#Bloody and Harvest. my beloved

[h-didanart]

It wasn’t too big of a difference but they noticed the change in movement of Grim and Reaper’s tails.

They felt their core stutter as the older went over what they had said to try and find what was wrong with it, the younger trying to keep them calm, it was unlikely these Bloodmoons would attac—get mad if they said something wrong, but—

Reaper started talking.

He didn’t sound mad

Of course he didn’t, why would he? They were stupid to think he would be, both brothers were answering their questions after all! They hadn’t broken the rules, they hadn’t done anything wrong, they hadn’t done anything to piss the Bloodmoon off, they…

… hadn’t caught anything Reaper had just said.

Shit

They glanced over both brothers, trying to piece together where the conversation was at. What life is about? Life in general, it seemed

Grim started talking, the twins tried to pick up everything he said.

They tilted their head, that made sense they supposed, perception affected the way one acted after all. They huffed at that last part, finding it to be true too, hard as it was to let anyone get close enough for it to work.

(A small smile appeared on their face as they thought of Solar, Gin, and Red)

They blinked as they noticed Reaper looking at them. They hummed once more, finding the similarity amusing.

“It’s the least one of us can do to support one another,” they sighed, “we get it, tried it before even,” they looked around the room, “though you seem to be better equipped for that kind of offer all things considered,” they chuckled, “any Bloodmoons that come across you two would be lucky to have such an offer”

It seems they didn’t pick up on that being an invitation to them

(*laughs hysterically*)

Somewhere in the forest a portal opens, and from it tumbles someone into the ground.

The portal closed faster than the bot could get their bearings.

They slowly roll themselves over to look up, red eyes scanning the trees towering over them. Between the trees and the smell, it was clear this wasn’t a forest they knew

They groan, bringing their claws to their face and kicking the ground in frustration

“Whyyyyyy uuuuuus?”

(Woe, Retired upon ye :D)

A new smell has entered the forest. Bloodmoon frowned as they stared out of the window of their cabin home, their fangs exposed as they let out a low snarl.

Time to go investigate.

The four armed Bloodmoon left the cabin without a word to anyone as they thought this would be a great time to practice their magic. They stalked through the forest mere inches from the ground, their shoulders slumped slightly, and glided at a haunting pace.

Something smells ....

Familiar...

Another one, Brother?

Perhaps, Other. So many come to this forest...

We must find them before they begin their hunt. We just got those damn deer back in our territory!

Such a hassle...

Which? Another or the deer?

Yes.

[h-didanart]

Remember that thing I reblogged? The one that aggressively encouraged us to write a scenario? Yeah, I’m writing

———

Tws for violence, death, and more violence

———

Ruin tumbled to the ground, broken faceplate even more broken now by the previous strike.

The bat was brought down upon his legs before he could even try to get up.

Bloody looked down at him, placing a foot on his back to pin him down.

“Y-y’know,” the bastard spoke, “it sure would be nice to know what exactly I did to warrant such a reaction from you”

Bloody ground his foot on Ruin’s back, focusing on the sound of the bot’s inner fans struggling under the pressure.

“You have the gall to ask what you did?!” they snarled, “after everything you’ve done to us— after everything you did to them- you think you have the right to ask that question?!”

They leaned their full weight on the body below them, glaring down as the casing broke and internal components spilled out.

They turned back to glare at the bastard’s head, catching one of his eyes as he weakly looked up at them.

“I’d tell you to be glad Ves didn’t want to participate but let’s be frank here, torture would be too good for you anyways,” they sneered.

They brought the bat up, aiming for his head.

“Don’t worry though, I’ll make sure this hurts just as much as what you put us through”

[wittness]

OUAGHB NEW BACKGROUND 👀👀👀👀👀 -🎨🥪

I KNOWWWEW ITS SO COOL. we saved it like waaaaaay back. i was scrolling through our photos looking for something when i spotted it n was like. i GOTTA. i actually have a couple saved if you’re curious n wanna use one 👀👀.

[the-s1lly-corner]

Helloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo I just saw your "CReepypastas walking the reader home" post, and I was wondering if you could do that again with some more characters! You can choose who :}

Various crps walking the reader home (part 2)

when the questionable and/or evil character does something good for someone else simply because they felt like it with no strings attached, my beloved trope characters: jeff the killer, eyeless jack, slenderman, bloody painter notes: reader is gn, you and the crp arent dating but youre at least on friendly terms, youre being followed home by someone, written on mobile cws: harassment/stalking from the person following you home, canon typical violence

JEFF THE KILLER

Honestly, it's only a matter of time before Jeff turns around and attacks the person following you, if his presence alone isnt enough to deter them

And hes not going to hold back- the chance of the person not making it out alive is high

Even before he loses it he makes it very clear that hes not too fond of the situation- loudly talking about how some people are creeps.. funny coming from him, someone widely known as a killer

Even using that as an out for the person.. not that it matters much, because as soon as you're home hes going to dip and find the person

SLENDERMAN

He doesn't even need to walk by your side to scare the person off- any normal person would turn around and flee at the sight of a tall faceless creature

And if they dont? He has his other ways...

Walks near the sidewalk, but still away from the street lights. But it doesnt matter, if he feels you're in any danger he can use his arm to pull you to his side

He hardly has to lift a finger to scare off the person, but the offer of him staying until your mind calms is still there

EYELESS JACK

To most he just looks like a weird guy in a mask and hoodie so he might not.. be the most intimidating to most, but having claws and sharp teeth come in handy if the person decides to escalate

And when they do? The person goes from trying to make a lunge at the two of you, to sputtering on the ground grasping their throat. Claw or scalpel, it doesn't matter

He doesnt even want to harvest anything from the corpse- usually hes so firm on that, waste not want not- but god... the air was so uncomfortable that it left a sickly feeling in his mouth...

If you want him to come inside with you when you make it home, he will stay for a while

BLOODY PAINTER

He doesnt want to kill them if he doesn't need to, they're not worth the time or effort.. he walks close next to you in new silence- you're the one left to fill it

What words he does say are said loudly and are a veiled warning for the person a few paces behind the two of you

His voice is.. cold, and leaves zero room to believe hes not making a promise- he will hurt someone if they get too close, the flick of light reflecting off of his partly concealed knife pushes it

He lingers around your house the next few nights to make sure everything is fine, as well as around your place of work

[bhaalsbabe]

Bloodbath

Pairing: Orin the Red x gn!Reader

Genre: fluff

Word count: 1.4k

Summary/warnings: taking a bath with Orin; MDNI, dark themes (mentions of killing, flaying, cutting - we're talking about Orin ok), unhealthy relationship, mentions of Orin physically hurting Reader (her weird expression of love), non-sexual nudity

I swear this is supposed to be fluff

Loving Orin came to you as naturally as breathing. She was perfect in every way, her unhinged personality a breath of fresh air after your boring life in the city. She liked bringing you with her when she did her ritualistic murders and it always made your heart beat faster as you watched her work. Each cut of her knives precise, with purpose, eliciting screams from the victim and laughter from the changeling. She liked to toy with them, just like she liked to toy with you - and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Yet there were times when she would become softer, more mellow. You held those moments close to your heart as they were extremely rare. Tonight, you were lucky enough to experience another one of them.

After another killing spree, you both returned back to the Undercity, to the Temple of Bhaal that you both called home. Orin's pale skin was coloured red from blood, some more fresh, some already dried and peeling off. She was in high spirits, the way she enacted her worship of Bhaal giving her a rush she couldn't get enough of. You held a bag full of materials for a new outfit for your beloved - she showed you how to flay a person and keep them alive through the most of the harvest. You failed, of course, your hands nowhere near the skill level she had, the drunkard going into shock soon after you gave it a try. Nonetheless, you got the skin secured, ready to be prepared and turned into another one of Orin's skin-suits.

You walked through the familiar corridors, a few Bhaalists looking at Orin in awe while you trailed behind her like a loyal pet. Once you got to her chambers, a privilege she had as a Bhaalspawn, you put the bloody bag on the ground and went to the bathtub you had finally convinced her to add. You cast Create Water, a handy conjuration spell you got through a ring you found on one of Orin's victims. Speaking of her, you moved to help her remove her 'clothes'. You knew the mechanics behind it well, being the one who helped her craft it and all, so she was bare before you soon.

"Why won't you bathe with me in blood instead? It would suit you~" She sing-songed, pouting slightly as you took her hand gently, leading her to the bathtub.

"Because I'd probably get a disease from it or something. Maybe if you wouldn't dig your blades into my skin so often, it wouldn't be so risky."

"Now now, little rat, you and I both know that you like it. You like it, you do!" She giggled, dipping herself in the water that immediately started turning crimson.

"Only because it's you doing it," you blushed, taking her long braid and holding it out if the water as she sinked into the tub. You removed the decorations adorning it, putting it on a nearby table, and then you started unbraiding the hairstyle, humming an ancient melody of a song about star-crossed lovers.

Her hair was beautiful, just like the rest of her. Even when it was stained with blood, it was mesmerizing. Sometimes, she'd use the decorated braid as a flail, turning these delicate strands into a brutal weapon. The crusting blood near the ends served as a proof of her creative use of this part of her.

As you finally unbraided the hair, you lifted it all and put it into the tub with Orin. She opened her white eyes and gave you a strange look.

"Join me, sweet thing," she offered you, her eyes piercing through you like her knives. You nodded, quickly disrobing and climbing into the bathtub as she moved to make space for you, her soaked hair moving with her like a sea creature. You smiled at her, taking a prepared soap and starting to scrub her front with it. She kept looking at you like the predator she was, and you had to look down at her naked body to feel less nervous, that's how unsettling her gaze was.

"I'm sure our Lord appreciates what you do for him..." You tried to fill the silence as your soapy hands explored the top of her body, occasionally stopping to scrub off some dried blood and grime. She didn't say anything, only leaning more towards you as your palms brushed over her nipples. "I definitely appreciate you," you continued, finding courage and lifting your gaze to connect your eyes. Her lips twitched, her unusually long arms pulling you into a sweet embrace. You let her do it, choosing to wash her back instead as she continued holding you, her fingers lightly tracing the many scars adorning your body, most of them created by her. You both soaked not only in the water, but in each other's presence as well. Even as you finished cleaning the changeling's pale swirling skin, you continued rubbing her back, and you felt her rest her weight on you fully.

"I love you, Orin..." You whispered, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. She tightened her embrace in response, clutching you almost desperately. You heard her sharp intake of breath, her nails digging into the skin of your back, and then she gave your shoulder several shockingly soft kisses in return. You could feel her inner turmoil during these moments, but as you continued holding her, providing her with comfort and safety, even her troubled mind settled eventually.

When you pulled away at last, Orin refused to look at your face, your roles almost reversing. During your time spent with her, you found out she got shy when you gave her genuine affection and expected nothing back in return. The same woman who could expertly torture and kill, who played with intestines as if it was clay and used blood to paint the city red - she allowed you to see her vulnerable side, the part that she wouldn't - couldn't - show to anyone before. And your heart beat faster and harder from the knowledge of this.

"Turn around, I'll wash your hair now," you prompted her, your voice soft and quiet, minding the intimate atmosphere. At this moment, it was just the two of you. Orin complied, turning her back to you and letting you rub her scalp with your soapy hands. You massaged the tender skin, smiling when you heard her hum and relax more. After a few minutes of the massage, you finally moved to clean her hair, making sure it was pristine again. Her hair was so long it was pretty much filling the entire tub. You worked on it slowly, and Orin started to grow impatient, turning back to you to glare at you.

"What?" You asked, chuckling.

"Stop being so meticulous, I want your skin touching mine again." As if to prove the point, she turned around entirely, pulling you against her, water splashing around from the forceful movement as you slipped and crashed against her wet skin. She laughed as you struggled to sit properly again. Her hands helped to steady you, her strength surprising when you considered her build - though was it really that surprising, when she arranged corpses on daily basis. "Better," she murmured contentedly.

You suppressed a surprised gasp when Orin started mirroring your previous actions, taking the soap and scrubbing your skin with it. You wouldn't dare to question her actions, however, so you just accepted her uncharacteristic kindness. She wasn't as gentle as you, her nails occasionally dragging against your skin, even opening an unhealed wound once or twice. When you grunted in discomfort, she laughed at you again before kissing the back of your neck apologetically. She cleaned you fast, moving to wash your hair in half a time it took you to get there. You didn't mind though, as any time spent in her presence felt like a boon.

"I will carve my name into your skin tonight, dearest one~" she whispered huskily into your eat as she massaged your scalp. "And because I like you, I'll even let you choose a place where my blades will dance." She giggled, and your heart skipped a beat in excitement. You turned your head to her, seeing her pleased smile. You were completely smitten, nodding in acknowledgement before helping her wash the suds off your hair. Then, the two of you finally left the quickly cooling water, drying your bodies with the prepared towels. You kept glancing at her, how her skin shimmered in the dim lightning, how her lips stayed slightly upturned - she knew you were watching her. And she knew you'd be looking at her with same reverence even when she's inevitably forced to kill you in Bhaal's name.

[t6kioo]

entry no. 1

there’s something inherently grotesque about love. it’s not the soft, pastel-colored thing hallmark would have you believe. love is sharp teeth and bloodied hands. it’s hunger—actual, visceral hunger.

we “devour” each other with our eyes. we “consume” each other’s attention. we talk about “aching” for someone, about feeling “empty” without them. love songs croon about addiction and obsession, about needing someone like a junkie needs a fix. calvin harris and the disciples literally sang, “i want you to breathe me in, let me be your air.” love demands consumption, down to the bare bone.

the cultural shorthand is clear: desire is hunger. and hunger—real hunger—has always had a dark edge. maybe that’s why the cannibal keeps showing up in our stories about love. hannibal lecter and clarice starling’s hypnotic dance of intellect and temptation. armie hammer’s scandal that felt like the logical end point of his sexy, “aristocratic” image. netflix’s fresh, where sebastian stan plays a charming man who dates women only to harvest their flesh. and let’s not forget our beloved twilight—edward cullen, sparkling like a disco ball, warning bella, “you’re like my own personal brand of heroin.”

what is love if not the urge to consume? the desire to take someone so deeply into yourself that they become a part of you—biologically, spiritually, metaphorically. and what is heartbreak if not hunger pangs when that person is gone?

cannibalism makes an excellent metaphor because it’s all about boundaries—or the lack thereof. loving someone means letting them in, letting them get so close that the lines between you start to blur. but what happens when that intimacy turns dangerous? when the hunger isn’t mutual? when one person is the predator and the other is the prey?

jeffrey dahmer didn’t kill people because he hated them. he killed them because he couldn’t bear to be alone. he wanted to keep them close, permanently. it’s completely horrifying, yes, but also tragically relatable. anyone who’s stayed up all night rereading texts from an ex, anyone who’s memorized someone’s spotify playlists just to feel connected—congratulations, you’re already halfway to dahmer’s basement.

romeo and juliet, the classic tale of doomed romance, hinges on mutual destruction. they consume each other until there’s nothing left, literal poison sealing the deal. it’s the same story in wuthering heights. heathcliff doesn’t just love cathy; he wants to haunt her. when she dies, he famously cries out, “be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss where i cannot find you!” romantic? sure. but it’s also deeply unhinged.

maybe that’s why vampires, zombies, and other flesh-eaters keep showing up as metaphors for desire. they’re embodiments of hunger without limits, love without boundaries. they remind us that intimacy is inherently risky. to love someone is to hand them a knife and hope they don’t use it.

but the truth is, we want them to use it—just a little. we want the vulnerability, the ache, the bite. we want to be consumed. after all, what’s the alternative? to be alone? to keep your heart under glass, untouched and pristine? no one writes sonnets about that. no one makes movies about lovers who stay politely detached.

maybe cannibalism is the perfect metaphor for love. it’s a bit unsettling, sure, but so is the way we talk about relationships. soulmates. twin flames. two halves of a whole. it’s all just a pretty way of saying: i want you inside me. not just physically, but spiritually. i want to know you so deeply that the distinction between me and you dissolves.

and isn’t that a little terrifying? isn’t that what keeps us awake at night? the knowledge that love will either complete us—or consume us whole.

so eat your heart out. or let someone else do it. either way, bon appétit.

[lathez]

Thank you beloved Sulphur @sulphuricgrin for tagging me in WIP Wednesday!!!! It's a biiiit late, but I'll tag @hadvarandralof and @kiir-do-faal-rahhe because I happen to know you have a WIP Jules...🤔

I do actually have most of Chapter 4 of Epistle finished, I've honestly just been in such a nightmarish depressive episode I was quite literally eating off of dirty plastic forks for a week because I couldn't get out of bed without sobbing. So if you've received a message from me in the past week that seems a bit callous; I've been struggling and just generally not myself. Sweeping apology.

Anyway, I HC that the dragon cult has a Bible, with a book written by each dragon priest as well as a few dragons. Miraak and Paarthurnax's books are part of the "Apocrypha" which in Christian tradition are the books written about the Messiah that were not included in the official biblical text.

There are two parts to Miraak's book, "Manifesto do Acolyta," and "Aberrations." The Three Aberrations were a series of three acts - Dignity, Vanity, and Self - committed by the Clergy and specifically Hevnoraak against Miraak to deprive him of his knowledge of being Dragonborn. Miraak's worshippers, the Bloodskaal clan, believe that when Miraak returned to this knowledge the Three Aberrations would become the Three Accordances were the natural righteousness of the Aurbis to be balanced -- meaning karma's a bitch, and Miraak gets his revenge.

I honestly went back and forth on whether or not to post this; this is Miraak's detailing of the Three Aberrations which I would say are graphic in nature. I'm putting the triggers and text below the cut with a gif separating triggers and text, and I would kindly ask if the trigger warnings bother you, please abstain from reading further 💚

TW: Violent R@pe, G0re, Religious Trauma, Emetophobia, N3crophilia, Dehumanization

THE THREE ABERRATIONS OF MIRAAK

The Aberration of Dignity On the first day I bent the pyre, upon which two cut slates, with fine grit, had been fashioned to grind my knees and forearms, and which were still rust-stained from the boy bled prior, who had been ground to death a fortnight past, so this smelled strongly of iron; from then I was shackled and stripped of my robes, and before the long violation, Hevnoraak spoke at once upon the thralled:

"Look upward and see how your obedience serves you. For the death of sixteen dogs, death is proper and expected; still, I extend the bitter hand of mercy. Look upward and see my goodness; the Son has chosen me to cleanse his Father's whore."

Then I was made to bite upon the Canis root and was molested before the court. When he was not buried within me, it was the backing of a mace, or, more often, the glass flute of an empty wine bottle; this I preferred, as it were, the pain of this was strong enough to knock me briefly from the plane, and I was very pleased in the thought that I had died. This continued for a full turn of the dial and ended only when the slate had sanded my knees to the ivory of the bone. Tossed to me by the courtesans was a cut of raw beef liver, which had gone rancid in the Southern heats, and having been abused in that way, I could not stomach it. When I produced it again, a boot upon my skull forced my face into the mess, which I then ate once more.

I was left with blood and release between my thighs and liver sticky on my lash. I felt all these things dry on my soul.

The Aberration of Vanity On the second day my hair was shorn, and my scalp was left bloodied and raw. My mother's last memoir, I wept as it fell about my shoulders and harvested to leash me to the bearing pole there beside Hevnoraak’s iron throne. For many hours I was set to act as a common dog, this being penance for the death of Morokei’s sixteen. When not occupied whining for scrappings my internals remained too damaged to digest, I entertained any number of passing courtesans, who looked upon me with pity but did not disobey the lich when he ordered them to lash me, or rape me, or relieve themselves in and upon me.

Long then had my mortal will withered, but the dragon in my belly still roared and scraped wildly upon my ribs, and so even as I whined as a good and meager dog might, even as my deep wounds festered and began to squirm and itch with maggots, even as the salt of urine and my mettled blood left me choking on the tattered remnants of my body, my soul betrayed me, and I was not done.

When I began to lose consciousness, I was ligatured and dragged by my split back to the wolf den. As much as I had then bore and ached, it was then that I felt first inhuman, as they curled their starving selves around my vile form, and their whines cried Zeymah as they lapped generously upon my leaking wounds.

The Aberration of Self On the final day I was given robes in which to dress, although at this time the wounding to my insides had left me unable to control any bodily functions, and I could not walk on my legs, which were then bowed and growing a sickly shade of green; so to say, I felt just as naked and perhaps more vulnerable. My tongue had grown puffy in my mouth and the battering to my skull had left me unable to produce much coherent speech or thought.

As I was brought to my knees before Hevnoraak once more, my robes were pulled from my shoulders, and a blade was pressed between the dip there. I do not recall wincing or drawing back; I pressed against it, the wasted remains of my spirit still grappling for hold within the bloated, stinking sub-thing I'd become.

It left me at once in a horrible wail as I met the mummified gaze of my mother upon the embalming table there as the lich crested sickly upon her dead and freezing form. My mother, the gentle half of my soul, who's blood I bathed at her holy and necessary behest. I had held her eyes in my fist and known my pain was blessed; she would not be defiled, and would rest at the wing of the moth for eternity, and this was good and righteous. But here she lay before me, and as the courtesan finished skinning the sigils upon my shoulder, I wept:

“Krosis, Qiilaan, Qiilaan,”

And when I awoke this all had withered, and time had left me too, and I was born something else entirely. Something mortal. Something soft and gutty. Something starving.

I will not starve anymore.

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🦇 I love fall weather, but I wear spooky season even better

💜 Good morning, my beloved bookish bats! Share your answer to one of the prompts in the comments below! ⤵

🧣 sweater weather: fave fall tv show 💜 Charmed 💜 Wynonna Earp 💜 Buffy the Vampire Slayer 💜 The Owl House

🎃 pumpkin spice: fave fall drink 🦇 Oatmilk honey cinnamon lattes (year-round)

🌾 fall harvest: top books on your fall tbr 💜 A Tempest of Tea 💜 Off With Their Heads 💜 Bloody Fool for Love

🍎 apple pie: a cozy read 🦇 Spookily Yours 🦇 The Pumpkin Spice Cafe 🦇 Legends & Lattes

🍂 autumn leaves: top fall book recs 💜 Mooncakes 💜 The Night Circus 💜 Gallant

🕯️fall faves: fave fall fashion staples 🦇 Handknit everything (LOVE my knits)

💭 Do we have any in common? Answer one of the prompts!

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

Ibis - A Book of Enoch Watcher x Human Romance

In the Land of Nod fruits were plentiful, if bruised, and fragrant rains often poured. We watered our gardens, our trees, through a maze-like irrigation system that Forbearer Adam had taught Grandmason Cain, and Cain passed down to us. I recited my morning song, invoking my patron goddess Asherah:

“Oh, the fabled Cainites— whom Yah’s favored Sethites hate! Our men of renown, bound to the earth and her green yields, worshipping at the altar of strange gods. Mammon— industry; Moloch— empire; the port wine-stain feathers shaped like wings of rawhide upon our scarlet backs! ‘Industrious Cainites, cavort for us— wilt thou part the bloodied rose?’ the kings of foreign lands plead, “Dance the whip and flaming sword! Show us what sin is sweet on your tongue. Kiss away our sorrows and wipe away our tears, sweet Kohonet daughters of Cain!”

I accompanied the morning ritual to Asherah as dawn broke with the clash of my cymbals, naked at her altar enriching her sanctuary of beauty and fertility. My magick rippled throughout Nod, blessing both harvest and land, and I went to my palatial bedroom connected to Asherah’s inner chambers to ready for the morning.

 “Sweet Lady, give me patience to deal with my little cousins, Istehar and Naamah,” I sighed, making a Tawu over my heart with thumb and middle fingers interlocked in an X. Lazily, I admired my wing-shaped birthmark in the mirror as I clothed myself in a gray layered dress, stitched with pomegranates interred within black, Egyptian glass beads. My aerial port wine-stains were shaped like an owl’s, spread from my elbows in fine feathery traces up to the nape of my neck. It was the fabled mark us Cainites bore; but to keep off misfortune or to attract it, I was never sure.

“I hate early mornings,” I sighed, “I have a feeling in my bones that the foundations of our world will shake. Perhaps High Priest Elizander is gambling heaven and earth with that errant angel again? I hope papa has not lost more money over craps or scarab races with them, dear Lady!” Papa owned a great temple and ten-thousand-cubit estate on the outskirts of Ken ha Gadol; it was the Kingdom of Nod’s finest palace, save his brother’s matriarchal sanctuary the Kohonet, ruled under the thumb of the wizened Rahab.

 “Oh crap, I was distracted! I forgot the last part in my invocation for rain,” I sighed, preparing myself as I sang an old song I had learned from Nod’s High Priestess, Rahab, Queen of the Kohonet:

Mammon, empire! They are men of renown, the Canaanites! Men of giant stature, men of sages and might— their women of beauty, science, and song! As comely and brave as bulls the maidens all, as sandstone skinned as the great wind-worn sculptures in the desert!

I was summoning the old gods of the blood, as was my duty as Lady of Ken ha Gadol, and the spirits scraped at the back of my skull like a crow pecking pomegranate seeds. My patriotism swelled, and with war gathering on the horizon I shrilly cried the last verse in a toga that held both a ripe fig and bottle of wine, ready to loose red juice and blood at any moment, beating my breast in a frenzy that would make the First Architect Cain proud:

Life in Nod is sweet, as sweet as gristle on bone. Scorned of all Creation the Canaanites are, yet blessed by the Sitra Achra! Watch our demons cavort! Sing of our many conquests! Name the line of Kohonet priestesses and kings! Atop snowy Mount Zephon, watch as we topple the sky!

Only the Assyrians could rival our cruelty; the Egyptians, our majesty; the Minoans, our mystery.

I sent breakfast to Elizander as I wandered out to Asherah’s orchard at our palace at the base of Mount Zephon. Alisha of Chavah’s seed I was, she who was Samael’s beloved; I was a Kohonet-trained priestess, formed in the crucible of sisterhood, of blood, bark, and wine. Under Queen Rahab my birthmark had blossomed, and the secrets of Asherah— as well as serving the nation— had been drummed into my head like the thump of a war-drum.

“How is breakfast, my Alisha?” papa asked while a servant brought us garlic, herb omelets, challah, and dates. I drizzled honey on a loaf, drinking it down with some saffron tea. The fine brick walls of our home had high ceilings with windows made of costly Egyptian glass that, when opened, let drafts of sweet oasis air in. “Wonderful, papa. Say, does the High Priest have need of me today?” I asked, yawning.

 Papa smiled. He had a face scarred by a Sethite prince’s sword, but was otherwise greying and handsome. After mama’s passing, papa took a harem, yet never remarried—she had been his one true love. I tried to stay clear of his consorts.

“Keep an eye on the Watcher atop Mount Zephon, Elizander says.”

I nodded, my mood souring. Things were changing, east of Eden: Watchers made camp atop mountains by the smatterings of cities and towns that ringed King Ahrand’s country, his holdings, like glimmering rubies. Cymballed Naamah led them, alongside peerless, virginal Istehar, with their lovers Azazel and Samyaza. Oh, how I despised my impish, coquettish cousins!

 The Watcher of our town, Baraquiel, had set up camp on Mount Zephon, above the ornate, carved cave where hoary High Priest Elizander so divined. We entertained my Uncle, King Ahrand and Cousins Naamah and Istehar often; I did not have to work the land: I could have gone into the Kohonet like smiling Naamah and gorgeous, virginal Istehar if I wanted.

“Sister Alisha, come dance with us! Your hair is the reddest of us all, like flame across an amber night. We shall teach you the secrets of Lady Lilith and her starry Lilim, where there are men of pleasure and Watchers to delight our every wicked craving. Why, just yesterday Azazel crushed malachite into a fine powder to paint my bronzed lids, and for Istehar, Samyaza fashioned a bracelet of onyx and polished jewels to affix over her tanned wrist," Naamah had burbled; they were always begging me to join them.

I shook my head, remembering their incessant prattling last week— oh, goddess forbid I had to play hostess to them again!

I sat idly by after having finished harvesting palms, fruits, and nuts, as my labor on the estate farm was done for the day and my midwife’s herbs dutifully replenished; Elosha, my childhood best friend, was to give birth the town over next week according to her moon chart. And without warning there came a great wind racking up golden dust in the damp soil, shaving scruff from the wheat. I looked beside me to find that I was not alone at my favorite fretting place; the Worry Rock, as I called it. No, there was an angel, an angel of might and of

handsome mien to boot; he wore skin in midnight’s particular hue, eyes that shone like lapis lazuli, and was decorated with luxurious curls of white-turquoise hair that fell to his waist in braids. The angel held an astrolabe in his hands, charting the early morning stars that had stubbornly refused to set.

“To what do I owe the honor, introverted Watcher?” I teased. Our town misfit angel, Baraquiel, kept to himself; it was said he abhorred women and had refused every temptation Samyaza and Azazel had lured him to the Kohonet with. As for us humans, Baraquiel would only talk in whispers to High Priest Elizander. The fact that I was, in my dirtied state, the first woman he had probably laid eyes on in years, mattered very much to me.

I had my vanity, after all.

“Rain is coming today. Lightning strikes. It boils my blood, stirs my wings to ride aback the wings. That is the problem of sin, comely daughter of Chavah— Azazel’s wings are withered, having strayed too far from the Father, and Samyaza rots not long behind.” I crossed my legs, admiring his wings— ibis, like I saw on trips to Egypt with papa. “And yet, Samael and Lilith are still whole, and they have flown long after leaving Yah’s paternal court,” I pronounced.

Baraquiel winced. “Do not speak to me of the ways of God: you are a heathen. What would you know of my Father?” His inquisition rent my heart into ire and iron, and I rebuked him.

“Quite a lot, actually: I’m a Kohonet-trained qodeshah. I tend the sanctuary of Asherah, and nurse her sacred groves. I midwife babes, heal the sick and heal the lame with my sacred herbs and unguents, dancing for our kingdom’s rains.” Baraquiel smiled. His teeth gleamed sharply, his

midnight skin shining starlike with dew. “Isn’t qodeshah what Father’s humans call whores?” I winced. “That is not the heart and soul of our practice, Baraquiel. Indeed, we tend to the men

once a year at the Festival of Atargatis, turning away neither ugly nor old, sick nor poor from our patient breasts. That is how Lilith and Chavah love: given freely, humbly, like mothers— their suitors as if their own kin. The Sethites gossip a lot, but their lies about Cainites are rumors: they hold neither sting nor vinegar.”

Baraquiel twisted one of his intricate braids, laden with bronze beads. “So, then, would you not turn me away?” I blushed, and Baraquiel looked at me hungrily, like a lion waiting to pounce.

“It is many moons until the Festival of Atargatis…but I would be happy to show you Asherah’s grove.”

“You want me, Alisha. It is etched in sinful Cainite daughter’s bones to tempt angels. Why I signed that pact with damnable Azazel is repugnant to me. ‘Take a wife,’ he said, but the Kohonet was stifling— all those oudh-clad ladies barely clothed? Not like you, Alisha. That dress— it suits you well. Stately. Modest. Good for farming— good, in fact, for flying.”

“I do not want you!” I blushed, but I was certain he always saw me admiring him from my palace chambers as he made his daily walk to High Priest Elizander, where they gambled over dice; playing craps with a cantankerous, wheezing elder was not how I imagined I would spend eternity, if given the chance. Once, Baraquiel and father had raced scarab beetles. Papa lost and refused to see Baraquiel again; I could surmise papa forfeited quite a sum of money. In the morning Baraquiel appeared jolly at Elizander’s door with casks of fine Minoan wine, and by then it was not hard to guess where papa’s money went.

Baraquiel smirked. “You are a qodeshah, my Alisha. A heathen. It does not matter what you want, does it? It only matters what Azazel and Naamah deem you fit for.”

I scowled. “You are coarser than sand, Baraquiel, and are ignorant of our ways. I’ll let it be known that I have never done a dance with a Watcher.”

“Not even shy Samyaza?”

“That lunatic is just pining after closed-leg, prissy Istehar! I can’t stand the lot of them! Naamah is spoiled, and Istehar is a shrew.”

“And I cannot stand my fallen brothers. So what does that make us, dearest Alisha?”

“In a pickle.”

“I like to eat pickles; they are one of humanity’s finest creations. That does not sound so bad.”

We were leaning against each other by now, some sort of animal magnetism drawing us together, or simply us bonding over both being irascible, ornery bastards. I was not too sure which it was.

“Where does an angel get pickles from, Baraquiel?” “Elizander makes them. You really should talk to him more. He is wise. In fact, just yesterday he told me how to ingest Syrian rue so as to experience strange visions.”

“You’re doing drugs with an old man?” I laughed. “What did you mean, then, when you said ‘my dress was made for flying’?”

Baraquiel smiled. “Shall I show you, Alisha?” He lifted me gently but sturdily into the air as we set off flying. The air was sweet, warm, and thick, the clouds damp but not clinging, and his great ibis wings spread out like war flags.

“I could get used to this, Baraquiel.”

“Call me Baraq.”

We took to playing craps with Elizander.

Over time, I built up stamina to visit Baraquiel’s camp atop Mount Zephon. Always, we went flying, and over time, he fell from the stars for me like Lucifer struck down from heaven, in love with a comely daughter of Cain. We worshipped Asherah and danced for Samael, and made love for Lilith and Chavah. I found myself with child by the third month, and Baraquiel dropped his pickle mid-bite out of sheer joy.

“I will have to be a little more careful when you fly, then.”

The rains came that night with a loud thunderstorm, filling Nod’s wells for years to come. The canals were brimming with fertile waters, freshly churned soil, and loam. Baraquiel, the angel of lightning, was like a weathervane, the winds responding to his moods. We made plans to marry, and Rahab blessed us on our first journey to the Kohonet together. Naamah was ripe with her second child, and Azazel lingered at the edges like a black ink-stain, scheming.

That night, Baraquiel’s feathers began to fall out, one by one, like snow atop Mount Zephon.

By the fifth month, my husband had Elizander cauterize his dead ibis wings from his back.

“Where I’m going, as father to the fruit of my seed, I won’t need any marks of my old pact with Yah,” Baraquiel simply said, caressing my swollen womb as I cried over his lost bit of heaven.

Samyaza had finally had enough of Istehar refusing his advances; she asked him the Secret Name of Yah, escaping his assault by flying to the stars. Yah, taking pity on one of the Cainites for what might have been the first time in eternity, changed Istehar into a constellation. They came to call her the Star Maiden. Samyaza hung himself the next morning, and Yah made his death a starry tomb; you may know him as Kesil the Hangman. What it took for an angel to die, I did not wish to know.

The Nephilim, our children with the Watchers, grew fast if they were conceived out of lust, not out of love. Baraquiel and I heard rumors every day that they were giants, full-grown in a year, and Azazel and Naamah were setting their scions and the Kohonet’s other half-angel offspring as lords over our enemy the Sethites. And then the Nephilim turned on Nod.

First the Nephilim ate the cattle. Then they ate the sheep. Finally, the goats and pigs. When even that was not enough, the Nephilim turned on man. Azazel and Rahab had lost control, and the Land of Nod fell into misrule and infamy. Elizander, papa, his consorts and servants, Baraquiel, Elusha’s family and I fled to Egypt, carrying as many riches as we could to start life anew, and just in time at that, for Raphael was sent to bind the Watchers hand and foot in Dudael.

After that, Samael sent a flood, a great drowning of his son Grandmason Cain’s land, to wipe the Nephilim off the face of the earth.

All but one.

I gave birth to a girl with ibis wings, lapis lazuli eyes, amber skin, and red hair: Sarai. Elusha was her godmother, and we cut her wings like the Sethites circumcise their children.

Baraquiel has taken to dyeing his white-turquoise hair with henna. We work as scribes and gardeners, and I serve as a priestess of Qadesh— the name of Asherah in this foreign land. Every year I serve my goddess. I turn away no man, young or old,

Greek or Egyptian or Sethite, African or Assyrian. But it is a bitter service, and all I can do is think of Baraquiel, my dear husband, as the strangers ruthlessly spear into me from above.

One day, in our large house by the Nile, Sarai was playing with seashells, and I looked over at Baraquiel— still beautiful, but more mortal than he had ever been— and I squeezed his hand, asking him “Was it worth it? Leaving Heaven, leaving your holy post atop Mount Zephon, taking a heathen bride?”

Baraquiel smiled like it was the most obvious, pleasing answer in the world. “My darling, beautiful Alisha, is it worth it to spend months brining a pickle? Does rendering the common, humble cucumber into a treasure for the tongue not take some patience sacrificed, and tempers tried? Are you not my greatest service of all?”

And with that, we kissed, drank wine, and called over our darling little Sarai to enjoy a plate of dates. She pecked her papa on the cheek and told us stories about her doll. When I looked into Baraquiel’s eyes I saw the crackle of joyous lightning.

Love, true love, is often hard to find. But I lived in the Land of Nod once, wiped from the face of the earth, and I myself won a husband from the stars. Strange, us forgotten Cainites. Foreign in our magic, sinful in our ways.

Proud people, though, the memory of Nod.

And for Asherah?

I dance.

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

Cat Dad Sunny

Pairings: None

Word Count: 1,117 Words

Summary: The twins reform after Sun shoots them with the barrel. Into a tiny fluffy kitten.

Warnings: Near Death, Trauma (mentioned) Anxiety, Anxiety Attack (not explained well because Bloody doesn’t know what the word ‘anxiety’ means), Touch-Starvation, Angst (& Fluff), let me know if I should add anything else.

Chapter 1: Kittenification

Consciousness came flooding in painfully, he could feel his twin against the back of his mind while their body scrounged whatever nano machines it could. Blood Moon could barely think of anything while their body seemed to shape according to his twin, who was shivering against him within their mind, awaiting the body to fix itself however it could.

How twin always did get more rattled when things happened to them. Harvest Moon was the one to cry when the despicable trash can man had managed to- No, he wouldn’t think of that. It had been poor Harvest out for that, it was Harvest Moon’s right to cry over that. Blood Moon had simply dealt with the aftermath.

As for their body, Blood Moon knew it would likely be small. A lot of their nano body had been obliterated by Eclipse in their fight at the end of October and even more got destroyed just now by Sun. But perhaps they would be able to scrape enough nanobots together to make a functional body of some sort.

“What are you thinking, Vessie?” Blood Moon asked.

“Kittens. I love kittens. Why couldn’t we just go hunt down stray kittens and feed them again!? Why did we have to come here!?” His beloved younger twin was in tears and near inconsolable with them.

Blood Moon held his twin within their mindspace to help him cope as best he could. He knew his younger twin had certain issues about their safety and his own autonomy and yet Bloody had disregarded their safety and had taunted Sun into this.

So they’d be a kitten, Bloody guessed. That was acceptable, perhaps they could appeal to Sun as not a threat like this. Once their body finally formed, Blood Moon took control to find they were an exceptionally puffy little kitten. They were tiny. Even compared to what he’d thought they’d be. The stupid yellow man could pick them up in one hand.

But this could work to their favor. They were tiny and therefore fragile, sure, but they knew Sun had a soft spot for animals, especially tiny little ones with big cute eyes and skittish. So Blood Moon looked up to Sun, who was cleaning the mess they’d made with the barrels. Now that Blood Moon had reformed, though, Sun stood transfixed staring at them.

Blood Moon pressed against the now-large-to-them perimeter of the mats, trying to hide against it, though Sun could clearly see their tiny black and red self. Sun knelt before them, clearly trying to appear non threatening, but he very much was to how tiny they were now. Blood Moon felt a hiss bubble out before he stopped it.

Sun stopped moving his hand forward toward them but then he gently came to rest his hand on them with such a delicate touch it felt loving. Blood Moon hadn’t been touched so gently before. Father was firm touches and others were simply demanding or harsh, or people they killed.

“It’s okay, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen, I was just scared and I already had the barrel and I just- Do you even understand me anymore? You’re a kitten? You’re so small, can you even hear me?” Sun tried to explain but devolved into questioning himself.

Blood Moon was significantly calmer seeing Sun so panicked but he was still startled, Sun may just throw them out and they absolutely couldn’t defend themselves in the world as a tiny kitten. Blood Moon feared his twin’s reaction if they were thrown out like this, his beloved twin would be terrified and Bloody couldn’t assure him that he’d take care of them because he simply couldn’t in this form.

“I can’t just throw you out, you’re so tiny. I could…I could keep you in my room. I can take care of you. Would you let me?” Sun asked. Blood Moon eyed him suspiciously but then Sun’s hand twitched and the gentle touch turned into a soft petting. Blood Moon melted into it even more, relaxing into Sun’s gentle fingers and a purr softly rolling from him.

“My gosh, you’re so cute.” Sun commented, other hand gently picking the twins up and holding them in his seemingly much larger hands, though the twins were just tiny, and continued petting them, now with his full hand rather than just fingers.

Blood Moon couldn’t stop the purring, nor did he want to. He felt so loved and wanted it almost hurt. He forced Harvest into control for a bit to get the same treatment and Harvest Moon was out of the world with getting love and attention.

Love was something not even Father gave them. His ‘love’ was taking them out to rob a blood bank or teaching them magic or a family murder spree. But never this cuddly version of love. Never touches out of the blue and hugs and snuggles.

And the twins found they craved it once it was given. The feeling of simply being held alone felt warm and happy and almost addicting with how comforting it felt. Eventually Harvest had purred himself to sleep and Blood Moon got control automatically since he was still awake.

Sun had smuggled them up to his room and was currently laying with them, still petting them gently. Blood Moon moved to cuddle up against his chestplate, forcing his eldest brother into more cuddles.

“I thought you were asleep.” Sun told him, but Blood Moon simply looked at him. “Oh, oh I still forget there’s two of you in one body. Which one are you? Why am I asking like you can speak, your vocals got fried.” Sun realized.

Blood Moon looked to Sun’s arm, knowing his computer must be in it, much like his own previous body. Sun looked to his arm and realized before he popped the keyboard for him to use.

‘Blood Moon’ He pressed his tired nose against the keyboard to spell. Bloody was tired, today had been a long day. At least Harvest was asleep and Sun had somehow miraculously gotten him to that.

“So you’re Blood Moon, the oldest, I’m guessing.” Sun noted and Blood Moon purred at his guess to confirm.

“So what’s your twin’s name?” Sun asked.

‘Harbest Moon.’ He more tiredly typed.

“‘Harvest’ Moon?” Sun asked and he purred again. Sun’s hand came to pet him gently and Blood Moon rubbed against it, curling up against Sun and his purring only getting louder.

“Okay, well you’re tired, so get some sleep. You’re safe now.” Sun assured him and Blood Moon snuggled closer, Sun petting him to sleep. Blood Moon swore he heard Harvest contentedly hum when he went to sleep.

[faaun]

trying to find a suitable translation of the poem from which my name primarily comes from is actually impossible . persian is untranslatable.

[h-didanart]

Hey, so like, there was this post earlier that said “Nonverbal Bloodmoon” and I saw it and reblogged it and, uh, it wouldn’t leave my head

I made a bunch of doodles of my two technically nonverbal Bloodmoons

Yeah

First off, Fang! Dear beloved. The ability to mimic voices is one Fang has but words are rather tricky, even more so when the only frame of reference there was for a long time was in vaguely Shakespearean English. Fang is basically a weird fusion of a cat and a dog, communicates mostly through body language, and is also incredibly physically clingy on account of being essentially blind in most situations. The second picture features Fang’s twin, Scythe.

And then there’s Bloody. The not-so-silly-anymore boy. Bloody does have the ability to talk, they actually do talk sometimes even, they just don’t usually do it. The reasons for this are a bit hard to explain, the bottom line is that it’s a trauma response, selectively mute if you want an actual term. He’s the more expressive of the twins and already had a bunch of little things he did before shit went down, and afterwards he’s still rather expressive if less impulsive and energetic. They too are clingy but instead of sticking to the person they’re clingy towards they will have a thing that reminds them of the person and hold it for a while. Harvest makes a little cameo here, questioning Bloody’s clothing choices.

And now their dynamic being friends. Communication between them is hard. Neither talks, Fang can’t see, when Fang can see Bloody isn’t in a good space to talk, there’s plenty of challenges to their friendship. But they can deal with those, Fang has some pretty good hearing and smell and Bloody isn’t exactly the quietest walker with all the random things he carries, Bloody can often guess the mood Fang is on by looking at their tail movements, and for direct communication Bloody will usually spell words out on Fang’s hand (yes Fang actually knows the alphabet and the letters, just can’t pronounce them)

Pictured above is a situation I can summarize like this:

PROTECT FRIEND

*makes friend uncomfortable*

I AM A FAILURE

And them officially becoming friends :3

Bonus doodles :3

(Still workshopping their color palettes, was very close to giving Bloody a blue shirt but remembered they don’t like blue, and Fang feels a bit dull :P)

[lostinpages-99]

Once Upon a Waking Dream - Chapter 1

Pairing: Jacks x Reader

Warnings: minor mentions of blood, maybe Vampire!Jacks if you want ...

AN: none of this is related to the events in the Caraval Trilogy or OUABH and TBONA. It's just me wanting to write about our beloved Prince of Hearts. This being said, Jacks' character belongs to Stephanie Garber and no copyright infringement is intended with this fanfiction.

You travel to Valenda for your society debut ball and make an unexpected encounter.

(1.2k words)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’d heard of him before.

Your nana used to do readings with a stunning deck of cards every day. You remembered her clearly, sitting in the glass wintergarden among her centenary orange and lemon trees as she sipped tea and drew three cards for each member of the family.

As a child, you’d tipped over from where you’d been sitting by the pond one day and finally asked her about the pretty deck. She’d looked at you and told you those were not just any cards, they weren’t to be played with.

«They tell about the things to come».

«So they are magical?» you asked back.

«They are. And that is why you always must be careful. Magic can be beautiful, but sometimes it is dangerous».

You remained at her side as she flipped the next card.

«Who is that?» you inquired, as your nana seemed to remain transfixed as she looked in earnest at the card she had drawn. She was quiet for some more time, then she answered.

«That, my darling, is the Prince of Hearts».

«Why is he crying?»

«He is crying because he is not able to love. Promise me you will always stay away from those who are unable or unwilling to love you. No good can come from them».

You’d promised as much, but you hadn’t been able to forget the portrait of the young man with his fair skin and hair and bloody tears ever since. Nor had you been able to shake the feeling of sadness you’d thought you glimpsed in his eyes. But you’d grown up and the memory had slipped to the back of your mind, an old story about magic and things gone by. That is, until your Harvest Season trip to Valenda.

You were excited. You would be presented at court in three days. During your carriage trip to the capital, you’d fantasised about the royal palace: the corridors and halls, the crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceilings and reflecting specks of candlelight all over the walls; the gardens and the attractions and secrets of the city, lying just beyond the gates, finally within your reach.

You wanted to explore every bit of it; you wanted to go shopping in the Satine District and let yourself be swept away by the seductions and the mysteries of the Spice Quarter. So, as your carriage rolled past the gates and you descended in front of the marble steps leading to the entrance, you were too caught up living the dream to notice the young man heading out on a cremello stallion all tacked in red and gold and silver. If you had, your nana’s warning from that many years ago would have come back to your mind, together with the image from her Prince of Hearts card and things would maybe have gone much differently.

Because now you were cursed.

After dancing for hours on end you felt light-headed and hot in your golden satin gown, so you’d left the ball room to get some fresh air in the gardens. You’d walked down the empty hallway catching glimpses of yourself in the mirrors that lined the walls, then you’d reached the grand double glass doors and went down the steps into the garden. Chill autumn air hit you as you made your way along one of the paths lined in carefully shaped hedges. The night sky was clear above you and the stars shone brightly, washing the world below in icy blue light.

You’d wandered for a while but, as you decided to go back to the ball and took a turn along one of the paths, you’d stumbled upon something that you immediately thought looked very wrong. A couple stood in front of you. He was standing behind her, holding her with an arm across her middle, as he kept his head buried in the crook of her neck. You would have mumbled some excuses and fled if you didn’t notice how the young woman’s body was slumped against the man’s front and how she didn’t seem to have noticed you were standing there, although you were right in front of them. And then you saw the blood.

Blood was leaking down the woman’s neck in two fine lines. Red, thick, very real blood. You were frightened. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to run, but you couldn’t tear your eyes from the scene in front of you.  Not until the man lifted his head and looked at you. A smirk appeared on his face as he let the seemingly lifeless body of the woman slide to the ground. His lips were red with her blood and created a strong contrast to the paleness of his face. He stalked towards you as you took the rest of him in. He was dressed in indisputably fine clothes, even though they were in complete disarray, as if he hadn’t been bothered to button up his shirt, tuck it into his trousers or tie his cravat properly when he’d gotten dressed. His blond hair was messy, falling over his silver-blue eyes. Eyes that cried blood tears. You wanted to scream. You wanted to move away and run back to the palace. Instead, you stood there as he approached you like a predator.

«What a pretty thing …» he murmured to himself.

«What are you?» you blurted out, as you finally managed to take a step back.

«I bet you already know. Your grandmother drew me from her Deck of Destiny once. You were there. Do you remember me now?»

Indeed, you remembered. You did way too well. The Prince of Hearts. But that couldn’t be true, the Fates didn’t exist, of that much you'd always been sure.

«That’s impossible. The Fates are not real».

«Well, if this isn’t just my point … I cannot have you go around telling everybody you saw the Prince of Hearts now, can I? Or they’d start piecing it up: young women vanishing, people acting out without reason. And eventually they’d figure it out. Playing my little games would become terribly dull then, with all you humans running scared and locking up in your homes».

«What do you want to do then? Kill me as you killed her?» you asked, as you looked past him to the body lying behind him.

«Oh, I could. But I don’t think it necessary. Still can’t let you go, though».

Starlight shone down on him as his grin turned into a cruel smile and you knew he may be toying with you, but he surely wasn’t going to let you go.

So, you sprinted.

You picked up your gown and ran as fast as you could in an attempt to get back to the palace and the party, but the layered skirt was heavy, and it was slowing you down. A part of you knew it was futile. It was probably that part that suggested you don’t fight when he grabbed your arm and pulled you behind a statue. You could feel the cold stone against your back and the sound of your staggering heartbeat in your ribcage. He was standing way too close, his arms on either side of you, locking you in. Then he was leaning in, brushing the tip of his nose against you ear slightly as he whispered: «Wrong direction, love». The next thing you knew was the pain as he bit down on you and your knees starting to give out before it all turned to black.

Tag list:

@tfotaandstuff

@alelinsan

@pinkapplepie

@moobell55

@lakap

[a03bkdk]

fantasy bkdk fic rec list

a certain kind of magic by eatdirt

((4590-1/1))

“Forgive me, kind witch! I—I do not wish to disturb you, but I’m afraid it's urgent!"

Katsuki will later blame his bewilderment that anyone—let alone a human boy in filthy rags—would drag themselves all the way out to his home on the outskirts of civilization, for why he stalks down the stairs and cracks open the door.

“Are you a fucking idiot?” he growls.

Or, the one where Katsuki is a witch in a weed-infested swamp and Deku won’t stop coming around.

the shrinekeeper and the harvest god by bkdkwritingsdump

((smut-30148-18/18))

Izuku keeps the shrine of the harvest god, a minor god mostly worshiped by farmers and ignored by everyone else until the yearly harvest festival. During a spring thunderstorm one year, a mysterious man named Katsuki shows up at his shrine seeking shelter from the rain, but ends up over staying his welcome by a few months. In that time, Izuku not only begins to become suspicious of his identity, but finds himself longing for something more between them.

cupid, draw back your bow by almasaga

((i dont remember if there is smut-16496-2/2))

Cupid remembers the oath he took, remembers the broken arrow, remembers the wrath of his mother and goddess, remembers his roots, remembers that he is a god.

But when he hears him he forgets it all.

“Are you there still?” Asks a voice, clear and never wrong. The only voice he wishes to hear.

“Always,” he says and it blows through his beloved.

solar by kindaopps

((smut-7037-1/1))

Here he is, a god, wanting a mortal.

deku by mirachadoodles

((smut-20852-9/9))

Neither seemed willing to look away in the tense silence that fell, drawn to one another as if by a thick and brilliant thread.

The boy viewed him thoughtfully, as though he recognized him from another life, as though he knew him.

It was odd—he felt the same way.

---

Or, shortly after Katsuki's dragon went missing, a naked man attempted to break into his family barn. Izuku had no memory of his past life, and apparently had no idea how to be human, either. He was just acting on instinct.

a cat named deku by  silentsongbird

((6662-1/1))

Bakugou begrudgingly takes in a stray cat that has been hanging around his home. He says he's motivated by the weather turning colder, but he just can't resist the little fur ball. One night, Deku decides to let him in on a little secret.

if the stars align, then for us they were meant by runawaydeviant

((smut-17485-6/6))

Katsuki and Eijirou crash land in a forest to the south of their homeland. Injured and stranded, they befriend a local nature spirit, who is much more than he first appears to be.

soulmates in steel and (p 2)mine is yours by lalazee

((3000-1/1)) (p 2(smut-2509-1/1))

Midoriya Izuku returns to a tribe long lost and forgotten to claim his rightful throne. At least, that's what King Katsuki assumes of him.

(p 2) One large, calloused hand spread sparks down Izuku’s chest, ribs, rested at his lightly bruised hip. Izuku knew fingerprints still remained from last time, and the last, and the time after that. He felt more like a dappled deer now, all those spots smattered across his thighs, ass, hips, wrists. King Katsuki was certainly a man who marked his territory.

but the entrails are the best part! by supercrunch

((15278-1/1))

The boy straightens up. He’s about half a head shorter than Katsuki, face soft and youthful and sweet. He turns to look at him properly. His dark hair shines in the dying light, basket of blooms looped over one arm and mouth quirked into a tiny half-smile. The sun hits his face and makes his eyes a bright greeny-gold, just like emeralds.

Katsuki likes emeralds.

“Pretty,” he says, reaching out and picking the stranger up around the middle. He’s surprisingly heavy, although Katsuki doesn’t mind. “I like you. Come see my nest.”

The boy hits him.

He’s stronger than he looks, turns out. Katsuki drops him and falls onto his back, pain blooming across his face. Birds sing. The sky’s a lovely shade of orange, clouds floating lazily by. The boy scarpers. He leaves his basket of flowers behind, footsteps thumping on the ground and fading away as he escapes.

The sun sets. Katsuki, lying flat on his back with a bloody nose, decides he’s just fallen in love.

happenstance by merrywetherweather

((78566-22/22))

When Katsuki was just a child, his mother, the King of Lucia, took him to enact diplomacy with the Midoriya's, the royal family of the neighboring country of Tayloria. After that day, his fate was sealed, his marriage arranged to the Midoriya's elusive omegan child.

At the age of twenty, he leaves for Tayloria again, this time, to finally wed his fiance and cement the allyship of the two kingdoms indefinitely. Only, his fiance turns out to be the child he had met on his very first visit, a naive, idealistic young prince who wants nothing to do with marrying the prince of Lucia.

Good thing he just assumed Katsuki was only part of his fiance's entourage.

An arranged marriage between two princes aob au where Katsuki tries to abide by Izuku's desire for a natural romance to develop without letting Izuku know his true identity.

plums by Ivillpunchyouinthethroat

((14116-3/3))

There’s a boy stealing plums from the garden below the balcony Katsuki’s lounging at for the night.

Correction.

There’s a boy stealing plums, very badly, from the garden below the balcony Katsuki’s lounging at for the night.

mermaid AU breathe In by contrarybee

((series-smut-3 works-45236 in all))

Midoryia Izuku was born in captivity. He's never known the ocean.

His human carer Yagi-san tells him they're getting a new merman in the aquarium, one that they hope Izuku might like. Having been alone since his mother's death, Izuku is beyond excited to have a new mer around, but Bakugo Katsuki might prove to be too much. Or maybe he's just right.

fishy by warschach

((smut-19417-1/1))

Izuku’s convinced his hot co-worker/neighbor, Katsuki, is a mermaid-or merman- you gotta consider genders even with mythical creatures- and plans to prove it.

(or this is kinda like the show ‘Monster Quest’, except Izuku actually finds said monster, falls in love, and have sexy times.)

home is where the waves crash. by tiredwrites

((4105-1/1))

Izuku thrashes in his cage, the fins that line his large tail flare with a dangerous purpose. The claws his fingers taper into slice through the water and catch the light that filters into the clear water of the aquarium tank he's in.

His gills flare in irritation as he flips around, muscled tail ramming into the three-inch glass barrier with a thundering BAM!

Bioluminescent sacs under clear scales flare and glow, flashing a brilliant toxic green. The team that had brought the merman into the tank watch the mer flail and roar, flexing the powerful jaws that can often unhinge, like a snake.

only the roses know by katyastark

((13193-5/5))

Izuku didn’t want to marry a foreigner. The person he wanted was here… somewhere. He didn’t have a face or a name to ascribe to his admirer. Only roses. For every name day and holiday since he was thirteen, he had received a perfect orange rose. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. The roses never failed to make him feel doted upon. It was their secret, and Izuku cherished it more than anything else in the world. He didn’t want to give that up for some stranger, for an alliance through a loveless marriage.

torn fur, blunt teeth by scribespirare

((smut-43013-17/17))

After eight months of being collared, Izuku is finally free. But a dark, stormy city is no place for a lonely shapeshifter on the run.

ignorance leads to bliss by nikawithspice

((smut-3941-1/1))

A brave wandering adventurer swoops in and saves a beautiful prince from danger, gets dragged to a celebratory bonfire and has a night that he could only have dreamed of!

Or, the one in which Midoriya Izuku accidentally gets married to a Dragon Prince but wouldn't have it any other way.

[drippingmoon]

Harvest-Mema 1/2

An excerpt from my old wip again, featuring Harvest's beloved moth, Mesema (aka Mema) and the moments leading up to it becoming a Spirit which happens when the animal dies and the Season binds its spirit to their soul to become a guardian. It comes with a lot of guilt attached:')

Cw: blood mentions

"I heard the whisperings of the Seasons."

A moth, a Spirit of one, really, hovering nearby, in the dark canopy. Harvest didn't - couldn't - even raise his head. Still, he shook it like a sigh, eyes closing.

Gently, "I have come to be considered."

. . .

He'd talked to that little moth a thousand times before. It'd grown dear and dearer on him. That was just another reason why he kept avoiding it and its kindness. It was also becoming harder.

"You're not taking advantage of me." Flying closer, flapping its wings once like a meaningful blink. "This is my wish. Don't be afraid."

. . .

Upon his bloodied knuckles it landed, antennae tickling his fingers. It was cold to the touch, and it battered him with its wings gently. His face twisted, heart bleeding.

That little moth was old, so old already for its life. Just a little longer, and it'd be mercy...

"I gave up, and now it's brought us both here. Mesema. Mema. Star of mine. Can't we go around it, even now?" His own voice howled in his head. And the cold moth, was turning colder with its last breath.

"I'm happy.

"Believe me."

. . .

"I wish I could laugh," it said wistfully.

Harvest's laughter died in his throat, and he stared at it.

Then it added, with a glint of mischief: "I suppose that means you'll have to laugh my share as well."

. . .

"Harvest. Harvest."

Frantic beating of wings. "Don't bind me to her. Please."

Harvest looked up, startled. "You know she'd be unprotected if I left her so?"

"Yes. That is not a problem. I will still accompany her wherever you'll want us to go, and for whatever you will us to do. But, please, don't bind us."

"She won't be able to parse the threads."

"It won't be neccessary."

It stood against the moon, looking imperious and flaming. "I am enough."

He stared dazedly, suddenly overcome with an urge to laugh - a light, dream-like chuckle, his insides warm. "Mesema... where would I be without you? But, I do not wish to risk you further."

"I am Mema to you." It flapped against his cheek, berating. "You won't. I'll keep her safe. I'll find a way to do those both.

"I want to be free.

"I will bind myself to her willingly, if the situation calls for it. I'm not foolish.

"But as a Spirit, I only share my heartbeats with you."

"I could order you to."

"You won't. I trust you."

[kiwiwritescrap]

sooo the last post blew up a bit 0-0

have some 3rd life (flowerhusbands my beloved)

this is from Scott’s perspective have fun ig (tw for torture/blood) -🥝

Grian and I were harvesting wheat near Monopoly Mountain. Scar and Jimmy were in the mines looking for diamonds. Grian hefted a haybale over his shoulder and tossed it on the pile. I tied some stalks of wheat together and wiped sweat from my brow, looking across the desert. I saw two shapes coming towards us. I thought maybe it was Cleo and Bdubs, but I was mistaken. Standing before us, red cloak swishing in the wind, golden crown glinting in the sun, was Ren. Beside him was Martyn, his right hand.

“What do you want, Ren?” I spat.

“Nothing much, just you.” Ren said. As soon as the words left his mouth, Martyn leapt at us, throwing two bottles on the ground. They shattered, forming green clouds around Grian and I. Grian coughed and collapsed on the ground, unconscious. I waved the smoke from my face, but my vision was fading. I tried to reach for my sword, but I fell over into the sand. I stared up at Ren and Martyn, who were standing over us. Everything went black.

When I woke up, I felt cold metal around my wrists. I blinked a few times, scanning my surroundings. I was in a cell, chains binding my hands. “Grian?” I rasped.

“I’m here!” Grian replied through the wall.

“Well, well, well, look what we have here.” Ren said, walking down the stairs followed by Martyn, who was spinning a poison arrow in his hand.

“Why did you kidnap us?” I asked.

“The plan is simple, honestly. We use you two as bait, and draw your friends here. Then we kill them. Once they’re both dead, we won’t need you two anymore.” Ren said coldly. “Of course, while we have you here, we may as we settle some scores.” He pulled a dagger from his belt. He nodded at Martyn, who came into my cell.

“Hello Scott.” Martyn glared.

“Martyn.” I said bitterly. Martyn spun his arrow, then, with no warning, he jammed it into my shoulder. I screamed in pain, feeling the poison spread. From the cell beside me, I heard chains clatter to the floor, and a pained grunt from Grian. Martyn ripped the arrow from my arm, and I looked at the bloody wound. He took a few drops of a healing potion and splashed it on the wound, causing it to close some and the burning from the poison to subside.

“Keeping you alive.” Martyn hissed before leaving my cell. I fell on the ground, noticing a brick was missing in the base of the wall. I peered through it, and saw Grian’s hand. He was lying on the floor, patches of blood around him. His hand was twitching a bit, giving me indication that he was still alive.

“S-scott?” Grian said hoarsely. “Are you alright?”

“I’ve been better.” I sat up, holding my shoulder. “You?”

“I’m doing absolutely wonderful.” He said sarcastically.

“Do you think Scar and Jimmy will come to save us?” I asked.

“I hope not.” Grian sighed.

For the next few days (I think?), Ren and Martyn would come down to taunt and torture us. I would sit in my cell, alone. I missed my home. I missed my friends. I missed Jimmy. At least I had Grian to talk to. He was still, somehow, staying positive, though I could hear his voice losing some of it’s hope. “Everything is going to be fine.” He assured me. “They’re going to save us.”

“How can we be sure?” I said.

“I don’t know.” Grian sighed. Just then, a loud explosion split the air. I shot up. Smoke stood in the stairwell. Through the smoke, came Scar and…Jimmy. I smiled. Jimmy broke through the cell bars with a pickaxe, unlocking the chains. I jumped into his arms, hugging him and inhaling his flowery scent.

“I missed you.” I said.

“Me too, but we need to get going. Cleo and Bdubs can’t hold off Dogwarts for long.” Jimmy took my hand and dragged me out of the cell, handing me my armor and tools. I hefted my sword, and looked over to see Grian and Scar, who were already running into battle, laughing and brandishing their weapons. Jimmy and I followed, and dashed into the fight. Bdubs was fighting Etho and Tango, Impluse was dueling with Skizz, and Cleo was holding off Ren and Martyn. Scar and Grian ran to Cleo and attacked Martyn. Etho and Tango were retreating, with Bdubs chasing after them, waving his sword and shouting. Skizz had vanished, as well as Impulse. Ren was looking around, but only he and Martyn remained. They both ran back to their fortress. Scar was about to chase after them, but Grian stopped him.

“It’s a battle for another day.” He rested his hand on Scar’s shoulder. Cleo and Bdubs gave us a brief nod and returned to their base. Grian and Scar went back to the desert, leaving Jimmy and I to return home. When we got back, I collapsed into the soft, flowery grass. Jimmy laid down beside me, sliding his hand into mine. I let out a breath, and my eyes welled up with tears. The magnitude of what I had gone through came crashing down on me. Jimmy pulled me up, and took me to my house, lying me in bed. He pulled a few healing potions from the cabinet and applied them to my wounds. I winced when he touched my shoulder on accident. Despite the wound being days old, the poison had caused an infection.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“Poison, courtesy of our friend Martyn.” I spat. “I think it’s infected.”

“We need to treat it before the damage gets any worse.” He looked concerned. I took off my jacket and shirt, revealing the puncture wound on my shoulder. Black veins spread from the barely closed gash. Jimmy picked a regeneration potion from the table, pouring it on my shoulder. The veins faded, causing a stinging pain. I flinched away, but Jimmy pulled me back and wrapped bandages around my shoulder. When he was done, I slipped my jacket back on and sat up. Jimmy sat down beside me, and I laid my head on his shoulder. He smelled like orchids, citrusy and sweet. “I was so worried about you.” He whispered. “When Scar and I came back from the mines and found a note and a Red Winter banner in the sand…” He paused. “I thought you were gone for good.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easy.” I chuckled.

“Good.” He said, wrapping his arm around me. “I’m counting on it.” I closed my eyes, leaning back and curling up, falling asleep.

When I woke up, moonlight streamed through the window. There was a note next to me from Jimmy that read ‘In the desert getting potion supplies from Grian and Scar, be back soon.’ I set down the note and stood up, wincing as I did so. I limped over to the cabinet, retrieving a pile of flowers that I had picked. I sat down and began to weave them into crowns for Scar and Grian. For Grian, I tied together some daisies and alliums, and for Scar lilacs and poppies. When I was done, Jimmy was back. “Good morning petal!” He said enthusiastically.

“Good morning.” I smiled. “How are Grian and Scar?”

“They’re doing fine. Scar won’t let Grian leave the house, he’s scared he’ll get snatched up by Dogwarts again.” He laughed. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m feeling better, just still a bit shell shocked from everything that happened.” I sighed, examining the flower crowns that I had made.

“If you need to talk to me, I’m here.” He said, resting a hand on my good shoulder.

“I know.” I said, pressing my forehead to his.

“Come on, it’s almost sunrise.” Jimmy took my hand as we went outside, sitting atop a flower-covered hill. The pink-orange hues of the sunrise glowed on the horizon, the bright yellow sun poking over as the night sky faded from deep midnight to a lighter blue. The two of us sat on the hill together, gazing at the sunset. We were together, and we were home.