat sitting on his coffee table, and no one else.

Hob flips the light on just to be sure, not quite stepping all the way out from behind the doorway as he reaches around and flicks the switch – so convenient, these electric lights! He’s a huge fan, honestly. Better than chimneys – but the light only reveals what he already knew. He and the now outright crying baby are the only ones in the room. In the whole apartment, probably, unless someone’s hiding in his shower or something.

That still leaves the question of how the baby got in, cause it sure as hell didn’t do it itself. Warily, he crosses the living room – grabbing his dressing gown off the back of his bedroom door as he goes – to peer down into the carrier. The baby is entirely occupied by its own distress, and doesn’t really notice him until he makes a small shushing noise, its upset tugging on his heartstrings. Then its crying takes on a more confused, needy note.

Hob really can’t do anything but reach down and pick it up. It startles at his touch, flailing, and a scrap of paper flutters out of the folds of its swaddling to land on the table. Hob ignores it like one ignores a rearing viper, while he gets the baby settled in his arms.

It’s a newborn, or close enough as makes no difference. Tiny, and still all red and wrinkled, and very upset about all this air and light business. The instinct, Hob discovers then, never really goes away. It comes back to him startlingly quickly, and after a little while of pacing and rocking and singing four hundred year old lullabies, the baby settles and goes to sleep, leaving Hob free to deal with the… note.

God, he hopes its a note. He’d really like a fucking explanation right now.

Holding the baby in one arm, he reaches down with the other and scrabbles it up into his palm, lifting it and then flipping it, to find a short note in a very old-fashioned cursive.

Your life is as ever yours to live as you choose, it begins, and Hob feels a strange frisson go through him. A strange mixture of terror and relief, because that phrasing is… it’s familiar. It takes him back to 1789, and the first bit of… of anything his… his stranger had ever given him. Relief, because a note is some kind of communication, where he’s spent the last ninety years thinking he’s mucked it all up and he’ll never see his stranger again. Terror, because…

Well, a note is new. A note suggests things that can’t or wouldn’t be said in person, eight years from now.

A note, and a baby, Hob reminds himself, which is a terror in its own right. A child delivered in the witching hour by an unseen hand, along with a note from an entity who is neither mortal nor devil and beyond that could be fucking anything. That’s the start to a cautionary tale straight out of Hob’s youth, that is.

Swallowing hard, he steadies himself, and reads the rest:

Your life is as ever yours to live as you choose.

However, if your words ere last we parted still hold true,

I would dare to entrust this duty to you, my friend.

Hob has to reread it several times for the meaning to sink in. Then he sits down perhaps a bit too heavily, and starts to laugh. He fights to keep it quiet, and the baby isn’t too disturbed by his chest shaking, so that’s okay.

Just like his friend – his friend! – to leave a note that very succinctly explains absolutely fucking nothing. Just like his friend to make a request without ever actually asking a god damned question or saying please. Proud as a cat and twice as haughty. Which… Hob sobers slowly as the thought occurs to him, but it’s very unlike his stranger to make a request at all. And to call the kid – he’s assuming it’s about the kid – a duty is pretty fucking telling. And worrying.

What’s going on that his friend can’t watch the kid himself?

Dread sinks slow and solid into his gut. Something has to be wrong, doesn’t it? For his friend to reach out like this, breaking habit and conceding to being friends and- and humbling himself, it means something’s gone to absolute shit and he’s, what? Putting the kid somewhere safe so it doesn’t get caught in the crossfire?

Hob finds himself torn. On the one hand, his first impulse is to leap up and go looking for his friend. To make sure he’s okay, to offer to help. But then, on the other hand, his friend has already asked for his help, and what he asked for was for Hob to take care of the kid. Which by necessity means Hob can’t go looking for the exact trouble his friend wants him to keep it safe from.

“Well, shit,” Hob tells the baby sleeping in his arms. The baby, of course, doesn’t answer. “Nothing for it, really,” he sighs, getting back to his feet. “Not like I’m going to say no, when it’s the first and only thing he’s ever asked of me, you know? Be kind of churlish, that.” He shakes his head to himself and looks down at the child, feeling momentarily overwhelmed and softly melancholy.

“Guess I have a baby now. Not that I know how long that’s going to last, or… Damn, he didn’t even think to tell me your name. I can’t just keep calling you ‘baby’. Are you a boy or a girl? Is that a stupid question? I mean, are you even human? I know your- your dad isn’t. Well, I think he’s not human. He’s never really told me one way or the other. Maybe you’ll be able to help me figure it out, eh?”

Hob paces as he chatters, rocking the kid absently. He honestly isn’t sure what he’s going to do when the kid wakes up. Babies need things, he remembers that much. Things like food, and clothes, and toys and- And he hasn’t even thought about any of this for four hundred years. He wonders what one has to do to hire a wet nurse in this day and age. Maybe he can buy a nanny goat? It’s not like there’s local farms just down the road any more, and people don’t really live alongside animals quite the same any more, so that’s probably not the done thing these days.

“It’s been a goodly long while since I last had to take care of a baby,” he tells the one in his arms. It slumbers on, unheeding. “I bet they’ve come up with some clever things since then, anyway. That’ll be an adventure, won’t it? We’ll go to a store and see what they recommend,” he decides, and goes to get dressed.

He does just that, and a very helpful worker shows him to the baby aisle, and even recommends some brands for him. Supermarkets. Amazing things. Used to be you had to go to half a dozen different stores to get your weekly shopping done. Now it’s all in one building. And department stores! Which is where he heads to next, because while the supermarket is great for formula – they’ve learned to make and bottle mother’s milk! – and nappies and such, it’s not so good for clothes and toys and furniture.

He feels a little bad about the simple plastic crib he buys. “Feels like you ought to be sleeping in something a bit nobler than this. Pretty sure your dad is some kind of royalty,” he tells the still slumbering baby. “He’s got that air about him, you know? I met the Queen, once. Not this one, the first Lizzie, and she had the same sort of… affect.” Honestly, it’s probably just because his first look at the guy had been of him dressed in black with that great big fuck-off ruby on his chest like the notion of brigands and thieves was utterly alien to him. Sheltered nobility, Hob had pegged him as, and nothing he’d done since had quite erased that first impression.

Maybe Hob’ll commission a proper wooden crib from a proper artisan, like he had for Robyn. Or maybe he’ll wait to see if the baby is even still here next month before he starts worrying about that sort of thing. The baby wakes up – to his slight relief; he knows babies sleep a lot, but… well, there’s sleepy sickness to worry about these days – before he gets home, so he has to make the drive with it whining unhappily the whole way.

Then he figures out how to mix and heat the formula and… Well. Feeding Robyn had always been Elanor’s job. He’s never done this bit before. It… goes, at least, even if he can’t say it goes well. Then the baby sicks up on him. Which is lovely. They’ll try again in a bit, he decides, laughing at himself and his own exhaustion.

Then he finally sets about removing the swaddling, which he realises as he unwraps it is less a silk baby blanket, like he’d assumed, but more… torn scraps of something else. Going by the fabric and colour… a lady’s nightgown. The sexy kind.

It unnerves Hob for reasons he can’t quite pin down. Just… that’s not the usual thing to swaddle a baby in if you have any other choice, right? It’s not right. But the baby is whinging, presumably about the cold, so Hob wraps her up again, this time in a disposable nappy and a little black onsie. In the process of doing so, he discovers the baby is, in fact, a girl.

“A little princess, huh?” he asks, lifting her back into his arms. “Do you think your dad’ll be offended if I give you a name? Not forever, of course. I’m sure he can pick a better one, if he wants, when he comes back for you, but I can’t just go around calling you ‘baby,’ now can I?” He frowns, and the baby burbles and kicks. “Should I be getting you a proper birth certificate?” he wonders, and then scoffs at himself. “Oh, that’d go great, Hobsie. ‘And the father’s name?’ Uh… he never told me? ‘Okay, and the mother’s?’ Never met her! I’d get arrested for baby snatching or something.”

He shakes the thought off. If she’s still here in a month, he’ll revisit the idea. But either way, she needs a name. And he’s at a bit of a loss. Even if it’s only going to be temporary, he still doesn’t want to pick a name his stranger would hate. But he’s not exactly got a lot to go off, trying to pick something he’d like.

His stranger is neither human nor devil, some form of immortal, probably nobility, has some kind of magic ghost-summoning – or hallucination-causing – dust, can know someone’s life story just by looking at them, has a poor view on slavery – rightly so – and once abandoned him on their one night in a century to fuck about with that poncy twink Shaxberd.

Hob groans. “No!” he protests to no one in particular. “No, I won’t do it. Shan’t!”

But he knows he’s going to.

He just needs to get the frustration and – okay, yes, fine – his jealousy out of his system first. So he grumps and grouches, and then smiles reluctantly, when it makes the baby coo back at him. “Ah, fine. What about… Cordelia? Since you’re probably a princess, too? Ah, no, don’t want to wish ill on your dad that way. Ophelia? No. Don’t want to wish ill on you either. Titania? You could be fairy princess, after all. You dad does have that fae elegance to him, doesn’t he?”

Hob seriously considers it for a long moment, and then winces. “Unless… if you are, and he is, then what’s to say that Titania isn’t real? And I wouldn’t want to offend her by taking her name and giving it to someone else. Faeries have a thing about names, don’t they? You think that’s why your dad never introduced himself to me?”

The baby doesn’t appear to have an opinion on this one way or the other. She seems to be getting sleepy again, actually. “You know what?” Hob asks her, keeping his voice low and soothing, starting to pace and sway. “I’m not above being petty. What was his worst play, do you think? One of the histories? Taming of the Shrew? Measure for Measure?” He pauses, humming thoughtfully. “No, I’m not giving you a name out of one of those, Shaxberd was absolutely rotten about women in them.”

That sparks a thought, though. “He was pretty rotten about Cressida, too, but Chaucer was a lot nicer about her. Had a lot more nuance in his poem, much more sympathetic and thought-provoking than Shaxberd’s rubbish. You’d probably get teased if I called you Criseyde, though, and I don’t mind modernising.”

He pauses his pacing and looks down at the baby in his arms. She blinks back up at him slowly, eyes drifting ever closer to being shut. “What do you think? Does Cressida suit your highness?”

Her answer is to fall asleep on him. But since that’s about her only other option besides crying, Hob decides to take it as an agreement. “Cressida. Cressida Golding, I suppose you’ll be, what with this decade’s alias. That is, if your dad doesn’t come to get you any time soon.”

With that sorted, Hob starts making plans for the short-term. He can get a week or so off work while he figures out how he’s going to handle this, but then his plans to go to the library after he’s called in with a family emergency are interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn. He shoots a startled glance at the clock, only to discover it’s nearly midday, and he only got a bare handful of hours of sleep. “Think I’d better join you in taking a nap, huh, princess?” he asks with good humour, and goes to do just that.

#The Sandman #Hob Gadling #kid fic #next gen oc #in case you couldn't tell #Cress's thematic colour is gold #she's a Moon Moon character that way #I honestly didn't intend to name her Gold Gold #but once I noticed I had I'll admit I ran with it #Also that note was not actually written by Dream #exactly #I couldn't figure out how to put it in the narrative #but that note is actually from the Fates #who wrote down basically What Would Convince Hob

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sperastella · 1 year

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Thoughts on Rey's New Jedi Order

I was beyond excited by Lucasfilm's announcement at Star Wars Celebration that Rey would be returning in a new upcoming New Jedi Order film. I love Rey and have wanted to see her return whether it be in a TV show or movie for years. Based on the limited info released, primarily that the film will take place 15 years after TROS, I've begun to think about what I would potentially like to see from this Rey movie and the different stories that could be explored. So in true writer fashion, I've decided to my thoughts down and share them here.

PLEASE NOTE: These are just some of my initial thoughts. If the movie doesn't follow any of these ideas, that is perfectly fine. I'm just sharing my initial impressions.

No Force Dyad Stuff

I have never been a fan of the concept of a Force dyad and don't want anything about force dyads in the movie. To me, a dyad is just force gobbledy gook that attempts to explain something that doesn't need to be explained. (Why is Rey so strong in the force?) Lucasfilm have retconned the concept itself first saying its the reason Rey can force heal, but then we see Grogu doing it, so now I don't even know what is technically canon anymore. I view dyads as the Sequel Trilogy's midichlorians and I think it should be treated as such - completely ignored.

No Ben Solo

I'm coming in with what I expect to be a controversial opinion for some... Look, I'm not a fan of the Reylo ship and I respect people who are, but my reason for not wanting Ben Solo to be part of this film has (almost) nothing to do with whether you support the ship or not. First, from a narrative perspective, I want this movie to be about Rey. So much of her story in the Sequels was tied to Luke and then Kylo/Ben and then Palpatine. Why does my girl constantly have to be linked to another character? This movie should be focused on Rey's story. Second, whether you support the ship or not, I simply do not believe Rey would be pining/needing/searching for a guy she knew for all of one year an entire 15 YEARS LATER!! I'm sorry, that does not make sense. The timeline of this film is so far removed from TROS that Rey will have had time to process what has happened and moved on. I want to see an older, mature Rey who is confident, built a life for herself and is now going to take on new challenges. Enough looking back. To quote Ben himself: "Let the past die."

(Also, it should go without saying, I definitely don't want any weird stuff like Ben impregnated Rey at the end of TROS when he put a hand on her stomach. That is just ew - no.)

No Palpatine Conflict

I was not a fan of Rey being Palpatine's granddaughter. They did it and that is fine, I'll live with it. But for the love of god, please please please let this story thread go. I don't want to see Rey conflicted by her heritage. That was her entire arc in the ST. My feelings here are similar to those on Ben. It's done. It's over. Let it be. This is 15 years later. I want Rey's story to be about looking forward!!

No Apprentice Gone Bad Story

The whole trope of an apprentice turning to the dark side was done in the sequels and many many times in the now non-canon expanded universe New Jedi Order stories. It's played out. Can we please please not do that again? Give Rey and this movie a different conflict.

The (New) Jedi as a Religion

Okay, so this is my big thought around a potential theme to tie this Rey New Jedi Order movie with the James Mangold Dawn of the Jedi movie. The Jedi is often seen as an analogy to religion and the Force as a type of divine entity. We know in the history of the real world that religion has been used to commit some of the worst atrocities throughout human history. The same could be said about the Jedi and the conflict with the Sith. To that point, I think a really interesting theme Rey's New Jedi Order could explore is how do you rebuild a religion after it has arguably been responsible so much death and destruction throughout the galaxy? This could potentially tie into Mangold's Dawn of the Jedi film with Rey trying to make the New Jedi Order more like the original Jedi order we potentially see in that movie. To use a real-life analogy, I think of the Catholic Church and some of its beliefs toward LGTQ+ individuals and sexual assault scandals of priests as the exact opposite of the actual teachings of Jesus. Or Islam being used to justify terror. Conversely, within Star Wars, how can Rey rebuild the Jedi without the trappings that led to so much bad and stay true to the true nature of the Force?

Include and Acknowledge (Jedi) Finn

In a perfect world, I want John Boyega to come back and have redemption playing Finn. I think the big question here is whether he would do it and is this movie the right place for it? If the answer is no, perhaps Lucasfilm could at least include an off-hand mention of Finn saying he's away somewhere taking care of something else and that Rey did in fact train him as a Jedi. This could at least canonize him training as a Jedi and keep the door open should John want to return in the future.

At least mention Poe

I don't think Poe Dameron is needed for this movie, but I do think it would be good to also have an off-hand comment to at least give us an idea of what Poe has been up to after TROS. (Don't get me wrong though, similar to Finn, I would love to have him!)

A Different Antagonist

So if we eliminate the student gone bad trope, who should be the antagonist(s) of this movie? I have a few ideas, many of which have been done in old Legends and Expanded Universe stories:

Yuuzhan Vong or similar non-force user threat that are strong enough to threaten the Jedi

A really old ancient Sith lord taking control of an explorer who wonders into his tomb. The Old Republic storylines did this frequently with spirits of deceased Sith lords able to possess individuals.

Non-sith Dark Side users such as the Nightsisters or Sorcerers of Tund

Dark Jedi -- this one is really difficult because I'd want to see them done in a way that clearly differentiates them from the Sith and also answers the question where have they been this whole time and what motivates them?

An ancient powerful civilization that could threaten the Jedi and/or galaxy such as the Rakata and Infinite Empire

If all else fails, just create some random sith that has been hiding out in the unknown regions I guess 🙃

Anyway, I think that's most of my thoughts for now. Perhaps I'll revise my thoughts once I've had more time to think about it. What do you think of my list? Do you agree or disagree with some of my thoughts? Curious to hear your opinions! 🙂

#star wars #rey #rey skywalker #new jedi order #poe dameron #finn #ben solo #speculation

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marlaluster · 2 years

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Here's what's up with a former Buccaneers player named Antonio Brown insulting Tom Brady...

Just trying to clear the clip tray on my phone of some things I copied yesterday to share here. Here in this post is info on one thing I have a few articles on my clip tray about...

This story keeps continuing where some former pro football player named Antonio Brown is seeming to take shots at Tom Brady, a former teammate of Brown's with Tampa Bay Buccaneers. We saw an article early yesterday about Brown insulting Tom in a tweet on Twitter. The tweet was unclear to me, though, something about Tom taking money from players.

Then later in the day when I was checking to see if there was any news on whether Gisele had attended Tom's game yesterday, I saw a new story on Brown apparently trying to insult Tom again by posting a picture of Bündchen hugging Brown after a game, a victory for the Buccaneers.

The stories I'll share links to below tell about Brown walking off from a game in January and the Buccaneers letting him go from the team after Brown refused their offer for psychological help of some kind.

It's said in my mind by my soulmates and seemingly the devil that Brown represents the devil trying to say Tom is not okay. The devil is trying to say Tom isn't who would be able to be himself.

"It's supposed to be if someone says someone is less, they aren't who can be. It's supposed to be that those people are okay that are not us," my soulmates said.

My soulmates were trying to say that people who are the devil here are supposed to be like God and be able to say my soulmates and I are inferior to them and so we wouldn't be possible to be who we truly are here.

In previous instances we've seen the devil use this concept of that someone saying another person is okay means the person is who can be and someone saying another person is less or not okay means the person cannot be.

One time we saw a bad photo on Instagram of the rapper Doja Cat and later we noticed the devil had added two people to the picture as who were to be telling Doja Cat she was okay. One person was a white woman who was wearing bright red rouge and other make up and appeared to be a behind-the-scenes worker at, I assume, fashion week. The other person added to the photo with Doja Cat was a big black man who appeared to be a body guard.

In another example of the devil acting like this idea makes sense where others make it so that a person can be or not was shown in a photo we saw of Prince George, who is a child version of one of my soulmates as who wouldn't really be a child, sticking out his tongue. Prince George in the photo, was to be saying it wasn't okay here, my soulmates said from another plane.

But the devil was saying Prince George wasn't able to be himself as who would say it wasn't okay here because someone in the background of the photo, a very pale and extremely depressed looking woman, was supposed to be saying George was not okay.

"Uh I don't want you to put those examples there. Bye," the devil said.

So in this case with Brown insulting Tom, we think it's the devil's intention that Tom cannot be himself and leave Bundchen or continuing playing football until he's able to leave Bündchen because Brown is saying Tom is not okay. The trouble for the devil is that Brown keeps surfacing in incidents where he looks like he is someone who would be considered not okay to people.

For example, a video surfaced of Brown exposing himself to others at a hotel pool in Dubai. This and him walking off from a Buccaneers game in January -- and possibly other things I'm forgetting or not aware of -- are seemingly showing Brown is someone who would not be thought highly of by people.

We think these incidents where Brown looks bad are expressing that the devil is not really an upstanding or well thought of entity, yet he is trying to be a significant determining figure to say people are who would be or not be.

"I am something like that: very less, but not who I can be to be who I am saying. I'm saying I am a gatekeeper, but I'm not who can look like that. I am trying to say Tom is less, but it's not working," the devil said.

Additionally, I saw a couple other articles about people seeming to comment on Tom Brady. There was one other shot at Tom in addition to Brown insulting Tom and there was one guy saying that a job in sports news for Tom would possibly be time consuming.

The dig at Tom was by Gisele Bündchen's ex boyfriend, who said Tom had insulted him years ago by saying to the ex boyfriend that he made more money than Gisele's ex.

The devil was making it so that I couldn't hear from my soulmates on the insult by Bündchen's ex.

The info on sports broadcasting from someone, we think it's where the devil is trying to say that a sports news job would consume Tom's time as much as pro football and so Tom should retire and do sports casting as who would still be doing something where he's saying he's not being who he really would wish to be. In other words, the devil is trying to get Tom to replace football with sports news casting to say he is not able to be himself or end the world as who is still in a marriage with Bündchen.

"That is what I'm saying. That he is still who would be losing as much as with football," the devil said.

Here are links to the articles I'm referring to in this post. The first link is to an article by The Spun on Brown insulting Brady in a tweet or something. Secondly is an article by Clutch Points on Brown posting a picture of himself on Instagram hugging Bündchen. The third link is to an article by the New York post about Brown exposing himself at a hotel pool in Dubai. The fourth link is to an article by The Spun about Bündchen's ex complaining about Brady. The fifth and last link is to an article by Athlon Sports about a former pro football player saying Tom may find that sports broadcasting is time consuming.

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kimthwariru · 2 years

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☾ Smoke and Dust {Yoonmin au}

masterpost here

Genre: smut, angst, old kingdom au

Note: I know the term ‘Maiden’ is usually used for girls, but unfortunately due to societal double standards, there is not a specific term needed for a male virgin, so in this au the word will be used neutrally.

ao3 link here

Chapter 1

"They found Finley this eve, just outside the Blood Forest, dead."

Jimin looked up from his cards and across the crimson-painted surface to the three men sitting at the table. He had chosen this spot for a reason.

He...felt....nothing from these men as he drifted alongside them between the crowded tables earlier.

No pain, physical or emotional.

Normally, Jimin didn't prod to see if someone was in pain. Doing so without reason felt incredibly invasive, but in crowds, it was difficult to control just how much he allowed himself to feel. There was always someone whose pain cut so deeply, was so raw, that their anguish became a palpable entity that Jimin didn't even have to open his senses to feel—and he couldn't ignore and walk away from. They projected their agony onto the world around them.

Jimin was taught from an early age to ignore. To never speak of the gift bestowed upon him by the gods and to never, ever go beyond sensing to actually doing something about it.

Not that Jimin always did what he was supposed to do.

Obviously.

But these men were completely fine earlier when Jimin reached out with his senses. He specifically sat here because he couldn't feel a great pain coming from them, which was surprising, given what they did for a living.

They were guards from the Rise—the mountainous wall constructed from the limestone and iron mined from the Elysium Peaks. Ever since the War of Two Kings ended four centuries ago, the Rise had enclosed all of Masadonia, and every city in the Kingdom of Solis was protected by a Rise. Smaller versions surrounded villages and training posts, the farming communities, and other sparsely populated towns.

What the guards saw on a regular basis, what they had to do, often left them in anguish, rather it be from injuries or from what went deeper than torn skin and bruised bones.

Tonight, they weren't just absent of anguish, but also their armor and uniforms. Instead, they donned loose shirts and buckskin breeches. Still, Jimin knew, even off duty, they were watchful for signs of the dreaded mist and the horror that came with it, and for those who worked against the future of the kingdom. They were still armed to the teeth.

As was Jimin.

Hidden beneath the folds of the cloak and the thin gown he wore underneath, the cool hilt of a dagger was sheathed against his thigh. Gifted to him on his sixteenth birthday, it wasn't the only weapon he'd acquired or the deadliest, but it was his favorite. The handle was fashioned from the bones of a long-extinct wolven—a creature that had been neither man nor beast but both—and the blade made of bloodstone honed to fatal sharpness.

Jimin may yet again be in the process of doing something incredibly reckless, inappropriate, and wholly forbidden, but he wasn't foolish enough to enter a place like the Red Pearl without protection.

"Dead?" the other guard said, a younger one with brown hair and a soft face. Jimin thought his name might be Airrick, and he couldn't be much older than Jimin. "He wasn't just dead. Finley was drained of blood, his flesh chewed up like wild dogs had a go at him, and then torn to pieces."

Tiny balls of ice formed in the pit of Jimin's stomach. Wild dogs didn't do that. Not to mention, there weren't any wild dogs near the Blood Forest, the only place in the world where the trees bled, staining the bark and the leaves a deep crimson. There were rumors of other animals, overly large rodents and scavengers that preyed upon the corpses of those who lingered too long in the forest.

"And you know what that means," Airrick went on. "They must be near. An attack will—"

"Not sure this is the right conversation to be having," an older guard cut in. Jimin knew of him. Phillips Rathi. He'd been on the Rise for years, which was nearly unheard of. Guards didn't have long lifespans. The man nodded in Jimin's direction. "You're in the presence of a Lord."

A Lord?

Only the Ascended were called Lords, but also Jimin wasn't just anyone, especially not someone that people would expect to be inside the Red Pearl. If he was discovered, he would be in...well, more trouble than he's ever been in before and would face severe reprimand.

The kind of punishment that Dorian Teerman, the Duke of Masadonia, would just love to deliver. And which, of course, his close confidante, Lord Brandole Mazeen, would love to be in attendance for.

Anxiety surfaced as Jimin looked at the dark-skinned guard. There was no way Phillips could know who Jimin was. The top half of Jimin's face was covered by the white domino mask he'd found discarded in the Queen's Gardens ages ago, and he wore a plain robin's egg blue cloak he'd, uh.... "borrowed" from Britta, one of the many castle servants who Jimin had overheard speaking about the Red Pearl.

Hopefully, Britta wouldn't discover her missing overcoat before Jimin returned it in the morning

Even without the mask, though, Jimin could count on one hand how many people in Masadonia had seen his face, and none of them would be here tonight.

As the Maiden, the Chosen, a veil usually covered Jimin's face and hair at all times, all except for his lips and jaw.

Jimin doubted Phillips could recognize him solely on those features, and if he had, none of them would still be sitting here. Jimin would be in the process of being dragged back, albeit gently, to his guardians, the Duke and Duchess of Masadonia.

There was no reason to panic.

Forcing the muscles along his shoulders and neck to ease, Jimin smiled. "I'm no Lord. You're more than welcome to talk about whatever you wish."

"Be that as it may, a little less morbid topic would be welcomed," Phillips replied, sending a pointed look in the direction of the other two guards.

Airrick lifted his gaze to Jimin's. "My apologies."

"Apologies not needed but accepted."

The third guard ducked his chin, studiously staring at his cards as he repeated the same. His cheeks had pinkened, something Jimin found rather adorable. The guards who worked the Rise went through vicious training, becoming skilled in all manner of weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. None who survived their first venture outside the Rise came back without shedding blood and seeing death.

And yet, this man blushed.

Jimin cleared his throat, wanting to ask more about who Finley was, whether he was a guard from the Rise or a Huntsman;a division of the army that ferried communication between the cities and escorted travelers and goods. They spent half the year outside the protection of the Rise. It was by far one of the most dangerous of all occupations, so they never traveled alone. Some never returned.

Unfortunately, a few who did, didn't come back the same. They returned with rampantly spreading death snapping at their heels.

Cursed.

Sensing that Phillips would silence any further conversation, Jimin didn't voice any of the questions dancing on the tip of his tongue.

If others had been with Phillips and had been wounded by what most likely had killed Finley, Jimin would find out one way or another.

He just hoped it wasn't through screams of terror. The people of Masadonia had no real idea exactly how many returned from outside the Rise cursed. They only saw a handful here and there, and not the reality. If they did, panic and fear were sure to ignite a populace who truly had no concept of the horror outside the Rise.

Not like Jimin's brother Ian and him did.

Which was why when the topic at the table switched to more mundane things, Jimin struggled to will the ice coating his insides to thaw. Countless lives were given and taken by the endeavor to keep those inside the Rise safe, but it was failing—had been failing—not just here, but throughout the Kingdom of Solis.

Death....

Death always found a way in.

Stop, Jimin ordered himself as the general sense of unease threatened to swell. Tonight wasn't about the tragedy outside the walls. Tonight was about living, about...not being up all night, unable to sleep, alone and feeling like...like he had no control, no...no idea of who he was other than what he was.

Another poor hand was dealt, and Jimin had played enough cards with Ian to know there was no recovering from the ones he held. When Jimin announced that he was out, the guards nodded as he rose, each bidding him a good evening.

Moving between the tables, Jimin took the flute of champagne offered by a server with a gloved hand and tried to recapture the feelings of excitement that had buzzed through his veins as he'd hurried through the streets earlier that evening.

Jimin minded his business as he scanned the room, keeping his senses to himself. Even outside of those who managed to project their anguish into the air around them, Jimin didn't need to touch someone to know if they were hurting. He just needed to see someone and focus. Physical pain was almost always hot, but the kind that couldn't be seen?

It was almost always cold.

Bawdy shouts and whistles snapped him out of my his own mind. A woman in red sat on the edge of the table next to the one he had just left. She wore a gown made of scraps of red satin and gauze that barely covered her thighs. One of the men grabbed a fistful of the diaphanous little skirt. Smacking his hand away with a saucy grin, she lay back, her body forming a sensual curve. Her thick, blonde curls spilled across forgotten coins and chips. "Who wants to win me tonight?" Her voice was deep and smoky as she slid her hands along the waist of the frilly corset. "I can assure you boys, I will last longer than any pot of gold will."

"And what if it's a tie?" one of the men asked, the fine cut of his coat suggesting that he was a well-to-do merchant or businessman of some sort.

"Then it will be a far more entertaining night for me," she said, drawing one hand down her stomach, slipping even lower to between her—

Cheeks heating, Jimin quickly looked away as he took a sip of the bubbly champagne. His gaze found its way to the dazzling glow of a rose-gold chandelier. The Red Pearl must be doing well, and the owners well connected. Electricity was expensive and heavily controlled by the Royal Court. It made Jimin wonder how this much luxury was available so far from the Castle.

Under the chandelier, another card game was in progress. There were women there too, their hair twisted in elaborate updos adorned with crystals, and their clothing far less daring than the women who worked here. Their gowns were vibrant shades of purple and yellow and pastel hues of blue and lilac.

Jimin was only allowed to wear white, whether he was in his room or in public, which wasn't often. So, he was fascinated with how the different colors complemented the wearer's skin or hair. Jimin imagined he looked like a ghost most days, roaming the halls of Castle Teerman in white.

Here, some people also wore domino masks that covered half their faces, protecting their identities. Jimin wondered who some of them were. Daring wives left alone one too many times?Young princes who had grown tired of their duties? Servants or women who worked in the city, out for the evening? Did they come here for the same reasons Jimin did?

Boredom? Curiosity?

Loneliness?

If so, then they were more alike than Jimin realized, even though they were probably normal, ordinary second daughters and sons, who just wanted a night of fun.

And Jimin....he was Park Jimin of Castle Teerman, Kin of the Balfours, and the Queen's favorite.

He was the Maiden.

Chosen.

And in a little under a year, upon his nineteenth birthday, he would Ascend, as some others did .

But Jimin's Ascensions would be much different, it's meant to be the largest one since the first gods' Blessing that occurred after the end of the War of Two Kings.

Ordinary people were allowed to go out, have fun with friends and play games, yet if Jimin were to be discovered here, he would face severe punishment from The Duke.

Jimin's lips thinned as a kernel of anger took root, mingling with a sticky residue of disgust and shame. The Duke was a pestilence of overly familiar hands and had an unnatural thirst for punishment.

Whatever, people like The Duke didn't scare him, or was he worried about being disciplined. He had learnt to take it

Dragging his gaze from the table, Jimin noted that there were smiling and laughing women and men in the Pearl who wore no masks, hid no identities. They sat at tables with guards and businessmen, stood in shadowy alcoves and spoke with masked women, men, and also those who worked for the Red Pearl. They weren't ashamed or afraid to be seen.

Whoever they were, they had freedom Jimin deeply envied.

Jimin searched for independence tonight, because masked and unknown, no one but the gods would know he was here. And as far as the gods were concerned, Jimin had long ago decided that they had far better things to do than spend their time watching him. After all, if they had been paying attention, they would've cleared the monsters that lived in the shadows, and brought peace to the Kingdom.

So, Jimin could be anyone tonight.

The freedom in that was a far headier sensation than he imagined. Even more so than the unripe poppy seeds provided by those who smoked them.

Tonight, he wasn't the Maiden. He wasn't the Royal secret. He was simply Chimmie, a nickname he remembered his mother using, something only his brother Ian and very few others ever called him.

As Chimmie, there were no strict rules to follow or expectations to fulfill, no future Ascension that was coming quicker than he was prepared for. There was no fear, no past or future. Tonight, Jimin could live a little, even for a few hours, and rack up as much experience as he could before he was returned to the capital, to the Queen.

Before he was given to the gods.

A shiver tiptoed down his spine—uncertainty, along with a bite of desolation. He tamped it down, refusing to give life to it. Dwelling on what was to come and could not be changed served no purpose.

Besides, Ian had Ascended two years ago, and based on the monthly letters Jimin received from him, he was the same. The only difference was that instead of spinning tales with his voice, he did so with words in each letter. Just last month, he wrote about two children, a brother and sister, who swam to the bottom of the Stroud Sea, befriending the water folk.

Jimin smiled as he lifted the champagne flute, having no idea where Ian came up with those things. As far as Jimin knew, it was impossible to swim to the bottom of the Stroud Sea, and there was no such thing as water folk.

Shortly after his Ascension, on the orders of the Queen and King, Ian had married Lady Claudeya. Ian never spoke of his wife.

Was he happy at all in his marriage? The curve of his lips faded as his gaze dropped to the fizzing, pinkish drink.

Jimin wasn't sure, but they'd barely known each other before marrying. How was that long enough when you'd presumably spend the rest of your life with a person?

And the Ascended lived for a very, very long time.

It was still odd for Jimin to think of Ian as an Ascended. He wasn't a second son, but because Jimin was the Maiden, the Queen had petitioned the gods for a rare exception to the natural order, and they had allowed Ian to Ascend.

Jimin wouldn't face what Ian had, marriage to a stranger, to another Ascended, one who was sure to covet beauty above all else, because attractiveness was seen as godlike.

And even though Jimin was the Maiden, the Chosen, he would never be viewed as godlike. According to the Duke, Jimin wasn't beautiful.

He was a tragedy.

Without realizing it, Jimin's fingers brushed the scratchy lace of the left side of the mask. he jerked his hand right away.

A man that Jimin recognized as a guard rose from a table, turning to a woman wearing a white mask like he was. He extended a hand to her, speaking words too low for Jimin to hear, but she answered with a nod and a smile before placing her hand in his. She rose, the skirt of her lilac-hued gown falling like liquid around her legs as he led her from the room toward the only two doors accessible by guests, one at either end of interconnecting chambers. The right went outside. The left door led upstairs, to more private rooms where Britta had said all manner of things occurred.

The guard took the masked woman to the left.

He'd asked. She'd said yes. Whatever it was they did upstairs, it would be welcomed and chosen by both, regardless of whether it lasted a few hours or a lifetime.

Jimin's attention lingered on the door long after it had closed. Was that another reason he had come here tonight? To...to experience pleasure with someone of his choosing?

He could if he wanted to. He'd overheard conversations between the Lords and Ladies in the Wait, who weren't expected to remain untouched. According to them, there were...many things a woman and a man could do that brought pleasure while retaining their purity.

Purity?

Jimin hated that word, the meaning behind it. As if his virginity determined his goodness, his innocence, and its presence or lack thereof was somehow more important than the hundred choices he made every day.

There was even a part of him that wondered what the gods would do if Jimin went to them no longer an actual maiden, no longer a virgin. Would they overlook everything else Jimin did or didn't do simply because Jimin was no longer a virgin?

He wasn't sure, but Jimin hoped that wasn't the case. Not because he planned to have sex now or next week or...ever, but because jimin wanted to be able to make that choice.

Though, he wasn't quite sure how he'd find myself in a situation where that option would even arise. But Jimin imagines there'd be willing participants who'd want to do the things he'd heard the Ladies and the Lords in Wait speaking about here at the Red Pearl.

A nervous flutter beat in his chest as Jimin forced himself to take another sip of the champagne. The sweet bubbles tickled the back of his throat, easing some of the sudden dryness in his mouth.

Truth be told, tonight had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Most nights, Jimin couldn't fall asleep until it was nearly dawn. And when he finally did, He almost wished He hadn't. Three times this week alone, Jimin woke from a nightmare, with his screams ringing in his ears. And when they came like this, in clusters, they felt like a harbinger. An instinct much like the ability to sense pain, screaming out a warning.

Drawing in a shallow breath, Jimin glanced back to where he'd been looking before. The woman in red was no longer on the table. Instead, she was in the lap of the merchant who'd asked what would happen if two men won. He was inspecting his cards, but his hand was where hers had been heading earlier, delved deep between her thighs.

Oh, fuck.

Biting down on his lip, Jimin pulled away from where he stood before his entire face caught on fire. Jimin drifted into the next space that was separated by a partial wall, where another round of games was being played.

There were more guards here, some he even recognized as belonging to the Royal Guard, soldiers just like those who worked the Rise but who protected the Ascended instead. This was why the Ascended also had personal guards. People had tried to kidnap members of the Court before for ransom. No one was usually hurt too seriously in those situations, but there had been other attempts that stemmed from far different, more violent reasons.

Standing near a leafy potted plant that sported tiny, red buds, Jimin was unsure of what to do from there. He could join another card game or strike up a conversation with any of the numerous people who lingered around the tables, but he wasn't all that good at making small talk with strangers. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd blurt out something bizarre or ask a random question that would make little sense to the conversation. So that was off the table. Maybe he should head back to his chambers. The hour had to be growing late and—!

A strange awareness swept over him, starting as a tingling sensation along the back of his neck and intensifying with every passing second.

It felt like...like he was being watched.

Scanning the room, Jimin didn't see anyone paying much attention to him, but he expected to find someone standing near. That was how potent the feeling was. Unease blossomed in the pit of his stomach. Jimin started to turn toward the entrance when the soft, drawn-out notes of some sort of guitar string drew his attention to the left, his gaze landing on the gauzy, blood-red curtains that swayed gently from the movement of others in the establishment.

Jimin stilled, listening to the rise and fall of the tempo that was soon joined by the heavy thump of a drum. Jimin forgot about the feeling of being watched. He forgot about a lot of things. The music was...it was like nothing he'd heard before. It was deeper, thicker. Slowing, and then speeding up. It was...sensual. What had Britta, the servant, said about the kind of dancing that took place at the Red Pearl? She'd lowered her voice when she spoke of it, and the other maid Britta had been speaking to had looked scandalized.

Making his way along the outskirts of the room, Jimin neared the curtains, reaching out to part them—

"I don't think you want to go in there."

Startled, Jimin turned at the sound of the voice. A woman stood behind him —one of the ladies who worked for the Red Pearl. Jimin recognized her. Not because she'd been on the arm of a merchant or businessman but because she was utterly beautiful.

Her hair was a deep black, thickly curled, and her skin was a deep, rich brown. The red gown she wore was sleeveless, cut low across her chest, and the fabric clung to her body like liquid.

"I'm sorry?" Jimin said, unsure what else to say as he lowered his hand from the curtain. "Why wouldn't I? They're just dancing."

"Just dancing?" Her gaze drifted over his shoulder to the curtain. "Some say that to dance is to make love."

"I...I hadn't heard that." Slowly, Jimin looked behind him. Through the curtains, he could make out the shapes of bodies churning in time with the music, their movements full of mesmerizing and fluid grace. Some danced alone, their curves and forms clearly outlined, while others...

Jimin sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes swinging back to the woman before him.

Her red-painted lips curved into a smile. "This is your first time here, isn't it?"

Jimin opened his mouth to deny that statement but could feel the heat spreading across every visible part of his face. That alone was telling. "Is it that obvious?"

She laughed, and the sound was throaty. "Not to most. But to me, yes. I've never seen you here before."

"How would you know if you had?" Jimin touched his mask just to make sure it hadn't slipped.

"Your mask is fine." There was a strange, knowing glint to her eyes, which were a mix of gold and brown. Not exactly hazel. The gold was far too bright and warm for that. They reminded him of another who had eyes the color of deep citrine. "I know a face, whether it's half-hidden or not, and yours is one I haven't seen here before. This is your first time."

Truly, Jimin had no idea how to respond to that.

"And it's the Red Pearl's first time also." She leaned in, her voice lowering. "As we've never had the Maiden walk through the doors."

A wave of shock rolled through Jimin as his grip tightened on the slippery champagne glass. "I don't know what you mean. I'm a second son—"

"You are like a second son, but not in the way you intend," she cut in, lightly touching Jimin's cloaked arm. "It's okay. There is nothing to fear. Your secret is safe with me."

Jimin stared at her for what felt like an entire minute before he recovered the use of his tongue. "If that were true, why would that kind of secret be safe?"

"Why would it not be?" she returned. "What would I have to gain by telling anyone?"

"You'd earn the favor of the Duke and Duchess." Jimin's heart thumped.

Her smile faded as her stare hardened. "I have no need of a favor from an Ascended."

The way she said that, it was as if he'd suggested that she was courting favor with a pile of mud. Jimin almost believed her, but no one who lived within the kingdom would waste the chance to earn an Ascended's esteem unless they...

Unless they didn't recognize Queen Ileana and King Jalara as the true, rightful rulers. Unless they supported he who called himself Prince Casteel, the true heir to the kingdom.

Except he was no prince or heir. He was nothing more than a remnant of Atlantia, the corrupt and twisted kingdom that had fallen at the end of the War of Two Kings. A monster who had wreaked havoc and caused bloodshed, the embodiment of pure evil.

He was the Dark One.

And yet there were those who supported him and his claim. Descenters who had been a part of riots and the disappearances of many Ascended. In the past, the Descenters only caused discord through small rallies and protests, and even then, that had been few and far between due to the punishment that was meted out to those who were suspected to be Descenters. The trials couldn't even be called that. No second chances. No long-term imprisonment. Death was swift and final.

But things had changed of late.

Many believed the Descenters had been responsible for the mysterious deaths of high-ranking Royal Guards. Several in Carsodonia, the capital, had inexplicably fallen from the Rise. Two had been killed with arrows through the back of their heads in Pensdurth, a smaller city on the coast of the Stroud Sea, near the capital. Others had simply vanished while in the smaller villages, never to be seen or heard from again.

Only a few months ago, a violent uprising had ended in bloodshed in Three Rivers, a teeming trade city beyond the Blood Forest. Goldcrest Manor, the Royal Seat in Three Rivers, had been burned, razed to the ground, along with the Temples. Duke Everton had died in the fire, along with many servants and guards. It was only by some miracle that the Duchess of Three Rivers had escaped.

The Descenters weren't just Atlantians who were hidden among the people of Solis. Some of the Dark One's followers didn't even have a drop of Atlantian blood in them.

Jimin's gaze sharpened and zeroed in on the beautiful woman. Could she be a Descenter?Jimin couldn't fathom how anyone could support the fallen kingdom, no matter how hard their lives were or how unhappy they may be. Not when the Atlantians and the Dark One were responsible for the mist, for what festered inside of it. For what most likely had ended Finley's life— had taken countless more lives, including his mother's and father's, and had left Jimin's body riddled with the reminder of the horror that thrived inside the mist.

Pushing aside his suspicions for the moment, Jimin opened himself up to sense if there was some great pain inside her, something that went beyond the physical and stemmed from either grief or bitterness. The kind of pain that made people do horrible things to try and alleviate the anguish.

There was no hint of that radiating from her.

But that didn't mean she wasn't a Descenter.

The woman's head tilted. "As I said, you have nothing to worry about when it comes to me. Him? That's another story."

"Him?" Jimin repeated.

She moved to the side as the main door opened, and a sudden gust of cool air announced the arrival of more patrons. A man walked in, and behind him was an older gentleman with sandy blond hair and a weathered face, colored by the sun—

Jimin's eyes widened as disbelief thundered through him.

It was Kim Seokjin. What was he doing at the Red Pearl?

Oh, gods.

Jimin didn't want to think about the purpose for Seokjin's visit any longer. Seokjin

was a seasoned member of the Royal Guard, a man well into his fourth decade of life, but he was more than that to Jimin. The dagger strapped to his thigh had been a gift from him, and it was Seokjin who broke with custom and made sure Jimin not only knew how to use it, but also how to wield a sword, strike a target unseen with an arrow, and even when weaponless, how to take down a man twice his size.

Seokjin was like a father to Jimin.

He was also Jimin's personal guard and had been since Jimin had first arrived in Masadonia. He wasn't Jimin's only guard, though. He shared duties with Rylan Keal, who'd replaced Hannes after he'd passed in his sleep a little less than a year ago. It had been an unexpected loss as Hannes had been in his early thirties and in prime health. The Healers believed it to have been some unknown ailment of the heart. Still, it was hard to imagine how one could go to sleep healthy and whole and never wake up again.

Rylan didn't know that Jimin was as well trained as he was, but he knew Jimin could at least handle a dagger. He wasn't aware of where Seokjin and Jimin all too often disappeared to outside the castle. He was kind and often relaxed, but Jimin wasn't nearly as close to him as he was with Seokjin. If it had been Rylan here, Jimin could've easily slipped away.

"Dammit," Jimin swore, turning sideways as he reached back and pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head. His hair was a rather noticeable shade of blonde, but even with it hidden now and his entire face obscured, Seokjin would recognize him.

He had a sixth sense that only belonged to parents and made itself known when their child was up to no good.

Glancing back toward the entrance, Jimin's stomach dropped as he saw Seokjin sit at one of the tables facing the door—the only exit.

The gods hated Jimin.

Truly, they did, because there was no doubt in his mind that Seokjin would see him. He wouldn't report him, but Jimin would rather crawl into a hole full of roaches and spiders than attempt to explain to him, of all people, why he was at the Red Pearl.

And there would be lectures. Not the speeches and punishments the Duke loved to deliver, but the kind that crawled under Jimin's skin and made him feel terrible for days. Mainly because he had been caught doing something he deserved reprimand for.

Jimin stole another peek and—

Oh, gods, a woman knelt beside Seokjin, a hand on his leg!

Jimin needed to scrub his eyes.

"That's Sariah," the woman explained. "As soon as he arrives, she's at his side. I do believe she carries a torch for him."

Slowly, Jimin looked at the woman beside him. "He comes here often?"

One side of her lips curved up. "Often enough to know what happens beyond the red curtain and—"

"That's enough," Jimin cut her off. He now needed to scrub his brain. "I don't need to hear any more." Seeing the only father figure he had in a brothel was enough for one night.

Her laugh was soft. "You have the look of one who is in need of a hiding place. And, yes, in the Red Pearl, that is an easily recognizable

look." She deftly took Jimin's champagne glass. "Upstairs, there are currently unoccupied rooms. Try the sixth door on the left. You will find sanctuary there. I'll come for you when it's safe."

Suspicion rose as Jimin met her gaze, but He let her take his arm and lead him toward the left. "Why would you help me?"

She opened the door. "Because everyone should be able to live a little, even for a few hours."

Jimin's mouth dropped open as she gave him a wink, and closed the door.

Her figuring out who Jimin was couldn't be a coincidence. Repeating back to Jimin what he's been thinking earlier? There was no way. A rough laugh escaped his lips. The woman may be a Descenter, or at the very least, she wasn't a fan of the Ascended. But she might also be a Seer.(a which, a fortune teller)

Jimin didn't think there were any of them left.

And He still couldn't believe that Seokjin was here—that he came here often enough that one of the ladies in red liked him. Jimin wasn't sure why he was so surprised. It wasn't like Royal Guards were forbidden from seeking pleasure or even marrying. Many were quite...promiscuous since their lives were rife with danger and often far too short. It was just that Seokjin had a wife who'd passed long before Jimin even met him, dying in childbirth along with the baby. He still loved his Camilia as much as he had when she lived and breathed.

But what could be found here had nothing to do with love, did it? And everyone got lonely, no matter if their heart belonged to someone they could no longer have or not.

A little saddened by that, Jimin turned around in the narrow stairwell lit by oil wall sconces. Jimin exhaled heavily. "What have I gotten myself into?"

Only the gods knew, and there was no turning back now.

Jimin slipped his hand inside the cloak, keeping it close to the hilt of the dagger as he climbed the steps to the second floor. The hallway was wider and surprisingly quiet. He didn't know what he expected, but he had thought he would hear...sounds.

Shaking his head, Jimin counted until he reached the sixth door on the left. He tried the handle and found it unlocked. Jimin started to open the door but stopped. What was he doing? Anyone or anything could be waiting beyond this door. That woman downstairs—

The sound of a male chuckle filled the hallway as the door beside him opened. Panicked, Jimin quickly backed into the room in front of him, closing the door behind him.

Heart pounding, Jimin looked around. There were no lamps, just a tree of candles on a mantel. A settee sat in front of an empty fireplace.

Without even looking behind him, Jimin knew the only other piece of furniture had to be a bed. Jimin drew in a deep breath, catching the scent of the candles. Cinnamon? But there was something else, something that reminded him of dark spices and pine. He started to turn—

An arm curled around his waist, pulling him back against a very hard, very male body.

"This," a deep voice whispered, "is unexpected."

Caught off guard, Jimin looked up. A mistake that Seokjin had taught him never to make. He should've gone for the dagger, but instead, Jimin stood there as the arm around his waist tightened, and the man's hand settled at his hip.

"But it's a welcome surprise," he continued, sliding his arm away.

Snapping out of his stupor, Jimin whirled to face him, the hood of the cloak remaining in place as Jimin's hand went for the dagger. He looked up...and then up some more.

Oh, gods.

Jimin froze, utter shock rippling through him, shorting out all common sense when he saw the man's face in the soft glow of the candlelight.

Jimin knew who he was, even though he'd never spoken with him.

Min Yoongi.

Everyone in Castle Teerman knew when the Rise Guard arrived fromCarsodonia, the capital, a few months ago. Jimin had been no different. Jimin wanted to lie to himself and say that it was due to his striking height, placing him nearly a foot taller than Jimin. Or it was because he moved with the same inherent, predatory grace and fluidity that belonged to the large, gray cave cats that normally roamed the Wastelands but that Jimin had seen once in the Queen's palace as a child. The fearsome, wild animal had been caged, and the way it continuously prowled back and forth in the too-small enclosure had equally fascinated and horrified him. Jimin had seen Yoongi pacing in the same manner on more than one occasion, as if he too were caged. It could've been the sense of authority that seemed to bleed from his pores even though he couldn't be much older than Jimin was—maybe the same age as his brother or a year or two older. Or perhaps it was his skill with the sword. One morning while Jimin stood beside the Duchess on one of the many balconies at Castle Teerman, overlooking the training yard below, she'd told Jimin that Yoongi had come from the capital with glowing recommendations and was well on his way to becoming one of the youngest Royal Guards. Her gaze had been fixed on Yoongi's sweat-slick arms.

So had Jimin's.

Since Yoongi's arrival, Jimin found himself hidden in the shadowy alcoves more than a few times, watching him train with the other guards. Other than the weekly City Council sessions held in the Great Hall, it was the only time Jimin saw him.

The younger's interest could simply be because Yoongi was...well, he was handsome.

It wasn't often that could be said about a male, but Jimin could think of no better word to describe him. He had dark, thick hair that curled at the nape of his neck and often fell forward, brushing equally dark brows. The planes and angles of his face made Jimin yearn for some talent with a brush or a pen. His cheekbones were high and wide, nose surprisingly straight for a guard. Many of them had suffered at least one broken nose. His square jaw was firm, and his mouth well formed. The few times Jimin had seen him smile, gums would show, and a deep dimple appeared. But his eyes were by far his most captivating feature.

They reminded Jimin of cool honey, a striking color he'd never seen before, and he had this way of looking at someone that left them feeling stripped bare. Jimin knew this because he felt Yoongi's stare during the Councils held in the Great Hall, even though he'd never seen Jimin's face or even his eyes before. Jimin was sure the man's regard was due to the fact that Jimin was the first Maiden in centuries.

People always stared when Jimin was in public, whether they were guards, Lords and Ladies in Wait, or commoners.

Yoongi's stare could also just be a product of Jimin's imagination, driven by the younger's small, hidden desire and hope that Yoongi was as curious about him as Jimin was of him.

Perhaps it was all those reasons why he caught Jimin's interest, but there was another one that Jimin was a little embarrassed to even acknowledge.

Jimin had purposely reached out with his powers when he saw Yoongi.

Jimin knew it was wrong to do when there was no good reason. Nothing to justify the invasion. And Jimin had no excuse other than wondering what often made Yoongi pace like a caged cave cat.

Yoongi was always in pain.

Not the physical kind. It was deeper than that, feeling like chips of sharp ice against Jimin's skin. It was raw and it felt never-ending. But the anguish that seemed to follow him like a shadow never overwhelmed him. If Jimin hadn't used his senses, He would have never guessed it. Somehow, Yoongi kept that kind of agony under control, and Jimin knew of no one else who could do that.

Not even the Ascended.

Only because Jimin never felt anything from them, although Jimin knew they felt physical pain. The fact that he never had to worry about picking up emotional pain from them should make him seek out their presence, but instead, it gave Jimin the creeps. Why didn't they feel anything?

"I wasn't expecting you tonight," spoke. He was giving Jimin that half-smile of his now, the one that showed no teeth, made the dimple in his right cheek appear, but never quite reached his eyes. "It's only been a few days, sweetling."

Sweetling?

Jimin opened his mouth and then clamped it shut as realization rose. Jimin blinked. He thought he was someone else! Someone he'd obviously met here before.

Jimin glanced down at his cloak—the borrowed garment. It was rather distinctive, a pale blue with an edging of white fur.

Britta.

Did he think he was Britta?

To be fair, Jimin wasn't the manliest looking man. He had luscious shiny blonde hair and big plump red lips. His skin was smooth as silk and once covered entirely in cloak with his mask on, people had mistook him for a woman once or twice. It happens.

Jimin's gaze swept over Yoongi. He wore the black tunic and breeches that all guards wore under their armor. Had he come straight here after his shift? Jimin gave the room a quick once-over. There was a small table beside the settee, where two glasses sat. Yoongi hadn't been alone in here before Jimin arrived. Could he have been with another? Behind Yoongi, the bed was made and didn't appear as if anyone had...slept in it.

What should he do? Turn and run? That would be odd. Yoongi would be sure to ask Britta about it, but as long as Jimin returned the cloak and mask without her knowing, Jimin would be in the clear.

Except Seokjin was most likely still downstairs, and the woman was, too—

Dear gods, she had to be a Seer. Instinct told him she had known this room was occupied. She'd sent Jimin here on purpose. Had she known that Yoongi was here and likely to mistake Jimin for Britta?

It seemed too unreal to believe.

"Did Namjoon tell you I was here?" he asked.

Jimin's breath caught as his heart started pounding like a hammer against

my ribs. Jimin thinks Namjoon is a guard on the Rise, one around Yoongi's age. A dark haired fella, if heremembered correctly, but he hadn't seen him downstairs, so he shook his head without making a sound

"Have you been watching for me, then? Following me?" he asked, sighting softly under his breath. "We'll have to talk about that, won't we?" There was an odd threat to his voice, one that gave Jimin the impression that he was not all that pleased by the idea of Britta following him.

"But not tonight, it seems. You're strangely quiet," he observed. From what Jimin knew of Britta, she was rarely ever demure.

But the moment Jimin would speak, Yoongi would know he wasn't Britta, and Jimin...wasn't ready for him to discover that.

He wasn't sure what he was ready for. His hand was no longer on the dagger, and Jimin didn't know what that meant. All he knew was that his heart was still racing.

"We don't have to talk." Yoongi reached for the hem of his tunic, and before Jimin could take another breath, he pulled it over his head, tossing it aside.

Jimin's lips parted and his eyes widened. He had seen a man's chest before, but he had never seen his. The muscles that flexed and bunched under the thinner shirts the guards trained in were now on display. He was broad of shoulder and chest, all lean muscles and pale skin. Probably soft to the touch.

Jimin's gaze dipped even lower, and heat returned, a different kind that didn't just flush his skin but also invaded his blood.

Even in the candlelight, Jimin could see how tight his breeches were, how they gloved his body, leaving very little to the imagination.

And Jimin had a vast imagination thanks to the Ladies' frequent tendency to overshare, and his frequent tendency to listen in on conversations.

A strange curling sensation hit his lower stomach. It wasn't unpleasant. Not at all. It was warm and tingling, reminding his of his first sip of bubbly champagne.

Yoongi stepped toward him, and Jimin's muscles tensed to run, but he held himself still by sheer will. Jimin knew he should've stepped away. He should've spoken and revealed that he wasn't Britta. He should've left immediately. The way that man prowled towards him, his long legs eating up the distance between them, told Jimin his intent, even if he hadn't removed his tunic. And while Jimin had little—all right, absolutely no experience—He inherently knew that if that man reached him, he would touch him. He may do even more. He might kiss him.

And that was forbidden.

Jimin was the Maiden, the Chosen. Not to mention, he thought Jimin was a woman, and he'd obviously been in this room with someone else before Jimin got here. That didn't mean he'd been with someone, but he could've.

Jimin still didn't move or speak.

He waited, his heart beating so fast he felt faint. Tiny tremors racked his hands and legs.

And Jimin never trembled.

What are you doing? whispered the reasonable, sane voice in his head. Living, Jimin whispered back.

And being incredibly stupid, the voice countered.

Jimin stood there.

Senses hyperaware, he watched as Yoongi stopped in front of him and

lifted his hands, gripping the back of Jimin's cloak. For a moment, Jimin thought he might pull it back, and the charade would be over, but that wasn't what he did. The hood only slipped back a couple of inches.

"I don't know what kind of game you're about tonight." His deep voice was husky. "But I'm willing to find out."

Yoongi's other arm came around the younger's waist. A gasp left Jimin as the man hauled him to his chest. This was nothing like the friendly embraces he had received from Seokjin. Jimin had never been held by a man like this. There wasn't an inch between Yoongi's chest and his. The contact was a spark to Jimin senses.

He lifted me up onto the tips of my toes, then clear off my feet. His strength was staggering since Jimin wasn't exactly light, at least not as light as Britta was. Stunned, hands landed on his shoulders. The heat of his hard skin seemed to burn through Jimin's gloves and the cloak and thin white gown Jimin usually slept in.

Yoongi head slanted, and Jimin felt the warmth of his breath on his lips. A tight tremor of anticipation coiled its way down his spine at the same moment his stomach dipped with uncertainty. There was no time for the two warring emotions to battle.

In a matter of a few stuttering heartbeats, Yoongi was guiding them down to the bed, his grip strong but careful, as if he were aware of his strength. He came down over Jimin, his hand still behind Jimin's head, his weight a shock as he pressed Jimin into the bed, and then his mouth was on the younger's.

Yoongi kissed him.

There was nothing sweet or soft, like Jimin imagined a kiss to be. It was hard and overwhelming, claiming, and when Jimin sucked in a sharp breath, Yoongi took advantage, deepening the kiss. His tongue touched Jimin's, startling him. Panic flared in the pit of his stomach, but so did something else, something far more powerful, a pleasure Jimin hadn't experienced before. He tasted of the golden liquor he'd once snuck, and Jimin felt that stroke of the guard's tongue in every part of him. It was in the shivers that erupted all over his skin, in the inexplicable heaviness in his chest, in that curling, tightening sensation below his navel and even lower still where there was a sudden, throbbing pulse between his legs.

Jimin shuddered, his fingers digging into the man's flesh, and He suddenly wished He hadn't worn gloves because He wanted to feel his skin.

The man's head tilted, and Jimin felt the brush of his oddly sharp—

Without warning, he broke the kiss and lifted his head. "Who are you?"

Thoughts oddly slow and skin humming, Jimin blinked open his eyes. Dark hair fell forward onto Yoongi's forehead. His features were shadowed in the soft, flickering light, but Jimin thought Yoongi's lips looked as swollen as his own felt.

Yoongi acted too fast for Jimin to track the movement, tugging Jimin's hood back, exposing Jimin's masked face.

Yoongi's brows lifted as the haze cleared from Jimin's thoughts. Jimin's heart jumped around in his chest for a whole different reason, even though his lips still tingled from the kiss.

His first kiss.

Yoongi's golden-eyed gaze rose to Jimin's head, and he shifted his hand out from behind the younger's neck. "You are most definitely not who I thought you were," he murmured.

The man seemed to be unfazed over the fact that Jimin was a male.

"How did you know?" Jimin blurted out.

"Because the last time I kissed the owner of this cloak, she damn near sucked my tongue down her throat."

"Oh," Jimin whispered. Was he supposed to have done that? It didn't sound like it would be something enjoyable.

The man stared down at him, gaze assessing as he remained with half his body atop of Jimin's. One of his legs was thrust between the younger's, and Jimin had no idea exactly when that had happened. "Have you been kissed before?"

Jimin's face caught fire. Oh, gods, was it that obvious? "I have!"

One side of his lips kicked up. "Do you always lie?"

"No!" Jimin immediately lied.

"Liar," he murmured, his tone almost teasing.

Embarrassment flooded Jimin's system "You should get off."

"I was planning to."

The way he said it made Jimin's eyes narrow.

Yoongi laughed, and it was...it was the first time Jimin had heard him do so. When Jimin saw him in the Hall, he was quiet and stoic like most guards, and he'd only seen that half-grin of his while he trained. But never a laugh. And with the anguish Jimin had sensed lingered below the surface, he wasn't quite sure that this man ever laughed.

But he had now, and it sounded real, deep, and nice, and it rumbled through Jimin, all the way to the tips of his toes. Jimin was slow to realize that this was the most He'd heard that man speak. He had a slight accent, an almost musical lilt to his tone. Jimin couldn't quite place it, but Jimin had only ever been to the capital and here, and it was not often that many spoke to Jimin or around him if they knew he was present. The accent could be quite common for all Jimin knew.

"You really should move," Jimin told him, even though he liked the weight of him.

"I'm quite comfortable where I am," he added, still unfazed by the fact that Jimin was a man

"Well, I'm not."

"Will you tell me who you are, Prince?"

"Prince?" Jimin repeated. There were no Princesses or Princes in the entire kingdom beyond the Dark One, who called himself such. Not since Atlantia had ruled.

"You are quite demanding." He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I imagine a Prince to be demanding."

"I am not demanding," Jimin stated. "Get off me."

He arched a brow. "Really?"

"Telling you to move is not being demanding."

"We'll have to disagree on that." He paused. "Prince."

Jimin's lips twitched in wry humor, but he managed to hide the smile. It felt annoying being amused by him "You shouldn't call me that."

"Then what should I call you? A name, perhaps?"

"I'm...I'm no one,"

"No One? What a strange name. Do young boys with a name like that often make a habit of wearing other people's clothing?"

"I'm not a young boy," Jimin snapped.

"I would sure hope not." He paused, lips curling down at the corners. "How old are you?"

"Old enough to be in here, if that's what you're worried about."

"In other words, old enough to be masquerading as someone else, allowing others to believe you're another person and then allowing them to kiss—"

"I get what you're saying," Jimin cut him off. "Yes, I'm old enough for all those things."

One eyebrow rose. "I'll tell you who I am, although I have a feeling you already know. I'm Min Yoongi."

"Well Min Yoongi, Hi" Jimin said, feeling foolish for doing so. He couldn't have thought of something witty and clever on the spot.

The dimple in the man's right cheek deepened. "This is the part where you tell me your name."

Jimin's lips nor his tongue moved.

"Then I'll have to keep calling you Prince" His eyes were much warmer now, and Jimin wanted to see if the pain had eased but managed to resist. Jimin just thought that perhaps his pain had gone away. If so...

"The least you can do is tell me why you didn't stop me earlier" the man said before Jimin could give in to the curiosity and reach out with his senses.

Jimin had no idea how he could answer that when he didn't fully understand it himself.

One side of the man's lips quirked up. "I'm sure it's more than my disarming good looks."

Jimin wrinkled his nose. "Of course." He said in an obvious ironic tone.

Another short, surprised-sounding laugh left Yoongi. "I think you just insulted me." He looked at Jimin from top to bottom, almost as if he was admiring him "You've wounded me, Prince."

"I highly doubt that. You have to be more than well aware of your fine appearance."

"I am. It has led to quite a few people making questionable life choices."

"Then why did you say you were insulted—?" Realizing the man was simply teasing Jimin and feeling foolish for not seeing that right away, Jimin pushed at his chest once more. "You're still lying on me."

"I know."

The younger took a breath. "It's quite rude of you to continue doing so when I've made it clear that I would like for you to move."

"It's quite rude of you to barge into my room dressed as—"

"Your lover?"

He raised a brow. "I wouldn't call her that."

"What would you call her?"

Yoongi appeared to mull that over while still sprawled halfway across Jimin. "A...good friend."

Part of him was relieved that Yoongi hadn't referred to her as something derogatory like he had overheard other men do before when speaking of women they'd been intimate with, but a good friend? "I didn't know friends behaved this way."

"I'm willing to bet you don't know much about these sorts of things."

The truth in his statement was hard to ignore. "And you bet all of this on just one kiss?"

"Just one kiss? Prince, you can learn a wealth of things from just one kiss."

Staring at him, Jimin couldn't help but feel...very inexperienced. The only thing he could tell from his kiss was what it had made Jimin feel. Like he was seeking to possess me.

"Why didn't you stop me?" he repeated his previous question, gaze swept over the mask and then lower, his eyes brushed over Jimin's lips as if they were touching them. Honestly, Jimin was too overwhelmed to move or say anything, he just sat there squished under Yoongi's body like a lost puppy.

Yoongi's gaze found Jimin's. "I think I'm beginning to understand."

"Does that mean you're going to get up so I can move?"

Why haven't you made him get up? whispered that stupid, very reasonable, and very logical voice. That was a great question. Jimin knew how to use another man's weight against them. More importantly, he had his dagger and access to it. But Jimin hadn't gone for it, nor had he truly made an attempt to put space between them. What did that mean?

Jimin... supposed he felt safe. At least, at the moment. He may know very little about Yoongi, but he wasn't a stranger, at least he didn't feel that way to Jimin, and he wasn't afraid of him.

Yoongi shook his head. "I have a theory."

"I'm waiting."

That dimple in his right cheek appeared once more. "I think you came to this very room with a purpose in mind."

He was right about that, but Jimin doubted he would be right about the actual reason.

"It's why you didn't speak or attempt to correct my assumption of who you were. Perhaps the cloak you borrowed was also a very calculated decision," he continued. "You came here because you want something from me."

Jimin started to deny what the man suggested, but no words rose to the tip of his tongue. Silence wasn't a denial or agreement, but his stomach dipped again.

Yoongi shifted ever so slightly, his hand coming to rest against Jimin's right cheek, his fingers splayed out. "I'm right, aren't I, Prince?"

Heart skipping all over the place, Jimin tried to swallow, but his throat had

dried. "Maybe...maybe I came here for...for conversation."

"To talk?" His brows rose. "About what?"

"Lots of things,".

His expression smoothed out. "Like?"

Jimin's mind was uselessly empty for several seconds, and then he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Why did you choose to work on the Rise?"

"You came here tonight to ask that?"

Not a single thing about his tone or his look said he believed Jimin, but the younger nodded while mentally adding that this was yet another example of how terribly bad he was at making conversations with people.

Yoongi was quiet and then said, "I joined the Rise for the same reason most do."

"And what is that?" Jimin asked, even though he already knew most of the reasons.

"My father was a farmer, and that was not the life for me. There aren't many other opportunities offered than joining the Royal Army and protecting the Rise, Prince."

"You're right."

His eyes narrowed as surprise flickered across his features. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, there aren't many chances for children to become something other than what their parents were."

"You mean there aren't many chances for children to improve their stations in life, to do better than those who came before them?"

Jimin nodded as best he could. "The...the natural order of things doesn't exactly allow that. A farmer's son is a farmer or they—"

"They choose to become a guard, where they risk their lives for stable pay that they most likely won't live long enough to enjoy?" he finished. Scorn lacing his tone "Doesn't sound much like an option, does it?"

"No," Jimin admitted, but he had already thought that himself. There were jobs Yoongi could've strived for. Trader and hunter, but they too were hazardous, as they required going outside the Rise frequently. It just wasn't as dangerous as joining the Royal Army and going to the Rise. Was the source of his anguish due to what he'd seen as a guard?

"There may not be many choices, but I still think—no, I know—that joining the guard requires a certain level of innate strength and courage."

"You think that of all the guards? That they are courageous?"

"I do."

"Not all guards are good men, Prince"

Jimin's eyes narrowed. "I know that. Bravery and strength do not equal goodness."

"We can agree on that." His gaze dropped to Jimin's mouth, and then his chest felt inexplicably tight.

"You said your father was a farmer. Is he...has he gone to the gods?"

Something crept across his face, gone too quickly for Jimin to decipher. "No. He is alive and well. Yours?"

Jimin gave a small shake of his head. "My father—both of my parents are gone."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, and it sounded genuine. "The loss of a

parent or a family member lingers long after they're gone, the pain lessening but never fading. Years later, you'll still find yourself thinking that you'd do anything to get them back."

He was right, and Jimin thought that this was perhaps the source of the pain he felt. "You sound like you know firsthand."

"I do."

Jimin thought of Finley. Had Yoongi known him well? Most of the guards were close, developing a bond thicker than blood, but even if he hadn't known Finley, there were surely others he knew that had been lost. "I'm sorry,"

Jimin said. "I'm sorry for whoever it is that you've lost. Death is..."

Death was constant.

And Jimin sure saw a lot of it. He wasn't supposed to, as sheltered as he was, but he saw death all too frequently.

Yoongi's head tilted, sending a tumble of dark locks over his forehead. "Death is like an old friend who pays a visit, sometimes when it's least expected and other times when you're waiting for her. It's neither the first nor the last time she'll pay a visit, but that doesn't make any death less harsh or unforgiving."

Sadness threatened to take up residence in Jimin's chest, crowding out the warmth. "That, it is."

Yoongi dipped his head suddenly, his lips nearing Jimin's. "I doubt the need for conversation led you to this room. You didn't come here to talk about sad things that cannot be changed, Prince."

Yoongi was right, yet again. It wasn't to talk. Jimin came here to live. To experience. To choose. To be anyone other than who he was. None of those things included talking.

But he had his first kiss tonight. He could stop there or tonight could be a night of many firsts, all of his choosing.

Was he...? Was he really considering this, whatever this was? Gods, he truly was. Tiny tremors rocked him. Could Yoongi feel them? They piled in Jimin's stomach, forming little knots of anticipation and fear.

Jimin was the Maiden. The Chosen. His earlier convictions about what the gods concerned themselves with weakened. Would they find him unworthy? Panic didn't seize Jimin like it should. Instead, a spark of hope did, and that unsettled him more than anything. The tiny glimmer of hope felt traitorous and wholly concerning, given that being deemed unworthy resulted in one of the most serious consequences.

If Jimin was to be found unworthy, he'd face certain death.

He'd be exiled from the kingdom.

#yoonmin scenarios #yoonmin #yoonmin fanfiction #jimin imagine #jimin fanfic #jimin scenario #yoongi reaction #yoongi fanfic #yoongi smut #jimin smut #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts au fic #yoonmin au

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dweetwise · 2 years

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[Riconti] Good at pretending (part 10)

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It was not exactly a surprise to wake up next to Ace again.

Neither of them had bothered with the pillow wall last night, seeing as Felix had no issues barging right through it the night before. Combined with the cozy night in, the chill of the mansion, and the fact that Ace ran warm like a furnace, it would almost have been stranger had Felix not found himself curled up around his friend come morning.

He had still apologized profusely – again – only to be assured that it was "completely fine" – again. But this time, Felix found that he actually believed it; if there was anyone comfortable with casual affection who wouldn't read too much into Felix's sudden need for sleep-cuddling, it was Ace.

They went about their morning routines in companionable silence, and Felix was leagues more calm than last morning as he and Ace eventually made their way down to breakfast.

That flew out the window as soon as an excited Vanessa barged into the breakfast room. The bride-to-be instantly descended upon Ace, presenting him with a choice in the day's itinerary: a spa day with the bridal party or a round of golf with Felix and his uncles.

Fortunately, Ace only took one look at Felix's panicked face – seemingly making out the telepathic message of "for the love of God don't leave me with Bernard" – before smiling and lying through his teeth that he'd love some pampering and gossip but he had already promised to be Felix's caddie.

Plans were made for the golfing group to meet up in front of the manor in thirty minutes to head to the course. Fortunately, nobody realized that neither Felix nor Ace were aware that this week would involve golf.

While they were rummaging through their wardrobes for something to wear, Ace struck up conversation.

"So golf, huh?" Ace said. "I wouldn't have guessed you played."

"And I wouldn't say that I do," Felix said. He inspected a polo shirt and figured it was as good as any in the absence of actual golf clothing. "It takes too much time and the small talk is abhorrent."

Ace chuckled and tossed a pair of capris on the bed. "I see the problem. Luckily we have all the time in the world and you've got me to handle the small talk."

Felix smiled into the closet. Lucky indeed.

Ace ended up borrowing one of Felix's shirts and they managed to hunt down a maid to fetch Felix's tennis shorts from the laundry room. And because of Ace's reassurance that they'd make it in time even with the detour, Felix only panicked a moderate amount about that fact instead of going batshit insane like he usually would.

In the end, they were ten minutes late (“fashionably late”, Ace had argued) but still ended up being the first ones ready. Standing in the estate's parking lot and waiting for the others to arrive, Felix could take a moment to relax while Ace curiously fiddled with the clubs and zippers of Felix's borrowed golf bag.

Felix noticed that his shirt was a little too big over Ace's shoulders but otherwise he looked great in it. It made Felix remember all the times they had shared clothes in the Entity's realm, back when they were desperate to get any kind of variety in the predictability of the trials.

They had been so close back then. How had Felix ever allowed them to drift apart after their escape? Even though he had been busy with work and his breakup, that was no excuse to neglect his friends.

"I've gotta confess, I have no idea what all these different clubs are even for," Ace suddenly spoke. "I'll probably be the shittiest caddie in golfing history."

"That's not your fault – I'm the one who dragged you along," Felix said. "I'm sorry about this. I know you would rather be at the spa."

"Well, normally, yes," Ace said. "You offer me a choice of a sport I know nothing about and a day of luxury, I'll pick the latter eleven times out of ten. But if it's a choice between spending time with you or the charming – yet grating – women of your family, I'll happily bear the burden of this golf bag."

Ace nudged the bag with a grin and Felix smiled, a weight rolling off his chest. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it, sweetheart," Ace said with a smile before going back to messing with the clubs.

Felix glanced around in confusion, but nobody but the two of them were there to hear the pet name. Ace must have been getting into the lovey-dovey act in advance.

═════════════ ♤ ═════════════

When they were finally sitting in the limo on their way to the golf course – which was all kinds of ridiculous, but it was the only car that would fit the whole group – the groom immediately started making the dreaded small talk with Felix and Ace.

"Do you play golf?" the groom – Alexander, Felix recalled from their introduction two days ago – asked Ace.

He seemed genuinely curious instead of judgemental, and making it a point to speak in English was already earning him brownie points in Felix's book. Maybe Felix should have made more of an effort to talk to him before.

"Oh, God no," Ace laughed. "I don't have the patience for it – not like Felix here."

Ace ran a hand over Felix's shoulder and Felix tried not to lean into the touch.

"I'm just here for moral support," Ace said.

"Vanessa is the same," Alexander said. "I know she finds it boring, but she still comes with me sometimes. And she takes pictures of my swing."

Felix realized that this was the first time he had heard anyone speak positively about his cousin. In the midst of all these awful wedding activities, he had almost forgotten she possessed any redeeming qualities.

"That's so cute," Ace said. "You guys really are adorable together."

Alexander beamed. "Thank you!”

Felix thought the compliment sounded cheesy, but since the groom was clearly eating it up, he kept his mouth shut and let Ace handle the talking.

“It’s good to have you with us today,” Alexander continued. “It’s nice that you’re still coming along, even if you don't like the sport.”

"Yeah, well," Ace gestured to the bags on the other side of the limo, "I just hope I don't throw my back out carrying all this stuff around."

"Oh, don't worry,” Alexander said. “I called to book us golf carts in advance."

Ace's entire face lit up. "Alexander, you're the best."

Yeah, Felix decided. The groom really wasn’t bad at all.

═════════════ ♡ ═════════════

When they arrived at the country club, Ace volunteered to retrieve his and Felix's golf cart, allowing Felix to head down to the driving range for some much-needed practice.

The first few of Felix's swings were absolutely awful, making him glance around self-consciously to make sure nobody saw. But he pushed through the embarrassment and tried to get back into the zone – and even after so many years, it didn't take long for the muscle memory to kick in.

While recalling the familiar motions and the ball gradually getting closer to where he had aimed, Felix couldn't help reminiscing about the past.

His father was the one who taught Felix how to play. They spent many summers of Felix's youth on the course or the driving range, Felix's father instructing him about his swing and praising him when he succeeded. His father had also tried to push him to join groups of strangers or people his age – no doubt counting on 18 holes’ worth of forced socialization to chip away at Felix's social anxiety – but hadn't pushed after Felix kept declining. Felix had wanted golf to be something he shared with his father, and after his passing, it had been difficult to find the motivation to pick up his clubs again.

The sound of tires burning gravel snapped Felix out of his thoughts and he startled mid-swing as a golf cart came rushing down the hill to the range.

The other golfers gave strange looks to the speeding cart, but Felix couldn't help but smile as he recognized the designer sunglasses and manic grin behind the wheel.

The cart screeched to a stop next to Felix's mat.

"This is so much fun," Ace grinned.

And despite the golf etiquette breaking and slight concern for his well-being with such an unpredictable caddie, Felix felt giddy over Ace's obvious enjoyment.

"I suppose I don't need to ask which one of us is driving?" Felix asked.

"Nuh-uh, you drove us all the way here from Coburg. This is my time to shine!"

"I seem to recall you don't have a driver's license."

"Irrelevant. Now get in!"

Felix chuckled. "It's still twenty minutes until our tee-off. You'll have to wait."

"Boo," Ace huffed.

While Felix went back to practicing, Ace told him about the arrangements for the game. They would be splitting into two groups, with Felix playing with the groom, his best man and the fat uncle – Ace's words, and Felix only snorted and gently corrected him (“his name is Günther”). Ace seemed excited for the game; probably because he would get to drive like a maniac as Felix's caddie and because Bernard was in the other group.

Apart from the five of them, Agnes' pool boy would be joining their group as fat uncle's – err, Günther’s – caddie. Thus the other group would consist of Bernard, his son, as well as Felix’s third uncle Johann and his wife.

Feeling a little more confident about the day, Felix finally switched from practicing with his irons to his driver club. He placed his ball onto a tee and shuffled back on the mat – trying to ignore how nerve-wracking it was to feel Ace's eyes on him while he lined up his shot.

Felix ended up managing a decent drive – a little too much fade, but he got a clean hit – and Ace whistled lowly.

"You didn't tell me you were good at this," Ace said.

Felix shifted and tried not to let the praise go to his head. "Wait until we get to the actual course to make a judgment.”

Ace quieted down while Felix prepared for another shot. When that one was almost equal to the last and Felix even got some of the fade under control, Ace made a disbelieving huff.

"Seems my judgment is just fine. Didn't you just say you haven't played in a long time?" Ace said, an eyebrow quirked in accusation.

"I haven't," Felix said. "I try to go to the range a few times each summer, but it's been years since I played even half a course."

Ace hummed. "Maybe it's a good thing we were roped into this, then."

Felix doubted that, but he stayed silent and focused on his next shot.

…And maybe he put even more force into his swing, just to hear Ace's delighted cheer when the ball crossed the 250 meter mark.

═════════════ ♧ ═════════════

In the end, Ace turned out to be right: golf wasn't such a bad idea after all. Because for the first time since his father's passing, Felix found himself having fun on the field.

Ace drove just as recklessly as Felix had anticipated, pushing their golf cart to its limits when speeding down the hills and driving off the designated paths. And even though Felix clutched the handlebar for dear life whenever the car tilted dangerously to the side, more often than not he found himself laughing right alongside Ace's excited whooping.

Between the driving, Ace made a running commentary about Felix's and the others' game. Mostly, said commentary consisted of praising Felix even through terrible plays – like when Felix hit a stray branch that rocketed his ball in the complete opposite direction of where it was supposed to go.

"Wow, you actually managed to hit that thin branch! Nice precision aim," Ace grinned, effectively preventing Felix’s embarrassment.

If Felix had expected Ace to mostly lounge around in the cart while he and the others played, he could not have been more wrong. Despite Ace admitting that golf had never interested him, he made an incredible effort to learn; asking Felix about the different clubs and rules and etiquette, seeming genuinely interested in the answer.

"What's this club called?"

"What do those white pillars mean?"

"What about the red ones?"

"What's a mulligan?"

"What does handicap mean?"

"How do you even know where the damn hole is?"

And he learned. When Felix's next ball bounced out of bounds, Ace was immediately tossing him another one from the golf bag.

"That was just a practice shot," Ace said with a wink.

And in no time, Felix was asking for the wood-tree and five-iron and Ace effortlessly handed the right club to him. He also knew to avoid the green with the cart, fixed divots in the fairway when Felix duffed, and stopped talking as soon as someone was focusing on their shot nearby.

He also made bets – because of course he did, it was Ace.

"I bet you ten bucks – err, euros – that it's going in the bunker," Ace murmured when Günther was lining up his shot.

Felix smiled. "I don't have any cash on me."

"Fine, a backrub or something then," Ace shot back.

Felix didn’t even have to think twice. "Deal."

Günther narrowly avoided the bunker and Felix had never been so disappointed to win one of Ace's bets.

But when Ace shrugged and faced him with a grin while gesturing for Felix to turn around, he realized that maybe it was for the best. This way, Felix only had to deal with the embarrassment of strong hands working into his tense shoulders through the shirt, instead of getting free rein to the firm muscles of Ace's back and the sweat he could see pooling in the nape of his tanned neck.

═════════════ ♢ ═════════════

While waiting for their turn between holes, Ace and Felix mostly made chit-chat with the groom and his best man. They only caught glimpses of Bernard's group behind them. Said group’s game appeared to be going much slower, and based on the amount of beer cans Felix could spot in his least favorite uncle's golf cart, he wasn’t exactly surprised.

Through talking with Alexander, they also got confirmation that he did seem to be genuinely infatuated with Vanessa. He joked that even though she had become somewhat of a bridezilla with the wedding so close, she was normally a sweetheart. Not only that, but her social media career was apparently quite successful, having a large following and putting in a lot of work into editing her photos and videos.

It definitely made Felix feel a little bad for assuming that his cousin was just doing it all for attention – and especially for thinking she was marrying for money and not genuine love. Of course, he would rather die than confess any of that to his future cousin-in-law.

═════════════ ♤ ═════════════

The hours rolled by surprisingly fast and soon enough, Ace was driving them up to the 18th green. Right as Felix stepped out of the cart with his putter in hand, he suddenly had an idea.

"Do you want to make the final putt?" Felix asked Ace.

"Wha – me?" Ace exclaimed, clearly confused. "I barely even knew what a putter was three hours ago, I sure as hell don't know how to use one."

"Would you like me to teach you?" Felix asked.

"I –" Ace hesitated, glancing at Alexander.

"Go ahead," the groom encouraged. "We don't mind. Right, Günther?"

Günther merely grunted and waved his hand in a "go ahead" motion.

"Oh, what the hell," Ace grinned. "Do your worst, coach."

They waited for the others to finish their putts before Felix went over some of the basics with Ace. He demonstrated his grip and helped Ace line up the shot, with Ace staying quiet and uncharacteristically focused the entire time. Felix could see that Ace's body was tense and his grip ended up all wrong, but he didn't have the heart to correct him –

Ace's putt was about 30 degrees too far to the right and had enough force to almost make the ball roll off the green entirely.

Ace winced and looked up at Felix with a strained grin. "Oops."

Felix gave an encouraging smile. "Practice shot," he reminded.

That got a chuckle out of Ace. "You're right. Let me try that again."

Ever the trooper, Ace walked over to prepare for his next putt. But this time, when Felix saw him repeating the same mistakes, he had to intervene.

"Sorry," Felix said. "Can I…?"

"Of course!" Ace said. "In case you didn't notice, I desperately need the help."

Felix nodded and stepped behind Ace to get a better feel for his putting stance. He corrected Ace's grip and instructed him how to place his feet, showing him how to keep his wrists locked to control the momentum.

And it wasn't until he was guiding Ace to making practice swings, with one of his hands on Ace's wrist and the other on his hip, that Felix realized just how intimate the position was. He was plastered to Ace's back practically from head to toe, leaned over Ace's shoulder to murmur advice.

If the roles were reversed, Felix would probably have passed out from both giddy excitement and utter mortification.

As it stood now, Felix merely cleared his throat and took half a step back so the position wasn't quite so indecent. "Now give it a try."

Ace gave an acknowledging nod – making Felix thank his luck for the lack of a flirty comment – and shuffled into position by the ball. Felix kept the hand firm on Ace's hip, needing to steady both himself and Ace's swing.

Ace's shoulders moved and with the familiar clack of metal hitting composite rubber, Felix watched as the ball went in a perfectly straight line towards the hole, only coming about half a meter short.

"Nice job!" Alexander said.

"Perfectly lined," the best man agreed. "Just a little short."

"Well, it's an improvement, right?" Ace turned to face Felix, his questioning eyes searching Felix's for approval.

Approval which Felix was all too happy to give.

"You did great," Felix said. "Now just repeat it and we'll finish the round with a bogey."

Ace smirked and sauntered over to the ball. "Will the third time be the charm? Place your bets, gentlemen!"

The group chuckled before allowing Ace silence to focus. Felix was surprisingly tense while he waited for the stroke; objectively, it wasn't the hardest putt to make, but he had seen many experienced players choke on even shorter ones. With Ace's lack of experience it could go either way, but Felix so badly wanted him to succeed –

And with a clank and whirr, the ball tumbled into the hole.

The groom whooped and Ace turned to Felix with the brightest, most brilliant smile Felix had ever seen. It made the air leave his lungs and his heart skip a beat, and he wanted nothing more than to close the few steps of distance between them and pull Ace into his arms to kiss his smiling lips –

"Good game!" the best man said, snapping Felix out of it. "Nice putt, man."

The other players proceeded to shake hands amongst themselves and with Ace. Meanwhile, Felix was left reeling from his thoughts.

He had wanted to kiss Ace. Hell, he probably would have kissed Ace, had the others not intervened.

Would Ace have let him?

Felix was in a daze as the party shook his hand and started gathering their things. He barely registered the best man and Ace making plans to go to return to the country club for a drink while they waited for Bernard's group.

A firm hand landed on his shoulder and Felix looked up to see Alexander.

"Sorry, I –" Felix started, embarrassed over holding the group back.

"That's alright," Alexander assured, his hand falling away as he turned to look at Ace laughing with the best man. "Why haven't you taken him golfing before?"

"Ah." Felix scrambled to think of an appropriate lie. "I didn't think he would like it."

"Hmm," Alexander said. "I’ve learned that asking someone how they feel is better than just assuming.”

Felix's palms were starting to feel sweaty and he just nodded mutely. It was like Alexander knew about their situation, about how Felix constantly studied Ace to give him even the slightest clue to what the other was thinking –

"Regardless, I think he'd enjoy anything as long as it was with you," Alexander said.

Felix frowned and tilted his head in question. That was along the lines of what Ace had implied earlier, but how did Alexander sound so certain?

"The way you look at each other reminds me so much of me and Vanessa," Alexander clarified. "Last night, she was saying that she's never seen you smile this much."

Felix flushed at the knowledge that not only were his relatives gossiping about him, but his little crush might not be as discreet as he had thought. "Ah… really?"

Alex grinned and nudged him in the side. "Just make sure to invite us to the wedding."

While Felix was busy choking on his own tongue, Alexander merely laughed and slapped him on the back before returning to the others.

At the incessant beeping that was Ace abusing their golf cart’s horn, Felix finally rejoined the group. While they drove back to the country club, he listened to Ace crack jokes about Felix’s expert golf tutelage and tried to ignore his own nagging thoughts about how it was starting to seem like they might be selling the whole couple thing a little too well.

#riconti #felix richter #ace visconti #felix x ace #dbd #dead by daylight #dweetwrites #dbd fanfic

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nxtsnw · 3 years

Note

P1: Please could it be a mikey oneshot leaving a male reader; I leave it days before the dissolution of Touman with the excuse of "I like another person more, I don't love you anymore and I don't want to see you again" it may be that I don't want to hurt him or something like that, in the end ReaderMale! he takes it badly at first but over time he recovers and becomes a famous Idol that is everywhere, not only is an Idol but has a presence in the underworld (something +

°Mikey x Male reader°

plot: After the breakup between Mikey and MaleReader, their two paths split. The reader, after an unexpected glow-up and after both have apparently moved on, meet again, Mickey as the leader of the Bonten and the reader as a very famous idol.

author note: I also read the pt.2! I apologize if I changed it slightly, I did everything possible to respect it. Thank you for the request!

word count: 1k

warning: angst, break up

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The weather that day was so hot, but it wasn't a pleasant heat, it was quite the opposite. Y/n was going to meet Mikey, his boyfriend for a year now. He noticed his bright blonde hair from afar so he decided to run up to him and hug him from behind.

"Heyy Mikey" he yelled.

"mh" he replied looking at him from top to bottom.

"What happens?"

"I leave you," he said with that a weird calm and his eyes staring at him and waiting for a reaction.

"Ahaha this is funny" answered y/n.

"I'm not kidding, it's over between us, I'm no longer in love with you. I'm sorry, but it's time for me to open a new chapter in my life."

A slight shiver ran down the y/n back.

"Wait, did I do something wrong?"

"No, I already told you, I'm not in love with you anymore."

How was it possible? Why should he leave him like this?.

He could still feel the blond's gaze on him and didn't dare to raise his head. He took a deep breath and mentally slapped himself.

"Goodbye then." he continued without expressing any kind of emotion.

"Goodbye."

So that completely unexpected conversation ended. And for y/n began one of the hardest times ever. Even just to realize what had happened took him several weeks(maybe months), which were lived in a very bad way by the boy.

Acceptance was a hard thing and just as he was returning to the bad habit of smoking he was stopped by a strange man.

“Wait for a second please, don't quit smoking that cigarette. And please, let me take some pictures of you. "

Surprised and scared, the boy decided to walk away.

"Wait up! Believe me, I'm (his name and his surname), a famous photographer ”he continued showing him a tag that confirmed his previous words.

"Please, just a photo?" and so the boy agreed.

So the photo was taken and the photographer came over to show it to him.

At first glance, not even the same y/n could be recognized, he seemed so different from the last time he had seriously looked at himself in the mirror, he couldn't see himself in that photo he had just taken.

"When I became like that?..." he spoke aloud when he was still deep in his thoughts. So much so that the photographer looked at him with a bewildered face.

“Don't like the photo? I'm sorry. Did I make you feel uncomfortable?" The boy shook his head no.

“Oh thank god, I also wanted to ask if you would give me permission to publish this photo on my new photo album due out next month,” he asked, clasping his hands. After he noticed the boy's troubled expression, he continued saying: "You can also receive money and be contacted later by different modeling agencies, I think you have this potential."

A job and some money would not have been bad .. the young man accepted and the two traded their phone number.

But before he could think of anything else, he remembered his change in physical appearance. He immediately went home to look in the mirror. In the street, while he ran, he saw himself in a shop window, he noticed the changes in the body.

They weren't that obvious, but to him, it felt so different, developed. The more he looked at himself the more he was convinced of how much prettier he had become.

Self-conviction? Had he had the famous post-breakup glow-up without realizing it? Was it possible? Was there any entity unknown to him involved?

Arriving at random he noticed even the smallest details of his face, had he always been this attractive?

Thanks to that funny meeting were the beginning of a new life for the boy.

After the photographer's album began to be printed, he noticed his inbox filled with inquiries from various fashion agencies.

They just asked him for a meeting to see if they could hire him, and reading the pay he didn't think twice about accepting.

He came from the first agency that contacted him, and after a short interview, he was hired. It was all happening so fast, the long time after parting with Mikey seemed to have almost vanished from the boy's mind.

In no time at all, he began to have great success in many magazines, and his fandom began to grow. Real people stopped him on the street to ask him for a photo and how beautiful he was. The agencies organized real meetings for the boy's fans.

He met some of his old school friends (with whom he had had some bullying problems) who didn't recognize him in the least...

Everyone had begun to love and idolize him. The creepy and weird thing is that it all happened within 6 months, all that fast? How was that possible? Often y/n stopped to wonder how it was possible, and always tried to find out how it could have happened, but he never found anything rational. ( I'm so sorry, I have never read "lookism" yet, I tried my best to find information <3)

And so winter had arrived, the cold now surrounded him.

He had just finished his shift at the agency and had decided to go get a hot chocolate in his trusted bar. As soon as he entered he noticed a new boy, he was tall with green eyes and dark hair he was really cute.

The boy had been working in that bar for a short time, and it was he who served him. Along with his hot chocolate, he gave to him a note with his phone number, hoping that y/n would contact him.

So that's what he did, he had finally overcome the breakup with Mikey, he was finally ready to start a new life, and finally sentimentally too.

Months and years go by. The relationship between the two boys seems to have improved and thanks to his work he becomes more and more famous. A real Idol, with a little secret, he hadn't yet explained the change that had radically changed his life.

Did some divinity have anything to do with it?

Because of his job he had not been allowed to have a boyfriend, so he had invented and hired him as a "personal bodyguard", so he was able to find an excuse to spend more time with his boyfriend.

They were walking arm in arm under light snow when he saw what he never wanted to see.

There was Mikey. That Mikey. He was sitting on a bench and always kept his lost gaze on some buildings. Was he there on purpose or for simple deals?

He had a hard time recognizing him, Mikey had cut his hair even though he still had that different sheen, but it looked just fine. He was thin and pale in the face, but the most noticeable thing was two dark circles under his eyes that made him look more tired and almost sick.

After a while, Mikey turned to his side.

"Look, let's go if we change our way," he asked his boyfriend.

"Um okay, but what's going on?"

"Nothing, don't worry..." but at that moment he realized that he could no longer escape. He had long since overcome that breakup.

"We can continue from here too," he continued, smiling and taking his boyfriend by the hand.

Meanwhile, a tall pink-haired boy had caught up with Mikey and they were heading in the direction of y/n.

He seemed to be going smoothly until the two ex-boyfriends stopped at the same time.

"Hi Mikey"

No reply.

"Now pretend you don't even know me eh"

Mikey looked up, but this time, in addition to the usual air of defiance, he looked seriously surprised, almost scared?

"Hi y/n, how long has it been?"

But who could know him better than y/n? They had been together for a year, by now he knew that expression perfectly. He knew that at that moment Mikey was confused but he didn't want to show it.

How were they supposed to react?

That question was creeping into both of them, but neither of them seemed able to react.

Did he get over it? What had happened all that time? And who were the new respective partners?

For these questions it will still take some time to get answers and who knows if they will ever have them ;)

I hope you'll like it<3

#mickey x reader #manjiro x reader #manjiro sano #male reader #tokyorev #tokyorevengers x reader #oneshot

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theparanormalperiodical · 3 years

Text

What The Hell Is Satanism? The Backstory, The Beliefs, And The A-To-Z On Devil Worshippers

4 days ago, Nike decided to sue a small indie art collective based in New York.

This isn’t news. This isn’t the first time a profit-mongering fashion-giant has targeted businesses trying to make a name for themselves. And it won’t be the last.

But this time, there’s probably something else influencing the executives reclining on their plush leather seats: they said it was because MSCHF stamped on the Nike Swoosh. But we all know what the real problem was:

These kicks were soaked with Satanic imagery - oh, and a single drop of human blood.

"MSCHF and its unauthorised Satan Shoes are likely to cause confusion and dilution and create an erroneous association between MSCHF's products and Nike”

Translation: no, we don’t want to be associated with devil worshippers.

Satan and his followers have once again hit the press following Lil Nas X’s latest viral YouTube hit and release of his custom footwear. And he does the belief system - and the LGBTQA+ community - justice.

But Satanism goes much deeper than pole dancing your way to hell.

It goes deeper than the fears of your evangelical aunt, it goes deeper than the rumours of a sacrificial ritual that happened in the woods outside of town, and it goes deeper than QAnon conspiracy theories.

Today we explore what Satanism really is. And what it really isn’t.

*twerks towards hell*

What Is Satanism?

Satanism is a group of modern religions that are centred around Satan, an entity in Abrahamic religions (e.g. Christianity and Judaism) that rebelled against God, has power over Hell and demons, and seduces humans into sin. Satan features in a vast number of major religions: he started off in Zoroastrianism, then making his way to Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. But the modern followers of Satanism are inspired by the Christian fallen angel and ruler of hell.

A large proportion of Satanists follow atheistic Satanism - they don’t necessarily believe in an entity but follow a philosophy that focuses on individualism and satisfying the ego, or rebel specifically against the dominance of Christianity in Western society.

Although Satan is typically considered the embodiment of evil, most strands of Satanism are not. However, there are some groups that fit this mould like the Order of the Nine Angles: they’re neo-Nazis.

The actual worship of Satanism only began just over 50 years ago, in 1966. But the use of the term ‘Satanist’ stretches back centuries further. Calling someone a ‘Satanist’ (or something to that effect) was an insult reserved for those that disagreed with a Christian group’s beliefs.

A Not-very-brief-but-look-I-tried-ok History Of Satanism

Here’s the thing about Satanism: at one point in history, every religious group was deemed Satanist.

You see, that’s how it all started.

Even the term ‘Satan’ originally meant ‘adversary’. It didn’t necessarily refer to a horned, evil ex-angel once scorned by the Almighty. It meant ‘other’; it was just an insult. It wasn’t created by groups of men draped in blood red robes preparing to slaughter a virgin to their ungodly master - Satanism was actually created by Christians.

The word ‘Satanism’ was first recorded in French and English literature back in the 16th century. Against the backdrop of the Reformation (when the Western Christian Church split off into Protestantism, Catholicism, and other more niche shards) rival religious groups would label each other with such terms frequently in various tracts and texts.

It was not to say that Protestants, for example, were actively worshipping Satan but were instead deviating from what Catholics thought was true Christianity. By ‘incorrectly’ serving God, they were supporting Satan’s claim to ruin the world with sin and evil.

*Disney villain laugh*

In the 19th century it broadened to encompass anyone that lived an immoral lifestyle and was thus serving Satan’s will. But in this same century it evolved yet again.

Yep, it’s time to introduce the actual Satanists: texts began to emerge that mention people that revered and worshipped Satan. It took a long 300 years for Satanists to reclaim their title. But the story doesn’t end here: this is a really important theme that runs like blood through the history of Satanism. Or, rather, the history of religious prejudice and persecution.

Throughout, well, all of human history, we have been swept up unto the belief that there is a dark, evil force lurking within our communities. The most recent example claims Joe Biden and his Democrat friends are Satan-worshipping baby-eating America-hating pedophiles. The fears of a discrete force that can hide at will fits the descriptors of the Judeo-Christian devil. And so, it had been applied to persecuted groups for centuries.

The Witch Trials and the Spanish Inquisition are the most famous examples of this. Satanism evolved in the Medieval era to scapegoat certain groups or to reinforce social norms by emphasising the apparently very real fight between good and evil.

Narratives of the French Revolution at the time were contorted with rumours of revolutionaries being part of a secret Satanic conspiracy. This revolution struck a blow to the power of the Catholic church, and some fingers pointed towards the dark lord of hell himself. Some even believed these revolutionaries had amassed supernatural powers to curse people and shape-shift into various creature ‘n’ critters like cats or fleas!

In the 20th century, another historical shift took place. And this time it (supposedly) happened from within the secret societies themselves: non-fiction authors and tabloids began to recount the allegations of people who once claimed to have been part of Satanic groups before converting to Christianity.

Doreen Irvine claimed she was given the ability to levitate amongst other witchy-powers. But Irvine’s claims sent shockwaves across the pond in the US. Much more horrific allegations were about to take centre stage. In the 1980s this would reach its climax with the Satanic Panic:

Also known as the Satanism Scare, the book Michelle Remembers (1980) detailed the alleged repressed memories of a psychiatrist’s patient which claimed they had been abused as a child for Satanic rituals. In these rituals, babies would be sacrificed and Satan would appear.

Reports of sexual child abuse for these rituals - known as Satanic Ritual Abuse - proliferated until the 1983 case made against the McMartin family. The McMartins owned a preschool in California and were allegedly sexually abusing the children in their care for ritualistic purposes. A lengthy trial ensued and the McMartins were eventually cleared of all charges.

But it was too late.

An evangelical anti-Satanism movement emerged claiming no children would lie about such claims and therefore all accused must be guilty. A conspiracy theory similar to those before emerged claiming SRA was rampant across the US, but it lost momentum by the turn of the 90s. Various investigations by the FBI and British government looked into SRA but found no evidence of Satanism or rituals in any cases of child abuse. Some lone cases of pedophiles did involve rituals, but these were isolated events that never involved Satanist groups.

The 7 Types Of Satanism

Satanism is an umbrella term to describe a vast array of religious groups. There’s a swirling sea of beliefs from the philosophical Satanists that don’t actually believe in Satan to the minority groups that are willing to sacrifice humans in the name of worshipping their god.

However, this ocean does share a common focus on individualism, self-perception, and non-conformity - traditional traits associated with the devil.

There are 3 forms of Satanism: reactive (attempts to invert Christianity and celebrates rebellion), rationalist (atheist and materialistic beliefs), and esoteric (actually worships Satan and draws upon religions like Paganism and western Esotericism).

The Church of Satan kick-started modern Satanism. Erected in 1966, Anton LaVey promoted an atheistic philosophy that focused on indulgence and an ‘eye for an eye’ ethical code that celebrated mankind as animals in an amoral world. Hate and aggression were not wrong but were advantageous for one’s survival. Yes, the seven deadly sins were actually beneficial for the individual.

The First Satanic Church was founded on Halloween night in 1999 by the daughter of Anton LaVey after his church was taken over by a new administration that Karla deemed against her father’s work.

The Satanic Temple is an atheist-activist group that stages political ‘pranks’ that rebel against the political and social dominance of Christianity. They aim to showcase religious hypocrisy in stunts such as performing a ‘Pink Mass’ over the grave of a Westboro Baptist Church goer (known for their explicit and offensive signs). They use Satan as a metaphor to rebel against a society that restricts personal autonomy and curiosity.

Luciferianism is a belief system that pivots around the characteristics associated with Lucifer. Followers believe Lucifer is the illuminated aspect of Satan, thus considering themselves Satanists. But some believe he is a more positive force than Satan. They follow the ancient myths of Egypt, Rome, and western Occultism. They consider him the true god - a destroyer but also a ‘light-bringer’ to the world.

The Temple of Set does not necessarily revere Satan by instead a being they call Set. Satan was the corrupted name of set, an entity that is the one true god. It gave humanity intellectual abilities to separate it from animals and they believe in a Setian philosophy with self-deification as the aim of all humanity.

The Order of the Nine Angles was inspired by ancient Pagan groups resident in Shropshire in the late 60s. But the founder of the group, Anton Long, is considered the pseudonym of neo-Nazi David Myatt. They encourage human sacrifice as a part of rituals and several members have joined the police and the military to do this without getting caught. The ONA is linked to several rapes, murders, cases of child abuse, and right-wing terrorism. They are also connected to several neo-nazi terror organisations.

The Joy Of Satan - contrary to its name - ain’t joyful. It’s an Occultist group that combines Satanism, Paganism, and UFO conspiracy theories. Just like the ONA, they’re Nazis. They believe Satan is one of many demonic deities which are powerful humanoid extraterrestrial beings which are equated with ancient gods. They believe Satan created humanity and brought us knowledge.

Reactivism isn’t a form of Satanism that is followed by an organised group but rather practiced on a personal, isolated level. It is considered an anti-social means of rebelling in a society dominated by Christianity. Most reactive Satanists are adolescents, mentally-disturbed, and have taken part in criminal activity associated with Satanic rituals they discovered through personal learning.

For example, in the 1970s two groups of teenagers in LA and Big Sur killed 3 people and ate parts of their corpses as a part of rituals devoted to Satan. Plotted murder and cannibalism are common traits of reactive Satanist crimes.

The A-To-Z Of Devil Worship

Baphomet

A deity that the Knights Templar allegedly worshipped. It is associated with the Sabbatic Goat which represents the equilibrium of opposites (half-man and half-goat, male and female, good and evil).

Black Mass

It is traditionally known as a requiem mass (funeral mass) in the Roman Catholic church from which the celebrants wear black clothes. However, it has been appropriated by Satanic cults. It often involves a naked woman as an altar and is the site of various Satanic magical rituals.

Cutter vs Wilkinson

A Supreme Court case which claimed federal funds cannot deny prisoners accommodations that are needed to engage in religious practices. Five residents of an Ohio prison including a member of a white supremacist Christian church, a Wiccan, and a Satanist filed the suit, claiming the officials failed to accommodate their ‘nonmainstream’ religions.

Devil

The personification of evil which shows up in many different religions. It is Satan in Abrahamic texts.

Demon

A supernatural entity often associated with evil. The original Greek word - daimon - did not have negative connotations.

Demonology

The study of demons.

Demonolatry

The worship of demons.

Goats

Satanism is always associated with goats. But why? There are several reasons: Baphomet is half-man, half-goat; the ‘infernal goat’ is depicted in many witches’ sabbats; Pagan traditions involved horned gods Christian forces deemed devilish; and the tarot card depicting the devil is a goat. In 1966, the church of Satan adopted baphomet as the sigil.

Lucifer

The name of mythological and religious figures associated with Venus. It is associated in the Christian tradition with Satan as he supposedly fell from heaven. Often called ‘the morning star’ or described as ‘light bringing’.

Stanislaw Przybyszewski

The first guy to promote a Satanic philosophy.

What do you think?

Let me know in a comment below! And while you’re there, make sure you like and reblog this article.

Want to read an article on the paranormal every Saturday? And a real ghost story everyday/whenever I’m bothered? Hit follow!

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one-more-offbeat-anthem · 3 years

Text

have a conversation

for @dadstielweek day 4: misunderstandings

So they defeat Chuck, and then Jack fucks off to do celestial entity shit, and then Sam goes on an urgent find-Eileen mission, and Dean is left alone in the bunker.

(Well, Sam is coming back. At some point.)

Dean contemplates drowning himself in whiskey, thinks about what Cas would say, and then decides to deep-clean the entire bunker instead. By the time Sam finally comes back, with Eileen in tow, Dean’s got this awful, jittery energy all the time, so he takes to praying to Jack in the mornings.

(He would do Cas, but, uh. Cas. Yeah.)

On day twenty-three of Dean’s ongoing pray-to-my-weird-godly-son-thing breakdown (that includes a lot of where the fuck is Cas? and please come back, Jack, we still have your room set up), the aforementioned cosmic entity, junior edition, shows up at breakfast.

Sam jumps and Dean spills half his coffee, but Jack just waves serenely. “Hello!” he says brightly. “I’m back.”

“I can see that,” Dean replies, trying to sop up his coffee with his napkin.

“And he’s not alone,” another voice says, and then Dean spills the rest of his coffee, because it’s Cas and Cas is in his kitchen and Cas is alive and--

“You dumb sonofabitch,” Dean practically growls after he’s been hugging Cas for an embarrassingly long time in front of everyone, “Never do that again.”

“Okay,” Cas says, and Dean believes him.

Breakfast after that is a joyous affair--Eileen and Cas sign rapidly across the table about something (Dean doesn’t catch all of it but from what he does understand he thinks Eileen is updating Cas on what happened to Chuck), and Sam produces a box of sugary cereal for Jack, and it’s all awesome.

Well.

Mostly.

Because Jack and Cas are supposed to be in each other’s orbits. Sure, all of them had a hand in raising the kid, but Cas is Jack’s honest-to-god (maybe a little too soon for that turn of phrase) family. Dean remembers vividly how bent up Cas was those times that Jack died--and how Jack took the news that Cas was gone, after that night in the dungeon. That’s a father-and-son duo right there if Dean has ever seen one.

But they won't look at each other.

Dean tries not to read too much into it, but the whole day, they’re never alone in the same room, and when Dean offers that maybe they could take Miracle on a walk, Cas backs out as soon as Jack volunteers.

Dean definitely has ulterior motives when it comes to dragging Cas to his room when Cas tries to slither off that night (namely: kiss him like it’s going out of style in an attempt to make up for the last decade and some change), but after the long-awaited make-out session, Dean can’t help but ask the question that’s been on his mind.

“What’s up with you and Jack?”

Beside him in the bed, Cas stiffens. “We, uh...had a disagreement.”

Dean cranes his head to look at Cas, who is currently using Dean as a pillow. “You’ve been back for fourteen hours! What did you disagree about?”

Cas sighs. “After resurrecting me, Jack took me first to Heaven to show me what he had done. It was impressive--he started redesigning the whole thing. But, uh, I don’t know how it came up...but he started asking about me dying.” Cas lifts his head, and Dean sees his eyes welling up with tears. “He’s angry with me, Dean. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay.” Dean attempts to gather all of the reassurance he can muster. “First of all, he’s not even four years old yet. When Sam was four, he would get mad about someone changing the TV channel. If someone in his family up and died, he would probably be even more upset.” Dean has to stop for a moment as his brain catches up to his analogy and he remembers that he was four when his mom died and he stopped fucking talking for a year.

“That’s true.”

“And maybe you two just need to get real about it, y’know? A good old fashioned conversation.”

“Ah, yes, something you have often.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, and then he kisses Cas again to make that command stick.

----------------------

Despite the warmth and contentment that come from having someone in your bed, Dean still wakes up at the asscrack of dawn because he can’t sleep, and he finds himself in the kitchen, contemplating making something extravagant for everyone for breakfast since he has the time. French toast, maybe?

He goes on a journey to find suitable bread in the pantry and then drops said bread on the ground when he turns to see Jack standing in front of him.

“Gonna put a bell on you,” Dean mutters, bending to pick up the bread. “What’s up, kid?”

Jack looks nervous. “It’s Cas.”

“Go on.” Dean leads them back into the kitchen and starts rooting through the fridge for eggs and milk. “Spill.”

“I--” Jack sighs heavily, a twin to Cas’s sigh earlier, and Dean thinks that it really is uncanny how alike they are. He leans against the counter heavily. “We argued.”

“What about?” Dean asks. Nutmeg, that’s what he needs next. Sam was the one to use it last, so it’s probably somewhere really fucking weird.

“...I’m angry.” Jack sounds shattered, and Dean pauses. Jack looks up at him, eyelashes wet and voice small. “Why am I still mad at him, Dean? I brought him back! He’s here!”

Dean remembers being really pissed off when Cas pulled Sam out of the pit, upset that Sam even jumped in. So he thinks he knows what he wished someone would have said then, and he pulls Jack to the kitchen table.

“Sometimes,” Dean starts, “People we love do things that make us upset.”

“Like dying?” Jack asks.

Dean lets out a low laugh. “In this family, yes. But being upset with them doesn’t mean we don’t love them. In fact, it might even make us angrier, that we love them and they pissed us off.”

Jack nods.

“So,” Dean decides to give Jack the same advice he gave Cas. “Maybe you should just try to have a conversation with him about it. Tell him how it felt that he was gone.”

Jack slowly nods again. “I think I’ll do that.” He gets up and throws his arms around Dean’s neck. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean sits there, stunned, for at least a minute.

Maybe Cas’s paternal nature is rubbing off on him.

----------------------

Cas announces after lunch that he’s going out, and then Jack says, “Me too,” and they fool absolutely no one.

Dean spends the afternoon making meatballs for dinner (in addition to becoming Mr. Clean since Cas died, he’s become Martha Stewart), and hopes, when he hears the bunker door slam, that it’s a good sign.

“You’ve got something on your face,” Dean says to Jack when he walks into the kitchen with a smear of chocolate across his cheek.

“We got ice cream!” Jack says.

“It was delicious,” Cas adds, following Jack in. His expression as he looks at Jack is warm and full, not the hard-edged sadness of yesterday, and Dean breathes an internal sigh of relief.

As it turns out, though, they did not bring ice cream for everyone else. Disappointing.

#dadstiel week #I struggled with today's prompt so I hope this is adequate?#offbeatwrites #TIME TO TAG SOME FOLKS #AHHHH #friendshapedcastiel #userstarry #chocolatecakecas #userdainty #kashmircastiel #userdorksinlove #anyways #:)

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vaalthus · 3 years

Text

Remthalas Theory/Sort of Analysis: The All-Seeing Idiot God, The Dreaming Chaos, The Path of Omniscience. Oh and like potential Lore Spoilers maybe.

With the conclusion of the Reckoning War, and having bared witnessed to Remthalas’ actions, I believe we have a better idea of what our aquatic Dreamfarer desires and intends not only for themselves but for the inhabitants of Lore as well.

We already know that Remthalas believes that the only way to achieve freedom, to dream, is to not be shackled. To not live out the dreams or whims of others. Unfortunately, this boils down to the lesson Remthalas got out of the idea is that people should not tie themselves down by basic laws or morals people tend to follow. Otherwise, the endless possibilities provided by true freedom are not possible.

This a concept that he has clearly taken to his very core given how angrily or impulsively he’ll react should he feel someone is ordering him around or someone else shirking their freedom in his point of view as demonstrated when he rebuked Notha twice for commanding him and when he killed Mr. Nameless/Twinkles.

So that’s it then, right? Remthalas is just an anarchist drunk on freedom? Wanting all of Lore to break their shackles and live out their own dreams never minding once of those around them, right? Well yes, but there is I think a bit more going on here.

I found a few things concerning about Remthalas in our fight with either Notha or Uaanta. One, is that he found the Avatars more interesting in their reduced orb state. Secondly, he didn’t appear to want to destroy them. Thirdly, is that regardless of who we chose to side with, Rem finds us interesting either way. Fourth, and most concerning is that he only found Uaanta truly fascinating if she merged with the Avatars. Lastly, and most revealing was his desire to see all the events unfold regardless of what the outcome was and then simply bounce when a conclusion was reached.

The reason why I find him being able to see Uaanta as a truly fascinating player in this conflict is to be some cause for concern is that being ‘interesting’ to Remthalas seems to, at first, amount to being someone that can bring about his idea of freedom, freedom from the balance the Avatars imposed. Characters like the Hero and I imagine Notha when he first met her and was introduced to her ideology. However, if this is the case, why find Uaanta interesting? She after all plans to shepherd away the very entities responsible for the very concept that resulted in his abandonment and have shackled so many others and their dreams. Why find someone who still intends to be devoted to the Avatars to be a person of interest then? Are they not still choosing to wear their shackles? To ignore their own dreams in the favor of the dreams of others.

The answer I think is simple. In the end, it was just less about Remthalas serving his ultimate plan and Remthalas wanting a show. Remthalas has always long been aware of our capacity to come out on top over our opponents, including his own fellow members. Why would he suspect there was any possibility we would lose to our dear friend or even Notha? He didn’t because he knew we would win, but how can he enjoy the play if all the actors aren’t putting in effort for their roles. After all, are you satisfied by the just the ending of a movie or the passionate performances that it took to get there?

You see I believe Remthalas revealed what he plans for us and Lore all the way back when we first met in the Ex Somniis Fabula or The Story of Dreams quest. In his introduction, Remthalas posits the question of whether he’d be able to alter reality if the entities only referred to as “They” dreamed instead of just slumbering. With quite the determined, if not a bit demented, expression on his face I might add. There’s also one other feature to this and it’s the fact that Remthalas points out that we’re in his dream, or perhaps more accurately his dream space, and that it’s basically just a blank white box. (There are also the blue glowing circles on his robes that could symbolize having multiple eyes to see which are only visible when he’s in his dream form, but it could also just represent Kathool’s eyes so who knows) This is ultimately his domain and by the looks of it he can bring anyone into it and determine what is experienced within this tiny space. What the viewer sees could amount to anything but what they ultimately stand is just the box, the blank canvas. Here, Remthalas controls reality, what goes on in the ‘bigger picture’ so to speak. Here, Remthalas is as close to a god as anyone else that can control their own dreams.

What I’m getting at here is that Remthalas doesn’t just want freedom he wants to see possibilities and the process it takes to getting to an outcome. What he wants is to dream and for everyone else to be the actors in his never-ending play of entertainment. To see the big picture change from one point to the other. These are details that I think were touched on when he mentioned that he enjoyed the dreams of children because of their ability to imagine possibilities to fill in gaps left behind by a world they are still very new to. Or when he appeared genuinely disheartened at the idea that he was not at rest. Or when he finds dreams to be not interesting enough when pointing out that Voyna can only ever dream of dragons due to her trauma with them. Or even when we fought him in the dream to save Sally and he noted that our dream was “Fierce, but one dimensional” Or the rather basic nature, in comparison to whatever else he wanted to show us, of Notha’s backstory and memories.

What he wants is for Lore to be his dream. To fit all of existence in that little box of his and to watch things go wild. Which is why I called him ‘Idiot God’ because if true then Remthalas is basically trying to become Azathoth, the Blind-Idiot God from the Lovecraftian Mythos who created the entire universe in that series by simply dreaming, and who will kill it if he ever wakes up. A character/concept I still believe was being referenced when Remthalas asked what would happen if “they” woke up and questioned if the world would stop existing if “they” did. However, unlike Azathoth, Remthalas intends to be aware of all that happens when he finally dreams.

Azathoth is not the only eldritch god that Rem appears to share similarities with and to be honest it the one that makes him perhaps the most untrustworthy. The god I’m referring to of course is Nyarlathotep: The Crawling Chaos, The Dweller in Darkness, The Haunter of the Dark. These are just a few titles of Nyarlathotep, but I believe they would fit Remthalas for the similarities they share with the Outer God. For one thing is how both Remthalas and Nyarlathotep communicate through dreams to any of their unaware victims and pass on information that might shatter their world view. Furthermore, much like Nyarlathotep, Remthalas seems take more enjoyment in the dreams of others being messed with in a way that is typically nightmarish in nature. The most important similarity here of course is that both entities are more driven by spreading chaos and madness through people as opposed to their utter annihilation like other eldritch gods such as Cthulu. The reason for this is because in the case of both characters, I believe in Rem’s case anyway, their enemies isn’t so much other people but rather boredom, in addition to their own stagnation.

An interesting contrast I just thought about between them however is how Nyarlathotep and Remthalas spread chaos. As mentioned, Nyarlathotep does so through dreams by revealing, in typical Lovecraftian cosmic horror fashion, how utterly pointless the lives of his victims are in the face of the sheer overwhelming forces at play in the infinite and unknown universe and how they should just succumb to madness and/or become one of his followers, to amuse himself. Remthalas kind of does something similar when he suggests that morals and the lives people are currently living don’t hold much weight in the face of the grander schemes and roles of the Avatars.

However, unlike Nyarla, Remthalas would do this so that others cast off their rules, still to amuse himself with the chaos that would thrive from that but in his view, they’d be getting something out of it. A sort of “You and everything you’ve known don’t matter so succumb to despair and madness and entertain me” vs “You and everything you’ve known don’t really matter so do what you want and entertain me” Chaos vs Chaos but different philosophies on how to get it.

The connections that can be drawn to other well known eldritch entities does make me wonder if when we see Remthalas next he might be trying to elevate his power on the material plane to that of the Primordials (Kathool, Uthuluc (probably not Uthuluc out of all of them to be honest), The Witness, Sciuridaehotep, the latter of which is just a Nyarlathotep reference) or is somehow going to get them involved in some way when his plans really start to get under way. If he does somehow involve Kathool in what he intends to pull off I imagine we might see Aquella again given that she’s supposed to overwatch his bedtime and I think it would fit to have a water take on another that was devoted to Kathool. I’d suspect she, or potentially another water elf, could reveal more of in-depth info on Remthalas’ servitude to the Avatars and later Kathool.

This brings us to the question of course of how exactly Rem plans to pull this all off. Obviously, we fit into those plans. However, with what just happened with the Avatars now being out of the picture and Myalos also being out of commission, what’s the next step? Where does he take us from there? The answer goes back to those “They” entities being referenced. Remthalas has brought them up, but he wasn’t the only one I believe. Celeritas mentioned them once when Sinnoncence made his move. I believe, I’m certain, that our dear Big Daddy named dropped them for us a long time ago.

The one and only Aequilibria, the true gods of existence who are said to be slumbering even now. How Remthalas intends on exerting power over these beings is unknowable, but it would appear the best time to do so before they awake once more.

Which brings us to the Hero and the interest Rem has taken in them. It is clear the main reason that Remthalas has taken an interest in us is because of how capable we were in comparison to Uaanta at the time he was scouting us both out. We are an invested tool…and yet. I cannot help but wonder if Remthalas continued engrossment of us isn’t just because he knows we’ll be useful to his plans but also because Remthalas is straight up looking for a plus one when his plan would be theoretically completed. He did offer us to see where the currents of existence could take us.

After all, why look at and enjoy multiple paintings in a vacuum or go to the movies by yourself when you can have someone watch it all with you. Then again, as I mentioned earlier, he could simply be viewing us as just another tool to pull off his plans and that is join the others later once everything falls in place

All of what I stated is more speculation than anything but if any of it’s true then we are in for a ride.

#dragonfable #Remthalas #primordials #Aequilibria #Watch everything I just said be uber wrong #Blind idiot God #Crawling Chaos #Lovecraft parallels #Was MrNameless trapping everyone in a tiny dimension he controlled foreshadowing to what Remthalas plans?#Dreamfarer #The never ending dream #If Remthalas does attempt to use the Aequilibria then perhaps we won't even see him again for awhile.#The eyes Mason what do they mean!?!?!?!?#It's made of fear and nightmares y'all #What if Remthalas tries to do his thing and Sciuridaehotep straight up tells him No #Boom crisis averted #Remthalas is our villian #But he couldn't care at all about using Draco #What forces are at work here #More to a prophecy #He refuses to respect Lock and Key because they can not entertain his dreams #Tools can only follow a patter in his eyes #And that's boring #Same thing with Myalos #Uaanta did something new #Aquella return?#The dreams were dark #df lore #df spoilers #I am now imagining Remthalas sitting on a couch and watching people run around screaming through a window because he moved a stone

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sharkneto · 3 years

Note

Prequel Five almost killing himself on some bad math. I love the good whump. :)

This is what I get for sending you everything lol. Specific Requests. You're only getting a chunk, this whole scene is like 4k words lol

As Sarah works on typing up yet another grant application, she listens to the snippets of Megan and Five's discussion that float through her open office door.

“…but what if we treat space as time then…”

“…even hear yourself that’s literally the dumbest…”

“…better? Go on this thought adventure with me, Five…”

“…a potential. Hang on. Not the same entity but entwined…”

“…hear that, Amanda? I need you to mark this historic moment where Five said I was right…”

“…not completely but the concept you brought up does have an interesting potential if…”

“…can space whisper its secrets to you in a more concrete fashion…”

“…don’t think it’s wrong but I also know that’s not right…”

“…an integer? I’d take a single number as an explanation why I’m not right but not wrong…”

“…but if it does work this way it would quadruple my jumping range let me just try…”

A scream snaps Sarah’s attention to the trio, her feet moving before she’s even fully registered anything has happened. She nearly runs into Amanda as she turns towards the students’ workspace, her eyes huge. “Five! Sarah holy shit Five he- I don’t know but oh man, Five he- oh my god,” Amanda babbles at her and tugs her arm towards Five and Megan’s station.

Megan is even paler than usual, fair skin a chalky white. She’s doing her best to support Five, slowly losing the battle with gravity and Five’s taller frame and sinking with him to the ground. Five is absolutely covered in blood, and Sarah can’t see where it could possibly be coming from as it coats his entire front in a dark, glistening layer. His whole body convulses and it’s more by accident than anything that Megan gets him turned to the side in time to avoid the fountain of vomit that erupts from him.

Sarah kneels by the duo, helping Megan prop Five back up. Up close, she can see all that blood – holy fuck so much blood – is gushing out of Five’s nose. “Megan, what happened?” she asks curtly, working to position Five so he’s leaning forward and using her own hand to pinch the bridge of his nose to try and stem the flow of all that dark, dark blood. He blinks at her dumbly, his own hand clumsily trying to take her hand’s place at his nose.

“W-w-we were talking about a new angle to treat space and time as a singular entity, see what the math did then. Or, wait, not exactly that. Five got mad at that description, he said it’s more, more, more like they are intertwined to appear to be singular? But I don’t understand how that’s functionally different--” her voice trembles and she’s making a herculean effort to stay composed to help as much as she can.

“Dsn’t wor’ li’ ‘at,” Five mumbles. Sarah ignores him.

“Focus, Megan,” Sarah says. “Tell me about the theory later. What happened that got Five here? Amanda, go get ice from the kitchenette for his nose.” Amanda rips her eyes from the blood so much blood still streaming from Five’s face and quickly scampers off.

“He thought something about the theory would make his spatial jumps easier, so he tr-tr-tried an experimental jump and, oh Sarah it was awful. It was like he slammed into a wall but also stuck halfway through? It looked so weird and wrong. And then it kind of just, chucked him back out and into me and I was going to make a joke but then there was blood and he wasn’t responding and I don’t know what happened or if he’s ok--”

“’M fine,” Five mumbles again, making a stronger attempt to replace Sarah’s hand on his face. His words are further muddled thanks to the iron grip she has on his nose. “Now we know tha’s no’ how it works. A’ all.”

Amanda races back in, braids whipping behind her and a baggy of ice in her hand that she practically launches at Five’s face. “Is he going to be ok?”

“If we don’t get this bloody nose stopped soon we’re going to have to get some professional help,” Sarah says. It’s hard to tell if the flow is slowing at all with how much there already is all down Five’s front. And her front. And Megan’s arms. She doesn’t have high hopes that this won’t require a hospital visit.

“Is fine. I’ve ha’ worse.”

“You know, Five, that’s not comforting,” Sarah sighs. “Do you have a concussion? I don’t know enough to know how worried I need to be. You threw up and you’re bleeding from orifices on your face, those aren’t good signs.”

“Tha’s normal.”

#ficblogging #snips #shark's 500 follower celebration

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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 3 years

Text

Did you hear about the Fraktz haunting in New South Wales (1995ish)?

It has gotten a little folklore-y and probably sensationalised over the years, but the basic premise is that Dina and Hans Fraktz were one of those overly helpful religious types, and were raising their three kids (Curtis - 11, Angie -8/9?, Louisa-May - 3) just about the same.

They lived in Albury, NSW which is in Australia in a dept of housing place, not much room but they made do and were always grateful to god about it. Enough that, as the story goes, it catches the attention of some demonic entities.

Belphorn bets that Lucifer can't corrupt the whole family in under a year, and of course the overachiever that he is, the head of hell says 'Hold my beer mate' and goes to work.

It starts as every horror movie starts, weird noises, bad dreams, smell of decay, something in the corner of their eye, etc. Louisa-May is the most sensitive, and of course, gets taken first after promising something to her 'imaginary friend'.

The paediatrician isn't sure what to do when her frantic parents present at the clinic with a toddler that keeps cackling maniacally and contorting in ways bodies shouldn't. They rationalise it's probably ehhlers-danlos sydrome or a varient, and this needs further observation. A referral for a specialist is provided, and that's that apparently.

Of course with a 'sick' child, the stress and tension in the house is high. Dina and Hanz are having whispered not-arguments so the kids won't hear, and Hanz pretends to ignore that Dina's gone back to smoking ten a day to keep herself calm. In the same way she turns a blind eye to his fermented grape juice dinners... and breakfasts.

Curtis shows the stress by acting out at school, getting detentions frequently and just skirting away from suspension by technicality alone. His friends distance themselves, he has no energy for footy anymore, and he can barely concentrate because something is always just behind him. He screams himself awake, begging it to just leave him alone, he'd do anything to just be left alone.

"Anything?" the shadow asks one night in late June, detaching from the wall. There's a few variations of the pact that the demon makes, but they all boil down to 'you can't be scared of us, if you're one of us' and Curtis is so tired he accepts.

The next morning Curtis is muttering in ancient sumerian under his breath, with bloodshot eyes and a strange echo to his voice.

Hanz speaks with their local minister about an exorcism, or some sort of spiritual guidance. A bake-sale to assist in medical care is organised, and a prayer night held for the two Fraktz children.

Nothing seems to change. Dina can only turn the crucifixes in the house rightside up so many time a day, and starts to just walk past them now. Who cares anymore?

Morning and Evening prayers go by the wayside, and even saying Grace falls out of fashion because its horrifying to hear it babbled back in dead languages, or one of your children shrieking at the holy words burning her ears...

By September, Dina's exhausted. Something's scurrying in the walls at night and she knows its not rats, it can't be. She checks on Curtis and Louisa-May to make sure it's not either of them climbing the walls again.

Hanz won't get up anymore, so she tends to wander the house with a flashlight trying to find the noise, and ignoring the lingering sensation of something breathing on her neck. She ignores it, because their minister said acknowledgement gives it power.

Something has written an ominous message across her kitchen wall in what is either blood or thick jelly, and that's the straw that breaks the camel's back. Dina bursts into tears and starts yelling for whatever was doing this to get the FUCK out of HER HOUsE because she JUST WASHED THAT WALL and WHO DID IT THINK IT WAS to go doing something like that?

Something knocks a few jars over, and four slash marks appear on the bench. Dina's scared but still angry, she screams at the air, turning in every direction. "What do you want? Tell me, and I'll do it, just leave us alone!"

By the time Hanz stumbled into the kitchen, swaying and dizzy from his skinfull, Dina wasn't there anymore. Well, at least, her body was.

Hanz would tell his neighbour, the minister and his church group about finding Dina walking on the ceiling and singing an old lullaby to the sleeping Louisa-May in her arms. She reportedly screams at him when he asks what in god's name is she doing?

Terrified, Angie asks her father if she can go stay with her aunty (Meryl) in Woodonga, just a town over. Hanz readily agrees, and drives her there himself, before again seeking assistance from the church.

The minister, clearly not ever having been prepared for such things when he'd accepted the small town position, was at a loss and offered platitudes. Using comparisons to Job to try and help Hanz feel that his faith was merely being tested, and not that God had abandoned him...

For the first time in his life, Hanz began to doubt in the power of the Lord. He left a few journal entries around October 1995, many of which contained the phrases "I feel like I'm going mad" and "I know I'm not crazy, but it feels like I am", as things spiralled out of control.

The main barrier to accessing help, is that Dina, Curtis and Louisa-May were perfectly capacble of acting like themselves when people came around. So Hanz came off as having some sort of mental health episode, and the minute they left, things deteriorated again.

At his wit's end, Hanz locked himself in his bedroom and begged the lord for help. Sobbing and pleading, clenching his hands so tightly in place that his nails pierced the soft flesh between his fingers and the crucifix imprinted on his palms.

It was not entirely clear what happened after this point, as the tales all like to make interesting claims but the key point is there were no actual witnesses, except Hanz and the already 'taken'. But by the next morning Hanz had been subsumbed by the entity as well.

Despite being with her aunty, Angie continued to have nightmares that she would shriek herself awake from, well into late November. Her aunt and two adult cousins would take turns reading to her, distracting her, and reminding Angie about Christmas coming up soon so she had something to look forwards to.

They also took turns sleeping on the floor by her little bed in the guest room, so that there was always someone to point out there was 'nothing there and nothing can hurt you' when Angie woke up distressed. [Her older cousin Deliah has a book about the ordeal, and I think it might be in e-reader, but you can google it if you want.]

So Christmas rolls around, and excitement for Santa overlays even the deepest fear of shadows, which seems to breathe some life back into little Angie. Her aunt is relieved, but is still fighting to get some in-home supports for her brother, his wife and their other two children; she knows something's wrong, but suspects it might be something in the old council pipes...

Angie struggles to keep her eyes open as the countdown begins, and just managed a solitary enthused 'tooooooooot' from her party blower before falling asleep on the couch against her other cousin, Javin. The adults laugh uproariously and take photos, for when she's old enough to be embarrassed by such things.

Oddly enough, the new year seems to have snapped the rest of the family out of their funk, as if 1996 has a power all of its own. Things seem to slip back into place as if people had not been puppeted by a demonic entity for nearly 12 months...

Down in hell Lucifer was fuming and Belphorn was far too smug.

But what could be said about the bet? Lucifer was bound to lose, because he didn't possess all the Fraktz.

#i made this #its bad but i am proud #sorry #Joke

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celosiaa · 4 years

Text

Fear and Consequences

Summary: They’ve stopped the Unknowing, everyone made it out alive, and the Entities are weakened. Unfortunately, so is Jon.

The Entities exact their revenge on the Archivist for spoiling their plans, each taking their turn to cause him pain.

Hi everyone! Based on this post, as well as a wonderful suggestion from @artnerdsarah, @taylortut and I are writing a collaborative series where Jon will suffer through a different kind of illness based on each one of the fears.

Chapter 1: the Buried.

CW: illness, panic (non-graphic)

Until now—until this very moment—Jon thought he truly knew what it meant to stand in the wake of destruction. He thought he knew what it was like to be abandoned by people once considered friends, even if the abandonment was of his own making.

Until the moment that Martin will no longer meet his eyes.

“Devastated” doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling.

To be sure, he hadn’t been expecting the warmest of welcomes from the archival staff. Though they had managed to stop the Unknowing, they had quickly discovered that something still binds them supernaturally to this lightless old basement—and that “something” was likely to be Jon himself. The fact that he wasn’t dead or…unmade like the entities apparently have been seems nothing short of a miracle. But Jon feels nothing like a walking miracle at the moment.

Just work. Just focus, work, find Elias, and get them out of here.

He’s been sitting in his office for nearly an hour now, staring down the tape recorder and the pile of statements, wanting anything but to read one and feed whatever still remains of the Beholding. Perhaps that’s the worst bit of all—the knowledge that the Eye is still out there, requiring him to read the traumas and nightmares of others just for him to survive. He takes a deep breath.

Just do it and get them home.

He flicks on the desk lamp, steeling himself for the task at hand. Already, he can feel a headache beginning to build behind his eyes, pulling at him to just rest his head on the desk and drop off to sleep. Something heavy and oppressive sits in his chest as he begins to read, pulling at his lungs, quickening his breath.

It aches. His very soul aches.

He tips his head down and begins to read.

---

It’s been hours since he’s stopped recording, and Jon still can’t bring himself to stand. What he’s been doing for all that time, he’ll never be sure—his own thought processes seem so very far from him now, swirling up and away with the plumes of dust illuminated by the warm glow of his desk lamp.

What time is it?

Scrubbing a hand down his face, he frowns at the sheen of sweat that’s been building there. With disappointment, but not alarm, Jon reaches the conclusion that he’s most definitely coming down with something. This is evidenced by the fact that the incessant coughs pulsing from his chest had been what forced him to stop recording, whittling his voice down to nothing and leaving him gasping for air. Even now, it takes any bit focus that remains just to keep his chest moving, the very idea of coughing again exhausting him to the bone.

Really should lie down, he thinks, the thought floating somewhere high, high above him. He grabs hold of it anyway, using the momentum to lift himself to standing. Bracing heavily against the armrests of his chair for support, he only makes it halfway upright before the room starts spinning wildly around him.

“Nngh,” he groans, pitching forward to lean against his desk, squeezing his eyes shut against the pounding in his temples. It takes everything in him to keep his trembling knees from folding beneath him as he desperately pants through this unbearable dizziness.

Just breathe just breathe just breathe

At last, the sickening swirling of colors around him eases enough to allow him to stand properly, still bracing one hand against the wall.

I’m really not…not well, he thinks as he swipes another shaking hand over the renewed sheen of his brow.

The ache in his chest only deepens when he finds the rest of the archives abandoned, painfully making his way down to the cot.

Martin’s cot.

…Martin.

Martin…could call him, maybe?

No, better not, better not, he’s so angry with me

…why is he so angry?

Why does it hurt like this?

If a few tears spill down his cheeks as he collapses onto the blanket, the one that still smells so distinctly of Martin—none but himself and the statements will ever know.

---

“AAGH!”

Crash.

Jon jolts to awareness at the sudden noise, propping himself up to half-sitting and staring at the sight before him in shock.

Wh…what…

There stands Martin, bent over his knees, one hand clutched over his heart…and the shattered ruin of his favorite mug spilling over the floorboards.

Oh god.

Jon looks down at once, the memories of the previous evening washing over him in a most unpleasant fashion. The humiliation of it all brings a deeper flush to his cheeks, and suddenly he can’t bear the idea that Martin has found him here, of all places, snuggled beneath his blanket.

“Christ, Jon! Nearly killed me! What are you doing here?”

Oh god oh god

Quick as he can, he swings his legs over the side of the cot, jerking his body upwards in a less than fluid motion—and immediately regrets it.

“Whoa, Jon? You alright?”

Jon can feel the blood draining from his face as the room begins to darken, lungs pulling him down with each painful inhale, and sways—

Right into Martin’s arms.

“Sit back down, Jon— just sit down, come on,” he soothes gently as he guides Jon back to the cot.

The guilt of it all is nearly enough to pull him down for good.

Why are you kind why are you kind why are you kind

Tim takes the opportunity to arrive in the doorway, having apparently heard Martin’s yelp and assumed danger.

“Martin? You okay?” he asks tensely.

“Fine, but Jon—”

Martin is cut off by a sudden bout of coughing, damp and churning and painful, bursting from Jon’s chest with such force as to push his body toward Martin’s kneeling form.

“Oh Christ—”

He distantly feels strong arms reaching up to brace him, preventing him from sliding off the edge of the cot as his vision darkens.

“Jesus, what’s happened?” Tim demands, stepping forward.

“I-I don’t know, I just found him like this,” voice wobbling with timidity.

Or worry?

Jon doesn’t know, only that the coughing has stopped now, and that he’s got to focus on drawing as much oxygen as he can into his burning lungs.

“Hey,” Tim says sharply, snapping fingers in front of his face.

Has he been talking to me…?

“What’s going on? How long have you been ill?”

“I haven’t,” Jon manages to choke out, unable to lift his gaze to meet Tim’s.

“Don’t lie to me,” Tim hisses, leaning down.

“I-I’m not, I swear.”

“Tim—back up, now,” Martin demands, voice soft, but somehow very, very threatening.

It sends a shiver up Jon’s spine.

Or perhaps that’s the fever.

Do I have a fever?

With a start, Jon notices that he’s suddenly got a thermometer in his mouth.

Must have…drifted off.

The beep from the device echoes through his head, throbbing painfully behind his eyes once again.

“Jesus, it’s 39.7,” Martin says in shock, worry laced thickly through every word.

Please don’t worry

I don’t ever want you to worry

Even as these thoughts cross Jon’s fever-addled mind, he can feel his lungs bubbling again, whatever horrible wetness that’s come to rest there threatening to breach the surface. He can’t help it—he feels like he’s drowning, the pained gasps doing nothing to supply him—he instinctively braces forward, a white-knuckled grip on his knees.

“Talk to me, Jon. What’s going on?” Martin murmurs, planting a hand on his shoulder.

All Jon can do in response is pitch forward once again, vision fully shorting out this time as he coughs and sputters and gags for nearly a full minute. Panic rises in him as he finds himself unable to stop, growing dizzier and fainter with each passing second, yet his chest refuses to clear any of the debris it’s collected.

Drowning drowning drowning drowning

“Jon?”

There’s nothing for it now.

“Can’t—can’t—bre—” is all he can manage, inhaling with such desperate force that it very nearly topples him over.

“Okay, hospital, now,” Tim says from above, and the two of them reach beneath his arms, pulling him upwards—

Jon’s vision swirls into darkness.

---

Cold cold cold

Everything is so cold, and something is dripping unpleasantly across his face. Jon can’t help but furrow his brow against it, protesting the existence of whatever it may be. Something about the motion of wherever he finds himself now nearly lulls him back to sleep, the gentle rocking of it pulling him down—

Until his entire body is shaken by an unexpected BANG.

“Tim, slow down, for Christ’s sake,” Martin yells from somewhere nearby.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to get our friend to the hospital,” Tim replies scathingly.

…must be in a car.

Who’s going to the hospital?

He opens his eyes in worry, sweeping them around, only to find that his vision is all turned sideways—his head pillowed on something soft.

Martin’s thigh.

Oh god oh god oh god

“Hey, there you are. You back with us?” Martin calls softly, leaning over into his eyeline with a gentle smile.

Jon only stares up at him in concern.

“Who’s goin’ t’the hosp’il?”

The slurred nature of his words alarms him, and he can feel his entire body tense in panic.

“Shh, it’s alright, just stay calm. You are going to the hospital, Jon, but don’t worry. We’ve got you.”

With this soothing thought, Martin replaces what had apparently been a cold rag across his forehead, still dripping moisture off the end of Jon’s nose. For his part, Jon does his best to follow his instructions, sighing against the relief the coolness brings.

It’s alright.

I’m alright.

Martin said so, so I am.

It’s alright.

He closes his eyes again, willing the fever to drag him back down.

---

“—up, Jon. Hey, you with me?”

Someone is shaking his shoulder roughly, drawing him back to unfortunate awareness.

“M’up, m’up,” he mumbles, not opening his eyes, feeling rather like a petulant schoolboy being awoken too soon.

The thought makes him giggle a bit. Or a lot, perhaps, based on Tim’s reaction.

“Alright, not worrying at all, thanks very much,” he says as he and Martin pull him from the car and support him between their shoulders, both having to bend down significantly to get the job done.

The sheer ridiculousness of it all only makes him laugh harder, before it morphs into a punishing coughing fit, doubling him over between the two of them.

“Not laughing anymore, huh?” Tim asks, somewhere between a joke and a grimace.

“It’s not funny, Tim,” Martin hisses back, no humor in his tone.

Jon wishes he had any strength to reply, but can only focus on breath in, breath out as they painfully make their way inside.

---

A few hours later finds Jon half-listening to the doctor who’s telling him that he’s apparently got pneumonia, that he must have been ill for quite some time for it to be this bad, that he should have come to the doctor sooner. If he could just focus, if he could just listen to what she was saying, maybe he could find a way to tell her that he hadn’t even been ill yesterday—

He finds that he cannot, and settles for trying to figure out if he needs to go to the chemist or not. Something to bring back to Tim and Martin, who might still in the waiting room, if he’s lucky.

I hope they’re still in the waiting room.

The idea of trying to make it back home on his own is not one that he wants to consider.

“Mr. Sims? Did you hear what I said?”

Jon snaps back up to attention, lips closing around a hastily-stifled coughing fit. The doctor merely smiles back down at him, a kind and gentle face that he would hate to disappoint.

“S-Sorry, I—” he breaks off at once, lungs not allowing him the luxury of speaking at the moment. Ever so patiently, the doctor waits for him to finish, wincing at the depth of his desperate hacking.

“It’s quite alright—understandable with such a high fever, certainly. I was just explaining that I will send a prescription for antibiotics over to your chemist, and you should pick them up as soon as you leave. You should also pick up some fever-reducers while you’re there. Do you have anyone waiting for you outside?”

Pain entirely unrelated to the pneumonia flares in Jon’s chest.

“I’m…I’m not sure,” he mutters, dropping his gaze.

“Alright—well, we’ll see then. If not, just stop by the desk and they’ll call you a cab,” she replies, patting his shoulder in pity.

For once, Jon accepts it without even a sneer.

---

Upon his return to the waiting room, Jon doesn’t even want to look up to see if Martin and Tim are still there. His face already burns about the fact that he is too dizzy to walk back on his own, having to be wheeled back out to the triage area instead. He does his best to hide it behind his overgrown hair.

There’s no chance they’re still here. You’re fine, just call a cab and go home.

“Jon?”

Martin’s voice reaches for him like a beacon through the fog; like a sunbeam in a rainstorm, immediately flooding his body with relief. Looking up, Jon is overwhelmed with happiness that both Tim and Martin are still there, waiting for him, immediately standing upon his entrance and staring down at him in concern.

“You okay, mate?” Tim asks, his brow furrowed deeper than Jon’s ever seen it.

Tears spring to his eyes at once, overwhelmed with the expression of fond worry, and he desperately tries to swallow them down.

“Oh god, what’s happened?” Martin asks softly, kneeling in front of the chair with a quick glance up at the nurse and setting a hand on his knee.

“N-nothing, nothing, I…sorry, I’ve just got pneumonia,” Jon stammers quickly, swiping at his eyes in frustration.

“Oh, is it just pneumonia then?” Tim replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

God, I’ve missed this.

Jon can’t help but huff out a laugh, which immediately jerks his body forward into more deep and painful coughs.

“Right, sorry, won’t make you do that anymore,” Tim mutters, bracing Jon’s back with his hand.

Not trusting himself to reply, Jon merely gives a thumbs up.

“Could you walk between us if we held onto you?” Martin asks anxiously. “And do we need to stop at the chemist before we take you home?”

Jon nods in affirmation to both of these questions, lifting his arms for them to grab and pull him up out the chair. Martin gives a quick “thank you” to the nurse, who smiles patiently, and they set out towards the door.

Through the dizziness, through the fever, Jon’s mind wanders back to how thankful he is—and how little he deserves any of this. His eyes immediately begin to sting at the thought.

God, stop it.

“Hey, you alright?” Tim asks gently, having noticed the way Jon has dropped his head down to his chest.

“Fine, fine, I—”

He stops himself.

Honest. You’ve got to be honest.

“I’m just…thank you. For waiting for me,” he whispers, swallowing thickly at the lump burning in his throat.

“Aw, the fever’s made him into mush! Softened the heart of stone! Who ever would have thought?” Tim yells in delight, a broad grin spreading across his face.

“Come off it, Tim, he’s just trying to be nice,” Martin scolds, though the beginnings of a smile have started to creep up his face as well.

“Yeah, yeah, alright. But don’t expect this treatment from us every time, you bastard. This was only to stop you from dying.”

Jon can’t help but smile in return, and feel grateful.

(thank you for reading! next up is the Corruption, written by @taylortut!)

#tma #tma fic #the magnus archives #hurt/comfort #sickfic #whump #taylortut #my writing

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duelofthefatesmp3 · 4 years

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i DO actually wanna know how youd make kotor 3 !!!!!

this ask has been sitting on my inbox for so long on PURPOSE! i wanted some time to re read the revan book + watch some swtor gameplays so i could give a concrete answer about why the book and swtor arent satisfactory and what i would do instead (im not like. a storytelling god so i this is just my PERSONAL idea). under the cut!

to begin with, what's wrong with revan the book and swtor, mai?

i am very fond of swtor i think it was such a nice idea to have an "open" world game set in star wars old republic time. but ultimately, it was not a good conclusion to revan and meetra's storyline! now, i don't really know what happened in the development of the third kotor game (if there ever was a plan for one) but it's clear they dropped the ball on that and decided to start a whole different project. i don't think we can blame disney for that one, because it was announced on 2008, launched in 2011, and disney had just bought star wars that year. so who knows.

the thing is that it's painfully evident that a bunch of the story that was gonna be in the third game, ended up in the book + misc parts of swtor. much of the book feels like a gameplay.

now, it was clear when the book was planned that they wanted to keep revan's story open so when the game came out, they could have a cool Revan storyline so he could make a cool villain appearence and draw in some of that kotor nostalgia. which ehhhhhh. uh. i don't really think did any favors for revan's character. he didn't have a satisfactory arc (I'm not saying "a happy ending" because good arcs aren't always happy) but at least some closure?

revan went through many big events in his life. we didnt need to keep his ass in stasis for his fun villain moments 300 years later. we already had what we wanted from him: jedi turned sith turned jedi again to defeat a terrible threat. that was it we could have let it there and it would have been cool! but then they decided to drag and drag his story just to leave him right where he was before. he just suffered a little more in the in-between.

you could say he finally redeemed himself of all of his crimes this way, but wasn't that the whole purpose of the first kotor game (and would have been the purpose of the 3rd?)

swtor does not centre revan in his own narrative. he's a side character for the player to experience. and look, i get it, we've had a different protag on each game, why not have another one in this one. well, because the protagonist has no personal relationship with revan. meetra was one of his closest friends, and fought with him. there is a connection that can be exploited. but the swtor protagonist is just some guy 300 years in the future who happens to stumble into revan and his life. not even his descendants get to fully interact with revan.

also, there is the fact that revan is not the centre of the game itself, only of a particular storyline. and it's weird, because swtor could have happened without revan's involvement.

ms. meetra surik, ms. bastila shan, women of the world I'm sorry

so it's no news that star wars is misogynistic as fuck right. cause it is.

so you decide to make your gender neutral protagonist a guy. then you decide to make your other gender neutral protagonist a woman. cool. now let's guess who gets underdeveloped, turned into a plot device without reason, and promptly fridged in the most unceremoniously fashion just to fullfil some manpain moments. which one do you think got that treatment.

i know the revan book is supposed to be about revan, but why make meetra go through a whole arc just to undermine her character and turn her into the faithful servant of the guy? she leaves everything behind for him, sacrifices herself for him, hell not even dead is she not serving the guy. and she was the second game’s protagonist! she beat up a bunch of powerful people and now she’s just meh, there? she had so many interesting ways to interact with revan (meeting kreia, revan’s first master, encountering another force consuming entity, etc.)

meetra went through a whole arc about dealing with the guilt of doing something horrible and having the consequences of it cut her from the force. we see her broken, then slowly come back to the world and reconnect herself with the force, then stop running and face the consequences of her role in the war. thats such a cool character with tons of potential! and nothing happened!

then we got bastila who is. a whole deal. so you make her go through a “promising jedi who defeated revan, to questioning reluctant companion, to fell into the dark side, to was redeemed thanks to her bond to revan, who helped her come back because he’d been through the same experience” arc, and then you decide to push her to the side to have a baby?? which is... its clear that the writer didnt know what to do with her (or with the other characters outside of canderous) so hey, lets get her to marry revan and have a baby.

my ideal kotor 3

to preface, im not a game developer, so some of my choices could be stunted by what a kotor rpg can do lol. of course, it would follow the same mechanics and have the same format as the first two, because consistency!

the fun way to start the game, would be from scourge’s perspective. we get to play as a sith! i’d even say you get to change scourge’s name and gender and looks (i know sith have different looks)

in scourge’s storyline, we get from his arrival to normound kaas, to his talks with nissyris, to his missions working for her. in some of these, we can make scourge lean into the dark or the light side! fun! plus we get some exposition with dialogue options. it all continues untill we get to nissirys story about the emperor. we get a fucked up cutscene of his childhood and then BOOM when its over, we see revan waking up from a nightmare and their pov starts.

ok, as for revan’s story, since we’d have to pick it up from where kotor ended, i’d have a little cutscene of revan back into the ebon hawk, with bastila, and them telling the crew to take them to courascant. then cut to a council meeting where revan and bastila get scolded in private, then rewarded by the republic. i would also like to see some revan mournink malak’s death mayhaps. since he was their childhood friend and all.

i would 100% scrape the marriage and two years passed part. as the book said, the council had no use for revan aside from the legend(tm), so why would they stay in courascant. revan was very alienated from the jedi at that point, despite being back in the “light side”

then like, to revan asking around for meetra and other jedi from the mandalorian wars, we can cash in that atris cameo, then revan starts to have these visions about the sith emperor, and maybe we could get a playable dream sequence about revan’s fight with mandalore the ultimate (I KNOW I WOULD LIKE TO SEE IT.) and we get the whole exposition to mandalore telling revan that the sith are behind it all. i believe we should get a bunch of these flashback/dream sequences of revan’s past doing shit. cut to revan burying the mask in a planet, then back to the present. we see a bunch of mission and juhani scenes trying to reach him, but he keeps pushing them away. revan and bastila meet canderous, travel to the ice planet, meet clan ordo (god i love clan ordo) you get the whole quest, you decide weather to spare veela or not, maybe you get a cheeky mandalorian companion (force sensitive mando oh?) and leave canderous behind.

we can visit like, a couple more planets searching for clues maybe, etc. then when reaching nathema, you are forced to go alone as revan, get to explore nathema a bit (raiding ancient location yay) nathema as a location can be so fun because you can have it weaken you hp bar and also you cant use the force (which, in game is pretty cool)

then we get to scourge and nyssiris arriving to the planet, they fight but since theres two of them and revan doesn’t have the force, they beat the shit out of them, and while running away, they get in a fight with bastila and the companions in the ebon hawk (ebon hawk shooting game my hated). bastila manages to get a glimpse of revan’s thoughts before they take them away. but the ebon is so ruined it takes bastila, t3 and the mandalorian a while to fix it, and they get stuck into the unknown regions for a while. the ebon hawk is left in an outer rim planet with t3 fixing it, bastila and the mandalorian run back to the jedi council, only to get caught in the middle of the jedi civil war. we can have bastila choosing to hide in courascant and trying to make sense of what she saw, reading texts about the sith empire, trying to plot a course to where they took revan (more atris! but shes pissed at her now)

cutscene to meetra’s pov, leaving malachor v behind, getting calls from everyone at the hawk (atton my beloved) but just as she’s leaving she gets a force message from revan, calling for her to find him and sending visions of normound kaas. then, through her force bond with visas, she tells her not to go because they’re gay and in love and whatnot.

then boom, she gets intercepted by bastila’s ship, with the mandalore and the other mandalorian (yes i do love having a bunch of mandos on board) and they go on their way to find revan.

now i want there to be an underlying message of “we can’t take our friends with us because we have to do this ALONE we’re powerful JEDI we don’t need our FRIENDS.” meetra gets asked if she wants to bring any friends and she’s like “no. we have to do this alone.” along the game you get constantly contacted by other game characters, you get the chance to talk to them or ignore them.

so, we get back to nathema, and meetra has a whole “holy shit this is just like darth nihilus but ten times worse. but i beat darth nihilus. i can do this!” then she finds peace in this place without the force, we get a whole speech about how the odds arent against them, they find a way to normound kaas, and get going.

in normound kaas i thought about them getting a whole mission about how to infiltrate the citadel, only to get helped by scourge. he joins the party, we get a little flashback of all the years he spent trying to make revan remember and they storm the citadel. we get to fight the dark council members, fun! then we get to free revan and the game switches povs. bastila hands the mask to revan and he has a cool “yes im revan im pretty cool” then a nice heartfelt yet rushed reunion with everyone.

then have a small CONVERSATION WITH MEETRA where she talks about the sith triumvirate she defeated and revan is impressed with her and is like “we are the last hope of the jedi, we’ve learned to walk between light and dark, we’ve done horrors but we can still make things right, our experience has made us more powerful etc.

then they fight the imperial guard, ALL OF THEM, meetra revan and scourge make it into the throne room, they all fight the emperor. meetra shows the emperor that she has seen the void, she has cut herself from the force, and she’s not afraid of him, revan supports her, talks about redemption and hope and NOW.

NOW. how the alternate endings could go:

if you decide to take scourge through the light side, he manages to form a forcebond with meetra and revan since they’ve both teached something about the duality of the force, they get 100% stronger, but its still not enough. UNTIL. a bunch of ships (jedi and mandalorian, even non republic ships) arrive to dormound kaas, the gangs from each game storm the room and together they make the emperor and his guard a bunch of punching bags. they beat him! (unknow to them, this was a backup body because the emperor can do weird shit like that, and has only debilitated his plan, but he’ll come back dont worry). then they fly back to the republic, to tell the chancellor about the sith threat, and preparations for the war begin. meetra and revan get to live happily ever after for a while, then they die away from the jedi or the sith (waaah im thinking about them helping canderous rebuild the mandalorians, and them doing it since they killed so many mandos in the war)

BECAUSE IN THE END KOTOR IS ABOUT LEARNING TO PROCESS TRAUMA AND RECOGNIZE YOUR MISTAKES AND LIVE WITH THE GUILT WHILST TRYING TO FIX THE MISTAKES YOU MADE ALONG THE WAY. AND ALSO TO HEAL FROM TRAUMA YOU NEED A SUPPORT SYSTEM SO EVEN THOUGH IT MAKES SENSE TO YOU YOU SHOULDNT PUSH PEOPLE WHO LOVE YOU AWAY. AND THINGS AREN’T BLACK AND WHITE ITS COMPLICATED SO YOU DONT END UP BACK ON SQUARE ONE YOURE A CHANGED PERSON.

if you decide to dark side scourge further, he betrays revan and meetra, they all die, and the emperor unleashes his angry lightning or whatever on everyone + a bunch of visions of all the enemies of past mocking them, and their loved ones suffering. and since you’ve had that “im not calling my friends bullshit” no one comes, you die there, and the emperor is only stalled for a few years. swtor ensues. scourge becomes the emperor’s hand.

now you could of course bring revan and meetra up in swtor, but maybe only as force ghost guides, or have some of the other characters of the game have relevance (visas tries to heal the miraluka planet 2021)

WELL THAT WAS A LOT OF WORDS. HOPE THIS IS SATISFYING ENOUGH

#this is bonkers but ive been thinking about it since 2011 so.#wow 10 years since i played kotor. wretched little game.#also if i switch pronouns midway its because it would make it clearer #kotor 3 rewrite

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