#Forged from the Flesh of Destruction | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

damneddamsy · 2 months ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part i)

a/n: I suppose this series will be a short one, 4 parts maybe? I just love Claere so much - she's my little unhinged weirdo :')

It was a rather secluded and quiet affair, the marriage between Claere Velaryon and Cregan Stark. There were no great halls crammed with noble witnesses, no bright banners flying high to announce the union of two ancient houses—only the low rustles of the breeze through the pines and the crackle of a distant hearth as the vows were uttered.

The ceremony took place beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods. The holy weirwood tree loomed with its gnarled white bark, etched with time, and ruby leaves swished in the cold Northern breeze. Claere, a priceless dream draped in rare emeralds, silver silks, and white furs akin to seafoam—a nod to her Velaryon heritage—eclipsed against the stark landscape of Winterfell. She made up for the glitz and grandeur that this lifeless gathering lacked.

Cregan Stark, silent and relentless, took her freezing hand with the kind of sworn resilience that marked Northern might—his bold grey eyes sceptical of the bride before him. Though the match had been arranged by the Sea Snake, the union between them was regarded as special—one for the histories. Theirs was not a marriage forged in the fires of splendour but in the subtle rendition of what they each represented: a union between sea and snow, Velaryon and Stark.

No songs were sung, and no cheers erupted, but in that stillness, something more meaningful lingered.

Cregan was first informed of Rhaenyra's second child and only daughter as if she were a fleeting nymph from a fairytale, a cold mystery whispered from beyond the Wall. "She is adrift in dreams," his maester had told him. Claere Velaryon possessed all of her mother’s fabled graces—from her haunting violet eyes and white-gold hair to the sharp, aquiline features that marked her as pure Valyrian. Her skin, fair and translucent as glass, only furthered the ghostly aura that surrounded her.

If summer snow had ever reincarnated in his time, it would have been Claere Velaryon. The rumours spoke of a 'beautiful freak', chiselled like an ice sculpture, who sang like the sweetest lark, whose fingers danced effortlessly over the harp, filling halls with melodies as delicate as her presence. She was drawn more to solitude and the quiet company of the stars than to her brothers, most of her nights spent soaring high above the world on her silvery dragon, Luna—hatched in her cradle and enormous beyond her years.

The whispers had reached him long before he’d ever seen her. She doesn't eat food, prefers the taste of human flesh and blood, they had said, each rumour darker than the last. She once tried to stab her uncle in the heart. She dabbles in blood magic with that wretched dragon of hers. Some claimed her visions could only divine the worst of futures, and that she would cut herself to the bone just to understand pain. It was said everything she touched withered into the gloom.

Cregan swallowed against the rising dread. He had been pragmatic in agreeing to this union, believing the support of the ancient Targaryens would strengthen the North. Yet now, as he stood face to face with the girl cloaked in a bizarre silence, he wondered if he had invited his own destruction. The North had weathered many storms, but this... this felt different. He had faced wildlings, dire winters, wars, and beasts, but Claere Velaryon might be his greatest unknown yet.

Perhaps this alliance, this bond forged for power, would be his ultimate undoing. The Sea Snake must’ve played him for a fool, tying him to a sorceress masked as a Valyrian princess.

As if her touch had stung him, Cregan recoiled and returned his hands to his sides, a flicker of unease settling beneath his skin. The girl’s violet eyes stayed distant at his reaction, focused on some invisible realm beyond the godswood, oblivious to the accusations that swirled around her name like storm clouds. Never meeting anyone’s gaze, she stood perfectly still, frigid as the legends surrounding her, the direwolf sigil on his chest holding her attention.

When the quiet ceremony was over and it was time for goodbyes, the weight of the moment settled heavily on them all. Soft whispers filled the air as hands were clasped, and final glances exchanged. The warmth of shared vows had already begun to fade whilst the mother and daughter, her three brothers and their grandsire traded farewells. Cregan wavered close by, observing his new wife's interactions.

No one cried except the youngest brother, Joffrey, who had refused to let go of the princess. Everyone around her, her own kin, had kept their distance in approaching her.

"Who'll sing to me now, Claerie? The moon song?" Her little brother wept, shedding his tears into her fair silk gown.

Claere’s eyes moved from her tear-streaked brother to the rest of her family. Her voice was glacial, her expression more bored than curious.

"Why does he cry?"

A brief pause passed between the lot of them.

"Because he... we will miss you, sister. We might not see each other for a long time." It was young Lucerys who eventually answered her, his tone painfully understanding. He must be the forbearing one among them.

"Then do not miss me," Claere said to them simply. "It is not my wish to cause you pain till then."

Her certainty unsettled them, a silent dismissal that left her words hovering unanswered. She seemed unaware, perhaps unconcerned, that her family could not comprehend her detachment.

"I love you, Claerie." He buried his face deeper into her gown, as if afraid she might vanish from his arms. Claere remained still as if brooking her brother's overflowing love.

There it was—a twitch in Claere’s blank eyes, a flicker of something almost human. She glanced down at Joffrey, and with visible reluctance, patted his head. The gesture was mechanical, lacking the warmth he sought. A moment later, Jace stepped forward, his hands firm as he pulled Joffrey away, his actions laced with an unspoken fear that any more time in her presence might invite something unwanted.

"Will you stay with me?" Claere asked them, though her voice, usually collected, wobbled just enough to betray the edge of apprehension.

"Not for long, my girl," Rhaenyra said to her, her smile strained, hiding some secret discomfort. "Your home is here now. You will grow to love this place and your husband. I am sure."

"A cage of stone and ice," she murmured, her gaze distant, as if already relinquished to the cold halls of her future.

Rhaenyra's smile faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly. She was unduly firm. "You speak too soon, Claere. You are a Velaryon and a Targaryen—power runs in your blood. You will learn your duty in time."

"And you'll have Luna on your side," Luke appeased her in vain. An unspeaking, fire-breathing beast for a companion. His tender heart did not hold a candle to his blind faith.

But Claere said nothing more, her expression as stony as ever. The distance between her and the life she was meant to embrace felt as vast as the sky beyond.

Cregan watched the exchange in silence, the chill in his chest deepening with each word. His worst fears were confirmed. Claere was a stranger, even to those who should have known her best. They spoke to her as if she were something fragile, something... unnatural.

A freak.

And now, she was his.

No one was more reluctant than Cregan to spend his first night with his new bride.

As far as obligations went, he had managed to ban the sickening tradition of a "bedding ceremony" from the occasion, much to the disappointment of some. The thought of parading the princess through a crowd of leering men felt like an abomination, yet even without that outlandish formality, he still felt the burden of duties and expectations ploughing down on him like an axe.

His familiar chambers felt chillier today, the fire crackling weakly in the hearth as Claere stood near the window, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. She was silent, as she had been throughout the feast, her face betraying little emotion. She refused to eat, revel in wine, or even speak. She had managed a quiet nod after well-wishes, sometimes pressing her lips tight to pass for a smile.

He recalled, with an involuntary tremble, the black rumours that had plagued him during the dinner. The mention of how his wife’s tastebuds were supposedly tempted not by the fine meats and ales of the North, but by the flesh of those who dared to covet a single glance from the Velaryon beauty. Fattened soldiers who sought her favour and found only their doom.

It was absurd, indeed. And yet, as he glanced at Claere, so still and detached by the firelight, Cregan couldn't shake the disturbing thought. What sort of woman had he brought into his home?

The distance between them felt more than just physical—it was as though she existed in another world entirely, one he had no access to. He didn't know what troubled him more: her silence, or the eerie calmness with which she met her fate.

As Cregan set down his ancestral sword and shrugged off his heavy fur cloaks, Claere moved to him with quiet resignation. Her fingers began to undo the delicate laces of her nightgown, her motions disconnected as if compelled by some unspoken assignment. The fabric slipped, gathering at her shoulders, poised to fall, when Cregan's voice broke the tense stillness.

"There is no need for that," he said sharply, cutting through the air between them, the words coming out quicker than he intended.

He stepped forward, his rough fingers gently, yet firmly, adjusting the cloth back over her bare skin. Every inch of paleness he touched was smoother than the silk she adorned, warmer than the ice-cold fingers he had held in the godswood.

Claere blinked, startled, her violet eyes searching his face for the first time that night. The vigour of that shade disarmed him for a moment before he looked away. Yes, she was his wife, but more than that, she was a mystery. And he was a man who distrusted what he could not comprehend.

"Rest. That is all for now," he added, softer now, the command awkward in his throat.

Claere scrutinized him still, her sharp gaze unrelenting as if she could unearth the truth behind his stoic mask. When she spoke, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Is there another you hold dear, my lord?"

He sighed, sinking into a cushioned seat by the hearth. "No," he replied, his tone careful, meeting her eyes with conscious composure. "And you?"

A strange smirk flickered across her face, the barest twitch of her lips. "Everything I hold dear gave me away like a pawn on a board."

Her words struck him like a blow, twisting his gut with an uncomfortable pang of pity. He allowed for her loneliness as if somehow, he was responsible for it. Yet, a strange foreboding hung in the air and kept his response locked in his throat.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the flames, fists clenching against the armrests as the fire danced and crackled, its warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of guilt growing in his chest.

"I understand you favour peace and quiet," he began carefully, his words lingering in the space between them. "But would you consider sitting with me tonight?"

Claere, staring at the shadows cast by the firelight, turned her gaze to him. Her eerie eyes, unnervingly calm, gave no indication of her thoughts. For a moment, he regretted speaking.

The pause stretched, and Cregan felt the silence chew at his nerves.

"Why?" she asked finally, her voice as undisturbed as it was empty, as though the idea of companionship was foreign.

He hesitated, searching for words. "I thought it might ease... the strangeness of the night." His eyes flickered to hers. "For both of us."

Claere’s lips barely moved as she gave a soft hum of acknowledgement. The stillness in her made him wonder if she felt anything at all, and a deeper anxiety stirred in him.

Without answering, she crossed the room, her movements as fluid and graceful as a phantom. She sat across from him, her gaze never leaving the flickering flames. Even now, such a short distance felt insurmountable.

"Ask away, my lord," she said quietly, reading into him deftly. "I do owe you many answers."

Cregan’s gaze faltered as Claere contested, and for a moment, the heat of the fire did nothing to chase away the chill crawling up his spine. Something was unnerving about the way she stared at him, something impenetrable, as if her pale eyes held some ancient secret he wasn’t meant to uncover.

"Do you hear them?" His voice was low, almost lost to the sound of the crackling wood. "The whispers about you."

Claere’s expression remained unchanged, her face as still as a porcelain mask. "What do they say?"

"They say that I was a fool to take a girl like you," he said, keeping his emotions hidden. "A girl who walks in dreams, who doesn’t belong to this world. They fear you."

Her gaze did not move an inch, unaffected by his claims. "People fear what they do not understand."

Every rumour, every whispered story of her strange tendencies crept back into his mind, grinding at his resolve. The tales of oddity, rituals, and things best left unspoken—they clung to the air between them.

"Are you afraid of me, my lord?" Her question cut through the silence like a blade.

Cregan swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart lurching in his chest. He wanted to say no, to deny the concern that gripped him, but something in her gaze made him feel exposed, powerless in a way he had not been before. He forced himself to meet her eyes, but the intensity there—the dark, unfeeling stare—made him feel as though he were sinking into a frozen lake.

His jaw clenched for a moment, as though wrestling with the words he ought to say to her. He leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter, but no less intense.

"I will not be made to live in dread of my wife," he countered firmly. "Though, beyond question, those words waver my trust for you. Upon your integrity. Time will tell."

For the first time, a glimmer of something passed over her face—a brief crack in the mask. Hurt? Confusion? Whatever it was, it was fleeting. Claere tilted her head slightly, studying him from head to toe like one might a curious specimen. He shifted back into his chair, unease unfurling in his stomach.

"You should be afraid of me," she said softly. It wasn’t a threat, but a statement, as if she were merely acknowledging a truth he had yet to accept.

Cregan did not sleep a wink that night. His ancient sword, Ice, lingered closer to him than expected, leaning on his bedside. He laid utterly still as Claere slumbered gingerly, uncaring of the shadows that danced around her, like a tarrying chill that would not leave him alone.

As the sun crested over the horizon, spilling its golden light into their chamber, there was one thing he made certain: Cregan understood that his fear was not of Claere herself, but of what she represented—an unknown force that defied everything Winterfell was. Truth and unity.

As the days wore on, Cregan Stark found himself perpetually on edge, his mind halved between the secret suspicions that crept through Winterfell and the cold reality of his new wife. Claere moved through the castle like a careless sprite, floating just beyond reach, drifting from room to room, always apart from the people around her. She left a wake of uncertainty in her path, tales trailing behind her like a fog.

Scarcely did she remain grounded; more often than not, she soared into the skies with Luna, her dragon, a creature so tremendous that many in Winterfell whispered it had outgrown the older beasts of war—Vhagar's equal in size and perhaps ferocity. The sight of it, gleaming silver scales slicing through the frozen air, sent shivers through the keep. Claere’s infrequent appearances at suppers left the hall feeling incomplete, her absence punctuated by muttered resentments from the courtiers and smallfolk alike. The duties of a lady to Winterfell—tending to the hearth and home, overseeing the castle’s workings—were not simply ignored but utterly abandoned.

And yet, Cregan could not bring himself to care. As long as Claere caused no disturbance, as long as she kept to the law, she was no hindrance to him.

As it went, Cregan had not slept in her bed since their wedding night. In fact, they had barely spoken. Claere had quietly suggested moving to a nearby chamber, giving him "his breathing space," as she put it, and he hadn’t objected. He offered up the one with arched ceilings, for when she dabbled in her music, and nearest to the enclosure where her dragon was housed.

Her peculiarities deepened with every passing day. In the dead of night, her harp’s haunting refrain would echo through the passageways, its melody weird and hypnotic. At other times, he would hear her soft footsteps racing through the corridor, out into the courtyard, lost in her dreams until dawn. Most of his courtiers noticed her out on the ramparts after nightfall, laying across the roof—how she got there was a mystery—and staring at the sky for hours on end, speaking to herself. But most unsettling of all were the obscure songs she would hum—songs that danced on the edge of his consciousness, unnervingly poignant, yet cruel in the sweet voice they reached. As if she were singing of things far beyond this world.

Blood and shadow, ice and flame, Sing the tune without a name In the frost, their voices hum Of dead unseen, of eyes aglow Of footsteps deep beneath the snow Ice will crack, and winds will wail, Have you seen the end unfold, the secret that never sleeps?

Claere's songs instilled an image of the most unspeakable cold he knew, distant woods beyond the Wall, where horrors awaited, ready to engulf the unwary. Sometimes, the songs became too much, stirring a dread in him so deep he would storm down the hall, ready to confront her. But each time he did, within her room, like a figure of utmost naïveté, she went by weathering her own storm.

This time, she had ensconced herself by the hearthside, rent of her sleeves, weaving dried winter roses across a vine.

"Did I wake you?" she had asked up at him.

His words faltered. Rather a hollow noise whooshed out his lips, his resentment fleeing at the sight of her. How could someone so callow invoke such unease?

"The hour grows late, princess," he would reply stiffly, the reprimand hollow even to his own ears. "It would be wiser to find some sleep before the morn."

"I adore the night," she had said to him. "Without it, you cannot see the stars. There are no shadows, too."

Cregan had expected to hate her. He had expected to find her burdensome, a hardship forced upon him by duty. But he did not. Indeed, he endured her and accommodated her. As unfamiliar as Claere was, there was something fragile beneath the mantle of her mystery. He found himself unable to despise her, though neither could he truly be fond of her. A part of him, born of compassion, wanted to protect her from the world that had turned its back on her. Perhaps, buried beneath her oddities, she yearned for some semblance of a connection she had never known.

It was one of the handmaidens who had come to him, trembling with unease, to speak of her lady’s growing detachment.

"She barely eats, my lord," the young girl had said. "I fear she grows weaker by the day, surviving on little more than water and grain."

"Have you asked the princess what she would prefer? Surely, our larders are rife enough to sustain her... distinct palate," one of the lords from Cregan's council interjected before he could react.

Cregan shot him a sharp, warning glare. He had long since grown weary of the whispers—the looks exchanged behind his back, the way people averted their eyes when his wife entered a room. The court treated her as if she were a curse, a spectre they wished to avoid. It only stoked his resolve to defend her, to ensure she was not devoured by their disdain. Claere was different, but she was not an object to be mocked.

The maid shifted uneasily. "I have spared no effort in this. Though, there is another issue, my lord."

The Stark lord sighed. "Aye, go on."

"Her ladies have dwindled to nought. I am only charged to tend to her meals, if not no one."

Cregan's heart sank at the thought. He wanted to believe that Claere was merely adjusting to her new life, that in time she would settle. But with each passing day, it became harder to ignore the isolation tightening its grip around her.

"And what, pray tell, has come over them to spurn their service to the Lady of Winterfell?" His voice was low but the threat in it was unmistakable.

The handmaiden lowered her head, unwilling to speak the truth aloud, yet the answer was clear enough. Fear. The court, the smallfolk, her own attendants—everyone was frightened of Claere.

When his eyes bore into her, she hesitated whilst wringing her hands. "We see strange things where the dragon sleeps. My lady's songs... people say they hear them echoing in the courtyard when there is no one."

"These slights must cease at once," he hissed, his voice barely above a murmur, but the weight behind it made the girl flinch. "Claere is a princess of the realm, moreover your lady. Any who fail in their duty will answer to me. Am I clear?"

She nodded hurriedly. "Yes, my lord," she stammered, bowing before retreating from the hall.

And when the next issue reached him, it was, once again, centred on the most pressing concern: Claere's dragon.

"We are unable to feed the beast, my lord," a nervous steward reported, his voice trembling as he stood before Cregan. "The men refuse to go near it. Even the bravest among them say they hear odd noises from its holding."

Cregan's brow furrowed deeply. "Are they afraid of a dragon doing what dragons do—eat?"

"It's not just that, my lord," the steward began, his voice shaky. "We simply do not have the numbers to sustain it. We've lost livestock faster than we can replenish, and there is not enough game in the woods this season. Our people will be left with nothing if it continues like this."

Cregan stood from his chair, pacing toward the hearth as the steward’s words sank in. Feeding Claere's dragon was becoming a task fraught with superstition and suspicion—neither of which he could afford in Winterfell. And now that dragon was a looming menace not just for its size, but even for its insatiable appetite. If they couldn't meet its needs, there was no telling what havoc it might wreak.

"I will take her out to hunt on the morrow," a hushed voice spoke up from across the room.

Cregan turned sharply to see Claere standing in the entrance, her pale little figure silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. No one had even heard her approach.

A rush of murmurs, of "my lady" and "your grace", went across the sparse crowd in the hall.

For the first time, he noticed how discomfited she seemed with the attention on her. She had courteous bows for the little council of lords before she stood before Cregan, silvery hair left dishevelled and her thin lavender silks trailing by her feet. The toll of her attendant's dearth was evident, how she had to cope alone these past days.

“You heard all that?” he muttered to her, trying to mask the unease.

Claere nodded, unruffled. Then she mellowly addressed the rest of the council who was seated and the anxious steward.

"Luna will no longer be a burden to you," she assured. "Thereafter, I will fly her beyond the Wall. There must be plenty of wild herds there that would satisfy her. And it will keep her from Winterfell's rife supply for a time."

While the disparaged lord hung his head, Cregan's breaths began to constrict. The idea of Claere—of anyone—venturing beyond the Wall unsettled him, but the alternative was just as threatening. It was dangerous to let someone so young, so inexperienced roam in the ancient, Northern wilderness. The risks were too great, even for a dragonrider. His argument would be proved right by the last Targaryen who visited the wall, Claere's own great-great-grandmother, the Good Queen Alysanne and her dragon, Silverwing.

His gaze never left Claere as the lords around them voiced their concern, exclaiming how unwise it was for her to embark beyond Castle Black in such perilous times. Yet, she stood before them as cold and unbothered as ever, her violet eyes betraying no hint of fear or doubt.

"You plan to hunt beyond the Wall alone, as winter draws nigh?" Cregan asked, laced with tension. "You would risk that?"

One of his bannermen, old and discerning to the dangers of the North, came forth with an incredulous look. "A Southerner such as you would have no idea of the true perils beyond Whitetree, my lady. Five hundred years have passed since the last great threat, and still, we are not entirely certain what lurks in the darkness. If it isn't the cold that claims you, it might be wildlings or worse—barbed, spindly creatures, drawn from the blackest legends."

Claere tilted her head slightly as if the lord’s words were of little consequence to her. As if she knew something about the Land of Always Winter that he did not.

"Do not fret, ser," Claere replied, gentle yet astute. "Luna is fearsome when she needs to be. She is not just any dragon—she is the last living relic of Old Valyria, a mere egg when Aenar the Exile first claimed Dragonstone. She will protect me."

Her words should have been reassuring, but they left Cregan with a hollow pit in his stomach. It wasn’t her confidence in the dragon that troubled him—it was her complete lack of concern for the threats she would face. He had seen fear in men’s eyes before, but Claere’s violet gaze was barren, as though no amount of danger or uncertainty could touch her.

"You speak of Luna’s strength as if it is enough," Cregan finally said, his voice low. "But what of your own?"

"You needn’t concern yourself with my safety," she replied, her tone as impassive as her expression.

He studied her closely, weighing his options and her obvious solutions, searching her enchanting face for some flicker of apprehension. There was nothing. It irked him to no extent. Did nothing shake her? Did nothing put her off?

"I am the Warden of the North," he bit out. "Your safety is under my jurisdiction."

She shrugged one side of her shoulder. "Then it appears we have reached an impasse, my lord."

Her words were calm and detached, as though she were discussing the weather. Cregan's patience wore thin, his protective instincts clashing with her indifference.

He strode to her side, towering over her, his imposing figure blocking them from the view of the council. Claere leaned away, her eyes dipping down, her face contorting in disquiet at his proximity. Yet he pressed on, tucking a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze back to him.

"Don't," he tried to protest.

"Look at me," he urged, his grip tightening as frustration bled into his words. "I cannot risk you for something as feckless as a hungry pet. Do you understand me, Claere?"

Her gaze flicked up to meet his. For a brief moment, it was as if she were on the verge of revealing some hidden truth, some implicit fear or vulnerability.

"You do not risk me. 'Tis I who take the risk," she said, her voice painfully even.

Cregan's jaw clenched, his exasperation palpable as he released her chin, stepping back but still glaring at her. He could protect Winterfell, the North, and his people—but her? He was not so convinced anymore.

"Fine. Do as you wish," he surrendered. "Ride past the Wall."

She offered him nothing more than a parting curtsey as if she had already said too much. With that, Claere turned to leave the room but his words stopped her dead in her tracks.

"However, I will ride with you."

For a moment, she remained still, her back to him. Slowly, she turned her head, glancing at him over her shoulder. And finally—there it was.

A flicker of astonishment in her violet eyes. A break in the mask of indifference she so carefully maintained. Her lips parted, but no words came. Something deeper, more vulnerable, flickered in her violet gaze, a shadow of doubt or unease, quickly concealed again behind her calm facade.

"Why?" she asked, her foremost intuition to always suspect goodwill.

"It's not a request," Cregan replied, his tone brooking no arguments. "If you are to face danger, you will not do it alone."

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Without another word, she turned once more and left the room, the heavy doors closing behind her with a quiet thud.

Cregan stood still, watching the place where she had just been, and where no one could see him, broke out into a triumphant smirk. This was it then, a game at which two could play. If she was a tempest, then he would be the steadfast mountain, immovable against the storm.

thank you for reading! idk how a taglist works but I'd love to hear your thoughts <3

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weclassygirl · 25 days ago

Text

scheme

⋆˙⟡ sauron x fem!elf!reader (witch) ⟡˙⋆

summary: reader meets her shadow in the flesh as two riders enter Eregion

warnings: some blood (fake wound)

word count: 2,8k

author’s note: he's finally here! might take a moment before i update (i need to rewatch season 2 for him), but the next chapter.... ugh i can't wait to post it. enjoy! (previous part -> deception)

He doesn’t, for weeks he doesn’t reach out, does not even give you a sign he’s alive. You wish you could rip him to shreds once you see him again even if his very essence would slip through your fingers.

Celebrimbor notices you’ve become distracted, your work becomes sloppy, where once was attention to details and strive for perfection now lay curses under your breath when another piece of work is ruined.

He comes to your side and places a hand on your shoulder. “Rest.”

You turn to face him, the hammer still in your hand as well as the chisel. “I have to finish—“ he places your tools down, you don’t protest.

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone and your mind is not where it’s supposed to be.” you sigh, he’s right even he does not know the true reason. You take off your apron and put it on the stool before leaving the forge.

You wander to the gardens and around Eregion trying to clear your head. You try to see past the trees, behind the horizon, maybe he’s out there. Wishful thinking.

You’ve heard of the attacks on the Southlands, men fighting against orcs and the destruction it placed over the land. They call it under a different name now. Out of the corner of your eye you see horses, a rider clad in armor and a man. A messenger, probably. Eregion always had news to answer and these days it seemed more than ever.

You come back to the forge after a while despite Celebrimbor’s refusal. You needed to occupy your mind, the blade you’ve been working on was nearly finished. You’ve been mixing metals to try and combine them into a nearly ethereal glow, mithril was far out of your reach. You’ve helped with the construction of the tower, not like the might of the Dwarves but your work has been appreciated.

Elrond came before spring to help Celebrimbor and he secured it when Prince Durin sent his for forces to Eregion. The secrecy has been languid, you knew what Celebrimbor was hiding, he knew of mithril, knew that the very light of the Elves was fading, yours included. You felt it, more than the others, you considered Sauron’s offer to bound yourself to him completely but called yourself a fool for such thought. This is not the time you spoke of, you know it, see it as behind a mist, the future of Eregion and all Middle-Earth. Glimpses that always end with fire and blood.

A guard comes into the forge and calls out your name. Your head whips around as you look at him.

“Your assistance is needed in the healer's quarters.” he informs you.

“What of the Warden?” you ask, surely the master of healers would accommodate to the unexpected guests who arrived through the gate, should one of them be injured.

“Busy with other matters.”

You sigh but put away your tools once again. “Very well.” you say and follow the guard.

You didn’t mind healing others but sometimes the injured or ill irritated you to the point your started to regret you were acknowledged as a healer in the first place. People came to you with the smallest cut or barely a cold, a proper herb and warm water would do most of the work.

When you arrive in the healer’s quarters your feet feel stuck to the ground at the sight of the person in front of you.

“Galadriel?” you couldn’t believe it. “I thought you left for Valinor.”

She’s clad in armor, her face dirty and sweaty from the journey. If she stayed in Middle-Earth you hoped she only heard the good things you’ve done while in Eregion, you do not wish to have her as an enemy.

“Fate decided I stay here.” she responds. She looks you up and down, the scars visible from your days under Morgoth, however no black fingertips. The darkness hasn’t consumed you or so she thinks. “I’ve heard of your progress here.”

You feign flattery. “Yes, I owe it to Lord Celebrimbor.”

“It’s impressive how much you swayed from darkness, not many can.”

You chuckle slightly, oh if she only knew.

“Yes, well, my punishment here proved to bear fruits.” you respond and you remind yourself why you’re here. You look her over. “Are you injured? I’ve been summoned as a healer rather than a smith.”

“My friend is, if you could tend to him.” she starts walking down the hall and when you enter the room you see him, his face so familiar to his but you don’t want to make false assumptions.

She tells him who he is and you turn to her with a question on your face. “King of the Southlands? How is it your path crossed with his?” you come closer to the man on the table and lift up the bloodied piece of clothing, he grunts as the dried blood tears away with the fabric. When you look to Galadriel her eyes tell you everything you need to know. Her task in Middle-Earth was not yet complete.

You inspect the wound and Halbrand watches you carefully, you dare not to speak. Is it him? After all this time? Should you voice your thoughts? The questions plague your mind.

“I’ll leave you to it.” she says as Elrond comes closer, you’ve conversed with him while he remained in Eregion and helped Celebrimbor in securing the work force to assemble the Great Forge. He’s been travelling constantly between Eregion and Khazad-dûm, the High King deceived him of his purpose here at first but the alliance between Dwarves and Elves grew.

When they are out of your sight you look to Halbrand. An interesting name he has chosen, so many meanings, every single one fitting his image. Admirable, shadowed, exalted. You nearly laugh under your breath.

“Is my state that amusing to you?” he asks and the corner of your lips rises.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” you’re still unsure if you can speak freely in front of him, he may just be a face that he saw once, that felt suitable for him to wear when appearing in your visions. You tear the fabric that laid on his wound, you discard it and grab a cloth with warm water. “What has happened?”

“Enemy lance, six days ago.” he responds and grunts as the cloth makes contact with the wound. You wonder if he truly sustained the hit or it was another illusion. You were certain the red blood was.

“Is it truly like they say? Turned to dust and ashes?” you ask, curious as ever.

“The Southlands?” you nod. He watches as you tend to him, grabbing a bit of Elvish herbs, athelas and mixing them in a mortar. The paste thickens with each turn and you put it aside to grab other herbs needed. After a while, he gives you the answer. “Yes.”

You grab an herb and bring it up to his mouth. “Chew on it.” you tell him.

“What is it?” he eyes it warily before taking it.

“It will replace the taste of iron from the blood in your mouth.” you don’t answer his question directly but he listens. As you smear the paste you mixed up he smiles under his nose, the sight doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“Most people would be in pain and yet you react as if it’s a common cold.”

You’ve seen people wither in anguish from a single touch of Elvish medicine before it took its desired effect, it’s strange for a common man to not react to it. Perhaps he wants to show that he’s stronger than many. You go to the table to gather a clean dressing when you hear his response, so silent but makes you freeze in your steps. “Now I’m the first to give myself to you at my deathbed.”

Was it him or your persistent shadow speaking? Could you distinguish the two now? The voice so familiar but not muffled like many times you’ve heard it, this was real, raw.

You turn to him but his sight is already set upon you. Any evidence of pain gone from his face as you step closer to the bed with a bandage in your hands. You search his face for any sign of falsehood and he awaits your reaction. You smack the piece of cloth you were holding onto him when he grabs your wrist and pulls you closer. You lock eyes but yours slip down to his lips, he notices and smirks. It feels as if he’s drawing down to him, if he did you could just…

“Violence goes against what you should stand for.” he taunts and lets you go. You glare at him, you told yourself you would rip him to shreds the next time you see him.

“I should let you bleed out.” you retort, he looks down and gathers some of the red blood from the wound.

“So it’s a convincing illusion, I take it?” he smears it on his fingers and it turns pitch black. You huff in annoyance.

“You’re insufferable.” you clean your hands in the basin, leftover herbs floating in the water as you dry your hands. You hear him shift on the bed.

“Are you not glad?” he begins to get up and stalk closer to you.

When you turn he’s met with your brows raised and laugh on your lips. “Glad? I believed you to be dead.” you deadpan.

“Did you mourn?” he asks.

“Would you care?” you bite back.

It takes a moment before he responds, his voice soft. “Yes.” he stands right in front of you and takes your hand. The illusion you cast is perfect, leaving not a speck of dark that would have peeked from it. He inspects it, so much power that could come from them. “Don’t hide it.”

Your anger starts to disappear as he holds your hand. You never thought that you would see the day where he’s in the same room as you, in the flesh and not a black mass. “Defeats the point if I don’t.” you look up at him with question. “Why Eregion?”

“You’ve gained his trust, I intend to use it.”

“For what?”

He smiles. “Everlasting peace over all Middle Earth.”

You pull away from his touch.

“Under your rule.”

His answer comes quickly with no hesitation as if his mind is already set upon it.

“And yours.” you’re confused. He bound you to him, not completely but alas, you did not expect that answer. He looks to the entrance, listening if anyone comes by before looking down at you. ”Our paths are already intertwined, tangled whether you wish to cut them. I do not intend to let your talents go to waste after I’m done.”

His words compel you, a malicious intent behind them and yet you fall for them like the stars from the sky.

“A power over flesh?”

He nods. “I owe it to you, this idea, this scheme.”

You don’t have the time to respond when you hear someone walking down the halls, as the master of the healers enters, you step away from Halbrand or rather Sauron to you.

“Your Majesty, you should be resting.” he says as he sees him standing next to you, the blood on his fingers red.

“I needed to test my strength.” he lies swiftly and goes back to the bed. The Warden nods at you and tells you that he will take over. You bid Halbrand goodbye and glance at him one last time before leaving.

Not a day passes when you hear him talking with Celebrimbor. The workshop was quiet in the morning and you needed to gather your notes. The High King ordered every Elf to be moved to Lindon, one last gathering before your time passes.

You did not expect for Sauron to take actions so quickly but it does not surprise you.

“Might there not be some alloy to amplify the qualities of your ore?” he asks Celebrimbor as he hands him the piece of mithril.

“Well, that is… an intriguing suggestion.” you remark as you enter. You nod in greeting towards both of them and walk closer. Halbrand takes his eyes off of you.

“Call it… a gift.” Celebrimbor inspect the mithril in his hand before you stride to your work bench. Notes scattered, splashes of ink spilled on the table.

“You should be packing for Lindon.” he tells you and you gather whatever you can, some of the ink making it’s way onto your hand.

“I needed to grab my notes, shame to let them go to waste.”

Would any Men take them after you have passed to the Undying Lands? Would they appreciate them?

“You’re leaving?” Halbrand asks you, surprise in his voice.

You look between the two men. “High King’s orders, as much as I would like to stay. I have no choice but to obey.”

It pains you to say it, a witch following orders of a King, but the ruse must hold. Celebrimbor’s mind seems to be at work, Halbrand’s words resonating with him. It is then he remembers that you may not know who he is.

“This is Lord Halbrand, King of—”

“The Southlands, yes we’ve met.” you interrupt. “Galadriel sent for a healer at hand and I was the only one available at the time.” you look to Halbrand. “You should be resting.”

“No use if I’m bedridden when your people need aid.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You wish to help?”

“If you allow me.” he directs these words to Celebrimbor and he smiles as he looks between you two.

“I believe we can work something out.”

The three of you part your ways when he caughts up with you. The halls are empty, occasional guard posted but nothing more, the vines flow down the vast architecture surrounding you.

“I never realized you’ve made quite a name for yourself here.” he expressed as he started walking next to you. You nod occasionally at the guards as you pass through, some other smiths you work with.

When out of their sight you speak. “It was demanded.” you stop in your tracks, both of you now standing on the parapet connecting two buildings. “Would you let an Elven Witch roam around your kingdom so freely? Her darkness poisoning the very air you’re breathing?” your voice low should anyone listen to your conversation. He studies you closely, eyes softening in his low-man form.

“You, yes. Another I might consider throwing over the walls.” he remembers why he joined you. He has an occasion to properly talk to you, no visions to hold him back now. He goes back to his first statement. “People talk.”

You look down at the few Elves roaming in the courtyard, Fëanor’s statue illuminated by the soft light of the morning. “And what have they said of me?”

He leans against the balustrade. “An Elf once cast out by her people, called Morgoth’s servant despite doing it to survive and when fled chained once again by her own kind. Fulfilled her punishment here in Eregion and started to move away from darkness within her, became a trusted Elven smith and a healer where her work only blossomed.” he looks down to the ring on your finger, worn out by time however you never corrected it, the broken stone still held. He says it like reading a passage from a book, you don’t turn to look at him. Your voice barely above a whisper.

“They trust you so easily.” you’re almost jealous and he knows.

“They have not come to know me like they did you.” he reassures you. Once they do they will cower in fear.

You turn to face him, you sense the scheme within him. “You plan to use mithril. For what kind of weapon?”

“Not a weapon, it shouldn’t be too obvious. Something far more precious.” he looks down at you and smiles. “You’ll see, I believe it will be to your liking.”

“You think that Celebrimbor will let you into his workshop, a low-man?”

“Why wouldn’t he? I suppose I left a good impression.”

“Ah, of course.” you shake your head and smile under your nose.

The silence weighs between the two of you, some guards pass you by and the morning sky shines mercilessly. You start walking away from the parapet and into the streets, the small crowds surround you as you go by the merchant stalls, tall towers and small courts.

“It’s refreshing. Seeing you here, feeling your presence, it’s�� stronger.”

“Few hundred years had made their mark.” you respond and stop by a fountain, the water hums in your ears.

“So did I.”

You look up at him and try not to roll your eyes. You admit he gave you tremendous help but the years you’ve spent in Eregion fell upon your shoulders. You knew you had to endure your stay a little longer, for his sake and yours.

“Thank you.” you find yourself whispering. He knows you well enough to give you a small nod in exchange.

“Do not think that I will release you of the practice over your craft.”

You smile, this is what you needed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

next part -> bewitched

#seriously need to rewatch season 2 for what's to come #in that time.... hope you like it #sauron x reader #annatar x reader #halbrand x reader #rings of power #lord of the rings

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ruinofchimera · 2 months ago

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Hi, I really like your posts, just out of curiosity, what do you think about Sirius Black?

Your curiosity could very well unintentionally land me in a Flynn Rider situation—cornered with a dozen sharp knives pointed at my throat, and for that, I’m more than ready to kiss you on both cheeks, anon. My recklessness be damned; let’s unfold this matter.

Sirius is an entitled arse, no two ways about it. He’s got that privileged, arrogant swagger of someone who’s always had things handed to him, even if he spent half his life rejecting it. He’s all rough edges and volatile intensity, the kind of man who’s survived more by luck and sheer defiance than by any real plan or sense of caution. Characters like him, they’ve got a way of sinking their claws in me, whether I want to or not. Because here’s the thing: Sirius’s short appearances in the books pack more emotional depth than some characters got in entire arcs. In just a few scenes, I saw a man constantly wrestling with his own worst instincts, fiercely loyal but destructively so, and trapped in a past he cannot—will not—let go of.

But let’s get something clear from the outset: I refuse to acknowledge the fever dream version of Sirius that certain corners of the internet have conjured up. You know, the one where he’s some delicate, ethereal twink who twirls his hair and faints at the sight of Lupin. What even is that? That’s not Sirius Black—that’s like trying to shove a feral dog into a tea party dress. It’s laughable, but more than that, it’s a betrayal of who he really is.

His bite, his bike, his relentless defiance—it’s not a costume or an aesthetic; it’s who he is, deep down to his bones. That raw, untamed energy, that edge—it’s woven into the very marrow of his bones. The Sirius Black from the books exuded raw masculinity. He was all bruised knuckles and fiery glares, a man who looked like he could break you in half but might settle for a well-placed punch instead. Unpolished, angry, and unapologetic to his last breath. Stripping all that away to turn him into some hysterical femboy with fluttering lashes doesn’t just miss the point—it actively distorts the very essence of the character.

So, no, I won’t acknowledge this fanon revisionism—or more accurately, fanon distortion. That’s not Sirius Black. And with that out of the way, we can return to the real Sirius Black—the one built from book flesh and bones, the man we actually know.

What intrigues me about Sirius is that he’s constantly at war with himself. The guy stormed out of his aristocratic, silk-sheeted home and straight into the muck and grime of rebellion. And rebellion is a funny thing—it’s loud, it’s violent, but it’s not always about breaking free; sometimes it’s just a different way to cage yourself. He chose to reject his family’s ideals, but the methods, the temperament, the sheer ferocity—that stayed with him. In his desperate attempt to be their opposite, he becomes just as volatile, just as dangerous. He’s trying to kill the part of himself that was shaped by his family, and yet, you can see it, can’t you? That same cruel streak, the same hunger for superiority. Only now it’s turned against anyone who dares remind him of where he comes from. It’s a brutal thing to watch, someone trying so hard to break the chains, only to forge new ones from their own fury.

Then there’s Severus Snape. If there’s anyone who can drag Sirius’s demons out into the open and force them to dance, it’s him. Sirius looks at Snape and sees everything he despises, everything he’s spent his life trying to drown, smother, burn out—the shadows of his family’s poison. Snape is like a living relic of the Black family’s cursed bloodline, a walking monument to what Sirius could have been, should have been, if he’d just bent the knee and stayed in line like a good Black boy. There’s no escaping it. Snape is a mirror that shows Sirius all the worst parts of himself, twisted into something cold, bitter, and unrelenting.

And Severus? Every time Snape looks at Sirius, it’s like staring into a mirror reflecting everything he’s ever wanted but never had. There’s that deep, gnawing resentment—the kind that comes from watching someone like Sirius, a privileged boy born into power and status, toss it all aside like it meant nothing. Sirius had everything Severus spent his entire life yearning for: a sense of belonging, the kind of respect that comes with a name, the freedom to be reckless without consequence. To see someone carelessly discard what he, Severus, would have fought tooth and nail to possess—it’s like being taunted by the very life he’s always dreamed of, but could never reach. Every time their paths cross, it’s not just personal hatred fueling that rivalry—it’s the bitterness of watching someone waste a treasure Snape has been denied his whole life.

They despise each other because, at their core, they’re fighting the same battle. They both want to escape their pasts, their pain, but they’re both trapped by it. Observing their dynamic is like watching two men rage against the same storm from opposite directions, and both of them lose in the end.

For all of Sirius’s darkness, there’s one light that never flickers: his absolute, unwavering loyalty to James Potter. James wasn’t just a friend—he was the family Sirius chose for himself, the anchor Sirius wrapped his entire identity around. Black would’ve followed James into the jaws of hell without a second thought, no questions asked, no hesitation. Sirius’s rebellion wasn’t just against his family’s twisted values; it was a revolt in the name of the bond he shared with James, a bond stronger than blood.

So when he finally clawed his way out of Azkaban, broken and ragged, it wasn’t just freedom he sought—it was the ghost of the only person he’d ever truly cared about. James was dead, but in Sirius’s mind, that bond was still alive, and he clung to it like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. But the world had moved on, and Sirius—stubborn, proud Sirius—hadn’t. He was trapped in the past, unable to let go of the life he had lost. He smothered Harry with his expectations and projected James’s image onto him. In Sirius’s eyes, he wasn’t just mourning James—he was still trying to save him. Still trying to fight a battle that had ended long ago. Shackled to a memory, a ghost, Sirius was living on borrowed time. His desperate need to relive those days with James blinded him to the truth—that Harry wasn’t James, and the past couldn’t be resurrected. And in the end, Sirius’s death wasn’t a tragic loss; it was inevitable. A man like him, still fighting ghosts, still raging against a world that had moved on without him, was always destined to fall. His death wasn’t the end of a life—it was the final note in a song that had been playing since the day he lost James Potter.

As I said, Sirius Black’s depth far exceeds the number of pages he’s given. He’s the kind of character who burns bright and brief, leaving just enough of a mark to haunt you long after he’s gone. His short appearances were cut off far too soon, but twisted enough to make me take notice. And I’m nothing if not an admirer of the twisted. He’s the kind of man who’s always teetering on the edge of something dangerous, dragging his demons behind him like shadows that never quite leave his side. For all his flaws—his recklessness, his impulsiveness, his Peter Pan syndrome—he makes me feel something—whether it’s anger, sympathy, or that strange, grudging admiration you have for someone who keeps charging headlong into the storm, even when it’s bound to destroy him. The kind of character that makes me want to punch him square in the face and then buy him a drink right after. That’s a rare kind of magic, if you ask me.

#sirius black #marauders #james potter #severus snape #harry potter

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ann-atar · 1 month ago

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Re: Sauron, iterations in TROP

... or my impressions so far, going in the order we were introduced to them/him.

Halbrand-Sauron My least favorite Sauron! Now I have to preface this and say that I was not spoiled, at all, for any of the first season. I didn't look at anything online except the episodes themselves and the trailers/previews, so I really didn't know much about this character except what we were shown, so my initial impression of Halbrand was, I believe, exactly what I imagine the showrunners wanted it to be.

I thought Halbrand was sketchy and, honestly, a bit gross. Not in terms of looks but, like, everything else. His whole personality got under my skin and I could not stand him. (Kudos Charlie Vickers! I didn't know what you were doing at the time but damn.)

I felt for Galadriel because of all the Men she could come across after going through so much, she had to face off against this rather smarmy dude-bro. I was honestly baffled when she wouldn't be talked out of the idea that he was the lost king of the Southlands because it seemed like a wild supposition despite the fact that he had that heraldry. But Galadriel was -- is -- so traumatized that it didn't really matter who he was, she was going to find a cause and a way to fight the Enemy even if she had to elevate this obviously (to us) sketchy person.

My entire reaction to the evolution of Galadriel's fantasy about Halbrand's character was: girl no, girl please, girl stop. Which, rather ironically, was Sauron's initial reaction too. He tried so hard to shake her and it was almost funny, until it wasn't, because Sauron being Sauron means that he can't help but reach for power in whatever form it takes (imo in his mind there was not much difference between an army from the Southlands and the Uruk army, they could both be turned and/or further corrupted to suit his purpose).

The only times I liked Halbrand at all were when he did seem to be trying pretty hard to carve out a new life for himself with the smiths' guild in Numenor. He was honestly really passionate about making things, and it was too bad he couldn't reach for that new life in an above board, straightforward way. But that little spark, which I suppose we might call a hint of Mairon's lost light, was there again when he met Celebrimbor and helped out in his forge. At that point the story turned into more of a tragedy for all of these characters, Sauron included.

But being mildly annoyed and creeped out by Halbrand!Sauron did not prepare me for ...

Uncanny Valley Sauron The version of Sauron we saw in the flashback when Adar tried to kill him was ... unsettling. Too shiny. Wildly out of place. He made my skin crawl and that short scene was amazing because the tension surrounding him was palpable. A whole crowd of Uruk, and Adar, held somewhat in his thrall and tiptoeing around their erstwhile king -- but why? We can't see exactly what came before but it must have been BAD.

I call this version "Uncanny Valley" Sauron because there was something so off about him, and there was also a sense that he was acting out what he thought someone in his position should be doing, playing dress-up for a day or an age, and in a body that he wasn't quite used to, still figuring out what that body should do and say in that particular role and context.

When Adar made to crown him in front of the assembled Uruk, and he swept his cape around himself with that little flourish, I was holding my breath, not just because I was anticipating the inevitable violence but because he was so ... weird. Seriously. When they attacked it was more visceral than I thought it would be, but Uncanny Valley Sauron didn't even die like a being of flesh and blood, which was also unexpected and impressive.

The Uruk impact the surface of him, they break into the shell of his flesh suit until the real "him" escapes, but because they don't understand much about the nature of his being, Adar and the Uruk interpreted that as destruction, as death. Which of course it would have been for almost any other creature, but Sauron is a Maia and they're ... built different.

At that point I think we crossed over into horror territory, and we get to meet ...

Zhajiangmian!Sauron, a.k.a. The Thing Not everyone liked this version of Sauron but I was cheering wildly because not only does it show that his nature is alien, so far from what we know of the other inhabitants of Middle-earth, but it does something else: it shows us, in gruesome detail, exactly what Mairon, a creature of fire and light, was reduced to under Melkor.

That black ooze? It's not his blood, it's him.

Even in the shadow realm he still appears as blackness, decay, and ashes, even if his skin still burns with some of his lost fire, and that's just awful. Thing!Sauron in the rocks beneath the mountain, consuming any spark of life that got too close and then slithering up and up toward the light ... I don't know if this comparison has been made before, but I'm calling this version The Thing because it reminds me somewhat of the creature in the John Carpenter movie from the 80's. In that movie, the thing/alien/creature consumes and mimics any living being, and it's very hard to tell that the person being mimicked isn't "real," or isn't themselves. Until they're cornered, confronted, and inevitably kill again.

In Carpenter's (horror) movie, The Thing mimics life and can take on almost any form, but it seems more inclined to impersonate living things that can communicate. Why? We don't know, we're not told, but it does have an innate drive to keep going, and to continue down a path of death and destruction for as long as it survives.

Of course this is not a complete parallel with Sauron, but it's close, and I can't help but think that's by design. And that we were supposed to consider what kind of being a Maia is, originally, and how much torture of all kinds would be required to transform a brilliant demi-god into the creature (the filth!) that crawled across Middle-earth with a similar appetite for destruction after Adar's attempt to kill it.

Which gives us a great deal of information on the nature of ...

Annatar!Sauron, Celebrimbor's Lord of Gifts If the black ooze under his flesh facade is him, that means that he sacrificed not blood, exactly, but parts of himself to create the Nine. Living parts, like tendrils forged into molten metal and shaped into the rings, connecting his will to the wearer's, his being forever sundered in a desperate bid to connect and dominate, a power over flesh but also made of "flesh," a power that reaches into the unseen world, but at what cost?

It's almost too much, that cost, and talk about horror! Sauron's living essence was forged into the rings, but near the end, in Eregion, it was smeared across Celebrimbor's desk, it was on his skin and under his fingernails, it was in Celebrimbor's hair. Annatar's corrupted essence is all over him, but in the end it doesn't dim Celebrimbor's light ...

After writing that I'm not sure how to convey why Annatar!Sauron is my favorite so far. I suppose I could say that he's the best/worst one to date, and that those actors together, playing Annatar and Celebrimbor, have created a phenomenal version of Sauron in general, and I'm pretty pleased with where this adaptation is taking him.

Sauron is no longer just the final boss in the spiky headgear we saw in the PJ films; after he transformed himself into this "lord of gifts," he's clearly a Maia who was tortured into insanity, whose essence was corroded and corrupted, turned dark and viscous when his nature was bold and bright, who still wants to create something even after ages spent twisting in the dark with no hope of regaining the light. It's a credit to the actor that we can accept that sketchy, sly Halbrand turned into a version of Sauron who was so nuanced and alien, and a credit to the showrunners who were able to let us see that progression.

Anyway.

I've already posted a lot about this latest version of Sauron, and rather than go over old ground and ramble even more wildly I'm going to link a few earlier meta posts here:

Finale Thoughts: Annatar, Celebrimbor, Galadriel

Pre-finale: Annatar, and Celebrimbor understanding the pattern

The Sauron Effect: TROP's Sauron is a great villain

Durin's immunity to the Sauron-effect

I'm still thinking about the relationship between Annatar and Celebrimbor, and the impact that will have on the forging of the One, and will doubtless have more thoughts on that in the future. If you got to the end of this post or have replied to my meta thank you, I'm enjoying the hell out of this show, the performances, and the fandom in general!

#sauron #halbrand #sauron as The Thing #rings of power and horror #annatar #celebrimbor #galadriel #adar #rings of power #tolkien-meta #TROP #silvergifting

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b1adie · 6 months ago

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im falling asleep ill make this better later but the fact the antimatter legion is also made from a forge with hammers….. im smart as fuck right now

The chief poured in all his resentment and humiliation into the forge and would never be tired, not even by days of non-stop hammering. Upon one hammering after another, the once stubborn and proud antimatter creatures had to eventually change their form and give in to the remolding by the Destroyer. "Flesh and blood are a burden. Forging is also destruction."

* qlipoth not intentionally doing this. ipc tampers with qlipoth chunks and launches them off

#theory #trust me ok?

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monstersdownthepath · 5 months ago

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Homebrew Horror: Dominion Disassemblers

(Art from The Book of Unremitting Horror, pg. 66)

Though this is beyond the knowledge of any worldly being, the Dominion of the Black was not always the galactic union it is now. Until a united council with a common goal took the head of the Dominion, wars both petty and planet-scarring were common among its many factions, though in the centuries since their grand union, these squabbles have been reduced to near-nonexistence except when weapons must be tested.

Many relics from this tumultuous time remain in use even to this day, one of the most 'famous' being the Gan-Dergorin, known in the common tongue as Dominion Disassembler, monstrous, nigh-unkillable biomechanical titans with a unique behavioral quirk built into their very genetic code which made them useful in the old wars, and has them remaining useful even now, long after they're no longer needed for their original purpose: destroying Dominion technology. The war machines of the Dominion are unlike any of the minor scouting and scientific units seen on Golarion's soil, the twisted mixtures of flesh and steel nearly impossible to truly put down for good, able to continue their terrible march even as enormous portions of their bodies were torn away.

That is where the Gan-Dergorin come in. These bestial constructs have a simple tactic when facing down any enemy: tear it to pieces too small to remain active. Even the most resilient Dominion machines of terror cannot survive the thoroughness of the destruction that Disassemblers enact upon them, severing every single joint and connector from one another until their victims are rent to their smallest possible components. A Disassembler which has the time to do so will then go even further by separating all types of tissue and matter from one another, then carefully sorting the mangled gore into piles and rows based on how useful it believes its alien masters may find the components, behavior which assured a steady stream of resources for the flesh-forges of the Dominion.

Even today, their gruesome displays are useful when intimidating or punishing captive populations, though Dominion science has advanced to the point such brutal measures are no longer needed; they have much more thorough and effective means of reducing living creatures to their component parts. As such, Disassemblers are used as weapons of terror against the Dominion's enemies among the stars and within their own populations, though this isn't to say they're restricted to distant worlds.

The arrival of a Disassembler on soil beyond the Dominion's grip is an occurrence which is rare to the point of nonexistence, but it has happened both by accident (errant portals and teleportation errors) and purposeful action. On the exceedingly rare occasions when a cultist manages to establish and survive contact with entities concerned with the Dominion's war effort, they can be convinced to send one of these horrors to the cultist's world. Rarely does the cultist survive to give the war machines an actual order, allowing the machine to do what it does best: kill anything it encounters, and assure its own continued survival.

Gan-Dergorin CR 11 Chaotic Evil Large Construct Init +2; Senses: Darkvision 80ft, Low-light vision, blindsense 10 ft, Perception +17 Aura: Frightful Presence (60ft, DC 15) ----- Defense ----- AC 25; touch 11; flat-footed 23 (+2 Dex, +14 natural, -1 size) HP:110 (13d10+30) Fast Healing 5 Fort +4, Ref +6, Will +7 Defensive Abilities: Reassemble, Upgrade; DR 5/--; Immune Construct traits; Resist Fire 10, Cold 10, Electricity 10; Weakness Serial Number, Thorough Disassembly ----- Offense ----- Speed: 30 ft, climb 10ft Melee: Pneumatic Cleaver +19/+14/+9 (2d6+6/x3), Variable Arms +13 (2d6+3/19-20) Space/Reach: 10ft/10ft ----- Statistics ----- Str 22, Dex 15, Con --, Int 10, Wis 16, Cha 6 Base Atk +13; CMB +20; CMD 32 Feats: Cleave, Cleaving Finish, Critical Focus, Improved Cleaving Finish, Great Cleave, Power Attack, Technologist(B), Weapon Focus (Pneumatic Cleaver) Skills: Climb +19, Disable Device +9 (+13 vs machinery/technology), Perception +17, Stealth +3; Racial Modifiers: +4 to Disable Device checks against complex machinery and technology Languages: Aklo (rarely speaks) SQ: Freeze (pile of metal junk), Standing Orders, Thorough Disassembly ----- Ecology ----- Environment: Any Organization: Solitary Treasure: Standard (scrap material, integrated items)

----- Combat: Disassemblers are not complicated creatures. They charge into combat with reckless abandon, using their Great Cleave and Improved Cleaving Finish to slaughter as many weak enemies as they can with a single attack before focusing down remaining foes one at a time with their Full-Attacks, using Power Attack at every opportunity. If given an option, Disassemblers prefer to target any creature capable dealing damage it cannot resist or nullify. A Disassembler will chase down any creature it believes it can kill and will not stop until its enemy escapes or it is driven back by damage.

Morale: A Disassembler brought below 1/4th of its HP maximum will immediately retreat to recover, even if it means abandoning fallen foes, Once it has regained at least half of its total HP and perhaps integrated new weapons, it will track down its foes to dispatch them. If it is slain in combat but permitted to return to function, it will Upgrade itself and track down its killers if possible, and follow its Standing Orders if not.

-----

Reassemble (Ex): Dominion Disassemblers can reattach severed limbs and portions of their bodies by holding it to themselves for 1 full round. A Dominion Disassembler is not destroyed when it reaches 0 HP, but is rendered inert and helpless. 1d4 hours after being reduced to 0 HP, all the alien machinery within whirls back to life--it reactivates at 1 hitpoint and resumes Fast Healing. Only the thorough and comprehensive destruction of its remains using methods such as immersion in magma, acid, or a similar substance, or turning to ash via Disintegrate or similar, can prevent a Disassembler from returning to function; otherwise, it can pull itself together from even the smallest remains.

Serial Number (Ex): All Disassemblers possess a serial number etched on a plate of alien metal somewhere within their body which is kept hidden near their centers. The number cannot be observed unless the construct has been rendered helpless, and even then it requires a DC 23 Perception check to find. Any creature capable of reading and speaking Aklo can make a DC 23 Linguistics check to memorize the Serial Number or write it down perfectly.

A creature may give a verbal command to a Disassembler by speaking its entire serial number aloud and stating the action they wish it to take, in Aklo. Due to the length and complexity of each serial number, this is a full-round action which provokes an attack of opportunity, and being struck by the attack of opportunity ruins the attempt to speak the number. If left without orders, Disassemblers typically try to destroy any creature that knows their serial number. Most creatures which learn of a Disassembler's serial number can easily get rid of the creature by ordering it to take a self-destructive action, or to accept the effects of a spell which will teleport or plane shift it a great distance away.

Standing Orders (Ex): To await further orders from their commanders, Disassemblers go into a low-power mode if they have not encountered another creature in 24 hours. In this mode, they come to rest and resemble a pile of junk, though they remain somewhat aware of their surroundings and may make Perception checks at a -5 penalty to detect nearby creatures and passively make Stealth checks to hide in plain sight as a pile of scrap. They can remain in this low-power state indefinitely, and will do so as long as they are not alerted to any creature, and spring back to full functionality instantly when alerted.

Thorough Disassembly (Ex): A Disassembler gets Technologist as a bonus feat and has a +4 bonus to Disable Device checks to sabotage or take apart complex machinery and advanced technology, and Disable Device is a class skill for it. In addition, after reducing a creature to 0 HP, the Disassembler is compelled to butcher it to prevent its return. It can resist this compulsion by succeeding a DC 20 Will save; otherwise, it must spend its next round attempting to coup de grace that creature if it is still alive, or to begin ripping it to pieces if it is dead.

Upgrade (Ex): When a Disassembler is defeated but permitted to Reassemble, it learns from its failure and seeks out methods to upgrade itself. A Disassembler has a number of Upgrade Points equal to 3 + its Wisdom modifier (6 for a typical Disassembler) that it may divide as it sees fit, and each time it is defeated, its Upgrade Points reset and may be redistributed. A Disassembler requires 1d4+1 days to make upgrades to itself as it gathers raw material from any source it can find (the DM may rule it finds parts much faster in areas with high amounts of technology), and never wastes time and resources upgrading itself unless it is defeated. It can take most of the upgrades multiple times; their effects stack. It will typically choose upgrades which prevent it from being beaten via the same methods it fell to previously.

1 Point: Gain 10 points of resistance to 1 form of elemental damage, or increases its resistance to an element by 10.

1 Point: Increase its natural armor by +1 or its DR/-- by 1.

1 Point: The Disassembler integrates a set of armor and/or a shield it can get ahold of into its body, granting itself the benefits of wearing the armor/shield (AC, magical abilities) but without suffering armor check penalties or speed reductions. It can only integrate one set of armor and one shield at a time.

2 Points: Increase its walk and climb speed by 10ft each, or gain a 10ft swim speed.

2 Points: Gain a +2 profane bonus to a saving throw of its choice.

3 Points: Gain 25% Fortification.

3 Points: Gain 1 feat it qualifies for.

Variable Arms (Ex): The Disassembler's Variable Arms natural attack can switch between slashing, piercing, or bludgeoning damage as a swift action, or change into a tool capable of fine manipulation which also acts as thieves' tools. The construct can also replace its Pneumatic Cleaver with any melee weapon it finds with 1 minute of work, losing its Cleaver attack but allowing it to use that weapon without penalty. It is considered proficient with any weapon it integrates, and wields even two-handed weapons with a single limb.

#original concepts #sort of #Pathfinder

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whereserpentswalk · 6 months ago

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A soldier in the army of darkness, made by the king of all demons, was separated from the rest of its group before it ever had a chance to fight, and sent wandering the land. Its body was strong and hard, too strong to care for the elements. But it was young, and it was alone. It had never been a child, and never known a world outside of its role as a living weapon.

People recognized it for what it was wherever it went. Every village it came to reacted in horror at the inhuman creature who had wandered through their lands. It had an exoskeleton where skin should be, a hard shell like a scorpion's that could feel no pain, and thorns and spikes on its body so it would always be ready to hurt things, its face was a white mouthless mask with two pupilless eyes and its only clothing a flowing cape built into its back, made of the same feathery material as moth wings. It avoided the people who would fear it, not liking the sound of screams, and it did not need to eat or sleep, so it learned what little use towns had for a living weapon.

Eventually it began to see what destruction and death it's siblings caused. The ruined villages, the bleeding bodies, the screams, the screams that shown from whoever saw them. It had no idea what it had been forged for, and with the time taken to know what had been done it felt mourning in a way few things could. When the armies of light found them it surrendered, the first of its kind to ever do such a thing.

It was taken to one of the head cities of the alliance that fought it's siblings. And it was put in an academy of gold and ivory, with shining white walls. But it was to be studied as much as it was to be educated, some students were interested in it, but most feared it, and those who feared it were told they were smart to do so.

It was given books to read, and those books were the few things they had to cherish. But it was watched, watched closely thinking it's nature would lead them to violence, and told many times that it was forged in the dark and that it was it's burden to prove that it had the capability to join the light. When it showed anger it was proof of their evil, and when it said it was lesser than those around it and apologized for it's nature it was seen as proof that perhaps it and it's kind could be good, that perhaps it and it's siblings were not monsters, and they would not be killed on sight on some future day.

Eventually things broke, it had lashed out at a student on the academy, a human with soft with skin, unlike it's hard black-green exoskeleton. It didn't mean to hurt them, but it did. It left in the night, better to leave then to be told to, or worse to be killed as the monster it was, as the living weapon of darkness it was built to be. It wondered as it left the academy walls, if it's creator, if the king of all demons, would be proud of their spawn. It wondered if that was something it wanted.

Eventually it walked in a direction, south perhaps, and to the west a bit maybe, further than most would ever walk. It did not want to be remembered. And it walked past forests with black leaves on their trees and birds with iron beaks, and it walked pasts deserts of striped, red stone, and past marshes with crocodiles whose growls sounded like songs, and great ruined cities on the bands of dried up rivers, where forgotten statues of gods with lost names looked down on it, they didn't seem mad at it, they didn't seem to judge those who were lost.

Eventually it got to a city. It took weeks for its legs to tire but they did, all things of the flesh did. It fell in front of the city gates, expected to be killed by those inside, but it was not. The people took it in, not knowing was it was, it had walked further south than any agent of the demon king had before, nobody in the city it was in had ever seen a soldier of the demon king's army before. So, they let it rest, and gave it comfort, and their priests would sing in hymns and tell it stories of their gods while it rested.

The city was strange, a place of towers of black stone, with ornate carvings, and where glowing bugs lit streets that flanked flowing canals. There where forge elves in the city, with dark grey skin and white hair, and harpies that perched on the building's gargoyles, and humans of strange cultures with odd tattoos and flowing capes. The people there weren't afraid of it, they saw its body as so strange and beautiful, it's exoskeletons dark green shine like jade, and its flowing cape like pretty silk. When it showed its power and its strength, they were all so impressed, all so excited to see that it was gifted with such power and talent.

The creature now stands at those city walls still. It is their protecter, it's natural armor and undying strength have made it the perfect knight for a city that knows not who the demon king is. The children of the city tell stories of its power, and the artisans make little statues of it for passersby, as it stands at the top of its guardtower, with a human wife, and loyal bannermen at its call. And when it has time to rest, it reads from its old books, and perhaps will write them when it so desires.

Occasionally adventures from far north of the city are afraid when they hear of this creature, to see what they see as a servant of a demon praised as a hero. The people of the city will be likely to inform them that they need to protection of their knight more than they need wandering adventures.

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su-revived · 3 months ago

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ATTENTION EVERYONE! Major update.

As you have seen above i have redesigned Tektite, but no one really asked why she's an elf and or why her gem is in her Scythe.

What is the reason for this? well after some lengthy discussions with big name artists about my AU i was told that the sheer scope of my AU and the immense changes to the lore of SU making my story completely different than anything in the show i would be better off taking my notes and lore and reforging them into an original concept.

with that i mulled it over and asked the art team and we all agreed we should, so we have secretly been crafting an entire world and story from scratch! and i will tell you that is no understatement we have an original setting, power system, characters and story slowly being filled out. my goal is to craft a setting that doesn't just fit the narrative of a single story but is a fully fleshed out world that i can have multiple stories running in it. much like a DnD world with adventure paths and novels.

Setting - The comic will take place withing a High fantasy world akin to Dungeons and Dragons, complete with magical creatures, and mixes of technology and magic in fun an interesting ways. The world is not only filled with mortal and magical races but Gods live amongst them carving out kingdoms for their ideals or pillaging and destroying other gods creations. in order for these gods to come to the mortal world they had to shed the vast majority of their powers and godly essence and confine their soul within a Soul gem that sources their powers and allows the creation of divine children, the gods have domains that mortals participating in these domain activities gives them power. for example the god of the forge gains power from craftsmen working metal and creating artwork of the forge!

Some gods covet the powers of other gods and seek their destruction shattering their soul gem and consuming their soul (Oh no!), if a gods physical body is destroyed their soul gem will use their stored power to manifest a new one but if the god is too weak or is otherwise unable to reconstitute themselves they will opt to have a mortal or divine being absorb their soul and allow them to ascend to take their place.

The main story will follow a 5 Person party as they adventure across the lands discovering the secrets of their past and becoming stronger to eventually save the world from destruction. seeing many good and evil gods along the way experiencing different cultures and diverse landscapes.

The art team and I are super excited to bring this to everyone and you will get to see new character concept art going forward and i hope you all enjoy this even more than the AU :heart:

Love @Mod Joe and the Art team

#@su-revived #@lucyjung #@littleghostie #@arguablyartworks #@revolver d #Guardians of Xeris #New comic #original IP #tektite

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someweirdoreblogger · 1 year ago

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When you ask Hades for piercings, don't expect normal clips.

That dramatic motherfucker always aims to impress in the most ridiculous methods possible. Damn him to oblivion if Hades doesn't aspire to give his beloved, only upmost, perfect quality gifts. You will burn brighter than any star by the time Hades is through with you.

This somber-ass bitch personally walks to the sixth layer of Hell, effortlessly ripping an obsidian scale off the gargantuan, spiked spine of one of Typhon's numerous monster childern and calling in a very personal favor to Olympus's famous blacksmith, Hephaestus-to forge him a very specific relic.

Earrings.

Hades gives every material needed, brought personally if need be. Regardless of how difficult to obtain and far more than what should be required, each object is just as increbily valuable as the last if not more;

A collection of infernal fire donated directly from Hell's demon Lords, lit forever til the dawn ends. It can burn the world's most stubborn of metals and the strongest of wills, a merciless torture of immeasurable heat. Life taking breath, a saltless tear from the sun's very own core. In other words, it is an unbreakable temperature for binding countless parts, God made or otherwise.

Black glass from Hades' own castle, clean and not too crisp. There's an unease sealed into it, a looming call to the dead. Sizzling sensations overcomes you and guides your fingers across the smooth surface, a temptation bleeding silk through the pitch black lens. Not quite a spark, but threatening to be, tingles dance furiously against weak mortal flesh and bows to the natural will of the gods who sculpted it. The trapped whispers of olden kings and queens and long gone gods, still in an accursed dream. Transparency shimmering blind in the darkness, guiding lost souls to their ruling god like cavern crystals for awaited judgment, void deep as a black star.

Anicent irons melted from fallen weapons, no longer bond to their respective masters, carefully collected off the immortal corpses of the ferocious Titans. Irreplaceable, priceless in fortuide, and pure strength. Indeed, diamonds in the collection of any invested exploration.

Hades waste nothing without a second thought, but these-

They live on now as a far more useful, suitable foundation miles away from their recent decaying forms.

Quite a long journey to craft these special earrings for you. These earrings saw glorious sights amany. Traveled to the very ends of the world; melted into a divine star by the roughest, most careful hands of Heaven, molded by Hades' most destructive calamities in the deepest, darkest nether.

And here they are, the Underworld's newest god-kissed relic, solely for you alone. Although Hades opposes the mere thought of difficulty-always the sincere one.

How could Hades complain when everything you wear shines like the Earth's finest jewelry-majestic, is it not?

Hera pales in comparison. Aphrodite will weep jealousy, in complete, utter awe of your wonderful accessories.

Do not fret over the details, Hades acts like it was the easiest thing in the world.

All Hades could ever want is to spoil you, the least he could do is make up for lost time, Helheim grows evermore busy every passing century, and Hades intents never abandoning his responsibilities. But of course, one of those beloved responsibilities is you.

The cheerful smile you answer in return outweighs Apollo's own boundless radiance. And while Hades strictly insists no payment back, who can't help but bite the apple from the tree?

#mypost #record of ragnarok hades #anime #manga #record of ragnarok #hades #ror hades #hades ror #hades x reader #record of ragnarok x reader #this bitch will show he cares no matter how long it takes #his promises wont allow him to pull his punches

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cookie-nom-nom · 4 months ago

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Had this dream about lich forms Lup and Barry but it was distinctly in the form of a ballet duet set to a dream version of Scylla. IE some verses were word for word but others were whatever the dream felt like it. Their lich powers shifted wildly depending on mental state. There was this orchestral solo section with Lup where her fire became more celestial themed, and she was resplendent with constellations gleaming across her skin. In elegant twirls and leaps she crossed the stage, the arena of the crowd encircling and enthralled. Her smile stretching ever wider from the fame and adoration, basking in stardom. (There was definitely some Taako bleeding into this part). Spinning faster faster in this swirl of elation and starlight.

And then she suddenly stills.

And then the words kicked in.

Drown in your sorrow and fear

It's this moment of pure collapse as the stars in her eyes, the countless universes she's experienced, all quenched by the Hunger. Where once the audience was lit up now it was inky black surrounding Lup. That desperation that lead the 7 Birds to forge the relics, and the intolerable guilt of what they cause.

Live out your life as a wraith

And then we see Lup. Horrific and blistering, this overwhelming destructive force scorching all. Her body is barely one at all, as she's transformed into apoplectic destruction. She is the phoenix gauntlet. She's utterly lost control of her lichform, dissolving into fire and fury incarnate. Because they have not earned a little wrath?

Enter, Barry. He swirls with dark necrotic clouds, this ominous shadow piercing into the heart of the inferno. The pair dance around each other, these titanous forces of darkness and light, so completely anathema this raging radiance and gentle gloom. And he is reaching for her.

We must do what it takes to survive.

In Epic, this is the moment when two have chosen to be monstrous. And in Taz it was too, the Lovers becoming liches. But it's so, so much more. Because it is bonds that have saved them through that wretched stolen century, and love is what it takes to survive. And he is reaching for her, begging her to remember the love that has kept her from falling apart for so long. Yes it is asking her to bear the pain and guilt of what they have done to try and save the world time and time again. But he is also asking her to do what it takes for any of the planar realms to survive the Hunger.

We are the same you and I.

And Lup reaches back, pure light entwining where Barry gently cups what is becoming her face, willing her to resemble a person again. Fire melts into her elven form, grounded once more into a controlled form by the love for each other that keeps them same. She sinks into his arms, and the pair collapse to their knees, clutching each other so tightly they're forced to be made of flesh and blood. They both begin to weep, both in crushing pain and relief. The spotlight above shrinks until they are alone in a small pool of light.

The world becomes pitch black to thunderous applause.

#............okay this is for other mutuals: i did NOT consider the resemblance to Lup when making scp philza but you know what good for him #taz #the adventure zone #taz balance #lup taaco #lup taz #barry bluejeans #scylla #epic the musical #taz fic #i guess??? dreams be wild yo #i am plagued by visions #something to nom on

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captainkurosolaire · 4 months ago

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Father of Shadow

Grey skies of bone waste, dry uncertain humidity polluted the air, in a time stone of an oppressive era. When a peaceful Nation was under siege of a Garlean Empire was prominent conflict. Depleted soul's were torn from destruction brought upon them, not able to spark their rebel spirits. Hopelessness festered, longed, in the dark-void, absence reigned. Until those who dwell and thrive in night, answered. A Doman elegant-magpie, colored descended below gracefully upon a leather-glove, with a braille message-strung delicately for delivery, to who wields sharp steel and handles Black Miracles. It read two-words, stroked in Hingashi. "Unsheathe Shadow." The figure clad to black, descended below a tall cliff-side using a large-bright dragon-theme kite at the last daring moment, blocking a Magitek Armor with an Operator and fellow squadron leading a convoy of spoiled slavers, formerly settlers, farmers of the neighboring land, that'd know a harvest again. Feet-padded quietly a step in their pause. This mask-silhouette figure gave a small startle. Keen eyes of one Imperialist gave rise to a Eastern-forged scabbard blade, letting out a small-laugh from his throat, "Hey, Men! Seems we forgot one. Ki--" Cut off before the executive order, through a sleeved kunai punctured the throat. The specter of death, was swarmed instantaneous. Time felt frozen momentarily, when two-pursuers stepped in striking distance, before they were aware of the next breathe, they were struck down from a blinding quick unsheathe. A firm masculine gloved-hand grappled one of the defeated imperialist by their skull and used their cadaver as a shield-charge to block, a volley of ballistics sponged to the reload, swiftly, the assailant lunged his blade through the deceased into the reloading legionary, puncturing two-hearts. Crushing flail came swinging towards the assailant from behind, stern senses strengthened for obscured sight gave an acrobatic bending dodge, strands of raven hair's plucked grazing overhead, the swordsman withdrew his blade full of heated ichor, blinding the bruiser. Handicapped and shouting obscenities, he withdrew his chained-flail, the assailant vanished alongside the call-back, leaping carefully on returning weapon. Graciously leaping overhead. A swift-slice midair struck. Another head fell below removed from neck. Sudden commotion and pause made the prisoner's of war began up-roaring with renewed spirits, kicking at their confines. Magitek-Armored pilot took firing aim and unleashed a mini-gun of bullets at the shadow. The figure-glided with the wind, feline ear's rattling towards the preparing machinery coiling before assault, heel's building up wind, his blade let out a howling gust, rocketing him forth towards a hanging-tree, bullet's closely racketing behind. Fluid-movement, his free-arm locked onto a sturdy branch. He parted his blade-flat below his feet using it like a temporarily standing-board. Then unhooked from hip satchel a paper-scrolled bomb strung to another kunai, a fuse laid underneath the hilt like a switch, once launched and struck its target, it'd detonate. Ilm's from filling the assassin with swissed-holes, the weapon's arm of the machinery imploded and cracked pilot's glass windshield, the magitek armor fell off balance, exposed trying to regain control. His eye's-opened widely. Sole's directly above his small-layer between him, in the death-dealer who had catapulted and sprung himself with a feline leap. Shedding a last-gasp before expertly steel slid between the cracked- creases, and impaled him unable to evade demise. His skull ragged dolled forth bashing into the detonation button. Electrical in-balance was felt predicatively, the assassin leapt backwards, yet was unable to clear. Blocking with his arm's and blade, shrapnel of machinery projectiles dug into his flesh, boom sent the shadow careening below harshly.

Ember's surrounding him, scorched land and concussed with his hearing shrieking, distorted, his mask cracked. His body was tortured fashioned to these sensations. Adrenaline coursing inside him, nullifying the extent of his injuries, momentarily, he rolled instinctively feeling the heat near his feline tail. Despite being a deadly-weapon, expressionless, empty-nearly. He finished his task employed, by releasing the prisoner's door, they flooded out looking to find their rescuer but only a blood-trail remained mixed with all the other disarray. He had a date, with someone, that daringly made his sharpest blade, blunt. Even demolished like this, he wouldn't miss the intended target who'd forever alter his knowledge of Life. Using his blade-hilt as a cane to hold uprightness. In all or any; Darkness... There was somewhere a Light, to appreciate.

[Prev:Chapter]: ~ ♪"As Above, So Below"♪

#2 of 100 #Hoku Solaire #Father of Shadows #reader discretion advised #Creative Writing #Tales of the Goldbrand #scarlet destiny: volume 4 #Assassin Dad #Graphic update atmospheric is what DT is about #Gonna pump much as I feel until hit the challenge #100 still not going to be enough to get 1/4th of these stories I got lined up #Hopefully I can earn a 'you tried sticker' though

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brokenorbornthatway · 4 months ago

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Sebastian had always assumed himself to be dominant. He was sadistic and cruel and he reveled in it. How could he be anything else?

Then his young Lord treated him as a servant and he found a part of himself he never knew he was missing. He denied it at first of course. Of course he didn't like it when the boy slapped him across the face. Of course he didn't find himself enjoying being treated as lesser than. Or find himself thinking that it felt right. He was a dominant demon. A master manipulator. He drank in pain like a fine wine. He did not feel an ever growing need to kneel.

He wasn't sure exactly what made him finally accept his truth. Perhaps it was the day that he realized that he enjoyed being a pawn in Ciel's games, carrying out cruelty and destruction at his behest, far more than being sadistic for his own pleasures. Or maybe it was sometime after "butler training", when he'd quietly realized that it A) it had changed him in some way and B) it was not dissimilar to formal sub training. Maybe it was something else entirely. But whatever it was, he knew now that no matter how out of place it may be, he, Sebastian Michaelis, was a submissive and that he needed his Master to truly be his Master like he needed air.

He had made sure that Ciel had tutors that would teach him what being a dominant meant under the guise that it was part of being an Earl, even while still looking for how to get out of their deal. If their deal was to be completed he would lose the one person he needed more than anything. Preferably, he would get out of their deal in a way that would keep him bound.

The day before his Lord getting his revenge was when he found the answer was simple. All he had to do was intentionally lie to him. It wouldn't exactly be easy. A demon was quite literally bound to the word of their deal. But lying to his Master intentionally would result in being bound to Ciel's soul for all eternity. It would break their original contract to one entirely in Ciel's favor. It was perfect, except for the fact that Ciel could reject him. He could use that moment to send him back to the depths of hell and Sebastian would have no choice but to obey. That would be the worst of torture, but Sebastian felt it was still preferable to being the reason his Lord was gone from this world.

Moments after Ciel's final revenge, the moment finally came for Sebastian to enact his plan. He walked up to his Lord, who was clearly accepting of his presumed fate of being devoured. He lied first by his actions, intentionally meant to play into his young Lord's assumptions. He gripped the boy's chin and caressed it, staring into his eyes as no servant or submissive should. One beat. Two. He could feel the bonds of their deal threatening to burn him. Then he dropped to his knees with his eyes toward the ground and his gloved hands crossed behind his back in the picture of submission. Another beat. The bonds tightened and seemed to materialize in the form of rough rope digging into his flesh. "It's been a pleasure to serve you," he said with a gasp, visibly struggling. One last beat. "Ciel." He bit his lip to keep from crying out as the ropes lit on fire, lightly searing his skin, before settling as hot iron chains. This was it, the bonds had been broken and forged anew. Punishment for breaking his deal was that Ciel now held all the power. Sebastian kept his head down and held his breath while waiting for a response.

#sebaciel #sebastian michaelis #ciel phantomhive #Subastion #listen I just really like this bit of writing #d/s #black butler #kuroshitsuji

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jjkamochoso · 6 months ago

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Once More to See You

Angst; Hurt no Comfort

⚠️JJK CHAPTER 259 SPOILERS IN THIS STORY UNDER THE CUT⚠️

Choso x gn!reader

As you, Choso, and Yuji make a last stand against Sukuna, you feel the anguish of your love leaving you behind. Loosely inspired by Mitski’s “Once More to See You”

Warnings: canonical character death, description of a body burning

[In the rearview mirror I saw the setting sun on your neck/ And felt the taste of you bubble up inside me/ But with everybody watching us, our every move, we do have reputations/ We keep it secret, won't let them have it]

You never thought it would come to this. You stood across from Sukuna, Yuji and Choso by your side. With the way the King of Curses was staring you down with all of his eyes, you knew he was about to release a completely devastating cursed technique. You so desperately wanted to shield Yuji from all the pain and suffering he’d been through, yet he was standing tall on the battlefield, undeterred by the notion of possibly dying (another) horrendous death. You also, selfishly, wanted to reach out and grasp Choso’s hand to feel the flesh of your secret lover for what was probably going to be the last time.

It wasn’t that you and Choso had meant to keep your relationship as quiet as you did, it was just that your timing was remarkably bleak. Kenjaku had been running rampant when you two first found solace in each other’s arms. You had lots of free time to get to know each other while protecting Tengen and since then, you’d forged an unbreakable bond that eventually turned romantic and the rest was history. You both did have reputations to keep, however. Choso was supposed to be a fearless half curse, while you were revered for your strong technique and cursed energy control. Neither of you wanted to show your enemies that you had a weakness for each other so staying on the down low with your secret caresses and stolen kisses under the moonlight was the way you were content spending your time with him. In a way, it was nice to have this one thing between you that wouldn’t have the stain of Sukuna or whoever else was threatening your safety at the time. There was no gossip or teasing from your teammates and no one was able to suggest that either of you wouldn’t be able to keep a level head while fighting together. You liked the simplicity of it all, though it was terrible when you needed the comfort of each other but people were around. Despite the few setbacks the parameters of your relationship had, you were grateful to be able to share in Choso’s bountiful love no matter how it presented itself.

Before you could create a domain or use your own cursed technique, you saw Sukuna move his hands to unleash his newest creation. You braced yourself for the death that was to come to you, closing your eyes in hopes of it hurting less if it came as a surprise. You were confused when you felt a new sensation of heat consuming all of your senses except one—touch. You opened your eyes to see flames barreling all around you, but being stopped by—

No.

He couldn’t.

He can’t.

He is.

Choso had enveloped the two people he loved the most in a blood barrier to stop them from succumbing to Sukuna. Your eyes refused to believe that what they were witnessing was real. You and Yuji were totally unharmed, yet Choso was withering away by the second. It was utterly macabre the way the skin you used to savor the feel of against your own was now melting off the bones of the man whose heart you were privileged enough to lay claim to. You wanted to look away and not have the image of Choso dying seared in your brain as the last moments you had with him, but you couldn’t break your horrified gaze away from his resolute one.

[So come inside and be with me/ Alone with me, alone with me, alone]

Without warning, you were transported to a whole other scene. Gone was Sukuna and his fiery destruction, and in its place was a green, grassy field filled with wildflowers and trees. A red and white gingham picnic blanket was under your body as you lounged next to an open wicker basket and familiar brown eyes peered into your own from the space across from you.

“Y/n.”

Choso’s voice was soft, raising goosebumps all over your skin. His fingers stretched to your face and your eyelids fluttered closed at his touch. He gently traced the pads of his fingers across your cheek and down your jaw. When you opened your eyes again, the sun was shining brightly behind him, illuminating his figure in a way that could only be described as angelic.

“Please don’t go,” you whispered.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be better to you. I’m sorry we had to hide all this time. I’ll find you in my next life, and the one after that. Take care of Yuji for me, will you?”

Choso’s lips spread into the boyish smile you loved. You were unsure as to how much time you had here with him so you nodded in agreement and threw yourself into his arms. He gripped you tight, keeping a hand on the back of your head to hold you as close as possible. His nose found a home on the top of your head, resting there for a few seconds before he gingerly placed a kiss there.

“I have to go. My brothers are calling me,” he said, pulling away from you but keeping his hands on your shoulders.

“Is there nothing I can do to change this?” you asked, tears falling freely. Choso felt himself begin to cry as well, leaving glistening trails down his face.

“This is my duty as a big brother and a boyfriend. Maybe as a husband, in another life.” You saw a pink dusting across his face at the mention of marriage. Yeah, you definitely would’ve married Choso.

“I’m lucky to have met such a caring, selfless man like you. When I look at the stars from now on, I’ll know none of them shine as brightly as you did. I love you.”

Choso leaned in and gave you one last kiss. It was soft but passionate, just like him. When you broke apart, he laid his forehead against your own.

“I love you too. Stand strong for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you replied, reaching to hold his hand one last time, but the mirage was gone and you were back in your hellish reality.

[If you would let me give you pinky promise kisses/ Then I wouldn't have to scream your name/ Atop of every roof in the city of my heart/ If I could see you, once more to see you]

“Thank you, Yuji, for becoming my brother. Thank you, y/n, for becoming my heart.”

“Thank you for everything, Choso.” You were able to squeeze out that final sentence from your lungs that held a tightness you didn’t know was humanly possible.

“Thank you… big brother,” Yuji sniffled, disbelief turning into unfathomable grief as the last of Choso disappeared into ash blowing away in the breeze. The blood barrier dissolved away from you two, leaving you alone with the fact that you just experienced the most traumatic moment of your lives and didn’t even have time to process it. It was eerily quiet now that Sukuna’s technique was done and Choso was dead. You felt empty, like all of the blood was drained out from your veins when Choso left you. Your heart ached as you yearned for the love you had just lost. No one would ever compare to the man who sacrificed himself for the sake of his younger brother and secret partner. You didn’t know what to do next, and neither did Yuji, apparent in the way you both stood, dumbfounded.

“It’s up to me to take care of you now,” you said, finally able to croak out some words from your dry throat.

“He loved you, you know,” Yuji said after a few beats of silence.

You released a slow, shuddering breath. “I know.”

More silence.

“He loved you too, Yuji.”

“I know.”

You didn’t know what else to say. There was nothing that could make this situation any more fathomable or digestible. You had to break out of your stupor before Sukuna recovered and killed you both. There was no way you were dying or allowing Yuji to get hurt any more, not after Choso died to make sure that didn’t happen. You had to push down the ache in your chest. You could mourn Choso later.

You were going to kill Sukuna.

#choso x reader angst #kamo choso x reader #choso kamo x reader #choso x you #choso x y/n #choso x reader #jjk x gender neutral reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic

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