#Deliver Us From Evil tw

[honorhearted]

The silence was deafening. Ben remained dutiful at her side, wringing out the rag and dabbing at her wound. There was an odd, putrid smell in the air -- decay -- and his insides roiled while he worked. In many ways, silence was preferable. He didn't wish to dwell on why or how he'd come to be in his position, and briefly, his eyes darted up toward Kasia's face.

"it is no worse than anything else i have endured."

The words were soft, sobering, and Ben swallowed before looking away again. "I suppose it was a foolish question," he agreed. "I don't know your customs, and I imagine you don't know much of mine, but soldiers tend to share the same dark, distant look...their eyes glaze and they become ghosts. I fear it's only a matter of time before I join their ranks."

Her attentions drifted toward Augustus and he followed her gaze, his brow knitting in concern. The boy was resting -- peaceful, almost -- and his heart lurched at the sight. Oh, what he would give to restore the child's innocence...to keep him safe from monsters and demons and witches that clawed at the fabric of their reality.

Nodding at Kasia's plea, Ben's throat tightened and he released her hand. "I'll wake you," he promised. "I'm unsure if I'll be able to find sleep on this night, but...I'll try."

In truth, he barely slept even on good days. It was in his nature to dwell and wallow, and in this moment, his thoughts were racing far too haphazardly to welcome repose.

Taking her arms, Ben carefully supported Kasia's weight and helped her to her feet. "You may sleep alongside him, if you wish," he softly said. "I think...I-I know Auggie would be comforted, should you stay side-by-side."

mind focuses upon his previous words instead of the ebbing pain which encompasses her arm when when water meets wound. it hurts. oh, it hurts and while it lacked the severity of other wounds which now scarred her body it did not mean the pain does not bite at her. it does not mean she does not intake a breath or tighten her jaw. so she allows her mind to wander for a moment, distraction. the soteria help each other too, have helped each other since their origins in ancient greece. mending each other, mending their clothes, teaching and training, protecting. they had not and were not always a militarized force though held the resources to be such at those times in history were it was needed. there were those of old families and communities who remained neutral or upon opposing sides, but there often were those within their community who would rise to the call of the knights. the soteria aimed to help them, not control them or hunt them. such a thing always made the difference-- especially in matters with the undead.

yet when arms were called, loss always followed. she understands this too. well. too well. wars and conflicts. katarzyna has bore witness to it all. she has seen a man made more stand against those who sought to control him and his people unleash hell upon them. she has seen brother against brother. she has seen witch against witch and vampire against vampire. war. loss. they were universal to the world, to their shared world even if often seemed worlds apart. she has lost soldiers just as she has lost knights. it was never an easy thing, even if one was required to look upon it with a certain level of detachment. loss was a fact of life for a warrior just as it was for a soldier. this night could have gone very differently had the soteria not been present.

blue-green hues return back toward the officer. he'd asked her a question hadn't he? oh, yes. it hurt and the sharp spike of pain which causes her hand to spasm is a clear indication of such, even if his securing of her arm as he works at it prevents her from yanking it back. does she say it this though? not quite. "it is no worse than anything else i have endured." she lets out a breath then, eyes closing for a moment and then opening to watch the wound.

sleep? she wonders, gaze offering the tent a cursory glance before it falls back toward the boy. she wants to say no. wants to remain on guard for any further threats which may make this night their call to harm. but her shadows reach out and find no threats. she senses her people out there in the night and she knows her wounds have indeed weakened her. she would do no one any good, least the boy or this sudden ally which washington has provided her, if she does not keep her strength up. she looks back upon him, meeting his gaze. "i will rest first then.. but tallmadge, wake me in a while. you need to rest too. as you said, it's weakened us all."

[pennyserenade]

the devil hath power

part three: the victor

pairing: coriolanus snow x f!reader, coriolanus snow x you, coriolanus snow x nameless reader (no use of y/n) rating: e (explicit, 18+) tags/warnings: power imbalance, sex work/prostitution, degradation, smut, explicit sex, a little bit of violence, roughness, blood tw, hate sex, protected sex, handjobs, oral (female receiving), fingering, a general evilness for coriolanus snow is NOT a good guy. i hate to tag this as Dark Coriolanus because i think that's just who he is, but i will do so for the sake of this. word count: 7.9k+ summary: Coriolanus Snow is always the victor in his games. Or is he? a/n: this series was lots of fun to write and i can only hope that you all enjoyed reading this half as much as i enjoyed making it. i'll kiss you on the nose if you decide to leave a nice comment and/or reblog this, but if you only like it that's okay, too; i'll think of you fondly for having followed me on this journey regardless. no beta because life is hard but i did my best here.

part one | part two

The party did not conclude as much as it transferred to another location.

Tigris and her friends had begun to talk of a new nightclub some time after the conversation in the living room, and the idea whisked them away in their states of bubbly inebriation. They had kindly invited her along, with Tigris in particular trying to make a strong case, but she’d declined, citing early morning obligations. On the way out, Tigris had whispered to her that Coriolanus was too important for fun–but asked if she wouldn't try and help him have it anyway, being his old friend? She had promised she would and Tigris had kissed her cheek with warm affection before leaving. Not for the first time that night she could hardly believe that Coriolanus was related to the woman.

It was just as well for Coriolanus that they all left sooner than expected. He held the door open as they scattered out, delivering his charming goodbyes, but after they all had gone his amicable smile faded significantly and his shoulders slumped from the relief. 

“Don’t you like them?” she asked, observing from the corner. 

He wetted his lips, turning his head towards her. “Do you?”

“I’d say so, yes.”

“Of course you do. They’re fools.” 

She wasn’t surprised by his turn of attitude. In fact, she felt more at ease when he was like this: transparently mean. It felt less frightening to know what she was up against. 

“Even Tigris?” she inquired. 

“Of course not Tigris,” he answered irritably. He pushed his frame off the wall and straightened himself out. “She’s just vulnerable to those types of people. It’s not her fault.”

“Those types of people?” As far as she could tell, they’d all been fairly well-rounded individuals. Their only fault had been curiosity, maybe overfamiliarity, but she considered that much better than what he gave off: Pomposity, contempt, a coldness when he did not think to mask it. Coriolanus could be charming–she observed this multiple times throughout the night, as he had conducted side conversations and finished off stories–but he never seemed to strike anyone as sincere. She could sense that, could feel it in the way they talked to him, not like an old friend, but like a teacher. He wasn’t like Tigris. She was lovely. 

Coriolanus did not entertain the conversation any longer, though. He instead took the needle off the record that had been playing softly in the background for some time, stopping the music in the middle of a song. It was then that her thoughts spun back to her music box—how abruptly, almost violently, he had shut it when they were inside her room–and her stomach began to churn. It wasn’t nerves; it was far more complex than that. His eyes seemed to beckon her closer, to draw her in. 

Despite what she had said, she had hoped maybe all Coriolanus had intended to do was flaunt her around the party, to show her the life she could have if she worked hard enough for it. That had been foolish; she was experienced enough to know with men like him it never stopped anywhere innocuous as that. He looked up at her like he expected a performance. 

“Finally down to two,” she said, sitting her near-empty wine glass on one of his ornate bookshelves. “Anything else you’d like to do while I’m still on the clock?” 

He laughed mirthlessly, working the knot in his tie. “Is that all you think about?” 

She watched him as he had her that first night: intent, serious, a spectator to a life she could not quite imagine, nor one she exactly envied. “I don’t know—is there something else I should be thinking about?” 

He eyed her as she moved closer, almost as if he intended for her to pounce. His grin was derisive. “I don’t know–don’t you have your own thoughts?” he answered brusquely. 

“I do, but I don’t think you’d like them very much, Mr. Snow,” she retorted. She could sense that he was not entirely in a good mood now–could see it in the tense way he held his frame, see it in the hardness of his azure eyes–but she wasn’t sure he ever was. At least not in her company.

 “I can leave as soon as you give me my money,” she added. 

“Thought you said you weren’t an escort,” he sneered. She watched as his fingers undid his cufflinks. They fell with a clatter on the table before him, disregarded with an unfettered ease. She knew they probably cost more than most people could ever hope to make in a lifetime in the Districts. If she stole them, would he notice?

“I’m not, but you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’re well above paying for sex.” 

“What? The game get too trying for you?” Coriolanus clicked his tongue. Though his words took on a more playful tone, his voice did not. “You almost had me convinced last week that you were a worthy playmate. So stubborn, so adamant. I thought to myself for a moment that I was lucky you were only a whore and not something as substantial as my classmate.”  

Her eyes grew hard, despite herself. “So why are you trying to make me into something you so wholly believe I’m not?” she asked. “I don’t appreciate being left in the dark, Mr. Snow. In my line of business, it is best when all the cards are left on the table. When they are not I have the habit of leaving.”

He seemed to consider this as he opened the three buttons on his dress shirt. Already he had slung his suit jacket over the chair. “I’m not entirely fond of deception, either,” he said finally.

“I didn’t say anything about deception.”

“But I did. And you—“ he pointed a finger in her direction, “—know what you do is a bunch of thinly-veiled deception. I’ll tell you this: I think you could be an asset to me. You proved it tonight more than ever, with that charming little story about your Peacekeeper husband. You’re as quick on your feet as I’m sure you are on your back.” He quirked a mean grin. “But I’ll also say this: I also don’t like being left in the dark. If we are to work together the way I hope we will, I want to know your every thought as soon as you think it. I don’t care how banal.”

More than Coriolanus Snow liked conducting games, it seemed he liked winning them with an unfair advantage. Her lips twitched, daring to press into a grin. He didn’t find this amusing. 

“You think I’m joking,” he gruffed. 

“Quite the contrary.” She laughed, but it was more exasperated than mocking. “I think you’re serious. It’s just that you’re so goddamn predictable. You try to act above those men who come to me but you want what many of them do: power and control.”

The table that separated them lifted ever so slightly as he leaned his frame nearly all the way across it. “Of course I do,” his voice was rough. He was a frightening man when he wanted to be. She stumbled back. Anyone would’ve. “You do too. Don’t think I don’t notice just as much as you do.”

To make up for her temporary faltering and to show she was not intimated - though in truth she did wonder if maybe she ought to be - she leaned forward too, so close their noses nearly brushed. He smiled a wicked little grin that sent shivers down her spine. “You make me as sick as I make you. How's that for a thought?” she said. 

No venom, no bitterness, just a fact. Her pulse quickened. For a flash, she considered the fact that he could very well kill her. That no one might know it. Was he capable of that?

She felt his breath fan across her cheek, warm, scented like roses. “I like you better like this. None of that doe-eyed, temptress act. Your fluttering eyelashes got you through the door, but only because I wanted to know more about what’s up here.” 

She glowered. “You act high and mighty, Coriolanus, but I saw the tent in your pants last week. I know you liked it.” 

Her mouth ghosted over his own, teasing, but he didn’t move; he smirked, brushing his nose against her cheek, daring her. Challenging her. A far cry from the Coriolanus of weeks past. His past words echoed in her mind, the gravity of them weighing on her for the first time: The game will be different next time.

She could not lose. 

“You’re a petulant child, so afraid of what you don’t understand, contrary to what you say,” she whispered coldly, “And you want to fuck me so badly it terrifies you and you’re ashamed of yourself.” 

He connected their lips; it was chaste, brief before he drew back. It surprised her, and she had to work hard to pretend it hadn’t. “You think that if I do, it’ll ruin me.” Another chaste kiss. “Maybe it might, but what of you? What if you like it? Could you live with yourself?” 

Her eyes pressed close. The smell of roses was pungent but there was a heady scent mixed in with it; the sour-sweet smell of a clean sweat, of worry, of a long, long day. There too was alcohol. She had watched him consume a glass or two. She was sure she could take him on if need be. Certain that she had the willpower, the strength, to outdo him once more. “I’ve done far worse things and lived with it,” she whispered. 

Snow’s fingertips grazed against her jawline. His eyes bore into hers when she opened them for him. “I believe that.” 

Maybe it was meant to come across as condemnatory but it landed in a cushioned awe, wrapped in the quiet reverence belonging to a man who badly wants something he shouldn’t have. And he took it, his long fingers wrapping around the tantalizing column of her neck, pressing gently, an act of possession as his lips enveloped her own. There was no hesitation, no strain; he opened his mouth and she allowed his tongue to separate her lips. He tasted of roses, of wine, earthy and decadent, his lips plush and smooth as they moved hungrily against her own. 

She was the one who pulled back first, searching for air, allowing his nose to bump against the tip of hers as he lurched forward for more. His eyes were closed but he still possessed enough of himself to laugh humorlessly at the impossibility of what was happening. It did feel like victory, albeit a small one. She kissed him again, hoping he felt the drip of regret straight down to the swell of his groin. Hoped he’d feel it for decades, that he’d remember this as vividly as she would: his thighs pressed into the wooden table, his fingers in her hair, on her jaw, on her neck, his want, thick and palpable - embarrassing - as he leaned closer for more, more, more. 

He tugged her closer by the lapels of her jacket. There was no protest, not even the muffled sound of self-satisfaction as she crawled her way to him across the table. He held it down with his weight and watched expectantly as she came to sit before him. It was better this way, she told herself, so close. His pupils were blown wide, his lips red and bruised, whatever lipstick she might’ve still been wearing smudged against his. Even his carefully styled hair had begun to unravel. She could feel the full heat of his desire as her legs bracketed his waist. 

“When I first began asking about you—“ Coriolanus’ fingers fiddled with the buttons on her blazer. She let him, leaning back on her arms, a present to be unwrapped. “—there was this man. Let’s call him Vitus.” The first button popped open, and he moved diligently to the next one. “I go to university with Vitus. He’s a wealthy young man, and arrogant, so it’s no surprise he’s on your list. Vitus spoke highly of you, but not kindly.” The other button broke open, revealing the bit of flesh before her breasts. He could see a peak of black, of sheer lace, and she watched as he reevaluated his expectations. 

“Vitus,” she reminded softly. He shifted his eyes up. They were dark and unreadable. “Vitus—” he echoed, nodding. The third button slipped free. “—said you were a whore who got down on your knees for him. You sucked his cock so well that he shook. Said that was the best head he ever got, that you swallowed it down your pretty throat and left lipstick marks on his cock.” 

Coriolanus’ lips twitched, as though this fact pained him. She furrowed her eyebrows, surprised by the way the words seemed to disturb him—as if he was angry that she had been with other men. He pushed her blazer open and draped it over her shoulders. His head drooped down and he took one of her nipples, which was clothed behind the sheer cup of her bra, and scraped it between his teeth. 

She shuddered, one hand coming to his hair. Before it could, he pressed it back down onto the table forcefully. Her body got progressively more rigid beneath his. 

“Another man said your cunt was tight.” He stared up at her with unfeeling eyes. “Tight. He said that word exactly. He was so vapid. He said you liked him. That you came on his cock not once but twice, and that you rode him until your knees gave out. And do you want to know what I asked them to get those responses?” Coriolanus pressed his lips gently on the place before her bra began. He began kissing downwards, right over the fabric. By her belly-button, he said, “If they knew who you were. Nothing else.”

He pressed warm, open-mouthed kisses at the waist of her pants. She pushed back the fawn of hair that fell over his eyes and he let her. Looking down at him, feeling the ghost of his lips, the presence of his breath against her skin, she realized he intended for her to comment. 

“That doesn’t embarrass me,” she answered mildly. “I can’t stop what people choose to say about me.” 

Coriolanus rolled his eyes. “I didn’t think it would. That wasn’t the point.” He began to undo the button on her pants now, too. “The point is that I wanted you to know—“ The button came loose and he carefully undid her zipper, falling to his knees before her. It was more reverent of a move that she would have figured he’d make. He nudged her exposed skin with the cold tip of his nose, letting his tongue trace lightly at the beginning of her transparent underwear. “—however well you did it for them, I want it twenty times better. This will be your best performance yet.” 

His fingers gripped the underside of her thighs and he tugged her forward so abruptly, it caught her off guard. Her head rattled against the wood of the table. “Fuck!” she hissed through her teeth, her foot pushing outward to fling him back in retaliation. It worked; he jolted, his body falling flat onto the floor. 

Her breath quickened, her body adjusting to the adrenaline now coursing through it. As rose on her elbow to inspect the damage, she frowned. Coriolanus sat before her, running his thumb against the bottom of his lip. When he inspected his fingers, he was overcome with quiet astonishment. They both were. There was a red droplet smeared on his finger, the blood fresh. The sight of it thrilled her. It did. She was not sorry to admit that. She only worried how he would take it, how he would respond. If he called someone, anyone important, she could be in trouble. What she did was not exactly legal. 

“Coriolanus—“ she began apologetically. He rose a hand to shut her up. It was like blood on snow, the cream white of his hand smeared with the dark red of his blood. How ironic. 

He rose to his feet, laughing coldly as he tongued the spot on his lip. It wasn’t terrible, but it’d be an injury he couldn’t hide. People would ask about it. She began to cower, drawing her knees up the closer he came to her. 

“There’s no reason to be scared,” he assured, though the frenzied look in his eyes didn’t put her much at ease. His bloodied finger wrapped around one of her ankles. It melted in the fabric, but would no doubt stain later when it faded to rusty brown. This suit would be ruined. She tried her best to remain calm. She had survived worse. She was always surviving.  

“What’s a little blood in a good game between friends?” he spoke levelly. The blood dribbled slowly down his chin and he let it. 

She swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to—not like that. I just meant to—“ she sputtered. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “No you’re not. What did I say about us not deceiving each other?” 

His voice was low, angry, his eyes piercing. She carefully watched his fingers on her ankle, anticipating his next move. They remained still, loose. “Maybe I deserved it,” he went on, laughingly. “What’s the saying—an eye for an eye? Maybe that just makes us even.” 

Before the blood trickled down to his white shirt, she moved forward to stop it, as if this would absolve what she’d done—helping him. It was just a dribble, barely anything at all. He flinched, though, when she lurched forth to wipe it. He pinched her wrist between his fingers. 

Coriolanus inspected the spot on her finger like he had his own, his lips attempting to twitch into something resembling a smile. It was unsettling, and she was happy when she pulled back and he let her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her softly again. He let go of her ankle. 

She stared into his eyes until they finally became penetrable again. After she nodded in quiet acquiescence, Coriolanus took her hand back. He  looked her in the eyes, wrapped his warm mouth around her two blood-stained fingers and moaned. It was so lewd, so unlike anything she could’ve imagined him doing, and she couldn’t help but show her shock; she yelped as his tongue grazed between her fingers. 

Her slack jawed reaction offered him the reprieve he needed to get them back on track; his lips slid off her fingers and he pulled her closer, guiding her into another kiss. She could taste cooper on his tongue more than she could his roses now. This was against her rules, anything with blood, but it felt hard earned, like a reward on her part more than his. 

Coriolanus took advantage of the fact that her slacks were unbuttoned and slid his hand down between their bodies. He spread his fingers through the patch of hair she had teased him with on that ill fated night, when he had come so close to giving in to her, reveling in the fact that he had her now. And it did feel like exactly that: like he had her, like a bird in a cage. He had her beneath his touch, he had her wearing the clothes he’d picked out, in the house of his own making, wearing the very blood she’d drawn from his lip. Even the slight pulsating feeling that resided there still only added fuel to the fire that she’d awoken in him. 

She was a terrible thing, and he saw it in her eyes when she’d kicked him back—that frightening jolt of excitement that came from the illicit. The fact that she hated him, that he could see it in her eyes as clearly as he had been able to derive anything else from her, did not bother him. It comforted him. She was no Lucy Gray. Not even throwing poor Lucy Gray in an arena to fight to the death could make her half as jaded as the woman beneath his touch. She had done worse and lived through it. Yes, he believed her. 

The simple truth of it was that if she wasn’t a whore and destitute, he’d marry her in a heartbeat. While Livia Cardew was a wonderful choice, and one he was close to sealing the deal on, Livia wasn’t like this woman. He knew that there would never be a danger of loving either of them, that his heart could never open the way it had for Lucy Gray for anyone so cold and cynical. But he knew, unlike with Livia, he could delight in life with this one—that she could make him better, not for all her surrender, but the process of wearing her down to it. He pictured it: the Presidential Palace of his dreams, expansive and grand, and her lying in a four-poster bed waiting for him after a long day in red silk sheets, wearing nothing but this black transparent set. When he entered her it would not be a chore, or something given, but a game hard won—and he knew she’d like it too, that the defeat would fill her with comfort because she knew the depths of true exhaustion and it wouldn’t be like that. He’d seen the hollowed home of hers, knew she lived through the Dark Days just as well as the rest of them and recovered about as well as his family had. To lose his game would be nothing; he’d cloth her and feed her and fuck her full of heirs no matter what.  

He wouldn’t want Livia to do this. She wouldn’t do it half as well. There was a vulnerability to this woman that Livia Cardew didn’t possess, a vulnerability she tried hard to forge into strength and almost succeeded at. It was thrilling to watch, to see her hold her head up so assuredly beneath his hard gazes, to watch the devastating power she possessed when she needed something badly enough. He hated her but she no longer disgusted him; she thrilled him. He’d be happy to play this game every day for the rest of his life—would be pleased to shed blood for something as giving as this pursuit. He’d done more for less. 

Her cunt was hot and wet, and rubbing a single finger through it relieved him more than he would readily communicate. But he didn’t have to; he slumped into her, gave way. She gripped at his arms, let him swallow her breathy little moans into his mouth as he teased over her core with his fingertip. He knew that when he entered her, it would change something—ruin him, maybe, the way she’d forecasted—and he didn’t yet want to do it. A part of him would lose and would remain lost forever, and he wasn’t ready to contend with that truth yet. 

He gathered her slick on his fingers and began to grind down on her clit. Slowly at first, letting her adjust to the feeling, then quickly, delighting wholly in the way she couldn’t help but tighten her grip on his arms. 

Coriolanus was not a man who liked self-imposed ignorance. After returning from District 12, he’d begun to undertake his study in sexuality, with nearly as much ardor as he had his education. He and Lucy Gray never had done anything beyond kissing and heavy petting. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to—he’d wanted to wait until she seemed eager, ready, when they could be alone, away from the Covey, from Sejanus—but it never worked out. He understood it to be for the best. If they had he’d probably be tethered to the foolish notion that sex had to mean something. When he got back, Coriolanus took to the female attention that had been directed towards him for much longer than he had wished it to be. It had started with Clemensia, for he had known he could trust her for her frankness and he found her to be the prettiest. 

He knew what he was doing now—had undertaken many hours in the laboratory of women’s intricate, often complex forms. Sometimes men, too, he wasn’t ashamed to admit. There was nothing he did not want to know—especially about himself. Lucy Gray had taken him by surprise because he’d made the mistake of being unknowing, of not having a strong sense of his character and a fluid purpose. He worked through that, saw himself out to the other side: he knew what he liked, who he liked, when he liked it. 

Well, mostly. She surprised him, but that was perfectly fine because he was solving this too, wasn’t he?

Her nails dug crescent shaped indentations into the pale of his skin, nearly cutting enough to draw blood again, but not quite. He nuzzled against her throat with his nose, taking to the sting of it. He went faster on her clit, harder. “You can never just play nice, can you?” he husked. He nipped alongside the edge of her jaw, ignoring the ache in his lip. “You’re so fucking wet. You like this. Like my blood on your tongue and my hands down the front of your pants. Makes you feel powerful doesn’t it?” 

She covered his mouth with one of her hands, her face contorting into a fine pleasure-pain expression that sent jolts right down to his cock. He could tell she was close, that she was going to come any second based on the way she was drawing her legs together—or at least trying to. Her grip was fierce on his arm and she was uncaring of the wound she had given him, pressing her palm to it. If she drew fresh blood, he wouldn’t be surprised. Wouldn’t mind. He’d lick it from her palm, too. 

He finally relented when he felt she was getting too close, and he sunk a single finger into her, keeping his thumb pressed steadily onto her clit as he did. She moaned, loud and audacious, her entire body arching up into him. With his free hand, he gripped her chin hard and, shaking off her hand from his face, pushed his lips into hers. She came, her fingers tugging on his hair, her nails clawing at his arm, her tongue touching his, exploring, tasting, lingering. 

And then she slumped against him, sated and out of breath. He smirked, though she could not see it. This was his victory, and a sweet victory it was. Here she was: docile, collasped in his arms, pleased because he had made her so.  

When he felt she had had enough time to recuperate, he took his finger from the welcomed heat of her cunt and placed it on her tongue. It did not shock her the way he thought it might’ve—the way he would’ve liked. She wrapped her lips around it without a second thought, drawing it in deeper, her eyes latching seductively onto his. His cock twitched at the sight and at the feel of it, knowing that she was tasting of herself and without a hint of shame or remorse coloring her. Good Capital girls weren’t ever so bold. It took awhile to get them to do things like this, or to even admit that they might like the idea of it. 

And she knew he liked it—that what had been plebeian before now seemed desirable as he explored and touched and undid. The state she found herself in was not an unprecedented outcome as much as it was a detour. She would still end up where she had intended to be in the beginning. Coriolanus was better than she would’ve thought he could’ve been, sure, but it did not detract from the fact that at his core he was fundamentally the same as the rest of them. That in his eyes, which burned wildly of passion, and his mind, which no doubt thought single-mindedly of success, was like that of a million others before him. Unexceptional in his perceived exceptionalism. 

She took her mouth off of him, sucking her cheeks so hollowly around his finger that she made a sweet popping sound. Coriolanus was like a spectator. That’s the best way she could perceive him: as an audience, taken completely with her and her unpredictability, hanging onto the edge of his seat, wondering what on earth she would do next. His eyes followed her movements closely. She thought of his Games—the one with the tributes that could be bet on, and watched constantly—and she wondered how much different this was to that for him. How sick of a man was he? Where was the line, as he asked her? Did he know it?

She guided his hand down to her chest. This he seemed to understand, taking the lead, catching her pebbled nippled against his palm as he massaged one of her breasts. She shrugged off the blazer—which had scarcely been hanging on for a while now—and tugged down her bra impatiently, exposing more of herself to him. He took the opportunity to lean his head down again. Coriolanus ran the flat of his tongue against one of her nipples, while squeezing the other between his fingers. The nature of it bordered on painful but he never committed to it, edging her up to the slight sting of too much pressure and then coaxing her out of it, sucking, rubbing lightly. 

His lips were glossy when he perched up to kiss her. She smiled. “You’re awful agreeable when your cock is hard—though I guess I knew it would be. I think that’s why you hate whores like me: we excite you to the state of pliability.” 

He took her bottom lip between his teeth and tugged at the flesh. “You’d like to think that,” He kissed over the spot, tending it with an affection that didn’t belong to him. It felt borrowed, stolen, an amusing role he was trying to fill out as not to startle her with the true depth of his cruelty. “I hate what you do but I understand it, don’t you see? I told you as much before. You whores — as you so crassly put it — are like a small stain on a good piece of fabric: some you can hide better than others.” 

She yanked roughly at his hair, drawing a hiss from his lips. But his grin did not fade. “What does that make you, then?” she retorted, “With your cock hard for me? Paying to finger me?” 

She palmed him through his slacks and Coriolanus let out a shuddery breath, shocked by the sudden relief of it. His next response was amused, his voice lighter. “But you’re not like other whores are you? There’s a hierarchy and you’re at the top of yours. The finest quality. If there’s ever a cunt to sink into, it’s yours—“ His eyes rolled back as she unzipped his slacks and slid her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. Her fingers gripped tightly around his base and his nose brushed against hers as he leaned into her touch, his palms flattening on the table. “—fuck.” 

With her free hand she propped him up, laughing against his shoulder. “Oh, Coriolanus,” she purred against the shell of his ear. His shaft was leaking pre-cum and she rubbed some of it down his cock, taking note of his response to her grip; the way the muscles in his neck fluctuated, how his hips bounced back and forth, how his breathing labored. Her teeth tugged on his earlobe. “You ought to get a condom, before you make a mess of yourself in your slacks. I can tell you want it so bad, Coryo.”

His hand gripped her throat. “Don’t call me that,” he said, his voice low—ringing serious, desperate. She didn’t listen. 

“Coryo, please,” she begged. His cock twitched in her hand and his hand tightened on her throat, threatening. It was a warning. She wanted to ruin him—wanted him to think about her forever, wanted to hate her as badly as she felt she hated him—but she couldn’t let him finish like this. She needed him inside of her, the truest defeat.

“I’ll show you how good I can be,” she coaxed, her tugs on his cock becoming more lingering. From the tip to the base, slow and teasing. He was decently sized. more girth than he was length. She was happy he knew what foreplay was. “I’ll show you how good we can be, and that’s what you really want, isn’t it? To know that I can submit to you as you’ve to me? And I can, Coryo.” 

His eyes pressed closed. She kissed the side of his mouth. “You don’t want what those men want, do you? Not even in a better form. You want more from me. Something I’ve never given them. Isn’t that right?” She kissed him fully on the lips now and he let her—even opened his mouth to accept her tongue against his. A man heavily seduced. “I bet you’d like to fuck me with nothing on, wouldn’t you?” 

She knew what he wanted. She needed him to say it to. To admit it for the both of them. His eyes looked so light, almost crystal, when he opened them again. He swallowed hard. “You’re such a cunt.”

“You’re not paying me to lie to you. You’re paying for my every thought, isn’t that right?” She gripped his cock tighter in her hand and he sucked in a breath through his gritted teeth. “I think you want to tell me what you’re thinking so badly it’s killing you. You shouldn’t be afraid of it, not anymore. We’ve already come so far. A little farther won’t kill you.”

“Such a dirty wh—“

“You told me, you said however banal the thought—“

“I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything. You’re just afraid of it—the depth of your want.” 

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He rutted into her hand, the warmth of it beyond relieving after so much of nothing. She let him. As his hips pushed into her, into the table, she watched how the desperation took hold of him. Coriolanus' breathing became labored. She wondered how long it had been—if he denied himself this pleasure. He gripped tightly onto the edge of the table, drawing closer and closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic. 

With an almost sickening amount of satisfaction, she let go of his cock. Coriolanus rutted into nothing with a harsh grunt, his head bouncing into her shoulders as he realized what she’d done and began to sag from the betrayal. 

He gripped her face between his hands. “You think you’re so very clever—and you are—but you won’t win this. Not against me.” He squished up her cheeks, drew her closer to his face. His patience had thinned. “I’m not like those bastards you fool around with. Everyone knows you don’t fuck whores without a condom—even the most cunning ones. Don’t play the cards you don’t have because it’s beneath you,” he growled out before letting her go. 

She watched with mild curiosity as he stalked away from her. It was an act she found equal parts amusing and hypocritical. He reminded her of a wounded animal, snapping at whatever it perceives to be a threat in blind rage. 

“You like the game, don’t you, Coriolanus?” she asked him lightly. 

He peered at her over his shoulder. “I have always liked the making of it more than I liked the playing of it.”

He had retreated back to his clinical tone; measured, calculated, clipped. She gathered her composure and slid off the table. He tensed beneath her when she wrapped herself around his torso, and his hands gripped onto her own. But he did not push her away. He was warm, still flushed from his desire, and she knew he did not have it in him to deny her. His cock was hard, leaking, and he allowed himself the room to want this. To imagine it. They were too far into this now. 

She laid her head against his back and toyed with the buttons on his shirt. She slid her hand beneath the cool fabric. Her fingers explored the hardened expanse of his chest, dipped down to his abs teasingly. His heart hammered away in his chest—perhaps the most honest thing about him. His body began to ease, unintentionally, back into her own, and she undid the few remaining buttons on his dress shirt. He let it fly open. 

Coriolanus turned around. He kissed her suddenly, and it wasn’t like before—not rough, but almost tender, all consuming. “I think we should go to my bedroom in case Tigris comes back. Sometimes she does that,” he whispered against her lips. 

“Lead the way,” she responded. And he did. 

Coriolanus’ room was luxurious, but sensible; it was obvious from the design it was a space meant to be slept in rather than inhabited: the four poster bed, the orange hued lamps, the heavy drawn curtains. Everything was the best quality, but it was plain, almost antiquated. Like hers, if she could have his money. 

He didn't put much stock in how she felt about the room, though. When the door shut, they resumed their working relationship. He eased her out of the slacks and she relieved him of his shirt; he unlatched her diaphanous bra, and she tugged on his pants; he shimmed the underwear off her hips and he stepped out of his for her without protest, without thought. They were naked in seconds and seemed to understand each other better for it. She laid down on his bed and he stood at the foot of it. 

His cock, which had begun to soften, sprung back to life now without aid. He touched his cock in lazy strokes, noncommittal but desperate. He did have a good looking cock, velvet soft and veiny. A terrible thing for a man so evil, so repressed, to be gifted with something like that.  “No more tricks,” he demanded. 

She opened her legs, the air of the room cool against her wet core. “No more tricks,” she echoed. Coriolanus devoured her before he touched her. 

He moved methodically to the desk in the corner of his room. The condoms were stored in the second drawer, wrapped in gold. Before she could offer to help him put one on, he was already undoing the wrapper and lining himself up to the latex. She watched curiously as he did it. He was stately about it, not coltish or inelegant. In this way, he was unmatched. Men usually bowed to their desires but it seemed he led a disciplined existence. He was too important for fun. 

Her stomach began to flutter with the anticipation of it. It was a betrayal, but not one she couldn’t contend with. Not one that she hadn’t before, in fact. This was how the body worked. This was work. This meant nothing. 

“Are you wet enough?” he asked. 

“I’d say so. I must say, you surprised me.” After a pause, she added, “You surprise me. Present tense.”

His smirk was unmistakable and predicted. “Isn’t it nice, not fucking men like Vitus? Don’t you see what a life you could have if you work for me?”

“Yes,” she cooed. Pliant, sated, prepared beautifully on his satin sheets. A dream he had long awaited and one he wanted so badly it would terrify him if he didn’t understand it throughly. 

Coriolanus crawled between her thighs. He kissed her again, hard, urgent, and she responded in kind, sucking at the end of his tongue, tugging on his now unruly hair. His cock rested on the curve of her stomach, present, aching, seemingly growing harder by the minute. He worked hard not to rub against her. He refused to hump against her like some goddamn puppy who knew no better. 

“Now,” she whispered. He nodded in assent. It was all done by his permission, by his standards. Her hand wrapped around his cock and she guided him to her core, but it was he who pushed in. He who teased the tip, he who slid so slowly that both of their bodies drew in a rigid sigh, he who bottomed out and he who drew up one of her legs to go a little deeper still. 

He needed her and there was a certain release to being able to admit that. It was encouraging. It made him throb inside of her. They looked at one another, breathed in the scent of their sex, and it began. Coriolanus drew back his hips, then pressed forward. His movements were harsh but steady. He delighted in the way she looked up at him like that: like he was fucking her and she felt it, really felt it. And fuck, she was wet, so wet that he could hear it. His cock was a welcome entity inside of her; she clenched around him, seeming to urge him in, begging him to stay. 

An unspeakable thing grew inside of him. The thing she had been right about. The thing that terrified him. His head hung and he watched the way his cock glistened with her slick, how it entered and exited out of her. “You’re mine,” he growled. It came from within and sounded frail. And it was. It belonged to a version of him he did not like. A version of him he could seldom control. He did not do this much anymore and it was for good reason. He had learned what he had needed to. 

She gave a beautiful performance, though. Bleary-eyed with want, convincing as she raised her hips to meet him—like she might need this half as badly as he did. “Yes,” she answered. He hated her. 

You hate her. You hate her. He repeated it like a mantra, his hips snapping into hers based on the unvaried rhythm of it. And he did hate her. She was a whore and she was a good one. His arms bracketed her head and said it. “I hate you.” 

“Fuck,” was her response. Fuck. His cock pounded inside of her and she moaned. Her nails began to dig into his skin again. This he liked most of all. The nobility of having shed blood had grown on him since he had first killed a person. 

He brought up the other leg. She gasped. It could not be any easier to push inside of her than it was now. God she was wet. He began to grind inside of her. She drew blood on his back. The sting of it was a relief. Penance. Fuck. 

He didn’t bother with making her come. He thought about it but he felt she didn’t need to. Not again. He was paying her for this. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, not for someone like her. To come inside of her because of his own thoughts was one thing but to come because she did, because she was trembling with her own want and he liked it—

He came. His body went slack and it surprised them both. She wrapped her hands in his hair as he collapsed into her body, and he could feel the heavy thud of heart. Or maybe that was his. It was hard to tell where one began and one ended during these things. He hated that most of all. 

Coriolanus drew out of her as soon as he could. He was not embarrassed. He was startled, but not embarrassed. It felt cleansing. But then he did something unforgivable. He did not leave her with her legs parted, did not watch with scorn as she laid in the filth of her occupation. Did not hate her because of what she was but rewarded her for it. 

Her gasp was as genuine when his tongue parted her folds. He ate her out in earnest, his eyes watching the way his tongue made her react. When she played with her nipples, so unabashed about what she wanted, he put his mouth on her clit and sucked. He did want her to come. Because of him. For him. Her hips jerked and he followed along with the movements. 

She tasted vaguely of him, but acidic, tangy, dangerous, too. Her fingers raked through his hair, and he entered two fingers inside of her. Clemmie used to like this. Livia would, too. He was good at it. 

“Oh, Coriolanus,” she whined. He hummed against her and the vibration reached her core. She shook and tugged and pleaded, her hips doing their best to get away, but he wouldn’t let them. He felt her clinch around his fingers. “Coriolanus,” she gasped. She came once, twice. Three times would be too indulgent. This is where he drew the line. 

He fell to her side with a heaving chest. They were both too warm, spent, surprised by the extent of what they had done to speak about it. In his mind he was building her a cage, and she was already searching for the key next to him. 

After a while, he turned to her. She did not look at him but continued to stare blankly at the ceiling. “How much?” he asked her. It felt customary. 

She wanted to say: More than you can give. She wanted to say: Everything you’ve got. She wanted to say: I will tell you no secrets, I won’t help you, I hate you. But she didn’t. She thought of home, what remained of it, and she said: “More than the first time.”

She was nothing like him but one did not need to be Coriolanus Snow to understand this: money was king, and he who had the most was the winner. 

But she understood something far better than he did. She had taken something from him he hadn’t intended to give, and that was something money could not buy. His blood was beneath her fingernails. His cuff links were in the pocket of her blood stained suit. Tomorrow she would begin to make her house right again. Tomorrow she would tell him what she knew about the men she slept with—all of it. Turn them all against each other, hopefully, ruin the whole damn empire. Maybe she would steal something else, eat his food, fuck him again, see how far she could go before he noticed how much of his life she usurped. Would he begin to blur the line between performance and reality? She was sure he might. Already he had his hand on her wrist, tracing lightly against it.  

He was the winner but now she was out for more than just a single victory. This was war and she was choosing her battles wisely. 

Looking in his direction, she turned her lips up almost imperceptibly into a grin. Her eyes were soft, still teary from the sex. He seemed…at ease. Sated. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

 “For what?” His eyebrows furrowed.

“This opportunity,” she said warmly. “I know it’s going to change things for me. I can see that.” 

In his eyes it appeared: the propensity for being needed. He smiled, too. “It will,” he told her.  

Yes, she was the victor and the crown had yet to feel heavy. 

[inkblot22]

(PS I don’t actually know the source material for idia I just stumbled upon one of your fics while looking at FFXIV Yandere fics so sorry if this sounds OOC)

I’m not super creative but what do you think might actually be Idia’ routine with his darling? Does he fall into any routine, does it change a lot?

Have a wonderful day (and happy late bunny day!) 🫶

I actually am of the opinion that this is a very creative thought! You should give yourself more credit. I like to idealize the day to day life, but it never occurred to me that writing it down might be a good idea. On that sentiment, I think maybe Vil or even Leona would have a better day to day routine. Dividers by @/cafekitsune

Also, wow, what a pipeline, FFXIV to twst?? You've got good taste lmao welcome to my blog.

I'll put this under the cut, and I'm also not promising that this will be very good. I use the 24 hour clock. I am constantly getting told irl that American people don't do that, but I'm evil, so I'm putting the times in 24 hour clock format.

TW for mentions of noncon, coercion, captivity, someone keeping someone else awake, a hint of Idia being an asshole

+ Idia doesn't really seem like he has much of a set schedule, but Ortho absolutely does and Ortho is lowkey kind of bossy, so...

+ Yeah uh, Idia's partner is absolutely out of luck. Idia likes night gaming a lot, and he gets loud, so good luck sleeping. Idia himself goes to bed late and wakes up whenever the heck he wakes up. He could go to bed at 0300 in the morning and wake up again at 0700.

+ As his kept partner, the schedule is a little more normal, like I said. Ortho doesn't really need to sleep from what I understand, (I haven't read all of book 6, no spoilers or else I WILL temporarily block you) but it's silly to imagine that he doesn't wake up or attempt to wake up everyone else around him as early as 0600.

+ After waking up, Idia will eat breakfast. I think it'd be delivered usually since Idia and his partner are basement dwellers, one by nature and the other by force. After breakfast begins work...

+ Or procrastination. Idia flip flops between extreme focus on what he should be doing and what he should not be doing. He manages to get his schoolwork done, but more often than not, he's asking his partner to cuddle up and watch a movie, drama, or his fingers flying across the keyboard. Idia will not ask them to cuddle if he is doing schoolwork or virtually attending classes.

+ I like to think that he smells smoky, on account of the flaming hair, and he runs hot, so prepare to SWEAT. In the case his partner doesn't really want to hang out with him, he will usually sulk and only occasionally get upset to the point of doing something about it.

+ I don't think he showers every day. I think he's an every other day type of showerer, based solely on him not being particularly active. This means that his partner doesn't have to run on his showering schedule and gets extra hot water on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

+ By the way, in the case that Idia's darling ever gets peckish, Idia has a snack stash that he proudly pulled out and showed them as soon as they were allowed to wander a bit. I figure they get hungry some time around 1400, especially if Idia is also eating at that time.

+ I think his metabolism is fast, but also a bit odd. He is a young person, and therefore he strikes me as the type to get randomly hungry. If asked very nicely (and with the promise of physical affection in some form) he'd be incredibly willing to make his partner something to munch on when he makes his own.

+ Despite Idia's partner being literally held captive in his room, with all his suspicious items and, worst of all, himself, Idia is about as respectful as a kidnapper can be about demanding sex. He doesn't like to be physically forceful about it, and he often will just jerk off in the bathroom.

+ The reason for this is very simple: If Ortho ever saw Idia having sex with ANYONE, Idia would spontaneously combust. Well, obviously he doesn't know that for certain, but it's a theory that he is not willing to test. He won't even talk about his preferences around his little brother.

+ As far as I'm aware, most people in captive situations do not tend to ask their kidnapper to fuck them unless they're being threatened in some way, but Idia's partner isn't typically being threatened (ignore the shock collar,) so they never ask Idia to have sex.

+ This does not stop Idia from being a whiny bitch about not having sex enough as soon as Ortho is gone for a few hours. The close quarters and sudden advent of a human being who he doesn't mind touching him is a big thing for Idia.

+ Ortho goes on "walks" in a sort of unusual schedule. That is to say that he doesn't have a schedule. If something needs to be picked up, he's tired of Idia not listening to him, he has his own stuff to do, or he just feels like it, Ortho will go out, sharing his location with Idia. From there, Idia will typically calculate how long it'd take Ortho to get back paired with whatever Ortho said he was going to do before he left, and see if he can squeeze in some coerced touching.

+ So. Good luck, Idia's partner. Idia will make a big stink until he gets bored or his partner gives in. His partner usually gives in, based on fear of what he might do alone.

+ Bedtime is somewhat randomized. If Ortho was out, when he comes back and it's any time after 2000, he will very subtly try to get Idia and his partner to start winding down. If both or one ignores him, he'll start getting upset.

+ Like I said, Ortho is kinda bossy. He will nag someone, and the worst part is that he's usually got their best interest in mind.

+On the off chance that Idia decides to go to bed at a decent time, he curls up behind his partner. He runs hot and smells smoky, and at some times it's not the worst thing. Some times.

+ By the way, a lot of this flies out the window in the event that Idia decides to attend classes in person. This is rare, so don't expect it to happen often, but it's not as good as it could be. Ortho goes with him and he locks up any way to reach the outside world, so all his partner has to entertain themselves is his manga collection, or the fun pastime of destruction of property. (This is a very bad idea, and I can expand on punishments later.)

+ In Idia's partner's case, every day is much of the same but just a little different, which makes it hard to keep track of time. The fact that Idia prefers low lighting and no natural light doesn't help this whatsoever.

[nshtn]

Currently obsessed with creep ed and I've been obsessed with your blog for forever!!😋

Does creep ed show physical affection and how?

ohhhh anon wish you'd show your face so I can plant a big kiss on it... aww geez...

tw kidnapping, being bound, psychological trauma, edward's inherent C-PTSD, suggestive

He absolutely adores physical affection from one person and one person only.

You.

Even then, he's very sneaky and underhanded about it; it's very frightening to have the man who has imprisoned you lift you up and haul you into his lap for Crossword Time. It probably phased you something awful when he first nabbed you, but after the days have ticked into months, your resolve has worn from fur-thick to needle-thin - especially when you see how sad and lonely he is, how every non-hostile reaction he could have is some mental or physical portrayal of cowering in fear of being hit if it isn't a rhetorical battering ram. You may have sat their listlessly before or squirmed around, but now... you just keep guessing what word is next.

You can't tell if you're tricking yourself into thinking it's pleasant anymore or you're simply unwilling to imagine how insane you've become to enjoy spending time with your captor. Maybe you're sick... maybe you're sick, too.

This is The Riddler. What does that make you?

Anyways, one of his favored methods of sleeping when you are pliant and tolerant of him - or simply guilted by his lonesome sobbing - is with you nestled into his chest, his hands guiding themselves through your soothing locks well into the first pivots of dawn. You're like water, you know? You're so... clear, and tangible, bright and clean.

He makes sure you're clean.

He loves to brush your hair, to touch your eyebrows, to pet you and wash you and dry you and hold you. He is made content by you, whole in your arms, delivered from evil by your comforts. You are his creature comfort, you are what he dreams of coming home to whenever he is away.

In another universe, perhaps he is granted reprieve and you are domestic partners.

Edward projects a lot of his traumas onto yours, overlays them until the lines are blurry; he cares for you to stitch and sow your heart just right, though he must keep you bird-in-cage to stop them from tearing out.

You can never know the extent of this, for he fears that knowledge is power and power will be used to the exploits of your escape; it is all he knows. This city's sickening, endless underbelly is full of canary bones. To lose you would be to lose the vestiges of his sanity and his anchor to reality.

That would end his life.

You are linked now, woven like sweetgrass. There is no escape for you. You will be loved as you should have been, you will be wanted and cherished, and not a day will pass that you will go undesired. This is Edward's love; it is obsession, and need, and it is corrupted from a once-pure source long dead, awakened by you too late and without your input.

He is beyond saving, but you prolong him.

He hopes you forgive him.

He hopes he will be visible to you even when he is gone.

He often trades your touch for monetary wants. You want a certain food? You can trade in anything from a quick snuggle to hours of oddly sensual cuddling and the occasional sniff, arms and legs mixing into a pile of limbs.

Sometimes you're bound. That makes Edward flush a little when he holds you. That makes you flush a lot when you are held by him. His wind-up laughter will giggle delicately, feigning ignorance, pressing into you.

It's very hard to object when you're secretly flattered and mortified at your own reaction, and the person who is holding you has memorized your reactions before you were even relocated into his care. He's like a top private investigator, preying on you to pry into you. There is nothing your body warmth hides. He becomes very adventurous when you react like that, testing how far you'll let him roam. It's all wrapped up into a package not as shy as it should be, considering your power level in relation to his own, especially considering his status. The reality is that he has no ego of his own to bloviate, so you only need to worry about how far someone who perceives their actions as actions of service will go when your reactions are a gleaming green.

You cannot deny that you have never stopped him, and it has not been out of fear of any sort of consequence.

There is something so privately alluring about having the attentions of an invisible genius, someone who has delved twenty pages deep into your Google, someone who swiped all your history, who knows your passwords, who could single-handedly dominate the authorhood of a Wikipedia article about you...

You must be very careful, though, because letting him dig his roots into you will change the concept of your being entirely; letting him get too handsy will result in furthering his addiction and altering how he perceives your physical boundaries. You won't get a moment of peace, he's a physical learner. He'll keep wandering and wandering until you're situationshipping.

[astroyongie]

Hey gurl, can i request a tbz members as serial killers please? 😄

I already did the fanart for changmin and need some inspiration for the other members please? 🙏😄

Thx 🩷

The Boyz as Serial Killers TW AHEAD!

-> Changmin: https://astroyongie.tumblr.com/search/changmin

Sangyeon

Psychological Profile: diagnosed with Schizotypal Personality Disorder Snageyon has odd beliefs about life. He believes to be the one and only chosen of the gods to eradicate the evil people in earth, which makes him have certain traits like eccentric behavior and distorted perceptions could play a role in his criminal thinking.

Modes: Sangyeon uses poison to kill his victims slowly and covertly. It allows him to distance himself from the act while still having full control over his victim's death. Each time he finds a victim he judges as bad and corrupt he gets close to them before poisoning them. The press calls him the "Poison Rose" a poetic, sinister name. "Rose" because it implies beauty, because his victims bleed from their eyes and nose, often making rose patterns on their skin through the blood vessels

Jacob

Psychological Profile: He was diagnosed with Avoidant Personality Disorder so Jacob has an extreme feelings of inadequacy and a strong fear of rejection and criticism which has contributed to his isolated and deviant behaviors. Jacob is scared of people and he usually kills only the people who try to get close to him as defensive act of protecting himself.

Modes: he uses strangulation to kill his victims because it allows for control from them not leaving him. Jacob kept all his victims in his basement so they would never really leave him. He was named as the Velvet Strangler, the word "velvet" implying a deceptive, soft approach, masking the violence behind a façade of elegance.

Younghoon

Psychological Profile: diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder younghoon has intense emotional instability, fear of abandonment, and impulsive actions. he hasn't killed many and all of his victims were done through engaging in extreme behaviors when he was feeling emotionally rejected by his love partners. Younghoon wanted them so badly, that he ended up consuming some flesh as well.

Modes: Younghoon was meticulous but he was quick and he delivered his victims a quick death by a shot with a gun.He was named the "The Vanishing Executioner" because he was exceptionally hard to catch, leaving behind little to no trace, this name conjures an image of someone who delivers swift death and then disappears without a trace. Only one of his victim was found so far

Hyunjae

Psychological Profile: diagnosed with Dependent Personality Disorder Hyunjae shows an extreme need to be taken care of, leading to clingy behavior and fear of abandonment. Hyunjae swears he was manipulated into participating in crimes, including the murders he was accused of. No one has ever found the "dominant" partner he had and he is too loyal to open his mouth as well.

Modes: Hyunjae used to burn his victims alive, a method he used as a sadistic way of prolonging suffering to his victims who he believed being hurtful to his Dominant. The carbonized corpses were left in the forest as reminders of status, as a proof of love he had for his Dominant. the media started to call him "The Wolf in Silk" as an analogy of his sweet demeanor compared to the violent crimes he has doing for this "dominant".

Juyeon

Psychological Profile: diagnosed with Narcissistic Personality Disorder juyeon has an inflated sense of self-importance, a need for admiration, and a lack of empathy for others. he was believing that he was superior and untouchable. He would kill his victims who refused to see him for who he was. his victims were aleatory tho, from friends, lovers and strangers who refused to bow to him.

Modes: Juyeon would use asphyxiation and the police have retraced him using gas or carbon monoxide exposure for people he considered his enemies, choking for people who stopped loving him, and chemical asphyxiants to kill the victim who had refused to see him as his grandeur. "The Black Widowmaker" was the name given to him, from the amount of people he left widowed

Kevin

Psychological Profile: diagnosed with Schizoid Personality Disorder Kevin has an emotional detachment, a lack of desire for close relationships, and a preference for solitary activities. he shows an inability to form meaningful emotional connections, which can manifest in cold, detached violence. His victims were random chose, but he would always go on killing sprees, once in two weeks to satisfy his desire of "seeing life depart"

Modes: named as the "The Midnight Stalker" since he would hunt at late hours, invoking fear around the night. This name creates an image of someone who lurks in the darkness, hunting silently. Kevin would kidnap and torture his victims depending on his current mood, however one thing was clear, they all ended up dying through drowning. it was methodical way to kill, to simulate a sense of helplessness in his victims.

Chanhee

Psychological Profile: diagnosed with Histrionic Personality Disorder chanhee needs a constant need for attention, emotional excess, and dramatic behavior.He only killed to seek attention and thrill from his crimes, enjoying the public notoriety that comes with their actions. To him all of this has been but a game that he was happy to indulge until the police caught him

Modes: Chanhee killed all his victims with a heavy hammer. Blunt force trauma, causing by hitting the victim as he enjoyed the physical dominance and control it gave him over his victims. He was named as the "The Phantom Butcher" since his victims head was so severely mutilated that they were always barely recognized

Haknyeon

Psychological Profile: Diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder Haknhyeo suffers from extreme perfectionism, orderliness, and control. his plans were meticulously and he would control his murders, displaying traits like obsession with detail and rigidity in their behavior. Every mruder was exactly the same. victims all looked the same, the mobile was the same, and the bodies were always displayed in the same so no copycat would ever do the same as him. to Haknyeon, his killings were art and a necessity to ease the inner demons

Modes: he would stab his victims, in such a specific way that he was named the "The Smiling Slasher" as he would always leave his victims with a twisted, unsettling smile cut in their face. The stabs were alway the same, pre-mortem the heart, with the smile as post-mortem followed with fingers cut, throat, ears and sternum.

Sunwoo

Psychological Profile: diagnosed with Paranoid Personality Disorder Sunoco has a pervasive distrust and suspicion of others. he believed that others are plotting against him, which would fuel violent and aggressive behavior in response to imagined threats. To Sunwoo he was only defending himself.

Modes: He was called the "The Crimson Reaper" because Sunwoo would pick his victims aleatory since it all came from his imagination. he would suffocate them by using a plastic bag around their head. Sunwoo would then suspend his victims and bath in their blood as a ritual of "casting the evil spits away from him."

Eric

Psychological Profile: diagnosed with Sadistic Personality Disorder which involved Erik having a deriving pleasure from the suffering of others. He would torture and prolong his victims' pain for personal satisfaction since to him it was funny to do such things.

Modes: Eric was a medicine student in university when he started to kill mostly homeless people so no one would care for them. he would use both dissection on his victims for a while (keeping them alive as he studied their bodies alive) and dismemberment to dispose of the bodies once dead to fulfill his sadistic tendencies. "The Shadow Surgeon" for the killer who dissects and operates with precision

[firedragon1321]

Corrupted DigiDestined AU

Aka- Another Digimon AU That's Me Just Spinning Gears and Playing With an Old Post

(This is not reboot continuity- I just needed a pretty picture.)

I've seen this concept done in three ways-

Outright turn the kids stereotypically evil. This works in the short term, but it's not good for character anaylsis/DigiDestined rotation. The "quick and dirty" option, basically.

Invert the Crests. So the Crest of Courage becomes the Crest of Fear. I found only one cool Tim Burton-esque art set that did this well. I can't find it now. But generally, I've never been satisfied with these. Especially because they have to work around the "Crest of Darkness" every goddamn time...

Work with the kids' weaknesses. So the Crest of Courage becomes the Crest of Recklessness. This is probably my favorite option.

I want to go more in-depth on the last one, and that's why we've gathered here today. Only instead of just working with the canon weaknesses...what if I tweaked the kids's pasts so their "worst event" never happened? What kind of people would they become?

Also alternate Digimon partners because wheeeee I like them.

(TW for mentions of abuse, manipulation, and hinted major character/child death.)

Tai- The Crest of Arrogance

Impmon-> Punkmon-> Loudmon-> HeavyMetaldramon

This was an easy one because he's my blorbo. The event I chose to erase was also an easy pick. What if Tai never brought Kari out to play soccer that day? I rotated this for a bit and concluded that the athletics aspect of his character would take over, making him a sort of asshole jock type.

Tai still possesses a natural charisma, leadership ability, and recklessness. But his rule is delivered with an iron fist. It doesn't matter if he's on the soccer pitch or in the Digital World. His rule is simply law. His leadership potential and cruelty are magnified to the point that even adults don't want to get on his bad side.

Tai's self-centered and not afraid to bash your face in if you disagree with him. Your name doesn't have to be "Matt" either. He thinks of himself as a great hero, and anyone who disagrees with him must be another antagonist there to ruin his day. But in reality, he's barely keeping the group together with glue made of terror.

Impmon may be a cliche choice, but I chose him for his Punkmon evolution line. They're still reptilian, while also being loud, belligerent, and always looking for a fight. I also just like HeavyMetaldramon in general. He's got a dumb name I can't help but love, plus he looks like another favorite who will come into play later.

Matt- The Crest of Manipulation

Gazimon-> Sangloupmon-> Astamon-> GranDracmon

Matt's "special event" was obvious, too. His parents never got divorced in this AU (an event that will come into play with TK too, naturally). Since this event controls a lot more of Matt's character than Tai's event, I had to think a minute for him. I decided to fuck with his sense of empathy and dub characterization. Because Matt can be as emotionally mature and sensitive as Sora, even if he can't always make that obvious.

So what if he used that trait for evil?

On the surface, Matt's the cool rebel of the group. His suave surface nature makes him easy to approach. One might even call him a friend, even if they know nothing about him. However, he knows how to play with feelings. Like any good instrument, you keep plucking strings until you get the result you and. And that's exactly how Matt views people. Before you can blink, he's got what he wanted and dumped you on the side of the road.

Astamon and GranDracmon are both smooth-talking demon Digimon. Astamon attracts a lot of followers, while GranDracmon can talk any angel Digimon into "falling down". I figured they'd be a perfect fit (though I was admittedly thinking of the Astamon from Young Hunters). Gazimon and Sangloupmon kept the canine theme without being Gabumon recolors.

(Fun fact- I've used this line before for an OC, but that character was (in the end) benign.)

Sora- The Crest of Ambition

Dracumon-> BlackGatomon-> Bastemon-> Lilithmon

It would have been easy to make Sora the emotional manipulator. Too easy. And it wouldn't have anything to do with her issue- namely, her controlling mother. But what if her mother was a little more lax? No- MORE lax than that. What if she supported her daughter no matter what- even if those ambitions skewed too extreme?

Woe be to anyone who gets in this Sora's way. It doesn't matter what she has her eye on. She'll get it, and she'll gladly step on you if you get in the way. She's never heard "no" before, and has no time or desire to hear it from you.

Her Crest of Love has become a type of Lust, but not in the sexual sense. It's desire. Passion. It's never-ending want. The cup is never full for Sora. There's still more drink to be had. There will never be enough.

I worked my way backwards from Lilithmon, choosing Digimon with mind control abilities and ambitious personalities. This means we get a recolor of Gatomon- despite my efforts to avoid recolors of the canon crew- but oh well.

Joe- The Crest of Sloth

Phascomon-> Porcupamon-> Mephismon-> Belphemon

Joe's "problem" in Adventure is also heavy expectations, much like Sora. Taking them away could result in an overly ambitious character. But for Joe, I went the opposite direction. What if he was a person with no ambitions at all?

Paralyzed by his own fears and no goal in life, Joe is more follower than leader. He carries out orders without a thought to his own life or safety, because he believes his life to be meaningless. With certain people in this corrupted crew, however, that means he's carrying out plenty of evil deeds. He's not necessarily evil himself, however- just without direction.

I worked my way back from a Demon Lord again- this time Belphemon. He's naturally the Demon Lord of Sloth (for those who don't live in the Digital World inside their minds). I chose Mephismon just to connect the Champion to the Mega, and also because he's a demonic Digimon.

And that's about it for Joe. I wish I could do more, but it's hard to add personality to a character with no goals.

Mimi- The Crest of Selfishness

Aruraumon-> Zassomon-> Blossomon-> Rafflesimon

Otamamon->ShogunGekomon (warp)

Mimi doesn't have family issues like the rest of the cast. The problem is she's spoiled. So instead of erasing her backstory, I decided to erase her character development. Certain events like Sora convincing her to leave the Gekomon don't happen in this timeline. They can't, after all, with how different everyone else is.

This results in a Mimi who only acts in her own self interest. Maybe not at first. Maybe she thinks the others are pure evil. But that changes. Thanks to the attention lavished upon her by the Otamamon and Gekomon, she's essentially Princess Mimi full time. Woe be to the poor idiot who gets under her high heels!

I decided to go with recolors for this line just because it made more sense to corrupt Palmon than to invent a new partner. Perhaps Mimi was originally a "pure" force introduced to keep the others in line. But her own flaws were waiting to consume her...

Also- similar to how Leomon was able to digivolve thanks to Tai's Digivice, one of the Otamamon gained the same power from Mimi's. That's why she has two Digimon. And you can bet others like Chuumon/Sukamon, the Numemon, and more follow the army of Princess Mimi.

Izzy- The Crest of Intellect

Hagurumon-> Mekanorimon-> Vademon-> EBEmon

I know what you're thinking- I'm a lazy-ass and replaced "Knowledge" with a synonym. And you're right! But with the event I removed being Izzy's knowledge of his adoption, his intelligence didn't go away. Instead of retreating, he expanded outwards. Think Ken when he was roleplaying the Digimon Emperor, but with no Wormmon to hold him back.

Izzy is smarter than you and he knows it. Similar to Matt, he's outplayed you before you can even say hello. He doesn't have Matt's charm, but he doesn't need it. You're too stupid to counteract him, anyway. He can hack your systems before you've realized a single thing amiss. Maybe he'll even let you believe things are fine for a day or two...

Like Sora and Mimi, he hasn't encountered any problems. A snag in Izzy's plans is always temporary. But hit him in his unstable emotional core, and you may have a chance of saving your laptop. But the resulting revenge is bound to be devastating....

I was going to do a full machine Digimon line, but then veered into Vademon. The big brain design caught my attention. Also, since regular Izzy had troubles with a Vademon, having his dark half master this Digimon has interesting implications for my brain.

TK- The Crest of Terror

DemiDevimon-> Devidramon->DexDoruGreymon-> Megidramon

Remember how I cut the divorce from canon? This means TK grew up with Matt, who- in this timeline- is an emotional abuser. And of course, his favorite target is his doting little brother, who will do anything he says.

Like Joe, TK's not evil. He just lives in a constant state of fear. He'll apologize as his Digimon tears you into bite-sized pieces- all while proclaiming his love for his brother. Whether Matt tells him to act as a distraction or kill, it doesn't matter. He'll do it, knowing he'll get no reward.

But TK wants a reward. Matt's his whole world. It's always been that way. Unfortunately he sees no other existence. Without Matt, he simply doesn't exist.

Megidramon is one of my favorite Digimon, so I had to squeeze him in somehow. I like to think TK's partner is a manifestation of his true feelings. Though he loves his brother, he's also disgusted by him. If given the slightest bit of leash, he'd turn the monster loose on Matt- and regret it for the rest of his life.

(And yes- a DemiDevimon did mess with TK in canon...convincing him his brother didn't love him...it's only a matter of time...)

Kari- The Crest of Despair

Salamon-> Meicoomon->Meicrackmon Vicious Mode-> Mastemon

Despair is kind of similar to Darkness, and I've seen it used on a few of these sorts of things. But it's not like "the opposite of Light is Darkness" because it's an actual character trait. And it's a direction Kari could go without her brother's love to support her.

Kari's in a similar boat as TK. She's lived her whole life with a bastard of a brother. But she also has a host of illnesses. Just once, she'd love her brother to visit her in the hospital. But he never came. Soccer was a useful excuse, or else his parents were too scared to command him.

Now, they're trapped in the Digital World together, and it's no secret that Kari's the chain around Tai's ankle. He certainly hasn't kept that information from her, finally losing his patience when she falls ill in Machinedramon's territory. She always held on to hope that he was a good big brother deep down. Now proven wrong, she's in a vegetative state of despair.

Like with Mimi, I just corrupted Gatomon instead of making a new character. But I started from her Rookie stage of Salamon. We're gonna pretend tri. never happened for this. As for Mastemon? Gatomon DID reach her Angewomon stage, and that data still exists within her. But it mixed with the dark despair created by her partner. Instead of falling entirely, she became a deadly being that exists between light and darkness.

Odds and Ends

This ramble does imply that evil Digimon like Myotismon were still killed. This was not out of charity. They simply got in the way and were disposed of.

The Digital World still chose the kids during the Greymon/Parrotmon fight, when they were young and innocent, having no idea what would happen in the future. Mimi was the OG damage control, with a pure and sincere nature that might be able to purify the others.

When Mimi failed, Kari's shining light had to take over. It worked for a little while- mostly for TK and Joe, who are not malicious.

When Tai polished off Kari's light, TK finally snapped. His Megidramon responded to his anger, attempting to destroy Tai. This Digimon ran into a blockade in the form of HeavyMetaldramon. Not sure which of the two would win this fight, but it would be cool at least. The loser probably wouldn't make it out alive, though...

As previously mentioned, tri didn't happen. 02 still could, with Davis/Cody/Yolei/non-evil Ken being the third attempt to keep these damn kids in line. Maybe they receive help from TK, Joe, and what's left of Kari. But that's an AU within an AU and I'm already tired.

Mimi never returned to the Real World when the castle has all she wants. She mostly operates from there, keeping in touch with the others via Digimon like Soundbirdmon.

That's about it. You can play around with this if you want. Just shoot me a credit/link so I can see what you did. I made this while half-awake at 10 PM so it's just a lot of bullshit, anyway.

[poppitron360]

Okay so @green-tea217 requested that I share this fanfic based on this post that I made.

I never usually post my fanfics, but I’m feeling brave. This one isn’t finished, but I’ll post the first chapter ‘cause I’m really proud of it. I’m working on the other fanfics that were requested, but I’m posting this one first because I’ve worked rlly had on it.

Summary: Kind of an OC/FanChild fic about my hcs for Percabeth’s kids. VERY Leo/Nico heavy bc they’re my two favourite characters, particularly Leo.

TWs: Swearing, lack of smut (she is a teenager)

Disclaimers: I was still reading SoN when I wrote this chapter, and I am currently on HoH, so if I’ve missed anything that gets revealed later, that’s why. Also I listened to the audiobooks, so if I spell a name wrong, that’s also why, either that or I’ve spelt something the British way.

Chapter 1:

Olympia hated stories.

She hated telling them. She hated hearing them. She hated the way they were often twisted and bent to contain some kind of message. She hated the theatrics of sharing them around the fire, the hushed voices and dramatic tone. And she hated how every story she heard was almost always about her dad.

Olympia Grace Jackson-Chase.

Of course.

For as long as she can remember, people had told her stories about her parents. About her and her birth. How she had been born on Olympus. How Apollo himself had delivered her, and named her “Olympia Grace” so that it would rhyme with her last name. That wasn’t entirely true. “Grace” was the last name of her Auntie Thalia and Uncle Jason. She hated the stories about them too- about all her parents’ friends. They were myths and legends in the eyes of the other campers, to her they were just people who babysat her sometimes. The Cabin 9’ers had been shocked when she’d told them that the heroic son of Hephaestus who had saved the world from Gaea and her evil forces was actually just Little Uncle Leo, and the first Fire User in three and a half centuries isn’t very mythical and legendary when he’s running in from the kitchen, waving a tea-towel at the fire alarm and yelling “Oh shit, the guacamole’s on fire. I set the guacamole on fire. Don’t tell your mom.”

People never wanted to hear those stories. Only the exiting and dangerous ones.

“Percy Jackson fought the Minotaur when he was only ten years old!!!”

“Percy Jackson keeps insisting I tidy my room.”

Suffice it to say, she was sick of it.

“Dad,” she asked, approaching the kitchen table.

Perseus Jackson, the man, the myth, the legend himself, looked up from his comic book and ginned at her.

“What is it, dolphin?”

“Can you… like… not send me to camp this year?”

Her dad frowned, put The Amazing Spider-Man down on the table and leaned back in his chair.

“Why? What’s up? Are the other campers not nice to you there?”

“It’s not that… in fact, it’s the opposite. The attention is getting too much. I wanna learn to fight, but… I’d rather you just teach me yourself. You can show me how to use my water powers.”

“Oly, I know it’s hard, especially as you’re one of the first Legacies at Camp Half-Blood. I can absolutely arrange for you to not go anymore if you don’t want to… but there’s only so much I can teach you on my own, particularly with your mother’s workload. I want to make sure you’d be protected. Could you maybe give it a try, please?”

Olympia was pretty sure she’d been “giving it a try” for the last 14 summers, but she didn’t want to argue with her dad.

“Fine,” she said.

“That’s my girl,” he beamed, “Now, remember to pack your armour for Capture the Flag, I don’t want to have to drive out there and back just ‘cause you forgot it again.”

She sighed and left the room.

She just wished that he had stayed in the car when he’d dropped her off, but no. He insisted on walking with her to the Big House, saying hello to Chiron and generally being a huge embarrassment. It didn’t take long for the crowds of campers to form around them, whispering behind their hands. She hugged her dad, and said goodbye to him as quickly as she could.

She dumped her things in the Poseidon Cabin. She was allowed in both her mom and her dad’s old cabins, but she preferred to be alone to sleep. She did her activities with the Athena kids though, she didn’t want to stand out any more than she already did.

Olympia sat alone, perched on the edge of the Athena table, when suddenly a kid shuffled up next to her. She looked about twelve, with the same grey eyes of her mother.

“What’s your name?” The girl asked.

“Olympia Jackson-Chase,” Olympia sighed.

“I’ve noticed you doing cabin activities with us, but you don’t sleep with the other Athenians? What’s up with that?”

Olympia took a deep breath, and began to explain, “I’m a-“

“Wait. Jackson-Chase?” The kid gasped.

Oh, here we go, Olympia thought, preparing for the usual swooning and/or geeking out.

“Your mother was Annabeth Chase?”

Olympia was slightly taken aback, “Usually, people talk mostly about my father. I’m always “The daughter of Percy Jackson,” never “the daughter of Annabeth Chase.””

“Oh but she’s a legend! She re-designed Olympus! She led our cabin in battle against the Titans! She even held up the sky! I mean, I know your dad did that too, but-“

“She did it for longer. She was under that thing for over a day, he only held it for at most 20 minutes.”

The girl laughed.

“And, if you ask me, she was the one who did all the work when it came to defeating Kronos. Dad did jack shit, just handed a knife to a guy.”

“Exactly! Just because he was in the Prophecy-“

“Nah, it’s a lot simpler than that,” Olympia said, “It’s because he’s a man.”

They sat in silence for a bit.

She never blamed her dad for overshadowing her mom. He didn’t mean to. In fact, he openly hated the stories that didn’t recognise her for all she did. They were so in love, it was sickening.

“I can’t believe she’s, like, my sister.”

The girl gasped, and grabbed Olympia’s arm, “Wait, does that make me your aunt?”

Olympia shook her head, “Don’t bother with family trees, man, otherwise you get into the whole “my dad’s dad is my mom’s mom’s uncle, which makes me kinda my mom’s second cousin, and my dad her cousin-once-removed”- it’s just too much to get your head around.”

She looked directly into the girl’s grey eyes, “My advice, kid, believe whatever bullshit they tell you about the Gods not having DNA, and just try not to think about it.”

The girl’s face fell. “Oh.”

Then she looked exited again, “Did you come out of her tummy or her head like I did with my mom?”

And there we go, Olympia thought. Geez, they didn’t hesitate to ask the really invasive questions, did they?

She took her three-pronged fork out of her pocket, and fidgeted with it, twirling it in her fingers. Instantly, she realised her mistake.

“Why do you carry a fork around and never eat with it?” The girl asked. More questions.

Might at well get it over with, she thought.

“Gift from Grandpa,” she replied.

“A gift from Poseidon? What does it do?”

She sighed again, and dangled the fork over the girl’s glass of orange juice, and let go. It dropped into the glass with a satisfying plop, and then rose to the surface. No, it wasn’t rising. It was growing. It’s shaft elongated, and the prongs stretched to become longer and way more deadly. Intricate designs started carving itself into the metal. Olympia stood up, and grabbed the shaft of the fork just as it finished growing. A three-pronged death skewer of pure celestial bronze. A Trident.

The surrounding campers gaped at her, open-mouthed.

“Woah,” said one of the Hephaestus campers, clearly someone who hadn’t seen the spectacle before.

“OLYMPIA JACKSON-CHASE! NO WEAPONS AT THE DINNER TABLE! CAMP RULES! YOU OF ALL PEOPLE SHOULD KNOW THAT!!”

“Sorry Chiron,” Olympia called. She twisted a little ring of metal around the shaft of the trident, and it shrank back into a fork. She sat back down.

“It responds to water,” she explained, “get it wet, and boom, Trident.”

She had named it Blue. It was her first word, after all. Or at least, that was the story. Poseidon had given it to her on her second birthday, and she had just looked at it, holding it in her tiny fist, and cried “bloooo!” It was probably just baby babbling, but Dad said it counted.

“So what’s Poseidon like? Do you have water powers too? Can you get me your mom’s autograph? Is your dad really 7ft tall?”

She ate the rest of her lunch in silence, only answering the onslaught of questions from the young camper when she had to.

Cabin 3 offered a pleasant respite from the crowds and the people. She dropped her armour and weapons from the day’s activites by the door and kicked off her shoes.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

(Drawing of Olympia: Art by me)

Her curly black hair, which she’d dyed the tips of blonde, was pulled back into a messy ponytail. Around her neck hung a necklace of leather chord, fourteen different coloured beads threaded onto them, each painted with a different design. Her broad shoulders and thick muscles bulged through her plain navy-blue tank top. Her skin was tanned from spending long hours training in the sun. She had a battle-hardened look to her that meant people often mistook her for a daughter of Ares. But her eyes was what made her stand out most- one grey, like her mother, one green, like her father. Her parents had told her how her birth had ended the centuries-long feud between Poseidon and Athena for good, and she had been given those eyes as a way of symbolising that. Another story. It felt like every part of her body had been attached to a story about something her parents had done. Why couldn’t she just be herself? She had spent 16 years living under the shadow of her parents, she was homeschooled from an early age, and had been going to camp since before she could even hold a sword- the demigod life was all she’d ever known. Someday, she’d get away from it all. She’d sink to the bottom of the Mariana Trench and just study the fish, and she wouldn’t have to worry about people or monsters

Suddenly, she felt something tap her on her shoulder. Quick as lightning, she grabbed Blue and spun around. Blue, still in fork form, was about a centimetre away from the neck of her intruder, who held up his hands in surrender.

“Whoah there!” He said.

When she saw who it was, she lowered the weapon and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Leo!” She cried.

“Hey, how’s my favourite cousin? Or… whatever.”

She looked at him and smiled. Despite him being old enough to be her dad, he was about half her size. With a thin, wiry frame and very little meat on his bones. His wild, curly brown hair framed his pointed face and elfish features. His dark skin was covered in a thin layer of motor oil and grime of unknown origin. He tapped her cheek affectionately, leaving a grubby handprint on her face. He walked over to her bed and leaped onto the top bunk, his legs dangling off the ladder.

“You need to stop growing,” he instructed, “You are getting too big, it’s not fair.”

“You need to stop being so short,” Olympia retorted, then her face broke into a huge smile, “I feel like I never see you anymore!”

“I know, you’re too old for me to babysit now, kiddo,” He complained.

“Well that always ended in disaster anyway. There’s still burn marks on that wall.”

“Did your mom find out?” He asked.

“Nope. Dad told her he just wanted to hang more pictures up. And then he went on a long speech about how nice she looked in that wedding photo, and then took her out for ice cream. I think she bought it.”

“Good.”

They stayed in comfortable silence for a few seconds, and then she asked, “So… it’s great that you’re here and all, but… why are you here?”

“What, I can’t come and visit my favourite partner in crime every now and then?”

“Leo…” Her tone was firm.

Leo’s face was suddenly dark and serious, he paused before speaking, but said, “I think I have news about your brother.”

That was Chapter 1- if this post gets… let’s say… 30 notes, I’ll post Chapter 2.

[jujutsutrash]

My apologies for delivering something without smut right in October, instead of kinktober (unless body swapping is your kink) let's call this one kenjakutober. I dunno, this weirdo has been in my mind a lot recently, maybe because he was my second fav behind gojo, and oh, well, gojo got boxed for good. Guess Kenny wins.

Kenjaku x Reader. 1.2k (tw: death, and Kenjaku's flavor of body swapping)

Honestly, the whole experience since meeting you was something Kenjaku could describe as unique. not, by any means, bad, but definetly unexpected - though, not unwelcome. you were a powerful sorcerer, in fact, too powerful for your time. it had been a couple hundred years since the Heian era, and in this age of blades and samurais, jujutsu had been losing its strength. that made you a stranger in your time.

At first he'd seen in you a good tool to aid in his plans, a source of power that could prove itself useful. you were a sorcerer with strength but no actual purpose, and he could give you one - although, it would be his. you took to the job without hesitancy, wanting to escape the fate decided to you by your clan. an arranged marriage, a waste of your life on someone who'd certainly resent how much more powerful than him you were.

Now he clearly understood that what you saw on the deal he offered was a chance at freedom, to live your life unchained by anyone. it seemed a worthy shot, even if you could tell his motives seemed not to be fully on the clear. but you didn't care, figuring it better to be involved in something possibly bad than to be involved in nothing at all. better the evil you don't know than the one you do - better to take this leap than be chained to domestic servitude, wasting away your existence doing nothing interesting.

To be quite fair, he found that thinking admirable. maybe that was why Kenjaku started to grow found of you. In these new times, few were the people willing to take the gamble, willing to get their hands a little bloody to live life how they wanted to. oh, you truly were like a treasure from a time long gone. brave and powerful, curious and unafraid, unshaken by the things he did and the ones he had you do. and above all lustful for a life that's not mediocre. lustful for a life that would be better than just good enough. to achieve things, to see things, to experience more.

You were almost like kindred spirits. and overtime that was probably how he let you work your way under his skin. one day he just found himself desiring you, and soon enough he was working his way under your clothes. You were beautiful - that had been undeniable since day one, but hadn't really had any importance until this sudden shift. what Kenjaku originally wanted from you was your ability to work. but then things changed, he wanted that and something more - an useful setup, really, two birds with one stone and all that.

It was a convenient situation. on one hand you completed every task and job given with almost brutal precision. on the other you were an entertaining company and a good source of pleasure. it was fun. just a satisfying circumstance. or at least that was the case in the beginning.

Without even noticing Kenjaku started growing to like you - feelings he never really expected to have. that that he actively shunned them, he still had his priorities straight and the sentiment existed in the background, a fun little side task. it was just surprising to see it happen anyway, something to take note off. it was good knowing life could still surprise him at least, even after a couple hundred years around.

it was good, something fun to stave off the boredom and monotony. not only a warm body on cold nights but one that willingly came to him - even after having known exactly what he was. a normal person would have been afraid, but not you. he could appreciate how you put your need to have what you desired over even any sense of self preservation. you were definetly an interesting company - it explained how he came to feel for you.

Though, no good thing can last forever. well, not so much a rule for Kenjaku, but one for almost everybody else - you included. your end came at the hands of a curse, one that he managed to exterminate himself, but then it was already too late. he found you laying dead in a pool of your own blood, body covered in smaller wounds, clear sings that you didn't go down easy. though, he had realized that earlier, the curse was powerful but he found it in terrible shape. you fell, but you fought to the bitter end, that too was admirable.

So Kenjaku did the only respectable thing he could think of doing.

His first thought when he found your body was to turn you into a cursed object, so he could revive you at a later point. it would be useful, but somehow it felt lacking. though, as he looked at your bloody form for longer, a thought crept into his head. you had a great cursed technique, a powerful body, and there was a curiosity in him, a wondering that wouldn't cease. what would it be like to occupy that body?

The idea just seemed right. and as he looked down, witnessing your cold hands warming up, it felt right too. looking at the mirror for the first time after switching bodies always seemed a little odd, but this time it didn't, not quite so much. things just seemed to sit right as he moved to brush a strand of hair away, watching as your soft hand reach out to pull the hair back, leaving clear the still fresh scar across your forehead. Well, Kenjaku's forehead now.

The wound was so fresh that liquid still pooled around the points where the stitches connected the two parts of the skull. what would you have thought? you probably wouldn't have minded, you were never quite so squeamish. and it just felt right. Kenjaku's soul seemed to just sit right in this body - no longer you, but still yours in ways kenjaku knew so well. one last gift from the grave, a body that fit so easily.

Looking at the mirror again, warm hands reached to adjust the soft locks of hair just like you did it. oh, yes, that looked perfect, gazing at the reflection, Kenjaku could almost believe it was you. but she was a different person, although a related one, this time around. one that, having full access to your memories and experiences now she could be sure, was certainly part of what made you, well, you.

It was strange, seeing her own life in third person. but that was a good strange, a interesting experience for sure, getting to go through all these years again, but from a new perspective. to feel everything as you felt it - from pleasure to pain, oh, and love, of course. It was different, interesting, something Kenjaku wasn't sure if she'd be able to do again any time soon. yeah, taking your body was the right choice. it was powerful, beautiful, and most definetly a remarkable experience. what a great way to end something good.

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

Tess' Sharpuary - 21. Mirror of Erised

Aesop stumbles upon a strange mirror, and in its reflection sees people he never even hoped he'd see again.

chapter specific tags: hurt/comfort, reflective, fluff

relationships: aesop sharp x reader, aesop sharp & aesop's family

21. Mirror of Erised (2.3k)

tw: hurt, mentions of canonical and fictional deaths, mentions of stillbirth, slight bashing of phineas nigellus black

Aesop grimaced as he saw Phineas Nigellus Black round the corner and begin heading in his direction. Great, that’s going to be a lovely conversation. If Aesop never had to see the man again, it would be too soon. One would think that since he resigned from his post as the Hogwarts Potions master years ago, he would not see the Headmaster very often at all. However, as a way to relieve the new teacher of some of the strain of brewing healing potions for the whole school, as well as secure some extra income, Aesop agreed to take on a part of it, as per his now position of a potions shop owner.

At first, he was slightly bitter about it - after all, when he was the professor, he brewed everything on his own. On the other hand, however, the school did provide a stable source of income for the shop, which was very much needed, especially in the beginning. In later years, however, it turned out that not only was delivering all the Wiggenweld, Skele-gro, Blood-replenishing potions and Burn salves beneficial for both sides but the fact that there was a delivery every second month or so meant that either Aesop or his wife were able to catch a glimpse of their school-attending children outside of the summer and Christmas holidays.

And so, Aesop dutifully helped stock the Hogwarts supply of various concoctions, deeming every time he got to see his daughter as well as his previous colleagues the best perk. However, having to face his former employer was always a bloody chore indeed. And while the pros outweighed the cons, he still found himself needing to count to ten each time the man engaged him in conversation. 

However, just as the Headmaster made a beeline straight for him, the noise of a small explosion startled him. He looked into the direction of the sound, and began promptly walking towards it: “What is the meaning of this? Peeves!”

Aesop took his chance, and dove into the room nearest to him. He didn’t care if it was the loos or if a troll was kept there, anything to not have to talk to the unbearable man. Hopefully, he’ll be so preoccupied with the poltergeist, he’ll forget Aesop was there at all. The former professor actually had no idea where he entered just now…

He carefully set the crate of potions he was carrying on the ground in order to stretch his back a bit, and only then did he finally turn around from the door to see where he ended up. He was surprised to find the large chamber nearly empty, save for something large in the middle of it, a heavy tarp thrown over the mysterious object. Despite all of the years he spent in the castle as a student and then as a teacher, he knew he’d never discover all of Hogwarts’ mysteries. Was this room, the door to it itself, always here? Aesop couldn’t really remember. There was no way this was the Room of Requirement, he was many corridors and staircases away from it, and besides even if it was, and it formed itself to hold a temporary shelter from snobbish idiots for him, why would the tall thing be there?

He carefully stepped towards it. He was no fool, though, he would not touch anything until he was certain there wasn’t some curse or hex attached to it. He cast a strong Revelio. He could sense the object contained some powerful magic, but couldn’t determine whether it was good or bad. He didn’t sense it to be outright evil and malevolent, but he still decided that lifting the tap off using his wand might be safer. And so he did.

A large mirror was revealed. It was just a mirror? Aesop scoffed.

It was not that it was an ugly mirror, but why would a single mirror be hidden away like this, in a room that’s in such plain sight, that it becomes nearly invisible? Hundreds upon hundreds of students walk around it almost every day, and yet none of them bother to look inside, most likely thinking this room is a broom cabinet, if they even notice the door at all.

Aesop watched his reflection from afar - he didn’t feel like he was being possessed, or that his soul was leaving his boy as he did, so that was good. He did, however, notice there was something of a swirl to his reflection, a sort of movement and a slight blur. He chanced stepping a bit closer, and the effects got stronger. He cast the revealing charm again, but it was the same as the previous time he tried so. The mirror wasn’t a passage, as was sometimes the case with enchanted mirrors, that was for sure. 

Another step. Aesop squinted his eyes - it seemed something else was forming in the reflection alongside it. It almost looked like… a person? Or more? He turned around - he was alone in the room. Upon another step, he saw that it was definitely a group of people standing around him, their forms and faces blurry and undistinctive. Another step. Two adult-sized persons stood to Aesop’s right, and two more to his left. And then it looked like there were some smaller ones. Another step forward. With a small shock, the former professor noticed the faces growing more recognisable, and when he stepped closer once more, he could almost tell who the people were.

His curiosity and fascination prompted him to take another three steps until he was standing directly in front of the mirror. There was no doubt - the people his reflection was surrounded with were his family. Only… there were slightly… more people. 

Aesop's reflection had his right arm wrapped around the waist of his wife, the younger woman smiling at him through the reflection happily, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. Chills ran through his body as he almost felt it, almost felt her head touch his shoulder. He looked to his right but there was obviously nothing. He was still on his own. He gasped when he noticed the woman standing next to his wife. Ashley… She was grinning at him like she did all those years ago. Only… only the Ashley in the reflection looked older than when the woman herself died. Her face held a few wrinkles that weren’t there before, and the small wrinkles by her eyes from laughing were much deeper now. And was that a grey strand on her golden head?

It hit Aesop then and there, that this was how Ash would’ve looked had she not died in that harbour in Scarborough… And somehow Aesop knew that was he to focus his eyes on the people standing to the left of his reflection… of course he’d see his parents, both of them. His mum looked normal like she always did, like the way he last saw her less than a week ago when he went to visit her. Except, her eyes looked softer than they were. He was no fool - he knew while his mother was always strong, she needed to become even stronger after his father, her husband, died. But in the mirror’s reflection, he never did. 

His father, being a muggle, looked older than his wife, despite being the same age as her. Age suited him though, Aesop found. The elderly man still stood tall, as tall as Aesop, and his years looked good on him. He never truly realised just how much he resembled his father. He had his large nose and his brow. His father's eyes were larger and softer than his own, and he had a barely noticeable cleft in his chin which Aesop lacked, however. His father too was smiling at him, and Aesop hoped he wasn’t imagining the pride he saw in his father’s eyes… How he wished his father was proud of him, wherever he was now…

Looking lower, he couldn’t help his own proud smile. His children were standing in front of them. He only just now noticed his reflection’s free hand holding onto a smaller one - little Magdala was wearing her Slytherin uniform, and her hair was braided. By him, obviously, he saw the almost unnoticeable imperfections that were his trademark, and yet his daughters insisted on him braiding their hair for them. On her right stood Eleazar - the young boy resembled Aesop’s wife the most, with his pale skin, large eyes, and gentle features. Gentle features for a gentle boy, quiet and sweet. But Aesop knew better, he knew still waters run deep, and both Eleazar and his wife were perfect examples of the saying.

His youngest children stood in front of his wife, her free hand resting gently on her small namesake’s head, stroking it. The little girl was holding onto her twin brother’s hand, occasionally turning her head away shyly, while Theo, his youngest son, looked like was encouraging her, sometimes making a silly face to show her and make her smile. 

And then there was one more person. It was a boy who looked to be a year older than Magdala, and Aesop had never seen him before… But he knew exactly who he was. Tears formed in his eyes. The lad had his eyes, like all of his children did. He had short brown hair, and a delicate face in which Aesop instantly recognised both himself and his wife, and he was donning a Hogwarts uniform students wear before they get sorted. It was his oldest child. It was his firstborn son, the one they didn’t get to know, whose cries nor laughter they never heard.

Clarence Aesop Sharp… They talked about the name often but only set it in stone long after he was so cruelly taken away from them. It broke both Aesop and his beloved, leaving them empty for a long time. Aesop often wondered what it would be like to be able to raise the boy, what he’d be like, and how he would get along with his siblings. Would his siblings be the same? Would they be the same age? Would they be there at all? While Aesop would forever mourn not being able to see his firstborn grow and thrive, he could not possibly give up either of his beautiful children for anything… He wished he could, at the very least, enter the mirror for a little bit, a few seconds, just to be able to enfold his son in an embrace, a chance he never got to have. 

His palm made contact with the cool surface of the mirror buzzing with magic. He knew it wasn’t real, but for this short little moment, he liked to pretend that it was. That it truly was their family, complete like it should be, standing still to have their picture taken. But it wasn’t meant to be. His father, Ashley, Clarence… they were dead. More tears rolled down his weathered cheeks. He wished he had more time with them…

His wife’s smile in the mirror saddened for a while as if the reflection of a woman who wasn’t truly there sensed his thoughts. Her lips pressed against his cheek, right over his tear, and Aesop closed his eyes, feeling the impossible touch. He knew his wife wasn’t here. Neither were his children, nor his mother. His mother was probably in her garden right now, sipping on her tea and enjoying the fruits of her labour there. His wife was surely in the midst of preparing lunch for their family - the very thought of coming home to her no doubt delicious meal made Aesop lick his lips in anticipation. His younger children were probably playing in the garden, or maybe even outside in the village. His eldest daughter too would soon be making her way to lunch, her Transfiguration class ending soon.

And instead of finding a place between the Hospital wing and one of the entrances where his daughter was sure to pass through on her way to the Great Hall so that Aesop could see her and talk to her for at least a little while, he was standing here, looking at something that was not real, that was impossible. 

He chanced one more, last look. He committed it to his memory, doing his best to remember how the ones he loved and lost would look like now. Just as he brought his hand up to wipe his tears away, he once again lowered the tarp over the mirror. He turned away, breathing deeply - he immediately wanted to look again, again, and again. Unlike his tentative steps towards the mirror, his steps away from it were quick and definite. He picked up the crate of potions, opened the door and left the room. He didn’t dare turn his head until he arrived at the Hospital wing. 

And then an hour later, as he gathered his wife in his arms, he held her longer than he normally would. He only left the castle after embracing his daughter, telling her how proud he was and how much he loved her. His wife knew immediately something happened, and she inquired with her eyes.

“Our son… he would have been beautiful,” he only said, his voice quiet and weak. She didn’t reply. She didn’t have to. She needn’t know just how he knew, or what exactly happened. Aesop’s eyes held peace and acceptance. So, instead, she only smiled and kissed his lips gently, fingers entangling in his hair. 

“Uh… mum?” came from the threshold leading to the dining room. The couple separated to look at Eleazar, standing there awkwardly. ”You lot are hungry, hm?” his beloved said knowingly, prompting another awkward little grin from their son. “Come then, lunch it is,” she decided, her hand closing around Aesop's own and leading him towards their boy. This was the best life, Aesop decided. It wasn’t perfect, and he’d never stop mourning his lost ones… But he knew there was no without, and while they weren’t there for him to talk to and embrace, he knew they were never truly gone.

---

Thank you for reading!

[AO3] - [Sharpuary 2024] - [Masterlist]

[undiscovered-horizon]

"The Just and the Wicked" - Morpheus x Wisdom!Reader

[TW: blood, violence, suicide, explicit language]

A/N: Watched Sweetbitter (2018) and honestly it was more of angry binging. Those people were ✨frustrating✨ me. I have already made up so much lore about Pillars of Eternity I keep a separate file in Evernote.

[Check out 'Pillars of Eternity'!] | [Next part: 'Que sera, sera'] | [Sandman-inspired playlist]

SUMMARY: Your idyllic life with Morpheus is interrupted by the visit of your brother, Decay, who informs you that one of Karma's agents, a Palace of Justice, had died. The mystery becomes only stranger when an ancient, unholy fraction seems to be involved - the same one that surely helped Rodrick Burgess in capturing you.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 9k

We meet again, dear student! Have you met Hermes again? Well, perhaps he's grown fond of you. I know I have. You are such a great listener, always asking brilliant questions and never interrupting. But enough about you.

You know why you're here, there's no need for me to ask such a rhetorical question. It is also the reason we keep on meeting again and again. Last time we spoke of dreams, wisdom and the strange gift of divinity their union provided. Today, I'd like to tell you a story that my mother used to tell me. In fact, I've heard it from her so many times during my childhood that I'd grow furious any time I heard the word 'karma'. It is only in my old age that I finally understand the importance of this tale. Tell me, when you think of justice, what comes to your mind?

Themis? A great choice! Curiously, she does appear in the story I'm about to tell you. But let me start from the beginning. The coexistence of Decay and Wisdom created Karma. She's not a Pillar of Eternity and neither is she one of the Endless, therefore she falls into the grey area, a truly bottomless sack of wonders, commonly called the Sacra. When humans came into existence, Karma began to have more work than she could possibly handle, so she asked the Pillars to give her something to help her. That's how Themis was created. Her sole purpose was to make sure that justice reigns in the human realm but even justice is a very complex phenomenon. Themis decided to ask Karma for messengers that will deliver different kinds of justice to people. Those messengers are the Palaces of Justice. There are seven of them, well, there used to be seven of them and the circumstances of the death of one of them, the Lion, are the subject of this tale. Everything began when my uncle, Decay, visited my parents in the Dreaming:

The branches of the hazel tree quietly rustled above you as a gentle breeze shyly swayed them in a primaeval dance. A murder of crows sat in the tree but not even Mother Nature could force those ominous birds to interrupt your meditation with their cawing. They were quietly perched on the branches, prepared to take flight into other realms should you ask them to or scare away any distraction that might come your way. The world around was silent but never empty. With each deep breath, your nostrils were filled with the pleasant fragrance of wet soil and hazelnuts but not for too long:

You knew he came and you were sure he was well aware of that. The air in Dreaming suddenly became unbearably sweet as if the unnaturally strong aroma was supposed to cloud senses, distract anyone in the vicinity from something else, something much darker and bleak. The crows above you began cawing nervously as if trying to scare away a mare they couldn't see or inform you of a danger they couldn't name as though the air itself became some eldritch evil. Out of the Pillars of Eternity, Decay had always been the most social one but even he made sure to notify beforehand of his nigh arrival. It was strange for him to show up unannounced - strange enough that you began to suspect something terrible had taken place.

As you stood up, the murder of crows took flight, each one of them travelling to different parts of Dreaming or entirely foreign realms but they will be back the moment you sit down under the hazel tree again - they always are. Their nervous caws filled the air, announcing to each world in this universe that Wisdom watches and listens. Your rushed footsteps echoed through the empty marble palace creating an impression of an entire army following you into the lion's den. Somewhere halfway through your march, you run into Lucienne who, without a doubt, was looking for you to spread the news of Decay's unexpected arrival.

"My lady-" she began.

"I know, Lucienne," you cut her off. "Thank you, nonetheless."

Her surprised stare only followed you as you walked past her and disappeared around the closest corner. But Lucienne had many other affairs to tend to, so she simply carried on with whatever needed her attention next.

Aside from Morpheus, there was someone else in the throne room: he seemed a little too mature to be called a boy but definitely too youthful to be titled a man. His lightly tanned body looked soft and pudgy, conjuring thoughts of warm summer afternoons filled with ripe fruit, laughter and carelessness. Angel-like golden locks fell down his shoulders, glistening in the bright light that crept through the tall stained glass windows in the back of the hall. The guest was talking about one of his adventures in a very animated manner and judging by Morpheus's exhausted face, it surely wasn't the first story he was forced to listen to on that day. Hearing your approaching footsteps, both of them looked in your direction:

"Dear sister!" the young man exclaimed. He was dressed in a white robe that could hardly be called 'decent'. The fairly high-pitched voice, in which he spoke, painted him as even younger than his already quite childish appearance. To your dismay, that tacky seashell necklace was still around his neck. "My heart swells at the sight of you! I apologize for not notifying you about my visit but I'm afraid I'm not here to ponder our relationship and the lovely memories we share."

"Then what is it, Decay?" you asked as you made your way towards him. Being so close to him felt like a mouthful of rose syrup. "The longer you stay in Dreaming, the more its genius loci shall rot towards oblivion. Speak fast, brother."

Decay leaned in towards you. His indigo eyes were bright and his smile as lovely as it was wide, making it a truly ridiculous idea that he was the one making flowers wilt and flesh dissolve. Yes, he was, in fact, akin to the Trojan horse. "I know the spear is in here, Wisdom. My presence will not make a cloud disappear underneath your sky," he whispered. "Speaking of your sky, I'm quite... underwhelmed with your choice of a husband. Is he always this grumpy? You could have gone for someone more, well, similar to you. I'm sure Odin wouldn't think twice before accepting an offer."

The mere mention of that entitled one-eyed man made your head ache. Each day he did not try to strike a deal with you was a blessing. "Abyss shall grow eyes before I consider Odin as something more than an annoyance."

"Now that would be a day, dear sister." Decay could barely contain his excitement. "Do you think having eyes would make him look a little less, you know, empty?"

The thought elicited a quiet chuckle from both of you. Although it was nice to talk to Decay and carelessly joke around like you had done many times before, he was still yet to explain his unforeseen appearance.

"Really, Decay, why did you come here?" you coaxed once the laughter subsided. "To jest? To insult?"

For a moment, he stared at you with a strangely triumphant expression that seemed like genuine happiness only superficially - there was mischief, viciousness in his eyes as though he was gloating at possessing knowledge you did not share with him. After he got his presumed satisfaction, Decay stepped away from you to resume his monologue. You noticed that Morpheus's stern gaze never left your brother's physique as he casually strolled through the throne room. Was Dream expecting trouble? A sudden offence? "I came to inform you about a strange occurrence that needs your insight. I visited Karma not too long ago but not out of my own will. One of the Palaces died."

"Palaces of Justice?" Morpheus repeated slowly. His eyebrows furrowed instantaneously and it was a quite understandable reaction to anyone who knew a thing or two about those strange creatures. "How can a Palace of Justice die?"

"Not by a mortal hand nor by the hand of the Endless," you answered in quiet thoughtfulness. "Is there anything more you've learned, Decay? Tell me, what barbarity preceded this act of treason?"

"Truthfully, I do not know any more than Karma does. Unlike Death," Decay paused to look meaningfully in Dream's direction, "I do not gossip with my subjects, therefore Lion himself did not tell me about his passing. But I did, however, come into possession of something that you might find attractive. It is also, I believe, the very trail at which your insight begins, dear sister."

From the scarce folds of his revealing robe, Decay took out a torn piece of material. It was silvery white, glistening in the diffused rays that lit up Morpheus's palace. There seemed to be something embroidered in a dark thread but the tear run in the middle of the design, making it impossible to tell with utmost certainty what it had once presented. Extrapolating from the remaining lines, one could assume that the silvery, silky material once had an open eye inside a triquetra embroidered on it. There was only one unholy fraction that proudly wore such a sigil:

"Brothers of the Final Truth," you whispered to yourself while still examining the torn material. Finding it on your path, however, posed as many questions as it did answers, dissipating the unpenetrated mists of ignorance. "Without a doubt, the ones that told Rodrick Burgess of Metatron's Cube."

"Well then, I should leave you to it. There are still flowers to wilt and empires to fall. I'd hate to make them wait. Farewell, dear sister." Decay politely bowed his head towards you before looking at Morpheus with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk. "Dream of the Endless."

As Decay disappeared, so did the suffocatingly sweet rose smell. You pondered his words - he knew the Spear of Ages was in the Dreaming, at least part of it. The only way for him to know that was if he had tried to make something rot, that sly old fox...

When your brother was finally gone, you swore you could hear Morpheus sigh to himself. He was still sitting on one of the last steps, as he usually did. Dream had a habit of sitting in a quite not noble fashion with his shoulders slouched, back hunched but Decay's leave made his shoulders fall further down as if the visit was a physical burden on him. Perhaps, despite the presence of the Spear of Ages, Morpheus felt a strange heaviness weighing him down, a sudden and inexplicable urge to lie down and close his eyes, even for a moment. "Is your brother usually like this?" he asked in a low voice.

"Funny you should ask. He said the same thing about you."

Perhaps at another time and in another place, they could even be friends.

Entering Karma's residence, the very first thing that grabbed the visitor's attention was the floor or rather a generous interpretation of that term. Underneath a guest's feet was not marble tiling but polished glass that revealed a... pond. Pleasantly fat koi fish leisurely swam in the water of a shade a little too blue to be considered a natural wonder. The carps as if used to anthropomorphic giants walking across their sky, seemed unbothered by another pair of feet stepping over them. Seeing them, a pang of envy erupted in the onlooker's chest: to have no care in the world and a full stomach! What a wonderful fate that was.

Leading away from the throne room were granite corridors with high ceilings and greek pillars. Similarly to Dream's palace, Karma's castle appeared completely empty, deserted even, but given the Hellenistic architecture, there was something poetic to these halls as though they were a forgotten museum or, perhaps, the museum of the forgotten.

"Look above you, Morpheus," you spoke softly as you nudged his shoulder. "I'm honoured to present to you the Palaces of Justice."

There, on the great dome of Karma's castle was a beautiful renaissance fresco. The scene presented a meadow or fields filled with tall grass and neatly trimmed thujas. Among the greenery, however, lurked seven animals: lion, hawk, camel, snake, tiger, jaguar and ox. They each seemed to be aggressive towards all the others but none of them was actually attacking. Curiously, all of them were painted with golden crowns on their heads. It would have been an otherworldly fresco in its grandeur if it wasn't for a strange detail: where the heads of the snake and lion once were, pieces of the ceiling had fallen off. In the middle of the fresco, surrounded by the animals as though they were a wreath, was a scale with a human skull on one side and a decorative globe on the other. In fact, the scale and the mysterious artefacts were identical to the ones standing at the centre of Karma's throne room.

"It's... impressive," he said in an absent voice as he continued to admire the painting.

"Because it's quite far from the truth, I suppose," you answered before walking further into the palace.

In the back of the spacious hall, on the throne which looked more like a decorative park bench to be fair, sat Karma herself. The silky, purple material of her exceptionally long chakkraphat pooled at her feet, falling in cascades down the steep stairs leading up to her exalted seat. The tiny peacocks embroidered on the material looked nearly alive with the amount of detail and vivid colours the unnamed tailor had put into them. Karma’s right arm might not have been covered by her shimmering dress but the densely done mehndi made it impossible to see her olive skin anyway. Red and white paint was covering her face, which wasn't exactly easy to see as she had a habit to fan herself excessively.

Noticing Morpheus and you, Karma hurriedly got up from her throne and bowed so low she nearly sat cross-legged on the floor. Perhaps she did but got up so effortlessly it was hard to tell. In any case, she stayed standing instead of sitting down once more, although it wouldn't be considered impolite as they were guests in her realm.

"My lady Wisdom!" she exclaimed in a nervous voice. "Forgive me but I was not aware of your nigh visit. I'm afraid I can not welcome you as I should."

"Do not fret, Karma," you assured her. "I am here because Decay told me of Lion's passing. I was hoping you could tell me more about this tragedy."

Her eyebrows slanted and she fell down on her throne despite her desire to show you the utmost respect. Considering the amount of paint she wore, her face resembled more of a noh mask rather than something organic. Should one of her muscles twitch a little too intensely, the layers of dried makeup would probably peel right off.

"I do not know much, at least not enough to solve this gut-wrenching mystery," Karma spoke in a plaintive voice. The lability of her emotions seemed surprising at best when one considered that she was the effect of your and Decay's coexistence - neither of you was exceptionally sensitive. "I learned of Lion's passing only when master Decay arrived at my palace. Not an alarm was raised before that, not even a worried whisper reached my ears."

Having experienced unrest among his subjects himself, Morpheus furrowed his eyebrows at Karma's statement of genuine obliviousness. How could she not know that one of her people died? "Have you not noticed anything strange?" he asked.

"The scale remains balanced, Lord Morpheus." She gestured towards the scale with a skull and a globe that stood behind you. "As it has been for the past thousands of years."

"What of Lion?" you continued the inquiry. "Did he appear out of the ordinary?"

"I do not believe so. Had anything happened to him, I'm sure Themis would have told me."

Considering different possible scenarios of Lion's last moments, you found yourself looking at the fresco again. The teeth and sheer scale of the animals painted beamed with might and pride. Alas, two of them were no longer part of this exalted fellowship and one could only wonder whether such losses had something in common.

"I remember the day Viper was exiled," you spoke up after a moment of thoughtful silence. "Human hearts began to tremble and never stopped, even to this day. Feelings of guilt haunt them both when they're awake and in their dreams..." drawing out your monologue, you looked at the mistress of the palace again. "Has she returned ever since?"

"She remains exiled," Karma answered with certainty. Nervous, she seemed to fan herself more frantically. "If Viper had returned, I would be immediately notified, my lady."

"I do not doubt the loyalty or competence of your subjects, Karma. What I'm suggesting is that Viper can make others believe quite literally anything with her silver tongue and poisonous words. It is not beyond her power to make your guards believe they had never seen her."

Your words echoed through the empty palace like a brass bell that tolls to announce someone's passing. Karma left her mouth open agape. Even her experienced wrist stopped fanning her for a moment. Those big, violet and theatrically teary eyes stared at you with unspeakable horror and woe as though you had said something completely unthinkable. Even the peacocks on her fan seemed to have their dead, vacant gaze set on you.

"Those are dreadful words, your worship," she quietly stated. Had her voice been any lower, one might have assumed it was but a gust of wind, chiming and whistling as it travelled through the empty granite halls.

"That they are, my dear," you continued. One might have wondered how come such a frail, sensitive creature had to overlook something so important like the balance of the universe? "But that doesn't make them any less true. Would Viper have any reason to kill Lion?"

"Barbarity is in her nature, I'm afraid." Karma resumed the fanning motion. For a moment, her gaze fell to the floor, admiring the careless koi fish underneath your feet. "Themis should be more acquainted with any possible grudges the Palaces might hold against one another. Should I call for her, my lady?"

"It would prove very helpful."

In a sharp, echoing thud, Karma folded her fan giving all the prying eyes an exceptionally rare possibility of seeing her entire face. Holding the wooden accessory in her hand, she hit the gong standing beside her throne. The low but bright sound resounded through the palace, bouncing off the walls in a cacophony that brought pain to your head and vibration to your bones.

From one of the long, empty halls emerged a tall, muscular woman. Her dark, wavy hair danced on the wind as she walked but not as wildly as it, probably, wanted to - a piece of thick material wrapped around her eyes was restraining its frolicking. The textile was originally white, starting to grey with time and grime, but that was not the change in colour one should have been paying attention to: there were two brown, circular stains where her eyes presumably were. The woman walked barefoot with her arms stretched out far in front of her. On top of them, she carried a steel sword. As water underneath her feet reflected bright light coming through the tall windows, it created beautiful, dancing meanders on the floor-facing side of the blade. Something about her appearance made Morpheus flex the muscles of his back and shoulders as if he was checking whether he's standing straight enough.

"I have arrived, my lady Karma," the woman spoke in a low voice. Although she didn't speak very loudly, her words seemed to be carried especially well through the domed throne room. It was as if the sound of her voice was not heard by your ears but by the very fibre of your body. "How can I be of assistance?"

"Themis, whatever my guests ask you, you must answer."

"Of course, my lady Karma."

Turning to face Morpheus and you, Themis grabbed the handle of the sword and putting both of her hands around it, shoved the tip of the blade into the glass flooring. Thankfully, it did not break. The fish seemed greatly unmoved by the almost catastrophe. Humans could learn a thing or two from them.

Closely watching the deity, you strolled around Themis, taking in her form from all angles. Morpheus, on the other hand, stood beside the two of you and simply stared at your strange method of interrogation. "Since her exile, did Viper return to this palace?" you asked

"I have not seen Viper, the Palace of Justice, since my lady Karma decided to exile her," Themis answered in an official tone. Her voice remained unwavering.

"You did not answer the question, Themis," Morpheus stated. The goddess of justice, however, remained unmoved at this accusation and simply awaited your further inquiry.

"Do you know what happened to Lion?"

"I do not know how Lion, the Palace of Justice, died."

You stopped your bizarre activity to look at Themis's face. Like a marble statue, it remained unmoved but not in the same way Morpheus refused to be open about his emotions. Although she was a lot closer creation-wise to humans than him, not a speck of humanity seemed to reside under her skin. But that observation could hardly be surprising, not to you at least - it was your own design, all of it. A shiver of suspicion danced along your spine. She wasn't lying but she wasn't truthful either. Perhaps there must come the day when children turn on their parents, even metaphorically.

Morpheus inconspicuously leaned in to voice your own thoughts: "She knows what happened but refuses to tell."

"We have to trust that her silence is meaningful and not an omen of ill will," you whispered back but never let Themis out of your sight. "Perhaps by not telling us the truth, proper justice can be delivered." Only then did you speak up: "You are dismissed, Themis."

"Thank you, your worship," she answered.

Effortlessly, Themis pulled her shining sword from the glass floor. The rift where the blade once resided sealed itself, leaving absolutely no indication that even a scratch fell on the glass. Once again holding her sword in a strangely offering manner, the goddess of justice bowed low in front of you. Then, she turned around and left the throne room, disappearing around one of the antique, granite pillars decorating Karma's castle.

"We shall take our leave, Karma. You have been most helpful. Until this lonely path unites us again, my dear."

"I will await that day, your worship," she answered. By the sound of her voice, you could tell she was smiling, although the frantically moving fan was in the way of confirming your suspicion.

Having exchanged your farewells, you turned around and marched towards the entrance. Koi carps still swam under your feet without a care in the world, while the mighty Palaces of Justice stared at your back from the ceiling. Despite having no face on the fresco, you felt the eyes of Viper and Lion burning into your skin - one stalking and one pleading but both equally furious. Out of the corner of your eye, you looked at Morpheus's sharp features, so serious and regal but he couldn't fool you even if he tried. Dream of the Endless was dealing with things well above his 'paygrade', forces that were beyond him in the great scheme of creation. His blood, should he shed even a drop during this strange investigation, will stain your skin through all the cycles that are yet to happen. For the first time in long aeons, you were responsible for someone's life. By the warmth with which you had welcomed such a burden, you could tell that you'd aged.

The doors separating Karma's palace from the rest of her realm had a scene carved into each of the wings: one side presented a pack of wolves hunting a hare while the other showed a group of men aiming their rifles at a wolf. That's what Karma really stood for - an eye for an eye, a life for a life. When they were forced to open or close, the mechanism moving the door let out a rhythmic ticking, easily confused with the sound of a clock. Perhaps it was a silly coincidence or Karma wanted to remind each and every person that crossed the threshold of her land, that nothing in the universe is static. If you're hunting the hare, beware of the men with rifles because they will come. They always find you just like you always find the hare.

"Sad thing what happened to dear Lion," a male voice spoke up. He had a rough accent, vividly pronouncing his Rs. "He was a good lad, always bravely taking on whatever Themis threw at him. Honestly, I kind of felt bad for him after the last... perplexity. In his defence, he really thought he had it."

The man had dark skin roughly the colour of a brick. His luscious black hair was braided into a complex coiffure decorated with various feathers, each belonging to a different bird and only some of them came from earthly animals. He was dressed in a hand-weaved vest with nothing underneath it. Despite his strong, handsome features, his face looked somehow mischievous and vicious but that could easily be accredited to the white, long scar running straight down his face. Around him, the air smelled of musk and pine needles as though he was a forest beast only pretending to be a young man. In a quite defying manner, considering who he was speaking to, the stranger was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed on his chest.

"What perplexity do you mean, Hawk?" you coaxed him but, truthfully, you had hardly any hope to learn anything significant from him. If Hawk had any relatives, he'd sell them just to strike a personal deal with someone - that's the kind of creature he was. Despite such... affliction, he was proficient at his duties as a Palace of Justice, therefore everyone simply went along with his aggravating business model.

"Now that is a really good question, your worship: what do I mean?" he continued in a thrilled voice. A mischievous smile appeared on his face revealing his strangely sharp teeth. "I suppose I could tell you, I probably even should, but I'm a beast of business, not charity."

"You are in no place to make demands," Morpheus warned him.

"And you are in no place to dismiss my offer," he answered without the smallest falter in his smile. "Desperation is a sweet, sweet thing, Dream of the Endless."

Perhaps it was beneath you to submit to an egotistic agent of a Sacra's servant but the possibility of someone capable of killing Palaces of Justice simply running around unaccounted for was far worse. "What do you want?"

"I may have the best sight in this cycle but there is one place even my sight can not reach," Hawk spoke as he leaned towards you in a secretive manner, "Dreaming, the universe's unconscious. Bring me a feather from the tail of his raven," Hawk motioned towards Morpheus standing right next to you, "and I will tell you what I know."

You simply stared at him for a moment, pondering the consequences of your choice. But this... this you can just as freely take away as you give it. Out of thin air, with a graceful flick of your wrist, you conjured a black feather. It had a slight golden shimmer to it. "You will find this one sufficient," you stated as you handed the feather to Hawk.

Hawk studied the feather for a moment. His delicate hand brushed against the softness of the gift. "Yes, it should work just fine..." Examining it from all angles, Hawk finally reached into his long hair and threaded the new feather into one of his small braids. "Now, the case of our dear Lion. All of it is a real tear-jerker, your worship. Have you heard of the butterfly effect? You know, one small thing leading to a series of horrible events that only a person with more than one brain cell could predict? So, our little lion cub was deceived one time. Black magic that even made me shudder, no doubt the work of one of the Brothers of the Final Truth. It's funny that they claim to be this ancient, exclusive cult but if you can prove you're deranged enough they will let you in on a secret or two. In any case, someone got a hold of a Serpent Lock sigil, effectively locking Lion away from a considerable part of the truth. Everything was pointing at the teenage girl, so he did this heavenly duty of executing justice. Get it? Executing? Anyway, it turned out that it was the girl that put the Serpent Lock on the grimoire or some dairy and only after her untimely death did Lion learn what had actually happened. Long story short, he dealt with the wrong person and it should have been the mother. For the first time in this cycle, justice was served wrong and on top of that, the funniest part of this shit, it was the poster boy that did it."

"So Viper had nothing to do with this?" Morpheus asked. You caught his quick stern gaze as though the two of you were exchanging thoughts and theories.

"Quite the contrary. You need to learn to keep up, Lordy Morphy. She's the sole reason I'm telling you this story. Think about this: Lion, the symbol of power, family, strength, bravery and fuck knows what else, kills himself. It even sounds weird, doesn't it? That's when my slithering sister comes in with her guilt-tripping and intrusive thoughts. She whispers a thing or two, Lion stupidly listens, scratches his face off and scene!"

"I was under the impression that Viper and you don't cross paths as a rule," you questioned Hawk's honesty. Whenever these two were in each other's field of vision, catastrophes liked to stroll by but no one could tell anymore why they were like that. "Why change your mind now?"

"Lion's gone and, just like when that slimy serpent was exiled, the ones who are left have to clean up their mess. Doing my own load was enough but taking on theirs? That's ridiculous. I want Viper to get her own decisions to bite her in the ass, finally. You know, my lady, it's quite funny how she always manages to get out of every mess just fine."

"You're a Palace of Justice, Hawk," you reminded him. Somehow, in all those long centuries, he had forgotten the splendour of his own title or, perhaps, got too comfortable with it. "Vengeance is beneath you." The contempt in your voice made Morpheus slightly shift his body in discomfort.

"And what is justice if not lawful vengeance?" Hawk answered you. Clearly, he wasn't there to listen to your preaching. He was done with the drama he had to be part of. "Anyway, there are no rules regarding violence among Palaces, so I trust that you're the one who's going to make a judgement in this case. Themis's sword can't call Viper anymore but it shouldn't be a problem. Here." From the pocket of his saggy, sand-coloured pants, Hawk pulled out a handful of scales that had a strange glisten to them. "Toodles."

With such a perfect summary of his careless disrespect, he changed from his human form into an actual hawk and flew away. In truly comedic timing, both you and Morpheus let out a tired sigh. Dealing with Hawk may have been infuriating but you had Viper's scales - and that meant you could summon her.

"What manner of a feather was that?" Morpheus asked with a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"If you're asking whether I pluck a feather from your beloved Jessamy's tail, I did not. Think, dear Morpheus, who could have allowed your messenger to effortlessly travel between realms?"

His gaze lingered on you as though at first he didn't quite believe the implication. Then, a small smile crept unto his face as his expression beamed with wonder. The more he knew about you, the stronger he felt that all of him and Dreaming were a dollhouse you carved with your own hand. Left alone for a day too long, the dolls of the house began living on their own but the mark of their creator remained.

But that sense of wonder and awe washed away in favour of his ever-broad ego. "Was it truly necessary to succumb to Hawk's fractious demands?"

"Do not be mistaken, Morpheus, I did not want to give in to Hawk but there is not much else we can do at this point. This is one of those choices humanity always fails: pride or progress? Whether I complete his request or not, he will remain only a Palace of Justice and I will remain the Pillar of Eternity."

One day he was bound to learn from you that confidence was silent, it neither boasts nor demands but remains humble as it makes the right choice; a head unbowed is a head that favours clout over its true worth.

"What now, Wisdom? We have no way of knowing where Viper resides. As much as I dislike this, we could ask the three Graces."

Truthfully, they were only slightly more likeable compared to Odin. "That will not be necessary. The scales Hawk gave me will summon Viper but only if they're burnt in the same realm she's in. For now, I'm afraid I have to agree with you: there is no way for us to know where she is. You, dear Morpheus, should scour the dreams in search of the cult's sigil. They have to sleep at some point and if they are anything but dead, they must be somewhere."

"They taught Rodrick Burgess how to imprison you," his voice wavered with anger. It was a strange thing to be the subject of someone's worry. Even stranger when that subject was incomparably more powerful that the worrier. Perhaps love's voice was a little louder than reason's. "It's dangerous to seek them out."

You looked into Morpheus's blue eyes. Most of the time, they were quite vacant with something odd lingering inside them. Having spent so much time with him, you learned that their odd glint was sadness. But not the kind of melancholy one feels after hearing harsh words, no, it was the sadness of knowledge - a melancholic gaze of someone who saw and heard all there was to know about humanity and that knowledge left them disappointed, underwhelmed. "While they're dreaming, they are in your realm. You are the lord of them, do not forget that."

"What happens now that one of the Palaces is gone?"

For a moment, you looked away. A small shrug raised your shoulders and your gaze returned to Morpheus's face. "Truthfully, I can only speculate. This isn't the first time some Sacra's agent died but all of the Palaces are already deeply woven into the fabric of this cycle that it's virtually impossible to say with certainty whether the balance will remain. We can only hope that the other five Palaces will take over his duties and no more damage will be done. I'll be by the hazel tree."

Walking through the strangest dreams, Morpheus found himself inside a small, bare bedroom. The walls and floor were made out of stone. There was no glass in the windows but it wouldn't make much difference - the hot air stood in place. A wooden bed, a table, a chair and three woven baskets were the only pieces of furniture and although it wasn't much by any means, the room already felt cluttered. Looking around, Morpheus couldn't notice anything remarkable. The room looked so unimpressive, it could literally be in any country in the world. Although, why was someone dreaming of their own, empty bedroom?

Morpheus looked through one of the windows which was more of a hole in the wall, really. Out there, somewhere in the distance above hay roofs, he noticed a flag. There was no wind blowing, therefore he couldn't see all of it but he was fairly sure he could make out something like a spiral and part of an eye. He had found himself in the right place but where exactly he was, Morpheus couldn't tell. On the windowsill, if one could even call it that, was placed a gilded statuette of an animal (a panther, perhaps?) with three cubs. Morpheus reached his hand out towards the strange and enigmatic decoration.

"We meet, at last, Dream of the Endless," a voice called out to him.

Turning around, Morpheus's gaze fell on a man in a silvery robe. Contrary to the room they had found themselves in, the monk's clothing looked expensive, though it did not escape Dream's attention that the long belt tied around his waist was torn at the bottom, leaving brown threads in a dismembered pattern that represented nothing in particular anymore. Bright afternoon sunlight glided off his bald head. "Darius."

"To what do I owe this honour?"

Morpheus knew that Darius must be an exceptional man. Most of the time, Lord of Dreams was but an overlooked passenger in people's nighttime fantasies, never noticed until he wanted to be. Lucid dreaming was, indeed, a complex craft and not many could achieve it even with proper training. Even fewer people could treat it as second consciousness, wandering on Dreaming's soil with the awareness of wakefulness. "What happened to the Palaces of Justice?" Morpheus asked.

"Irony, Dream King," Darius answered. There was a polite smile on his face. His hands were clasped together in front of him as though he was mindful of his etiquette even in the world of dreams. How considerate. "The Palaces of Justice received justice."

Darius's lack of shame or regret, certain recklessness maybe, made Morpheus's skin crawl. Did that man truly not ponder the consequences of such an act? What madness inspired him to ever think that he could make such a decision? "Have you any idea what you've done?"

"Contrary to you, I do." Darius remained relaxed. He was either bluffing or he had an ace up his sleeve and was smart enough to not reveal all of his cards just yet. "Is this not why you sought me out? To learn about Lion and his final moments? With great satisfaction, I assure you, that it wasn't me who delivered his fate. If you knew what he had done, you'd be thrilled, too."

"I know what he had done," Dream answered in a cold done. "Tell me what you know."

"Why would I? You're only going to bring Wisdom to our doorstep. As much as the Brothers of the Final Truth wish for that to happen, the time is not right yet. Preparations are in order."

The next moment happened so fast that it was a mere blink of an unsuspecting eye. From his long sleeve, Darius revealed a dagger with a hilt sculpted into a dragon's head. As if he had no fear or had done something just as mad countless times before, Darius stabbed himself right in his heart - the quickest way to wake up.

Darius sat up in his bed panting. Without thinking about anything else, he threw away the thin cover he was sleeping under and run out of his bedroom barely dressed. He continued his maniacal rush through the cold, stone halls of the temple. Guards, wearing headdresses made from jaguar skulls, tried to stop him and ask what was wrong but Darius never let them - he simply run, his head whipping around as if he was looking for someone. Nearly tripping over his own feet, he left the temple.

"Brother Lorarii!" he yelled out to the familiar man. The monk looked Middle Eastern, with a thick beard covering nearly half of his face. "Brother Lorarii," Darius repeated between pants.

"Darius, dear Lords above and beyond, what is the matter?"

"It's Wisdom." He still couldn't catch his breath. "Dream of the Endless had trespassed my dreams. We need to warn Viper, send her off."

"If you say so, we shall do so at once. But you, dear brother, do not look good. It is still very early, even field workers haven't yet woken up. Go back to sleep, rest, and I'll fetch Viper."

"Yes, brother Lorarii. I will."

Suddenly feeling unimaginably tired, Darius dragged his feet back inside the temple. Instead of Dream and Wisdom, his thoughts were filled with memories of the pleasantly cool and comfortable bed. Yes, he could get some more sleep...

Brother Lorarii watched Darius disappear around the corner of the stone temple. Then, he simply turned around and walked away but instead of walking through a village with houses made of stone, he was suddenly walking through the palace in Dreaming. Brother Lorarii's tanned skin was exchanged for a pasty white complexion and dark, unkempt hair. Morpheus was marching through the marble halls of his manor. The gold figurine weighed in his hand.

Darius was still asleep, never having left his bed.

Morpheus was stalling. He came to tell you about his discovery but something about your calm yet focused demeanour made him want to watch. Throughout most of his life, he thought that the Pillars of Eternity were distant, cold, unwelcoming. None of the Endless was important enough to gain their interest. It was frustrating, truly - the almighty creatures of this universe couldn't care less. But now, having learned just how wrong he was, it was a comforting thought that there existed something bigger than him, that the pains and hopes of this world weren't entirely his burden to carry. Next to you, he happened to feel small, not as important as he always thought of himself. Somewhere in the depth of his pride, he found it endearing. The crows in the tree watched him closely with their burning green eyes and unintelligible markings. "Any news in the universe?"

"Standing here, what can you hear, my love?" you asked back.

"Leaves rustling."

"Imagine that each of those leaves is a separate world in this cycle. You hear them rustling as one, the soft hum of the current universe, but I listen to each of them separately. In fact, I'm listening to an entire forest rustling its leaves. There is no news in the universe, Morpheus, the universe is the news. It is constantly changing, moving, whispering. The universe is alive and so are its components. Have you any news about the Brothers of the Final Truth?"

Only then did you open your eyes to look at him. There was that glint of mischief or fascination in his irises that urged you to reveal to him the most deranged secrets of creation. Aside from your siblings, he was probably the only entity that wouldn't go completely mad the moment they even began to understand.

"I have spoken to one of them by the name of Darius. He was lucid in his dream, trying to escape me and my realm. Wherever Darius is, Viper is there, too. I brought something from his dream that might yet help us."

Although the statuette must have spent some time in Morpheus's hand, it was cold to the touch. It glistened but not as it should in the faint light of the palace - it appeared to have its own source of light. There were no inscriptions on the figurine, not even a year or a monogram of the sculptor.

"A gold jaguar," you said to yourself as if it wasn't already obvious. To be fair, considering the lack of proper details in the sculpted cubs, guessing 'bear' or 'hyena' should be equally expected. "Mother or father? Father jaguar..." your voice drifted away, travelling through times and places in a single thought. Yes, it wasn't the first time you've stumbled upon such an expression. "They're in Paititi, 'Motherland of the jaguar father'."

"That is where Viper is hiding."

"Precisely. But Brothers of the Final Truth are a cunning kind, they will know of our arrival. We must be swift, dear Morpheus."

The crows let out a deafening cacophony of caws when they took flight after you had stood up. One could only wonder what strange worlds they were going to see.

"It's hardly changed," you confessed as you looked at the stone houses, rice fields and llamas. "I remember showing Inkarri this valley. I haven't visited since then... Apparently, Paititi is stuck in time. I am yet to decide whether that is good or bad. For now, I suppose it simply is."

The village was quiet but not silent: a soft hum of a faraway waterfall created a comforting, almost sleepy, ambience. Torches made the moonless night a little brighter and easier to navigate. The air felt a low warmer as no breeze was blowing. Once in a while, a llama or a goat would call out. Streets were empty and there was no light inside the huts. For all you knew, Paititi was asleep.

The scales in your hand were strangely slimy and hard to grasp as if they once belonged to a fish rather than a reptile. With a flick of your wrist, you threw them in the air and in a truly mesmerizing fashion, they burst into giant, green flames. Not even ashes fell to the ground.

"The Brothers know you're here. Leave while you can," a quiet voice hissed.

You didn't even have to snap your fingers or flick your wrist to make Viper sink to her knees. It was child's play, really - to think her submission into existence. Despite genuine attempts, she couldn't stand up or even raise her arms. Viper's head was forced to look at you. She had thin black hair that clumped in greasy strands. Her skin looked painfully dry. Those slit pupils stared at you with nothing short of contempt.

"I am Wisdom," you began in an official tone, "the Pillar of Eternity, the Master of the Arcane Arts." Something about those words made the wind blow harder, the ground beneath your feet trembled nervously. "You owe me respect."

"Look at her," Viper demanded of Morpheus. His vacant eyes remained fixed on her. "Look at her!" She spat out specks of venom as she yelled. Hitting the sand beneath your feet, the substance sizzled, turning into sour-smelling smoke. "When you're finally gone, do you honestly think she'll mourn you? How could someone like her shed a tear over an insect like you? You are nothing beyond a lap dog to her, an accessory."

Unwilling to hear any more of her words, you revealed one of the blades belonging to the Spear of Ages that you had kept hidden in the triangular sleeves of your robes. The golden blade would surely glisten in the silver light of the moon but that night's sky was empty - stars blinked anxiously as they waited for their mother to begin another cycle, grow into the silent talar of whispered secrets once again.

With confidence befitting pure rage, your arm swung through the warm air. Viper closed her eyes and attempted to wince but the magic holding her in place didn't quite allow that. A loud sound of metal clashing and something hard being broken resounded through the otherwise silent night.

The blade belonging to the Spear of Ages was lodged into the stone pavement on which Viper was kneeling. Judging by the distance between the weapon and her body, it had missed her face by less than half of an inch. It was, quite clearly, a throw practised many times before. One could only wonder how many times the blade did not miss its mark...

But Viper did not have much time to enjoy the missed offence. Your hand tightly wrapped around her throat. Truthfully, you had little care for the strength of your grip - it took a little more than strangulation to kill a Palace. Holding her throat, you slightly lifted her entire body to bring Viper's face closer to yours.

"Given what role you must fulfil in this cycle, killing you is unwise," you spoke in a quiet, calm voice. "Another punishment must take place to pay for your treacherous fratricide. Viper, Palace of the Justice, you shall speak no more words. Instead, you will hiss and slither and live in the shadows as serpents do. So mote it be."

Pushing Viper away, you let go of her neck. She fell on the white stones beneath her feet and tried to scramble back up, stand up and face you but she couldn't - physically, she was incapable of doing so. Her legs as if suddenly stripped of bones or muscles became completely useless. Viper had no control over them. Propping her torso up on her arms, she tried to say something but your words were already changing reality: a golden thread swiftly piercing Viper's lips, wiring them shut until the end of this cycle. In muffled whimpers, she undoubtedly attempted to scream something at you - certainly something quite sultry.

"Between forgiveness and vengeance, one should choose to be just," you announced in an official tone. "And what is just may not always be right," you added a little quieter. It was good that those decisions belonged to Palaces of Justice and not yourself.

Dream's gaze lingered on the pathetic sight that was Viper. He knew not to believe her words but some part of him, strange particles in his bones that recognized your superiority to all of creation, pondered the Palace's judgement. What if his purpose truly was to pass the time? He felt your hand gently grabbing his before Paititi turned into Dreaming and the air around him was filled with shimmering, green powder.

Part of him expected you to let go of his hand and do whatever it is a creature of your sort does in their free time - in his experience, it was mostly sitting underneath a hazel tree or walking through the farthest places in Dreaming, taking in the specific genius loci of the Dream World. But your touch lingered. "Something is troubling you, my dear," you said in a mild tone.

Sometimes he wondered whether you could read minds but it was fairly obvious that you were just excellent at reading him. You pulled him in the direction of the balcony next to your bedroom and he let you.

"There will come a day when my existence comes to an end," he began. Your hand gripped his a little tighter but it wasn't uncomfortable - it was reassuring, a silent promise that he was being heard and his fears were treated with utmost seriousness. "Strange times when even Death will die. What shall become of you then?"

"Whatever must," you answered shortly. There was no point in sweet words and lies. Both of you were a little too old and smart for that. "I will take on the face of the next cycle's dominant species, answer to the name they will give me. And one day there will come another cycle in which another Dream of the Endless shall live. I think I ought to seek him out when the time comes. Perhaps his sky will be littered with gargantuan jellyfish."

A cawing resounded in the air. Flying straight towards the two of you was a crow - undoubtedly one of the residents of the hazel tree judging by its flaming emerald eyes and marking along its body. It landed on the ledge of the balcony, right between Morpheus and you. The bird's talons tapped against the stone. The crow cocked its head, the flaming eye stared into yours in a manner too intelligent and conscious to truly belong to an animal. A hoarse caw, a sound more akin to a screech than a bird's call, resounded in the crow's chest.

"Time would like us to visit him out on the Seas of Oblivion," you explained to Morpheus. Before he could think it odd that you clearly understand a crow's caw, he noticed the shade of green burning inside the bird's skull was nearly identical to the colour of your dress with embroidered ibises; he and Jessamy were in no way different than you and that crow. "Hermes, tell Time that we'll be honoured to meet with him."

The crow cawed again before taking flight and disappearing into the horizon.

I fear the day is growing shorter yet again, dear student, and the darkness in the absence of the sun is filled with terrors even I am yet to learn about. As much as it pains me to say so, I do not know when we'll see each other again. Telling you this story, I have come to realize that an entire century had gone by since the last time I saw my mother. With the break of dawn, I shall be off to Shangri-La. Should you grow weary of my absence, borrow one of my books. Who knows, maybe between their pages you'd find a story of your own?

[episodeoftv]

Round 1 of 8, Group 8 of 8

propaganda and summaries are under the cut (May include spoilers)

Twin Peaks: 3.08 The Return, Part 8 (Gotta Light?)

Gotta light?

Part 8 is easily the grandest, most horrifying, most expansive, and most beautiful episode of television to ever grace the screens. If David Lynch has spent his career peeling back the surfaces of quaint towns to explore the roots of evil in humankind, this is where he puts all of his cards on the table. Broken into five more or less distinct parts that seem to have nothing to do with each other but really have EVERYTHING to do with each other, Lynch and Frost take us to the very edges of the world: a '40s New Mexico desert is cracked open by an atomic bomb shot greater than that of Oppenheimer from where a great evil is born; a wailing, lonely rock anthem is performed on a roadhouse stage; a doppelganger is shot in the wilderness and revived by soot-covered, shadowy woodsmen that smear his blood over their semi corporeal, tv-static-like bodies; a woman and a giant listen to distorted jazz and watch the White Sands test from some liminal netherworld; a woodsman terrorizes a '50s town and repeats some truly terrifying dialogue while a pair of sweethearts share a chaste kiss. All of this, in black and white and near silence. Part 8's expressionistic, utopian hellscape escapes all genres and narrative confines, even that of the surreal. There is nothing like this episode to haver ever existed before, and it's unlikely there ever will be again.

Yellowjackets: 2.06 Qui

TW for cannibalism, stillbirth, and cops

Trapped inside on a snow day, the Yellowjackets revisit the highlights, humiliations and traumas of Health Class. Tai and Van help each other rewind, while Misty explores joining a classic Cosmic American tribute band.

Sure, Yellowjackets isn't over, and I actually have no doubt that the show has yet to deliver its best episode. But this one is a heartwrenching look at Shauna's relationship with motherhood and loss and trauma in the face of two extremely difficult circumstances at two different points in her life.

[princeescaluswords]

Thanks for posting about fandom racism and racialised lenses. I’m sorry for messaging anonymously. I don’t want to risk racialised pushback on this platform - I try to keep this a place where I can chill.

I saw another great example of the ‘lack of empathy towards Scott’ thing recently. A fan was saying how they felt so sorry for Theo because Scott had told him he was ‘barely even human’.

And don’t get me wrong. Theo is a great, tragic, complex and hella good-looking character. There are a lot of those in TW, including, of course, Scott.

But it’s like, *dude*. Scott tells Theo that *mid-murder*. He’s seconds away from death and saying that to the person who is *actually killing him*.

These are such small things to notice, right. But cumulatively, god, they can wear some of us down.

This is going to sound like a non sequitur, but have you ever watched right-wing populist talking heads like Tucker Carlson, Matt Walsh, or Ben Shapiro complain about Hollywood's 'woke agenda' when it comes to recasting characters with non-white actors? It's fascinating. They very often take pains to inform us about their disdain for the cultural property in question. And while they're simultaneously telling us that we couldn't pay them enough to watch it, they also tell us why the recasting is bad and it ruins the story, though they never get around to telling us why it's so important that the character be played by a white actor.

They sound uncannily like Sterek shippers about Teen Wolf the Movie.

And not just about the movie. I mean, Anti-Scott Fandom will underline every incident from the series that makes them hate Scott McCall while demonstrating that they don't remember (or choose not to remember) any context surrounding those incidents. As you pointed out, they can find empathy for Theo after Scott delivered a mild insult (and it is mild considering that Scott 'clinging to his humanity' is so often used as an attack on him in this fandom) to the chimera while Theo was in the middle of killing him. But let's be fair. It certainly wasn't kind of Scott to point out that Theo was so evil that he pretended to be the pack's friend so he could murder Scott and enslave the others.

But then again, they do so love Derek Hale, who took the time to tell Jackson Whittemore how much Jackson deserved being murdered in Co-Captain (1x10). And, to make sure I am not a hypocrite, the context was that Derek was about to slaughter Jackson because serial-killer Alpha Peter had ordered Derek to do it.

Or they can tell us that Scott wasn't a very good friend to Stiles in Seasons 1 & 2 because he didn't pay attention to Stiles's emotional needs, but it was perfectly fine for Stiles to live vicariously through Scott's lycanthropy. Or to condemn Scott to Cocytus because he didn't have faith in Stiles in Season 5 after everything they had been through together, but it was perfectly understandable that Stiles had so little faith in Scott in Season 3A that Chris "Ever See a Rabid Dog?" Argent had to call Stiles out on it.

Scott is bad because he's sexually obsessive with Allison, though Stiles's stalking possessive behavior toward Lydia is not. Scott is bad because he was fooled by Theo, even though Derek was fooled by Peter, Kate, Peter again, Jennifer, and Peter a third time. Scott is bad because he keeps trying to go back to a normal life, though Stiles is perfectly justified trying to abandon Scott in Battlefield (2x11).

And so on, and so on, and so on.

It's not just a lack of empathy. It's entitlement. Certain characters just get to be mean to other characters when they're scared or overwhelmed or just having a bad day, and certain characters don't. Certain characters get to be "sassy," and certain characters don't. Certain characters get to pursue what makes them happy regardless of what's going on in the larger world around them, and certain characters don't. Certain characters get to make mistakes and be treated with empathy and compassion, and certain characters are held to a standard that reduces them to saint or demon. Certain characters are labeled villains when they get the people they've recruited killed or literally murder innocents with a quip and then be celebrated for it, while certain characters are labeled boring, one-dimensional, and cheats when they try their best to save people and refuse to use murder as a tool to get what they want. Anti-Scott fans -- hell, not just them, every Sterek authors who has Stiles argue "I know that Derek was an asshole, but he meant well, so, Scott, you have to submit so I can get laid!" -- cannot explain to anyone why only white characters get the benefit of that doubt, anymore than Tucker Carlson can explain to anyone why its a sign of the downfall of civilization that the actor playing Ariel in the live-action version of The Little Mermaid isn't white or Zendaya got to play Mary Jane Watson.

BUT IT'S NOT RACISM.

[shebeafancyflapjack]

A Mother's Nightmare

(A little horror fic set in @idiotwithanipad 's Gore AU, ft Gore Mary and my oc Silver.

Tw: Burnings.)

"Didst thou truly think ye could hide from the law forever, Witch?"

Mary spits the dirt from between her lips after they threw her to the ground.

Yes. After all this time, yes.

Time rots everything. Plants. Meat. Fruit. Hope, as well as Fear.

She had grown too complacent. Safely secluded in her forest. No one dared to tread upon the realm of the Bone Witch. That be one of many names they have given to her over the years. Burned beside the great manor of Bone Hall, coincidentally that which she would become in her resurrected form. Bone and Flame. Smoke and Rage.

For an endless age, she has claimed the land as her own. Scourging out the menfolk and protecting the lost maids and children. A demon and an angel, depending on who doth trespass on her home.

She thought none would dare to come for her again. She was a fool.

Somehow they bind her wrists, trapping her in chains of iron that stifle her magic. Once again, she be but a helpless woman, forced to her knees at the foot of Righteous Men. Her Masters. Her betters.

A spit at his boot earns her a kick to the chin. Her skinless jaw breaks and shifts to one side. It takes a fierce shake of her head to slot it back in.

"Disgusting creature. I should have them grind your bones to powder and scatter it upon the wind." The Witchfinder sneers.

It can't be. Had she a heart, it would skip a beat.

How is it he still lives? Did she not cause him to burn at her execution?

She had gone to the pyre a faithful woman. All her life, she had trusted the Lord. It was in His holy name that she did gather herbs and mix them to aid others in the villages with teas and poultices. T'were not Witchcraft. T'was not the devil's work. Her wards and workings were to protect from Lucifer, not to summon Him.

She had told them as such at her trial. But they did not take heed. The jury had condemned her before she was given chance to speak.

A cursed field. A dead husband.

That was all the proof they needed to seal her fate.

Yet the Vicar had comforted her. Told her that she had nought to fear, so long as she trusts in the Lord. For only He knew her heart. And if she truly be a good Christian, then no harm shall befall her.

As they'd tied the robes around her wrists, she'd taken a breath in. She'd prayed. Our Father. Who art in Heaven. Hallow'd be thy name.

Jesus would save her. Jesus would know that they were mistaken.

The pyre had been lit. The crowd watched with baited breath.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.

Sweat was dripping from her in panic before the heat rose up. And rise it did as the flames spread quickly. Hot. So very hot. Hotter than any hearth or stove she had worked over before. Do not falter. Do not give up. Trust in Jesus.

Forgive us our trespasses. As we forgive those...

The Witchfinder had smiled at her. A sick smile. The smile of a man who was watching in entertainment. Forgive him? Forgive one such as this?

Flames licked at her feet and she'd let out a cry of pain. And that was only the start.

Deliver us from evil...

Oh God. Oh God, the pain. The pain. She thought nothing could compare to the agony of childbirth, especially when that babe she bore did not live through her first year. Surely after that, she could endure anything. She lived through her lashings, her whipping through the streets as she was dragged behind the cart, the pelting in the stocks.

But, Oh God, this is too much. She can't finish the prayer. All she could do was cry out to God to save her. Jesus. Angels. Anyone.

And none had come.

The only reply to her ever increasing screams and shrieks were the cheers of a bloodthirsty crowd and the sick smile of her executioner. Had this been what Jesus had felt upon the cross? Why he cried out to ask why the Father had forsaken him?

Perhaps the human in him had been used, tricked and abandoned. Just like her.

As her skin had begun to melt, so did her faith.

With her bone chilling screams, she cursed those around her, and God himself.

How dare he. How dare he?!

This was how he saved those who were faithful to him?! This was her reward for her devotion?!

All her life, Mary had quashed down any urge to be angry, to rage against the injustices put against her class and her sex. She had kept her eyes down, her lips shut tight, only spoken to highborns when spoken to first. She had always tried to turn her misfortunes to good. Walking through the world with a song on her lips and imagining the beauty hidden in all things.

There was no escaping the truth of this world now. In those last moments, the veil had fallen. She grit her teeth as her very lips began to burn away. The only balm to the agony was her rage.

If they wanted a witch, then she would give them one.

She would be the most fierce, the most wicked, the most dangerous and wrathful of demons like none they had known before.

The power had exploded from her as her living body perished.

She had sent her great fire upon the Witchfinder. She'd watched him burn and the crowd disperse in fear, scattering like rats.

So how was he here now? After all this time? How did he find her?

"If thou doth wish to burn me a second time, ye will needs the fire of angels. I be immune to your pathetic pyres now, Witchfinder." Mary Guppy seeths.

Once she finds a way to escape these damn chains, she will eviscerate him. Slowly.

Last time was far too merciful.

A hand grips her bonnet and what little remains of her hair, forcing her to look at him.

He is a husk of a charred bone. Just as she.

"Fire be too quick for a demon like you." He snarls at her; "We shalt bind thee tight and throw you down to the bottom of the lake, weigh thee down with boulders to bury ye at the bed. There you can rot for eternity."

Water...That be her one weakness. The one part of her land which she dare not approach aside from the great house.

Perhaps the spirits of the lake will help to free. Perhaps dear ally will....

Wait. Where is he? Where is her oldest friend?

"If you are searching for your pet," smiles the Witchfinder when he sees her eyes darting; "He has already been dealt with."

He points to one of his guards, who holds up a set of furs dripping with blood and....No.

Oh sweet demons. No.

Flecks of skin. And brown hair.

"I believe it shall make a fine rug for my chambers once my wife has washed it."

Mary growls, as her ally would do. She roars out her anger and grief for her most trusted companion. Embers spark uselessly against the iron of her shackles.

She will flay him. Slowly.

She will spear him, mouth to rear, and roast him on a spit. She will take his eyes. His tongue.

Ally. Sweet, beloved, loyal ally.

"And of course...I have one more surprise for you, until you are condemned to your watery tomb." The Witchfinder grins.

What else could he possibly...?

He steps aside.

Mary's jaw drops.

No. Oh no, no, no, no!

Another pyre. Another girl tied to the stake.

A tattered dress of pink and ebony. Ripped from too much struggling. The girl's bruised head is slumped onto her shoulders. She always sleeps, but this be not natural. Someone has knocked her out with a blow to her gentle head. Tears of blood fall from her ears, her nose, her lips.

"Wake up, girl!"

Mary can do nothing as they jab the teenager in her side.

She stirs, eyes opening with confusion. They squint, blind to her surroundings.

Lost in the dark. She cannot see what they are about to do.

"Mummy?" Silver calls out.

It is only when Mary cries out that Silver's pale eyes look towards her direction.

"No...No, not her. Not my little'en, you can't!"

"We can and will. You may have found a way to live through your burning, but your brat will not. By offering up this filthy witchling to the Lord, he will cleanse this land for good."

Silver gasps as she smells a man begin to light a torch from a giant brazier and carries it over to the pyre.

Somehow, the girl knows. Because her mother has warned her many a night of what dangers await beyond the safety of their forest.

"No! Mummy, please! Don't let them! Mummy, save me, please!" The child begs, struggling in vain against her binds.

Only rope. But her powers be in the gentleness of mist. She doth not have her mother's gift of flame.

Mary tries to rush forward but is held back by firm hands. The shackles seem to tighten. Her magic boils, captured and contained, beneath her own skin, only causing hurt to herself.

"Let her go! She be only a child!"

"She is no child. She is a demon. An imp. Watch, Mary Guppy. Watch us cleanse her with holy fire."

Silver's screams grow louder as the pyre is lit. The flames spread and grow at a terrifying speed. Mary does not stop fighting.

Not her. Not her baby. She already lost her once before...

"MUMMY! MUMMY, HELP!"

Mary wails as she remembers the pain. The scalding of her skin. The blistering heat. The torture. The agony. The feeling of helplessness and loss of faith.

Hers had been in a God who abandoned her. Would Silver's be in her? If she did not save her, would her darling girl think she abandoned her?

A mother has one job. One purpose.

And she has failed.

"MUMMY! MUMMY! AAAAAH!"

Silver's pale skin drips like candle wax. Her beautiful hair dissolves. Her dress crumbles into ash that's carried off by the wind. Her daughter. Her perfect daughter.

Never hurt a fly. Never did any wrong.

A good girl. A beautiful girl. Burning.

Stop! Stop! She'll do anything, she'll kneel and bow to anyone, just let her-

Mary sits up, clutching at the remains of her dress at her chest. There is a hand on her bony shoulder. Firm. Warm.

A worried grunt.

Ally is at her side, heavy brow set with concern. He is whole. No blood except for the claw marks on his front and nape. Rest of his skin and fur attached. He is....safe.

She embraces him, as best as she can, as close as she knows he'd be comfortable with. Her hands clasping his face and bringing him close, pressing her forehead to his. His next grunt is softer as he paws at her breast.

"Thank you, old friend. I is most glad to see thee well." She sniffs, as emotional as he's ever seen her be before.

There is a reason she rarely sleeps.

He remains still for a brief period, letting her hold him close, take comfort in his devoted presence. He would never abandon his Mistress.

"....My little'en. I needs to see her. Be she safe?"

Ally grunts and gently wraps his hand around Mary's bony digits.

He leads her to the mound of flowers so she can see for herself. Mary lets go as they arrive and she drops to her knees.

Silver sleeps peacefully. That smile remains on her face as she dreams of fae and dragons and beautiful mermaids to court.

Her darling girl. She is unharmed.

The witch lays down beside her slumbering daughter, her smoke coiling like a giant serpent around the both of them. Nothing shall ever come to threaten her child. Nothing shall ever take her from her mother's arms.

Mary sighs, stroking her daughter's pink fringe from her forehead before laying a kiss with her lipless mouth.

"Mummy's here, little'en. Sleeps now. Mummy will burn the world to keep thee safe."

[castielafflicted]

hi yeah have some religious trauma in the form of a poem. this isn't spn but it feels weird to put on my main.

son isn't capitalized in the title because Son refers to jesus and he has enough poetry about him. this ones mine.

also tw for some transphobia

image text below cut

The Words of His son

How many times will I look up Scream towards the sky at this God God of love, God of wrath Begging and begging and begging and begging For my Father above to save me

I cry Name after Name after Name after Name All the ones I was taught for Him And even when I cry the words of His Son My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? I see not a response in sight

When I reach out for comfort I am told I will always be His daughter, He would never leave me alone Every river I find I will have the strength to cross But this makes me feel more alone than before

I was never His daughter. I could never pray hard enough for Him to save me Prayer was never my strong suit anyways Being a disciple always felt like a joke to me The perfection I strived for was always out of reach

I could never lie my way into the water Even as I watched them dip my brother I felt off How could I have the perfect faith When this God felt no more real Than some stranger delivering presents in the night

The child I used to be desperately wanted to believe They tried and tried and tried and tried Asking that God to make them the perfect daughter They walked out all the steps everyone asked But still became the blasphemous son

This God, the God I cried for, the God that left me Was He even there enough to leave me? They say I was made in His image But what image was there to make me in? For I am not His daughter, not like they said

Hallelujah, joyful praise, has not left my lips in years The forgiveness people say I should seek from Him Is really what He should seek from me Who abandons their child in times of need? What Father is that, what God is that?

Who makes a child they know will suffer? The evil I was promised He would deliver me from Still knocks at my door every day If He is supposed to be all knowing Then why does He not know how I hurt

I look at those that taught me about Him And speak the words of his Son again Father, forgive them, they know not what they do Their words are like knives in my heart, made of love Love blinded by their beliefs of Him

His Son's three day grave brings questions Lazarus tends to bring me even more My science-minded brain could never comprehend The intricacies of such a miracle And He stays silent as I ask Him to explain

Each lie I speak digs my hole slightly deeper At once point I must climb my way out I don't think I believe in Him anymore Like my mother assumes I must do Sometimes I wonder if I ever fully did

The sky calls my eyes to it once again Daring me to decide what belief I hold in my heart I think I will take my time in my own three day grave So one last time I repeat the words of His Son It is finished

[fwenchfwy]

Hi! I updated Mewone’s reference sheet since I kinda rushed the first one but this one will include all you need to know about the character. This is also a Pokémon AU.

Personality: Cold, they keep everything pretty blunt on what they say almost sounding monotone doing so. They’re also pretty closeted with their emotions but if you pry enough you’d get a reaction out of them.

Status: Villain

Likes: Anything Sweet especially Strawberry Cake, Battling (mostly the intense blood pumping adrenaline of it.) and Pokémon.

Dislikes: Humans (Basically all of humanity similar to Mewtwo but on a much wider scale.), the metal collar around their neck and anything Spicy.

Backstory (TW// Torture and Death): Mewone use to be a regular Mew, the one you would expect, a prankster who liked having fun. Though it all changed when they were attacked by 4 Team Rocket grunts who surrounded them and got a very easy jump on the Pokémon. They were captured and brought to Giovanni who wanted to make sure Mew would be under their control to become a weapon, Giovanni put a metal collar around the Mew’s neck that could deliver power shocks all through them. Anytime the Mew would try to escape or not listen they’d be delivered shocks through the metal collar stuck around their new psychic wouldn’t be able to break. Eventually after months of torture from Giovanni the Mew would become completely different from how they use to be. Now their eyes lifeless and listened to Giovanni’s orders and given the name of Mewone. Giovanni happy with his new weapon would give some of Mewone’s genes to make a second one that would be dubbed Mewtwo. Though that plan wouldn’t go through as Mewtwo would escape and kill all the scientists that were working on the project. So Giovanni being next he’d send Mewone out to beat Mewtwo and bring them back to Giovanni. Though as Mewone was gone searching for Mewtwo for the past few months, the entirety of Team Rocket would be stopped and taken down by a 10 year old named Red. Once Mewone would find out days later reaching to them they were emotionless and empty, they felt like they should be happy yet instead they still felt scars of everything that happened to them. So they’d continue looking for Mewtwo this time by their own will and believing all humans were evil and planning to do something about it in the future. The old Mew gone and Mewone being born anew with a goal in mind, destroying humanity.

[radiopixelctive]

PTS character's backstories (TW: too much text!!1!)

Pierrot: a 42 year-old man who gained an inhuman power of electricity from just pulling a fork into an electric outlet while being an extremely curious and dumb teenager. He's half italian half french, so that's why his name is Pierrot and that's why he owns a pizzeria. He was always a weirdo, his emotions were switching like gloves, but not that much. Once his father died, he was the one who was now supposed to support family stuff and blah blah blah money all alone (he was, like uhh 38???), so he started his business by cooking pizzas and stuff. Then, when his mother died, he was on his own and he left the town somewhere. He was working in his own pizzaria for, like, 10 years all alone without any help, but he was pretty good at his work. Of course, he was tired and exhausted at the end of the days by these deliveries and cooking at the same time. He even wasn't paying attention to the bigass brick tower a bit far away from his pizza place. but there was one day - the day of Giovanni's and Sam's arrival (i'll tell it in their BS). These three were working together for like a year, and then SpiceMiss arrived. (the end of Pierrot's backstory)

Giovanni and Sam The Hamster: Giovanni is a gnome who cooks nice and fresh pizzas for his family and neighbours, and Sam is an overgrown hamster and Giovanni's friend who delivers his pizzas to the other gnomes and people who live in the Gnome Forest. after some years, Gio got bored by just spending his whole life in the place he knew from his birth. He decided to leave the Gnome Forest with Sam and observe the world. As it was clear, he didn't go really far away and stopped at Pierrot's pizza place. He was working there as a pizza delivery man with his overgrown hamster buddy. Everything was pretty good the whole year until SpiceMiss came over and kidnapped him. (the end of Giovanni's and Sam's backstory)

PurpleBell: He was just a little pepper when he found out about the charms of technologies and devices. PurpleBell was learning how to use tools and stuff, he was really into it. He's thinking it is the best and interesting thing on the earth, and nothing can be better than being a mechanic. When he had enough money, he suggested to be a floor 1 boss and floor key keeper, thinking he was worth this title. (the end of PurpleBell's backstory (probably))

The Impartial: a brave and justice-filled swiss cheese creature with a cool grey cowboy hat. When he was little, his grandfather, John E' Swiss, was his only family member so far. He taught his little grandson how to use weapons for good purposes, because he knew his grandson wanted to be a kind but fair fighter for justice and peace in the tower. When his grandfather died, he was really upset, but he didn't give in to his grief and was and IS a good justice warrior. He kept his money in his money box to be a floor 2 boss and floor key keeper. He is not just wanted to, he swore to his grandfather that he'll protect the tower from any danger and evil, even if it depends on his own life. (the end of The Impartial's backstory)

Neddy & Nelly: twin siblings, both over 20 years old. Neddy was a really mischievous kid, and Nelly was and is a supportive sister. Of course they had and have some relationship problems, like, they quarrel with each other, but hey, that's a typical sibling stuff, c'mon? Both of 'em found a nice jobs in the tower. Neddy has his own TV show where he does extreme and weird stuff. Nelly has her own cafe with a slightly low reputation. Neddy had a lot enough money to be a floor 3 boss and floor key keeper, and Nelly didn't want to be left behind, so she also paid some money to be partly a boss and keeper, just to support her bro. After Pierrot's arrival in the tower, Neddy noticed how weird, in his opinion, he was, so he started calling him "weirdo". He thought weirdo was a good rival for his show. (the end of Neddy's & Nelly's backstory (probably))

Fierrot: A clone of Pierrot, which was the smartest of any other clone, but, sadly and weirdly, it also had it's own personality and character. It was created to be a copy and mock of Pierrot, but it wanted to be a person. Its abandoned pizza place was, well... abandoned. And it lived there after "escaping" the lab it was created. It, surely, tried to cook some pizzas, but it was bad- no... horrible! it was upset and downed, but one day... it heard music. it was so nice and so wholesome! thought Fierrot and followed the sweet call of the tune and notes. There was a little radio, which unknowingly was turned on. But Fierrot didn't care who or what turned it on, it was only fascinated and charmed. It took the radio to its pizza place and decided that it will not make food, no! it will be dancing! it will make its business by doing something it loves and amazingly can, and not by copying someone's success! So it shapeshifted its style, being more original, and made a few permanent clones (which are now a janitor, a DJ and a head of special effects) to help it with some things. But time passes, and nothing in its business changes still. It was saddened again, and for a complete accident, it found Nelly's Cafe. It thought that it could spend some time there, probably even find some friends. Fierrot came over to the counter and sat there. It saw Nelly and The Impartial talking about something, looking like best friends. It decided to join their conversation, and it was successful. Now, with a good pair of friends, it had more confidence. but nothing worked, once again. It was feeling down and almost depressed, but suddenly it's janitor showed it a "floor 4 boss + floor key keeper wanted" poster. It got determined and excited again, and it was sure this time everything will be neat! It was happy, until it found out that to be a floor boss and key keeper, it needs money to pay. Luckily, it knew a person who could give it some money on credit - Nelly! She had enough money, and was a very kind and understanding person, so she gave Fierrot its needed amount of money. It promised that it will thank her by giving her the same amount back. Now, once it became a floor 4 boss, it felt special. (the end of Fierrot's backstory)

SpiceGal/SpiceMiss: SpiceGal - a glorious and smart lady, but also a little crazy. Her father was always kind and nice to her, and he was supporting her interests. But why did she become a villain, you ask? First of all, She's not, she just LOVES to mischief around like a little silly girl. And second of all, she was born being just a slice, and not full pizza, so she created a robot that is a full pizza - just like what she was dreaming about! She called it SpiceMiss, not really wanting to come up with something else. Yes, she likes science, constructing and cooks not pretty good, so she decided to build a whole bigass tower for her creations and other creatures to live in! Everything was balanced, until Giovanni decided to leave the tower. She thought that if Giovanni will find a place that's may be better than her tower, then he'll tell about this place to everybody in the tower, and her tower will be abandoned. But she was not liking that idea, and she (or rather SpiceMiss (there's no difference anyway)) decided to kidnap him and blow up Pierrot's pizza place so Giovanni couldn't come back there anytime soon. (the end of SpiceGal's/SpiceMiss' backstory)

thanks for your attention!