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lincolndjarin · 1 year

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The Dragonfly & The Moon

main masterlist ✧ kinktober masterlist ✦

kinktober : day nine - afab!witch!reader x joel miller

prompt : blood drinking [ 18+ mdni ]

word count : 1.9k

summary : you and joel decide to take the next step in your relationship.

warnings, etc. : language, knives, cutting, ritualistic sex, religious symbols, blood, consensual violence, blood drinking (surprise surprise), gore, sort of body horror i suppose, premature ejaculation, and i used the middle name i head canon for joel whoops

a/n : hello my lovelies, i just finished this up before work i hope y'all enjoy this silly little story

“And you’re absolutely sure you’re okay with this?” You set each blade down in front of him, letting him watch as you soak each one in alcohol. He’s sitting up on the table, knees bent, elbows resting on his thighs.

“I did say I wanted to participate in your hobbies more.” He keeps his eyes on each one, you know he’s nervous despite the act he’s putting on but you just want him to be comfortable.

“This is a bit more than a hobby.” You set the final blade down on the cloth, walking around the table to take his hand in yours.

“I really want to, I promise.” He murmurs before bringing your hand to his face, placing a kiss to your palm.

He’s wanted to get married for ages now but you’ve been reluctant. It’s not that you don’t love him, of course you do, you’re just so… different. He’s a traditional man. He wants the wedding and the house with a white picket fence and the kids and the growing old together on a porch swing, and you want to live in the woods and sacrifice virgins to your dark lord.

But hey, opposites attract. (At least that’s what he says every time you try to have this conversation.)

And while he isn’t fond of your so-called hobbies, he’s been understanding. (Although it took a lot of convincing. He refused to believe you until you cut your own hand off and walked it across the table to him before promptly reattaching it.)

So when he got down on one knee you couldn’t say yes. Since then he’s been adamant that he be more involved in your life, desperate to prove that this could work.

Initially you’d told him you were busy tonight, your lord required an act of depravity as sacrifice and he’d been all too eager to offer to help.

He looks less eager now that he’s face to face with several of your blades.

“You really don’t have to do this-“

“I’m doing this. End of story.” You arch an eyebrow at his stern tone but nod.

“Okay. Take off your shirt.” You pick up the cloth with your knives on it, moving it to the counter as he unbuttons his denim top. He tosses it onto the chair as you light a few more candles around the room before lifting your sweater over your head and throwing it on top of his shirt, turning to him in just your bra and skirt. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” He mumbles as you pick through the knives before settling on your favorite, a double edged small blade, the handle is shaped like a dragonfly.

“You have to pick one.” You turn so he can see the selection.

“I’ll take the one on the far left.” He nods in its direction as you take it by the blade, holding it out to him. You’re a bit surprised by his pick as you watch him examine the boline knife, tracing the curve with his finger before setting it on the table next to him.

You whisper a quiet prayer to yourself in latin, praying not just to your god to accept this sacrifice, but also to make this easier on your partner. You can think of several occasions where he had chosen to be especially cruel and a small part of you is aware of just how dangerous this situation is for Joel but you push that down, ignoring it.

You put the blade between your teeth, holding it in place as you climb up onto the table, straddling his lap before putting your hands on his chest, pushing him down flat onto the cold wood. You look down at him one last time, looking for any signs of resistance, when you see only determination in his eyes you whisper one last prayer before letting your own eyes roll back, feeling something darker course through your veins as it takes over. Your vision is clouded when you look back down at him and you know all he sees from them is white. You tenderly take the knife from between your teeth, spinning it in your hand.

“Still good?” This time when you mumble you’re vaguely aware of the fact that your voice is being layered with another, much deeper voice, his eyebrows shoot up in confusion but he just nods.

No reason to put this off any longer, you take his hand, entwining your fingers and lifting his arm up. You take the blade, gently drawing it across the side of his forearm, making an incision about four inches in length, watching as the thin line of red appears in its wake. You see his jaw tense but he doesn’t flinch. He gasps as you lean forward, dragging your tongue across the wound. You let out a shuddering moan as the sweet metallic tang coats your tongue.

You went over the ritual in great detail with him beforehand. You explained everything you would be doing and everything that would be expected of him but his eyes still wide with surprise as you begin to lick his wound, not wanting to waste any of him, you feel the bitter, sweet liquid settling in your stomach, sending a flood of warmth through you.

You try not to be too loud but when you’re in this state your inhibitions are lowered, he tastes like heaven and you can’t contain yourself as you raise your blade once more, slicing him horizontally, making a cross on his skin. You watch the crimson bloom as you hold him still. The sight of it makes your pussy ache as you lean forward, lapping at the bleeding cross as you subconsciously grind your hips against his.

In a moment of weakness you bend down, biting his shoulder hard enough to pierce his skin, sucking in harshly as you drink him in.

“Christ…” He mumbles, gripping your waist as you recoil.

“Fuck-“ You hiss. “Don’t say that, it makes you go sour.” You wipe the excess gore from your mouth on the back of your hand as he gives you an embarrassed smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize.” You watch how the blood rushes to his face, his cheeks flushing a divine shade of red. You can’t help it when you tangle your fingers in his hair to hold him in place, you aren’t in control anymore. You’re extremely precise in your movements as you carve a rune into the sun kissed skin of his cheek, careful not to go deep enough to scar. Once you’re pleased with your work you let out a content sigh before flattening your tongue against it. Thanks to the quick incantation he’s gone sweet again, an almost bitter sweetness that overwhelms your senses. “Jus’ a little more.” You mumble in your intoxicated state as you languidly drag the shimmering blade down the center of his chest.

He inhales sharply once but when he realizes you aren’t applying any pressure he relaxes some. Much to your delight you feel a stirring beneath you, you angle your hips instinctually to rest your throbbing cunt against the substantial bulge forming in his pants.

“Joel Arthur Miller, are you actually getting off on this?” He doesn’t respond, simply blushing harder as you scorn him with a breathy laugh, raising your knife again you press it into the soft flesh of his chest, tracing patterns into the salt and peppered hairs sprinkled across his sternum before finally digging the blade into the meat of his pectoral, a spray of blood gushing up at you. Your face is flecked with gore as your mouth falls open to eagerly lap up the rosy ichor, you feel the distinct sensation of his cock straining and twitching in his jeans as you do so, an orgasm fully driven by the pleasure you derive from the vulgarity of the act your performing is forming in your belly.

As cold and unforgiving as your patron is, he has been known to be generous to his long term subjects, you know he’ll push you over the edge just like this if you’d like.

And he does. Your teeth sink into the flesh surrounding the wound still spouting blood as you come undone with a snarl, your hips feverish and frantic as you grind against him, the force of your bite drawing more blood. The sensations swelling and filling your entire being consume you one last time as you sharply suck in, a rush of fresh blood flows into your maw and you hungrily drink it all in before finally sitting up with a satisfied look on your face, you chin coated in gore as your eyes return to their usual state.

“Are you okay?” Your voice has returned to normal now as you search his eyes for a sign that this crossed a line but you never find it.

Joel still doesn’t speak, he merely stares at you in awe, nodding.

“Your turn.” Your voice echoes throughout the house as he sits up, keeping you firmly in his lap as he grabs his chosen knife, bringing it between the two of you. “Remember, you can do it anywhere.” You murmur, anxious to feel the cool steel against you. He slides the curved blade down your sternum, hooking it on your bra.

“And I only have to drink a little for your spell, right?” His voice is quiet, he sounds positively enamored with you as his nearly black eyes stare into yours.

“You only have to drink a drop if that’s what you want.” You cradle his face in your hands, he draws a hushed gasp from you as he slices through the center clasp of your bra, letting it fall before tossing it to the floor. He’s far more delicate than you were, opting to not pierce your flesh just yet. Instead he just traces little shapes into the curves and valleys of your chest. You bite back a moan as he runs the blade along the outline of your nipple before finally drawing blood on your shoulder.

One clean horizontal line, only an inch deep but six inches in length, the moment he’s made the incision he tosses his own blade aside, latching onto you. His hips stutter and his tongue traces the gash wildly and with a fervor you’ve never seen from him before. He isn’t deterred in the slightest by the fact that your blood runs a crimson so dark it basically runs a shimmering black, he just drinks, lewd slurping sounds fill the kitchen followed by an inhumane groan from your partner and in an abrupt instant a soft howl fills the space and the candles go out, both of you freezing in place.

“Shit, I guess we did it?” You sit up a bit, feeling a little confused as you light a small flame in your palm. “That usually doesn’t happen until the ritual’s done…” You furrow your brows as you look at him in the flickering light, a sheepish expression on his face before it clicks for you. “Wait, did you-”

“Sorry.” He mumbles, you reach down between the two of you and sure enough the front of his pants are soaked in a warm dampness, his cock now soft.

“You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?” You can’t help but grin as you lean forward, kissing the bridge of his nose.

Maybe opposites do attract.

a/n : happy oct 9th :)

#lincolndjarin #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel tlou #tlou joel #joel the last of us #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #fan fiction

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seasonal-depression-of-punk · 1 month

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Ritualistic sacrifice

Chapter three:

Drown in this love

Rating: mature

Summary: Drew finally gets his revenge on Punk in Chicago at the filming of Smackdown

WARNING: this chapter includes way more blood and violence than the other chapters

Authors note: this may be the last chapter of this fic but I’m not entirely sure. Tell me in the comments or asks if you want me to continue this

Previous chapter

Tags: @thlayli-ra

It was Friday night. CM Punk was on Smackdown and Drew knew this. It had been impossible not to know. It was being filmed in Chicago and Phil was Chicago’s (not so sweet) sweetheart. Drew had been hiding in the catering while Punk was busy opening the show. The anger and hatred that flooded him the second he saw the older graying man mention his name was noticeable from the fact that the glass he was holding started to crack. Soon enough the glass reached its breaking point and shattered into pieces in the hands of Drew, but the man didn’t flinch. The man’s attention to the screen was unbreakable. Not even the pain of many little cuts in his palm distracted him from it.

“Drew, are you okay? You’re bleeding” the bleach blonde and blue eyed champion asked when he was leaving the cafeteria, not being able to miss the big man breaking a glass with only the power of his hand and get worried by it. “Why won’t you focus on your own business Cody!? What makes you think I’d need your help on anything!?” Drew snapped at the undisputed champion and stormed away from the catering that was filled with confused faces of his coworkers.

While Drew was washing his hands and cleaning his right hand from all of the micro shards, he continued to mutter exploitatives and curses targeted to the man he was here to destroy. He may have said to everyone that he was here to end his contract, but that wasn’t true. He was here to end his suffering. To get the devil off his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to do it without a weapon?” Drew heard a familiar echoing voice. A voice that was way too familiar from his dreams. The soft but arrogant voice of young CM Punk. When Drew turned around, he saw the figure sitting right there, blonde, covered in blood and wearing those old white basketball shorts that were now dripping blood. His mouth was bleeding just like last night in his dream.

“Yes I am. Could even do it to you” Drew hissed at the imaginary Punk whose bleeding mouth was smirking at him. “No you wouldn’t. I’m inside your head” he laughed at Drew’s face. This made him furious and raised his bloody fist. He fastly approached the blonde imaginary man and tried to hit him. Like the mocking man had said, Drew wasn’t able to hurt him. The figure that had been in front of him, was now gone. Though he wasn’t visible, he heard the younger Punk laughing mockingly.

This made Drew more mad than before and he started to scream. “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!!” He howled and ran around the bathroom trying to look for the figure that was only in his mind. He only stopped slamming the bathroom stall doors, when he heard a loud but deep voice that was way too familiar for anyone who had watched WWE in the past years. “hey! What the hell are you doing?” LA Knight’s slightly raspy voice yelled. Drew quickly turned around and got very close to the slightly older man. He slammed Knight on one of the stalls. “WHERE THE FUCK IS HE!!” Drew screamed at him. Spit flying on Knight’s face, forming into small droplets on his beard.

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” Knight yelled, grabbed the bigger man’s wrists and tried to push him away. “DON’T YOU DARE ACT DUMB! TELL ME WHERE HE IS!!” The stronger man pushed back and slammed Knight harder against the door of the stall. “Who?! CM Punk?” The short haired man yelled more calmly but still tried to fight back. “OF COURSE CM PUNK! WHERE THE FUCK IS HE!” Drew continued to yell, making Knight wipe the spit off his face.

“Can you just calm down you psycho?! He just got backstage! Can you just let me go now?!” Knight demanded and hit the wrists of the giant man who basically was behaving like a hungry wolf. This calmed Drew down and he dropped Knight back to his feet. Knight stayed on the floor and rubbed his shoulders. “What the hell?” He muttered and watched Drew storm out of the bathroom.

Drew continued to walk past other talent and crew while trying to track the man that had started to haunt his head even when awake. He had already been frustrated and ready to get done with Punk, but the fact that this beautiful representation of his younger self was now mocking him outside dreamland was too much to handle. “You can’t even locate him Andrew? You’re this stupid that you can’t find a man who’s still uncleared from an injury?” The mocking voice of the blonde man from those tapes from the early 2000’s kept telling him.

The big man tried to ignore the insulting voice in his head but it was getting really difficult. “You started the job and now you can’t finish it? You’re a big strong cat and he’s a weak old dog and you can’t even find him?” The voice kept on going. “Shut up. I know you’re not real” Drew muttered and wiped his hair off his face. The voice laughed at his words and scoffed. “Yeah. Sure you do. Like you didn’t try to punch me like a few minutes ago. You’re insane Andrew. You’re messed in the head. You just have to accept that. You’re obsessed with me and what I become” the voice mocked and ridiculed him.

Drew was slowly losing his hope on ever finding Punk. Every corridor felt more empty than the last one. He decided to give up and go outside. When he walked to his car, he saw the one he wanted to see.

Punk was talking calmly on the phone while leaning against the wall. He didn’t even realize Drew was approaching him until he felt a strong hand around his neck. Drew slammed him against one of the walls and had a mischievous smile across his face. “I finally got you” he said and tightened his grip around the now squirming man. “DREW! LE-LET GO!! I CAN BARELY BR-” Punk tried to resist and yell but Drew just tightened his grip, making Punk completely unable to breathe and stop moving. His hands gripping on Drew’s wrists started to loosen and fall weakly on Punk’s sides.

“I don’t care if you can’t breathe. That’s what I want” Drew whispered into Punk’s ear and licked his ear. He was going to do everything Punk had done to him in his dreams. Now he was going to be the nightmare. Be the thing to haunt. And he wouldn’t be nice. He will never tell Punk how to get rid of him. That dumbass needs to figure that out by himself.

When the tattooed older man was too weak to fight back at all, Drew saw this as his opportunity to start his torture of Punk. He looked at Punk’s half lidded eyes and listened as he gasped for air. “Honestly… you look really pathetic when you can’t breathe. Let me help you with that, Phil” he muttered menacingly while approaching Punk’s face.

He moved his hand to hold the graying man’s face, placing both of his hands on either side. He stared at the desperate fearful expression of the man’s face and loved every inch of it. So much fear and uncertainty in one expression and every bit of it had been deserved. After a while, the big man attacked and gave the smaller man the most aggressive kiss that he could’ve ever imagined.

Drew worked his tongue in Punk’s mouth and picked his tongue up into his own mouth. He started to suck it and take all that he could have of the tongue that haunted his dreams. Once he was satisfied with how much tongue he had in his mouth, he bit down and felt the piece dance on his own tongue. The muffled screams of pain that Punk had let out was something that gave Drew so much pride that it was hard to put into words. He pulled away and watched as the dark blood gushed from the giant wound that used to be Punk’s tongue.

Drew spat the piece of tongue out on his palm and looked at it, not even paying attention to Punk slowly losing his consciousness from the blood loss. “Look at that. I can see the scar of your tongue piercing” Drew chuckled with a twisted grin on his face and put the piece of tongue in his pocket. He’ll save it for later. He didn’t want to lose it.

Once Punk was out cold, Drew let go of his neck and let him fall on the ground. The bigger man stood and stared down at the heavily breathing bloody mess that he was supposed to call his coworker.

“Great. You have the man. What are you gonna do now?” The too familiar voice of the insulting imaginary man echoed in his mind. “Shut up. I want to take every bit of enjoyment out of this moment and you talking ruins everything” Drew growled at the voice. That made it go silent and he let out a sigh of relief.

Drew picked up the motionless Punk from the ground into a fireman’s carry and started to walk to the stage area, going past many other performers. He didn’t even realize how the other performers and staff were looking at him. He really didn’t even care. He wanted them to be shocked.

Drew carried the bloody unconscious punk in front of the crowd and flopped him on the floor. He walked next to him and looked at him. The gasping bloody man struggling to breathe was an image that would never leave his mind. Drew didn’t really see beauty in suffering until Punk.

Drew kneeled next to the suffering old man and looked at him. He ran his bloody hands across his right arm and took his hand on his. He brought the inked hand close to his face and kissed it before the security started to pull him away.

While Drew was dragged away from the stage, he still was grinning proudly with no remorse.

He knew this would ruin everything for CM Punk.

That was the plan.

Ruin everything for Phil Brooks.

That man had ruined enough things for others and especially with his words.

But now, the cat had caught the old, small and fragile dog’s tongue.

#punkintyre #cm punk x drew mcintyre #tw violence #tw blood #suggestive wrestling art✨#wrestling ship art✨#wrestling fanfiction based art✨#kat writes wrestling fan fiction✨

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galaxymagitech · 9 months

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I hadn’t originally posted about the goblins in The Church on Ruby Road, because I felt like I might be overreacting. I couldn’t find anyone discussing it here, so I figured that maybe it was just me. But I recently did find a post on here about this issue, so I wanted to share my thoughts.

I was watching the episode and trying to get into it but it just felt like something was crawling under my skin. I liked certain parts of it—loved the 15th Doctor, thought Ruby was cool, liked the thing about the foster family making such a huge impact, etc. But the goblins made it hard to enjoy. It made it difficult for me to enjoy Christmas too. And I was watching this episode with my Jewish granny and I kept glancing at her, like “I’m sorry that this is my favorite show.”

Now, throughout history, the fear of someone stealing your baby has been a common one. It’s not necessarily antisemitic. Babies are so precious to societies and parents that of course people are terrified of them being stolen. But…

The baby-stealing was associated with a type of creature that has consistent antisemitic associations.

The goblins have a ritualistic and vicious ceremony to prepare the baby for eating, and they’re sacrificing the baby to a higher power (their king). Strong associations with blood libel here.

The goblins don’t have long noses (which I’m sure the people involved with making this absolutely specified and thought was enough) but they do have horns. It’s hard not to associate that with the myth that Jewish people have horns. I don’t know why they gave the goblins horns, it’s such a completely unnecessary detail.

This was on a Christmas episode, which really makes it worse.

Again, having a group steal babies is not inherently antisemitic—many cultures have myths about monsters who will steal your baby. But. Having horned goblins steal a baby to sacrifice in a vicious ceremony to a higher power on a Christian holiday…ugh.

Doctor Who has been putting in so much effort to be as sensitive as possible, recently. And that’s great. They didn’t want to portray characters with disabilities as evil, they wanted to portray a trans character well, etc. But because of that, the goblins stick out like a sore thumb.

I don’t want to ruin this episode for anyone who enjoyed it. I enjoyed many parts of it. But I’m just so confused how this happened, when the second they came up with “baby-stealing creatures” their immediate thought should’ve been “okay, but be very, very careful.” And instead they just went full speed ahead with the horned goblins committing blood libel.

#I don’t think this was intentional #but they should’ve been intentional about avoiding this #I just don’t get how this happened #whyyyy #doctor who #doctor who spoilers #the church on ruby road #antisemitism #fifteenth doctor

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asirensrage · 1 year

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Bestowed

Title: Bestowed Fandom: Star Wars (AU) Rating: M Pairing: Kylo Ren x Undescribed.Reader Word count: 1345 Warnings: kidnapping. sacrifice. assumed murder. stalking. magic.

Summary: Based on the scary story prompts from @darkpromptsyouneveraskedfor. Prompts include: 13) "I don't think of it as a curse, more a blessing." and 13) You wake up in the dark, on a slab of stone, with a pentagram drawn around you.

Notes: This is part of the Horror prompts series here.

You woke up slowly. And cold. That was the first thing you noticed. You tried to sit up but your arms don’t move the way you want them too. They’re bound together. The area is lit by candles and the fear that was growing in the pit of your stomach skyrockets to your throat. You’re on stone. It’s marked with something that you can't entirely make out in the flickering light, but it’s easy to trace the fact it goes around you. And under.

“Don’t move.” The voice was deep and you looked around, trying to figure out where it came from. “It’s alright.”

“Pretty sure this is as far from alright as it gets,” you snap back. You lift your hands up, trying to tear at the binding with your teeth. Anything to get you out of here. It takes a few minutes before you even realize that every rip you manage to make heals itself. The bindings look as unblemished as they were before you started. “What the fuck?”

“You won’t get out,” the voice tells you. “They won’t release for anyone but me.”

“Then let me out.”

A figure moves into the candlelight. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. You can make out dark hair, pale skin, and a prominent nose. “I can’t do that.”

Your throat tightens but you try to ignore the fear that’s building. “Why?”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says. “For longer than you know.”

“Well, I’m not really into stalkers,” you try to be polite but firm and ignore the way your hands are shaking. “Next time, just ask a girl out for coffee, okay? Now can you untie me? My family is going to be looking for me.”

“Ah yes. The sisters.” He starts to circle you and it’s hard to twist and keep him in sight. “There are five of you now, correct? Two passed away. One at birth, one as a child.”

You clench your jaw tightly. It was a painful reminder of the siblings you lost. The ones who came before you and just…never made it. They didn’t even get a chance. “How do you know that?”

“I told you, I’ve been waiting for you. Public records and the internet do the rest if you know where to look.”

You shift, trying to throw your legs over the side of the platform you’re on. You need to get out of here. You need to go…as far away from here as possible.

“It has been increasingly difficult to find one like you. The seventh child of a seventh child.”

“My dad really wanted a boy,” you explain. It hadn’t happened but they tried. They stopped with you. It had been your mother’s demand. She couldn’t take anymore. “That doesn’t fucking mean anything.”

“It does.” He says it with complete assurance. “I have been waiting. Others have too. I won’t wait any longer.” He moves forward, shoving your legs back on the stone slab. “Don’t move. It’ll be less painful if you stay still.”

“For what? Being ritualistically sacrificed? I think I’ll pass.”

“It’s more than that. I am offering you something in return for what I will take. In fact, something you yourself are not able to access due to your heritage. Others would simply rend the power from you and discard the husk that was left no matter what it did to you. I call this a fair trade.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want anything you’re going to curse me with.”

“I don’t think of it as a curse, more a blessing. Regardless, you do not have a choice.”

He says something you don’t understand and lightning shoots down your spine. It feels as though you’re being electrocuted. The flames on the candles grow and the heat in your stomach increases. You cry out, tears building in your eyes and falling as it feels as though the blood in your veins is boiling.

“Please! Stop!” you beg but his voice continues, echoing in your ears.

The fire increases, your head swims and all you can do is scream until you black out.

The next time you wake up, it's on something soft.

Everything hurts. Your muscles keep twitching but you don’t feel like you can move. At least until one of your feet and calves cramp up. You can’t stop the tears or shooting up to sit, reaching for your leg. You don’t get the chance to. Someone touches you, fingers digging into the sore muscle. You swear but as the pain releases, you can’t help but fall back, exhausted again.

You stare at the ceiling, ignoring the hands that continue to ease the cramping muscles. “What did you do to me?”

“An exchange. Your lifespan is now tied to mine in exchange for access to the power you cannot reach for yourself.”

“What?” You force yourself to sit up, ignoring the pain. “What are you talking about?” you demand again when he doesn’t answer.

“You have always been beyond…mortal. Now you are more.”

“I don’t want to be!”

“There was no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

You slap him without thinking. Your head whips to the side, cheek stinging. He hasn’t moved but you feel as though you’ve hit yourself. You stare at your hand in shock, wondering what happened.

He gets up and you think you see a red mark where you know you hit him. As soon as his back is turned, you let yourself wince and mouth out an “ow”.

“Here. Eat.” A plate is thrust into your vision. There is a small selection of fruits and granola bars.

“Uh…thanks?”

He nods and sits back down where he was before. He waits until you pick at one of the orange slices. “You’re an attractive target for those seeking to increase their power.”

“...” You stare at him for a moment. “How is that possible? I’ve never done anything.”

“You don’t need to. Power crosses from father to daughter or mother to son. It is inaccessible to the offspring, but not to one like me.”

You frown slightly. “What does that even mean?”

“But you cannot take something for nothing,” he continues as though you haven’t spoken. “There is always a price. I gave as much as I thought I would receive.” He leans forward. His hand touches the growing bruise on his cheek. You can see it fade, and as it does, sparks tingle under the skin of yours. His eyes bore into yours.

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you say any of this before kidnapping me?”

“Would you believe me?”

“That doesn’t matter!”

“You want the truth?” He waits until you nod. “After scrying for you, I…got sloppy with the search and I had to deal with two others who were on your trail. My home is warded for intruders and the ritual was done quickly. Neither of us is in danger anymore. You won’t be a target unless they kill me too.”

“That doesn’t solve everything,” you say, wondering if he’s going to ignore the kidnapping.

“It does,” he nods. He pulls back slightly and reaches for something. You watch as he lifts a small bowl filled with a dark red liquid. He sets it down on the edge of the bed before reaching and grasping one of your wrists. You try to yank your hand back but his grip is firm. He dips his finger into the liquid and brings it to her skin. You watch as he draws a sigil. “This is where the magic pools.” He repeats the action with more symbols on your other wrist and neck. The marks burn slightly and your protests at the action fade as you realizes that the pain in your body is gone. Your psoriasis is even gone.

“Holy–”

He leans forward, blowing on the mark on her wrist. They light up, glowing red.

Your breath hitches as the sensation. You glance up, meeting his dark eyes as he watches your reaction. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. “What’s your name?”

“Kylo. You can call me Kylo.”

taglist: @raith-way @zeleniafic @jvstjewels @veetlegeuse @chickensarentcheap @residentdormouse @themaradwrites @kingsmakers @far-shores

#horror prompts #kylo ren x reader #star wars au #kylo x reader

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twofrontteethstillcrooked · 1 year

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Satanic panic: 8 Oct. Suptober

"Okay. Okay, here's the thing," Sam said, clearly struggling to keep his volume low and still be heard over the milling police, sounds of a crowd cheering on the other side of the venue's stage, and the weeping wailings of several nearby…

Castiel wasn't sure what they were. Leather-bound, pentagram-tattooed lizard people? The rest of the band, he was given to understand.

Sam continued, "Satanic panic, 1980s style? Fake news. Never proven. All the pearl clutching and accusations about ritualistic satanic sacrifices and abuses, totally unsubstantiated. At best, you could say, yes, people did panic, but wholly without cause."

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Now, this so-called death metal – Satan metal – band is on its fifth lead singer in five years."

"Right."

"Except they've all been the same guy."

"I thought the first one was different," Castiel interjected.

Both brothers shook their heads. "Same guy," Dean said. "Different, y'know, whatta you call 'em." He snapped his fingers a couple of times. "Vestments."

"Vestments, names, personas, et cetera," Sam huffed. "Different positions in the larger cult."

"Only it's not really a cult?" Castiel was having a hard time keeping up.

"Right, it's all phony." Dean rolled his eyes; he'd been loudly vocal, earlier, about his distaste for this particular band.

Castiel asked, "Is it important that all of the lead singers were only one man?"

Sam gave a grin like a grimace emoji. (Castiel liked sending texts with that one.) "It's relevant, possibly, because part of the lore – the storyline – of the band was that every lead singer was 'replaced'." He made finger quotes. "Which is to say, 'murdered'."

"But it was just the one man changing costumes," Castiel deduced. "That's somewhat clever."

"Some people think so." Dean looked askance at Sam.

"Several of their songs are great, pointedly political commentaries about the corruption of modern life and the downfall of empires," Sam said, in a tone that indicated the debate with Dean was ongoing.

"It's a shame then," Castiel said, squatting to pull the bloody sheet down from the face of the corpse sprawled halfway out of the dressing room doorway, "that the lead singer seems to be literally dead this time."

He didn't have to ask why this case warranted the Winchester's skillset. The singer's eyes were burned clear out of his head.

He looked up at Dean and Dean nodded, grimly.

"What are you reading?" Dean manhandled Cas enough to be able to crawl into bed behind him, his thighs bracketing Cas's hips. As it was one of Dean's usual nighttime routines, Cas allowed the interruption without complaint.

"In this story, apparently we're investigating the killing of a famous singer who leads a made-up satanic cult." Cas showed him the screen of the old tablet Sam had given him.

"Pretty sure most satanic cults are made up," Dean said, hooking his chin over Cas's shoulder. "And I'm sayin' that even though I've met actual Satan."

"Throughout the ages there've been more than a few cults dedicated to Lucifer," Cas admitted. "But most of them didn't really know who they were worshiping, and certainly not in any way that would've been useful to Lucifer."

"I guess that's comforting to hear," Dean muttered. He coughed into Cas's shoulder. "Hey. We get up to anything sexy in that story?"

"Hmm." Cas scrolled back up to the top of the first chapter. "It's rated General Audiences."

"Ah," Dean said, his fingers tickling up Cas's ribs while Cas turned in his arms. "Guess we'll have to write our own fic."

#suptober23 #deancas #destiel #spn #with apologies to the band ghost...#snippetfic #fic #suptober

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smilingformoney · 11 months

Text

Incorrect Quotes: Soul of Ice/Professor Snape II Edition

Severus: Enough! How dare you mock me in such a manner!?

Abbie: Well, how would you like me to mock you? I take requests.

Severus: What's going on?

Abbie: Teenage rebellion.

Severus: [sighs] What did I say to you this time?

Abbie: I'm going the fight the next person who insults my father.

Severus: I hate myself.

Abbie: Alright, square up.

Severus: [gently taps table]

Abbie: [taps back]

Lucius: What are they doing?

Persephone: Morse code.

Severus: [aggressively taps table]

Abbie: [slams hands down] YOU TAKE THAT BACK —

Sephy: You remind me of the ocean.

Severus: Because I’m deep and mysterious?

Sephy: No.

Sephy: Because you are full of salt and you scare people.

Severus: Now, Abbie, before I leave, you are not to partake in any of the following.

Severus: Drugs, kissing, tattoos, piercings, ritualistic animal sacrifices, cooking.

Severus:

Severus: Oh my god, I’m giving you ideas.

Sephy: I want to wake up with you every day for the rest of our lives.

Severus: I wake up at 4.30am.

Sephy: I want to see you at some point every day for the rest of our lives.

Lucius: What did you two do?

Abbie: …

Draco: …

Lucius: You’re not in trouble, I just need to know whether I need to lie to the Aurors again or not.

Sirius: Were you dropped on your head as a child?

Severus: Bold of you to assume I was even held.

Sirius: …

Severus: …

Sephy: Severus, we’ve talked about this.

Abbie: Any idiot would know that!

Harry: I knew that!

Abbie: See?

Sephy: Who traumatised you?

Severus: Do you want a list?

Sephy, sharpening a knife: Yes, actually.

Abbie: You’re not jealous, are you?

Draco: No!

Abbie: Good, because I consider my fake relationship with you a lot more meaningful.

Severus: WHOEVER MADE THIS MESS IS GOING TO —

Abbie: It was me.

Severus: …be forgiven because everyone deserves a second chance.

Severus: I expected better from you.

Abbie: Well that was your fault lmao I got nothing to do with that

Severus: If a stranger came up to you and said “I’m your dad’s friend, he told me to pick you up,” what would you say?

Abbie: I’d say, “You’re lying, my dad doesn’t have any friends!”

Severus: Not where I was going, but okay.

Severus: You’re annoying.

Abbie: But you love me!

Severus: That doesn’t make you any less annoying.

Abbie, in a high voice, holding Barbie: Hey, Ken! I was thinking about going back to school and starting a career!

Draco, in a low voice, holding Ken: Nonsense, Barbie. You’re staying home and having my kids.

Severus: What the fuck are you two doing?

Abbie: Playing systematic oppression.

Abbie, peeling a banana: May I take your jacket, sir? Hahaha.

Severus: Do you think other people can’t hear you?

Sephy: What if we went to dinner… not as friends?

Severus: As enemies?!

Sephy: 🤦🏼‍♀️

Sephy: Severus and I are dating.

James: [gasp]

Sirius: [gasp]

Remus: [gasp]

Severus: [gasp]

Sephy: Sev, come on.

Severus: Sorry, I’m still surprised.

Severus: [refusing to go to bed]

Sephy: Sev, you need to sleep. I don’t want to press charges.

Severus: ???

Sephy: For resisting a rest.

Sephy: Absolutely not.

Abbie: 🥺

Sephy: What did I say about those puppy dog eyes?

Abbie, sadly: It only works on Dad.

Sephy: You gotta walk in rooms like the gods sent you.

Severus: As a punishment.

Sephy: Can you turn on the lights?

Severus: I don’t need to. You’re the only light I need in my life.

Sephy: Darling, that's really sweet but I can’t see.

Severus: Sometimes, I don’t realize an event was traumatic until I tell it as a funny story and notice everyone is staring at me weird.

Severus: I love you, Abbie.

Abbie: Love you too, Dad.

[silence]

Severus: We both love you as well, Sephy.

Sephy: Thanks, I was feeling left out.

Severus: That’s ridiculous! Lucius isn’t in love with me!

Sephy: Yes, he is.

Narcissa: Yes, he is.

Lucius: Yes, I am.

Abbie: I should have my father kill you for that.

Severus: [bursting in] Who am I killing?

Abbie: What? No, I was joking.

Severus: [drawing his wand] I wasn’t.

Severus: You know, you can’t just walk in here and expect everyone to like you, you’re not Abbie.

Lucius: Not everybody likes Abbie.

Severus: Who doesn’t?!

Lucius: What?

Severus: Names! I want names!

Sephy: Can you carry this for me?

Severus: I don’t know if I can, I can barely carry the weight of my own sins.

Sephy: Just carry the damn book, Sev.

Sephy: I know everything about you.

Severus: Oh yeah? What am I allergic to?

Sephy: Being appreciated and thanked for helping others.

Severus: What’s that?

Sephy: It’s my to-do list.

Severus: It just has my name on it.

Sephy: Yes.

Abbie: Who thinks I can fit 15 marshmallows in my mouth?

Severus: You’re a hazard to society.

Sephy: And a coward. Do twenty.

Sephy: I think we can be evil, as a treat.

Severus: We?

Sephy: We :)

Draco: Do it or you’re straight.

Abbie: [loud gasp]

Abbie: Look under there.

Harry: Under where?

Abbie: You fool. You absolute moron. You are such a monumental idiot that you don't even realize what you just said. I am a verbal magician —

Abbie: If Mum and I were both drowning, who would you save?

Severus: I don't know, both of you?

Abbie: No, you could only save one of us.

Severus: Well, I would probably save your mother because she can't swim that well and I happen to know you're an excellent swimmer.

Abbie: Suppose I was holding an anchor. Who would you save then?

Severus: Well, why don't you let go of the anchor?

Abbie: It's a family heirloom.

Severus: I'm leaving.

Severus: [fully immersed in a new book, listening to classical music, very focused]

Abbie: [upside down on the couch] Do you think ducks have feelings?

Sephy, admiring a sleeping Severus: You’re so cute.

Severus, sleepily: I could beat you up.

Sephy, lovingly: I know.

Narcissa: You know, Severus gives Persephone flowers all the time, I wish you’d do that too.

Lucius: Okay.

[later]

Lucius: [gives Persephone flowers]

Persephone: ?? Thank? You??

Lucius: I am just as confused as you are.

Abbie: I don’t like men.

Draco: You’re a MISANDRIST?!

Severus: Has anyone seen my top?

Lucius: Persephone is in the other room.

Severus: Excuse me?! I’m a switch and you fucking know it!

Abbie: I’m begging you, just be cool.

Draco: Hey, who’s cooler than me?

Abbie: Everyone.

Abbie: If I'm paying rent, I expect some basic fucking privacy!

Severus: You don't pay rent.

Abbie: AND I WON'T!

Severus: You want me to have friends. The thing that killed Julius Caesar.

#severus snape #pro snape #dad snape #snape x oc #incorrect quotes #incorrect Severus Snape quotes #incorrect hp quotes #incorrect soul of ice quotes

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sixrealmsbeneaththesea · 1 year

Text

so i'm leaning into the bloodlusting warlord angle, because sometimes i just want a character like that. i know this won't get views but whatever, i've had some randomly pleasant interactions this and last night so i'm gonna swallow my tears (haha pun) and post and have fun with myself, i had fun coloring for once. still blerrrr but fun. but hear me out, under the cut~

What if, hear me out, what if, the blood moon see, what if the blood moon rose (well, it already rose as a natural phenomenon but now it had a great attractor) because Ganon, cuz Ganondorf was like “I’m gonna fuck the moon, I’m gonna make the moon mine, okay got it idiots, watch me bring this celestial body low into my thrall”

And every full moon he staged ritualistic battles, raids, and sacrifices to shed as much blood as he could to offer up. And he fought so hard his clothes would come off Soul Calibur style, or hell maybe the nudity was part of the ritual. Ritual bloodbaths.

"are you pleased, great moon?" arms wide and welcoming.

And it turned out there was a fucking…moon spirit, god, goddess, whatever…in the moon. And they noticed and was like “what’s this fucking human doing down there? That’s kinda hot” and started turning red from intrigue and infatuation. So then when Ganondorf nabbed a secret stone and became demon king, the moon was indeed brought low into his power and served to amplify it further to spawn his many little demony pigglies and wigglies~

Then when he got imprisoned and pork jerky'd into silence for millennia to come, the moon was like “awww…what do I do now? Guess I’ll just keep turning fucking red because I’m stuck in lust with this weird bloody human. Wait…how long do humans live again? Oh well, I’ll wait”

when the rest of the gerudo denounced him way back when, they were like "we were losing our people to his lunacy (lol). no more will we sacrifice our daughters, our mothers, our sisters, our aunts. the blood moon ritual is no more, and with that hopefully its ruddy hues will fade from the night skies." honoring the moon still happened, but no blood except for the occasional molduga for seasonal solstices. something like that, i dunno. didn't stop the moon, though. fucking moon.

the gloom club is for rituals, the spear is for showing off, and the sword and bow are for actually getting shit done as quickly as possible.

Really early goretober, bloodbath.

#ganondorf #ganon #loz totk #legend of zelda #goretober #blood watch out #nudity watch out #sketch #sketches #tears of the kingdom #i like his hair mussed

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lemurlegs · 3 months

Text

Bewitched

Hello everybody I'm finally back with a new chapter, I'm sorry it took so long, I had difficulty writing it, and i was a bit busy too. Anyways this chapter is longer. It explores a lot of things Ginger has done in her past, and we're gonna learn about the powers we possess.

Wordcount: 8.6k

Warning: murder, ritualistic sacrifice, cannibalism

Previous chapter

Chapter 5.

Dreams and powers

Alastors pov

After a whole day of dealing with his wayward contracts, while his body didn't show it, he felt exhausted. He was ready to head back to the hotel and relax near his bayou.

As soon as he manifested in the living room, he caught sight of everyone sitting in a circle on the floor. Charlie immediately jumped up and greeted him, asking if he wanted to join their group activities.

Alastor wanted to refuse; he was tired and rarely felt the need to join in the silly exercises Charlie hosted. But before he could finish his sentence, she cut him off, explaining that they were sharing stories about their pasts and it was currently Ginger's turn. More information? How convenient.

He walked towards the group and settled on the couch next to them. No way in hell would the Radio Demon sit on the floor like some common sinner, he had a reputation to uphold. As he crossed his legs and got comfortable, after that he told Ginger to continue.

She started explaining that she had no idea why she ended up in Hell.

Alastor was confused, tilting his head at her comment. At the cafe that morning, she had mentioned using her womanly charm to manipulate men and hinted that she sometimes killed those she deemed worthy. To him, that seemed like a pretty obvious reason to be sent down here.

Charlie asked her to clarify.

"I mean that I don't think I'm innocent or something; I just don't know which of my sins got me here.” she shrugged. Answering nonchalantly.

At that, Angel Dust suggested she list her sins to figure out which one got her sent to Hell. Alastor was ecstatic; maybe her sins would explain her strange magical knowledge, and he might even learn what happened to her the day before, when she got attacked.

But as soon as he got his hopes up, Ginger quickly dismissed the idea. However, her response only made him more curious. A list of sins so long it would take hours to go over? Hoho, don't threaten him with a good time.

That's when Alastor realized something. If she truly had committed so much evil, how did she manage it in such a short time? Not that he would ask a woman her age, of course—that would be ill-mannered—but she didn't look more than 27, but of course looks can be deceiving.

As he snapped out of his thoughts, he realized they had moved on to another topic. Charlie suggested that everyone name three things they were good at or enjoyed doing.

Angel's response made him grimace with disgust. The perverted spider always has a way of dampening his mood. He was listening to the group name their likes and talents, seemingly bored by how uninteresting they were. That's when he saw Ginger get excited about Husker's response.

“Magic, you say? What kind of magic?” her eyes were shimmering hopefully with a hint of excitement as she leaned towards the barcat.

Her happiness was short-lived when Husk clarified he was talking about card tricks.

Hmm, so she is indeed interested in magic. Maybe she's a practitioner. Or she could just be curious because of her attackers, since they clearly used magic on her. But how could she get herself in a situation like that on her first day? I mean, he knew this was hell but still. Maybe she knew her perpetrators? He shook off that though for now. Instead he began wondering about what kind of demon powers she might have and thought of ways to make her use them. That is, if she even knows she has them. Hmm, he hadn't considered that.

But Alastor didn’t have time to dwell on the topic any longer since it was now Ginger’s turn to share.

“Okay. Well, let’s see. I really like history, particularly the 1920s. I enjoy reading and I like singing.

Particularly the 1920s? My, my, isn’t that interesting—a sinner as young as her interested in history, especially a time when he was alive? That's a rare sight.

After she finished, it was his turn. As he explained his love for jazz and cooking, as well as torturing souls, everyone fell silent at that of course, he sure loved getting a reaction from the crowd. Charlie quickly tried to salvage the situation and decided to call it a night.

Before they could leave, Ginger reminded everyone that Alastor hadn't answered the first question. Everyone was shocked by her boldness, even Alastor. He couldn't decide if it was boldness or foolishness.

To ask such a thing from him, the feared overlord, the master tormentor, the Radio Demon—it took guts, he had to admit that. He decided to humor her forwardness.

"My, my, quite bold, are we?" he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Well, if you must know, I was a serial killer in the 1920s, cleaning the streets of New Orleans. I'm quite certain that's why I'm here." He said proudly.

As Alastor observed Ginger's serene smile and listened to her nonchalant acceptance of violence against the cruel and wicked, he felt an unfamiliar sensation stirring within him. It was a peculiar mix of intrigue, admiration, and something else—something he couldn't quite place.

The idea that someone shared his perspective on the nature of sin and punishment was undeniably intriguing to Alastor. Here stood someone who not only understood his worldview but embraced it. How exciting.

After this pleasant surprise, everyone left to retire for the night. Ginger walked to the kitchen for a quick dinner. This was the perfect opportunity to set his plan to discover her powers in motion. He used his shadow magic to warp behind her, ready to spook her, when she greeted him without even looking.

How in the ever-loving hell did she know he was there?—he thought. Narrowing his eyes, he stepped closer to her, looking down at the fox demon who is so full of secrets.

When he asked, she gave an unsatisfactory response: a lucky guess. He almost rolled his eyes at that. Right, like he would believe that. He'd find out soon enough.

Alastor then began his plan. First step: getting her out of the hotel. That should be easy enough. He owned her, after all; she needed to listen to him.

“I need you to pick up some fresh cuts of meat from the butcher for me tomorrow. I'll write down the address for you.”

He conjured a notebook and pen, ready to scribble down the location, when she gave him a skeptical response and questioned his intentions. This made him a little annoyed. Who was she to question him? She had no right. He owned her.

He reminded her that her curiosity would get her in trouble if she kept asking more questions. She responded with sass. Oh, that’s it. He had been nice, but she needed to be taught a lesson. After all, he was the one in charge here—she needed to learn some respect.

Alastor threatened her, turning into his more demonic form, getting up in her face and telling her it was best if she did what she was told.

And to that, she didn't even flinch, as if she wasn't standing in front of a terrifying, cruel overlord. Giving a nonchalant response, she agreed, but it left him confused as to why she didn't react. Most demons would be cowering away in fear by now.

He wrote down the location and left her. He needed to think about the next steps of his plan. Once in his room, he lit the fireplace and sank down in his chair.

Step one was completed; now it was time for phase two. Once she went to pick up the meat as he asked, he planned to send one of his rowdy souls after her. He'd send those souls who had tested his patience, a lesson long overdue, he thought. And if she tore them apart? Well, he wouldn't mind. In fact, he hoped she did.

"Oh, how I wonder what kind of powers she has," he thought out loud.

As Alastor's thoughts drifted towards Ginger's potential powers, he couldn't help but imagine the myriad ways they could be utilized to his advantage. Each possibility sparked a new wave of excitement, fueling his curiosity and ambition.

He envisioned Ginger wielding elemental magic, conjuring flames to engulf their enemies or summoning storms to wreak havoc upon their foes. With such power at his disposal, he could easily dominate the battlefield, using the forces of nature to bend his enemies to his will.

Or perhaps Ginger possessed the ability to manipulate minds, weaving illusions to deceive their adversaries or bending their thoughts to her whim. With such a power, she could infiltrate the minds of anybody.

Alastor's mind raced with possibilities, each scenario more tantalizing than the last. As he contemplated the many ways Ginger's powers could benefit him, Alastor's ambition burned brighter than ever before. With her by his side, he could ascend to even greater heights of power and influence, his name echoing throughout the halls of Hell as a force to be reckoned with. But first, he needed to uncover the truth about Ginger's abilities, and he was determined to do whatever it took to unlock her secrets.

After about some time he decided to check up on her room.

Maybe he could reveal something about her. After all, a person's room often tells a lot about them. He rose from his seat, left his room, and began approaching Ginger's room.

As Alastor strode through the dimly lit corridors of the hotel, his shadow danced eagerly along the walls, its form undulating and twisting with an otherworldly grace. It moved in tandem with Alastor's every step, a silent companion that mirrored his movements with uncanny precision.

As they approached Ginger's room, the shadow seemed to pulse with anticipation, its movements quickening with an eager anticipation. It hovered near the door, casting a dark silhouette against the wood as if eager to delve into the mysteries that lay beyond.

Alastor's voice echoed softly in the corridor, his words punctuated by a faint chuckle that reverberated through the air. As he spoke, his shadow danced eagerly beside him, its movements fluid and graceful.

"She's very interesting, isn't she?" Alastor mused aloud, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. "So full of secrets, and the longer I observe, the more questions appear."

His shadow seemed to sway in agreement, its form pulsating with a silent energy as if echoing Alastor's sentiments.

Together, they stood outside Ginger's room, the anticipation palpable in the air as Alastor prepared to delve into the mysteries that laid beyond.

Holding his ear up to the door, he listened for any signs that might indicate she was still awake. Upon hearing light snoring, his smile widened. He began fading away into the shadows. Now in his dark incorporeal state, he reached under the doorway, trying to slide into the room. But as soon as he began slipping in, some sort of strong force ejected him. It was as if the very fabric of the magic repelled his intrusion, rejecting his shadowy essence with a forceful expulsion.

Thrown back against the opposite wall, Alastor's incorporeal form recoiled from the impact, momentarily stunned by the unexpected counterattack. Undeterred by the initial setback, Alastor attempted to regather his composure and make another attempt. Yet with each subsequent effort, the resistance only grew stronger, the strange magic proving to be a formidable obstacle to his shadowy form's entry. What the hell did she do to block HIS magic?

He started reforming into his physical form, clenching his fists in frustration. Stepping up to the door, he hovered his hand over it. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus, to see if he could feel anything magical. Surely enough, he began sensing a very strong locking seal on the entrance.

Opening his eyes, he began trying to reveal it. Maybe if he recognized the sigil, he could find a way to break it. The hand that was hovering over the door began to glow a soft green. Lifting his hand, he started moving it all around the wood, hoping to find the sigil's location.

As his hand reached the top of the door, a violet-colored glowing sigil revealed itself. So it was one hundred percent confirmed: Ginger was indeed someone who knew her way around magic. Judging by the fact that he couldn't recognize the marking, the lock kept him from entering, and the magic seal felt powerful. He knew she wasn't just some small fry witch—oh no, she was very strong. After all, keeping the Radio Demon out from anywhere was certainly an accomplishment.

As Alastor scrutinized the violet-colored sigil, he felt a palpable sense of power emanating from it. It wasn't just a simple ward; it was a formidable barrier, intricately woven with layers of protective magic. Each line and curve of the sigil seemed to pulse with energy, repelling any attempt to breach its defenses.

As he attempted to unravel the sigil's enchantments, he encountered resistance at every turn. It was as if the magic itself resisted his intrusion, pushing back against his efforts with a stubborn resilience. No matter how he tried to manipulate it, the sigil held firm, its protective barrier unyielding.

Frustration simmered beneath Alastor's calm exterior as he grappled with the realization that he was facing a foe of considerable power. The locking magic was not just keeping him out of the room; it was actively thwarting his attempts to understand it, a testament to Ginger's formidable abilities. With a sigh, Alastor withdrew his hand, acknowledging defeat for the time being.

As he turned away from the door, his mind raced with possibilities. What other secrets lay hidden within Ginger's room, and what could they reveal about her true nature? Only time would tell, but one thing was certain: Ginger was not to be underestimated.

He started feeling glad he didn't eat her when he found her. But it made him wonder.

What else could she do?

Ginger's pov

As you slip into an unconscious state, it's as if you're descending into a soft, ethereal mist, cocooning you in its gentle embrace. Weightlessness overtakes your body, as if gravity has released its hold on your body. With each passing moment, your senses become hyper-aware, amplifying every sound, touch, and scent, pulling you deeper into the enchanting realm of dreams.

Once you fall completely asleep you find yourself surrounded by an ocean of blackness. As you swim through the boundless void, your mind clears like the dissipating mist, allowing you to focus with newfound clarity.

With a whispered command of your imagination, the shapeless expanse begins to ripple and shimmer, as if responding to your words.

Slowly at first, tendrils of color emerge, painting delicate hues upon the empty canvas. Shades of emerald green intertwine with the deepest ebony, weaving a tapestry of shadows and light. The void trembles with anticipation, eager to take form under the spell of your creative will.

As your focus on the image you're trying to create the transformation quickens, and before your eyes, the formless void begins to coalesce into solid substance. Trees materialize from the darkness, their gnarled branches reaching skyward like ancient sentinels guarding the secrets of the forest.

Leaves unfurl in a symphony of verdant whispers, and the earth beneath your feet takes shape, soft and yielding to your touch. The air thrums with the pulse of life, carrying the scent of moss and damp earth on its invisible currents.

With a final surge of energy, the metamorphosis is complete—a dense, dark forest now stretches as far as the eye can see, its canopy of foliage obscuring the starry sky above.

Stepping onto solid ground, you feel the damp earth beneath your feet, and the cool breeze blowing through your ginger hair. Your senses are immediately drawn to a soft, white glow hovering just ahead. The orb emits a gentle luminescence, casting flickering shadows upon the towering trees surrounding you. The orb floats effortlessly ahead of you, leading you deeper into the heart of the forest. As you follow its gentle guidance, the dense foliage begins to thin, revealing a clearing bathed in the silvery light of the full moon.

At the center of the clearing, you pause, mesmerized by the celestial beauty above. And as you gaze upon the luminous orb hovering before you, a presence begins to materialize—the figure of the Goddess emerges from the ethereal glow, her presence commanding the space around her. She is adorned with long, flowing black hair that cascades around her like wispy shadowy tendrils, moving with an otherworldly grace.

Upon her forehead, a shimmering moon sigil gleams with an ancient power, marking her as a divine being of lunar origin. Her long flowy dress, a radiant silver hue, seems to shimmer and glow, its incorporeal form appearing almost ghostly against the backdrop of the night.

She floats effortlessly above the forest floor, her gaze fixed upon you with eyes that are completely white, devoid of iris or pupils.

Surrounding her is a dark aura, vast and impenetrable, swirling with an intensity that speaks of depths unknown. She is the embodiment of darkness itself, not in its malevolent sense, but as its keeper.

She is Mona, the Moon Goddess.

When she fully manifests before you, you bow to the powerful Goddess. As you raise your head, she extends her hand, and you watch in awe as it transforms. At first, it is an indistinct shadow, a mere silhouette in the dim light. Slowly, it begins to change, like smoke swirling and condensing into a solid form. The edges of the shadow blur and ripple, then start to coalesce, becoming more defined. Dark wisps of energy dance and weave together, gradually shaping into the delicate contours of a hand. The hand becomes fully corporeal, rich with the detail of veins, knuckles, and the soft, warm skin of a living being.

She cups your cheek, and you lean into her touch, feeling the comforting dark energy seep into your very being. Calm washes over you, and your worries slip away under her warm, motherly touch.

She withdraws her hand and begins to speak, her voice resonating through the dark forest.

“What brings you here, my child?”

“I seek your guidance, Mother. I have descended into your realm, Hell. I’m trapped in a situation I cannot escape without your help. The coven of the Sun God, your brother’s worshippers, are here. They have cursed me, condemned my soul to rot away within a year. Please, Goddess, tell me you can help.”

You remove your clothes to reveal the sigil to the Goddess. She steps closer and with a delicate touch of her fingertips, tracing around the scar, she examines the curse. Her expression grows sorrowful as she reveals her answer.

“I’m sorry, my child, but the only one who's able to undo the spell is the one who casted, either by their own volition or by death.”

You felt your heart sink. Your coven, they would never forgive you, they have too much hate for you. And killing them? Well easier said than done, there's a lot of members and they are a lot more powerful than you are, especially together. It was hopeless.

“No, no, no!” You groan in frustration, the tension gripping you like a vise. With a heavy heart, you bury your face in your hands, fingers digging into your scalp as if trying to alleviate the weight of your despair. Each breath feels labored, each moment filled with a sense of hopeless anguish that threatens to consume you whole.

It was all over, you're going to die in a year and there's nothing you can do.

You feel a warm hand touch your shoulder, sending a calming energy through your spine. You sigh, gradually calming down from the Goddesses comforting touch. That's when you realize you are still in danger, the coven can still find you and drag you back to the torture cell. Not to mention not wanting to involve the hotel in this mess, that would surely end horribly.

You lift your head to look at Mona, a small empathetic smile on her face as she looks at you. You wipe off the tears that you just realized were rolling down your cheek. With a few sniffles and shaky breaths you finally gain back some composure.

“There is another matter you might be able to help me with, Mother. I want to learn about my demon powers and how to use them. If the coven returns and tries to hurt me again, I need to be prepared. Could you please show me how to harness my powers?”

With a warm, reassuring smile, Mona extends her hand. As she does, shadowy tendrils emerge from her fingertips, weaving through the forest like hungry serpents. They consume the surroundings, devouring the familiar landscape until all that remains is a dark void. In this abyss, the only source of illumination is the faint, ethereal glow emanating from the Goddess herself.

“Let's begin," says the Goddess.

"To discover your powers, you must delve deep within yourself, exploring the darkest corners of your past. Take a deep breath and reflect, recalling your most grievous transgressions."

You inhale deeply, centering yourself, and begin to sift through your memories, navigating the murky depths of your past misdeeds.

As you focus on a particular memory, your surroundings shift. You and the Goddess materialize within the memory itself, witnessing your past unfold like scenes from a movie.

It's a memory of the first person you killed after massacring your coven. You wanted to steal his money since you were low on cash. The tavern you've been working in as a barmaid barely made you enough to get by. He was sitting at one of the tables close to the bar, already heavily inebriated. He was taller than you, but not by a lot, he was also a smaller skinnier build. Not a very attractive fella. He was known to be a drunkard, hitting on the barmaids, touching them inappropriately. He was the perfect target.

Approaching him with measured steps, you wear a practiced seductive smile, your eyes gleaming with calculated allure. As you settle onto his lap, you can feel the weight of his gaze, clouded by intoxication, lingering on your form as the smell of sweat and ale filling your senses.

Leaning in close, you weave a tapestry of lies with your words, each syllable dripping with honeyed deceit. You stroke his ego, praising his strength and attractiveness, while subtly steering the conversation to your advantage.

With every whispered compliment, you draw him deeper into your web of deception, until he's putty in your hands, oblivious to the danger lurking beneath your facade.

After a few more drinks and a skillful exchange of words, you deftly pilfer the man's pouch without him even noticing, slipping away from the table with your prize in hand. Leaving the drunken mess of a man to his own devices, you disappear into the shadows of the tavern.

Days later, a group of men emerged from the doorway, stomping in angrily into the tavern. You recognized one of the men as the one you stole from a few nights ago.

They approached you, shouting a growling demanding you give the guys money back. You try to calmly explain that you don't have the money. You tell them that you're poor and you work because your husband can't. You explained how you stole the money to buy medicine for him. They seem to ignore your words, throwing insults and threats your way. That's when the owner shows up and demands that they leave his tavern.

With a few more insults and profanities exchanged, the men left. After your shift finishes and you begin walking home, immediately feeling uneasy. Your intuition tells you to beware. Glancing over your shoulder, you catch sight of the men trailing behind, their menacing silhouettes growing ever closer. The men from the tavern hot on your feet as you speed up, eventually turning to a full sprint. Ducking into a narrow alleyway, you press yourself against the cold stone wall, breath coming in ragged gasps as you watch the men scour the area, their shadows looming ominously in the flickering lamplight.

One with a mustache comes close to your hiding spot. He's a lot bigger than the fella you robbed, he could easily overpower you. Sensing the need for a distraction, you whisper a barely audible incantation. A sudden loud bang reverberates from the other side of the street. Startled, the men pivot towards the noise, their attention diverted as they rush to investigate.

You have the chance to make your escape, but something mischievous starts bubbling within you. How much fun it would be to mess with them. You quietly run behind a tree, you begin slowly climbing it. From your elevated vantage point, you weave another spell, projecting your voice to the spot where you were originally concealed.

The men, drawn by the illusion, scramble to the empty hiding spot, their frustration evident as they find nothing. Delighting in the chaos you've created, you repeat the process, sending them on a wild goose chase around the alleyways. At some point your cheeks start hurting from smiling, trying very hard to keep the laughter escaping from your throat.

But soon, your amusement wanes, and you decide it's time to make your escape. With a final diversionary spell, you project the sound of running footsteps in the opposite direction, leading the men away as you slip quietly from your perch. As they give chase to the phantom sound, you descend from the tree, straightening your dress with a composed air, ready to disappear into the night.

As you descend from the tree, you're startled to find yourself face to face with the man you robbed days ago.

“She's here!! The thief is— UGHH” instinct takes over and you swiftly plunge your pocket knife you always keep with you into his stomach.

He collapses, gasping for air, clutching his wound in agony. Despite the rush of power coursing through you, there's no time to revel in it. With a menacing smile, you turn to flee, but the approaching footsteps of the men from before hasten your departure.

As you sprint through the streets, desperation sets in, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your legs burning with exertion. With the men hot on your trail, you realize you can't outrun them for much longer. Frantically scanning your surroundings, your eyes alight on a nearby house with a clothesline adorned with drying garments.

Without hesitation, you dash towards it, ripping the men's clothing from the line and hastily donning the disguise. A hat pulled low over your brow completes the transformation, obscuring your features as you blend into the shadows of the night, evading capture once more.

“Hey, boy, have you seen a woman running this way?"

The largest man pants, desperation evident in his voice. Without a word, you gesture in the opposite direction of your intended escape. They nod in gratitude, their footsteps quickening as they follow your false lead.

Breathing a sigh of relief, you hurry home, hastily packing your belongings as you prepare to leave the town behind. Before stepping out into the streets, you take a small knife and make a precise, deliberate cut across your palm, the pain sharp and immediate. Holding a deep bowl beneath your hand, you watch as the deep crimson blood drips steadily into it.

With your blood as the cornerstone of the ritual, you add rusty nails and rotten eggs, dried thorns and dead insects, a splash of vinegar, and a pinch of wormwood. These ingredients, potent and foul, amplify the dark energy of your spell.

Next, you write down the names of the men who pursued you, they were regulars so you have heard their names slip from their mouths. Placing the slips of paper into the bowl, each one soaking in the blood and other ingredients. The connection to your enemies is now tangible, their fate sealed within the mix.

Striking your flint and steel, you light the contents of the bowl. The flames flare up with an eerie glow, the blood sizzling and hissing as the hex activates. You watch intently as the fire consumes the mixture, the power of your blood magic sending waves of sickness and misfortune to the men who wronged you.

As the fire dies down to smoldering embers, you feel the energy of the hex solidify. With a final glance at the dying flames, you quickly duck out of your home, slipping into the night to begin your journey to another town, leaving the cursed remnants behind.

This was the first town you abandoned in such a manner. After three years of residing there, you depart due to a murder you committed, devoid of any remorse. It marks the beginning of a pattern, a cycle of fleeing from consequences that will repeat itself in towns to come.

With the memory dissipating like smoke, shadowy tendrils throwing you into another.

As you delve into the next memory, the scene unfolds before you with chilling clarity. You find yourself in a dimly lit room, the air heavy with the scent of iron and decay. Your pulse quickens as you confront the man who dared to lay a hand on you.

It's 1886 and it's the first time you used your blood magic to kill someone. The man, Joseph, was someone you were fond of. You didn't exactly love him. No, the ability to love has been something you couldn't xperience anymore, and you'll be damned if you ever trust a man again.

Either way he was somewhat close to you, but he mistook that friendship as something more. He tried to court you, not taking no for an answer. Joseph tried to get you to agree to go on a date with him several times, eventually he grew tired of you declining him and tried to use force against you. You two were in your home having a few drinks when he tried to kiss you. Pulling away from him only resorted to him grabbing you angrily to shove his lips against yours. You managed to escape his grip and knock him out quickly, he was out cold immediately as you broke a bottle of wine over his head. So that's where you were now, in the basement, with his form sprawled out on the cold altar table, bound and unconscious.

It was the perfect time to try out a new ritual dedicated to the Huntress Goddess. You were trying to find a perfect victim after all, and of course not wanting to just kill any innocent rando, it was very convenient timing on his part really.

His face contorts in confusion as he begins to stir, awakening to find himself at your mercy.

As you stand before the bound man, his chest exposed on the altar, a tense silence fills the dimly lit basement. You can feel the weight of his gaze upon you, a mixture of fear and confusion flickering in his eyes. With a steady hand, you reach for your tools, the implements of your craft gleaming in the faint light.

“Why are you doing this?" he demands, his voice tinged with desperation. "What do you want from me?"

You pause, regarding him with a cool detached look. "What I want is of no consequence to you now," you reply, your voice low and steady. "You have trespassed against me, and now you must face the consequences."

His eyes widen in realization, a flicker of panic crossing his features. "Please," he pleads, his voice cracking with fear. "I didn't mean to hurt you. It was a mistake, I swear. We can fix this, go back to being friends." Joseph was begging like a pathetic puppy. Disgusting, he thought he could just have you, but what else did you expect from a man? They take what they don't own without hesitation or remorse. You are ready to make him pay for his actions.

You remain unmoved, your resolve unshakeable. "Words mean nothing now," you say, your tone devoid of emotion. Taking the sharp blade out of its sheet, a beautiful knife, with the handle made out of a deer antler, intricate symbols carved on it. "Actions have consequences, and yours have led you here.” you point the knife to his chest, you see his breath quicken, eyes widening, expression turning into that of a cornered animal.

As you begin the ritual, his protests grow more frantic, his struggles against his bonds growing increasingly desperate, but you pay him no mind. Attaching the deer antlers to your victim, tying them to his head securely. You dedicated this animal, your perfect prey, to Fenja, the Huntress Goddess. Your focus is unwavering as you channel the dark energies swirling within you.

By offering this man's life to the Goddess, you will be granted protection from all dangers for an entire year. She will shield you from harm and guide you on the right path.

As the ritual reaches its climax, you draw upon the man's life force, draining his blood from his wrists with a steady hand. The crimson liquid flows into the deep bowl beneath him, pooling with dark intent as you prepare to channel its power.

With practiced precision, you carve intricate sigils into his chest, dedicated to the hunt, each stroke imbued with the ancient symbols of your craft. The man's skin yields to your touch, the marks etched into his flesh like a twisted tapestry of agony and despair.

With that you pick up your spell book, whispering incantations in an ancient language, praying to Fenja to grant you protection and to humbly accept the offering in trade. With the last words leaving your lips you hover over the man's sprawled out body. He's barely conscious because of the blood loss. With a savage determination, you reach for the sacrificial dagger at your side, its blade glinting in the dim light.

With a swift and merciless stroke, you plunge the deer bone dagger into the man's chest, tearing through muscle and sinew until you reach the prize you seek: his still-beating heart. With a triumphant cry, you wrench the heart from his chest, holding it aloft with a savage hunger in your eyes.

And then, without hesitation, you sink your teeth into the pulsing organ, tearing into its flesh with a primal ferocity. The taste of blood fills your mouth, a heady mixture of triumph and power coursing through your veins as you consume the man's essence.

Your body quivers as a surge of power courses through you, each fiber vibrating with the intensity of the Huntress's magic. Your eyes alight with a mesmerizing hue of deep purple, as if infused with the very essence of the hunt.

The spell had worked, making that year incredibly peaceful. No one tried to expose you as a magic practitioner, you robbed and tricked people effortlessly, and you remained free from sickness and disease. It was perfect. The only downside was a little cannibalism, but with such a great payoff, why not? This ritual was just a modified version of what you did in the coven, where you used a raw deer heart instead of a human one. Somehow, the heart of this man gave you much more power than the deer’s. After that, you repeated the spell yearly.

As the memory begins to fade, reminders of past actions flicker into view, but before you can dwell on them for long, you're swiftly pulled into another memory, whisked away from the haunting echoes of the past.

As 1922 unfolded in New York, you couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. The roaring twenties were your favorite decade, even with the tragic things that happened, now you were witnessing its glorious resurgence. With anticipation bubbling inside you, you eagerly embraced the era's vibrancy and allure. It was time to relive the golden days of the twenties once again.

You were sitting on a barstool of your favorite speakeasy, sipping on bootleg hooch and whisky imported from England. The Blind Tiger was owned by a man who was famous all over New York. Marco Moretti, a notorious bootlegger, a cruel criminal who held the coppers in the palm of his hands, and insanely rich.

The velvety warmth of fine whisky caressed your throat, igniting a familiar thrill as you took another sip. A symphony of smoke and spirits swirled around you, mingling with the lively jazz melodies that pulsed through the air. Your finger traced the rhythm of the music on the table, echoing the fast-paced tempo. Amidst the sea of elegant suits and dazzling dresses, joyous laughter and spirited dancing filled the room, painting a vibrant tableau of revelry and indulgence. Ah what a time to be alive.

With a cigarette poised between your lips, you fished out your lighter from your bag, anticipating the comforting glow of a flame. However, despite your best efforts, the stubborn lighter remained unyielding, failing to spark. Frustration increases as you click it repeatedly.

*flick*

"Ugh, God damn it," you muttered, cursing the heavens for denying you the simple pleasure of a nicotine fix. Disheartened, you slumped forward, resting your head on the worn bar table. Suddenly, the faint sound of another flick and the crackle of fire caught your attention.

Raising your head, you leaned into the offered flame, finally igniting your cigarette. As a wave of calmness washed over you with each inhale, you glanced up to thank the gentleman responsible, only to realize you were face to face with an actual mobster, none other than Marco Moretti, the owner of the speakeasy.

“Thank you kindly, sir” you look at him and my my he was handsome too.

“Of course Bella, it's my pleasure” he said, offering you a sweet smile.

As the night went on, you found yourself talking and laughing with him, the smoky haze of the speakeasy wrapping around you like a veil. Marco was more than just a notorious figure; he was magnetic, captivating, and before you knew it, you were drawn into his world.

You were good at deception and trickery, at least that's what you thought until you met him. But he was like a mastermind, always ten steps ahead, fooling everyone effortlessly. As you two got closer, Marco introduced you to the inner workings of his empire, teaching you the art of discretion and the finesse of manipulation. You became his confidant, his right hand, his partner in crime, and soon, the two of you were running New York together.

Horse races at Belmont Park became your playground. You and Marco would arrive in style, decked out in the finest attire. The crowds would part as you walked through, a power couple exuding confidence and control. You placed bets with an air of nonchalance, always seeming to know the right horse to back, thanks to the inside information Marco had at his disposal.

Nights were a spectacle of luxury and excess. Lavish balls hosted in grand mansions became the norm, where the city's elite mingled with the criminal elite under a veneer of propriety. You danced under crystal chandeliers, the jazz music lively as alway. Every event was an opportunity to forge alliances and reinforce your status.

But it wasn't just the glamor that defined your days. You were involved in the meticulous planning of heists and the orchestration of elaborate bootlegging operations. You learned how to navigate the treacherous waters of the criminal underworld, gaining a reputation for your cunning and ruthlessness. Together, you bribed officials, outsmarted rivals, and expanded your influence, making the Moretti name synonymous with both fear and respect all around the country.

One night, after a particularly successful operation that involved smuggling a massive shipment of whisky through the city's sewers, you and Marco stood on the rooftop of the Waldorf Astoria, looking out over the glittering skyline of New York.

Marco turned to you, his expression serious. "We've come a long way, Bella. This city is ours for the taking, but we have to stay sharp. The higher we climb, the further we have to fall.”

He pulled you close to his chest, kissed the top of your head. Your relationship with him was complicated. You two were necessarily a couple, but it wasn't friendship either. It was a weird in-between thing you two had, since both of you knew that being together would do more harm than good.

But you loved each other, maybe not in the romantic sense, but you cared for him deeply and he cared for you two. It felt like nothing could stop the two of you. That is until one fateful night tragedy struck.

It started as a routine operation, a delivery of bootleg whisky to a new speakeasy on the Lower East Side. You and Marco were confident, your plan meticulously crafted. But as you navigated the narrow alleyways, a trap was sprung. Rival gang members ambushed you. Gunfire erupted, the sharp cracks of pistols echoing off the brick walls.

Marco and you fought back fiercely, but you were outnumbered. The realization hit you like a punch to the gut—this wasn't just a skirmish; it was an execution.

“Get out of here, Bella!" Marco shouted, shoving you towards a narrow escape route between two buildings. "I'll hold them off!”

“Are you insane Marco, this is suicide!” you protested, your heart pounding with fear and anger.

“Go!" he commanded, his eyes fierce and determined.

Tears stung your eyes as you hesitated, but the gravity of the situation forced you to comply. With one last, anguished look at Marco, you fled, the sounds of gunfire and shouts fading as you ran.

You found refuge in an abandoned warehouse, heart heavy with dread. Minutes felt like hours as you waited, hoping against hope that Marco would emerge from the shadows, unscathed. But deep down, you knew the truth. He was gone.

The grief and rage from Marco’s death propelled you back to the Moretti mansion with a fierce determination to regroup and plan your next move. However, as you approached, the eerie silence and the flickering lights filled you with a foreboding sense of dread. The usually bustling estate was ominously quiet.

You stepped inside, and the scene that greeted you was nothing short of a nightmare. Bodies of Marco’s loyal men and women lay scattered, their lives brutally snuffed out. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and your heart sank as you realized that the rival gang had struck again, this time with a devastating blow.

Suddenly, rough hands grabbed you from behind, yanking you into the main hall where the leader of the rival gang, a menacing figure named Vito Rossi, stood smirking. His henchmen surrounded you, their faces twisted with malicious glee.

“Well, well, look who we have here,” Vito sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “The infamous queen of the Moretti empire. Too bad your reign ends tonight.”

They tied you to a chair, and Vito leaned in close, his breath hot and rancid against your face. “We’ve taken everything—your money, your power, your family. Now, we’ll take your life.”

Stupid fools, they should have known better than to mess with you. And what they did to the Moretti family, the closest people you deemed family in a long while. People who took you in, accepted your wickedness, welcomed it and loved you for who you are. And they butchered them. Now they think they are going to kill you too? I don't think so.

Your heart pounded with fury, but on the outside you remained calm, closing your eyes you focused on the incantation.

“Blood be still, body freeze, halt their will, bring them to their knees.”

The words rolled off your tongue in a whisper, and a sudden chill filled the room. Vito paused, confusion flickering across his face as the room filled with dread, the feeling of dark magic surrounding them. His men looked around uneasily, their bravado wavering

“What the hell is—” Vito’s question was cut off as his blood began to freeze in his veins. One by one, the gang members’ eyes widened in terror, their bodies locking into place as the spell took hold.

With a flick of your fingers, the ropes binding you to the chair snapped, falling to the floor with a soft thud. You stood, your expression cold and resolute, and walked over to Vito, who was now immobilized, his eyes filled with a mix of horror and disbelief.

“You underestimated me,” you said softly, your voice echoing in the silent room. “And now you’ll pay the price.”

With deliberate steps, you collected the bags of money they had stolen, securing them in a large satchel. The room remained deathly silent, save for the faint clicking of your heels on the tiled floor.

1928, you're sitting on a train, with bags full of cash and a broken life. Heading to New Orleans, changing your appearance, starting a new life. This wasn't the first time you've done this, so why does it hurt to leave?

Even with the pain of losing someone so important to you, you find yourself happy in a bittersweet way. With deep breath you're ready to create a new life for yourself once more.

The air is thick with the scent of smoke, mingling with the metallic tang of fear. Dark figures loom around a crackling bonfire, their distorted shapes dancing eerily in the flickering light. Voices rise in a cacophony of chants, their words twisted and distorted, sending shivers down your spine.

Amidst the chaos, a haunting sound cuts through the night air – the heart-wrenching cry of a child, its echoes reverberating through the darkness. You can feel the weight of despair pressing down on you as you strain to shut out the horrifying scene unfolding before you. Your breathing quickens, vision blurs as you drop to the floor. With your eyes trained on the ground, you pull on your ears, trying to ground yourself somehow as you relive the worst thing that happened to you.

Suddenly, there's a sickening gurgle, followed by a woman screaming, and then unsettling silence that hangs heavy in the air like a shroud. Your heart clenches as you realize the depth of the darkness that surrounds this memory, its tendrils reaching out to ensnare you in its grip. With a sense of dread, you shut your eyes tightly, trying to escape the haunting images that threaten to consume you whole.

That's when you feel a pair of hands grip you, yanking you from the deep dark memory. Tears are rolling down your cheeks, your heart rate slowing down as you realize that the Goddess pulled you out of the nightmare. Looking around you find yourself back in the void, Mona close to you, comforting you after the painful reminder of your past.

“It seems this is not something we're ready to look through. Moving through memories like this can be dangerous if we get too lost in them. They can pull you in, making you relive them forever. I needed to pull you out when you reacted in such a manner.”

You turn towards the Goddess, slowly coming back to your normal self, pushing down the thoughts of pain and suffering.

“Was it enough revisiting to know what kind of demon magic I have?” You ask tiredly, hoping that you don't have to jump to another memory again.

“Yes, it will be enough”replied the Goddess.

“So, what kind of magic do I possess?“

“What is it that you've observed my child?” Asked the Goddess.

“I tricked them. I used my words, my magic, my womanly charms and my resourcefulness and fooled all of them. And once I was done, I changed my appearance and my name and moved away, just to do it all over again. Those who deserved my help, I protected fiercely and those who crossed me paid the price.”

“And what kind of power would you possess if this is what you did in life”

“Trickery?” You ask.

The Goddess Mona, with her ethereal glow and an air of timeless wisdom, smiles at your realization. "Indeed, trickery is your gift," she affirms, her voice a melodic whisper that reverberates through the obsidian walls of the training room. "The power of trickery is multifaceted and incredibly potent. Let me explain the abilities you can harness from it."

She raises her hand, and a cascade of shimmering shadows forms a delicate, intricate web in the air. The web is a mesmerizing tapestry, each thread pulsating with a different hue, weaving a vibrant display of color and shadow. The strands are as fine as spider silk, interlacing in complex patterns that shift and shimmer as they move.

"First, you have the ability of Illusions," she begins, her fingers dancing through the threads. "You can manipulate the senses of others, creating images and sounds that deceive and confuse. With practice, you can even craft entire landscapes, making your enemies question their reality."

A thread of silver light glows brighter, and she touches it gently. "Next is Shape-shifting. You have the power to alter your appearance at will, adopting new forms to blend in, evade capture, or mislead. This ability goes beyond mere disguise; you can mimic voices, mannerisms, and even the aura of those you emulate."

The web shifts, and a dark, almost invisible thread comes to the forefront. "Then there is Invisibility. By bending light and shadow, you can render yourself unseen. This can be momentary, a flicker to avoid detection, or sustained to move unseen through the world."

Mona's hand moves to a vibrant, glowing thread of pink. "You also possess Charm and Persuasion. This isn't just about speaking convincingly; you can infuse your words with magic, compelling others to see things your way, believe your lies, or even act against their own interests. With this, you can sway the minds and hearts of those around you."

Finally, she touches a deep crimson thread, pulsating with a dark energy. "And then there is Blood Bending. This is unusual but since you used your blood in your craft while you were alive it is not surprising that you possess this gift. This rare and formidable power allows you to manipulate the blood within living beings. You can control their movements, immobilize them, or even inflict pain. This ability is incredibly dangerous and must be wielded with the utmost caution. It gives you dominion over life itself, turning your enemies into mere puppets under your command."

Mona lets the web dissolve, its threads dissipating like mist. She steps closer, placing a hand on your shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring. "These are your gifts, the powers of trickery. They are tools for survival and conquest. But remember, with great power comes great responsibility. Use them wisely, my child."

“Thank you Goddess, I really appreciate your help” you bow to her in gratitude as the space shifts again, returning to the dark forest.

“I think it's time you returned to the real world now, child. You should practice your powers.”

Without much time to process her words, She snaps her finger and you're jolted awake from your bed.

Oh my, you're quite a powerful demon.

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