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spacedace · 1 year ago

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Reluctant War AU Part 3

Part 1 Part 2

More of the brain worm that has taken me over, gonna probably post it to Ao3 here before too long. Already got another part started and so many ideas for additional stuff, someone please send help I've been consumed by this thing lol

Sorry if Waller seems out of character, outside of fandom I'm mostly familiar with her through Justice League the animated show & Justice League: Unlimited and her vibe there has always struck me as "deeply incredibly unlikable character that also kind of has a point but also has done so much fucked up shit in the name of her goals that you don't really care about her point anymore." So you know, complicated lol. If she's completely unrecognizable let me know, but I'm hoping she feels at least somewhat like Waller.

Forgot to say this in the last update, but still feel free to use all this as an overly long prompt if yall want. Literally anything I throw out to the void should be treated as a prompt lol If there's anything at all interesting to you in any of this nonsense go for it <3 <3 <3

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Amanda Waller was someone who did what needed to be done.

Ruthless, heartless, vicious, cruel.

She’d been called it all. Wore the words thrown as insults as a badges of pride and valor. Because at the end of the day, when it came to the problems she was given to face, the issues she was meant to solve, those words meant she’d done what others had been too squeamish or cowardly to do. Life was a never ending slog of trolley problems and she the only one unshakable enough to pull the levers that needed pulling.

It wasn’t so simple as a matter of greater good.

Greater good was what the weak willed muttered to themselves after having feelings over doing the bare minimum. A justification used by people on all sides to do what they wanted with fractured, faulty logic thrown around like truth was a thing immutable. To assuage their guilt when they were forced to make a call they didn’t want to.

It wasn’t a matter of greater good. It was a matter of preservation. Of protection. Of digging through the filth to find the threats skittering beneath and crush them with ruthless abandon. Of facing a god and not blinking because if you did it could cost the world.

Of doing what needed to be done, no matter how underhanded or atrocious it was.

Hands dirty.

Hands red.

Hands wrapped tight around the throat of something that could threaten to destroy it all.

When the Ghost Investigation Ward had been shoved her way with it’s sucking wound of a budget, it’s bloated incompetent staff, its asinine methods she’d seen a rotted limb in need of hacking off. It hadn’t been until she’d been conducting her inspection, digging through the trash for a few pearls of effective agents she could snatch up and put to work elsewhere, that she’d truly seen what they were working on. The potential.

Potential to better arm themselves with in the forms of the strange new weapons being created.

Potential for threats far greater than anything even she had thought possible before.

The GIW as it had been when she’d first come across it was a fetid waste of time and resources. A laughing stock agency only secret because no one took them seriously enough to look. Made stupid and useless with its own conceited delusions of importance it didn’t actually have. Yet.

She went to work on it. Hacking away as she’d originally intended, but this time with a different goal in mind. She ripped out the weeds with bare, calloused hands and planted proficiency and loyalty in their place. She took over as director herself, tossing the self-aggrandizing fool that had been running the place into the ground to the dogs as the culprit for misappropriate spendings, saving the agency by tweaking things until their ballooning budget was pinned neatly onto the former director as an embezzling charge.

Then she got to work.

The Fentons were brilliant, if entirely insane. But Amanda could work with that. She’d reigned Harley Quinn in - more or less - she could do the same to the two deranged scientists that so eagerly wanted to be apart of the fight against the dead. Especially when the benefit came in the form of the inventions they threw together so easily, especially when those inventions were weapons.

It took very little to get them on board with her plans for the GIW. Keeping their focus could be a chore, at times, but she didn’t even have to really do much in the way of pressing to get them back where she wanted them. They craved knowledge and understanding nearly as much as they craved the eradication of the entities themselves. Letting them have the first look at a new subject here, free reign over a vivisection there, it took so little to fuel their fervor and keep them busy working on the projects she set for them.

Things had been going smoothly.

For a time at least.

Until Phantom.

He’d been the main focus of the previous director’s attention, the big fish he’d so desperately wanted to catch and put up on his wall. Amanda wouldn’t lie and say it wasn��t a tempting prospect, but not one she’d put above the other projects she had set in motion since taking over. No, Phantom was powerful, enough to be a real problem one day, but she could the awkward youth in the way he held himself, the inexperience in how he handled situations. She had time to get everything else in order before focusing on getting Amity Park’s would-be hero brought to heel.

And he would be brought to heel. One way or another.

Hands dirty.

Hands red.

Hands wrapped tight around the Core of a fledgling god and bending him to her will.

An artifact, old an powerful, recovered with some effort. A means of controlling specters, of chaining them to the will of the artifact’s wielder. Dangerous in the wrong hands. Dangerous in the right hands.

It was shattered, and even whole and functional Phantom was resistant to its power. But Amanda Waller prided herself in her ability to see the potential in things. It could be repaired, be made better. Even gods could be bound, be made to kneel, with the right pieces, with the right application of force.

It was just a matter of time to gather everything needed.

Phantom didn’t know he could single handedly destroy every last member of the Justice League. The baby fat, the innocent eyes, the split-second hesitations when he fought. He knew enough to be confident in fighting the usual ghosts that haunted Amity Park, but he still very much saw himself as a little fish. Maybe it was the part of him that was still Daniel Fenton, gangly teenager not quite sure what he was truly capable of yet.

She had time before the Fenton’s son truly became an issue. Time to judge if his parents’ obsessiveness would overcome their - rather shoddy, by Amanda’s estimation - parental instincts and continue to hunt him once they knew the truth. Time to get as much out of them as she could before hand, should they falter at the idea of attacking their own son. Time for the staff to be repaired and returned to working order, to get the other items needed for the truly big fish hidden on the other side of the veil between worlds.

She had time.

Until she didn’t.

Pariah Dark had not been something she thought she’d have to account for - not yet, at least.

If he wasn’t already dead, she’d ring the Ghost King’s neck with her bare hands. His arrival had opened Phantom’s eyes to what he was capable of, of just how big of a fish he was. Worse still, Phantom’s defeat of the war mongering King changed the state of play. Phantom was no longer an impressively powerful half dead teenager.

He was King Infinite.

He was an Ancient.

He was getting on her last damn nerves.

Phantom’s rogue gallery were now firmly under the boy’s control. Still distinct nuisances around Amity Park, but no longer considered true concerns. They were loyal to their boy king, delighting in ruffling his feathers but never crossing the line into treason or attempted regicide. Which meant that the GIW was the only thing that held his attention.

Amanda took the time to send a care package to the former GIW director in his tiny, dank prison cell. As thanks for his carelessness in revealing to the entire town - both living and dead - of the agency’s existence and their intentions. Had he stuck to standard protocol, Phantom would have been none the wiser to their presence. Would have scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders at the ghost that went missing upon occasion. Would have been boredly uninterested in the people his parents had begun working with. Would have been taken by surprise when they finally came for him.

But no.

No that self-obsessed, fame chasing imbecile had to go and announce to everyone and their dead mother that the GIW existed and exactly what it was they were in Amity Park to do.

Phantom knew what they were there to do.

They could only count on his naive certainty that he could broker peace with them for so long.

Peace. As if he and his people weren’t the invading force, the monsters slipping in through the cracks between worlds, the latest threat that had to be accounted for. As if he himself hadn’t rent their world asunder himself in another world, another time. No. Peace was not something they could hash out with this baby-faced monarch with his too-big crown. Peace was the assurance of safety, security. Of control of the situation.

There could be no peace.

The higher ups were somehow surprised when Phantom took that to mean there would be war.

Amanda Waller was not.

The Fentons, as suspected, took the right side when all was revealed. Steady hands and flinty eyes as they crafted the weapons that would be needed for the coming fight. Minds even sharper in their maddened grief, hearts set on revenge for the son lost and the entity that stole his face and friends and sister in his garish pretense at humanity. They were blinded to the reality of the situation in its entirety, the potential in what their son truly was, but at the end of the day it didn’t really matter. They did what she needed them to do, they could believe whatever it was they wanted so long as they did.

By the time the boy king and his armies marched upon the Amity park facility, preparations had been put into place. The base in Amity had been stripped back to bare essentials, everything of importance moved to more secured locations.

The weapons labs.

The artifact.

The girl.

All tucked well away from the front lines where Phantom and his motley crew could not reach. Their time to be put in play would come, but not yet. First she needed to gauge what Phantom and his people were capable of, what they were willing to do in the name of what they wanted. Amity Park was a pawn well sacrificed on that front. As were the other facilities she’d left easy to find.

The problem with making children gods, with giving them crowns and calling them King and giving them armies to play with, was that they thought there should be rules. That even in the trenches tearing apart their enemies, there was a certain level of playing fair that everyone was held to. They thought there was a way the world worked, of how things should be that blinded them to more effective options even as time stretched on and desperation set in.

It was the Dead’s problem though, not hers.

She reached out to the Justice League. Sour faced, unhappy, bitterly reluctant to accept that she needed their help. Stone faced and barely containing their rage at what little they knew of the situation, they agreed to a meeting.

She didn’t let herself smile until she was well and truly alone in her office.

Greater good. A lie people told themselves. A fairytale told to children. A means of convincing the weaker willed that they had no choice, that they had a noble duty to bend to. A belief that could be wielded like a weapon if the fantasy of the idea had dug in deep enough. And there were few it had dug into so deep as the members of the Justice League.

Amanda Waller was someone who did what needed to be done.

Hands dirty.

Hands red.

Hands clenched tight on a victory long in the making.

---

Part Four

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #danny fenton #amanda waller #GIW #ghost investigation ward #Jack Fenton #Maddie Fenton #bad parents jack & maddie fenton #cause none of this is angsty enough yet lol #tw references to vivisection #tw references to death #waller out here playing 3d chess #of course she wasn't surprised by the inevitable war she was just hoping she'd have her secret weapon ready before it actually kicked off #oh well she still has plans B - J to get through #and all the variations for each #gonna take care of her ghost problem and her justice league problem in one fell swoop if she gets her way #just throw some GIW agents into the meat grinder for a bit while she gets stuff in order & so she can see just what Danny is willing to do #anyway wonder what Elle is up to during all this #i'm sure she's fine and there's nothing to worry about #waller playing the long con yall

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matan4il · 9 months ago

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Some thoughts, on this complex Purim...

-> As a reminder that the Bible never forgets to root the stories of Jews anywhere in our eternal bond to the Land of Israel, because Judaism itself is intrinsically Zionist, the story of Mordechai begins by recounting his family history, and how his family in Persian originates in Jerusalem (Esther 2:5-6).

-> The story of recruiting Esther to save the Jewish people (Esther 4:10-14) includes a warning from Mordechai to his niece, not to think that she of all Jews would be spared the genocide of her people that Haman is planning, just because she dwells in the house of the king. This is absolutely relevant for all self-hating / self-erasing Jews, who have internalized antisemitic narratives, and think they will be treated better, or simply be better, by adhering to the idea of being"good Jews," meaning throwing the rest of us, along with essential parts of Jewish history and identity, under the bus.

-> But the meaning of the warning goes deeper than that. Esther is not being unreasonable when she doesn't want to go to the king without having been summoned. If he accepts her, she would be fine, but if he doesn't, which seems more likely (as she states he hasn't called for her in a month), she will be killed (which is not a fate she's likely to escape even as the queen, when King Achashverosh has a history of getting rid of defiant wives, as recounted in Esther 1). Is Mordechai's warning enough, then? Esther's death seems much more assured if she defies the king personally, than the possibility that her being Jewish might be discovered. Appealing to her sense of self preservation alone would not be enough, then. Which is why I think Mordechai did more than that...

-> Mordechai uses words of warning, but he's reminding her of a core Jewish value: that WE see our fate as being inherently linked to that of the entirety of the Jewish people. When Mordechai says she alone will not escape, he may not be talking about concrete death. Maybe no one would figure out that Esther is Jewish. Maybe she will be safe in the king's palace. Maybe she would physically survive Haman's planned genocide of Jews. But would she actually survive in such a case? She IS a Jew. And as such, one of our core values is Jewish solidarity, caring about every other Jewish person, being a part of the greater Jewish community. If that's all gone, if every Jew other than Esther is killed, and if the only reason she remained alive, is because she betrayed a core part of being Jewish, which is caring about her people, didn't she truly survive, is she still herself?

-> And then Mordechai also makes her an offer. He has faith that somehow, even though there's no reason to believe this would happen, the Jews will be saved. Mordechai doesn't ask her to save the Jewish People, because otherwise they are doomed. He trusts that there will be a miracle. He's offering her the chance to be that miracle, the chance to be remembered as the savior of the Jews, instead of her memory forever being tainted as a traitor to her people. If she did choose her own life instead, it is certain in his mind that she's as good as having perished, even as all the Jews will be physically saved.

-> And after having shared with her his faith, he appeals to hers. Maybe she can trust in God, that she of all girls in the vast Persian Empire became queen, exactly so she could help save her people.

-> And in response, Esther asks Mordechai and the Jews to fast for her. She will go to the king, she will do what she can to stand by her people, by her Jewish values, by her identity, by her faith, even if it will result in her death (Esther 4:15-16).

-> Purim is the ultimate story of how much Jews can make a difference. God is not mentioned in any way in the Book of Esther. There's faith expressed in the salvation of his people, there's the implication that it was possible thanks to him, but this story is about the bravery and strength of regular Jewish people, and how their choice to stand by their morals, by their faith and by each other can even prevent a genocide.

(in the following photo: Purim 1946, Jews reading the Megillah, the Book of Esther, at a Displaced Persons camp in an American-occupied part of Germany)

-> And to me, that's the ultimate reason why Purim is such a cause for celebration, when we have to be happy. Not just because we were saved (and as always when we have been, we get to eat). It's also because we get to celebrate ourselves as regular people, our values, and what we can achieve when we don't give up on them. That in turn becomes a source of strength as well, and helps us to keep going. It's a self perpetuating cycle of the best kind. It is no surprise to me then, that even during and after the Holocaust, whenever it was in any way possible, Jews celebrated Purim.

(in the following photo: Purim 2024, kids in the Golan Heights laying down on the ground in their costumes, as a siren goes off)

-> For most of us, this is the hardest Purim to celebrate in our life time. I pray it stays that way, and we never experience anything near what happened on Oct 7 again. And still, I feel called upon to remind myself and anyone interested, that we must celebrate. That we have to make sure genocidal antisemites don't rob us of our joy and strength, of our sense of community and what we can achieve together. That we should remember even more than in other years what regular people (Jews and allies) managed to do, simply by standing by their morals and humaneness. That we can have faith this will continue to fuel us as we move forward and, as we have had to do in the past, find a way to re-build ourselves and our future, committing ourselves to making it better than what we had before.

(in the following photo: Tel Aviv's Purim street celebration in 1934, 14 years before the State of Israel declared Independence)

(in the following photo: Jerusalem's Purim street celebration, 2024)

Chag Purim Sameach!

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #israel under fire #israelunderattack #purim

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the-mountain-flower · 3 months ago

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The Exiled and The Outcast

Chapter Five: A Rose,

Dainix noticed his leg was bouncing when it bumped against the desk, startling him out of his reading stupor.

How long had he been doing that?

He tried not to worry about it too much, and went back to scanning the open book in front of him for anything useful.

Except… once interrupted, it became surprisingly difficult to go back to focusing on his task.

His mind kept wandering, and he found himself fidgeting with anything he could get his hands on.

Dainix sighed and leaned back in the chair.

He was bored out of his mind, subconsciously looking for anything else to do other than sit there and read for hours on end. Doing nothing but his exhausting search for-

Wait a second.

Just how long had he been at this? How long was it since he last got some exercise, how long since he’d been outside?!

He’d arrived at the castle only a few days ago, almost a sef at this point. The second day he’d gone to buy food, but other than that… he’d been in the same two rooms, repeating the same routine. Wake up, eat, research, eat, sleep, repeat. For five days .

Gods, no wonder he was so restless! He hadn’t stretched his muscles or even seen the sun in almost a sef!

Dainix stood up the second that realization set in, almost knocking over the chair in the process. He was out of that library that exact moment.

It was past time to get some fresh air.

The sun on his skin felt good . It wasn’t nearly as bright or hot as it was back home, the light broken up by the occasional cloud or leafy tree. Still, Dainix practically basked in the sunlight like a lizard. He breathed deeply, letting the fresh outside air into his lungs to replace the dusty, stagnant air of the castle.

It was probably the first time he found the world outside the desert not as cold and unfamiliar, but instead as a warm, welcome relief from the monotony he’d found himself in.

Dainix took his time familiarizing himself with his surroundings. The castle grounds had long since been neglected, the original gardens reclaimed by nature, trees and vines covering every stone arch and pillar. The amount of vibrant green still made him a bit uncomfortable, but not nearly as much as when he’d ventured into a forest for the first time. It was actually beautiful, in an overgrown, ancient way. The plant life here was so vastly different than anything he’d seen growing naturally in the desert, even in the underground oases.

He considered preserving something to take with him to show his family back home, settling on some brightly-colored flowers that looked like the wild descendants of what once grew in the flowerbeds. He’d seen something similar every once in a while, sometimes worn by traders and travelers passing through his village, and its likeness replicated during the Feast of Serenis. He hadn’t known roses came in colors other than red and pink, though. This one had petals that were white, its neighbors various shades of orange, yellow, red, pink, and white.

Careful of the thorns but knowing the wyrmsilk would block the sharp points, Dainix tucked the flower into his belt. He was aware that even dried out, it might not last for as long as it might take for him to return home if ever , but he tried to ignore that thought. It didn’t hurt to have a little token of hope.

Dainix started looking around for somewhere with enough space for him to get some exercise. He wanted to go over some of his forms and such, at least enough to keep his skills honed even if he wasn’t actively having to use them. He was still Ravvan, no matter where he was, and he wanted to hold onto that.

He thought he found a suitable place to practice, but stopped himself from entering all the way he noticed something off to the side, and realized this area was in use.

East of his position, back turned to Dainix, was Falst. He was sitting on the ground, a stick in one hand, and drawing something in the dirt in front of him. It was a little too far away for Dainix to see what it was, though what he could see were multiple pictures drawn in the ground around him. Falst was clearly absorbed in his work, detailing the lines in the ground with great care.

Dainix left try somewhere else, leaving Falst to draw in peace.

Falst’s ears picked up rustling and footsteps. Immersed in his drawing, he initially dismissed it as probably just an animal.

Sure enough, it stopped soon after. Then it came again, and Falst realized it didn’t actually sound like some random animal.

He whirled around, and saw the stranger- Danix- as he turned away and left the clearing.

Falst scowled. Someone so heavily armed had seen him with his guard down like that, and he hadn’t even noticed! He hadn’t seen Dainix outside the castle before, but context clues told him that of course he wouldn’t be the kind of person to willingly stay inside for too long. Falst was getting sloppy with keeping his guard up.

In frustration, he threw away the stick he’d been using, and raked his claws through the drawing in the dirt in front of him. It was a hobby he’d picked up in his time here, something he’d never had time for in the past. It gave him some comfort, at first just reminding him of the drawings gifted from a caring mother long ago, eventually becoming something he did fairly often.

Falst walked away from the small collage, leaving his newest drawing unfinished. Through the scattered dirt could be seen a rough sketch of tight, circular petals wrapped around each other above a thorny stem.

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

Y'all have no idea how excited I was writing that last paragraph.

I'd like to give lots of love to everyone who's been SO supportive so far!! Seriously, your comments have made me so happy, and reminded me why I love sharing my stories. Thank you so so much!!! <3

Remember to drink water, eat food, take your meds (if applicable), and get enough sleep. Love you all, and have a great [insert time here]! <3

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theblackestnight-ffxiv · 3 months ago

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[ffxivwrite2024] prompt 16: third-rate

“Seven hells, I’ve had it!” D’zinhla threw up her hands, scowling daggers at the paperwork on her desk.

From behind her, she registered Airraim’s curiosity-tinged concern. “What’s wrong, love?” she asked, and after the sound of a few footsteps, a hand rested on her shoulder.

D’zinhla was immediately contrite–but still very frustrated. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Airraim,” she said in a softer tone. “It’s just… Well, this folio!” She wrinkled her nose as she gestured at the offending documents. “It was so promising! There’s some very old works in here! Padjali and Gelmorran, besides Gridanian, things I’ve never found before! But because it wasn’t stored right, and especially because it wasn’t printed on the right materials, I could teach a class in incorrect archival procedures from just what’s wrong with this singular folio!”

“Mmm,” and she felt Airraim gently squeeze her shoulder. “That’s a deep disappointment.”

“Gods, is it ever. The only pieces that haven’t had parts lost to degradation are pieces I already have well in evidence in other, much better preserved folios.” She couldn’t help the scorn in her voice. “Meanwhile, the pieces new to me? I can tell, even as old as it is, that the paper was hardly worth the pulp it was made from. Too thin in some places, too thick in others, the thin places have worn away entirely and left me with missing sections.” She sighed, shaking her head. “It was kept well, there’s hardly any book-rot, the spine is cracked but that’s manageable, but when the very paper is fallen apart, that hardly helps preserve the information within!”

“Perhaps it was all the paper they had available?” Airraim ventured.

“Perhaps,” she said, biting her lip. “But that means whoever took possession of it later should have seen to it that copies were made, if not a restoration. Though there’s not a whole lot that can be done to restore what was already of poor quality to begin with.”

Her partner kept her hand on her shoulder, brushing back and forth with her thumb. “Though it could mean that copies are out there that were not kept with this piece.”

She flicked an ear. “True enough,” she conceded. “But they haven’t been found by me, or anyone I know of, so they might as well not exist until they are found. Still, I suppose that might have been done, make copies and keep the original as intact as it was… I could only hope that such copies, if they exist, were made before all this damage.”

“But for now, it doesn’t get you the new material you wanted.”

“Well,” and she hummed, considering the documents. “It does get me evidence of these songs, incomplete though they are. And they are new to me, even if they could have been whole and entire, and are instead piecemeal. Still,” she sighed, and lifted a hand to pat Airraim’s. “Thank you for hearing me out, love. I know the minutiae of document preservation hardly interests you.”

“But it interests you, and therefore, I care to hear about it.” Airraim bent and pressed a kiss to the top of D’zinhla’s head. “You heard me out about my latest batch of fragrance failing miserably.”

“But that I can follow better, it’s-” She stopped herself with a wry smile, twisting in her chair to look up at her partner. “Sorry, you’re right, thank you.”

Airraim smiled, and it filled her with a flood of warmth. “Of course,” she said. “Now- what do you need to go on from here?”

D’zinhla knew she was being shepherded away from her indignation and onward into something more actionable, but she could bite back the ridiculous obstinate urge to resist the attempt. “Well, now I need to start transcribing what I can, before this terrible paper degrades even further. So I’ll need my inks-”

Her partner chuckled. “I’ll leave you to it then. But I think I will take this time to go put some more tea on.”

“A lovely idea, but no rush for me, I’ll need to keep it off the desk while I’m working.” She was already preparing her workspace, thinking mindfully of what needed to go where, what hazards needed to be mitigated, what steps would need to be taken. She heard another chuckle, and Airraim’s steps away, but it faded into background as she focused on the work in front of her. She could indeed salvage something of worth out of this, even if it wasn’t the prize she had hoped it to be!

#ffxivwrite2024 #wol: d'zinhla rhee #timeline: some ill-defined period after EW MSQ

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milich96-ocs-blog · 1 year ago

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sooo what's the story of caden's return? I need to know. What has malakay been up to all this time

Caden was born in a small village in the hills, into a peasant family. He made himself known when at 16 he managed to chase away a vampire spawn that had been oppressing his fellow villagers for months. Having become a small local hero, he defended the village from other attacks by little monsters until he was 20, after which he left to become a soldier of the Flaming Fist. During the military service his dreams of doing something good were soon destroyed: many soldiers only aimed at power, making money, they didn't care too much about defending others. The straw that broke the camel's back was seeing one of his legion companions beat the hell out of a boy slightly younger than Caden.

He abandoned the hood and decided to return to his origins: son of farmers, the land and nature are our greatest assets and we must preserve and protect them. He became a paladin of the ancients - venerator of Chauntea. He led his happy life for many years, protecting the druid coven of Emerald Woods, but he also realized that his life was limited. Being human, he could only help them until he was 70 at most. Seeing his friends elves, gnomes, dwarves, halflings not age like him brought him a sense of sadness and anger towards himself, his nature. He decided to do something crazy: he made a pact with the hag from the nearby forest.

He asked her to have the chance to live forever and never grow old again. The hag agreed at the price of adding another purpose to Caden's life: fighting for someone he loved. The human was surprised. That's all? Fighting for someone he loved? But he was already fighting for his friends in the woods and his loved ones at home. The crone replied: "It's not enough. You have to have someone, a favorite person and fight for them too." However, he didn't have a favorite person, he had never bothered to cultivate love as he was too busy defending nature. And he didn't even think he had a chance with other people. The hag spoke "there is no problem - I will find them for you. But you will have to swear to fight with soul, mind and body for them"

Caden did not understand the gravity of that request and accepted. The person the hag chose was a devil who had recently stolen 4 crow's feet from her: a certain Malakay Avaritia.

Malakay until then had lived a normal life in Cabrafè, together with his family. He met Caden when he was 20. He found the paladin more of a nuisance than dangerous: annoying at best. He never hurt Mala, but it was creepy and kinda weird. At 24 Mala met Octo for the first time and fell deeply in love (he would never admit it). So much that he left home to follow the god. Caden was devastated and began roaming the world to look for Malakay, while also following his paladin path.

Mala has travelled for centuries with friends and lovers, and has now bought at home in Porto Veneno, where he lives with his 3 husbands and 2 children. As for Caden we are still cooking up something for him.

#caden #malakay avaritia #malakay avaritia tonic phander polpi #malakay #ask and you shall receive

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vickyvicarious · 2 years ago

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God preserve my sanity was told like a legit prayer in the audio!!

It's like. Preserve my sanity. Let me die sane and leave the real me behind. Let me fight the madness clawing at the edges of my mind until I can preserve my soul in these pages and help someone else. And because it's not a story about Individualist Hero conquering all, he manages to save his sanity until he could no more. And then, mad and at the mercy of kinder souls, he waits for his love, whose name was the very first thing he could manage remember, to come to him.

I have been trying and failing to come up with an eloquent response to this for days and days now. Well said. God.

I can't get the image/sound of Jonathan praying into his diary out of my head. There's something here in finding faith and in his desperation and determination keeping him going when he doesn't even have hope anymore, because he wants so badly to live, to leave this place, to return to the one he loves. He just keeps going and going and pushing himself through as long as possible, but as soon as he is out of immediate danger he just can't anymore. He's been running on fumes for so long already. But it's okay, because even if that diary (diary as sanity, diary as soul, diary as ability to help prevent this happening to others) is all he has when he leaves, he still has it. He lost so much else but he managed to protect the most important things long enough. It's okay that he couldn't keep going longer, because as soon as he managed to get out he wasn't alone anymore. The kindness and care of strangers bookends his castle experiences and ensures Jonathan's survival. This novel isn't about an Individualist Hero at all, it's about bonds that bring people together, trust and love and support, and when Jonathan simply can't carry the weight of everything he's experienced any longer, others are there to support him. Even before Mina physically arrives. But she was there all along...

The thought of Mina gave him the strength to stay alive long enough to make it back to her, she was the first one he could speak about, his first clarity in the depths of his madness. And she accepted him, as changed and weakened as he was, with immediate and complete joy. She accepted his diary, the gift of his horrible experiences (diary as sanity, etc--), and treasured and protected it and him. Never betrayed his trust but only sought to help him, and once she learned what he'd been through she believed him without hesitation. Sought to validate him immediately, to reassure him that the sanity he scratched and clawed to preserve was indeed real - and yes, thus his nightmares too, but he did it. He made it out. And his record achieved what he wanted all along, it helped to protect others from Dracula and his like, it helped them to end him forever. (But not alone. None of them could have done it alone.)

His prayer is granted, more than granted because he makes it out the other side of this in the end. Forever changed, but not in the way he feared so badly, the way he was willing to die to escape. And instead of dying alone with only the desperate desire that his words can serve to help someone, anyone... he lives on, surrounded by a new family. Having defeated his former tormentor for good. And while the original diary no longer exists (just as pre-castle Jonathan can never come back), there are copies. The knowledge (his soul, his sanity, every metaphor or symbol ever applied to his diary as well as all the other letters and journals of everyone else) will never be lost.

#dracula daily spoilers #dracula daily #idk if this is coherent i got emotional #jonathan harker #jonmina #anonymous #replies #dracula documents

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unbreakablenott · 15 hours ago

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MORCANT ELDRITCH NOTT ・ 27 ・ HE & HIM ・ FC JONAH HAUER KING PUREBLOOD ・ NEUTRAL ・ SLYTHERIN ALUMNI ・ UNSPEAKABLE SPELL INVENTOR ・ ENCHANTED PORTRAIT ARTIST ・ FIRST OF HIS NAME

✅ AMBITIOUS ・ INSIGHTFUL ・ DETERMINED ・ RESOURCEFUL・ CURIOUS ・ CONFIDENT ・ COMMITED ・ INTELLIGENT ・ BALANCED

❌ PRIDEFUL ・ HAS A GOD COMPLEX ・ MANIPULATIVE ・ INDIVIDUALISTIC ・ LOOSE SENSE OF MORALS ・ STUBBORN ・ PETTY

pinterest board !!

spotify mixtape !!

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

Morcant was born in 1952, the eighth day of november, making him a scorpio. His close friends call him Morgan, after he's given the permission.

The Nott family created the most widely used version of the Unbreakable Vow in Great Britain (++ read more below). For them, blood purity is merely a safeguard for their traditions and knowledge—it ensures the family line doesn't become diluted by alliances with other families or muggle-borns who could threaten their magical security.

He has a naturally ambitious disposition, aiming for the progress of the Nott family to the Old Traditions. Originally, the Ancient and Noble House of Nott adhered to the Celtic Calendar and married other purebloods as to keep the wizard lineage alive. However, he thinks that the concept of what is a pureblood might have been distorted after almost 1600 years.

He personally thinks it's stupid and reckless to hunt muggleborns and half-bloods. He values magical power over blood status; as for going after muggles, that's a massive danger against the State of Secrecy, and he believes that people against it have learned nothing with Grindelwald.

On the other hand, he doesn't trust Dumbledore and knows that the man is a power-hungry figure of power. He met the man a couple of times and felt Dumbledore trying to read his mind to figure out if he was a Death Eater. It was very subtle, but this experience only solidified his belief that defeating Grindelwald wasn't glory enough for the older wizard.

Cantakerous Nott, his grandfather, published in the 1940s the directory of the "Sacred 28", highlighting the 28 families that still kept the bloodline pure. Following the tradition, his father is a Death Eater.

⸻ THE NOTT HOUSEHOLD

The surname Nott is derived from the Old English word “cnutu” or “hnutu”, which means knot or lump. They trace their origins back to early Celtic druids or Norse wizards, making them keepers of ancient, secretive magical traditions.

The knot is a symbol of “binding”, making the Gordian Knot part of their family crest. The Notts are specialists in binding magic, which can be achieved with magical traps, cursed objects, or Dark Spells. They have created the most widely used form of the Unbreakable Vow in Great Britain.

The Notts are intellectuals, particularly in the areas of ancient magic, magical theory, and artifacts. This knowledge was passed down through generations, often in secret to protect it from the ravages of war, politics, and the more radical factions in wizarding society.

Their ancestral wealth is often tied not to an old family fortune but to magical artifacts, books, and knowledge. This might include rare, cursed objects or even dangerous rituals that they’re careful to keep hidden.

Loyalty to the Nott family itself is prized above loyalty to any ideological system. The Notts are a family that values the preservation of their legacy more than any single allegiance. Their actions in wizarding politics are more often motivated by self-interest and the need to maintain control over their arcane heritage. The family's complicated political positions might involve shifting alliances based on the need to stay on top, whether that means allying with the Death Eaters, the Ministry, or other factions.

The Ministry of Magic has been trying to arrest the Notts and confiscate their items from vaults and the manor for years. They know there's an obscene amount of history protected by the Nott family, but they have no means or legal instances to take their items from them.

The Nott family has a special ritual similar to an Unbreakable Vow that they must do when they reach maturity.

⸻ PERSONALITY

Morcant's relationship with his father is horrible, not because he is a rebel against his family values, but because he openly disagrees with the path his father is taking the Notts. He keeps their image outside, as not to show lack of unity and, therefore, weakness, but at home, they both know how rocky things are.

He looks like a sweet guy and is legitimately a polite, charming person. After all, you trap more flies with honey than vinegar. Considering that his father has a nasty temper, Morcant prefers to conquer people's loyalties with respect rather than fear.

Nobody knows this, but he fully believes that he can overthrow his father and be the head of the family in less than 5 years, before his father reaches 60. He is also fully delusional on that, since his father's power and connections with the Death Eaters are more dangerous than he thinks.

Morcant isn't particularly loyal as a notable personality trait, since it's hard to earn his loyalty. However, he is capable of actual crimes to protect those few, which is the good side of having loose morals.

He didn't receive enough love as a child and doesn't know the difference between affection and sexual love, save for rare instances.

Morcant believes he can be liked, but his parents never said that they loved them, so he doesn't think anyone would love him.

#intro.

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tumble-d-wumble-phd · 2 months ago

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So I was talking to a friend today who is sort of fond of AI features. He’s a tech guy, loves the latest trends, and is a very receptive and kind-hearted person who does photography but cannot draw. We were discussing pornography of Clippy the Microsoft officesona, which he immediately assumed had been created by AI. I had seen this particular art piece at around the age of 16, so I told him that was impossible and that, anyway, AI cannot make art because it does not have a soul. It can make images, but it cannot make art.

He balked at this and suggested we debate it, which I don’t think personal opinion with zero impact on the other party needst be debated but off we go because it’s fun. His argument was that art is defined by having a passionate reaction: love, hate, fear, disgust. Therefore, if you hate AI art, that makes it art. We were chatting over pizza in a loud bar, so he didn’t get to elaborate much between slices. However, I think following this line of logic is interesting. It makes me think of urinals in museum displays and swastika graffiti. Do we preserve that which we hate, despise, find generally offputting?

When?

Why?

Recently, I saw images of a sculptural set here on Hellsite. They were made to look like litter in a big stark-white modern museum, scattered haphazardly. One piece got thrown away: a dented soda can.

It was relocated and got a clearer label.

The soda can does not make me disgusted, angry, or insulted. Moreover, it does not summon any sort of passion I can name.

Why do I think it’s art?

My first prong of the argument back was on that very question. I pointed to cathedrals first as I struggled to conjure a better point: they weren’t meant to stir passion, but devotion. Here was something big and vast that had to depict its major facets in pictures because the holy men spoke a weird language you didn’t necessarily grasp called “Latin” and sometimes they couldn’t speak it either and a guy got so mad about it he made a whole other religion. I think I choked something out about brutalist architecture too, more art made to make you feel humble and collective. Therefore, art does not have to stir a passionate reaction in order to be classified as art.

There’s obvious problems with this, namely that we can slightly shift his argument to encapsulate any sort of emotional reaction whatsoever. In this case, the discovery of a spider web by walking face-first in and screaming is art. Maybe it is, to God.

Via the water slide that is ADHD, I found myself discussing artistic depictions of Muhammad (a subject I do not feel qualified enough to explain on the internet) before cascading into Christianity. I told him about how Eastern Orthodox produced depictions of Jesus and co. in what some might find a more “medieval” or “unrefined” style well past the renaissance. They knew about the trends and the gay Italians. However, to them, holy art had to summon up to otherworldliness, sanctity. The face of God cannot cast shadows. Even in Italy itself, the brief rise of Dominican friar Girolama Savonarola (whose name I butchered horribly) in Florence allegedly had even Botticelli torch some of his paintings. To Savonarola, it was to combat the heresy of vanity. All these works cared about was the beauty of delicately rendered bodies, not Christ himself!

The Catholic Church had him executed.

Jesus HAD to stay sexy.

They really needed this at the time.

The second point I was trying to make with this, before I got distracted misnaming dead Italians, was that what ACTUALLY makes art is the meaning behind it. The bit of our soul we mix in is how much fun we’re having with this new brush, or that we really hate our stepdad, or that I need something to cheer me up after school. The soda can is art because the artist meant to make it. They meant to make it SO close to the original that someone could easily be mistaken, which I’m sure took weeks of hard work. They succeeded.

AI cannot make art because it doesn’t mean anything to the machine.

God did mean for me to run into that spider web though. The bastard.

#art #ai #god #spiderwebs

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ollieofthebeholder · 10 months ago

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 96: December 2017

“Melanie, the bus. The bus!” Gerry practically spat, bracing himself against the roof of the car. “Jesus, you’re going to get us killed.”

“Not if you don’t touch us,” Melanie shot back. “Isn’t that how it works?”

“Only if you have a chance of surviving. The way you’re driving—”

“I’m sorry, did you want to drive?”

Martin rubbed his temples. “You know, you two didn’t have to come.”

“Yes, we did,” Melanie and Gerry said in unison. Martin sighed and gave up. He was only going to have enough energy for one good fight today.

Part of him wished Jon was there. Jon had…not offered to come, actually; he’d stayed silent, but he’d clearly been hoping Martin would ask him to come. And Martin wouldn’t lie, he’d considered it. In the end, though, he’d decided not to—partly because he needed as many people to stay near the Archives as possible just in case something attacked, although they hadn’t seen anything since Jared Hopworth. Mostly it was because he didn’t want to put Jon through what was coming.

He didn’t really want to put himself through what was coming either, but he didn’t have much of a choice. And he couldn’t risk waiting much longer, based on what Celeste had said, very gently, when he’d called.

The clouds were having a hard time deciding if they wanted to be on the ground or just hanging out in the treetops; at any rate, they’d been driving through intermittent fog for the last hour, most of which Melanie and Gerry had spent arguing, bickering, squabbling, and just generally behaving in a way that would have had Martin threatening to turn the car around if he’d been the one driving and instead had him trying to stop the Eye from running calculations on whether or not he could jump out while it was moving or if he should wait to see if Melanie actually stopped at a traffic light first. It was weather more appropriate to nearly Halloween than nearly Christmas, and it was also the only thing that made Martin thankful he’d brought his siblings along. Otherwise he’d have been tempted to believe it was the Lonely.

Melanie and Gerry fell silent as they passed the entrance to Forest Lawn Memorial Park, even though neither of them looked directly at it. Martin did, though. Visibility wasn’t great, but the fog cleared just enough that he could make out the looming shape of the lone mausoleum.

He pressed a palm to the glass and made a wordless promise that they would stop on their way back. No point in coming all the way out here and not seeing both of them.

It was another ten minutes—ten very quiet minutes, during which Melanie did at least drop the car to a reasonable speed—before the sign for Rosewood Forest Hospital and Care Home loomed up in front of them. They’d replaced it sometime in the last five years—God, had it really been five years since he’d been out this way?—with smooth granite engraved in an old-fashioned, gilded script and embellished with trees twining their branches to form an arch, ringed by light tan bricks, something to really display how high class the place was supposed to be. The building itself was a Grade II listed, dating back to the 1800s; they’d preserved most of the original architecture, but the interior had been completely redone several times. From the outside, on a sunny day, it put one in mind of an Austen novel, but on a day like this one, its appearance owed more to one of the Brontë sisters.

There was some story, probably apocryphal, about one of the royals having stayed there when it was still a manor house, but it had been turned into a hospital during the first World War and, due to the location being so good for the shell-shocked and severely injured men to recover, had stayed as a convalescent, then a care home. Now it was one of the few long-term care facilities in the country that admitted patients under the age of sixty-five who weren’t completely unable to handle their own affairs. And it was there—in room 113, East Wing—that Liliana Blackwood-King had resided for nearly eight years.

There weren’t a lot of visitors, which was a bit surprising given that it was the Saturday before Christmas, but it was still a bit early and the weather was bad. Maybe more people would be getting there later in the day, but Martin really wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. Anyway, even when she’d still been at home, mornings had always been better for her.

Melanie pulled the car into a parking spot, and she and Gerry followed Martin into the building. The front entrance was just as he remembered it, white and opulent and sparkling, with lots of cosy, comfortable-looking seating scattered about, soft music piped in, and cheerful prints on the wall. Tinsel and fairy lights hung on a number of surfaces, but none where a hand might need to rest or a walker or wheelchair might tangle—the staff really had thought of everything. It gleamed, despite the gloomy day, and overall gave the impression more of an upscale spa or resort than a hospital.

The room was deserted save a single uniformed nurse behind the wide swerve of the reception desk. It wasn’t Sheila, but it wasn’t Celeste either, and in fact Martin didn’t know her on sight—which wasn’t surprising, considering how long it had been since he’d actually been there. She smiled as they approached.

“Good morning,” she said in a high, pert voice. “How may I help you?”

Martin returned her smile more than half mechanically. “Good morning. I’m here to see Liliana Blackwood-King.”

The nurse’s smile slipped slightly. “Oh—ah—I don’t know if she’s taking visitors today,” she hedged.

“She’ll see me,” Martin said, quietly but firmly. “Please let her know the Archivist is here.”

The nurse picked up the phone and dialed a couple of numbers. After a moment, she spoke into one end. “Ah, Mrs. Temple? There’s an Archivist here to see Miss Liliana, is she…?” She listened for a moment, then blinked in surprise. “Oh—um, of course, thank you.” She replaced the receiver and gave Martin an uncertain smile. “She’s waiting for you. Room 113. Just through those double doors there, first left, and it’ll be the second door on the right.”

“Thank you.” Martin probably could have Known that, or at least remembered it, but he was happy to accept her directions. He started down the corridor with Melanie and Gerry in his wake.

Once on the other side of the indicated doors, the opulence of the front area died down quickly. It continued, more or less, down the length of the hall, but as soon as they turned the corner the floors were cracked, the carpet runners threadbare, the paint blistered and peeling. There were no decorations here, save one or two rather cheerless wreathes or bells on individual doors; far from the front hall with its scents of lemon polish and pine boughs and vanilla scent diffusers, these corridors smelled faintly of mildew and urine and hopelessness. They passed a businesslike older woman with brassy curls under a starched white cap whose name tape read TEMPLE; Martin surmised she was the lead nurse on the ward, or at the very least on this shift. She didn’t give them so much as a second glance. He spotted Celeste going into one of the rooms further down the hall, and two more nurses chatting quietly over a medicine cart, but none of them were likely to disturb them either.

The door to 113 was closed and unadorned; the nameplate next to the door bore only a single name, although the room was clearly a double occupancy. That was good; it meant they would be able to talk without interference or concern.

Martin didn’t bother knocking. He just opened the door and walked in.

The curtains were drawn, the television and overhead lights off; the only illumination in the room came from what looked like one of those Himalayan sea salt lamps that some people claimed had healing properties. It was enough to see by. Certainly enough to see the occupant of the bed. She’d obviously taken some pains to sit upright, hands folded over the blanket in her lap, but equally obviously she wouldn’t have managed it were it not for the bed itself being raised.

Martin hadn’t seen, or been allowed to see, his mother since they had buried his stepfather, and he was shocked at the change in her appearance. Her face was drawn, practically skeletal, and her bed jacket hung loose on her frame. The fine ash-blonde hair she’d always taken care to style no matter how sick she was, the one thing she’d ever allowed Martin to do without complaint, was mostly gone, reduced to a few wisps of brittle white that clung pathetically to the paper-thin skin on her skull. Her eyes had faded to a weak, watery blue-grey that looked almost colorless in the dim light. Only her expression was the same. As was the way it shifted from cold determination to annoyance at the sight of her only son.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice as thin and faded as the rest of her.

“Hello to you, too, Mum.” Martin stepped more fully into the room. He’d worn a collared shirt and one of his better pairs of trousers, along with a plain and serious navy blue jumper; he’d had to change first, as he’d been wearing a wool skirt when he’d started the day, but he’d decided not to antagonize his mother more than necessary. That didn’t mean he was going to just take everything she dealt him. Not anymore.

His mother didn’t rise to the bait, not that he’d really expected her to. “I suppose you didn’t think you’d get past the door if you were honest.”

Martin folded his arms over his chest. “First of all, considering you’ve been refusing my calls since before Dad died, I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to expect that you’d refuse my visit too. And second, I was honest.”

“Mrs. Temple said the Archivist was here,” his mother said accusingly.

“Yes. He is.” Martin reached into his pocket and pulled out the tape recorder, which—unsurprisingly—was already on, and set it on the nightstand. “Duly appointed. Contract and everything.”

His mother’s thin eyebrows shot up her forehead. “You? You’re the Archivist? For how long?”

“Six months or so. I wasn’t Elias Bouchard’s first choice, or even his choice at all. The Beholding chose me.”

His mother gave a short, bitter laugh and leaned back against the bed, closing her eyes for a moment. A small, smug smirk flitted across her lips. “I bet Gertrude Robinson is thrilled with that. Did she get fired?”

“You could say that,” Martin said dryly. “Terminated with extreme prejudice, I think is the term. She’s dead.”

His mother’s eyes flew open, and she turned her head sharply to stare at him. “What? When? Six months ago? Why didn’t she—” She checked herself, pursing up her lips.

“Why didn’t she come see you first?” Martin supplied. “And no, it’s been two and a half years. Elias Bouchard murdered her. He appointed someone else as the Archivist in her place initially, but…”

“But the Ceaseless Watcher likes Martin better,” Melanie said. “Most of us do.”

“Melanie,” Martin murmured.

“I didn’t say we don’t like Jon too. I just said we all like you better.”

His mother flicked her gaze back and forth between the two of them. “I find that extremely difficult to believe.”

“Believe what you like. I didn’t come here to talk about my personal life.” Martin grabbed the chair against the wall, pulled it closer to her bed, and sat down without waiting for her permission. “I need to ask you some questions.”

His mother studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed. “And if I choose not to answer them?” she asked softly.

Martin met her gaze as steadily as he could. “You will.”

The huff of air could have been a laugh, or it could have been a defiant snort. “Even she never compelled me.”

“She tried.” Gerry had told Martin about his latest flashback, and Martin still wasn’t sure if he was impressed or annoyed.

“And didn’t succeed,” his mother countered.

“I didn’t say she tried all that hard. It was accidental in the first place. It was also a simple yes or no question. These won’t be.”

“Do you think you’re more powerful than she is, then? Somehow better than Gertrude Robinson was after forty years as Archivist when you’ve only been doing it for six months?”

“No, but I do think you’re weaker than you were thirteen years ago, and I also know that she was doing everything she could not to hurt you,” Martin said, letting some of the acid churning in his gut into his tone. “She cared about you. I don’t.”

“How dare you? I am your mother—”

“And you have never, not once, done anything to protect me,” Martin interrupted. “Or shown the slightest consideration for me, or done anything that wasn’t expected of you as a parent. You trapped me in a world I knew nothing about, bound me to something I didn’t understand, and any time I tried to do something for myself you punished me for it. I didn’t ask to be born, and I certainly didn’t ask you to be my mother, any more than you asked for Gertrude Robinson to be yours, and I didn’t and don’t deserve to be mistreated because those things are true. I gave up twenty years of my life for you, Mother, and the least you can do is give me twenty minutes of your time and the goddamned truth for once. And if you don’t give it to me, I will be taking it by force. You don’t have to like it, but I am here to get answers from you, and I’m not leaving without them.”

A part of him felt guilty about this. Not about intimidating his mother, even in the condition she was in, but about the fact that every compulsion tied him a little tighter to the Ceaseless Watcher. He might have already been inextricably bound to it, but…he didn’t have to become a complete monster. He’d never do something like this if Jon was here.

Which, admittedly, may have also been part of the reason he hadn’t brought him along.

From the doorway, Gerry spoke quietly. “Look at it this way, Aunt Lily. You’re dying either way. You can either go out to him, or you can go out to me. And at least if you die by using all your energy spilling your guts to the Beholding, you’ll probably be free of everything.” He stepped a bit closer, and his voice took on a little of the curious echoing quality it had taken in the House of Wax when he had severed Danny’s soul from its flesh and wax prison. “You will get no such guarantee from us.”

His mother shrank back slightly, eyes widening, before she recovered herself and turned her attention back to Martin. He could taste the tiny bit of fear in the air, though, and it was…at least marginally gratifying. Even if it wasn’t entirely directed at him. “Fine. Fine. Whatever you’re going to ask…do it now.”

Martin took a moment to gather his thoughts, then took a deep breath and drew on the Eye as he locked gazes with his mother. “Tell me what you did.”

As was usually the way when he took a live statement these days, his mother’s attention met his with laser focus. “It started with the talisman your father placed under my pillow, and on your incubator, when you were born. My father had told me about the Fourteen, hoping I would avoid them, but I guessed that the token belonged to Terminus and thought that if I could join the pieces together again, I could keep breaking it to save my life every time I came close to death. But it didn’t work. Joining the pieces together only made me weaker and weaker. I even tried to give it to you, thought that maybe if I put it in your cradle or hung it over you with your mobile it would affect you instead, but instead…whenever it was near someone who wasn’t me, the further I got, the weaker I got and the stronger they—you—got. I kept it with me all the time, but it only helped keep me from getting weaker, it never made me stronger. I started doing research, trying to find someone other than Mikaele Salesa or Gertrude Robinson—or anyone at the Magnus Institute—who would know what it was. I never dared tell my father. He would have only scolded, not helped. Or not helped the right way. He would have tried to make it stop entirely, instead of help me to master it.

“I finally heard about Jurgen Leitner, just before your father left. My plan was to go and visit him, perhaps offer to be his assistant if he would let me see a book that could…so I moved us to London, but I had only just got settled when news started spreading about the attack, the breaking up of his library, and the loss of the knowledge. It was an unexpected bit of luck that the antiquarian book dealer who told me the news also told me about his foremost rival in the rare book market, a woman by the name of Mary Keay. I got the information and made an appointment, and it was then that we visited for the first time. Mary was the one who helped me to understand the talisman. The End and the Corruption both, tied together in a nasty bit of bone and sinew. When split, it put the two in conflict with one another and directed them away from the afflicted, but by putting them back together I had caused them both to fight it out inside myself. It had claimed me, and it would punish me for trying to corrupt another. Even you.

“Mary helped me. First by finding ways to…pacify the two, then by helping me to strengthen myself. And I joined in her work. And then you found your first book of power, and we both knew we could use that, that perhaps you, more than either of us, could find the book with the answer to my problem. You were so pathetically eager to please back then, it was so remarkably easy to coerce you into looking…and Melanie and Gerard were never able to rein you back. Especially since they wanted approval, too.

“If there was anything that was hard about it, it was keeping any of you from finding outside influence, from finding outlets that weren’t part of our world. Easy enough to manipulate you each on your own, but as a unit…a bit of spellwork here and there did the trick, though. Hexes to make other children avoid you. Curses to turn opinion away from you. It never worked on more than one of you at once, but you were so loyal to one another that if someone hated one of you, all of you would avoid that someone, so a bit of dissent here, a bit of annoyance there, and soon enough we had you isolated enough that you were trapped. Meanwhile, we were looking for the books, but also a way for us to become masters of them. The trouble was we never could manage to gain the favor of more than one at a time. And so we kept trying.

“You almost managed to escape. Gertrude Robinson—my mother—facilitated that. I was so angry with her. Not enough for her to interfere with the Rituals—not that I wanted them to succeed, but she didn’t need to interfere—but now she was getting involved on a personal level, encouraging you to audition for that college program. She threatened retaliation if I did anything to you in order to prevent you from going, and I didn’t doubt she was serious, but I had to do something to get you back. Mary was the one who found the way—a little nothing book from the Spiral, just a book of poetry really. Easy enough to slip into the pile on Roger’s nightstand. Then all I had to do was wait. He was beginning to forget anyway, so who would have thought it anything but natural? All we did was…nudge it along a bit.”

Melanie let out a strangled noise of rage and despair; Martin heard a rustle from behind him as Gerry, presumably, wrapped his arms around her. He ignored them both, focusing on his mother, who had faltered briefly at the noise. “Go on.”

Instantly, his mother refocused and continued. “We had hoped to get all three of you back, but Melanie managed to stay away—or you managed to keep her away. At least at first. She came back in the summer and still helped you all, though. Mary kept looking out for a book that would help me. She had her own, of course, the Catalog of the Dead, but we knew there had to be one that I could master and free myself from the torment of it all. And then…we found it. Or we thought we did. The Last Quagga , it was called, a book about Endlings—the last of a species. But in the illustrations, if you knew where to look, was a blueprint for becoming master of death, putting yourself beyond the reach of extinction. And we had a plan. Mary went and spoke to my mother one last time, gave her one final gift from both of us, and then came back and showed me what I needed to do. We agreed we would speak again after we had both reached apotheosis.

“Of course, you know what happened to her. She needed Gerard’s help to finish, and he selfishly refused. My problem was that I needed complete isolation for mine to work. I had to perform the rite on my own. But I was only partly finished when Roger came into the room.

“He didn’t know what I was doing, poor dear. Or what he was doing. It was one of his bad days, and he only wanted a cup of tea, wanted to know where Melanie was. And then he called me Amy, and it broke my concentration. I screamed at him, startled him, and for the first time in all the years I had known him he yelled back, and we had a fight such as we never had before. And it was only after he left, slamming the door behind him, that I realized I had stopped. I reached for the book to finish…and then I fell to the floor.

“You know the rest. The doctors at the hospital said we were too much for you to handle and it was time to have us placed somewhere. We went to Ivy Meadows for a while, but they never could help me—obviously, they couldn’t help Roger either, but at least they thought his problems were something they were used to, just ordinary dementia. Mine, though…they recommended Rosewood Forest, and here I am. I was genuinely upset to hear about what happened at Ivy Meadows, but at least I was able to bargain for Roger to be removed. They would not be allowed to use him.”

His mother drew in a breath and sighed, sinking back into the seat. Martin felt the statement settle into his body and hated every moment of it, even as it fueled him. He pressed his lips tightly together for a moment, then asked, “What did the talisman do to you?”

“I called it the Hollowing,” his mother replied. “It took everything inside me and turned it to nothing, made me just…a husk. Easy to fill with…something that shouldn’t.” Her breathing was beginning to get a bit ragged.

Martin had no sympathy for her. “How did you destroy it?”

His mother gave a hoarse laugh. “Fire. Like…the books. Thought we didn’t know?”

“We didn’t particularly care if you did,” Martin said. A bit of a lie, but not much of one. “Why did you kill my father?”

“In the way.” His mother’s voice was nothing but a thread now. “Too close to Salesa. Might have stopped me. Roger was…easier to work with.”

She closed her eyes. Her chest rose slightly with shallow, rasping breaths. Martin stared at her, wanting to feel something of the pity or empathy or, yes, love he’d once felt for her, anything to indicate he wasn’t wholly inhuman—after all, she was, when all was said and done, his mother. But the only thing he felt was disgust, anger, contempt…and a sudden, burning desire to know the answer to one last question.

The Eye sensed it, and rushed in eagerly. The static he was only barely aware of these days rose to near a fever pitch as, unable to stop himself, he asked, “Did you ever love me at all?”

A single delicate snort, barely a pop, and she didn’t even bother opening her eyes to answer. “Never.”

One last rattling breath, and her chest stilled. The temperature in the room dropped, or seemed to drop, several degrees. For long moments, Martin just sat, staring at the corpse on the bed.

Finally, from behind him, Gerry spoke in the ringing, echoing voice of the End. “Thus ends Liliana Blackwood-King.”

Click.

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#Martin Blackwood #Melanie King #Gerard Keay #arguments #hospitals #emotional abuse #misuse of Beholding powers #slight misuse of Terminus powers #chronic illness #death

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runawaycarouselhorse · 1 year ago

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why do people of other religions get punished in islam?

In the Name of God, Most Merciful, Most Gracious...

"Indeed, those who believed and those who were Jews or Christians or Sabeans [before Prophet Muhammad] - those [among them] who believed in Allah and the Last Day and did righteousness - will have their reward with their Lord, and no fear will there be concerning them, nor will they grieve." [2:62, (translation of interpretation of meaning of the) Quran]

This question is phrased in an inlammatory way that tells me you don't sincerely want an answer and just want to antagonize me or you have hang-ups with religion in general and want to take this out on the nearest adherant of an Abrahamic religion or you just hate Islam/Muslims, but seeing as I'm bored, I'l bite.

If there was no right path, there would be no real reason why uou couldn't follow any other path.

Why do you care if you're not even Muslm what any other religion's God says? Why do you care, if this stuff doesn't apply to you or your world view?

Muslims must treat everyone kindly and justly, unless they wage war against us, prevdnt us from practicjng our faith, drive us out from our gomes, etc. Jihad is self-defense in that respect. If peace is an option, we take it!

"Allah does not forbid you from those who do not fight you because of religion and do not expel you from your homes – from being righteous toward them and acting justly toward them. Indeed, Allah loves those who act justly." [60:8, (translation of interpretation of the) Quran]

We believe life is a test, God wants to see if we love Him enough to worship Him. God sent prophets and messengers to every nation, but over the years, the original texts have been altered, lost, mixed with human interpretation, etc. Islam is the final message and, unlike the previous messages, is for all of humanity until the end of time, and the miracle of this last Prophet is an unchanging book preserved to the end of time (when it will be lifted and all good people will gently pass away, so only the worst of humanity will witness the end before resurrection.)

You can find copies of the Quran from a thousand years ago and not one letter is altered. Translations of its meaning can differ and be incomplete, each translator bringing you only part of the meaning, but the original Arabic text is memorized, understood, and recited daily by many Muslims and always has been for 1400+ years.

The people who worshipped God on their own, having received no message or in the gap between God sending messengers, will enter Heaven, like a pious man who lived in the time between Jesus and Muhammad who worshipped one God and saved baby girls from being buried by their fathers, but knew no religion.

People who simply never heard of God or any of His religions in life could be tested on the Day of Judgment and enter Heaven if they believe.

Anyone upon any of the Abrahmic faiths who never learned the message of Islam can enter Heaven.

There was a Christian man who recognized signs of prophethood in Muhammad before the message of Islam, who wanted to follow him, but passed away before the message (wnen he had just see Jibreel/Archangel Gabriel), and he also entered Heaven.

The Prophet (ﷺ) returned to Khadija while his heart was beating rapidly. She took him to Waraqa bin Naufal who was a Christian convert and used to read the Gospels in Arabic Waraqa asked (the Prophet), "What do you see?" When he told him, Waraqa said, "That is the same angel whom Allah sent to the Prophet) Moses. Should I live till you receive the Divine Message, I will support you strongly."

Another longer narration (sunnah.com has some awkward translating from Arabic though)...

'... Khadija then accompanied him to her cousin Waraqa bin Naufal bin Asad bin 'Abdul 'Uzza, who, during the pre-Islamic Period became a Christian and used to write the writing with Hebrew letters. He would write from the Gospel in Hebrew as much as Allah wished him to write. He was an old man and had lost his eyesight. Khadija said to Waraqa, "Listen to the story of your nephew, O my cousin!" Waraqa asked, "O my nephew! What have you seen?" Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) described whatever he had seen. Waraqa said, "This is the same one who keeps the secrets (angel Gabriel) whom Allah had sent to Moses. I wish I were young and could live up to the time when your people would turn you out." Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) asked, "Will they drive me out?" Waraqa replied in the affirmative and said, "Anyone (man) who came with something similar to what you have brought was treated with hostility; and if I should remain alive till the day when you will be turned out then I would support you strongly." But after a few days Waraqa died and the Divine Inspiration was also paused for a while.'

Another narration concering Waraqah, talks about a ru-yah/true dream or vision the Prophet had of Waraqah wearing white garments, after his death, so he could not have been of the inhabitants of Hellfire.

I and other Muslims are not responsible for your own actions. We are not God to condemn you. I am not a scapegoat for your religious trauma either. But if you feel strongly about what my God would think of you, perhaps you should look into that on your own.

#replies #anonymous #if it were ruder I would have just blocked but hey maybe it's genuine #Islam

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unhewn · 2 years ago

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Textual Variants of God's Word

A series of brief reflections on the Reformed notion of Scripture, and the questions that textual variants raise in that context.

Judging the Judge

The Supreme Judge, by which all controversies of religion are to be determined, and all decrees of councils, opinions of ancient writers, doctrines of men, and private spirits, are to be examined, and in whose sentence we are to rest, can be no other but the Holy Spirit speaking in the Scripture. ... The Old Testament in Hebrew (which was the native language of the people of God of old), and the New Testament in Greek (which at the time of the writing of it was most generally known to the nations), being immediately inspired by God, and by His singular care and providence kept pure in all ages, are therefore authentical; so as in all controversies of religion the church is finally to appeal unto them. Westminster Confession of Faith, 1.8 & 1.10

"This passage is not found in some early manuscripts."

Why do the findings of textual critics have immediate bearing on which passages of Scripture are the Word of God?

It appears the WCF and confessions like it create a situation where there is an original (albeit long-lost) text which alone is the immediately-inspired Scripture. What we hold in our hands is a modern reconstruction that we trust includes that original scripture. But, it may have additions to it. It is an article of faith that authentic scripture is preserved by God through the centuries. It is not an article of faith that only authentic scripture has been preserved. The Lord gives, and the textual critic takes away. There is an inspired text; the question is how it relates to the text we have. Is the true text a subset of our received text? "Just chip away everything that doesn't look like Scripture."

If the "Supreme Judge" in "all controversies of religion" is "the Holy Spirit speaking in the Scripture," the question becomes: are there parts of our Scriptures where the Spirit does not speak? Where can the Spirit be reliably found to speak? It appears that this job of discernment has fallen to the academy. Which academics? The ones you trust. Which should you trust? The ones who believe in the authority of— uh oh.

What mechanism is in place to determine whether a passage is Scripture? Who has the authority to remove a jot or tittle? How are these findings disseminated to the people of God? How does the church accept them? By a council? Is every individual supposed to examine the data and decide for themselves? Is the local pastor?

The Critic and the Christian

This is not to downplay the extraordinary wealth of manuscript evidence we have, or the confidence we can have in the reliable transmission for most of Scripture. Clearly we have more manuscripts of the OT and NT than we could ever hope to have for any other ancient writings. The textual critics have plenty to play with.

But—and this is a point that I don't think is taken seriously enough by apologists—the claims on scripture from within the faith are much higher than those from without. The historian thinks it probable a man named Jesus was crucified by Rome in the first century; very well. The lay faithful asks: "Did Jesus really say I must be baptized to be saved?" The woman in the pew does not wonder whether her copy of the Bible is generally reliable; that bar is far too low. She is, or is told she should be, building her life around every word of it. To throw it into doubt is to throw the very material of her faith and her life into doubt. Sure, removing the Pericope Adulterae has no real impact on the Christian faith—unless, of course, you yourself were once caught in adultery.

"Is the Holy Spirit speaking to me through this passage or not, pastor?"

"We used to think God said this, but now we're not so sure."

Pick One

"Nothing we believe to be doctrinally true, and nothing we are commanded to do, is in any way jeopardized by the variants."

Mark 16:9-20 is suspect because it appears to teach baptismal regeneration.

"Ought" vs "Is"

If the Holy Spirit worked through history to accomplish both the composition and the recognition of scripture (if the Bible is inspired in a forest, etc.), then the academic's work is just retracing the Spirit's process through time. "Some of the earliest manuscripts do not include 16:9-20." Yes, and some of the earliest canon lists do not have Hebrews, 2 and 3 John, 2 Peter, Jude, or Revelation. But it was the providence of God that led to their acceptance, right?

Is Scripture just the oldest manuscripts we can find? What if we found an earlier draft of Mark, with more sections missing? Do we bracket more passages? "No, it's not the final Gospel." Why not? If it's there, did the Spirit preserve it? "Because it's not what the Church received." Ah, now we're getting somewhere.

Maybe the Spirit has us on a quest for the True Scriptures, and is now working through the academy to clean barnacles from the ark of the Word. Maybe.

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mistyshadow0 · 3 years ago

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A Return, or a New Beginning?

This is Part 1 of my first fic here, so I hope you like it! Its a SAGAU fic.

Part 2 (Next)

Teyvat is a vast land with a long history. It is a place where many different people and many different cultures exist, develop, and thrive. You could travel Teyvat for a lifetime and still learn something new every day.

Though the seven nations have held a tentative peace for many years, the differences among them are still enough to raise tensions at times. Each of the seven nations worships a different Archon, have different customs, and hold different values. Through the ages these differences have caused many a skirmish. However, despite all of this, there remains one unifying factor between the nations that brings them all together. One factor that, even with all of the differences and hard feelings between nations, none dare to even think of working against.

The universal worship of the Divine Creator.

The one said to have shaped Teyvat into what it is today. The one that even the Archons themselves kneel before and dedicate their entire lives to worshiping.

The benevolent one. The highest of beings.

Mention of the creator can be found just about anywhere. Elaborate shrines for the Divine One litter the land, right alongside those of the archons, though far larger, more embellished, and adorned with offerings of all kinds. One can find offerings of the most expensive, rare, and precious kind right alongside the rather mundane, everyday gifts of the common folk. The Divine Creator is well-loved and revered throughout all the lands.

Although the Divine Creator is mentioned and praised in many ways across Teyvat, original traces of the creator can only be found in the oldest of texts. Far older than any of the current Archons have lived. These texts are few and far between, and have been painstakingly preserved by groups of people specifically trained and assigned by the Archons themselves to care for these sacred texts.

Those privileged enough to get their hands on these texts would find secondhand stories of the Divine Creator themselves. How they shaped the land of Teyvat to be habitable to the people of this world, so that they may live in peace and prosperity. How they ruled over Teyvat with kindness, not because they made themselves ruler, but because the people revered them so much that they wished to serve the Divine Creator in every way possible.

It is said that the Divine Creator loved their people so much that, when infighting began over worship of the Creator, they put themselves in-between the fighting factions, getting harmed in the process.

It is also said that the Divine Creator has blood of the most unique, glistening gold.

The day Teyvat killed lost the Creator was the day the first Gods emerged, fighting over the land until the Seven Archons rose to power, when peace was again achieved.

However, legend states that the Divine Creator was not lost forever, that they were sent away to recover, only to return in their physical form when Teyvat was ready to welcome them again in peace. The world has waited in anticipation for the return of the Creator, and the Seven have done all in their power to ensure that the world is ready, that Teyvat has become something the Creator can be proud of once again.

For even the Archons themselves have never witnessed the Divine One, and have made it their mission to prepare for this event. To one day see them with their own eyes and worship them in person.

It is the sacred duty of the people of Teyvat, but especially the acolytes of the Divine, those blessed to have the attention of the Divine Creator, to prepare the world for their arrival.

#sagau #genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #self aware genshin #reader insert #genshin fic

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1kook · 4 years ago

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crunchyroll & rail

the 10th installment of my netflix & chill series !

SUMMARY Never mind the fact you really like Sailor Moon, or that you really want to pay attention to every little detail; the moment becomes Jungkook and his big smile and his red cheeks and the tiny box he produces from within his pocket. WARNINGS smut in the forms of making out, jk nipple play, some 69 action, cunnilingus, blowjobs, brief choking, jk trying his best to listen to oc but he doesn’t rlly :/, fingering, missionary bc his eyes are pretty, unprotected fuckin raw, its romantic but when is it not… MISC fluffy and domestic <3, weekend getaway <3, the Big Question, shy jk, sailor moon supremacy, jk makes this big elaborate speech about the sun and moon, mentions of 240p YouTube quality, RATING m (18+) WC 8.7k

NOTE (!) the smut in this chapter is relatively short ! I was more concerned with writing this monumental step in their relationship, so sorry to all the lads who come here specifically for the p0rn but today we focus on the l0ve <333 anyway nc 10!!!!! Can u fuckin believe….

Jungkook mentions it at the dinner table one night. You’re not eating— well, you are not eating; Jungkook has been stocking up on his protein intake like a madman —but finishing up some work you had brought home. Your back aches, your eyes burn. The mere sound of his soft voice has all those feel-good endorphins shooting through your nervous system like a shot of adrenaline. “We should take a trip,” he says, fork clattering against his plate to signify the end of his feast.

Your fingers tap across your keyboard, eyes flickering between an Excel sheet and the report you’re typing out. It takes you a moment to respond, a delayed, “huh,” that even Jungkook doesn’t find convincing.

In the background, you’re listening to what has to be one of the worst voiceovers of the original Sailor Moon series in a language you don’t even understand. But you know the series like the back of your hand, know what exactly is happening even if you don’t understand what they’re saying, because you’ve watched it only about a million times. It’s mostly just there for background purposes anyway, some white noise to try and replicate the noisy soundtrack of your office.

To make matters worse—complicated?—, you had been too lazy to get onto your usual pirating sites and had settled for the five minute, five part, 240p clips of Sailor Moon on YouTube (you know the ones), and Jungkook has to wait until Episode 74: Part ⅖ ends before you grace him with a proper response. “Where do you wanna go, baby?” you ask, giving your eyes a break from the data as you move to scour YouTube for Episode 74: Part 3/5.

He’s stretching back now, arms wound up above his head. His hair— god, his hair —is an ashy color now, a faded version of its golden ancestor from a few months ago. Soon, he’s planning on going back to brown, claims he’s getting too old to be dying his hair, whatever that means. For now, you watch his inked fingers run through his scalp; he looks delectable. Maybe you’re hungrier than you initially thought. Or at least thirstier. “A cabin,” he suggests, and he offers this little half shrug that would otherwise seem normal had you not been well-versed in the art of Jungkook Body Language. His front teeth nibble at his lip, eyes laser focused on his empty plate. Even now, he still gets nervous asking you out. That thought alone makes your ego soar as high as an airplane. “Just something small.”

Usually, “something small” with Jungkook ends up being something big and, in most cases, something expensive. Which you’re totally not opposed to— you’re at the point in your relationship where you don’t even bother trying to dissuade Jungkook from showering you with gifts. It’s one of his many, many, many, many forms of loving you and, well, he knows you like the back of his hand. He rarely misses.

Lo and behold, it is a grander affair than a simple cabin. “Well, it’s more like a resort,” he confesses, reaching across the table for your hand. Immediately, his thumb finds itself rubbing over the simple band of your promise ring. “Just wanna do something nice for you. I know you’ve been tired lately,” he adds on, voice a quiet murmur that nearly gets lost under the intensity of the pout that appears whenever he becomes even the slightest bit bashful.

You smile, the fondness in your heart skyrocketing to impossible heights when he lifts your hand to press those pretty petal lips against your knuckles. “Well, just let me know when,” you tell Jungkook. “So I can request time off from work.”

Episode 74: Part 3/5 starts playing after an ad, and you’d pause it for the sake of preserving this moment with Jungkook, but it’s hidden under so many tabs on your laptop that you lose it the second you leave the tab. Jungkook’s head tilts to the side, sending his ashy locks cascading beautifully. “You know that show is on Crunchyroll,” Jungkook says, seemingly moving past his bout of shyness now. “And you have the password.”

“Do I,” you murmur, but he’s lost you once more, your true talent of typing with one hand showing itself as you return to your Excel sheet, the other still firmly squeezed in his grasp. Jungkook releases soon enough anyway, cleans up the table quickly, and disappears off into the kitchen. He sings when he washes the dishes, likes to pretend he’s a terrible singer even though you’ve told him countless times he could easily take X Factor by storm. (And you know exactly what it takes to wow those judges— you spent the entire last month psychotically watching multiple X Factor seasons from multiple different countries, nearly considered joining the damn audition yourself.) The horribly dubbed Sailor Moon is yelling now, shrieking really, and Jungkook calls from the kitchen, “don’t forget to take your contacts out, sweetheart.”

It’s domestic and it's nerve-wracking.

You want Jungkook, that much is a fact. Aristotle and Socrates and that other guy could debate the philosophical intricacies of the world, turn this dimension in on itself until it was a scrambled mess of emotion and thought, but the one thing they could never change, could never even question, is your love for your boyfriend. You want Jungkook badly, but more importantly, you want Jungkook forever.

And you’re sure Jungkook probably, maybe, hopefully feels that way too. But the way you feel is… slightly concerning to say the least. For starters, you’re convinced your love for Jungkook was meant to be, and that’s saying a lot coming from you. You’re not one for cheesy, soulmate tales— that was more Jungkook’s thing —but the more you think about it, the more you become convinced that you and Jungkook were destined to meet. Like the planets aligned one year, the stars conferred, a tectonic plate somewhere in California shifted; whatever it may have been, something happened somewhere that led to the birth of this beautiful romance of yours.

Lately, being with Jungkook has this inexplicably fiery feeling blossoming in your chest, these waves of emotion that sometimes have you fantasizing about the weirdest of scenarios with him. Like yelling at him for not taking the garbage out on time, or bumping into each other as you make dinner in the kitchen, or buying a new rug together.

(Most drastically, the other day, you had a dream where you were pregnant and Jungkook was there and there was a house and a dog and an annoyingly friendly neighbor and this god-awful tile in the bathroom.)

Long story short, you’ve been fantasizing about a forever with Jungkook. The concerning part is the timing; was this too early? You’re nearly halfway through your second year with Jungkook now, and you know most people date for many, many years before the mere thought of union even occurs to them. In another life, maybe you were the same, would have held off until the very last moment. But with Jungkook things just feel right (at least for you), like there wasn’t going to be anyone else after him. And you sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be.

You slump back into your seat, eyes fluttering shut. Too many thoughts swirl around your mind, and the screech of the Sailor Moon voiceover on screen certainly doesn’t help. How you managed to spiral that far down your thoughts in the span of one 240p, five minute clip of a larger episode amazes even you. To add onto your worries, the clip abruptly ends and Episode 74: Part ⅘ is nowhere in sight, a fact that draws a frustrated moan out of the already sensitive you.

Luckily, Jungkook eventually returns, standing closely behind you. His presence is enormous, the room suddenly overflowing with a shit ton of those feel-good endorphins all over again, except this time they reach an all-time high when he leans over and quietly shuts your laptop. “Come sleep,” he says softly, and it’s a pleasant mixture of his genuinely caring voice and that horndog purr of his that lures you into bed. And it’s that same voice that croons softly into your ear, fingers nestled between your folds until you’re orgasming yourself into a deep slumber.

Much to no one’s surprise, the cabin turns out to be quite the luxurious lodging; two floors of dark oak everywhere you turn, a stunning stone fireplace in the bedroom, and a truly breathtaking view of the resort’s snowy hill (read: front row seats to watch all the snowboarders and skiers wipe out in the snow). Jungkook had splurged quite the pretty penny on it, so you make a point to clap it up for him when he first opens the door to your temporary home for the weekend.

The main bedroom is beyond words. It’s got an attached balcony (that you doubt you’ll be using in this chilly weather), and a wooden canopy bed that makes you feel like a royal (that you will certainly be using). It’s separated into two areas, the bed space and a tiny entertainment area on the other side of the room. Perhaps the best thing about the room— and the cabin itself —is the huge, smart TV mounted above said stone fireplace and the fact it allows the phone mirroring option in lieu of not having any streaming sites. And as is with every and anything to do with televisions, Jungkook is the most excited of the two of you. “Baby, look,” he beams, pointing excitedly at whatever he’s got mirrored onto the television this time. Knowing him, it’s probably another documentary.

You had the forethought to finish your work before the trip, spent two days in the office going absolutely ham on this month’s final reports until your department head promptly sent you home to finish the rest there. You had given yourself a fright upon entering the bathroom that night, the state of your under eyes so severe, you feared it was sufficient cause for a national emergency. Similarly, Jungkook had done the same with his work, cooped himself up in his study until he was free from the shackles of capitalism for the weekend. All this to say you’ve missed him these past few days.

But even though you’re sorely malnourished in the affection department and craving a good kiss or two, you wouldn’t dare interrupt one of Jungkook’s little nerdy, tech-induced fanboy moments. They’re cute, in their own geeky way, providing some insight to a mellower side of your boyfriend who looks on with childlike wonder; Jungkook’s eyes always get so big when he talks about nerdy stuff. You get to work hanging up the silk shirt he packed for tomorrow night’s fancy dinner at the resort, listening to some British narrator’s detailed description of the functionally extinct Northern white rhinos living under 24-hour surveillance in Kenya.

(Jungkook’s really into nature documentaries again, had spent a few nights sniffling as he watched that one Koko the gorilla film.)

The original plan was to head to the nearest store and whip up something small to eat at the cabin. But Jungkook is a little tired from the long drive, slumps down into the couch in front of the now lit fireplace like a limbless blob as he tunes into his documentary. His nose is a little red from the outside chill. It’s so cute. He’s so cute. You love him so much, you fear you’ll accidentally squeeze his cheeks to death. It’s a thought that occurs more times than you’d like.

According to the pamphlet on the nightstand, the resort has its own room-service to order from. Normally you would do that, but not this time; you had gotten into a bit of a squabble with the man at the front desk after he had tried to withhold Jungkook’s reservation for arriving two minutes past your check-in time, called each other all sorts of names before he backed down and gave you your room key. So you’re still a little salty, to say the least. Instead, you settle in for some pizza in front of the huge TV, calling up the nearest place to order some of Jungkook’s and your favorites.

You plop down beside him, instinctively cuddling closer when he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “So,” you start, flipping through the rest of the resort’s introductory pamphlet. There’s a loud roar on screen. In all honesty, you didn’t even know what Northern white rhinos sounded like until then, and you probably never would have if not for the man beside you. “What are you in the mood for tonight, sweet boy?”

You’re not sure if it’s the fatigue or the overall relaxed vibes he’d been exuding since the moment you entered the cabin, but Jungkook is weirdly cooperative today. “Whatever you want,” he responds, head on your shoulder. He even places the remote in your hands, gives your enclosed fist a gentle tap as if he’s just handed you the secret to eternal youth. In other words, it’s a rare sight to behold. “This is your trip, pretty girl.”

You appreciate the sentiment, but feel the need to clear the air, tucking your feet up onto the couch as you snuggle closer. “Our trip,” you clarify, and snatch the remote anyway before he changes his mind.

Jungkook releases a quiet huff of laughter, head rolling back against the couch cushions to display his thick, juicy neck that definitely doesn’t awaken any vampiric tendencies in you. “We can even watch some anime if you want,” he murmurs, casually throwing an arm around your shoulders in a way that would have made any teenage girl in the early 2000s squeal with excitement. It’s one of those barely there touches, but the way he holds you makes you feel so safe and warm and loved. So loved and in love. “The ones on Crunchyroll, though.”

For the sake of preserving these good vibes (and your ears [and Jungkook’s sanity]), you navigate to the Crunchyroll app on your phone, quickly finding your latest obsession and mirroring it onto the big television before Jungkook can react. “Sailor Moon?” he asks with a tone that implies a feigned interest, mostly out of respect for you; he’s, sadly, still not the big dorky anime fan you had hoped to convert him into.

“In the name of the moon, I’ll punish you,” you recite dutifully, snatching up the throw blanket on the end of the couch. It’s barely big enough to cover the both of you, has Jungkook’s outstretched legs and your booty subject to the chilly air. Who cares, Jungkook is a furnace anyway.

He snorts. “Punish me,” he mumbles, as if he doesn’t believe it. His snarky comment wins him a playful pinch against his doughy cheek, not that he particularly defends himself against it anyway, eyes fluttering shut as you tug at the pale skin.

“Don’t fuck with the moon, Jungkook,” you warn him, snuggling closely against his side as your favorite opening song begins filtering through the speakers of the television before you. It’s infinitely better than the 240p YouTube clips you had subjected yourself to the entire last week, the graphics scarily clear.

“Right, of course,” Jungkook says, but a hint of amusement seems to curl around the sound anyway. Nevertheless, he lets it go, cuddles into your side as you pour your full focus into watching yet another group of ragtag teenagers with supernatural abilities kick some ass.

You can tell Jungkook isn’t really into it, and you’re torn between just snuggling him into a well deserved nap or taping his eyelids open so he can become a fan of this show with you.

The loving, caring, adoring side of you says Jungkook deserves the entire world and more (the more in question preferably being a fluffy blanket and a nap). He worked hard this week, just like you, and on top of that he was the one who planned this entire weekend getaway for the two of you to enjoy. You want him to rest up.

The obnoxiously in love girlfriend-slash-best friend in you says Jungkook is sorely missing out on one of the greatest shows on planet Earth and that naps are for the weak.

Your jumbled thoughts are interrupted by a loud sound on the television, a yelp from Ms. Sailor Moon herself that has you jolting up in surprise. Jungkook welcomes you deeper into his embrace, chuckles at your little fright. “Scared?” he teases in that low voice that makes you feel like you’re going crazy, really. So crazy and irrational, and the only thing that stops you from bombarding him with an unexpected outpouring of love is that hard and sharp thing that pokes your side when you get too close to him. It’s not Jungkook, sadly, but something in the front pocket of his hoodie instead.

And for some reason, part of your brain is stuck all of a sudden, rewinding the last two and a half years like a broken cassette tape that had the tape reel hastily stuffed back inside by a toddler. It’s choppy to say the least, and it certainly doesn’t help when Jungkook calls your name softly, tenderly. “__,” he murmurs. It’s a little weird; it’s not often he says your name, mostly referring to you with one of the many pet names from that part of his vocabulary that focuses exclusively on terms of endearment. Your heart skips a beat.

Now, if anyone were to ask, it’s approximately around this time that you begin to spiral. The pink curve of his bottom lip is just too close, the mole on his nose too prominent. Paired with the obnoxious tittering of Usagi on screen, you can feel your thoughts begin to overlap, bumping into each other within the realm of your brain until all that comes out are the messiest of messy thoughts.

They go like this:

Most episodes of any anime run for approximately thirty minutes. Take out the commercial breaks, the opening and ending credits, and it becomes something closer to twenty. Twenty minutes per episode, filled with plot and gags and tears and whatever else necessary to make you feel something, anything really.

“What’s in your pocket?” you ask tentatively.

In contrast, it takes approximately two seconds for Jungkook’s lips to quirk up— first the right side, always the right side —and his eyes to crinkle. Two seconds for him to smile, a sweet expression that reminds you of Netflix and college and quiet laughter and tattoos and silly YouTube videos and cookies and cell phones and job applications and blond hair; two seconds to make you feel everything all at once.

“There’s nothing,” he says, but his cheeks are pink, and it’s not from the cold anymore. His smile is so big it makes your own cheeks ache just looking at it. You can’t even hear the television anymore. Never mind the fact you really like Sailor Moon, or that you really want to pay attention to every little detail; the moment becomes Jungkook and his big smile and his red cheeks and the tiny box he produces from within his pocket. “It was supposed to be for tomorrow,” he admits, unwrapping his arm from around you.

It’s a little funny, somehow, because his hands are covered in ink, in tiny doodles and intricate pieces of swirls and words that ooze this aura of strength and toughness. But they tremble when he opens it, as unsteady as a wispy dandelion on a windy day, fumbling with the box. And when you look closely, he’s been biting at the skin along his thumb again, that nervous habit you’ve been trying forever to help him overcome.

Someone is saying something on screen, something important to the plot. The volume is loud, but not as loud as your heart. Not as loud as Jungkook’s quiet murmur when he speaks again. “Will you marry me?” he asks softly, looks at you with flushed cheeks and big eyes and his heart on his sleeve.

The answer has always been the same, hasn’t changed since the first time he planted the seed in your mind. Still, it catches in your throat, nearly loses out to a surprised and emotional sob that you barely manage to bite down. You had just been speaking, had just been ready to deliver a whole spiel on the importance of him watching Sailor Moon with you. But when you try now, it’s raspy and dry, as if you haven’t used your voice in years. “I— yes,” you exhale, surprised by the lonely tear that trails down your cheek. You go to wipe it away, but Jungkook beats you with a gentle hand cupping your cheek.

His smile is wobbly, patches of red blossoming across his face that eventually consume his entire appearance as he leans his forehead against yours. Only then do you realize he’s crying, and you laugh out of reflex. “You’re crying,” you say, and Jungkook snorts.

“You cried first,” he sniffles, smiling. “You made me cry.”

He looks like a wreck, but, like, a hot wreck. An engaged, hot wreck who’s eyes flicker back to the TV to remind you to pause your anime, always so considerate. You do, hastily smashing buttons on the remote before remembering it’s controlled by your phone, hands flying back and forth as your nerves actively work to retire themselves after Jungkook’s proposal. “Easy there,” he soothes, eventually catching your hand in his, drawing it up for a kiss against your knuckles.

The ring fits perfectly, snuggly. Vaguely, a memory drifts through your thoughts of Jungkook and Doyeon on a rampant mission to reorganize your jewelry box a few months ago, but it disappears as quickly as it came. You’re taken by the ring, a simple band with a pretty diamond on top. It’s a good mixture of you and him; flashy yet mild.

“You love me,” you marvel, a revelation you’ve had the honor of experiencing time and time again with Jungkook. Still, it never fails to render you speechless. He hums.

“I do,” he says, taking your hand in his. “It’s the easiest thing for me. Like breathing, or existing. I think I was made to love you.” And normally, you’d be the first one to correct him. Jungkook was made for so much more, a fact he’s proven time and time again with his abilities and the sheer size of his heart. He was your golden boy, could do anything he set his mind to. Always amazing you, always making you fall in love all over again.

But now, with the weight of his words sitting heavy in the air, you find yourself incapable of negating the fact, instead sniffling at the meaning.

Pleased with your silence, Jungkook places another chaste kiss against your ring. “I love you, __,” he confesses, voice nearly a whisper. Your entire body feels as if it is doused in gasoline, lit aflame over and over again. Your heart threatens your rib cage, pounds away with the strength of a world renowned boxer. Jungkook’s hands curl around your wrists carefully. “I used to think we were like the moon and the sun,” he admits, “that you were my sun and I was your moon. In love but always separated by those thin veils of the sunrise and the sunset.” He pauses, nuzzling sweetly against your palm once more before gently guiding them down between the two of you. “But that really sucks— saying goodbye to you every night? I hate that, __. I hate watching you leave, I hate watching you run off in the mornings or halfway through the day, having to drive back and forth from your place to mine. I hate having to be away from you when all I wanna do is hold you. I— I want to be by your side,” he rambles, eyes nervously meeting yours. They’re still glassy, dark lashes framing his chocolate irises wonderfully. “Forever.”

Your heartbeat stutters, the simple word looping itself in your mind like that night in his dining room all over again, all the fantasies of having a forever with Jungkook bubbling to the surface. Jungkook pushes on. “You are my sun,” he says softly, mostly to himself. “But… I don’t wanna be the moon anymore. Being the moon means, eventually, I’ll have to say goodbye. In the night or in the morning, it always comes to an end. And I don't want there to be an end with you,” he insists, clutching your hand tightly. “I wanna be another star, the closest one to you. The one who gets to be with you forever. I wanna be by you and shine with you and—“

“Explode into a gazillion little fragments of cosmic dust with me,” you offer, and Jungkook nods along eagerly, too amped up on his speech to bother scolding you for your playful comment.

“Yes, I want to— to—“ The words catch in his throat. So much emotion from the man you once thought was the dictionary definition of calm and collected. “To—“

“Marry me,” you fill in, and Jungkook practically blows a fuse from how emotionally fired up he’s become, exclaiming a resolute, “yes!” that leaves you stupidly grinning back at him.

His outburst leaves him with flushed cheeks. “I do,” he reiterates in a softer tone, averting his gaze from you as if embarrassed by his cheesy outpouring of emotion. Usually, it’s the other way around; you make all the corny declarations of love and Jungkook laughs along suavely. It feels nice to have the tables turned.

There’s so much to say, but the words all fade away when Jungkook shyly looks at you again. You settle on tackling him back onto the couch cushions, taking his surprised little yelp in stride as you suffocate him in your embrace. “Save those words for the big day, superstar,” you giggle, peppering his red face with tiny kisses that make him scrunch up cutely. “I can’t wait to blow up into one huge supernova with you.”

Beneath you, Jungkook groans. “I’m sorry,” he huffs, voice muffled against your shoulder. Begrudgingly, his arms come up to envelope you, pulling you closer until the blanket scrunches up uncomfortably between you two. “That must’ve sounded so lame.”

Leaning back so you’re not completely squishing him, you carefully push his silvery hair away from his forehead. “Don’t be,” you assure him, placing one chaste peck against his pouty lips. “I thought it was cute. I didn’t know you were into astrology.”

A sigh. “Astronomy,” he corrects, “astrology has to do with zodiac signs and placements.”

You run your thumbs over his cheeks, collecting any of the drying tears that paint his face. “Oh, like how you’re a Virgo and I’m a“—

The TV remote you had lost somewhere along the way is suddenly rematerialized beneath your knee, sends the speakers blaring to life with a deafening screech that has both you and Jungkook leaping up like two frightened cats. “You always do this,” he laughs, that loud boyish sound that makes you feel like you’re sitting on a cloud. He watches you with a gentle smile as you hurriedly shut off the television, the remote haphazardly tossed somewhere behind you afterwards. You return to his embrace, wrap your arms around his waist and snuggle into his warmth. His heart thumps a steady rhythm beneath your ear.

“You’re gonna be stuck with me forever,” you warn him, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like he’ll suddenly disintegrate before your eyes.

Above you, Jungkook hums, placing a kiss against the crown of your head. “I look forward to it,” he responds, pulling you impossibly closer, until you can feel the wrinkles in his shirt imprinting themselves against your cheek. He’s back to being that suave bastard again, and you find yourself wishing you had milked those big crocodile tears out of him for just a little bit longer.

Fingers gently press against the muscles in your nape, push themselves in deeply until you can feel all the tension seeping out, turning you into a limbless blob over Jungkook. “Jeez,” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut. “And you wanted to wait until tomorrow.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I just thought you’d rather get engaged at a fancy restaurant with a pretty dress,” he defends, and you can hear the grin on his face. “For the photos.”

“Fair point,” you concede, eventually pushing yourself up so you’re not entirely squishing your boyfriend beneath you. Jungkook is already looking at you when you lift your head, has got this funny double-chin from this angle that makes his normally sharp jawline disappear. You find yourself tapping a finger against his chin, on the chocolate chip mole that hides itself beneath his plump bottom lip. “If anything, just propose to me again tomorrow at the restaurant.”

It wins you an eye-roll. “I’m not gonna propose to you again tomorrow,” he laughs, doesn’t even push you away when you become annoying and start tapping your fingers against all his beauty marks like you’re playing Whack-a-Mole.

“Booo,” you frown, but let it go soon enough, foregoing your little game to press your lips against his. “Then I better make this a night to remember,” you murmur, tilting your head to the side.

Your hands dip into his luscious locks, fingernails tracing thin lines along his scalp that are certain to send tingles down his spine. As predicted, Jungkook releases a quiet groan soon after, a sound that’s muffled against your own lips. He’s pliant tonight, but not in a way that would elude fatigue. Pliant in a way that suggests he wants you to take the reins tonight, exhaling softly against you as he parts his lips.

“Let me take care of you,” you hum, the hand that had been mindlessly hovering along his cheek drifting down to caress the side of his neck. Jungkook nods, his irises swimming in lust. You smile at his silent compliance, give his throat a light squeeze that makes his breathing hitch in surprise.

He’s always at his prettiest when he’s beneath you like this, limbs moving in slow motion as you guide him along. You can already feel the beginnings of his arousal stirring beneath the front of his sweats, his cock slowly making its presence known against your thigh. You press your lips against his once more, making sure to make it rougher than the first kiss. Your tongue is met with little resistance, slips past his lips and dips into the hot cave of his mouth where Jungkook releases another trembling breath.

Two hands come up behind you, trail themselves over your back and down to your ass, where he gives the two globes a tight squeeze. It draws a whimper out of you, one that Jungkook greedily swallows up. His tongue rubs up along yours, the wet muscle daringly pushing back against yours. His rebelliousness is only quelled with another press of your fingertips around his throat.

“Slow down,” you tell him. The first roll of your hips against him is slow, cruel in that you cut the motion short just as Jungkook begins to push back. A bratty huff escapes him, swollen pink lips pushing out into that endearing pout you love so much. It makes you grin, releasing the grip around his throat to carefully brush a stray strand of hair away from his eyes.

It’s a gesture that works to soften Jungkook as well, the petulant look on his face melting away as you trail your pointer finger along his cheekbone. It’s replaced with a more tender one, dark lashes blinking up at you slowly. “Open,” you command upon reaching his mouth, finger pressing down against his pink lower lip. Jungkook obeys, opening his mouth until you can see his pink tongue and the dark abyss that leads down his throat. Your finger pushes itself in, and Jungkook certainly doesn’t try to resist. His lips suction around the digit fairly quickly, tight enough to keep you there but loose enough for you to slowly draw your finger in and out, each short plunge pressing down against his tongue.

It’s a rather short affair, one that comes to an end when he accidentally bucks up against you, pressing his hardened member against your core. You retract your finger. “Can you,” he tries, but his cheeks are stained red and he refuses to meet your gaze. “Just…”

You intercept him with a chaste peck, maneuvering your legs until your knees are firmly pressed into the couch cushions beneath him, his thin waist trapped in between. When you sit up, you feel drunk on power and the way Jungkook looks up at you certainly doesn’t help. “Can I sit on your face?”

He chokes. “I— sure, please,” he blurts out. His gaze follows you as you slip off of him, quickly discarding your pants and top on the floor. One pat against his thigh has him hurrying to shimmy out of his clothes, his sweatpants caught around his ankles.

“You’re excited,” you laugh, stripping him of his bottoms when the frustration takes him over.

Jungkook scoffs. “Well, yeah,” he mumbles, tugging his shirt off with one smooth motion. The ink around his bicep is as dark as ever, contrasts wonderfully against his warm face. “My fiancée is gonna sit on my face.”

The title makes you preen, quickly finding your place on his lap once more. With your clothing out of the way, Jungkook really does become a furnace. Every inch of his body is hot to the touch, soft too. “Fiancée,” you giggle, hands on his chest. They slide down, fingers playfully nudging his brown nipples. Jungkook flinches at the touch. “Gonna sit on my fiancé’s face,” you parrot back, delicately pinching one nipple between your fingers. A moan spills from his lips, his cock pushing against your thigh once more.

It’s the reminder you need, pushing back dutifully against him as you continue to toy with his chest. He’d look pretty with piercings, you find yourself thinking, watching on in fascination at the way his pert nipples stand at attention. Beneath you, Jungkook begins to grow desperate, his hands finding their place on your waist to encourage you to grind down against him once more.

Jungkook swears up and down that he’s not particularly sensitive about having his nipples touched. But when you’ve got him like this, sinfully laid out before you, you can easily confirm that his claims are nothing but lies. He loves having his nipples touched, squirms beneath you impatiently with each playful tug and twist you bestow upon them.

You duck down, pressing a kiss against his pectoral, just beside his nipple, and Jungkook’s entire body shivers. A few careful drags of your tongue against his warm skin only serve to string him along further, the prettiest whimper pulling itself from his lips when you finally envelope one of them in your mouth. “Wait,” he gasps, clawing at your clothing as if he both wants to push you off and push you closer. You grin, brandishing one mean nip at the sensitive nub.

Eventually, your incessant need to play with Jungkook’s chest is fulfilled. “Lay back,” you instruct, watching as he shuffles down flat on the cushions, silver hair tumbling away from his eyes. He’s so red, eyes hazy. Your panties are discarded, joining the ever growing pile of clothes on the floor.

Once upon a time, the idea of sitting on Jungkook’s face had terrified you, filled you with nightmares of crushing his windpipe or breaking his nose. For the most part, they’re pretty unrealistic fears, ones that can be easily shut down after one careful Google search on safe sexual practices. These days, it’s all too easy; in the mornings, especially, it’s become natural for him to guide you on top carefully, holding your hand as you whimper and sob over his face.

In the current moment, you find yourself stroking a hand down the side of his face, completely enamored with the huge puppy eyes he levels your way. Jungkook likes having your pussy in his face just as much as you do, loves making you feel good in any way he knows how. But there’s a separate matter at hand, one that stands at attention beneath his black boxers and successfully wins your attention.

Truthfully, there is no dilemma to ponder over; you want both to ride Jungkook’s face and suck him off. The solution?

“We’ve never done this before,” Jungkook mumbles in amazement, his voice slightly muffled from his position beneath you and slightly behind you. Still, his arms dutifully wrap around your thighs, guiding you closer to his mouth where his hot breath fans against your glistening folds. You rock back willingly, hands preoccupied with pushing his boxers down and away from his engorged cock.

“Really?” you ask, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with the cock before you and the tongue that gently laps at your folds. Jungkook makes a sound, something between a hum and whimper, his mouth slowly getting to work against your folds. “M- Maybe,” you stutter, all thought processes coming to a halt as you carefully take him in your hand.

His cock is hard and long, his tip an angry shade that weeps with precum. From this angle, you get to watch Jungkook’s huge thighs twitch at the sensation, the tattoo that marks up one of them doing little to hide the fact. Your hand squeezes him, watches in awe as another fat droplet oozes out of his tip. A moan tears itself from his throat, and it’s so goddamn sexy it nearly drives you insane.

It’s one particularly long lap of his tongue over your clit that sends you into action, back arching at the tingles that shoot down your spine. Wasting no more time, you guide Jungkook’s cock into your mouth, let your own tongue shower his mushroom tip in kitten licks that have him bucking upwards. He releases your clit with a lewd pop, hot breath fanning across your lips. “Fuck,” he gasps, voice harsh.

Admittedly, it’s more difficult than you thought it would be.

You’re not one to be easily overwhelmed (says you), but with Jungkook’s twitching cock in your mouth and his teasing tongue dipping into your entrance, it becomes hard to juggle your attention between the two. Even Jungkook, who is quite frankly the master of cunnilingus, seems torn between the two, his breathing shallow and quick against your folds.

With each slow descent around his cock, he shudders, thigh muscles tightening in anticipation. It causes a lull in the pace of his tongue, the generous kisses and licks against your folds subject to a somewhat uneven pace that, surprisingly, leaves you more on edge than you’d ever expected it to; right when you think he’s about to suck your clit into his mouth, you’re met with a harsh exhale instead, one that makes your lips flutter.

You’re both disappointed in yourselves for never having tried this mind-blowing position before, and equal parts understanding as to why you haven’t tried this position before— it’s a lot. His cock is halfway down your throat when it twitches, sends a gush of precum into your mouth that has your eyes rolling backwards, a whine slipping out around him. Jungkook appreciates the vibrations, letting it fuel him as he plunges his tongue into your hole. It’s a two way street, you realize, one that is constantly experiencing traffic.

“Baby,” you gasp, pulling off of his cock with a slick sound, hypnotized by the trail of saliva that connects your lips to his tip. Jungkook’s tongue prods along your slit, makes your eyesight go blurry when the tip of his nose brushes along you as well. The idea of his cute nose buried deep someplace it shouldn’t be has you grinding down on him. “We can— we should stop,” you stutter, your trembling hand reaching forward to grasp the base of his cock.

He’s slick with your saliva and his precum, and your hand makes a squelching sound upon contact. It must feel good, because Jungkook moans against your folds, his thighs unconsciously falling farther apart as you slowly jerk him off. You think you might’ve heard your name slip from his lips, but your mind is fuzzy, lost in your lust as Jungkook licks a sinful line from your hole to your clit, curling his tongue at the end. “J- Jungkook,” you cry, flinching away because it’s become too much, your toes curling as the beginnings of an orgasm threaten you.

Before that can happen, he relents, leaning back with a heavy exhale, his hands loosening their grip against your ass and plopping back down against the cushions. “Fuck,” he pants, his cock twitching in your hold. A lonely droplet of precum trails down the side, your knuckles coated in the glossy substance. Beneath you, Jungkook rubs one soothing palm against your hip.

You slink off before he can get any funny ideas, maneuver yourself around until you’re kneeling between his parted thighs, his fat cock standing at attention between the two of you. From here, he looks ravenous, and you begin to question who exactly is taking care of who. Jungkook looks like he’s a second away from pinning you down and swallowing you whole, a thought that makes your toes curl.

It’s with a cautiously horny hand that you reach for his cock again, holding him with both hands. Jungkook growls, head lolling backwards until all you can see is his neck and his chin, thick veins protruding along his skin. Jungkook doesn’t waste a moment longer. “C’mere,” he purrs, hauling you up until you’re clumsily leaning over him, palms framing his face. A lone finger runs down your spine, its faint touch making you arch forward. “Sorry,” he says, securing an arm around your waist. “I know you wanted to take care of me, but…”

You roll your eyes, submitting yourself to his clutches as he masterfully rolls the two of you over. The couch is soft beneath your back, and Jungkook looks pretty from above too. “You just can’t sit still, can you?” you murmur playfully.

Jungkook’s forearms find their place beneath your thighs, the fold of the back of your knee perfectly slotted against his warm skin as he shuffles closer. “Maybe another time,” he laughs along sheepishly, his hard cock gliding over your slit, teasing your clit. You gulp, eyes scanning over his lean build as if it’s the first time. “Sorry,” he repeats, but he’s got this stupidly dopey grin on his face as he glances down at your pussy; he’s insane, he’s got to be, what man makes heart eyes at a pussy?

Your man, apparently. Grasping the base of his cock, Jungkook takes care to drag it along your folds collecting your wetness along his length, a deep shudder wracking his body through it all. “I knew you would do this to me,” he mutters, so low you nearly miss it under the thundering sound of your heartbeat.

“Huh,” you mumble, and you’d like to defend yourself and say you weren’t as cock-crazy as Jungkook was coochie-crazy, but that would be a lie. You’re staring at his cock as if it holds the secrets to the universe right now.

Jungkook juts his head to the side, a motion similar to the one he does when he’s trying to crack his neck. His tongue prods along his cheek, eyes laser-focused on the point where your two bodies meet. “From the moment you walked into my house,” he grunts mindlessly, finally lining himself up with your entrance. He chances a glance up, meets your gaze with a patient look, “all good?”

“All good,” you hurriedly reply, fingers finding their place against his broad shoulders. With the way he had prepared you earlier, mouthed along your clit and your folds until you were pleasantly aroused, the glide now is too easy. Tight, but easy, has the two of you releasing twin moans that echo off the wooden walls of the cabin.

Jungkook’s forehead is covered in a thin veil of sweat, one that glistens when the evening sunset pours in through the balcony doors, highlighting him in a golden light that makes you dizzy. The angry tip of his cock sinks into your walls, Jungkook’s ashy strands sticking to his forehead and his cheeks. For some reason, you find yourself reminiscing on the aforementioned moment Jungkook had spoken of. Of the soft sweater he’d worn that day and the dinner he had made, the blond tips on his chestnut hair and the way he’d clung onto every word you’d said.

It makes you tear up, and, after laughing at Jungkook early for crying, you quickly turn your face away.

Jungkook isn’t dumb. “What now,” he chuckles, though his breathing is labored, every inch of his cock that penetrates you further bringing with it another rush of adrenaline. At the hilt, you’re embarrassed to say there’s multiple tears streaming down your face, so you can’t even play it off as you usually do. “Crybaby,” Jungkook teases, but his voice is so soft and tender you don’t know what to do with yourself.

“Just move,” you bite out, shamefully covering your face with your hands. Jungkook leans over you, the movement pushing his dick deeper inside of you, your walls clenching around him. A kiss is placed over your knuckles, just shy of your engagement ring. Your chest lurches with a silent sob. “Jungkook,” you whimper, sinking further into the cushion, “please, just—“

“I got it,” he assures you, placing one final peck against your handmade (literally) shield. And then, so quietly you almost miss it, he makes sure to whisper, “love you,” before unsheathing himself.

You shudder, your heart feeling so full, you fear it’ll burst. You both love and hate when he treats you like this, like an ice sculpture in the scorching heat that has him doing everything he can to keep you solid. His touch is soft, the roll of his hips too slow for your liking. You feel so small and vulnerable— too pampered. “Harder,” you beg, your voice an airy whine that has Jungkook chuckling above you.

He lives to please you, hiking your leg over his shoulder with a renewed vigor. His hands find themselves on your waist, forcefully pinning you down against the couch cushions as he sets upon fulfilling your latest request. The next series of thrusts are jerky, have you jostling in his grip as Jungkook pounds into you with an all new mindset. “Lemme see you,” he huffs, thumbs painfully digging into your skin. You tremble in his arms, heart swayed by the quiet plea in his voice. “Let me see your face, pretty girl.”

Reluctantly, you do, brandishing your tear-stricken face his way. Jungkook smiles, that stupidly handsome smile, his hips snapping into you roughly. “Fuck,” he moans, the expression never leaving his face, even when run your nails over his chest harshly. “You’re so pretty.”

You ignore him for the sake of your already weakened mental state, focusing instead on the brutal force of his hips, the way his cock stretches your walls out. Each push has you seeing stars, thighs quivering from the sensations that shoot up your spine and down your toes. “Oh,” you mewl, hands gripping his biceps as you lose yourself to him. Your eyes roll back, vision a mess of colors and nothingness all at once.

“Is this hard enough?” Jungkook husks out, and he sounds so close. His proximity is confirmed when his mouth slots against yours, his harsh breath mingling with your own as he continues to frantically buck into your inviting heat, each new round of thrusts leaving you weaker and weaker than before. “God,” Jungkook cries, the sound nearly lost beneath your own moans and whimpers. “Gonna k- keep you forever,” he spits, tongue slipping into your mouth.

He’s messier than usual, moves with unrefined movements unlike his normal self. You don’t care, you love him all the same. His sloppy kisses turn into desperate ones, matching the pace of his hips. “Kook,” you sob, arms wrapping themselves around his neck, pulling him close until his thrusts are reduced to a shallower depth.

“I’ve got you,” he croons, lips against your jawline. His cock presses in and you swear you feel it alongside every inch of your walls, a warmth blossoming in your stomach. He’s layering messy kisses down your face now, lips sucking dark marks any chance he gets.

True to his word, Jungkook indeed has you. His cock pistons in and out at an astonishing pace, each surge into your folds making you dizzy over and over again. It’s a feeling you fear you’ll never grow tired of, in fact, it’s a feeling you fear you’ll begin to crave even more in the future. The good thing is, that future will extend into forever.

You yank him towards you, swallow his low laughter with your lips. Jungkook doesn’t complain, lowering himself until he’s practically squishing you beneath his beefy body, cock ramming in and out despite all that. His tongue glides along yours, makes it his mission to muffle each of your cries.

It doesn’t take long for you to be fulfilled. Given the fact you had sucked him off like a lollipop whilst having him eat you out, you’re not entirely surprised. That and the emotions of tonight have you melting into him sooner than you’d like, his name falling from your lips as your thighs clamp down around his waist. Jungkook takes it in stride, slows the maddening pace of his hips to cradle you in his arms. You’re like jelly, practically flop back into the cushion when he slips an arm beneath you. “You’re so good for me,” Jungkook praises, lavishing your throat in tiny pecks as his orgasm circles around. “My pretty girl.”

“Love you,” you sigh, and your body feels numb, his intrusion but a small touch now that he’s tired you out once more, your walls tender and raw. Jungkook presses a smile against your throat and, moments later, releases inside of you.

Even minutes after the deed, the feeling refuses to return to your legs. He didn’t go that hard— well, you’re not entirely sure. The memories always become blurry toward the end of your escapades. Everything rushes back in waves, and for some reason, your first thought is, “where’s Sailor Moon?”

Your post-rump conversations have never been the most coherent, usually filled with pretty weird thoughts and ideas. Still, more grand things have happened tonight for you to be worried about a magical anime girl. Jungkook draws himself out of your core with a huff of laughter. “On the TV,” he answers, unfazed by the oddity of your question.

That’s how you know he’s a keeper.

It takes a while, but eventually Jungkook responds. “Avocado toast,” he says, though his answer is dripping with uncertainty. He’s naked as the day he was born, snuggled up beside you in bed. He’s propped up on one arm, looking down at you over the ample swell of his manly bosom. It takes everything in you to keep your hands off his chest.

“Correct,” you respond, “and what movie did we watch?”

Without missing a beat, “Transformers, the first one.”

You nod, glancing at the ceiling as you rack your brain for any other trivia questions to ask your fiancé. “The title of the playlist you made?”

A flush paints his cheeks. “Date Night playlist,” he answers through a pout, reprimanding you for bringing up such a memory with a flick to your forehead. You wince. “I was young and silly,” he defends.

You beam, cuddling into his side until he’s forced to lay back down. “Yeah, yeah,” you tease. “We’re only gonna get older from here,” you lament. You’d say it’s difficult to picture him with a gray head of hair, but his current silvery locks don’t leave much room for your imagination.

Jungkook pulls you close. A beat of silence passes, and then, “so who are we telling first?”

Definitely Namjoon.

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