#Hound Mask NOW EXISTS

[pastafossa]

So I think Tumblr ate my last couple attempts at sending this (I can only hope its been sated) but I’m the one who’s been making Jane’s mask these past couple months.

The first print (the one I sent) did have a couple issues, too small for my fat head haha the next two there were some slight printing errors but I got it together and completed version 4.0, we decided to go with completely black with white teeth for paint though I almost want to make a latex version for flexibility’s and comfort’s sake using this one as a mold.

Anywho I sent in the final pictures on Halloween but well, again, tumblr is a hungry beast which is for the best because there was a local shooting I just narrowly avoided being caught up in which not sure how I would’ve handled seeing the mask on my dash that soon after all that. Anyways!!! Pictures!!!!

HOLY SHIT THIS IS FUCKING AMAZING, I AM LITERALLY SCREAMING, I'M NOT EVEN JOKING, LIVE SHOT OF ME RN:

THE TEETH AND CURLED LIPS, THE CURVING AND SWIRLING LINES OF FUR ALONG THE SNOUT? HOW IT SITS? I NEED. TO KNOW. HOW YOU GOT THAT IMAGE FROM MY HEAD. THAT'S HER MASK, THAT'S - THAT IS LITERALLY THE MASK IN MY HEAD WHAT

I need to go scream again, give me a second

ok I'm back

Something I fucking love getting to see this is just how badass and intimidating it looks when on a face. Like I have it in my head obviously, and I google searched left and right while working it out in my head, but I didn't really see any on faces, so I just kinda had to imagine it. And that's never as good as FUCKING SEEING IT, OH MY GOD. I'm imagining her with that Hound mask, same darkness around the eyes, leather jacket, gun in hand as she stares you down from down an alley and damn. You did a fucking AMAZING JOB and I love this so gd much because I AM SEEING THIS AND IT FEELS PULLED STRAIGHT FROM MY BRAIN AND IT'S SO FUCKING DELIGHTFUL

Also ! Holy shit I'm so sorry about the shooting that's terrifying???? I'm glad you're ok!

[dubiousanon]

if you wanted to post any of your wips… *tucks hair behind ear*

I have SO MANY that I literally don't know what to choose, I've got decision paralysis 😭 let me list a few, and maybe if anyone wants elaboration, I can go from there? If anyone even reads this? I definitely want to post something new on Ao3 soon!!!

These are all fics I'm working on and eventually plan to post (: this, I'd appreciate if you asked before using plots for personal work outside reposts!

Knock Knock (Who's There?): (KakaNaru)

When Naruto moves into his new apartment following his return to the village after training with Jiraiya for two years, he doesn't expect it to come with a roommate. But when he opens his closet, it seems to lead into... another apartment. One inhabited by a quiet teenager in a dog ANBU mask.

Naruto is nothing if not good at making friends. Nobody can blame Hound for getting attached, can they?

OR: Naruto's closet leads to another dimension— one where a younger Kakashi is drowning in ANBU. Good thing he's got a cute new neighbor intent on keeping him company.

-Dimension travel! An alternate version of Kakashi exists in a mirror world, which is somehow connected via Naruto's new closet.

-(alternate) Kakashi falls fast and hard and is pretty much fiending, he's so touch starved and so emotionally repressed. He takes one look at Naruto and he's gone.

-Naruto is so accepting of him and free of any judgement that it's impossible for (alternate) Kakashi not to get attached.

-Big Kakashi still very much exists and is very much horrified when it all clicks together. He was a hellion at 17, and now that version of himself has latched onto Naruto? Are you shitting him?

-Basically (alternate) Kakashi being down bad, Naruto being cheerful as ever, and yeah. Shenanigans.

-The Uchiha clan hasn't died yet in (alternate) Kakashi's dimension either. Food for thought.

Deep Down: (KakaNaru)

Naruto gets hit by a jutsu that scrambles not only his chakra, but his memories as well. He can't seem to recall anything. Somehow, this leads to him taking one look at Kakashi and assuming that hey, this must be his husband.

Kakashi, in love with Naruto for years now but never planning to act on it, panics. Worse, Sakura says going against what Naruto says could confuse him and make the injury worse. Kakashi needs to play along.

OR: Naruto loses his memory, assumes Kakashi is his husband, and Kakashi suffers through a dream he knows will inevitably end when Naruto fully remembers.

-A few years post war and Kakashi's feelings are so severe that it's starting to affect him in real life. He can barely work without zoning out thinking of Naruto. When Naruto is around, all he can do is stare.

-When Naruto loses his memory, he sees that stare— which is filled with blatant affection— and makes the natural leap to "this must be my husband."

-Kakashi is in heaven but suffering too. This is exactly what he wants, but it'll go away once Naruto remembers And now that he's gotten a taste, he's desperate for more, more, more.

-Naruto eventually remembers but doesn't really mention it, because he's a little shit.

Darker Still: (ShikaNaru)

When the war goes sideways, all Shikamaru can seem to focus on is Naruto. Still so bright and bold and full of life even as the world falls apart around them, all he wants to do is know more. He wants everything Naruto will give him. He wants to know his favorite color and why, his height, his preferred ramen flavor, how he sleeps, the pitches of his laughter, how many crinkles form by his eyes when he smiles, what he smells like, what he tastes like.

Nara's thrive on knowledge, and sometimes they fixate. Coincidentally, time traveling to the past doesn't fix this. If anything, it only makes it worse

OR: Shikamaru is obsessed with Naruto, Naruto is blissfully unaware of how deeply, and they're going to save the world.

-Literally just Shikamaru wanting to know every last bit of information about Naruto. No matter how small, he will hoard every scrap, will swallow it whole.

-They time travel and no, this doesn't fix the obsession. Shikamaru is awful about it. Stalkerish levels of awful. He just wants to follow Naruto everywhere and touch him all the time.

-Everyone is beyond fucking confused.

-Naruto is out here saving the world, Shikamaru is just here to stare at him while he does it.

A Soul That Rings: (ItaNaru)

Soulmates are all up to chance, and so rare they're practically a thing of myth. You've got to touch them to know, at which point you both get your "mark". They're so uncommon that Itachi is certain he's in the clear, right up until the point where he touches Naruto Uzumaki right before his fight with Sasuke and orange streaks shoot up his arm.

Everyone knows that one soulmate can't die until the other does. It's basically a guarantee that you'll live a long, happy life together unless someone can get you both at the same time. Soulmates are engineered to die from old age together, passing on at the same moment. If Sasuke tries to kill Itachi now... It's not going to stick.

OR: Itachi accidentally finds out Naruto is his soulmate right before he goes off to let Sasuke kill him, and news flash. Not only is Naruto stubborn as all hell, he is exceedingly hard to kill.

-Soulmates are so rare that some people straight up claim they don't exist. They're seriously one in a million. Worse, once you meet them, it's impossible to die unless someone can off you both at the exact same time.

-Itachi is basically anchored to life via Naruto. Even his chronic illness won't kill him. As long as Naruto lives, it literally doesn't matter what happens. The link will keep him alive.

-Naruto isn't letting this go. Itachi can try to run and hide if he wants, but guess what? Naruto has a built in Itachi-sensor now, and that shit will lead him right to him.

-Itachi with nine orange streaks twisting up his arm and Naruto with bright red flames, the color of Itachi's susanoo up his

-Sasuke has never been angrier

Dream A Little Dream: (ItaNaru)

Before Itachi fights Sasuke, he runs into Naruto in the woods, intent on transferring the Kotoamatsukami to him (aka, Shisui's eye) so that Naruto can later free Sasuke from manipulation if he needs to. However, something goes wrong. When Itachi traps Naruto in a genjutsu to do this, he realizes he... can't seem to break it. Something is wrong.

Now trapped with Naruto in an illusion neither of them can seem to get out of, the truth about Itachi's entire past unravels. Pretty soon, Sasuke isn't the only Uchiha that Naruto wants to save, and Itachi finds Naruto impossible to look away from.

OR: Trapped for nearly a year in a genjutsu, Naruto peels into Itachi like one would an orange, and Itachi finds out what loving the human embodiment of the sun is like.

-The genjutsu is basically a barren wasteland devoid of any life aside from themselves, and Naruto is the type of person who can't shut up for more than five minutes

-An invisible force keeps them from getting too far apart, so no. Itachi can't run, hide, and wait it out.

-Naruto notices immediately that Itachi seems ill and is so annoying that eventually, Itachi gives up and tells him everything.

-In the process he also somehow falls head over heels for Naruto and finds a will to live, so at least there's that?

-Idk, I'm a simple girl. I want down bad Itachi, I create down bad Itachi.

I have so many others but these are my favs ♥️

[sarawritestories]

Kneel Before Your High Lord

Eris X Fem reader

A dedication to @ninthcircleofprythian for encouraging the feralness.

Summary: A stressful encounter with the High Lord of the Night Court has you coming home to your High Lord, your mate, who is all Too willing to help you unwind for a while

Content Warning: Night Court being shady, dom sub dynamics, male oral receiving implied, fade to black, unedited

Divider made by @tsunami-of-tears

Tears began to well up in my eyes as I left the dark hallowed palace the High Lord of the Night Court called home. My mate entrusted me to go to this meeting on his behalf. To ensure our alliance was secured now that Beron was gone.

I had failed.

His band of miscreants humiliated me, the shadowsinger looking at me as if I were a play thing he could bend to his will. Something in his gaze unnerved me rightfully, so the reputation of the spymaster was as long and as gruesome as his wings.

Being completely disregarded and made to feel like I was not worthy of Rhysand's presence I was dismissed with barely a hand gesture and a smug, "If the High Lord of Autumn wishes for a meeting, tell him he will have to show his face in order to do so."

Embarassing.

Eris had said they were all dreamers, and all had the same goal of maintaining peace, having the freedom to simply exist. The nagging side of my brain couldn't help but wonder if they only showed that side to him. That only to those who deem respectable and powerful were worthy of looking within the mask.

You would think that being the High Lord's mate would have given me that level of respect.

Before a tear could slide down my cheek, I windowed to the one place I felt safe.

Home.

My mind had been reeling deeply that, that I was unaware of Sadie; my hound Eris had gifted me as a mating gift guiding me to his study. It was only when her tongue met the palm of my hand that I was pulled from my stupor petting her soft gray fur I lightly knocked on the door.

"Enter." Eris' voice filled with the command of a high lord caused my toes to curl as I opened the door. His copper eyes met mine and instantly softened, "Home so soon, My Love?" He tilted his head his red curls illuminating against the setting sun. His eyes assessed my face and immediately rose from his chair to approach me. "What happened?" His calloused hands cupped my cheeks, his thumbs stroking idly along my face.

The dam broke, and my body tore out in a string sobs.

Eris tucked my face in his chest as he stroked my back as I told him of my encounter in the Court of Nightmares.

"Eris, please don't make me go back there." Eris ran his fingers through my hair, his soft lips pressing against my temple. His touch was always so soothing for me.

"The next time I go over there, Rhysand will wish he never treated you with such disrespect, Pet." I stiffened slightly at the sound of his name for me. He pushed me away gently, in order to see my face, even through the tears I could make out the cute freckles across his nose that made him look youthful, a youth that was stolen from him.

He gripped my chin with his thumb with just enough force to tell me what wad going on, "Would you like to forget for a little while?" My heart began to flutter as I attempted to nod my head only for him to firmly keep my head in place. "You know better. Use your words."

Heat began to pool between my legs at the commanding tone in his voice, "Please, my Lord. Play with me."

Eris pressed his lips to mine, giving my bottom lip a small bite before releasing me. "Put on your uniform, and return here when you're done." He pulled the pin from my hair, allowing my curls to cascade down falling to my shoulders. "Hair stays down."

"Yes, My Lord."

Eris gave me a mischievous grin, "Good Girl."

I walked back into his study in my silk robe, knowing well that I didn't want the staff to see the Green Corset and matching lace panties that left little to the imagination. "Robe off." His command jolted me as he hadn't even looked up from his paperwork.

I quickly remove the garment to reveal the bodice of the corset with intricate gold lace design that compliments the green lace around my thigh with Eris' name in gold lettering. Eris' eyes finally meet mine, and the russet hues of his iris glow like the fire in his veins. He tucks his bottom lip behind his teeth as though assessing my appearance and his gaze causes my cheeks to warm. "What to do with you, Pet."

I bow, "Use me how you wish, My Lord."

Eris motions his finger, indicating for me to move closer to him. I do as instructed, and when I approach, there is a stagnant pause. He resumes his work, "I expect my pet to kneel before her High Lord."

"Apologies, My Lord." I whisper, my stomach flipping at the command in his tone, my need to serve him and not think for a while. My knees hit the plush carpet, and my head lowered. His fingers is immediately running through my hair.

"My Sweet Girl. My sweet, loving girl. Look at me." I meet his gaze, and there is a warm smile on his face. "You are amazing, I need you to know that. You didn't fail me. You made me proud. Do you hear me?" I nod my head, and his eyes darken, "Words, Love."

"Yes, my Lord." He leans down to kiss me. I go to grip his face when he catches my wrist.

"Good, now be my good girl and make your High Lord feel good while I work. Then, when I'm done, I will worship you like the goddess you are."

I smiled and tucked myself under his desk and showed my high Lord just how much I loved him.

[huntersrequiem-if]

Hunter's Requiem

demo [HERE] 44k (22/01/2025)| forum [HERE] |

dark fantasy, horror (?), romance

CW: violence, gore

You are a minor deity of the Hunt, known by your followers as The Hunter, used by the other Higher Beings as The Hound. The All-Seeing Sun had given you countless tasks over your existence.

Yet one day, while on a mission sent out by him, you were summoned and judged for treason. The punishment left you mangled; your magic ripped off.

Cast away, you went into a deep sleep to recover.

After centuries you awoke to find your name spoken in whispers in the darkest nights. The Traitor. The world has changed, yet you still have true believers who await your awakening.

Will you be successful in your revenge? Will you be able to topple the gods or will you try to live in peace?

Features:

Play as male, female, nonbinary.

Your choices will affect the fate of your followers.

Befriend, romance or even antagonize a wide cast of characters.

Have a loyal shadowy companion by your side.

Astaroth [M]

"And to think I hated you. Now I can’t imagine living a single day without you.”

Your “other half”, attached to your psyche. He is content to stay in the backseat and offer comments. Tall and lean with gray skin. His face is sharp and angular, eyes with black sclera and white iris. Long black straight hair parted only by his antlers. His hands are black, tipped with long claws. The gradient loses color the closer it gets to his elbow. When he grins at you, you see beast-like teeth glinting in the light.

The Beloved Moon [F]

"That was the worst mistake I ever made. Please, I will do anything you want for you to forgive me.”

Moon has a curious interest in you. Since the moment she saw you, she had sought any chance to talk with you.

A short woman with deep blue skin and freckles that shine like stars. Her skin is shifting between deep blue and purple. She has a round face with full lips and a button nose. Round eyes with black sclera and bright blue iris stare at you with curiosity. Her long curly hair is white with pale blue streaks. Massive white feathered wings cover her back, sometimes used to cover her body like a cloak. Her smile might be gentle but the sharp fangs showed less so.

The Eternal Night [NB]

“I have turned a blind eye to the world far too long. I will no longer allow anything to happen to you.”

The Eternal Night is a distant person. Even more towards the other gods, yet for you they show a kinder side. They are tall and slender. Their sharp face is softened by full lips and expressive eyes. They have dark grey skin paired with stark white hair, that reaches their chin. The wavy strands frame their face nicely. Their eyes-- black sclera with crimson iris—are often covered by their mask. Massive black wings sprout from their back, and then the light catches the feathers right they look more blue than dark.

Santana [F/M]

"Why is it that every time I look at you I feel that I have known you for lifetimes? Why does my soul yearn for you?"

A priest you met in your past, a rather interesting person with a stubborn brand of kindness.

Tawny skin sprinkled with freckles. Golden hair is kept in a braid, far away from their face, yet a few strands escape and frame their heart-shaped face. Expressive eyes look at you, their blue gaze shining brightly.

They stand at an average height, donning the white and golden robes of the priests of Sun. Over that, they wear a chainmail.

You thought you lost them to the sands of time.

??? [F/M]

“Do you have any idea how long I prayed to see you, to hear your voice?”

Every day, they're slipping farther, their grip on the edge of the chasm growing fragile. Can you drag them back or will you shove them off?

permission to tag @interact-if for promotion?

[achelouise]

To you, My Lady

fandom: hsr

pairing: gallagher/FEM!reader

warnings: SPOILERS FOR 2.2 AND WRITTEN BEFORE 2.3

a/n: this may be the weirdest and most far-fetched I've ever written in terms of character interpretation, but I just needed to get something out of my system after playing 2.2, I cried like a little bitch

“You’re a History Fictionologist.”

Gallagher doesn’t respond. He should’ve known. You’ve always been too perceptive, no matter how much you mask yourself as a mess.

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t have to; he knows the crease in your eyebrows, the raging hurt that is locked behind your frowning lips, tears prickling from the corners of your eyes. He has memorized it by heart, when he had broken your heart on several occasions.

He warned you. He had shut you down when you presented him with a bouquet of flowers, he left you to pack up your date meal on more times he can count, and barked out a condescending laugh every time you show him something you created.

And yet, you stayed. You tried to make this one-sided relationship work, and Gallagher doesn’t understand why. He also doesn’t understand why he didn’t straight-up push you away.

“Finally worked that brain of yours?” he snorts, “‘Bout time.”

Gallagher- he is merely a creation born from another pair of hands. He is a toy, a pawn, with a singular ambition; to make sure The Order never crafts their perfect world, a predetermined disaster.

Perhaps he is the creator. Perhaps he is the creation. He is a branch of the History Fictionologist.

A lie ceases to exist when the truth comes to light. His death is gradual, but he feels the instantaneous switch. The soft pull of the abyss, gently taking a part of carefully-mended facade. It won’t be so kind when the final hour comes. He’s sure you know, too.

This is expected, though. He has a meeting with Sunday later, and he will take him to Dreamflux Reef. There, he will bid the people he barely knew goodbye, and he will leave a single hound to watch over the old man.

He will have played his part.

Why did he delude you into thinking you two had a future together?

“Well.” You are clearly trying to hold back tears. The pathetic display wants to make him laugh. He doesn’t. He still doesn’t turn around. “This is it, then?”

Gallagher polished a glass. “There was never ‘this’, hun.”

“But I’ve seen the way you look at me.” you insist, “You aren’t as emotionally detached as you think you are.”

He pours in High Stakes, and plays around with the drink in the glass. “I didn’t think you were this dumb, love. You deluded yourself into thinkin’ we were something more. We’re not. To me, you’re as important as a passerby in this dreamscape.”

“Then why did you stay?” Your voice cracks. “Why didn’t you push me away?”

He drops in a dash of classic SoulGlad. “Hm. Maybe because you looked too pathetic. I dunno. I don’t feel much of anything.”

“And why are you leaving now?”

You sounded far too heartbroken, beyond the stricken looks you give him on a daily basis.

“‘Cuz you realized my identity. In a day or two, my form will be destroyed. I’ll continue exploring the cosmos in another body.” He squeezes in a Hanu sticker. It looks adorable. It reminds him of the smile you gave him the first day you met.

He still doesn’t turn around. “Darling, you have to realize you’ve been loving a dead man. I don’t know what it is about police officers and bartenders that make you hot’n bothered, but don’t run into another one.”

As he mixes his drink, there is only silence. He half-expects you to leave in a huff, but he knows better. You have never left in the long time you’ve known each other.

“... Then, if all my romantic gestures meant nothing to you,” you say, tenderly and still brimming with a love that annoys him, “Can I get one more kiss?”

“On the cheek.” He says coldly, putting down the drink on the counter. “And only because I’m basically dying.”

He closes his eyes as you turn him around. He hears a quiet hum, still sad and carrying grief, before he feels a soft brush of lips on his cheek. His hands cling to your waist, before they let go.

“Thank you.” you say, “And I’m sorry.”

He opens his eyes. Your smile is fragile and hopeless, but it carries a tinge of warmth, one that makes him close them again, because if he stares longer, something in his carefully-crafted heart may actually want to stay in this dingy apartment.

Will you go chase another man, when all is said and done? Will you marry him? Will he protect you and treasure you? Will he leave you, just as he did?

“Sure.” he answers, sliding the drink into your hands as he backs away.

He opens the apartment door, and doesn’t spare another glance. If he does, he may actually fear.

Before he leaves completely, he stops. “To you,” he murmurs, knowing you will hold onto his every word, “With this glass of ‘Farewell, My Lovely’.”

Leave. Don’t be delusional. Leave.

Hm. Perhaps he was the one deluding himself.

“To unfinished business.”

He shuts the door, and basks in the soft artificial moonlight.

He hears you wail.

He can only hope this is what Mikhail would have wanted.

[aestariiwilderness]

Bad Batch Season 3 Episode 15 Spoilers

Finale-Inspired Scenario

I know it was very touching and all with Hunter's "if you need us [Omega], we'll be there". I was Touched™. But all I could think of then was this scenario: Omega: mysterious badass pilot in the Rebellion from any outsider POV. Strange mildly Force-sensitive, very young woman with very extensive, if unorthodox military experience. Animals follow her around. May or may not be a pirate. Has devoted mildly Force-sensitive friends who appear to consider her their leader. Has very odd contacts in very odd places. Weirdly naive about a lot of things (dirt continues to fascinate her) but terrifyingly experienced with others (cloning, mind-wiping, sentient experimentation, etc.). Can fix anything. Has a weird grudge against Saw Gerrera (but who doesn't?). Escape artist who overflows with compassion at the MOST INCONVENIENT times but will also absolutely stab a bitch with no compunction and watch him fall to his death riddled with blaster holes. Never speaks of her origins, history, or family. The famous Captain Rex knows her personally. Senator Chuchi hugs her. Captain Hera Syndulla has apparently known her since childhood. Other pilots and members of the Rebellion are fascinated by this mystery. They place bets on her past -- former Jedi Padawan is currently leading the pool, with "amnesiac formerly brainwashed Imperial child soldier or Emperor's Hand" trailing not far behind. And then. Oh no! Mysterious badass pilot Omega is in a bind. Trapped somewhere behind enemy lines. The Rebellion is collectively in despair, dithering about whether they can spare a "suicide mission" to get her. And then. Multiple (three or four, depending on whether Echo retired to Pabu :D) oddly similar geriatric hippies with scars, facial tattoos, and a tamed lurca hound apparate into their council room. One of them has a toothpick. He has no teeth left, but he is somehow still chewing it disdainfully. Another has one eye and appears to be 1. made of durasteel and 2. has a hard time fitting in the council room. The shortest one has a Ponytail with a capital P, seems to be cosplaying as Moses, and refuses to listen to anyone. They have an incomprehensible system of numbered plans that correspond to no military system anyone has ever seen. They spend 70 percent of the twenty minutes they are on base arguing with each other and ignoring absolutely everyone else. Rex gets a pat on the shoulder. A middle-aged pirate is their getaway driver. The hound will not stop chewing Important Wires. No one has any idea what they want. People only start to get a clue when they yeet themselves at the planet Omega is trapped on and disappear as quickly as they came. There are multiple explosions, screaming, and what sounds suspiciously like a fusion generator overloading catastrophically over an open comm before it is abruptly cut off. The Rebellion gives them up for dead even though Rex, Syndulla, and Chuchi seem oddly unconcerned. Cut to three weeks of radio silence later. There is an unauthorized landing. The code is very old, the signature masked, and it blasts through their security measures like it doesn't exist. A very beat-up ship trailing smoke and parts coasts in to the hangar bay over the protests of the landing crews. Geriatric Hippies Numbers 2 and 3 spill out in a flood of more smoke, completely untouched and looking mildly irritated instead of suffocated. 3 has two stumps and no hands now. He does not appear concerned about this. Somehow, he is still gumming the toothpick. The getaway pilot/pirate is yammering on about where she can (steal?? borrow? liberate?? what?) some upper class robotic hands for him. Geriatric Hippie Moses emerges next. The lurca hound beside him is trailing what looks suspiciously like stormtrooper armor from the corner of her jaws. Badass Pilot Omega, none the worse for wear, is thrown over Hippie Moses' shoulders fireman-carry style, complaining loudly and vociferously that she is NOT A KID and does NOT NEED TO BE CARRIED and YOU KNOW HOW YOUR BACK GETS, HUNTER, PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW --

Omega is summarily deposited in front of Rex with several squinty, semi-threatening looks that he cheerfully ignores. They leave -- without bothering to repair their ship, it is absolutely still on fire -- with a lot of meaningful silences, back-slapping, hair fussing, armor-tightening, you-forgot-this and did-you-take-your-kit and do-you-have-the-grenades-I-made-you and are-you-drinking-enough and don't-forget-to-comm-home.

A brave technician who had nothing to do with any of this dares to inquire about the injuries, the second missing hand, and the, uh, wreck they're driving. They are summarily sneered at, called a "reg" in the most scathing tones possible, threatened with dire death should Omega come to any harm, and left standing on the landing pad.

Rex is pinching the bridge of his nose and doing Lamaze breathing. Syndulla is trying not to laugh. Chuchi just looks fond; Omega just looks sheepish.

The entire Rebellion: ....what was that

Omega, sighing deeply: ...my younger brothers

The ghost of Rampart in the background: I HATE CLONES Bonus points if Jedi Knight "Kanan Jarrus" aka Caleb Dume happens to be strolling past the hangar bay just in time to see Geriatric Hippie #3 ("Toothpicked, Toothless, and Handless") and Geriatric Hippie #1 ("Skullface Moses"), screams piercingly, and Force-levitates himself to the base roof. It takes both Hera and Ahsoka to get him down three hours later

[persephoneblck]

Concrete Blooms

TW: abusive behavior, toxic relationship, Hanahaki, angst, unhappy ending

Valentino suffers from double Hanahaki because of his feelings for Vox and because of his feelings for Angel. Just because he knows he’s isn’t worth loving doesn’t mean he doesn’t yearn for it

Valentino X Reader

The handful of petals that Valentino pulls out of the drawer take his breath away as much as they did when he first coughed them up.

They will occasionally use the petals on the bed trope for softer films. There are saps out there that want that. Roses, gardenias, daisies, fuck they even had a film take place in a field of hell flowers when the trend was getting chased by hard-up killers wearing masks.

Flowers are the least scandalous thing on this desk.

His assistant’s desk is filled with an array of toys, lubricants, prescriptions for STIs, drugs to get hard and stay hard, and drugs to calm the fuck down. The last he might grab in a few minutes once he is finally able to swallow air in his shriveled heart.

Just because she has them doesn’t mean anyone else knows his secret. No one else would recognize the things, heck Valentino isn’t sure that the damn things exist naturally in either Earth or Hell. He’s never seen them in this particular distinctive color.

This mix of spider lilies and periwinkle flowers in his trademark fuchsia are not available for purchase.

Hanahaki flowers seldom look like their natural counterparts.

Valentino knows that there is only one known source, the damn things have bloomed sporadically in his chest for years now.

The periwinkle had been bright cyan blue at one point. Valentino started coughing them up when he realized that Vox was never going to care for him the way that Valentino cares for him.

Vox cares about Valentino but not in a way that would reciprocate what the porn Overlord feels.

Not the way that Vox loved Alastor, as dark, obsessive, and wrong Vox’s love for Alastor is, it is undeniably a form of love, even if it is a monstrous form of it.

Vox is fond of Valentino and loves Valentino the way that one loves a loyal hound, a devoted member of staff.

Valentino couldn’t even blame Vox for it, not really. They were in Hell.

Vox is decent to him, even tender.

Vox can read his moods and manage them.

Vox accepted him but didn’t love him. Valentino would never have admitted it aloud but he felt grateful to be accepted with all his flaws. To be trusted enough to seek a partnership with.

In life, he had been something to use, something to sell, something to abuse. Too volatile to be considered trustworthy, too emotional, too impulsive.

Vox had seen his potential brought him close, and developed Valentino.

By the time Valentino recognized what had happened, it had been too late. He had fallen in love with someone who wouldn’t love him more than he did now.

His mistake for wanting something he didn’t warrant.

He told himself to never let that happen again.

Valentino had been much more vigilant of his heart but the traitorous thing yearned.

The minute that he felt it, he set out to destroy it in himself.

The minute he signed Angel to him, he treated him the way that he had been treated in life.

It had worked for his family.

The longer they treated him like a thing, the less they saw him as a person. Valentino figured that it would do the same for him.

If he used Angel enough surely those tender feelings would die.

Never did he think that he would end up with a case of double Hanahaki. From what Valentino knew it was unusual but not unheard of, the heart is a complicated thing for most humans, and a lot of sinners have complicated hearts and souls.

In life he had yearned for love, of course, the idea of what he could have had with Angel haunted him.

He was just wired to feel things intensely. It was just part of what made Valentino. He had been coughing them up less frequently, for a while there he thought the blooms would return to their cyan shade.

That one particular love wasn’t going to fizzle out, probably ever

Vox continued to be his closest friend and partner. Their relationship provided safety and security, and Valentino knew that he would always want more with Vox.

He opened one more drawer and found the lighter he had been looking for. As he took a drag of his cigarette Valentino’s throat filled with acid.

How the fuck could she do this to him?

He was going to have to eliminate the dumb slut

Fuck, he knew she wasn’t either of those things. While he was surrounded by those because of his career, he needed to have someone capable of managing his schedule and agenda. Trying to find someone who could be smart, capable, and easy on the eyes, with some sense of self-control was nearly impossible.

There was a clause in the contract that stated that if the assistant and Valentino engaged in sexual relations the assistant would be transferred over to the porn production side of things.

It was so hard to find good help in Hell and up until five minutes ago she was a fixture in his life.

Y/n had lasted the longest out of all the assistants that Valentino had ever had.

She was able to manage his volatile moods most of the time, and when she couldn’t she knew how to dodge his wrath.

It was a known thing that working as Valentino’s assistant was among one of the best-paying jobs a low-level sinner could get, but no one had lasted longer than a month. Most were discorporated within the week, with a few idiots only lasting a day, and a good number of them ending up on the porn roster and burning out that way.

The other staff at Voxtek kept on placing odds as to when she was going to be eliminated and she had simply rolled her eyes. By the time six months had passed, she had exceeded all expectations.

Vox recognized her talent in managing Valentino and gave her a decent pay raise. Vox had also stipulated to Valentino that he was not to sleep with her unless they discussed it beforehand. He told Val that they weren’t going to lose her to the porn side given the quality of her work at the desk

She was efficient and took his abuse in stride. It was cost-effective to keep her on because she made things run smoothly. Vox was happy, Valentino was happy and she was…?

She was his assistant and Valentino reasoned that she was being paid enough for it so he saw no need to change. Besides there were a million assistants there was only one Valentino.

He didn’t see her as anything other than a capable assistant until he

saw her talking with some of the other staff. They were all venting about Vox or Velvette or even Papermint. When she was about to leave they all turned to her and asked her how she dealt with Val.

“Deal with what?” she had asked as she stirred her coffee.

“Oh come on, he’s nuts,” one of the grunts pointed out.

“He’s passionate you bland bastard,” she huffed and walked away with her coffee back to the office.

It was the nicest thing someone had said about Valentino when they weren’t fearing immediate retribution.

It had been enough for Val to warm up to her more.

A joke here and there had allowed for something more personal to develop.

It helped that he enjoyed her company. It helped that her sense of humor was as dark as his.

It helped more that she was genuinely perplexed by whatever hold Alastor had on Vox.

Fine, he could admit to himself at least. They had become as close friends as one could be with a subordinate.

She would accompany him as his plus one on outings when Vox thought he needed someone to keep things chill. She had found that an easy way to keep him distracted was with dancing, and he had been thrilled at having someone to dance with who felt the music the way that he did.

They had grown close enough that Valentino had even sent her home on a day that she had been sick. When it turned out that she had needed another couple of days to get over whatever bug had caused her to be ill he had stopped by to hang out with her.

He told her that he was just going to make sure that she didn’t die and leave him without an assistant. They had talked on her couch. They had laughed at some movie that Vox would have thought was too sappy and foreign to watch. It had been refreshing to socialize without it turning sexual.

She had been the closest thing to a friend he could recall having.

Well, he was going to learn his lesson now. The only reasonable explanation for her having the petals in her possession was that she meant to use them as a form of blackmail. It was a level of betrayal that Valentino hadn’t experienced.

Again, his fault for getting comfortable.

Vox would be pissed when he heard but they would figure out something with a temp agency. That had been the plan before she showed up.

He was going to question her until he figured out how he found these damn blooms.

When Valentino was sure he had burned all the petals.

She had to have been collecting them for her entire time in his employ to have this many.

He heard a slight cough and then the sound of heels grew louder, so Valentino leaned back in the comfortable chair that only a few employees enjoyed.

Ungrateful whore he told himself as he held moneyshot in his lap. She turned into the doorway unable to hide her surprise at finding him there.

“Valentino? Is everything alright? You were supposed to be at the studio,” the words seem to choke her.

Valentino smiles brightly at her, his top set of hands open in a relaxed fashion, but she knows his tells too well to move closer.

The tightness in his face and the sharpness of his smile let her know that he is about to explode.

Still, she closes the door and sets her bag down on the surface closest to her. As if she isn’t planning to disclose his deepest secret.

“Of course, why wouldn’t everything be alright just because you are trying to fuck me over,” Valentino seethes.

“What? Did you skip lunch today?” she sighs and smiles at him. He can tell that she is trying to figure out what has upset him. It irks him that this behavior is so normalized for them that she doesn’t react with the fear that he feels he deserves.

“Don’t play coy princess,” Valentino directs her as he stands over the desk, he points Moneyshot at her and sees her pale as if the temperature has dropped twenty degrees.

In contrast, he feels the heat of rage rises around him and feels his wings extend. It irritates him that she has the gall to look terrified even though that is what he wanted two seconds ago.

“Sir, what is this about?” she questions in her most neutral tone. Valentino knows that she is trying to handle him, she calls him Sir when she knows that he feels insufficient.

He hates that she knows him so well.

Valentino feels indignation crawl up his throat and the veiled accusations come out.

Knows that everyone on the floor has to know that he is screaming at her, and can hear her placating him. A part of him recognizes that he doesn’t want to advertise this particular argument for all to hear.

Outside it is just another day sharing the office space with Valentino and those outside continue on their work. Some slip on noise-cancelling headphones and miss when the volume goes down.

Valentino is gripping the desk as he tries to keep his rage from boiling over.

“I need to know when you knew about this,” Valentino snarls as he grips the handle of the offending drawer. She has her eyes trained on his and doesn’t see that.

“If you tell me what needs to be corrected, I’ll make sure it happens as soon as possible,” she soothes. Valentino sighs, and for once she misreads him and decides to approach him.

As soon as she is within arms reach he has her by the throat, and before she can even react he has her pinned to her desk. Her small claws trying to loosen his grip still when she feels the barrel of his gun at her temple. Her eyes are wide and panicked but it is only when Valentino rains the petal down so they cover her face that tears roll down her face. He slams her head down in a rage at that, it disorients her so she barely processes what he says.

“How did you find these? How dare you try to blackmail me you stupid slut! Tell me and I might make your end quick,” Valentino growls in her ear so that his voice doesn’t carry.

He tells himself to breathe and decides to allow her the same.

When he releases her, she falls to her knees gasping for air. She crawls pitifully away from him.

He admires the curve of her ass. He’s always recognized that she’s attractive but held back because of the clause Vox put in. Now that there is no need to keep that part of their contract valid perhaps he’ll fuck her first, wreck her body the way she wrecked the fragile trust between them. Destroy every tender feeling he has ever held towards her and use her as she deserves.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” she pleads leaving a trail of the petals as she tries to get to the door.

“Get up, get up!” Valentino demands as he points the gun at her. She gasps for air as she rises jerkily.

“Val….” she gasps. When she opens her mouth a petal falls out and he thinks that she must have inhaled one when he dumped them on her face.

“Spit it out,” he sneers at her and she cries as she meets his eyes.

Valentino is about to demand that she answer him when she coughs, and she isn’t quick enough to cover her mouth. Valentino is transfixed as he watches a process he is intimately familiar with happen to someone else.

She is coughing up flowers.

Valentino’s fuchsia blooms spill out her slim frame as she coughs.

Valentino rears back as if she has slapped him. One of his hands goes to his chest while the other grips the wall behind him. The arm holding the gun falls limply at his side.

It can’t be that she’s afflicted because of him. He can’t be the reason that she is sick.

But they are his flowers, full blooms that signify that she loves him. Someone loves him, she knows him, truly knows him, and she loves him.

He doesn’t dare move because it can’t be real, he’s hallucinating.

Valentino remains frozen on the wall.

She takes one more look at his face before running out.

Valentino screams her name as she flees wondering what blooms she'll manifest in him.

[aoioozora]

Watery Grave

Content: Pirate! Ghost x Sea Goddess! Reader, enemies, no happy ending TW: Blood, gore, death

From your underwater abode, you looked up at the wispy streams of daylight flickering and filtering through the rippling seawater. For the past few months, the waters thrummed with a certain uncertainty and fear. Trouble had been brewing upon the surface, enough for your worshippers to increase their prayers, pleas, and offerings to you, begging for your interference.

A large and familiar shadow floated over the surface and made its way past, far above your abode, momentarily blocking out the sunlight. You rose, took hold of the jet black sword next to you and fastened it to your belt. With a strong flick of your tail, you propelled yourself upward many fathoms to the surface, cutting through the waters past the aquatic life of all shapes and sizes which made way for their ruler's urgency.

It was the right time to strike.

As your head poked out from under the water, you were face to face with a massive wooden ship. Diving again, you swam away to make way for it and then resurfaced to take a closer look. It was unmistakable: the Jolly Roger ruddied in the blood of victims fluttered proudly with the wind as it stayed anchored to the apex of the main mast. Men of all ages, armed with swords, some gaunt and others rotund bustled about the vessel, singing shanties over their duties. At the helm stood the personage most complained about.

A tall, muscular man, Captain of the vessel, stood steering at the rudder, his long blond locks tamed in a single braid and a soiled red scarf wrapped around his head. Upon his face was a mask rumored to have been made out of a victim's skull. Nobody knew his real name, but from the mask alone, he was dubbed 'Ghost', and even called the Underworld's favourite hound for how many people he'd sent there, certainly increasing the work for the god of death and the dead. But you scoffed at the name, for you knew the god of the Underworld had a hound more favoured than this man.

From what you heard of the prayers of your worshippers, this man was an infernal menace. His band of pirates attacked the kingdom's navy ships, home and foreign merchant ships, and fishermen's boats, looting, setting on fire, and upturning every last one of them and bathing in their blood in cold revelry. You witnessed ship after ship, body after body sink into the water that was a part of you, all mingled with the bitter and salty taste of blood that you hated.

They attacked, terrorized, and ransacked the towns and cities, and in their blood soaked hands they held their victims in an iron grip. Not even the navy or the king could stand before their powerful band of bloodthirsty ruffians. That wasn't all. They even looted and destroyed temples and shrines built for you; these heathen didn't believe you existed and watched them.

Believing or not, would they stand a chance against the goddess of the sea upon whose domain they sailed and polluted?

It was time to put an end to this man.

Diving back underneath, another flick of your tail propelled you ahead of the ship several miles. With a twirl of your finger, you began to stir the seas a little, making them a little unstable and stormy but not enough to cause any alarm to the ship yet.

When you were far enough from the ship that it appeared as a little blip against the now darkening horizon, you emerged fully from the water, your tail now changing to a pair of legs as you stood upon the surface, watching the ship approach.

You raised your scaly arms slowly in front of you and at your behest, a small wave pushed forward towards the ship, beating against it and pushing it back slightly. You clenched your fists and the wave held fast, flattening against the surface. You then yanked your arms back harshly, as if heaving a net full of fish into a boat. The flattened wave rose high from behind the ship and hurtled the vessel forward at a speed that was enough to send them shrieking.

With your far seeing eye, you watched Ghost throw around frantic orders to his crew. The deck was flooded and you could see them scrambling to get the water out. With another swipe of your hand, another wave was sent crashing against them, nearly threatening to topple over the vessel. You raised your eye heavenwards and saw the darkening clouds looming overhead.

"I have to get his underlings out of the way first," you thought to yourself as you orchestrated the wild movements of the sea, sending the ship tossing and turning as a drunken man, causing the poor pirate captain to be unable to take control with the rudder.

"Drop the anchors!" called Ghost in his booming, sand-like voice.

"Futile," you murmured, watching as his crew, beaten by the boisterous waves, scrambled to let the anchors go. Over the crash of the water and the wind, the chains clattered loudly; the anchor flew downwards, splashing water. No sooner it sunk, a single snap of your finger was enough to send an underwater current strong enough to snap the iron chains.

The effect of it was immediately noticed by Ghost, who saw that the sea found it easier to toss his vessel. He ordered for the anchor to be pulled back up.

"It's broken, Captain!" called one of his underlings.

Ghost cursed out loud, still trying to take control with the rudder, but it appeared to him that the sea had a mind of its own. The rough tossing threw a handsome chunk of his crew into the sea; you sent the hungry sharks to feast on them, their blood-curdling screams the last thing to echo in the air as they were pulled into the depths. As their blood mingled in the water, you could taste it in your mouth; you swallowed harshly. Nobody's blood ever tasted good to you.

Your eye turned back to Ghost. Losing most of his crew all at once and right in front of him certainly made his heart suffer the sharp pangs of loss, but adrenaline forced him to look ahead and desperately turn the rudders to control the ship. The darkening skies poured fourth their showers, blocking out all hope of navigation with their fog, only adding to the misery.

"The gods are angry with us, Captain!" the second-in-command, a blue-eyed and brown haired fellow named Johnny cried, holding on to the rudder to keep himself from being thrown into the sea.

"Utter foolishness!" growled Ghost, "Do you believe in these "gods" now that you're in a storm just like any other?!"

"Captain, you know that this storm is unlike any we have ever sailed through!" Johnny exclaimed, turning his face away to avoid a slap from the waves from knocking his breath out of his lungs.

"I do not believe it!" Ghost yelled adamantly, aggressively twisting and turning at the rudder, even though he knew it was futile.

"They must be real! Remember that we have destroyed the temples of the sea goddess?! Those locals have warned us of her wrath!" Johnny tried to reason out his newfound belief, but Ghost was determined to be unreasonable.

The second-in-command was about to speak again, when a shadow in the foggy rain behind them arrested his attention. The shadow walked towards them upon the helm, its glowing golden eyes predatory and vicious, its size increasing in the fog as it drew nearer. Johnny's knees lost their strength and he collapsed to the drenched floors at Ghost's feet, watching with bulging eyes and mouth trembling and agape at this creature that approached slowly.

"Johnny, what are you doing?!" Ghost scolded, but any more words were halted when he saw the look of dread and fear in his lackey's face.

He turned over his shoulder. Standing right behind him was none other than you, goddess of the sea, towering over him a full foot. You stared down at him with your golden eyes. Fear seized his heart as he stared back.

"Who... are you?" Ghost managed to blurt out as his eyes swept over your armor of thick, iridescent scales, clawed hands, and flowing, windswept hair. Before you could answer him, he croaked, "Wait, you are..."

The towering creamy marble temples and idols of you that he personally trashed in the coastal towns came to mind; how he ransacked the offerings and filled your shrines with the blood of your priests and worshippers. The face of the fallen idol he had stepped on was familiar; it was yours.

"Goddess of the sea," you opened your mouth to supply, and it gave him the opportunity to see your serrated, razor sharp, shark-like teeth.

Your voice sounded like the rumbles of the raging sea and wind to him, and infamous and unbelieving as he was, even his knees gave away, making him fall prostrate at your feet. Johnny clung to him, face pale with fright.

"Spare us, goddess! Forgive us!" cried Johnny in pathetic shivers, groveling and begging at your feet.

Your clawed hand placed itself upon the hilt of your sword. "No more," you answered, "You lot have gone far enough, and I have excused your behaviour long enough." Though your voice was calm and even, it was apparent to them from the boisterous waves, the howling winds, and the torrents that you were far from it.

"Please!" Johnny raised his head, continuing to plead.

You drew out your sword. The next thing Johnny felt was the sharp, sizzling hot sting of the sharp metal against his neck slicing against his skin, muscle, blood vessel, and bone cutting through him like he was room temperature butter. With a single sweep, his severed head was sent flying against the bannisters of the helm. His lifeless body slumped down at your feet, his life blood spurting, oozing, and pooling at your feet and at Ghost's knees, soaking into his clothes and the wood beneath him. The Captain of the vessel was frozen with fear and shock. He stared with wide, horrified eyes at the headless corpse of his second-in-command, and at his head being tossed to and fro with the ship, spreading blood all over the helm. He felt something tear in his heart.

"Johnny! Johnny!" he cried and screamed despairingly and agonizingly over the roar of the tempest when he had finally found his voice. He clasped the shoulders of the corpse and shook them vainly, as if it would revive his only friend.

The dead man's blood mingled with the seawater at your feet, and again you felt the bitter taste. You grimaced at it. You took a step back from the two, mercifully allowing Ghost a moment to mourn.

"Rise, you blasphemer," you then commanded, now easing the waves a little, "Draw out your sword and fight me."

"What power have I over a deity?" he answered without looking at you, his trembling hand placed over the back of his dead friend.

You scoffed at this meek answer. "Do not you remember how you destroyed my temples, claiming that you were stronger than the gods?" You pointed the tip of the sword under his chin, nudging his face upwards to meet your eyes, "Prove yourself."

Johnny's severed head rolled over to Ghost's knee at that moment. The fear and panic was frozen into his features, and the Captain felt the weight of his dead friend's reasoning heavy on his heart.

Ghost rose to his feet. You pulled your sword away from his chin, taking several steps back, watching as he drew out his cutlass. He raised his weary, mournful head to look back at you; for a moment he dared to feel something other fear and anger: a sense of awe at your beauty.

"You may be a goddess, but you murdered my only friend in cold blood," Ghost clenched both his jaw and his cutlass as his eyes lingered on the black sword in your hand. Jet black and shining with an ominous, otherworldly glow, it looked like a longsword forged by the gods themselves. The sight of the weapon churned his stomach, as if warning him to not be foolhardy and trifle with it.

"Have you finally realised the taste of your own medicine?" you ask, now beginning to circle him. He copied. "Though I do not murder in cold blood as you assume," your glowing eyes stared right into his dark ones, "Inflicting death is my last resort."

"Is it likewise for me then, goddess? Do you deign to be merciful unto me by letting me live a few moments more before my death?"

"Certainly, I do," you answered, "I must first ensure that you are bark as well as bite."

Ghost blinked once. He didn't see you standing before him.

"En garde, heathen!" you called, appearing directly in front of him. You brought down your sword, aiming to slice his head in half.

Ghost was quick to obey. His arm jerked upwards. Both swords met with a deafening clang. A struggle for power ensued, with the two pushing and grinding their swords against each other. The man was surprised at how you were able to swing your longsword in such a cramped helm.

"Is this a fair fight?" asked Ghost, pushing back against you, feeling his muscles tense and burn at the immense pressure you were giving right back at him. You were after all, in every sense of the word, a deity.

"No, however, for your benefit and mine, I am holding back," you drew back your weapon, easing on the pressure a little.

"You are as merciful as they say you are," he grunted, pushing back.

"I thank you."

The swords grated against each other, causing sparks to flicker at the rough contact. Pulling your sword away, you thrust the long blade to his side to injure him. But Ghost spun on his heel, turning sideways to evade the thrust. He lunged his cutlass to your neck, only for it to be stopped by your scaly armor.

You slashed horizontally against his carelessly open torso. He stomped his back foot further back to widen the gap, narrowly missing his stomach. The tip grazed against his soiled white shirt, burning the torn edges of the fabric into soot. Ghost felt the unusual heat of the weapon against his body and blocked with his weapon, and the swords ground against each other once again.

"What is that sword of yours? It is unlike anything I've ever seen," said Ghost with admiration, stepping forward and pushing against you, daring to meet your golden eyes.

"Of course it is, because it has been forged by the god of the Underworld," you explained, "with its finest underworld obsidian. It is death to any mortal who touches it."

"No wonder it burned when it touched me." He thought.

"And what, did you steal this weapon?" he taunted, smiling under his mask.

"I do not sink myself down to do such devious things," you glared at him, "I have been given complete authority to wield this sword and to kill you."

"And yet you aren't." He continued to look into your eyes, mesmerized by the liquidy gold color with flecks of brown and teal appearing as spokes on a wheel, converging into your black pupils.

This man, Ghost, had been bestowed the privilege of peering into the eyes of arguably one of the most beautiful goddesses of the realm at such close proximity; some would consider him blessed and fortunate, others the opposite, though he didn't realize it.

"Your time is not yet, but it is at hand," You looked back into his dark brown eyes, "and all of heaven, earth, and sea will bear witness."

The fight continued, and so did the tempest. He was an excellent swordsman and put up a fine fight, and you genuinely felt it a shame to kill him. However, duty was paramount. You cornered him to the teetering tip of the bowsprit, pointing your sword at him. He stood in silence, gasping heavily as he considered the raging sea beneath him and its goddess right in front of him.

"You are determined to not spare me, I presume?" he asked.

"Most determined."

The winds slowed from howls to whispers, the rain lightened, and the seas calmed slightly. Ghost maintained his balance on the narrow bowsprit, pondering. He knew he'd eventually die at sea, but never did he think he'd be face to face with the very being he didn't believe in. He looked at you, remembering the sayings of the locals, "Nobody who sees the goddess of the sea lives to tell the tale," and how true it appeared to him now, those words he called old wives tales. Your sword was pointed at him threateningly; even in the dull weather, it glowed with an ominous light, reminding him that Death himself loomed over his guilty head.

You waited, watching him closely to see what he'd say in return. Would be plead and beg? Would he be cocky even at death's door? Or something else?

He scoffed, making you raise a brow. The air was then echoing with his laughter as he declared boastfully, not knowing from whence his own self-confidence came from, "Pity, but the jaws of hell can never hold me down!"

You sighed, "Such is the hubris of man."

Bringing the sword to your side away from him, you lunged. You opened your mouth and sunk your razor-sharp teeth into his neck. He let out a bellow of pain as you pushed him off the bowsprit, sending both of you hurtling into the disturbed depths. Upon contact with the surface of the water from such a height, Ghost felt like he fell down on an iron fortress. The pain pulsated and surged like waves of an earthquake, rattling and breaking his feeble, mortal bones. As the two of you sank, the biting cold water choked and muffled his screams into air bubbles as you held him fast between your jaws.

He was thrown down to the underwater floor, feeling the weight of the entire sea pressing down on his now frail, broken body. When you let his neck go, his blood spurt out, diffusing with the water. You spat the salty liquid out, not even wanting to swallow it, and wiped your lips. He lay there on the ground, somehow still alive, but eyes dimming by the second as he watched the daylight several fathoms over him flickering. You stood over over him with your feet planted on the ground on either side of his waist, blocking out the dim light from his vision. Taking the hilt of your sword in both your hands, you pointed the blade downwards, pressing the tip gently over his heart.

"Have you any last words, heathen?" you asked, staring down at him.

He looked back at you, and there was a certain twinkle in his dark eyes even then as he took in your features. One last time, he observed how your flowing hair floated in the water, how your golden eyes glowed, and how your iridescent scales flickered against the filtering daylight. He opened his quivering lips and croaked a muffled response over the water filling his lungs.

"You are beautiful."

You closed your eyes for a moment and then opened them again.

"I thank you."

He felt the burning metal of your deadly sword sink into his chest, piercing into his heart as you thrust the weapon in. His eyes remained on you, even as they dimmed and his consciousness slowly ebbed away, filling him with a strange peace.

You pulled out your sword and looked down at his body. His blood rose from the wound and mingled into the water like the soft, coiling wisps of smoke of burnt incense in your temples.

You wiped the blood off the sword, signifying the end of your duty. Stooping down, you sliced off the strings of his skull mask and pulled it away from his face to take a look at this infamous man. A pity he was so handsome.

Taking a step back, you rose and swam away with the prize, letting him rest in his watery grave.

[thorntopieces]

SNIPPETS!!!! I'd love to see them!

snippets under the cut but! bit of context first because i can't resist talking. if you don't care for the context you shouldn't need it for the small bits below!

this contains spoilers, both implied and explicit for persona 5, including 3rd semester general information. if you have started playing 3rd semester you are fine. if not you should wait to read this :) the snippets all take place before the end of november

basically i headcanon goro to have a condition called OSDD-1 (other specified dissociative disorder), which is basically like the condition i have (DID) but with either no amnesia or less elaborated identity states. i think the trauma he went through as a kid (neglect even if not intentional, his mother's death, foster care, social isolation, the inherent traumatic nature of being an assassin) caused his mind to fail to integrate properly, causing different 'personalities' (outdated term) to protect his mind. he has amnesia for traumatic childhood events and his assassin work, only keeping objective knowledge of it because it would be dangerous not to. so he knows roughly what happened, he just can't remember it. this translates interestingly to the metaverse, where you obviously show your true self. so if you don't have one true self, what happens then...?

on top of this, i have elected to explore the protagonist (named akira) with depersonalisation-derealisation disorder and sumire with OSDD-2 (caused by brainwashing/torture/etc)

at the end of the day it essentially rewrites all of the second half of p5 (october - end of 3rd semester). it's a massive undertaking but i'm having a lot of fun

if you have more questions i'd be happy to answer them. but here are a few snippets from the first few chapters (separated by **) :) general content warnings for: depersonalisation, derealisation, talks of murder, mild body horror (feeling puppeteered), general discussions of mental illness. nothing should be more explicit than the darkest tones p5 hit

And then, eyes cast to the floor, “And — Sakura-san, Okumura-san. I truly am sorry.”

Then he leaves, the silence of the gym faculty office oppressive.

“That was weird as hell,” Ryuji says into the quiet. “He’s been hounding us for months, harassing Akira to have someone to talk to, being a dipshit on camera but now he wants our help? Fat chance.”

Akira wants to retort, to say that no, actually, he’s really been enjoying the outings with Akechi to all sorts of places, but the words are trapped in his chest and nothing feels real. Distantly, with the last of his strength, he thinks that he really shouldn’t be as put-off by this as he is. He’s been through this four times before. This isn’t the first time he’s had his less-than-socially-appropriate part-time job revealed by someone he cares for.

But he’d been like this the past few times too, hadn’t he? With Tae he’d almost fainted, the world blurring in and out for almost an hour before he was stable enough to leave. With Iwai, he’d frozen up for minutes on end as his mind raced through all the possibilities of what would happen now. With Chihaya, he had for a moment felt true fear that the supernatural could be used for evil and work against him. Then, with Kasumi, where he’d gone home afterwards and only barely managed to send Morgana away to Futaba before majorly breaking down, unable to go to school the day after and claiming a very real migraine.

Akechi is a whole different threat. Tae only really knows him with the mask he wears there, Iwai with another, Chihaya a third. Kasumi, like always, is an exception. He’s pretty sure Akechi is the only one that might have been able to see past all twenty-something of his masks (one for each of the confidants, one for his parents, one for school, one from the court and police) to see what truly lays beneath. And he’s affiliated with the police.

Akira hasn’t felt so threatened by the very concept of Existing as he does right now in this moment, standing in the faculty office where his life had almost ended for a second time that fateful day in mid-April.

**

“So you’re the Black Mask we keep hearing about,” Sakamoto says, his voice rippling over the tense silence of Leblanc. “The Palace Rulers ‘cept for Kamoshida and Futaba almost pissed themselves even mentioning you. Are you really that scary?”

Akechi almost wants to laugh. Is he, per every definition a serial killer, scary? Maybe. “Yes, that would be right. He often had me go around the known Palaces of those funding his political campaign and check that their Rulers were compliant to what He wanted.”

“And you killed Futaba’s Ma,” Sakamoto continues. “And Haru’s dad. You’re an awful person, Akechi, you know that right? I can’t understand what Akira could possibly see in you.”

“Yes, I did,” Akechi says. The marionette strings in his face prevents him from acknowledging the second statement entirely.

“Why?!” Sakura-chan almost yells at him and he flinches involuntarily. “You killed my mum! What gave you the right?!”

For a moment his vision swims and his head hurts more and he’s sleepy and the tendrils expand in his jaw and curl around his body. He could sleep. He should sleep. But almost by a miracle, his voice keeps speaking, sounding different to his ears. His mouth moves on its own.

“She was a cognitive pscientist,” his mouth says. “She worked in a research facility closely related to Shido. I was ordered to spy on all of the employees’ Shadows for some weeks to ensure they weren’t hiding any progress from him. Your mother recognised the true potential— and danger —of the works he was doing and attempted to muddle the data she submitted while keeping a true copy elsewhere. Somehow Shido found out about it and ordered me to cause a psychotic breakdown in her. The intention was to incapacitate her, not kill her but—”

The sleepiness gives way for an onslaught of memories. Isshiki Wakaba’s Shadow walking around him, muttering about fractured minds and the outcomes of child abuse and how he’d make for an ideal test subject, being the son of one of the most distorted men in the country—

“I lost control,” he whispers, barely loud enough for the others to hear. The strings, the tendrils, the sleepiness is gone. It’s just him, now. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I really didn’t. It was an accident. He was overjoyed.”

He feels so conflicted … about everything really. His victims. His victims? The victims? He should feel shame and guilt and remorse and the entire spectrum of human social emotions, it should be drowning him, filling his throat with tar and choke him out, slowly killing him. But Goro’s not entirely sure he does. Is it because any feeling except the drive to keep fighting is thoroughly repressed and compartmentalised or is it because he genuinely doesn’t care? Has his upbringing led him to be this immoral? Surely not, killing people doesn’t mean he’s evil. What other path of survival was there for him if not getting fished off the streets by him? A revenge plan, but that’s almost secondary. Staying alive is the primary goal. Because it’s not just his life he’s fighting for but also—

If he can take down Him for being willing to to abandon his mother and also hire a 15-year-old as a supernatural assassin? He might as well. He has to save his life and save—

“And my father?” Okumura-san asks. “You kept going after you took out Futaba’s mother. You’ve caused so much hurt, what’s the justification for that?”

Goro shakes his head, swallows down the disgust at the memories of his unhinged cackles ricocheting off the bloody walls of Mementos. That’s him, the murderer, the killer. He doesn’t think about it much.

Can’t.

Won’t.

Shouldn’t.

The marionette strings are back, speaking for him, existing for him. “I make no justifications. I have no excuses. If I’m allowed to be entirely honest with you, your father’s downfall was inevitable. He became an uncontrolled piece in His game. Please trust me when I say that the fate he suffered was by far not the worst that could have befallen him.”

**

He brings his phone out and opens the Metaverse Navigator. The red eye stares ominously up at him and for a moment it feels like it blinks. But it’s gone as fast as it came, a trick of the light, and he speaks the necessary code words into the navigator. “Nijima Sae — Tokyo District Court — Casino.”

The world around them warps and turns and reddens and there are lines covering his vision. A headache tears through Goro’s skull and the voices he doesn’t usually hear grow louder and louder, a cacophony in his skull, reverberating through his brain, one crying, one laughing, one speaking in hushed tones and one reassuring him hat it’ll be okay. The marionette strings settle into his joints, into his skin, molds his face into the appropriate expression and leave him ready to fight and defend and protect. The Metaverse is hostile, he’s not safe here. Correction, none of them are safe here.

Goro’s grateful for the support he has, even if the voices ring in his ears and distracts him from the environment he’s in. At least it’s only in the Metaverse that it’s this loud and clear. In the real world he barely hears anything ever. Once it’s safe— if it’ll ever be safe enough —he should look into it. Not see a therapist though, he’s not like Akira. He doesn’t need a shrink to tell him that his mind’s fucked up beyond repair.

Ideal test subject. Fractured mind.

Safety first, a voice whispers. You know enough to survive. You know where to find us, when you need it. You’re doing enough for now, Base.

That’s true, admittedly. He can live for now with the knowledge that there’s him and … and him and him and him and him and it’s through their shared efforts that he’s still alive. And the one that’s currently guiding him that’s allowing him the use of his Persona.

Despite being in the Metaverse for years now, Goro hasn’t Awakened to his own Persona yet. He’s been through five Awakenings taking place in his body, aware but not in control for them. All the way since the beginning he’s borrowed one of the Personae. The marionette strings in his body allow him use of Robin Hood, the tendrils Loki. He hasn’t needed the others for some time now. He doesn’t pretend to understand it exactly, and the only person that would know is dead at his hands.

The casino comes into view in front of him, bright and brilliant and garish and … and partially his construction. To some degree he’s helped build this hall of delusion for one of the few people in his life that sees him as a whole, real and valuable human. It’s almost sickening. Will his influence be visible in the Palace?

You’re fixing it now, the voice whispers intently. Isn’t that atonement? Isn’t that sufficient?

**

Half an hour later sees them sitting in a booth at the now-empty Leblanc, hot cups of (decaf) coffee in front of them.

Akechi sighs again— he’s been doing that a lot since they entered Mementos earlier in the day —and anxious tugs at a loose strand of hair. He’s discarded the jacket and tie and folded the sleeves of the button-down up to the elbows. It’s almost like the person sitting in front of him is someone entirely new, but Akira knows better. He’s seen many facets of Akechi— every person is multitudinous after all —and this is just one of them.

A faded memory of a class back before the Hawaii trip pops up in his mind. A random statement from Kawakami right before a question. He mentally shakes his head, willing the memory away. He’ll listen to Akechi and make no judgments.

That anxious tug at his hair almost makes Akira giddy on the inside, though. Is that a habit Akechi picked up from him?

“I don’t know where to start,” Akechi says quietly. He doesn’t meet Akira’s eyes. “Do you remember the conversation we had some weeks ago about the influence of personae in the real world?”

Akira nods. It had been an enlightening conversation over a game of billiards, an exercise in speaking in tongues to avoid warranting suspicion, an hour and a half where Akira had felt blissfully present, the world around him loud and vibrant and alive.

“I suppose it’s as good a starting point as any. My — to say it plainly, my personality isn’t quite … intact. I don’t have a name for the condition, nor do I necessarily want one, but it’s a protective mechanism.”

“A trauma condition?” Akira asks with a small grin. “No offence, but yeah, checks out.”

That makes Akechi laugh, quiet but genuine. “Yes, well, you know most of my tragic backstory. I’m sure you can imagine how that may have affected my faculties.”

“Sure,” Akira says, then as a thought springs to mind, he quickly stutters out. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. It’s personal, I get that.”

Akechi nods and for a moment they sit there in silence.

Suddenly. “Do you think you could remove your glasses?”

Akira blinks, but obediently removes them and places them on the table, lenses up. “Sure. Any reason?”

Another tug at the loose strand. “You use them as a defence against the world. I thought it would be more fair like this. Both of us unmasked.”

“Sure, makes sense,” Akira says, and it’s genuine. It does feel more … intimate, to be without the glasses. They hide his eyes when he’s surveying his surroundings for threats, provide a cover for when he fades in and out of reality, make him appear less threatening to those he encounters. Without them — it feels almost special.

Another few minutes of silence. Akira doesn’t need to look at the clock to know that the trains will stop running long before they finish talking. That’s alright, he has the spare futon for this exact purpose. Akechi’s never slept over before, but that’s a problem to tackle later.

“There are … multiple versions of me,” Akechi says eventually. “Multiple versions with multiple roles to protect me and keep me … well, I doubt sane is the right word. But there is one primarily for dealing with the public, one for handling my—” a shudder, “—extracurricular activities, and so on. They are sort of like your masks, but to an extreme degree if you’d like a point of reference. Your personae are all Shadows you have captured, with the exception of Arsène, my personae are quite literally fractured facets of myself.”

Akira nods (wow he’s been doing a lot of just nodding, hasn’t he?) and thinks over this for a minute. Truth be told, he’s noticed all the inconsistencies in Akechi’s behaviour, so minute they might not be picked up by anyone, but Akira’s observant, has to be to have survived his childhood, to keep his Thieves safe, to not go insane in the loud hustle and bustle that is Tokyo. He notices stuff.

Akechi’s voice, inflection, animation, from the higher and smooth voice he employs when on television or radio or talking to people he does not trust in the least, to this more flat tone he’s now hearing him speak in. His verbality, from unable to shut up about a topic that engages him, to fatigued hand gestures signalling his wishes. His curry preferences, his coffee tastes, and once— when he’d been sitting next to Akechi before a Phantom Thieves meeting doing homework —his handwriting. Minute changes, but visible. Softer rounded strokes in the kanji vs harsh straight lines. “Sometimes you take your coffee with milk and sugar, other times you verbally express that anything but black coffee is a sin.”

“Yes,” Akechi says slowly. “Coffee preferences … yes, that is one of the tells, I suppose. If my memory serves my right, you’ve mostly been in contact with me, like, me, the one you are talking to now and — well, the detective prince—” A pause, a muttered swear, “—this is really difficult to talk about, I’m coming to realise. Especially— promise you won’t?”

He promises. Why wouldn’t he promise?

“Up until now I have refused to truly acknowledge this. Of course, I have kept track of symptoms and written extensive notes on it, because it would be dangerous to let anything slip, to forget anything at all.” He pauses again, and takes another sip. “I am aware of the other parts of me, some of them appear to ‘possess’ me at times and puppet me around like I’m some doll. But despite being aware of them for a decade or so to varying degrees, none of them have names. We are all Goro, I’m Goro, the despicable prince is Goro. All of them are Goro equally as much as me. It makes it exceedingly hard to talk about.”

No wonder, Akira thinks, sipping his coffee. Decaf is never as good as the real deal of course, but he needs to sleep today, even if tomorrow is a Sunday. “You can stop at any time. All that matters to me is that you’re safe and how I can accommodate you when we’re in the Metaverse.”

“I don’t have my own persona,” Akechi says after a minute or two. “I expect that if I was in a situation to require one, I would awaken to one, but so far one of the other parts have always awakened first. I suppose as the … base part … I’m needed for more mundane matters than chasing criminals in the cognitive world.”

Akira frowns. That’s … certainly unique. He’s never heard of something like that occurring, but then again, there isn’t exactly a precedent for how someone’s presence in the Metaverse should work. He’s a fantastic example of that himself. “So when you use—”

“Robin Hood corresponds to the detective prince part of me,” Akechi explains. He’s sounding even more tired than at the start of the conversation. They should wrap this up soon. “It’s — imagine, I— the person that makes up me, this part of Akechi Goro —am almost always conscious. But there is almost always someone else that puppeteer me around. I’m a passenger in my own car, the car being driven by someone else. I can employ the persona of whomever is there with me at any given time. They lend me their persona so I can use it while they take possession of my mouth and limbs. So far with you I have used Robin Hood the most— you all know of my alternate Metaverse identity. I chose not to use him. Well, define chose, I don’t exactly get a say in the matter. But beyond that. Sometimes some of the other parts attempt to take over and what you saw earlier, both in Sae-san’s Palace and in Mementos, was the physical evidence of that process.”

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #101!

Character: Optimus (G1)

Word count: 1.4k

“A celebration?” Optimus had asked, his expression skeptical as he stared down at the glass of engex pushed into his servos.

There wasn’t much to celebrate, according to him. Another skirmish between their two factions had led to a nasty fight between him and Megatron. He was still nursing the wounds, both physical and emotional, and could hardly begin to imaging settling in for a night of festivities.

“Yeah, a celebration,” Ironhide grinned with a slap to his shoulder. “You know, good friends, good food, a few dozen bottles of engex. Ever heard of it?”

Optimus retracted his mask and gave the drink a sip. It was sweet and strong, just the way he liked it.

“This seems a bit untimely,” he said, opting to swirl the engex around his glass rather than continue to drink. “Megatron—”

“Megatron should be the least of your worries right now, Prime,” Ironhide cut in. He was gentle with his words, opting for a softer approach instead of the rough and friendly exterior he often wore. “Come on, relax a little. You’ve been out for days… a break oughta do you some good.”

Ironhide meant well, of course, but he seemed to understand the Prime’s desire for space. He settled for another pat on the shoulder and headed off to rejoin the crowds, leaving his leader to stew in his thoughts.

Optimus stood and watched for some time, the glass in his servos a foreign weight that distracted him often. He was content to stick to the far wall and observe the mirth and celebrations from afar, opting to take careful sips of the glass every so often to avoid drawing attention. He felt uneasy, as though he were an outsider looking in on a group where he didn’t belong. The warmth of rich engex settling in the pit of his tanks did little to soothe his discomfort, and by the time he’d finished his glass, he was more than ready to call it a night.

Setting his glass down and slinking towards the door was easy enough, but when you were as big a bot as him and the talk of the evening, leaving without drawing attention was nearly impossible. He was reaching for the door when another glass of engex appeared in his servos, and with it the softened face of his favorite weathered mech. Ratchet looked just as exhausted as he felt, but there was an air of triumph to him that gave away his good mood.

“Leaving already?” Ratchet asked him, the smile he wore overshadowed by his worried tone. “Things are just picking up! I cleared you for medical leave, didn’t I?”

Well… he did, but Optimus just wasn’t feeling it. Putting said feelings into words was harder than usual when the room was alive and drinks were flowing, however. He tried to muster up a proper excuse that hadn’t been used before, but the damage was already done. Ratchet watched with servos on his hips and a smug expression as their leader was ushered and dragged back into the crowds.

“Ain’t a celebration if the Prime isn’t around,” Hound spoke over the laughter and chatter of the room. “Go on, drink up and take a load off! Tonight’s all about us.”

“He’s got a point,” Ironhide added between his roars of laughter and excitement. “Show us a good time, Prime!”

The window of opportunity, if it had ever truly existed, was well and gone by then. Having long since accepted his fate, Optimus gave in to the encouragement from his team and took a seat amongst the crowd. The cheers and chatter only seemed to grow thanks to his appearance, and through flustered words and a blushing face hidden behind the rim of his glass, he settled in for the night.

True to most celebrations, the drinks flowed steadily, and the conversation remained alive. One glass became two, and two became three, and before he knew it, all his prior hesitation had melted away into a comfortable contentment. He had earned himself a pleasant buzz and was happy to sit and listen to his old friends’ chatter when the first round of snacks had arrived.

The rest of the team had joined, and with them came more drinks, more fuel, and more food. The snack bar, which had previously been a small addition to the festivities with tiny treats and sweet jellied cubes, was now loaded with various fancy foods and indulgent sides sourced straight from the storages. A party wasn’t a party without proper food and booze, after all.

He had already filled his belly with enough engex to last him a few days, but the aroma of fresh foods and sweet ener-cakes was too good to pass up. A celebration wasn’t a celebration if he didn’t relax a little and enjoy himself, he supposed, and all remaining caution was thrown to the wind in favor of getting up and filling a plate—and his tanks—with the rest of his team.

Only a few glasses of engex was all it had taken to fill his belly, and likewise, it was only a few plates before his plating was straining at the seams. Distracted by the fond chatter with close friends and catching up with old Autobots, Optimus almost lost track of the number of times someone had ducked in to fill his glass or pile up his plate. He would have felt embarrassed had he not been enjoying himself so much, but with the addition of a strong buzz and the comfort of casual conversations, he hardly seemed to care.

It was around his fifth plate… or—or maybe his sixth… that he started to notice the strain on his tanks. He had just accepted another glass of engex (this time one flavored with berries and ore sourced straight from earth itself), and was happily discussing… er, something with Wheeljack. At least, he thought it was Wheeljack. He couldn’t quite remember.

The feeling of such complete intoxication was wonderful. He couldn’t hardly believe it had been possible to feel so at ease, and so carefree until then, but now he did. His frame felt weightless, and his belly was full, but he was…

He was…

Primus, he was stuffed.

Between immersing himself in the atmosphere of the night and losing hold of his inhibitions, Optimus had gone and done himself in big time. His plating creaked with every movement as he leaned back and puffed out a sigh, his servos quick to soothe the bloated mass of pudge spilling over the edges as soon as he’d set down his glass.

This wasn’t just a bit of overindulgence, but the results of absolutely stuffing himself silly, and he feared even the slightest movement would land him back in the medibay.

His processor remained fuzzy, and his helm swam as he struggled to assess the damage. He could hardly breathe against the strain, his belly aching and his tanks protesting with weak gurgles that rumbled deep within him. The mere thought of speaking, let alone excusing himself to his quarters so he could fix the damage and sleep it off, was too much to bear.

He could barely speak, let alone move. The weight of his stuffed gut hung in his lap against the strain of warped plating and gurgling tanks, threatening to pin him in place if he dared fight against it. He was just so full, so, so full.

Eating anything more was not an option, and neither was finishing the glass of engex that had been handed to him. It was all so much all at once, and he didn’t know where to go next, let alone what to do.

Did he stay and wait it out? Should he call it a night and head to his quarters?

He was enjoying the company of his team, and the mild swirl of his hazy processor was just enough to keep him happy and present as he processed the weight of his belly. Staying a while longer wouldn’t hurt, he supposed. If he needed to leave, he could leave. In the meantime, it felt best to give himself a rest and see where the night led him.

His belly was full, and his helm was swimming, but Optimus didn’t exactly mind, not in the moment.

He could stick around for a while longer. The servo lifted to rub at his swollen middle went unnoticed, and Optimus was content to melt into the background as the rest of the night wore on. A little bellyache was bound to happen sooner or later, but for now, he believed he could stick it out.

Next time, however, he’d have to be more careful around the snacks and the drinks. For now, he’d rub his belly better and enjoy the night’s festivities.

[anonymousewrites]

One Hell of a Love (Book 1) Chapter Nine

Sebastian Michaelis x Demon! Reader

Chapter Nine: One Hell of a Hound

Summary: (Y/N) and Sebastian deal with a demon hound and meet an angel. They don't like either.

            (Y/N) stared at the remains of Barrymore, only surprised by the fact that this implied a Demon Hound did in fact exist.

            “Master Barrymore!” cried Angela.

            Sebastian calmly stepped forward to examine the body. Blood splattered across stone, and an entire hand was missing from the corpse.

            Angela gasped in fear before fainting. (Y/N) narrowed their eyes. Something about her still didn’t seem right, but whatever she was, it felt…rotten.

            “Miss Angela,” said Finny worriedly, kneeling beside her.

l

            “ ‘This case is at a close.’ Having declared such a thing, this is rather unfortunate, is it not, Young Master?” remarked Sebastian with a smirk.

            “Shut up,” said Ciel, irritated. “What about Miss Angela?”

            “We’ve put her to bed for the time being,” said Mey-Rin. “It’s no wonder she’s tired out. It’s so heart-wrenching it’s unbearable.

            “This village completely isolated itself from the rest of society, fearing the curse of the Demon Hound,” said Ciel. “The existence of the Demon Hound was supposed to have been a farce Lord Henry created in order to rule the village. However, that same Lord Henry has now…” Ciel frowned.

            “Most likely, he did exaggerate the presence of the Demon Hound to exercise more control over Houndsworth,” said (Y/N). “However, we overestimated his manipulation. Apparently, there is a root to these myths. There could be a true Demon Hound.” Which was fantastic, as a cat demon.

            “Maybe the Demon Hound was angered by Lord Henry doing all those bad deeds in its name,” said Mey-Rin.

            “Well, it seems certain that this was not the work of humans,” said Sebastian.

            “What do you mean by that?” asked Baldroy.

            Sebastian smirked and didn’t respond.

l

            By the next morning, the situation hadn’t changed. Sebastian and (Y/N) went about their usual day, and there was no ruckus at all before teatime.

            “Sebastian! (Y/N)!” shouted Mey-Rin and Finny, running into the dining room.

            “What is wrong? You’re making a ruckus,” said Sebastian disapprovingly.

            “Miss Angela is missing,” said Mey-Rin.

            “It seems there are herbs that grow near the swamp,” said (Y/N). “She went to pick them.”

            “On her own? To the swamp?” asked Finny worriedly.

            “Really? At a time when the Demon Dog may be running loose?” said Mey-Rin.

            “Ah, damn,” realized Baldroy.

            “Why did she go to pick herbs at a time like this?” murmured Finny.

            “It seems she was worried about how pale you looked,” said Baldroy.

            “For me?” Finny’s eyes widened. He immediately turned and ran back out the door to search for Angela.

            (Y/N) raised an eyebrow. They shouldn’t be surprised by how easily humans were taken in by the supernatural (they wouldn’t survive as a demon without humans “trusting” them), but sometimes they didn’t understand how the humans didn’t sense the mask around Angela, the subtle rot at the edges of her being.

            “Sebastian, we’re going to,” said Baldroy, running out with Mey-Rin.

            “Oh?” questioned Sebastian.

            “What? You don’t have any hot, red blood running through your veins?” asked Baldroy. “Let’s go, Mey-Rin.”

            “Yes!” said Mey-Rin, and the two disappeared after Finny. Tanaka “Ho, ho, ho!”-ed after them.

            Ciel smirked up at Sebastian. “So, what color is your blood? Seems like something you should be worried about.”

            (Y/N) put a hand on their hip. Their blood was red in this form, but everything changed in their true form.

            Sebastian just raised an eyebrow, frowned, and sighed.

            “My Lord, I’m going to ensure that my…colleagues don’t get themselves into more trouble,” said (Y/N) with a bright smile.

            Ciel nodded and waved a hand. “Go ahead. Sebastian, you and I shall track down the Demon Hound.”

            “Yes, my Lord,” said Sebastian, bowing.

l

            “Where did Miss Angela go?” wondered Finny.

            “Check by the water,” said (Y/N), appearing behind him with a smile. Finny, Baldroy, and Mey-Rin screamed and jumped as they appeared out of nowhere. “That’s where the herbs would be.”

            “Where did you come from?!” cried Baldroy.

            “I came out right after you.” They smirked. “You should be more careful in this fog.”

            Mey-Rin cried out, and the others turned to her. She pointed into the mist, and beyond them lay dug up earth. Human limbs, partially decomposed, stuck up from the dirt at random angles.

            “What on earth is that?” questioned Baldroy.

            Now this is the trail of a demon, thought (Y/N). Especially one as uncivilized as a hound. They observed the buried bodies until they noticed a fresh limb. A ring with an engraved “B” flashed on a severed hand. It was Barrymore’s missing arm.

            “That���s…Lord Henry’s…” breathed Mey-Rin.

            A low howl echoed across the hills, and the servants retreated behind a rock before peeking out again. A naked man with red eyes and wild white hair walked across the ground.

            (Y/N) narrowed their eyes. Demon. Uncivilized, weaker than them, but demon.

            “It wasn’t the Demon Hound that did Lord Henry in…It was a human after all,” said Baldroy as he watched the man lift up Barrymore’s arm and move its placement.

            (Y/N) rolled their eyes. Humans. You can tell them to their face you’re a demon and they still wouldn’t believe you.

            “I-It’s a shocking full-frontal scene!” said Mey-Rin.

            “Did he have a grudge against Lord Henry for some reason?” asked Baldroy.

            “Maybe Miss Angela asked him to do it!” gasped Mey-Rin.

            That would explain the rotten quality about her, thought (Y/N). As the man wandered away into the mist, (Y/N) stood and stepped around the rock. They glanced back at Baldroy, Mey-Rin, Finny, and Tanaka. They raised an eyebrow. “Well? Aren’t you guys coming to ‘save Angela?’ ”

            “Right!” said Mey-Rin, Baldroy, and Finny in determination.

            They continued on through the fog, following in the footsteps of the strange man. (Y/N) remained on edge. If that man transformed to a Demon Hound form, they would have to be ready to fight. After the battle with Grell, they didn’t appreciate having to fight another inhuman being, but they would do whatever was necessary. They didn’t want a filthy dog demon running around causing them trouble, after all.

            Finally, they arrived at the ruins of an old house, stone walls crumbling. The man was nowhere in sight, but (Y/N) could sense his presence around. A howl echoed, confirming their senses. The humans beside them quivered. Finny gasped as a gust of wind whirled the fog, and a gigantic hound appeared through the fist. Its red eyes glowed viciously.

            “The Demon Hound!” cried the Phantomhive servants (minus (Y/N)).

            It howled and ran towards them. (Y/N) moved in front of the humans and grabbed the Demon Hound’s paw, slamming it down on the ground before it reached the mortals.

            “Bad dog,” hissed (Y/N).

            The hound flipped over and growled at (Y/N), base instincts of solitary demons and dogs versus cats overcoming it as (Y/N)’s eyes flashed fuchsia. It bounded towards them again, and (Y/N) grinned and braced to fight. Before it reached (Y/N), though, it slammed into the ground as a figure in black landed on its head.

            “My, my, you’re quite good at the ‘sit’ command,” remarked Sebastian sarcastically to the hound. He glanced back at (Y/N). “It seems you found the hound instead of Angela.”

            (Y/N) shrugged. “I had it under control.” As if to prove it, they grabbed the hound’s paw and threw it into the air.

            “Hey, this isn’t the time to be playing around,” said Ciel, sighing at the two demons.

            “Young Master!” said Mey-Rin, Baldroy, and Finny.

            “Of course. We intend to clean all this up in just a moment,” said Sebastian. He pulled out a small bag.

            (Y/N) deadpanned. “Dog treats?”

            “It is a scent he cannot resist,” said Sebastian as if it was obvious. “Puppy’s favorite! They’ll want to eat it every day! Innuko!”

            The demon hound began salivating eagerly at the promise of food. It leapt towards Sebastian.

            “The best way to train a dog is to bend its will and strengthen its loyalty,” he said. “The carrot and the stick! First, the carrot!” He jumped onto the hound’s head and began petting it.

            “Then the stick!” (Y/N) kicked the hound, sending it flying to the side.

            “Carrot,” said Sebastian, holding out the dog treats as the hound gazed at the box eagerly.

            “Stick!” (Y/N) punched the hound.

            “Carrot.” Sebastian rubbed the dog’s stomach.

            “Stick!” (Y/N) jumped on the stomach.

            “Stick,” concurred Sebastian, taking the hound by the tail and spinning it in the air before launching it away.

            “This is a bigger show than I could have imagined,” muttered Ciel.

            “And finally…a big embrace!” Sebastian hugged the hound and jumped into the air.

            The poor dog fell back to the ground dizzily, leaving a crater in the ground.

            “Sebastian?” called (Y/N), calmly going over and looking down into the crater.

            “I’m coming,” said Sebastian, and as he spoke, the ground rumbled around the crater, and a geyser of water shot up into the air.

            (Y/N)’s nose twitched, and they jumped away as the hot water rained down on them.

            “Is this hot water?” questioned Baldroy.

            “One thing is essential for a resort,” said Sebastian, appearing atop the geyser, perfectly balanced. “A centerpiece that will provide a tourist attraction.” He held the Demon Hound, now in his human form, as he spoke. “Bathing luxuriously in excessive amounts of hot water, draining away the fatigue of the day, that is what this is. The spa!”

            “You know, I’m beginning to think you lied when you used to say dramatics were below our kind,” said (Y/N).

            “If one who serves as a Phantomhive butler could not strike a spring or two, then where would we be?” remarked Sebastian, smirking. He was just showing off, and he was satisfied when (Y/N) chuckled lightly. Before he could revel more, though, the hound leaned forward and licked his cheek.

            “Once again, it’s too shocking!” cried Mey-Rin, blood dripping from her nose at the sight of the naked man licking Sebastian.

            (Y/N) narrowed their eyes, grabbing the hound, and tossed him to the side. “Stick.”

            Sebastian smirked in amusement.

            “Pluto!” cried a light voice. Angela had arrived. “Pluto!” The demon hound bounded towards her and hugged her, licking her affectionately. She laughed as Pluto lavished her with affection. “There, there.”

            (Y/N)’s eyes narrowed. Angela had a Demon Hound obeying her so easily. That was a threat. “How do you know him?” they asked, cocking their head.

            Angela smiled as she looked at them. “I found this little one about a month ago. I love dogs, and he was just so cute I ended up trying to tame him.”

            Of course she likes dogs, thought (Y/N).

            “Cute?” wondered Finny and Mey-Rin.

            “He has a habit of turning into a human when he gets excited, though,” sighed Angela.

            “Don’t try to settle this by calling it a ‘habit,’ ” said Baldroy incredulously.

            “So you kept him without telling anyone?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow distastefully.

            “Yes,” said Angela. “Lord Barrymore used the legend of the Demon Hound, but in reality, he was more afraid of it than anyone else. When I thought about what would happen if this one found out…I suppose I was too naïve. I didn’t think for a moment that he would do that to Lord Barrymore.”

            (Y/N) had a suspicion Angela knew exactly what she was doing. If she could tame a Demon Hound, then she knew what they were capable of.

            “I beg of you, is there no way he could be taken to Earl Phantomhive’s mansion?” asked Angela, gazing at the group with wide, innocent eyes.

            Sebastian and (Y/N) both didn’t look fond of the idea.

            “Take him to the mansion?” questioned Baldroy.

            “If he’s under Sebastian and (Y/N)’s tutelage, I believe Pluto will become a wonderfully obedient dog!” said Angela.

            Pluto woofed and tried to nuzzle at (Y/N) as if to agree and apologize for being bad before, but the cat demon drew away, narrowing their eyes. Pluto pouted, and (Y/N) sighed.

            Dogs. So needy, thought (Y/N).

            “Well, I am one hell of a butler, but…” Sebastian was not a fan, either.

            “That sounds fine,” said Ciel.

            “Are you sure, Young Master?” Sebastian’s eyes narrowed in frustration.

            Ciel smirked, clearly enjoying irritating Sebastian. “Yes. It sounds fun in many ways.”

            (Y/N) briefly considered leaving the mansion, but upon looking at Sebastian once more, they decided against it. The things (Y/N) was willing to do to remain by him…

l

            “Don’t forget about me, Pluto,” said Angela with a soft smile as she secured a collar around Pluto’s neck. She kissed his cheek. This was a goodbye, and the rest of the Phantomhive household, sitting in their carriages, watched.

            “Pluto! In the meantime, put something on when you go into town!” shouted Baldroy, tired of the naked man. Pluto huffed at the idea.

            “Uh, Miss Angela…” said Finny nervously.

            “Let us meet again, Finny,” said Angela, smiling and patting his cheeks. She kissed his forehead, and Finny blushed, hurriedly getting into his carriage as the servants tease him.

            Angela turned to (Y/N) and Sebastian and smiled. “I will have to visit Pluto at some point.”

            “If possible, I would ask you to refrain from doing so,” said Sebastian. He smirked as her smile changed to a cold, emotionless expression. “Taming a Demon Hound is not such an easy task.” His smirk turned to a suspiciously narrowed gaze. “Though you seem to have quite a talent for wrapping lesser beings around your fingers.”

            Angela’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The only one who enjoys such actions is your kind.”

            “You were the one who brought a Demon Hound to a town, knowing what it was capable of,” said (Y/N). They raised an eyebrow coldly. “Isn’t that manipulation by anyone’s criteria?”

            Angela laughed lightly, but it didn’t reach her eyes as she turned to (Y/N). “Worried for the poor townsfolk? What a heart you have for your kind.”

            “No heart, just an eye for flawed logic,” said (Y/N).

            Angela smiled. “We’ll see.”

            Sebastian’s gaze was cold with perfect civility as he stepped up beside (Y/N). “We shall not.” He smiled. “Goodbye.”

            Angela watched (Y/N) leave with Sebastian. She placed a smile back on her face as she waved to the rest of the household. “Goodbye!” Under her breath, however, she murmured, “For now.”

l

            (Y/N) glanced at Sebastian as the carriage continued forward. “Sebastian, what is she?”

            Sebastian looked at (Y/N). “You sensed she was not human, yes?”

            (Y/N) nodded. “Yes, but nothing I’ve encountered before. She was…rotten, yet all the mortals flocked to her.”

            “I suspect she was an angel,” said Sebastian darkly.

            “Angel? With that rotten air?” (Y/N) raised an eyebrow.

            “It seems she is more than what we see,” said Sebastian. His eyes narrowed. He wouldn’t let that angel get close again. Not to Ciel, and not to (Y/N).

Taglist:

@technikerin23

@im-making-an-effort

@izzieg3987

@jinxxangel13

@alexpangender

@otomyoli

@neenieweenie

@nex-crowley

@anxious-chick

@bellacastiel

@v1l-ismissing

@agentdedf1sh

[satohqbanana]

Nasci Pilot Scene: Renata and Casimir's Encounter

And thus is my first ever proper writing for Arcanium:Nasci. It's not setting the kind of atmosphere I want it to have, but I liked this for establishing Renata's and Casimir's characters and relationships.

Everyone said she was too young, too inexperienced.

But with ease - or perhaps luck - Renata infiltrated the manor donned in servant's clothing. From the chaos of the kitchen, she slipped away to a dusty storage room to change into a noblewoman's garbs. With great care, she slipped the dagger under her clothes. She placed the mask over her face, and with a few deep breaths, she summoned the illusion of a new personality onto her being: that of a frivolous young rich girl who was awarded the pleasure of her first party.

She called it magic, for it was the closest to arcane arts in this kingdom that banned its use. Acting was not merely playing a role; it was embodying a fabricated identity, especially in her line of work. That was the duty of a spy.

Playfully, Renata danced around the hallways, pretending to check out every doodad and every painting that decorated the obnoxiously ornate manor. As expected, servants scolded her for wandering around. Renata played her role well for the first time, by simply invoking the non-existent power and influence of her supposed wealthy guardians. Thus, the servants had little choice but to escort her to the main hall and told her to stay out of trouble.

She spotted the older spy who had gone ahead of her: Soltair, whose good looks landed him in the ballroom to serve esteemed guests. Renata, playing her role, chatted him up a bit, flustered him a little, before attempting to take the wine.

"Oh, this isn't for you!" he said in a cheery tone. It was a clear signal: their target was not in sight.

Waiting was the hardest part of being a spy.

The merriment carried on. Fake laughter rang here and there under the grand chandeliers that overlooked the guests. Regal clothing swished to the rhythm of the music, and couples every now and then slipped off to little private rooms.

All the while, Renata spent a good hour buttering up a few noble adults and appealing to them an adorable child. A few nasty perverts attempted to touch her rather inappropriately, and she made sure to simply laugh it off, hiding her disgust. If she was to sacrifice her body, then she'd rather do it for a big target. Plus, it would do no good for anyone to discover she'd been hiding a blade.

As Renata was making friends with youth as old as herself, Soltair interrupted them, offering them non-alcoholic refreshments. The target was in sight, but would be difficult to reach. Renata's new acquaintances scoffed at the "baby drinks"; even when she accepted one glass - one sip just to "be polite" - she feigned abhorrence and used it as an excuse to part ways with them.

She surveyed the crowd as she "recovered" from the sweetness of the drink. Hounded by admirers and rivals alike was Minister Feliksander, considerably young and quite arrogant, proudly showing off his face in a masquerade party. Anger welled in Renata's chest as she recalled what he represented. He was the replacement for a good older woman, who was well-beloved by the masses for her wit and compassion, but in a play of power and unjust accusations had been wrongfully imprisoned just recently.

Renata felt her hidden blade from under the layers of skirts. Her palms went cold with fury. The people must have their vengeance; the council needed to hear what their citizens truly think of them--

But someone yanked her aside. She only heard, "Care to dance?" before she was spinning in the center of the crowd, heart pounding fast, mind suddenly aware of the danger she'd placed herself in. The young man who pulled her onto the limelight of the dance floor was neither Soltair - who stared at her with his mouth agape from the sides - nor any other ally she'd expected. Her masked partner's painful touch was unfamiliar, and so was his voice and gestures.

The cold smile on his face said it all, however. If there were spies on the side of the citizens, there were spies on the other side as well.

"You had quite a scary face earlier," he purred into her ear. He was too close for comfort, too young to be corrupted by their malicious rulers. But she held onto him tightly, her body too clumsy for sudden motions. "Do share with me, Young Miss. Had Minister Feliksander perhaps spurned your affections? And now you look at him with such contempt?"

"And what does a boy like you know of a lady's affections?"

"You're right. I know not much. But I think you could use a distraction."

As ballroom dances go, Renata twirled as gracefully as her double knees would allow her to. She'd not make the same mistake twice, or she'd risk involving Soltair in this mess as well.

"Perhaps I do," she said, trying to slip back into her facade. "I had had the displeasure of meeting quite… unsavory personalities earlier."

And quite unsavory it was to have a dagger, though sheathed, just above her thigh, when she was this close with the enemy.

Now that her attention was on him, she spotted through the enemy's mask the iciest blue of eyes. His calm but confident and authoritative gaze sent cold shivers down her neck.

"Do I dazzle you?"

"… you… you do. Young Sir. How may I, ah, well, how may I address you?"

The young man tugged her harshly, and she was sure his rough hand left prints on her spotted flesh. Only a revenir would be this strong, and he was more than happy to confirm her assumptions and flash his long fangs at her. "Unit 6OR3, Cadet Casimir Kawzorsky. Or perhaps, we should say, future Private Kawzorsky."

How humiliating this encounter was. His commanding officer must have brought him here for his practicals. And his eager keen eye spied this young lady, suspicious and naive, whose mere heated gaze towards her target had exposed her. The warning was clear, and his other hand copped around her skirt, trying to find a weapon. Renata could barely calm herself and tried to pull herself away--

And they bumped just into the right person. The glass shattered between herself and her captor.

"My apologies, please forgive me, I wasn't looking," said her savior. Soltair's voice brought relief to her ears. "Oh, no, I ruined the lady's dress! Come; I'll tell the servants to help you clean up."

Soltair gave a polite bow towards the cadet before ushering Renata towards one of the private rooms. Once he closed the door behind them, Renata's knees buckled and she fell upon the floor.

"You're too young to be out here," reprimanded Soltair.

Renata hurled her dagger towards him, and with deft fingers, caught it without injuring himself. Between her aborted mission and the insults she would suffer from the humiliation, Renata might've preferred being arrested.

"You ratty human," she scoffed. "Do you think they noticed?"

"You think they go after small fry? Use your head, Renata. Don't forget who you are."

A minor nuisance. That was what Renata was, in both the eyes of the resistance and the state. She clenched her fists. When was she going to be strong enough, loud enough to incite change?

In spite of her feelings, Renata picked herself up, changed out of her soiled dress, and allowed herself to be whisked away to a marked carriage. The coachman shared a knowing smile with Soltair, before shaking his head and riding off.

Arcanium Masterpost || Tag List:

Feel free to ask to be tagged or removed from the tag!

@philosophika, @amaiguri, @thecomfywriter, @wyked-ao3, @kingragnarok-writes

@seastarblue, @spideronthesun

[chernabogs]

This was originally meant to be put out in October for Halloween but what is time management anyway?

SORTIGER

Inc: The Dark Mirror, Crowley, The Fairest Queen, some Draconia's sneaking in there (can't escape them) WC: 1.9k Warnings: Some depiction of violence Summary: He was as he had always been, and he knew no other way—for the concept of anything other was quite beyond his comprehension. (or: eldritch horrors your dark mirror <3)

He recalls the time before. 

In the vast expanse of black in which he dwelled, corporeal but conscious of such, only the dim glow of suns thousands of years away guided him forth. The hum of the void was his calling, and his presence was a mere brush of stardust in the night. He was as he had always been, and he knew no other way—for the concept of anything other was quite beyond his comprehension.

It was within this vast expanse of black that he first witnessed the event that is the unexpected, and frankly quite messy, act of creation. The world of Twisted Wonderland was not crafted by hands in a slow, harmonious fashion; it was shoved into being with a flash, a bang, and a disruption of the peace until suddenly it was there in its spherical form. It startled everyone who was capable of being startled, as it was something that happened in a realm where nothing ever really changed at all. 

He did not approach it first. That was one of the other hidden ones. They slithered forth in their serpentine form to taste this new offering, to feel what would become known as soil and inhale what would become known as air. In the beginning, Twisted Wonderland was a time of opportunity—a time of new growth that those who had existed so long now had forgotten. After the serpent, another crept down, and then another, until only he was left alone in the darkness. His form turned, and writhed, and debated what would be best to appear as until he finally descended in the shape of a figure like the denizens of the land, with a porcelain mask upon his face. 

In the time that it took for him to settle, the others who had come prior had already left their marks upon the land. ‘Age of the Gods’ did the occupants so accurately coin it in their fables and tales. He bore witness to the ones he had never seen before now parade themselves as superiors, claiming that the gift of magic they had bestowed upon a few now let them hold a debt over their bodies. Considering this, he avoided direct involvement with either party, choosing to be more of a vagabond than anything else. The only time he interacted with anyone was when he told them truths. 

Sortiger, he was called. Deliverer of prophecies to the masses—so long as one knew the right words to use.

He didn’t consider himself a prophet, but rather just a being that knows truths. He wandered area to area, devouring experiences he was deprived of for so long, and which this land was now giving to him in abundance. It was a liberating experience that he would not trade for any luxury that the others so hounded for. 

Sortiger, as odd as it was, also served to be the chains that bound him in the end. Magic was a gift granted to a few to provide them the tools for easier living. Unfortunately, man is as cunning as he is ambitious. If one were to hear tales of a travelling prophet, what else would there be to do then try and bind them to you somehow? There is power in knowledge, and infinite knowledge means infinite control.

___________________________________________

It was a tailor’s apprentice who tricked him, in the end. A young woman with her needle and her thread who clothed him in a false sense of security. He was unaware that she was one of few blessed with the gift of magic. Or perhaps he was aware, and he simply chose to ignore that intuition in place of emotions, instead. It mattered little in the end—she had lured him into her trap like a spider in wait, and then paralyzed him when the moment was exactly right. 

There’s magic in mirrors. 

There always has been, even before the idea of Twisted Wonderland was born. He recalls vaguely the shimmering reflections of dust in the stars; it was one of the few times he was able to see his form—a writhing, black mass, dripping ichor with a burning heart that pulsated with each bit of life that crept through his veins. The sight always unsettled him because there is no hiding who you are before an item that is meant to show you in full. 

He had fought. 

Naturally, he had fought. He was a being of unmeasurable power that was not meant to be confined to a singular realm. He had screamed unholy screams and tore at the glass with nails until they broke, and split, and bled that ichor that so dripped from his body when he was unbound, and he was free. He had spewed curses and words with a blackened tongue, his porcelain face warped in rage and, worst of all, heartbreak. 

This ire and this power are why, in her cunning, the tailor’s apprentice did not confine him to one place. There is a concept that humans share known as a panopticon; a circular platform meant to serve in prisons so one guard can keep an eye on everyone at once. 

He was not trapped in a singular realm. He was instead trapped in multiple at once. He was held stagnant with thousands of mirrors surrounding him, showing the thousands of lands that he could have walked had he listened to his instincts instead of falling into the honeyed trap of gentle words and gentler touches. There was no ceiling, there was no floor—it was as though he had been returned to that void from whence he came. 

So it goes that even gods fall prey to the whims of love. 

He considered it a mercy, then, that he did not remain in her possession for too long. After all, if one were to hear tales of a prophetic mirror, what else would there be to do then try and steal it somehow? 

But it was not a mercy to bear witness to the destruction that followed henceforth. Villages consumed by flames, steel finding more familiarity in the bellies of innocents than a blacksmith's forge. The tailor's apprentice had been slaughtered to gain access to his mounted form; if he had been free, he would have saved her, he would have wrapped her in his power and carried her to the stars above. Instead, all he could do was look in the mottled face of her killer as bloated lips tried to coax a story out of him. 

It went like that. 

From soldier, to merchant, to captain, to priests. He found himself meeting the most privileged in one moment and the most deprived the next. At one point, the term mirror, mirror, became synonymous with his existence and the prophecies he was meant to give. It may have been initiated by the woman that held onto him the longest. He met her when she was still a young girl, the crown on her head not as grand as the one yet to come. The fairest of them all—until her heart became warped with a combination of both paranoia and hate. She was as stunning as a portrait right up to the moment she met her end. 

___________________________________________

This all has little relevance. 

If one see’s enough faces, they begin to lose the ability to discern them. He has been bound in this panopticon for so long that he no longer has a comprehension of time, or of the worlds he examines. At one point, his mask begins to change—from smooth porcelain to one with a lace patterning upon his brow.

There was a princess he had met once who had a similar pattern on her face, though hers was of scales and not lace. He had not received her name, nor had she asked him any questions. She had stared into his reflection, her crown wrapped around the proud horns on her head and her eyes reflecting a sense of exhaustion that ran deeper than surface level, before she had simply turned away.

No mirror, mirror. No demands. Only a glance, and then she was gone into the night. 

He considers that encounter the reason he ended up at Night Raven College. He sees that woman once more in the form of a boy who approaches him, a pair of proud horns on his head and his eyes reflecting a sense of anxiety that runs deeper than surface level. He considers it fate to be here once more—even though fate is but a vague manipulator to a being of his stature. 

He considers it fate, too, when he encounters the human. 

“Are you certain there’s no way home?” Crowley murmurs when the students all depart to their dorms. He studies the equally masked face when asked this question. Eons of existing has allowed him to recognize one who deceives without much effort—not that it’s his place to call the man out. He must be asked the right question to do that. 

“Again.” He responds, voice lower and colder than the one used for the students. A small mercy. Crowley’s golden eyes narrow with their own darkness, which so often hovers just inches from the surface. 

“Mirror, mirror, born from the unknown—is there a way to send the student home?” Crowley then drawls out, his voice dripping with contempt at each word he utters—such a stark contrast from the usual upbeat man he presents himself as. He must keep a smile from touching those porcelain lips as he affixes a blank gaze.

“We are not the ones who have the ability to do such an act.” He replies, the answer as blunt as ever. 

What many do not know is that a mirror is not only a means of accessing a different location. Although he has serviced hundreds before to travel from one place to another, many remain unaware of his ability to let them travel from one world to another. He can never leave himself—the tailor’s apprentice made sure of that—but that doesn’t mean he can’t guide others. 

She knew that—the woman who looked like the boy with the proud horns on his head. Not the princess, but instead someone older—someone who knew him when he was still with the fairest queen. 

Queens are cunning—he has come to learn this over time.

Crowley clicks his tongue in disagreement. It’s a sharp, jarring sound that echoes in the empty chamber as he turns away to march back to the door. This inconveniences him. He has a plan that he’s attempting to follow, and the presence of an unknown variable is throwing that all off. 

Is it pitiful? The mirror considers it quietly as the chamber door slams shut. The bubbling of the green fountain at his base remains the only source of noise left. The unknown variable may construe Crowley’s plans, but he knows that it would benefit him in the end. The woman had known that too. It was why he had let her do what she had asked. 

He pulls his face back from this mirror and turns his attention towards the thousands of others that surround him. All of these lives, all existing with the freedom of movement, of choice. 

He will join them soon. The lace on his face feels more prominent then ever, and he knows, he will join them soon. 

[fictional-love-is-my-life]

Would you do hc's for bay Hound, bee, hotrod, and mtmte tailgate and rung. For what two Halloween movies they would watch with a friend, ranging from not so scary to super scary horror. For example what's a not so scary family friendly yet spooky movie they would watch. And what's a very horror/slasher/bloody movie They would watch. And what's their limit on scary?

Hound:

He doesn't have a limit on scary. He'll watch anything. He doesn't really get scared by anything, especially not human horror films because he knows they are all fake.

He jumps right into the horrors by watching The Exorcist. And he is completely unaffected by it.

His friend however was. So now he'll sit and watch Nightmare before Christmas, so his friend can call down. He doesn't mind though, he thinks it's an entertaining film.

Hot Rod:

Hot Rod and his friend start off watching Paranorman. He thinks it's quite a fun movie. He likes the animation and the story. Afterwards his friend suggests a scarier movie.

He asks if they are sure, he has no problem watching scarier, but he doesn't want his friend to have nightmares. They settle on The Thing.

Hot Rod dislikes it. He dislikes the idea of a horrible creature coming out of the ice. He hates the idea that it takes the form of humans then turns into a disgusting monster.

He wants to cling to his friend. But he also wants space from them, fear that they could actually be a monster in disguise. It takes him a couple days after the film to stop thinking all his friends could be a monster in disguise.

He has now decided he does not like horror films and is quite happy not watching them.

Bumblebee:

They start out watching Hocus Pocus. Bee enjoys it, he thinks it's quite fun. He's watched a few films with Sam and he's never really been scared before.

So he decided to go up and level. He and his friend watch paranormal activity.

He hates it!! He hates the idea of ghosts, invisible entities that can't be seen or touched but they can hurt you? No he's not interested in that. He is not interested in watching any more ghost films.

His friend does suggest Casper. But Bee refuses. No more ghosts, it's a terrifying idea.

Tailgate:

He thought he could handle scary films no problem, so he wanted to start out with the scariest. But his friend suggested they start off small.

They watch Gremlins, and he somewhat enjoyed it. He thought Gizmo was cute. The other gremlins were a bit ugly but he enjoyed the film. So he excitedly states they should watch the scary one, because obviously he is fine with scary films.

They end up watching The Conjuring. And oh he was wrong. He refuses to turn the lights off, and will not let go of his friend. He's terrified if he lets go they are going to get possessed they go around hunting him. He can't deal with the idea of an evil spirit being inside his friend.

This was his lesson, and he'll NEVER watch horror films again.

Rung:

He is intrigued that humans watch scary films for enjoyment. He doesn't quite know why being scared is enjoyable, but he's willing to give it a go for his friend.

They start of with the least scary to test the water. His friend picks out Monster House. Seeing as it's an animated film, Rung knows it's obviously fake. He enjoys it. He thinks it's quite a happy ending, and he says he would watch it again.

Next up was a really scary movie. They decided on Scream.

Rung spent the entire movie, trying to analyze and diagnose the killer. He wondered why humans would want to become murderers and why they wear a mask. He understands why humans would find it scary. Unlike monsters or aliens, murderers actually exist and could happen. So he rates it as a successful scary movie, just because it could be realistic. Although he was not personally scared by it, he will say it is a good enough movie to scare other people.

[iidigestive-readerii]

Midnight Talks and Morning Chats Update

Update HERE

Story refresher HERE

Info where I've been below, if you care 🤷🏽‍♀️

So I exist, hi! Heh heh... Heh... Heh... Yeah...

2023 was not too kind to me, as some of you may remember. Short list of what happened: broke my arm, out of work for two months, had to sue my landlord and move with no money, went back to work, brought one my task trained ESA puppy (she's over a year now!), discovered I had way more mental health issues than I thought after two months of not having to mask, trained a stubborn hound puppy, had to put one of my soul cats down, nearly got evicted due to lack of funds, won my case, brought home another cat, had to put my other soul cat down, fell into a super deep depression that I'm only now trying to crawl out of.

So... A lot has happened. I haven't watched the Netflix A: tla yet, haven't wanted too. Haven't watched anything Star Wars related since the second season of The Mandalorian. I'm very behind on pop culture and fandom. Very. It's a miracle I was able to get out of bed everyday for the past year.

I can barely shower most days, tbh, I mostly just go to work, come home, train and play with my dog, and sleep. Lots of sleeping.

So I'm sorry if anyone has been hoping I update soon and I haven't. I've been thinking about it.

I'll post a refresher of my stories I'm working on within the next month or two, and my plans for them and where they are going.

I can't promise how much I'll interact in the fandom anymore. It overwhelms me at the moment. But staying in my corner writing stories every few days or weeks sounds okay for now, so I hopefully can stick to that.

Best,

Diggy 💕

[merymoonbeam]

The Morrigan Part II.

This is a continuation of my post The Morrigan. In that post I talked about how Mor could be the High Queen. In this post we are gonna talk about her connection to Wild Hunt.

I went to look a the Morrigan's wiki page and found this.

It has also been suggested that she was closely linked to the fianna, and that these groups may have been in some way dedicated to her. These were "bands of youthful warrior-hunters, living on the borders of civilized society and indulging in lawless activities for a time before inheriting property and taking their places as members of settled, landed communities." If true, her worship may have resembled that of Perchta groups in Germanic areas.

we are gonna talk about two things in here -- Fianna and Perchta.

Fianna:

while I was writing my Wild Hunt post I found out that Fionn and Fianna are the wild hunt in Ireland.

and We have a Fionn in Acotar.

Rhys’s eyes flicked to Ataraxia, then to Cassian. “Some strains of the mythology claim that one of the Fae heroes who rose up to overthrow them was Fionn, who was given the great sword Gwydion by the High Priestess Oleanna, who had dipped it into the Cauldron itself. Fionn and Gwydion overthrew the Daglan. A millennium of peace followed, and the lands were divided into rough territories that were the precursors to the courts—but at the end of those thousand years, they were at each other’s throats, on the brink of war.” His face tightened. “Fionn unified them and set himself above them as High King. The first and only High King this land has ever had.”

So the Morrigan is linked to Fianna which is the wild hunt and we have a Fionn in acotar who has the same name of the leader of wild hunt.

now onto...

Perchta:

Perchta or Berchta (English: Bertha), also commonly known as Percht and other variations, was once known as a goddess in Alpine paganism in the Upper German and Austrian regions of the Alps. Her name may mean "the bright one" (Old High German: beraht, bereht, from Proto-Germanic *berhtaz) and is probably related to the name Berchtentag, meaning the feast of the Epiphany. Eugen Mogk provides an alternative etymology, attributing the origin of the name Perchta to the Old High German verb pergan, meaning "hidden" or "covered". Perchta is often identified as stemming from the same Germanic goddess as Holda and other female figures of Germanic folklore (see Frija-Frigg). According to Jacob Grimm and Lotte Motz, Perchta is Holda's southern cousin or equivalent, as they both share the role of "guardian of the beasts" and appear during the Twelve Days of Christmas, when they oversee spinning.

so she is connected to Holda(keep the red highlighted Frija/Frigg part in mind we are gonna talk about that) and with that they both share the role of "guardian of the beasts"

We have beasts in acotar, in Wild Hunt actually.

“Oh, I do not think so,” Lanthys seethed. “I rode in the Wild Hunt before you were even a scrap of existence, witch from Oorid. I summoned the hounds and the world cowered at their baying. I galloped at the head of the Hunt, and Fae and beast bowed before us.”

“We shall rebuild to what we were before the golden legions of the Fae cast off their chains and overthrew us. We shall resurrect the Wild Hunt and ride rampant through the night. We shall build palaces of ice and flame, palaces of darkness and starlight. Magic shall flow untethered again.” Nesta could see the portrait Lanthys wove into the air around them. She saw herself on a black throne, a matching crown in her unbound hair. Enormous onyx beasts—scaled, like those she’d seen on the Hewn City’s pillars—lay at the foot of the dais. Ataraxia leaned against her throne, and on her other side … Lanthys sat there, his hand laced through hers. Their kingdom was endless; their palace built of pure magic that lived and thrived around them. The Harp sat behind them on an altar, the Mask, too, but the golden Crown wasn’t there.

“The Daglan delighted in terrorizing the Fae and humans under their control. The Wild Hunt was a way to keep all of us in line. They’d gather a host of their fiercest, most merciless warriors and grant them free rein to kill as they pleased. The Daglan possessed mighty, monstrous beasts—hounds, they called them, though they didn’t look like the hounds we know—that they used to run prey to ground before they tortured and killed them. It’s a terrible history, and much of it might be elaborated myths.” “The hounds looked like the beasts in the Hewn City,” Nesta said quietly.

so Hounds/beasts= The Wild Hunt and through Pertcha The Morrigan is connected to the "guardian of the beasts"

moving on...

This next part is interesting.

In some descriptions, Perchta has two forms; she may appear either as beautiful and white as snow like her name, or as elderly and haggard. In many old descriptions, Perchta had one large foot, sometimes called a goose foot or swan foot. Grimm thought the strange foot symbolized her being a higher being who could shapeshift to animal form. He noticed that Bertha with a strange foot exists in many languages (Middle German "Berhte mit dem fuoze", French "Berthe au grand pied", Latin "Berhta cum magno pede", Italian " Berta dai gran piè", title of a medieval epic poem of Italian area): "It is apparently a swan maiden's foot, which as a mark of her higher nature she cannot lay aside...and at the same time the spinning-woman's splayfoot that worked the treadle".In the Tyrol she appears as little old woman with a very wrinkled face, bright lively eyes, and a long hooked nose; her hair is disheveled, her garments tattered and torn.

I talked about Swan maiden in my Seidr post.

In myths Frejya/Frigg(remember the red highlighted part) has seidr magic and Freyja also has:

Freyja is the owner of the necklace Brísingamen, rides a chariot pulled by two cats, is accompanied by the boar Hildisvíni, and possesses a cloak of falcon feathers.

And swan maidens:

The swan maiden is a mythical creature who shapeshifts from human form to swan form. The key to the transformation is usually a swan skin, or a garment with swan feathers attached. In folktales of this type, the male character spies the maiden, typically by some body of water (usually bathing), then snatches away the feather garment (or some other article of clothing), which prevents her from flying away (or swimming away, or renders her helpless in some other manner), forcing her to become his wife.

So they have a "swan skin" with swan feathers which helps them shapeshift.

The question is...is Mor going to turn into a bird like the girls in Koschei's lake? Is she connected to Vassa? And more interesting thing is that in myths The Morrigan can shapeshift--into a crow.

The Morrígan is described as the envious wife of The Dagda and a shape-shifting goddess, while Badb and Nemain are said to be the wives of Neit. She is associated with the banshee of later folklore.

The Dagda...The Daglan in acotar who has the hounds and they had the Wild Hunt....

The Morrígan is mainly associated with war and fate, especially with foretelling doom, death, or victory in battle. In this role she often appears as a crow, the badb.

and lastly from Pertcha's page.

According to Jacob Grimm (1882), Perchta was spoken of in Old High German in the 10th century as Frau Berchta and thought to be a white-robed goddess who oversaw spinning and weaving, like the myths of Holda. He believed she was the feminine equivalent of Berchtold, and was sometimes the leader of the Wild Hunt.

Now I'm gonna talk more about Mor connection to Wild Hunt in acotar and some connections.

While talking about the hounds I took Lanthys's quotes. He was a part of the Wild Hunt.

“Oh, I do not think so,” Lanthys seethed. “I rode in the Wild Hunt before you were even a scrap of existence, witch from Oorid. I summoned the hounds and the world cowered at their baying. I galloped at the head of the Hunt, and Fae and beast bowed before us.”

But what is Lanyths actually? Cassian gives us this information. He is a First God.

Cassian took a bite of food. A good sign that this, at least, was acceptable territory. “When you lived in the human world, you had legends of the dread beasts and faeries who would slaughter you if they ever breached the wall, didn’t you? Things that slithered through open windows to drink the blood of children? Things that were so wicked, so cruel there was no hope against their evil?” The hair on her neck rose. “Yes.” Those stories had always unnerved and petrified her. “They were based on truth. Based on ancient, near-primordial beings who existed here before the High Fae split into courts, before the High Lords. Some call them the First Gods. They were beings with almost no physical form, but a keen, vicious intelligence. Humans and Fae alike were their prey. Most were hunted and driven into hiding or imprisonment ages ago. But some remained, lurking in forgotten corners of the land.” He swallowed another mouthful. “When I was nearing three hundred years old, one of them appeared again, crawling out of the roots of a mountain. Before he went into the Prison and confinement weakened him, Lanthys could turn into wind and rip the air from your lungs, or turn into rain and drown you on dry land; he could peel your skin from your body with a few movements. He never revealed his true form, but when I faced him, he chose to appear as swirling mist. He fathered a race of faeries that still plague us, who thrived under Amarantha’s reign—the Bogge. But the Bogge are lesser, mere shadows compared to Lanthys. If there is such a thing as evil incarnate, it is him. He has no mercy, no sense of right or wrong. There is him, and there is everyone else, and we are all his prey. His methods of killing are creative and slow. He feasts on fear and pain as much as the flesh itself.”(acosf)

So we learn quiet a few things from this quote.

Lantys is a first god.

First gods were near-primordial beings who existed before the High Fae split into courts, before the high lords.

They were beings with almost no physical form, but a keen, vicious intelligence.

But some First gods remained, lurking in forgotten corners of the land.”

Now how this connects to Mor? The Mor's acofas chapter.

In Mor's chapter we have this:

But Mor scented nothing, saw nothing. The tendril of power she speared toward the woods revealed only the usual birds and small beasts. A hart drinking from a hole in an iced-over stream. Nothing, except—.There, between a snarl of thorns. A patch of darkness. It did not move, did not seem to do anything but linger. And watch. Familiar and yet foreign. Something in her power whispered not to touch it, not to go near it. Even from this distance. Mor obeyed. But she still watched that darkness in the thorns, as if a shadow had fallen asleep amongst them. Not like Azriel’s shadows, twining and whispering. Something different. Something that stared back, watching her in turn. Best left undisturbed. Especially with the promise of a crackling fire and glass of wine at home. “Let’s take the short route back,” she murmured to Ellia, patting her neck. The horse needed no further encouragement before launching into a gallop, turning them from the woods and its shadowy watcher. Over and between the hills they rode, until the woods were hidden in the mists behind them. What else might she see, witness, in lands where none in the Night Court had ventured for millennia?(acofas)

She sees a shadows... and what we know about the first gods? with almost no physical form.

It stares back at her, watching her...and what we know about the first gods? but a keen, vicious intelligence.

She was in the lands where none in the Night Courth had ventured for Millennia... what we know about the first gods? lurking in forgotten corners of the land.

Did she saw a First God? Are there more like it? Why mor was the one to see it? This is where her connection to Wild Hunt comes from? She is connected to Wild Hunt? Maybe she is going to be the leader of the Wild Hunt?

Let's not forget that in Wild Hunt myth there are valkyries.

The Wild Hunt is a folklore motif occurring across various northern European cultures. Wild Hunts typically involve a chase led by a mythological figure escorted by a ghostly or supernatural group of hunters engaged in pursuit. The leader of the hunt is often a named figure associated with Odin in Germanic legends, but may variously be a historical or legendary figure like Theodoric the Great, the Danish king Valdemar Atterdag, the dragon slayer Sigurd, the WelshpsychopompGwyn ap Nudd, biblical figures such as Herod, Cain, Gabriel, or the Devil, or an unidentified lost soul or spirit either male or female. The hunters are generally the souls of the dead or ghostly dogs, sometimes fairies, valkyries, or elves.

and Mor in acosf suggested that she might join them.

Mor’s brows bunched. “So you really are learning Valkyrie techniques.” Nesta nodded. They’d been so busy during their dancing lessons that the details of training hadn’t come up. Mor grinned. “You mind if I start joining you once this business with Vallahan is over? I never got to train with the Valkyries before the first War, and after it, they were all gone.”

So Mor as the leader of the Wild Hunt?