#a sentiment that must remain hidden…

[heartkade]

Not your seat anymore.

[contact-guy]

(pt 1) (pt 2) (pt 3) (pt 4) (pt 5) (pt 6) (pt 7)

HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES pt 5 (read the other parts first!)

(this is part of the Watson's sketchbook series)

letter text under the cut because SOMEONE'S handwriting is atrocious:

My dear

Dear Watson,

I have solved a mystery lately, the one concerning my distressing levels of distraction + poor humour (refer to yr. notes on NORBURY). I would like to present my thoughts to you as tidily as though this were any other case (a little ritual which, I must admit, has become one of my chief pleasures in this work). (omit; overly sentimental)

The truth is thus: over the seven years of our acquaintance, I have come to care for you beyond friendship or brotherhood. Poetically, I care for you in the Grecian way (has W. read Plato's Symposium?) ; plainly, most would consider it unwholesome.

I am aware that you are tolerant of this vice in your friends, an admirable attitude. Whether you yourself indulge remains stubbornly beyond my sight, for I find when I desire a certain outcome, logical deduction of the truth becomes impossible.

I occasionally seek to amuse and dazzle you by seeming to read your thoughts; but it is a simple trick, and I can only peer into the shallowest corners of your mind. Because of my abiding personal interest, your depths are hidden. (excessive)

I find your presence and this unspoken dialogue to be unsettling in the extreme. I am in need of resolution. Will you please tell me I require data and it must come from you. I await a response urgently at your convenience. If you desire to end our personal and professional relationship, a word to Mrs. Hudson will send me away from Baker St. for as long as you require to gather your belongings.

Yours,

S.H.

p-s- you need no reminding of propriety, but do be sure to destroy this humble note.

p-p-s- of course I could leave the rooms to you, but yr. pension would not cover the cost

[warriorofthought]

The Pendant

Summary: A Pendant holds memories, but can it bring back your happiness?

Word count: 6461

Warnings: Sentimental but practically no one

Adar x Female Elf Reader

Inside the dimly lit tent, Elrond sat tense yet composed, his gaze fixed on the unsettlingly calm Adar. The distant crackle of fires and orcish murmurs filled the night outside, but his thoughts were solely on Galadriel, held captive nearby, as you and two elven guards stood watch behind him.

“You must release her,” Elrond demanded, his voice low but edged with urgency. “This fight is between us. She has no part in it.”

Adar’s lips curled into a bitter smile, his scarred face barely illuminated by the firelight. “No part? She is woven into the very fabric of this world's decay, just like you, Herald. Her light dims as the shadow rises.”

Elrond stepped forward, eyes hardening with resolve. “You may have twisted your own kind, poisoned them with your hatred, but you will not break her spirit.”

Adar stood slowly, leaning closer, his voice a dark whisper. “Spirit does not survive the darkness, Elf. It withers, like everything else.”

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, but Elrond remained a pillar of strength. “Not her. You underestimate what endures in the light.”

Adar’s eyes narrowed, his smile fading as silence filled the space between them. “Give me the Ring and we can finish Sauron.”

“It would be a foolish act to bring it here,” Elrond replied, his voice serious.

“You are a couturier. More suited to wielding a scroll than a sword,” Adar mocked.

“You’ve never seen me wield either,” Elrond countered.

Your eyes watch both discuss and then Your eyes flicker to your dear friend Galadriel.

Your form is mostly hidden under the cloak.

When she spoke, Adar immediately ordered, “If she speaks again, cut her tongue.”

You and the guards stiffened, hands instinctively moving to your sword handles, a strand of your hair slips from the cloak.

He lets his eyes move back to Elrond.

Elrond watched you intently, silently communicating a warning to keep your composure. His gaze flitted back to Adar, his expression stern and tense, his hands clenching into fists.

Adar leaned on a pole, eyes flickering to you, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “She’s quiet,” he drawled. “A rare quality in these lands.”

Elrond tensed further, anger flickering across his face. “Leave her out of this, Adar.”

Adar's eyes flicker back to Galadriel.

Under the intense gaze of Adar, Galadriel's eyes met his, a storm of defiance and anger burning within them. Adar let out a small chuckle, seemingly satisfied with the reaction.

As Adar walks, a pendant slips out from beneath his clothes, catching your eye.

The pendant, an unusual piece of jewelry, had your curiosity piqued. Adar had turned his attention back to Elrond, seemingly unaware of the item that had slipped out.

“That pendant…. who gave it to you?” The question lands with a weight that leaves little room for an answer.

The Pendant displays a trio of purple, blue, and green stones, seamlessly arranged and etched with intricate elven runes, exuding an air of mystical elegance.

The moment your voice cut through the tense air, Adar's eyes flickered towards you, his face hardening as he became aware of your attention on the pendant. He quickly shoved it back into his clothes, but the damage was done.

"It is none of your concern," he responded gruffly, his fingers still lingering on his chest, where the pendant was hidden.

"It's a rare elven Pendant and clearly doesn't belong to an Orc. From whom did you took that." You snarl.

It looks like the one you have made centuries ago. Could it be your's?

A brief flash of surprise crossed Adar's face as your words hit their mark. He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face tensing as he contemplated how to respond.

"It was a... gift," he finally replied, his voice low and guarded. "From an old friend.”

You scoff, about to step forward, but Elrond’s hand catches your arm, grounding you. “Remember, we’re here for Galadriel,” he murmurs, steadying your resolve. With a quiet sigh, you hold back, though the curiosity in your gaze remains sharp.

Adar watched the interplay between you and Elrond, his expression guarded.

"Enough," Elrond said, his voice firm. "We're here to discuss the terms of Galadriel's release. Nothing else.”

Adar's eyes flicked between you and Elrond, his gaze lingering on you both. He took a few steps closer, studying the two of you.

"And what makes you think I'd let my prisoner go so easily?" he said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Adar continued "You don't have the ring I want. I see no reason to give Galadriel back to you.”

Elrond took a moment to process Adar’s words, his expression hardening with resolve.

"We cannot give you the Ring," he said firmly. "It is not an object to be used for trades and exchanges.”

Adar let out a bitter laugh at that comment.

"Ah, the honorable Elf. Always righteous, even in defeat," he taunted. "But you forget, this War isn't about honor. It's about survival.”

“If you have no intention of setting her free, then grant them a moment for a proper farewell,” you state.

Adar paused his gaze flickering between you and Elrond, weighing your words. After a long moment, he waved a hand dismissively.

"Very well," he said grudgingly. "Let them say their goodbyes.”

———————————————————

You and Elrond exited the shadowy tent, the cool night air a welcome relief from the suffocating atmosphere within.

His face was drawn with concern, eyes cast downward as you walked silently beside him.

With the guards, you made your way away from the Orc camp.

Soon after, you settled into a tent at the elven camp, where Elrond soon walked in.

You sat quietly in the simple elven tent, the silence broken only by the rustle of fabric and the quiet breathing of the guards stationed outside.

As Elrond entered the tent, his usually composed face now lined with tension and worry. He sat down across from you, his eyes meeting yours, a wealth of unspoken thoughts reflected in them.

Elrond glanced at you, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes as he realized you had momentarily lost sight of Galadriel’s plight, distracted by the pendant Adar wore.

His gaze searched yours, revealing his concern. He knew you well enough to notice how your attention had shifted, captivated by the pendant instead of focusing on Galadriel's fate.

"You focused more on the pendant than Galadriel," he said quietly, his voice betraying a hint of frustration.

“Galadriel is safe. You gave her the key along with your farewell kiss, so she’ll be here shortly.”

Elrond let out a surprised huff at your comment, his frustration replaced by a touch of amusement. "You're more confident in my tactics than I am," he replied, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

You slightly chuckle. "You are smart, Elrond. You should have more thrust in yourself.”

Elrond's smirk softened at your words, a hint of warmth in his eyes. "Coming from you, that's quite the compliment," he said, the teasing tone back in his voice. "You've always believed in my abilities more than I have myself.”

The atmosphere between you and Elrond shifted slightly, the tension from earlier melting away in the quiet tent. Elrond leaned back, his gaze softening further as he looked at you.

"Speaking of sharp minds," he said with a touch of wry humor. "You're awfully interested in that pendant.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you reply.

Elrond raised an eyebrow at your denial, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't play coy," he replied, his tone a tad playful. "I saw the look on your face when you first saw that pendant.”

"It's like it held some secret, some hidden meaning," he continued, watching your expression closely. "Why were you so intrigued by an orcish pendant, anyway?”

"That’s an Elven Pendant," you nearly spat.

Elrond's eyes widened slightly at your sudden vehemence. He leaned forward, the previous lightheartedness gone from his expression.

"How can you tell?" he asked, an edge in his voice. "And why does it anger you so much?”

"You can't dismiss it as a filthy orc pendant when it's clearly elven," you retort.

Elrond's surprise at your reaction to the pendant slowly morphed into understanding. 

"But why does it bother you so much?" he asked, more gently this time. "It's just a piece of metal and jewels. Why does it matter so much to you?”

“It’s more than just a chunk of metal or jewelry. I created it,” you say, a hint of pain in your voice at being reduced to something so simple.

Elrond's eyes went wide with shock, his composure slipping for a brief second, before it returned.

"You made it?" he echoed, disbelief and realization dawning on his face. "You made that pendant?”

"Tell me, are you slow on the uptake or what? I said I did make it, what's so difficult to understand about that?”

Elrond shot you a glare at the blunt jab to his intelligence, but he took a deep breath, collecting himself before replying.

"No, I'm not slow," he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I just can't believe that you, of all people..." he trailed off, his mind still sorting through the implications of your revelation.

"What? Make jewelry. That was centuries ago.”

"I know it was centuries ago," Elrond said, his voice growing more heated. "But you never told me you made jewelry before, and now you're suddenly upset that someone is wearing something you made?"

He stood up, beginning to pace the small space of the tent, his frustration growing with every step.

“Because I gave it to my husband,” you say, frustration creeping into your voice, unaware that you've just revealed something you had intended to keep hidden. The weight of your words lingers in the air, shifting the atmosphere between you.

Elrond's pacing came to an abrupt halt, your words freezing him on the spot. 

"Your husband?" he repeated, his voice a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "You were married?"

He turned to look at you, his gaze intense and searching.

“I... What?” you breathe out, struggling to process your own words. A mix of surprise and confusion washes over you, leaving you momentarily speechless.

Elrond stared at you, his mind swirling with questions and realizations. 

"You were married," he repeated, a note of incredulity in his voice. "You, the fierce warrior who has been by my side through countless battles and dangers, you never thought to mention having a husband in all that time?”

Your stunned silence confirmed his suspicion. Elrond let out a long breath, his expression shifting from disbelief to something more resembling hurt.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice quiet but filled with a mix of disappointment and confusion.

Your mind is racing but you don't get a word out.

Elrond sees the turmoil in your eyes, the struggle to find an explanation written all over your face. His expression softens slightly, but there's still a hint of betrayal in his eyes.

"How many years have we known each other? Fought together, bled together, shared meals and tales and laughter?" he asks quietly, still waiting for an answer.

"Almost 1800 years." You answer with a sigh.

Elrond falls silent for a moment, processing the magnitude of that number. 1800 years. More than a millennium of friendship, trust, and adventures together.

"1800 years," he echoes quietly. "And you never thought to mention a husband. Why?”

You look over at the fire.

Elrond's gaze follows yours to the flickering fire in the center of the tent. For a moment, there's a tense silence, filled only by the crackle of the flames.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions before inquiring further. “Who was he?”

You exhale softly, lost in thought.

“He was a strong elf, mischievous, but with a kind and gentle heart.”

“He had black hair that always caught the light, shimmering like polished obsidian in the sun.”

Elrond listens intently to your description, his face betraying a mixture of emotions as he pictured the mystery man.

"He sounds like an impressive individual," he says quietly, his eyes still fixed on the fire. "And yet I've never met him, nor have you ever mentioned him before.”

“I had a mission to complete, and before I left, I gave him the necklace as a parting gift. Then I set off from the village. When I returned after the mission, I found the village in ruins, completely destroyed.”

Elrond's expression darkened as you related the tragic tale of your return, destruction and loss where there should have been home and comfort.

"You came back to find everything gone?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You nod. " I found my parents body, his parents  but not him.”

Elrond's expression was grave as he listened to your words. The pain of losing your loved ones was clear in your voice, your eyes distant as you remembered that day.

"You never found him?" he asked softly.

"no, not a glimpse”

Elrond reaches out, a subtle gesture of comfort, his hand gently touching your arm. There's a look of understanding in his eyes, a painful empathy for the loss you've suffered.

"Do you..." he begins, his voice hesitant. "Do you think he survived?”

“That could be possible. He was always stubborn. I suppose it’s possible he simply has amnesia and forgot me or something along those lines. It’s hard to believe he wouldn’t remember.”

A small flicker of hope crossed Elrond's face at your words. The possibility of a loved one lost, but still alive, igniting a spark of optimism.

"It's possible," he said, his voice holding a note of comforting encouragement. "People have survived worse, with their memories intact. And if he's as stubborn as you say, then he may yet be out there, somewhere, waiting to be found."

“It unsettles me to see Adar wearing his pendant,” you say, a knot forming in your stomach. “Every glance at it reminds me of what I’ve lost and the memories I wish I could erase.”

Elrond nodded, his mind returning to the original topic of discussion. The fact that Adar wore the pendant you made was clearly weighing heavily on your mind.

"It must have been a shock to see someone else wearing something so personal," he said quietly, understanding the depth of your emotions.

“I didn’t forget Galadriel, but when it fell from Adar’s clothes, I thought I had lost it for good,” you say, your voice laced with sorrow. 

Elrond listened intently, his expression a mixture of sympathy and understanding. He knew you well enough to know that your feelings were complicated and deeply personal.

"I understand," he said softly. "You didn't forget Galadriel, but seeing that pendant brought back memories, emotions long buried.”

"I think you both would have been good friends..”

Elrond gave a small, bittersweet smile at your heartfelt comment. There was a hint of sadness in his eyes as he responded.

"I agree," he said quietly. "If he were still here, I think we would have gotten along well. And Galadriel would have liked him too.”

For a few moments, Elrond and you sat in silence, both lost in your thoughts. The memory of your lost love hung in the air, a poignant reminder of what had been lost.

Finally, Elrond spoke up, his voice soft and gentle.

"Can I ask you something?” You nod. 

Elrond looks at you intently, his gaze full of unspoken questions and emotions.

"Why haven't you ever spoken about him?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. "All the time we've spent together, through battles, feasts, and quiet evenings, you've never once mentioned having a husband, a love who you lost.”

“First of all, you never asked, and second, I don’t want to dwell on it. I searched for centuries and still haven’t found him.”

Elrond listened to your reasons, his expression unreadable as he took in your words. 

"I never asked because I never realized," he said quietly. "You're my closest friend, my sister in arms, and yet you've kept this part of your life hidden. I don't blame you for searching, but..." he trailed off, his eyes filled with a mix of understanding and melancholy.

"All those centuries of searching must have been so difficult," he continued. "Did you ever think about giving up? Moving on and finding someone else?”

“Moving on? No, that would feel like a betrayal to his memory and everything we shared.”

Elrond nodded silently, understanding the depth of your loyalty and devotion. 

"It must have been lonely, though," he said quietly. "All those years, alone and searching…”

“He could be alive somewhere, still thinking of me, longing for me, and unable to find me. I can’t break the promise we made to each other without knowing for sure that he’s gone.”

Elrond's heart ached at the depth of your devotion to your lost love. The idea that he could still be out there, somewhere, remembering you, aching for you, touched a part of him that understood loss all too well.

"I admire your loyalty," he said softly, his voice filled with both respect and sadness. "But the odds of finding him, after all this time…”

“I don’t want to hear that,” you interrupted, frustration rising in your chest. “It feels like giving up on him, and I can’t do that.”

Elrond fell silent, realizing that his words, though driven by concern, were not what you wanted or needed to hear. He changed tact, his voice softer now.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just don't want to see you hurt any further. But I can see that your spirit is strong, your hope unbroken. I will not question your path any further.”

A bit later Galadriel walks into the tent.

Galadriel's slender figure appeared in the opening of the tent, her gaze immediately falling on you and Elrond. She looked tired but unharmed, a hint of relief present in her eyes.

Elrond stood up, greeting her with a warm smile, his worry for her evident in his expression.

“So, Elrond’s little farewell kiss actually worked...” you chuckle softly, recalling the key he had given her. It had proven invaluable, enabling her escape when she needed it most.

Elrond shot you a look, his cheeks reddening slightly at your teasing comment. Galadriel chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Yes, his little trick came in quite useful," she said, a hint of amused gratitude in her voice.

Elrond rolled his eyes at your playful banter, his cheeks still slightly flushed.

"Well, I'm glad it helped," he said, trying to maintain a hint of dignity. "But let's not make a habit of using my romantic overtures as a tactical maneuver, shall we?”

"Why not?" You slightly giggle amused and make place for Galadriel by the fireplace.

Elrond shot you a mock glare, his lips twisted into a half-smile despite himself.

"Because it's humiliating," he replied, a hint of mock seriousness in his voice. "I have a reputation to maintain as a leader, not a pawn to be used in escape plans."

Galadriel joined you by the fire, a soft laugh escaping her lips.

“You can be both a leader and someone who knows how to share a kiss.”

Elrond stifled a laugh at your impudent remark, his cheeks reddening slightly.

"Is that so? I suppose I might have to start a new strategy, then: using kisses as persuasive tactics in war councils," he said, his tone joking but with a hint of challenge.

You laugh. "Would be a surprise for them.”

Elrond chuckled, his earlier embarrassment giving way to a light-hearted banter.

"Yes, it certainly would," he agreed, "imagine a council of hardened warriors being left with a bunch of blushing fools after a particularly effective...tactical kiss.”

The image of a bunch of flustered warriors stammering and blushing after witnessing a strategic kiss was too much. All three of you shared a hearty laugh, the tension of the day momentarily forgotten in the warmth of the fire and friendly banter.

————————————————————

A few days later, you slip away from the elven camp, moving quietly into the orc camp undetected. You make your way into Adar’s tent, finding it empty. As your eyes scan the space, they land on the pendant, and you reach for it, studying its details closely.

The familiar sight of the pendant lying innocently on a small table sent a wave of emotions through you. The delicate craftsmanship, the intricate patterns, all spoke of a past you longed for and a love that still echoed in your heart.

You picked up the pendant, cradling it carefully in your hands. The cool touch of the metal against your skin felt strangely familiar, as if it was your own heartbeat against your fingertips.

"the same metal and stones.”

You turn the pendant over, your eyes going over every detail. The metal, the setting, the stones - they were all so familiar, so deeply ingrained in your memory.

"The same," you murmur softly, your voice filled with a mixture of wonder and nostalgia. "As if not a day has passed since I made it.”

Before you can react, a hand seizes your hair, and a dagger presses against your throat. Adar's gaze roams over you, assessing your presence.

Your heart jumps into your throat as you feel Adar's hand grip your hair, pulling you back against his chest. The cold steel of the dagger against your skin sends a shiver down your spine. You had been so focused on the pendant that you didn't hear him enter.

"What are you doing in my tent?" Adar's voice is low and dangerous, his breath hot against your ear. He tightens his grip on your hair, the dagger's edge digging slightly into your skin.

"aren't you seeing what I'm doing?”

"Yes, I am seeing what you are doing," Adar replies, his voice cold and menacing. He gives your hair a sharp tug, forcing you to look up at him. "You're sneaking around in my tent without permission.”

Your eyes meet his. "That's true..”

Adar's gaze locks onto yours, his expression a mix of curiosity and malice. He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin as he speaks.

"And why, pray tell, are you sneaking around in here, looking at my things?”

"The pendant is mine.”

Adar's eyes narrow at your assertion, his grip on you tightening. He gazes down at the pendant in your hand, then up at your face, suspicion in his gaze.

"You're claiming ownership of this pendant?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“I am. I crafted it myself,” you reply, standing your ground despite the danger.

Adar's eyes widen slightly at your declaration, disbelief and intrigue flickering across his face. He gazes down at the pendant clutched in your fingers, the realization of your connection to it sinking in.

"You...made it?" he asks, his tone laced with a hint of surprise.

You draw your dagger, but Adar is quicker, forcing you to your knees and disarming you with ease. The sudden shift catches you off guard, and a startled gasp escapes your lips as your dagger clatters to the floor.

The pendant, once clutched tightly in your hand, tumbles onto the pillow, its fragile presence contrasting sharply with the tense power struggle unfolding between you.

Adar stands over you, his tall figure imposing in the dim light of the tent. He looks down at you, a mixture of anger and interest in his eyes.

"You have quite the nerve," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. "Sneaking into my tent, trying to claim a pendant as your own, and then pulling a blade on me?”

Adar watches you closely, his eyes taking in every detail of your expression. He can see the frustration in your eyes, the anger and defiance in your body language.

He crouches down next to you, his hand reaching out to grab your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"Look at me," Adar commands, his voice firm and authoritative. "You're in my tent, you tried to steal from me, and then you attempted to attack me. And all because of a pendant you say you made.”

“Hold it to the fire, and the inscription will become visible.”

Adar's eyes narrow as you mention the lettering, his interest piqued. He releases your chin, his gaze flickering to the pendant on the pillow.

"And what does this lettering say?" he asks, his voice suddenly intense.

“In the quiet whisper of the wind through the trees, you may find what my heart dares not speak aloud,” you reply, feeling Adar’s heart lift slightly as he recognizes the words he once heard centuries ago.

As your words float through the tent, Adar's eyes widen, a flicker of recognition passing over his face. The inscription, the words you uttered, hold a significance that can't be denied. It triggers something in him, a memory, a feeling he thought long buried.

Adar's gaze remains fixed on you, his expression cautious, as he holds the pendant over the fire. The metal warms against the flames, and slowly, the familiar lettering begins to become visible.

With each flicker of the fire, the words he once thought forgotten are slowly revealed.

Adar's breath hitches in his throat as he stares at the now-visible lettering, his hand beginning to shake slightly. The sight of the words, written by your own hand, stirs something deep within him, memories and emotions long suppressed bubbling to the surface.

“The pendant isn’t yours,” you declare.

Adar's gaze snaps from the pendant, back to you. There's a flicker of anger in his eyes, as if your words have somehow insulted him.

"And it doesn't belong to you either," he says, his voice quiet but tinged with irritation.

He holds the pendant up in front of your face, the letters now fully visible against the metal's surface.

"This pendant was made centuries ago, yet you claim to be its creator," he says, his voice laced with a strange mixture of curiosity and doubt. "How can I be sure you're telling the truth?”

Adar's gaze roams over your form, taking in every feature, every detail. There's a hint of recognition in his eyes, as if something about you seems both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

His eyes linger on your features - your hair, your beautiful eyes, your elvish ears, your pale skin, your cherry-red lips. Something about your look triggers a memory, a feeling he can't quite place.

He reaches out, his fingertips lightly tracing the edge of your ear. The touch is almost tender, his fingers exploring the shape, the texture, as if trying to confirm his own suspicions.

Adar's touch causes your ear to twitch slightly, a small reaction that doesn't escape his notice. A hint of a smile touches his lips, as if he finds this small detail somehow endearing.

He continues to explore, his fingers tracing over your cheek, your jaw, as if committing every feature to memory.  

"You look so familiar.." he murmurs, his voice betraying curiosity and a hint of wonder.

As he studies your face, his gaze intent, he slowly circles around you.  

"Very familiar.." he repeats, his voice quieter now, as if he's speaking more to himself than to you.

His eyes roam over your hair, your ears, your slender neck, and a frown of concentration forms on his face. Something about you is stirring memories, awakening something in his heart he thought long dead.

He stops in front of you once again, his eyes boring into yours. The expression on his face is a mix of confusion and realization, as if the pieces of a puzzle are slowly falling into place.  

"Who.. Who are you?" he asks softly, his voice holding a tremble of uncertainty.

“Y/n”

Adar's eyes widen ever so slightly as you give your name, your simple answer triggering something within him.  

"Y/n.." he repeats, your name rolling off his tongue like a long-forgotten melody. The sound of it seems to ignite something deep within him, stirring memories and feelings he'd thought lost to time.

"the pendant, how did it get into your hands?”

Adar's expression hardens at your question, his jaw clenching as if you've hit a nerve.

"That's none of your business," he snaps, his voice sharp. "It belongs to me, and I don't have to explain its origins to you.”

“It belonged to my husband,” you snap.

Adar's eyes narrow, his anger tinged with a hint of curiosity.

“Your husband?” he echoes, disbelief evident in his voice. “You’re claiming this pendant was his?”

“Yes, I gave it to him before I set out on a mission,” you assert firmly.

What neither of you realize is that this moment resonates with a deeper connection, Adar had received a pendant from his own beloved before she embarked on her journey, but neither of you recognizes the shared history that binds you.

As your words sink in, the realization of their significance hits Adar like a ton of bricks. The way you describe giving the pendant to your husband, just as he had received a similar piece from his own loved one, sets something off in his mind.

His eyes widen as the pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.

"Who.. What was your husband's name?" he asks, his voice suddenly shaky.

“Sytal”

Adar's heart seems to skip a beat as you say your husband's name.

"Sytal..." he repeats, the name rolling off his tongue like a long-lost song. Memories, feelings, and realization swirl in his eyes, the connection becoming more apparent with each word you utter.

He takes a step closer to you, his gaze intense, studying your face with an almost desperate look.

"Describe him, your husband," he demands, his voice taut with emotion.

You frown slightly.

“He had black hair that shimmered in the sunlight, and a scar on his right ear from when my arrow grazed him. His mind was sharp, a true warrior like me... Mischievous, gentle, and kind.”

A wave of nostalgia washes over you as you remember the moments you shared, each memory a bittersweet reminder of what you’ve lost.

As you describe your husband, Adar listens intently, his expression becoming more and more captivated.

Each trait you mention ignites a memory within him, each word drawing pictures in his mind's eye. The description of the scar on your husband's ear, the one caused by your own arrow, hits him hard, awakening an ache in his heart.

"I have been searching for him, since centuries and now you have his pendant.."

Adar's eyes flicker with a mixture of guilt, anger, and confusion. The realization that the pendant he has cherished for centuries belonged to your husband - the same man you have been searching for - creates a maelstrom of emotions in his chest.

His grip on the pendant tightens, his knuckles turning white as his own memories of his loved one flood his mind.

"Who gave it to you?" You ask again.

Adar hesitates for a moment, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Reluctantly, he speaks again, his voice low and heavy.

"A female. A Warrior," he begins, his words slow and measured as if the memory is painful to recall. "She gave it to me before she left on a dangerous mission. She said she would return.”

You slowly stand up from your kneeling position.

"Do you have her name or a nickname?”

As you rise to your feet, Adar tracks your movements closely, his eyes wary and conflicted. At your question, he falters for a moment, as if the memory stings.

“Her nickname...” he begins, his voice rough with emotion. “I called her... moonshine... She adored it.”

“Because she lit up like the moon whenever she saw you, right?” you add, a knowing smile tugging at your lips.

Adar's eyes widen slightly, your words hitting him with an unexpected force. It's like you had read his mind, like you know the very thoughts he had harbored in his heart.

"Yes.. that's exactly why.." he responds, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

You look at him and move closer. You know it's a bold move but you cub his face and look at his right pointed ear, having a hunch.

As you approach him, Adar tenses slightly, unsure of your intentions. But your touch is surprisingly gentle, your gaze focused on his ear. 

He doesn't pull away, instead he allows you to inspect his ear, his heart hammering against his chest.

The sight of the healed but unmistakable scar on Adar's ear makes your blood run cold. It's the same scar you had inflicted on your husband, a mark as unique as a fingerprint.

"The scar.." you murmur, your voice tight with emotion. "It's the same..”

You meet Adar's eyes. "Who destroyed our village, my love. Who killed our parents? Who was the one that took you away from me?”

Your words strike Adar like a dagger to his heart. They're filled with a mix of anger, accusation, but also love and sorrow.  

His eyes widen as he realizes the truth you're hinting at, the words catching in his throat.  

"How... How do you know-”

"You are my Sytal.." 

Adar's eyes are wide and disbelieving, his mind struggling to process the truth that's crashing down around him. He looks at you, really looks at you, truly seeing you for the first time.

Your eyes, the color of which he could never forget. The way you hold yourself, the familiar curve of your lips... it all resonates with him so deeply, it's like a part of his soul that's been lost is finally being returned.

But alongside the realization, there's a deep well of guilt and self-loathing.

"You were once an elf, right? Centuries ago?" 

Adar nods slowly, his expression still one of shock and disbelief.  

"Yes... I was once an elf. Before..." he hesitates, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Before I was made like I am now.”

"and your elven name, do you remember it..”

Adar's eyes flicker as he calls upon the distant memories of his past life. It's been centuries since he's dwelt on them, and it takes him a moment to retrieve the name he once held before he was... changed.

"My elven name..." he murmurs, the syllables of his long-forgotten name coming to his lips. "It was Sytal.”

"You are him.. you're really him..”

Adar nods slowly, a mix of guilt and heartbreak etched on his face.  

"Yes..." he whispers, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I am... I am him."

The weight of realization settles between you, the truth of your identities and shared past crashing over you both. Emotions churn through you, too overwhelming to bear. Your vision blurs, and before you can steady yourself, everything fades to black.

Adar’s eyes widen as you sway unsteadily, then collapse. Reacting instantly, he lunges forward, catching you before you hit the ground. His arms wrap protectively around you, and he gently lowers you, his hands cradling your head in his lap.

“No... no, no...” he murmurs, his voice filled with panic and regret. He strokes your hair, his heart racing as he gazes down at your unconscious face. Emotions he had buried for decades now break free, shock, guilt, worry, and an ache he can barely contain. The memory of who you were to him, who you still are, pierces through him, raw and real.

“I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking as he studies your face, taking in every familiar line and feature. Trembling, he lifts a hand to your cheek, his fingers brushing tenderly over your skin, as if hoping this touch could somehow bridge the years of separation, the pain he’s caused.

As he holds you, you stir slightly, a faint movement that sends a flicker of hope into his eyes. He cradles you closer, his hand cupping your face with a gentleness that belies his strength.

“Y/n...” he whispers, his voice soft and aching. “Can you hear me?”

As your eyes flutter open, Adar’s face comes into focus above you, his features softened by worry and a tenderness you recognize but thought you’d never see again. His hand rests against your cheek, as if assuring himself that you’re real, here, beside him.

“Y/n,” he breathes, barely above a whisper. You smile faintly, grounding yourself in his presence, and your gaze drifts down to something glinting at his chest, the pendant.

“You kept it?” you murmur, surprise and warmth mingling in your voice.

Adar’s expression falters, and he glances away, shame flickering across his face. “It was all I had left of you,” he admits, voice thick with regret. “But you… you’re unchanged, as beautiful as the day I last saw you. And I.." He hesitates, looking down at himself, the scars and hardened edges from years in darkness weighing heavily on him. “I don’t know if I’m the man you gave it to anymore.”

You tighten your hold on his hand, your voice gentle yet resolute. “Adar, you kept that pendant because you never let go of who you were. And I haven’t, either. You’re still the man I loved, no matter what time and the world tried to do to us.”

A tear slips down his cheek as he looks at you, both surprised and touched by your words. “But… you deserve more than this broken shell,” he whispers, the insecurity in his voice breaking your heart.

“Then let’s be whole together,” you say, reaching up to stroke his face, your thumb tracing a gentle line over the scarred skin. “I spent lifetimes longing to find you again. Nothing else matters to me now. Nothing.”

At this, his composure finally crumbles. With a soft, trembling breath, he pulls you into his arms, holding you as if anchoring himself in the storm of emotions. “I never stopped loving you,” he murmurs, his voice a mixture of awe and relief. “I never will.”

He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that feels like a promise, a reconciliation, a homecoming. The weight of all those years, all the missed moments, falls away.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling, a shared, quiet joy that speaks of acceptance, of strength, and of an unbreakable bond. You rise together, hand in hand, stepping out of the tent into the fresh light of dawn. The path ahead may still be unknown, but it’s one you’ll walk side by side, as elf and orc, bound by a love that time and trials could never sever.

[damianbugs]

i spoke about this briefly before, and i think i have my thoughts more collected now to develop on it; i feel like comics which show bruce comforting his child self in flashbacks of the wayne murder in crime alley understand the purpose of batman a lot more than the ones that have him talking to his parents.

if you've been keeping up with recent batman comics, then you'll notice a theme of bruce getting the chance to talk to his younger self. the important part though, is that it is not because of time travel or some detached third party force — it's the young bruce in batman's head.

it's the him hidden behind the black door in his mind when he's fighting his nightmares —

Batman Knight Terrors #2, 2023. written by Joshua Williamson.

— and it's the him tucked away in corner of his mind after being drugged and tortured with his greatest fears.

Detective Comics #1075, 2023. written by Ram V.

after experiencing something traumatic, the one bruce sees suffering from it isn't himself, but the young bruce wayne in the alley. because at the end of the day, every hurt circles back to that night, to that boy, that he can't save no matter how hard he tries — because that boy never left the pool of blood he was sitting in.

i think people often attribute the existence of batman as something created for his parents. to avenge them, or to be the symbol that could have saved their life had he existed before, to stop anyone else from being killed in the same way. there's some truth to that, however, to me, the answer is a little more selfish.

i think it has always been for himself, but not the him now, but the him that is still stuck in that alleyway, waiting over his parents dead bodies. batman is a symbol of hope and reformation and justice, but at its core, batman is what saved bruce wayne.

as a result, the panels above have a very different feel to say, this moment when bruce sees an illusion of his parents in Superman/Batman #56, 2009. written by Michael Green and Mike Johnson.

it's an emotional moment for sure, but it didn't quite speak to me the same way this absolutely phenomenal moment did in Batman: Blind Justice, 1989. written by Sam Hamm.

of course this moment is a lot more cynical in how bruce uses batman to cope with his guilt, while the other moments focus on batman providing young bruce with the hope to continue that he isn't alone — the sentiment of batman being the one to pick him up from the floor and lead him away from the scene in a shared motif.

it reminds me of that one discussion that batman is a victims power fantasy. his own fantasy! because bruce has — in order to have a semblance of control over himself — separated himself from this event that it is a completely different child at the scene of the crime. it's this fact that let's him reach down, hold the boy's hand and tell him everything will be okay.

this bruce wayne is a child, his child, gotham's child, thomas and martha wayne's child, an orphan to protect.

batman was made for children like bruce wayne, to stop them from becoming like him and for them to hold onto when it does — because batman is still trying to fix a problem that has an endless hole. he can never reconcile this trauma and let the boy in the alley leave, because that's not what batman was made for.

batman was made to protect the little boy, and in order to do that, he must remain in that alley.

there's still a bruce wayne who had to grow up, who learned to fight and love and lose again and again, a bruce wayne who becomes batman. a batman who then, tries effortlessly to fix problems and save people, who goes out everynight because if he doesn't, then that boy in the alley is left there for nothing.

then there comes a moment where he falls through the cracks and he's face to face with the child who can't leave and can't grow up and knows nothing but loneliness and grief — and batman gets to tell this child that life becomes more than just this alley.

the child is happy, if even for a moment, that batman is there. that's what batman is for.

[purplekissinger]

hmm…hey, dear! I saw that your requests are open and I would like to know, can I get a fluffy (if that's possible) Voldemort, but as Voldy and not Tom (I mean with his snake form and not human) and wife fem reader (ambiguous appearance) in which he introduces her to his followers(with the right of him calling her his lady or queen or something like that) and despite the regrets and what everyone thinks, he is really devoted to her (even a little yan ) and the reaction of the diners seeing the way the dark lord treats his lovely wife (who is a magnificent witch, by the way) please? keep this wonderful fanart (https://www.tumblr.com/snake-queen7/730095728446291968?source=share) credits to the original author

Death and the Maiden

“why, I am growing quite sentimental... But look, Harry! My true family returns...”

Hiii anon!! Thanks for such a cool idea :3 Look, there is fluff here, Voldemort being nice with reader and all that, BUT!! I accidentally added some pretty dark themes. Like, really dark. Y/N uhhhhhh revives the Dark Lord, no less than that. There are not many details here, but the description of the ritual is sort of the same as in the fourth book. TW: blood, mention of cuts, morally grey reader, Voldemort and Y/N being a disaster couple.

Oddly enough, the most difficult part was finding the grave of Merope Riddle.

She died as Tom Riddle Sr's lawful wife, you now knew this for sure, because you rummaged through a thousand decayed documents in search of the name of the cemetery in the ground of which her poor bones lay. The archives of the hospital, the morgue, three Confunduses and one Imperio led you to Tottenham Park, to the old cemetery, where the poor were buried at that time, where on a tiny piece of land the unfortunate woman finally found peace. The peace that you were now about to disturb.

“Bone of the mother, taken with respect, you will renew your son!” you said in a whisper. And, looking at the ground that had parted under your feet, you thought that it’s good that they didn’t think of cremating Merope.

***

He has many names and so does Y/N.

“Y/N” — he’s the one who calls you that when no one can hear. This name is for him only, like a password, like a key on a chain hidden under a shirt, like a secret door in a solid wall. “Y/N.” "Tom".

“Mistress of the Riddle Manor” is a little cheesy, but you like it. It was you who persuaded him not to huddle at Malfoy’s, but to take the house that rightfully belonged to him, it was you who remade and altered everything here to your taste, it was you who turned an abandoned mansion into a cozy fortress on the border of the forest, it was you who caught a smile on his lips when he saw a tapestry with the Slytherin coat of arms on the wall. “My lady, you have impeccable taste,” he said then, and you bowed playfully.

“She Who Remained Faithful” is not something anyone among the Death Eaters actually calls you, but Voldemort likes to mention this epithet at meetings to emphasize what they should all strive for. When Bellatrix hears this, there are angry tears in her eyes. You are the eternal employee of the month. If there was an honor roll at Riddle Manor, it would have a full-length photo of you on it.

Newspapers are not so kind. In the headlines of the ‘Daily Prophet’ first pages, you are always “She Who Should Not Be Remembered.” The soft “should not be remembered” looks touching in comparison with the stern “must not be named.”

“You should call my wife “Mistress” or “My lady,” Voldemort says softly, looking around the room. “No other way. Although I do not recommend kissing her hand because it could cost your life”.

The Death Eaters gathered around the table nod uncertainly. You smile slightly, touching his palm under the table. His long boney fingers are cold, but only you know that they are also very, very gentle.

“Perhaps,” he adds thoughtfully, looking sideways at you, “such a kiss should be worth your whole life.”

At the wave of a pale hand, they rise from their seats, take turns approaching you and bowing at a respectful distance, and swear allegiance.

“Thank you for your invaluable help...” Snape says rotely. He is the only one who fully understands the incredible level of witchcraft you achieved by performing the ritual. He is the only one who understands how dangerous the mistress of Riddle Manor is, who has not a single murder to her name, but only one revival of the Dark Lord.

“... and I swear eternal fidelity...” Peter whispers. His small eyes sparkle and he tries not to look at you, but he can’t. Not even the fear of getting Crucio'd stops him.

“...my lady,” Bellatrix spits. In her eyes there is resentment, envy, longing... admiration?..

***

Tom Riddle had no friends. Voldemort neither. But, since you convinced him to do the most risky experiment in the world ever, to change the ritual of “Flesh, Bone and Blood”, then you had to go all the way.

You needed to sneak into Hogsmeade under the cover of darkness, which in itself is not an easy task, slip into the castle, find the Chamber of Secrets and allow Tom to possess you so that with your lips he could say the cherished “Open.” You had to jump into the cold darkness, you had to walk through the damp tunnels, you had to close your eyes when, rustling its scales, a huge creature approached you and, sniffing the air with its terrible nostrils, emited a bubbling hiss, in which any Parseltmouth would recognize the delight of a long-awaited meeting. “Why, you recognise me, after all,” Tom said tenderly, without leaving your body, and your arms wrapped around the thick snake neck. “Well, hello, Susie. Long time no see". A quiet, gentle hiss was the answer. "Thank you. Listen, there's something I really need you to do now...”

In one motion, you knocked over the fogged diamond vial over the cauldron. The blood of Susie the basilisk, the only creature in the world that Tom Riddle had ever considered a friend, turned the potion golden.

“Blood of the friend,” you said, breathing in, “given willingly, you will ressurect your ally!”

You understood Susie perfectly. Knowing Tom meant being willing to do anything for him.

***

“Do you want to celebrate our wedding at the Ministry or at Westminster Abbey?” Voldemort asks casually.

These quiet mornings are just for the two of you. When the fog over Little Hangleton had not yet cleared, and a cool freshness reigned in the garden, you, slowly, hand in hand, walked through the garden, and you proudly showed him the new flower beds, and he listened very carefully and admired both the flowers and you .

“We’re already married, Tom,” you reminded him and with a graceful gesture you raised your left hand, as if to show him a thin ring with an emerald. He quickly grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips.

“No,” he answered seriously. “It was a formality. I want a celebration for all of London, all of England. I want everyone to see you and know whose wife you are”.

Means a lot coming from someone who can throw the Cruciatus curse at any insolent person who dares to even look at you.

“Oh, aren’t you ambitious, my lord,” you laugh, running your finger along his pale cheek. “Is there anything else you might want?”.

“Of course there is,” Voldemort says with no hesitation, but for a brief moment you think that he’s trying to joke. “I want you to wear the crown of England.”

You hide your smile, turning away.

“Then we’d better get married in the London Tower.”

***

The potion hummed impatiently in the cauldron as you hurriedly unbuttoned your shirt with numb fingers. The third ingredient was too easy, a simple task. It has always been with you, from the day you and Tom looked into each other's eyes.

‘Flesh of the beloved!’ you gasped, breaking into a scream, when the dagger made the first cut on your left shoulder, ‘Given lovingly!.. You... will revive!..’ a little bit more, just a little! ‘Your loved one!"

Will is what is important. Intention is what is important. You don’t need to throw your entire arm from shoulder to hand into the cauldron, just a small piece of flesh is enough, which is worth more than thousands of Galleons, more than unicorn blood and basilisk venom. The will and intention of Her-Who-Remained-Faithful.

***

“You are the most precious thing I have,” Voldemort says quietly when the meeting is over and the two of you are sitting by the fireplace, hand in hand, your head on his shoulder. “I never expected to find such a treasure. And now it is not only with me, but also inside of me… Oh, how are you so loyal to me, my lady?”.

“I would throw my heart into the cauldron if necessary,” you say honestly.

“Don’t you ever say that,” he hisses angrily. “for it's mine”.

[bacchanal-if]

“Society is a masked ball, where everyone hides his real character, and reveals it by hiding.”

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

On the eve of your betrothal to an unscrupulous merchant you are presented with an opportunity you cannot refuse: admittance to the fabled Bacchanal. A night of costumed revelry awaits you at high society’s most anticipated underground ball of the season. Unburden yourself of every pretense, find a romance most real, and satisfy your lust. Can the sentiments endure when the masks are dropped?

Bacchanal is an interactive story about romancing the hidden depths of another, unobscured by layers of practiced charade. The year is 1742, set in an alternate Georgian London where all colors/genders/sexualities are treated equal and magic is subtle yet doubtlessly exists. When the masks are donned the façades are disrobed, and your world is suddenly filled with uninhibited characters. End up in the arms of a courtly charmer, flustered ingenue, mysterious rake, uninvited guest, loathed betrothed, childhood friend, or find yourself torn between them.

18+ filled with (optional but recommended) erotica.

Set your protagonist’s age, gender, pronouns, sexuality, and more.

Choose between a variety of masks, costumes, and enchantments.

6 gender selectable romance options.

Enter a romance with one of 4 masked figures in a love triangle/square where you must establish your final desire.

Entertain yourself with various encounters.

Explore a sexual relationship or remain chaste all the way.

Learn the shocking secrets of your friends, family, and acquaintances.

Marry or declare your independence.

❥ Characters of Interest

Preorder Information

This story is currently under development. By pre-ordering you will receive:

A discount. The pre-order is $3, while the final game will be $5 after release.

Access to the complete nsfw version of the game. The sfw version will be entirely free as a demo, but without sex scenes and other depravities―these will fade to black.

Access to the nsfw game wip and every update.

Access to the nsfw blog which contains spicy asks, drabbles, and art.

Exclusive nude portraits of Edith, Edward, Tamsin, and Thomas.

PLEASE NOTE: The current wip does not have any nsfw content yet. As such, it is currently the same as the demo.

[plumbob-pudding]

There's something to be said about change and time and fate: wise words strung together to explain that horrid, yet inescapable destiny that plagues every person as the clock ticks closer and closer to adulthood. Just as the warmth of a nest abandons the baby bird and the softness of her mother's fur leaves the poor kitten, adulthood seems nothing but an empty chasm of loneliness.

The letters brought her comfort, or at least that's what she told herself for lies were all the Germans had spared them nowadays. Seeing that "Dearest sister" when Fraser was feeling sentimental (if a little mocking) or the "To Lorna" when Charlie didn't have the time (for he never did, at least not for her). She was lucky to get that much. Many people didn't.

Still she spent every night wandering the grounds, walking up and down the endless corridors, sinking her bare feet in the mulchy grass, begging to feel anything but this. Longing to be seven again when wars were just scary stories with dragons and knights, something so fantastical that it seemed impossible and Charlie and Fraser, her steadfast knights, seemed forever.

As she read the cramped, barely legible words over and over, fingers blackening at the tips as she stroked the words, she suddenly began to feel a prickling in her neck.

If she weren't a proper sort of girl, a girl that perhaps believed in magic and superstitions-like those circus folk Mother hated- she would have thought it a sign, a harbinger of hell or something of the sort. But she wasn't that sort of girl. Perhaps she ought to have been.

She allowed herself a singular gasp and a much too generous second look at the darkening sky heavy with planes-German planes (and German bombs though she declined to focus on that) before shrugging on the familiar Form captain uniform and marching the other upper sixth girls all down to the shelter. Her face, like any soldier, remained unmoving, uncaring, unafraid, even as Alison kept trying to catch her eye.

It was only when they were all safely hidden at depths even the bombs wouldn't dare dive down to, that she allowed herself to breathe. The silent, dank box provided an unusual comfort. It was so strange how war made everything turn topsy turvy, her bedroom a danger but this basement with the wooden beds they'd nailed together just last week, a safety.

The rest of the girls played as they ought to. They were children and she was not. She couldn't be, not now, not when they all needed her.

Ms. Crumplebottom caught her eye and pulled her to the side.

"The sirens are not working," she said, voice trembling, hands shaking even in the heavy woollen robe she donned. "I must go warn the village, the planes will get to them soon enough."

Lorna nodded without complaint, hearing the implicit instruction to look after the rest of the girls.

"Yes, Headmistress. Will do," she added, trying and failing not to see Charlie and Fraser doing the same. It's funny, she allowed herself to think, they were all living remarkably similar lives yet lives still so very separate.

[mantisgodsart]

@bug-oc... round ONE! Finally! Still counting this as "round one" of transmutations because of the blog round numbers despite the fact that we've already done a round of like two bugs! We... didn't realize how many of these characters were yellow until it was actually time to draw them. It's like we went in with a theme, and then stuck to it. Except for with Holly, who presumably lost the dress code along with their head. Please vote for our cool dune cricket in the handful of hours before this round ends, and thank you!

Individual characters and transmutation notes below cut.

[...though I briefly considered another form, limiting surface area relative to the size of the entity is crucial for stability in ectoplasmic entities, and I don't currently intend to attempt to form a "swarm", as similar entities often form in the wild - a more simple, and thus more stable, form is better. The energy pack in the subject's possession upon intake appears to be either nearly or fully impossible to reclaim, unfortunately - ghosts can be hard to separate from things with sentimental value, so it's likely a lost cause. I'll continue obsevation...]

Beera by @longeth-dayv. An actual design, this time, rather than our fucking-around-with-maybes! This one, we think, does a lot more for the actual character, though from our understanding of Luigi's Mansion the species choice might be slightly more "generic". We particularly enjoyed tinkering with the wire of the power pack - ghosts and transparent things are VERY fun to draw, and we liked working out where that wire would go in the areas normally hidden by the body. Long, winding lines are very fun to draw sometimes. Hopefully this one works better for you, too!

[...successful partial isolation of the fungal element proves both that it can be isolated and that transmutation of cordyceps symbiotes may be less of a barrier than previously thought. Results appear similar to "Moka" back in the first year of experiments, where the cordyceps remains untransmuted within the new body - is this a quirk unique to vertebrate physiology? The failed transmutation with Fulminis pulled from a largely bug pool, whilst both successful cordyceps transmutations have been with beasts.]

[The avian physiology doesn't seem to have produced much difference from reptilian, minus some differences in visible fungal growth, but the subjects started with varying quantities of visible fungal growth to begin with, and the magic present in both of the previous round's subjects presents an additional variable... at the very least, I know that the fungus on its own is either resistant or immune to conventional transmutation, considering Mop, though I still need to work out how the host-symbiote synthesis alters things...]

[I'll have to do further testing- I dearly wish that these subjects were easier to get my hands on, but I don't know where I would be able to source them in my own universe, much less if they even exist there, since I'm no longer certain if the time portal event through which I met Holly Holiyxeiul was from the past of my universe, the past of another universe, or the present of somewhere else. Omelette's successful transmutation proves that I can manufacture them, but I won't be certain as to the limits of this until I can collect samples...]

Butterscotch from @w-krajobrazie-zapomnienia. The wings on this took... FOREVER. Deciding to make Butterscotch a bird with individual "charring" on the feathers was an act of monumental hubris, and EASILY the most labor-intensive part of this page. Doing this in watercolor would have been easier, probably. Alas, if we want to be capable of using a marker, we must put effort into marker drawing. At the very least, we think the effect came out fairly well! We like the sort of "scorched" effect that Butterscotch's base design has, and though difficult to recreate in marker form, we think we pulled it off! Hope this works decently well for you.

[...expanding lizard experiments from the ones found in the former grounds of Five Pebbles to their closest resemblances in the fleshbeasts of our world, I found quite a few points of similarity. Though for obvious reasons, I haven't had the opportunity to observe any specimens of the original species, given that most vertebrate beasts have been extinct since before I was hatched, the underlying biology is similar enough that I could carry through a significant amount of understanding forward.]

[Though majority of traits seem typical for what I can observe from preserved specimens, I am noting some minor divergences - typical for the lizards of RW9089-1, but not, as far as I know, typical for the reptiles that once roamed the wastes. The subject has developed sensory whiskers, narrower than those observed on Black Lizards but seeming to serve a similar function of detecting scent and motion in the air.]

[Additionally, the subject has developed a short coat of setae across the back, with a similar texture to the subject's former ruff - some surface-level similarities have been found to the hair on the pelts of Northern Moths, particularly those found in areas where significant quantities of water make leviathans a dietary staple. Though fur "coats" can be found in RW-9089-1 specimens such as Strawberry Lizards, this trait is, as far as I can tell, unique to this specimen.]

[When following up, I'll want to examine the dorsal frills to be certain that former shape's traits are not overwriting the end shape's traits to too significant of a degree - this is not an unknown trait in salamanders, but I'll need to be certain the structure isn't too similar to insect wing structure, as this many traits carrying over may indicate mid-point speciesation, which will mean any parts harvested will have wholly different traits from the originally sourced...]

Lote from @fallenvoidhere! We went through a handful of design iterations on this, mostly trying to home in on making it clear that it's the character - we sort of underestimated how much blue we'd need to add, but when you're turning into a lizard several times your normal size, it's probably understandable to lose a lot of your accessories…? Since the black on the design, respectively, is mostly accessories, most of these markings are improvised - we based our placement at least partially off of an orca whale, after going through a lot of markings from IRL salamanders. Originally, we planned to make the wing further in to the body a bit more transparent, but… well, as it turns out, we're probably a bit too used to watercolors for our own good, and working with markers is a bit of a different beast. We still think it came out pretty decent!

[...previously noted properties of fireflies appear to ease the rougher edges of this, though it will still need some refining before it's ready to go to market. A working prototype is better than I've gotten with previous generations of this recipe. I'll have to spend some time going over the readings to work out how to route things on anything that isn't a firefly.]

[With the way that most of these particular transmutations have gone, forming a "chamber" for the light before the light-producing compound itself is produced appears to be key for the survivablity of the subject. I suspect that there's a reason that the gas compound found in the component-introduction artefact hasn't been found in natural beings; despite the multitude of uses it has in charmcraft, mercury tends to be quite toxic with continual exposure, and mercury vapor in particular can be deadly. Another reason to stick to proper PPE..]

Nox from @erijuice! This one's quite a dramatic modification to the body plan. We may have gotten a bit carried away with things here, but... okay listen we will be fully honest with you this is just an elaborate plan on "glow wyrm". We based this one heavily off of tatzulwurms and similar creatures, and from there mostly just went into "having fun with it". The wings might grow in more later, or they might not - this was one of our personal favorite designs to draw, and though we sort of wish we tinkered with the pose a bit more, it's a bit hard to do here without running into issues with... space. Such is the consequence of making a big page o' transmuted bugs.

[...more experimental brews have their pros and cons, and with this one, it's a bit hard to define which is more present. On the plus side, the resulting form seems stable; lack of mandibles aside, it's standing and walking, and seems in fine health from the readings that I can see. Subject is alert and appears to have either full or very close to full former cognitive capacity, as shown by the multiple attempts at escape via manipulating the lock. It's just that I don't have the slightest clue what it is, or how its biology... works.]

[I intend to collect samples once the transmutation settles enough for properties to solidify. From initial testing, I think that its digestive system may rely partially on the fur-like... appendages, on its ventral side, but it's presently somewhat unclear. Upon coming into contact with some spare biological waste (see: Vessel project, Voidless transmutation attempts), the material appeared to "tangle" in the ventral fur, and was gradually dissolved over the course of about eighteen hours. From what I can gather of the data, this appears to have given off similar readings to a more conventional being having eaten a large meal? Will test with other forms of biological material once I can gather enough material to recreate the end organism if existing subject is lost.]

Yasmine from @darth-moth - and this is one that was very fun to do! The lines in this were very, VERY fun to work with, and we had quite a lot of fun just banging this out! - the design here is, probably fairly obviously, based heavily on Rain World's Rain Deer, as well as the multitude of "creepy deer" type stories that are practically everywhere on the internet. We were tinkering, if vaguely, with the concept of something like a terrestrial filter feeder, or similar - did you know that some whales have begun hunting behavior of pretending to be shelter so that fish will hide in their mouths and, thus, be eaten?

We'd picture that this, whatever it is, wanders places and passively snags prey with the dangling "fur", avoiding any sort of need for energy-intensive chases while keeping itself fed on whatever it walks over. A passive scavenger, probably with not a lot in terms of personal self defense. The vents on the sides, though they might be slightly unclear as is, are just about the only active method of offense - releasing toxic gas or something similar in an attempt to choke out predators. Our greatest desire in life is to design enemies for a soulslike poison swamp and we think that Yasmine is an excellent poison swamp candidate. We hope that this is a normal and usual motivation and ambition to have, we had a lot of fun with it.

[...uncontrolled crystal growth took over before the transmutation had completed, at roughly 4 days, 8 hours after the initial administration of the formula. I was lucky to be awake at the time - the remote monitor that I imbedded appears to have been consumed by the same phenomenon shortly before my arrival. I can only assume that this is due to pre-existing contamination - if not accounted for, Crystals can react very unpredictably to transmutations, and I didn't account for contamination of this assumed level.]

[Though I've observed this sort of effect before, it's been years since I've experienced a bloom of nearly this extent. What really surprises me is that the subject appears to still be moving, despite the extensive damage to... everything. The head appeared to have been fully destroyed at the time of arrival, and the crystals sprouting from the back have to have gone right through the ganglia - the weave of the transmutation has been fully destroyed, so it can't be sustaining itself on the former body's imprint, so I can only assume that the crystals captured some of the host body's mind during the overgrowth event and are attempting to continue to run the same old patterns of behavior.]

[I am currently unclear on how much of the former bug remains. What scans that I've taken suggest that the new crystals may have linked up with their companion Warden, though to what degree is still unclear. If I want to properly analyze this, I'll need to take it back to the lab. From there... diagnosis work, and maybe trying to work out how poor Snakemouth Den's lab security is, really.]

Holly from @thetroupemaster! Our first transmutation failure of the tournament! Holly, unfortunately, fell victim to poor lab safety - a more open-ended formula intended to gather a form from environmental factors, combined with some unfortunate lab contamination. This actually links in to a few personal headcanons on how Crystals work, though we don't think we've posted them before.

A crystal is a colonial organism, much like coral, storing both data and magical energy. Generally gathering energy from the sun to power itself, it grows so slowly as to be unnoticeable to the bug eye, but it does grow, and when exposed to, say, a charm engineered to allow for rapid change of a physical form, it has the potential to rapidly grow and consume that energy, stopping its growth either when it grows out of magical energy or when the handful of elements present in the original weave to let it change and grow are consumed.

Some people in external kingdoms do this to avoid having to constantly ship in Crystals from Bugaria, but it's not particularly common, as this method of growing Crystals tends to consume things like your other projects, or the lab shielding you probably want to keep intact, or yourself if you have the poor foresight to not properly protect yourself against contamination. Under control conditions, the chances of this happening are nearly zero! Under these conditions... well.

Crystals are very, very good at preserving memories. The rest of Holly's body, on the other hand, might be a bit of a lost cause at this point. You can work in a lab without seeing things, right...?

...yeah, we aren't counting on it, either.

Bonus: for those who scrolled down this far, a quick compilation of labels. As well as, of course, a teaser for what's yet to come.

[...the most complimentary thing that I can say about Mal, I think, is that Hobbes would get along well with xir. Terrible lab safety protocols. AWFUL cross-contamination protocols. Just looking at this bug's methodology is giving me hives. Venus give me strength. I suspect that any brew that I attempt to use will suffer from enough unknown, uncontrollable outside variables that none of the data I get will be even remotely applicable to any other situation. "Edge case" is generous - I struggle to call this sort of tampering anything less than an utter abomination of science.]

[I will be using one of the more heavily conceptual brews for this. The REMW-19 formula is reasonably stable enough that the weave shouldn't just collapse in on itself, but it has been remarkably poor at producing organisms capable of surviving on their own once the transformation has set enough that they don't have enough former anatomy to "fall back" on - I suspect, currently, that the survival of targets afflicted with the effect I am attempting to recreate relies the support on some sort of internal magic system, and if so, the sheer amount of lingering cross-contamination likely seeped into every ounce of aer chitin might actually boost survivability. I have no positive expectations for this, however.]

In spending ingredients on this, I hope to assemble an encyclopedic list of all of the ways that a charm's effects can go stupidly, horribly wrong. Venus willing, it will not double as a list of ways that my lab can be destroyed, or a list of ways that tampering with Charmcraft can go wrong. I have had enough recent trouble with repairing the lab's seals after the Vessel experiments - I have no particular desire to replace anything else now.]

[aspiringtrashpanda]

✨spoopy✨ Find the prompt list HERE.

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

DAY 24 Prompt: Graveyard What happens to a demon's soul after death?

When a demon dies, the process is about as one would expect. Those close to the deceased retrieve the body, select a plot in one of the graveyards, and hold a funeral by the light of the moon. As in most communities, status is relevant, those of noble birth laid to rest within the grounds of The Royal Tomb, while lesser demons scrounge for space in the cramped public fields. Needless to say, burning bodies upon a pyre and enchanting the ashes into sentimental items was becoming more popular by the century.  

It is worth noting, however, that in many human traditions, traditional funerals are designed to aid the soul to the after life. Considering that a demon’s soul remains hidden, outside of their corporeal form, then one must ask: What occurs to a demon’s soul when they pass on?

Barbatos still remembers the first death of a demon. He had been…Perhaps two thousand and three years old? Certainly young enough to enjoy a nomadic lifestyle, while old enough to have birthed the Fountain of Knowledge. 

“Hey, Barbatos?” Candy had poked her head into the kitchen. Well, kitchen-in-progress. The Reaper’s Cave, at this point in time, consisted of a cluster of half-empty rooms branching off from the core spring through which his wisdom flowed. If he recalled correctly, they had built a kitchen, a bathroom, a sitting area, and four bedrooms, an unexpected home expanding before Barbatos’s very eyes. 

He had never anticipated their little community–the recovering sorcerer, the reaper, her younger sister, and him–though he was beginning to experience a warmth in his chest whenever he laid eyes on one of the members. He had known he would be summoned by a dying Solomon, had known all of the possible outcomes, and had decided that he saw the most potential in his current timeline. He had thought it best for the future of the universe, nothing more. However, time seemed to warp the longer he remained sheltered with the two reapers. There were times it felt slow, honey-thick, and times that it felt fizzy and rushed. The passage of time was steadily becoming more bearable. Maybe he had been lonelier than he had thought. 

Regardless, Barbatos had glanced up from the dough he was kneading atop a flour-spotted counter to fix Candy with a curious gaze. 

She held a book in her hand, a nondescript thing with plain leather binding. “Did you leave this in my room?”

He frowned, pausing his gentle push and pull of the dough to wipe his hands, to flip through the pages when she tossed it in his direction. 

“Interesting,” Barbatos hummed, eyes flicking this way and that as he absorbed the large sections of text, the diagrams and illustrations. It read like a deeply personal autobiography. Not one written to be consumed, but one written to record. 

“Yes?” Candy’s foot tapped impatiently in the doorway, a certain gleam in her stare that told Barbatos far more than she had intended to share. “Are you going to tell me what’s interesting about it?”

“You say that like you haven’t already noticed,” He responded, snapping the book shut. “If you’re seeking confirmation, you need only ask.”

“It’s a grimoire, right?”

“Indeed.”

“But,” She hesitated, and Barbatos found himself hoping that she had noticed the same little detail that had caught himself off guard. “Grimoires have a cover. A rune and infernal script detailing the demon’s name. This one is just…blank.”

There it was. That warmth again. Was this how it felt to be proud of someone?

Barbatos brought the book closer to the candle flame flickering on the small table they often used for meals. In the warm light, it became clear that the binding was sleek, flawless, as if the cover was brand new. Bizarre, as the papers within were stained with age. 

This demon had clearly lived a while–Oh. Heart picking up speed in his chest, his mind already whirring to fit the answers into the missing pieces of their jigsaw, Barbatos flipped to the back of the book. 

“The demon perished,” and despite his surprise, he managed to sound relatively confident.  

It was quiet for a moment, Candy turning his words over in her head before countering, “I didn’t realize demons could die.”

“Immortality does not always save those from acts of malevolence,” Barbatos reasoned, finger tracing over the cause of death penned on the last page. “It is possible we may still fall victim to illness and injury.” 

“You haven’t seen this in the future?” 

Barbatos exhaled slowly. Candy loved to pepper him with questions about the timelines. Really, he should have expected such an ask. Just as she should have expected his repeated answer,  “Imagine, for a moment, that you could visit any time, any moment that exists in the past and future of our universe. Imagine that–”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes. It’s overwhelming. Yada yada yada.”

“Precisely.” Yet, the familiar manner in which she waved him off only endeared him further. “I learned long ago to exist in the present as much as I possibly can, lest lose my sanity.” 

With a nod, Candy snatched the book from his hands, idly flipping through it as she jerked her head back the way she came. “Thus the Fountain of Knowledge.” 

“I’m pleased to hear you have been listening.” 

“Of course I have! It’s my sister who’s the troublemaker.” She stuck her tongue out, and Barbatos couldn’t help but notice the family resemblance. Pausing at the last paragraph, Candy frowned. “So…This is what happens when a demon dies? Their grimoire remains tangible?”

Barbatos considered her words, the memory of the book’s weight in his hand, the pages detailing the life of a being no longer on this plane of existence. “I believe we’ll need to build another room.”

And now, some millennia later, Barbatos stands before shelves upon shelves of grimoires bearing blank covers, filed in alphabetical order using the name penned within the binding. Countless lives lost to the Great Celestial War, to subsequent fall out, to famine, and plague, and summonings gone wrong. Their spirits live on within the halls of the Reaper’s Cave, just outside the Fountain of Knowledge. Why the grimoires chose such a home, Barbatos isn’t sure. Regardless, he feels he’s responsible for ensuring their safety post-mortem. 

It isn’t the first time he considers expanding. Thirteen has been pestering him about adding a new room for the deceased, as well as another lab for her experiments. The traps are evolving, becoming grander than he can even fathom, and he is sure that she hopes to accidentally maim Solomon eventually. 

He isn’t sure if he should prevent that, or simply make himself available to nurse the sorcerer back to health. Perhaps a jab at his ego is necessary, these days. However, Thirteen's tinkering is not what prompted his visit to the Other World. No, he’s come to pay his respects.

A willowy woman passes in his peripheral. Barbatos does not bother spinning on his heel. He already knows she will be long gone. Thirteen claims they keep her company, that the Reaper’s Cave doesn’t long for Solomon and Barbatos in the slightest. Solomon tells him that she’s lying. She can’t sleep at night, the thousands of invisible eyes longing for her flesh and blood. If anyone is jealous, it’s them.

Barbatos feels static dance upon the back of his neck, an ominous chill sweeping through the massive graveyard among the shelves. The candle in his hand flickers, but the light is not snuffed out. 

“Can I help you?” He keeps his voice calm, polite. 

There is no audible answer, though the grimoires shudder in their rows, the eyes of Candy’s old portrait following Barbatos as he approaches the bookcase. A gloved finger traces that blank leather binding, old and weathered, nestled in the very first spot to the left of the top row. 

“I am going to get you some more space soon,” He whispers. 

Another blast of cold air. This time, the candle’s flame is extinguished. Barbatos laughs, “And a space heater.”

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

OBEY ME! MONTH MASTERLIST

[misstrashchan]

When it comes to predicting what happens with Carpenter and Faulkner in the last episode, I can't help but think back to S2 with Carpenter and the homesick corpse.

Carpenter's final talk with the homesick corpse is much more relevant to her character than I think people give credit for

The homesick corpse died because someone in the parish of tide and flesh, a sibling, turned on him, and he was hunted down, just like Faulkner turning on Carpenter and how she's been hunted by the people of the faith she once belonged to.

HOMESICK CORPSE:

I never learnt who turned me in. I knew it must have been a sibling of the faith, one of the families I had most frequently visited or one of the hidden pilgrims who offered food and shelter along the roadside. Someone who would have known who I was and where I was going next.

I spent many of my final days turning the names over in my head, trying to guess - who might I have offended, who might have wished me dead, amongst my friends along the road?

In the end, I stopped wondering. I wished to die with love in my heart: not doubt, not enmity.

Carpenter was reeling from Faulkner's betrayal and turning it over in her head, why did he do it, how could he, hating him, loving him. Also the dying in enmity bit. Emnity means to oppose or be hostile, to die in emnity is to die spitefully in opposition of something or someone in your final moments. Paige's god is defined by dying to spite and oppose their oppresors. Faulkner's schism of the Trawler-Man is defining themselves by their struggle against those same oppresors and those in higher power with more authority, including those in their own faith like the inner council of the high katabasian, hence why he snapped at the idea of their god being legalised and killed Mason.

Silence. CARPENTER digs.

CARPENTER:

(More roughly)

What do you regret?

THE HOMESICK CORPSE:

That I did not speak my love out loud often enough.

I had so much love in my life - it was offered to me as freely as rain. 

I felt it so deeply, but I did not speak of it. I knew it only through ritual, through shared meals and the chanting of crowds, through the oration of new words to old friends and the applause that followed.

I should have told them all how much I loved them.

CARPENTER chokes, a little, because she recognises the sentiment.

Then there's Carpenter and the Cairn Maiden, and the homesick corpse, speaking to her of dying with love in their heart instead of emnity. If Carpenter does die this season, I think that will be what's in her heart in her final moments. Though, I think it's much more likely Faulkner will die, who instead of sacrificing his siblings to the Trawler-Man or killing them for his own sake, he'll sacrifice himself to protect Carpenter from the remaining Parish of Tide and Flesh's wrath.

Speaking your love aloud more often and struggling because you only know how to do so through ritual clearly resonates with Carpenter, her faith in the trawlerman was how she stayed connected to her loved ones, even after they died, and that's why she decides to go back and tell Faulkner, her brother, that she loves him in the S2 finale. She never gets the chance to, but despite everything done against her, I think the love is still there. What Faulkner did to her wouldn't hurt so much if it wasn't. And still she hasn't spoken of that love aloud, at least not to him.

The Cairn Maiden also speaks to Paige of how they will bury the beasts (the gods that starve and die) with more comfort and kindness than they deserve, which I think will be what Carpenter does for Faulkner if he does die, whether that's him dying to protect Carpenter, or her putting him out of his misery, or him committing suicide. She'll bury him with more comfort and kindness than he deserves.

CARPENTER picks up the withered body and lays it down in the dirt.

Then she shovels the earth over it, in silence.

As she shovels, she begins to pray. It’s different, this time - the words come jolting out of her, they come strong and hard and she feels their weight.

She chokes, and she sobs, but she keeps on speaking them all the same.

CARPENTER:

This is the place. 

This has always been the place.

You were always walking towards this moment.

There’s nothing left to hold on to.

There’s nowhere left to go.

There’s no need to worry any more.

Her voice breaks on the final line

She breathes hard, struggling not to sob.

There is also that one hopeful part of me that wants to believe Faulkner would want so badly for Carpenter to kill him, to offer up his life to her for atonement, and her to be furious at the very idea that he thinks he can escape the weight of what he's done by dying, by putting that blood on her hands. For her to convince him to live with what he's done and move forward instead. Which personally I think would end up tying into the theme of finding the opposite of a sacrifice, of trying to break the cycle, but, *shrugs* who knows what could happen?

Ultimately whatever way it ends for them the one thing I am certain of is that I will be a crying mess on the floor.

[mononijikayu]

4 o' clock.

Gojo Genmei thinks Satoru is always right when he says that loving people can be a curse. In these past ten years, in their hearts and minds, they were the biggest prisoners. The biggest prisoners to loving the past. To mourning the past. To wanting the past. Yet Gojo Genmei does not mind. She would not be able to live without it, being haunted by the ghosts. She wanted Kaiko to haunt her, for father to find his way into her arms again. For Suguru to smile at her tenderly again.

GENRE: pre - hidden inventory arc to shibuya arc (1990s to 2010s);

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

LISTEN: 4 o' clock by r&v of bts

NOTE: when i first wrote this, i just thought about describing what genmei and suguru's relationship was like but i feel like there was a need to show how it was. also, i needed to write jealous satoru. i like the idea that he's jealous of anyone who comes into contact with genmei. anyway, i hope you enjoy this one <333

masterlist

u s and t h e m

IT WAS QUITE RARE FOR HIM TO VISIT HER IN HER SLUMBER. But she must suppose that he has his moments. In the realm of slumber, Genmei dances with dreams more vivid than most mortals dare to embrace, yet she finds no solace in this nocturnal ballet.

The musings in her mind unfurl like ephemeral tapestries, each thread pulsating with life, beckoning her to reach out and caress the intangible. But dreams, enchanting though they may be, remain elusive phantoms, slipping through the fingers of even the most ardent dreamer.

She contemplates the tears she could shed, should she vocalize the kaleidoscope within her, a million frames of moments she believed time had buried. They resonate with vibrancy, innocence, and the lingering echoes of a youth long eclipsed by the relentless march of time. One cannot simply avoid it, being so sentimental about a past already dried, long written by hands no longer here to hold her own. Gojo Genmei couldn’t help it, she could never help it when it comes to him. She’s no better than Satoru in that regard. 

In the tapestry of her memories, she revisits a scene painted with the hues of a summer's day—the deep, sharp gaze of a companion, the sturdy frame against which she nestled, and the warmth of shared breath beneath their tree. A fleeting moment etched in the canvas of her past, where innocence and hope intertwined like vines in a garden long untouched by reality.

She used to think about the warmth of summer like him. If Satoru was the bright echo of winter, then he was most ardently, the bright sun of summer. Genmei missed him. She missed everything about him. She dare not voice it out loud. But selfishly, Genmei latched onto the memories, to the dreams that were left behind. It was all she had.

It has been a year. 365 days. Summer, Spring, Fall and Winter came and went. 

But the echoes of Geto Suguru still remained; As young as that blue summer.

A tender smile from Geto Suguru, sitting in front of her as her hands slid through the dark tresses of hair. He allowed her to touch his hair happily, a feat very few could ever do. Suguru from her memory was someone who couldn’t handle the touch of anyone lightly. He liked the distance of it, he used to tell her.

But not with people he held dear. Genmei supposed it made her heart warm when he told her this. It meant that he held her dearly. He considered her an occupant of the portion of his heart. Genmei knew that his whole heart, perhaps it would always belong to Satoru. Yet, she knew she could feel happiness build a home in her. 

There was a tender melody born from their shared hums, and the golden radiance of a sunlit meadow—all etched in the mosaic of a summer story, a dream painted in hues of joy. Suguru spoke about home, about missing the mountains and the countryside. He wished summer would come soon, so that he could take some time off.

He invited Genmei to go with him, to see his parents and play with his family’s dogs. He promised that he’d bring Satoru and Shoko too. His parents missed them too. Genmei knew they were long gone, ink dried in her memory replaying as a beautiful nightmare. Yet, beneath the surface, even if this was a repeat of that summer's nightmare, the memory that refuses to fade. Genmei refuses to let it fade. 

He was so beautiful, so tender with his touch and his smile. There was no forgetting him. He was the whole moon, the whole summer night. Genmei wouldn’t forget him. Not even if she tried. She and Satoru had tried, but they couldn’t. It was as though they would surrender life itself from existing in their flesh and bones.

There was that place, where the windchime echoes against the wind. Genmei found Suguru gazing up at the sky, his dark purple eyes fixed on the vast expanse of blue that stretched endlessly above them. She approached quietly, her steps soft on the grassy plain. It was rare to see him out here nowadays. But she thinks, its good for him. To be out here, feeling the sun. Not locked away in his room, where he'd find only darkness.

"What are you thinking about?" Genmei asked, settling down beside him with a gentle grace, her own gaze lifting to the heavens.

Suguru turned his head slightly, acknowledging her presence with a soft smile. "Genmei-senpai, what do you think exists beyond the blue sky?"

Genmei pondered the question for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered the limitless possibilities. "I like to think that beyond our sky is another realm, perhaps many realms, where different rules apply. The gods were kind to us to give a wonder to think about, don't you think? The gods look to us and think, what creatures they made, who wonder different things."

Suguru nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Different rules, you say? Do you think they have curses and sorcerers there too?"

"Maybe," Genmei mused, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But maybe their sorcerers fight different battles. Or maybe they live in harmony, without the need for battles at all."

"That sounds peaceful," Suguru said, a hint of longing in his voice. "A place where the sky isn’t just a barrier between us and the cosmos but a gateway to something greater."

Genmei looked at him, noticing the wistful tone of his voice. "Do you ever wish you could go there? To escape from all this?" she asked gently, gesturing subtly to encompass their world and its endless conflicts.

Suguru was silent for a moment, then he sighed. "Would it be so bad to say that I often think it'd be easier over there then over here?"

Genmei smiled softly, shaking here head. "No, I don't. Sometimes, its easier to think of what gives us comfort. Remember, it's okay to dream of peace. And maybe one day, we'll find a way to make those dreams a reality here, rather than needing to find it under the vast blue sky. It's a beautiful wonder, I agree. But sometimes, its even too vast for us to hold. Not all of us need to be Atlas, you know."

Suguru turned to look at her, giving her a small smile. Genmei thinks it was enough, even if it didn't reach his eyes. "With you here, I believe we might just do that. After all, isn't that what sorcerers do? Bend reality to make the impossible possible?"

"Yes," Genmei agreed, her eyes reflecting the blue of the sky above. "We make the impossible possible. And maybe, just maybe, we'll find what's beyond the blue sky together."

They fell silent, both lost in their thoughts, yet comforted by the shared understanding that whatever lay beyond the sky, their strength lay in facing it together, bound by their hopes, their fears, and their unyielding determination to shape the world according to their dreams.

Gojo Genmei thinks Satoru is always right when he says that loving people can be a curse. In these past ten years, in their hearts and minds, they were the biggest prisoners. The biggest prisoners to loving the past. To mourning the past. To wanting the past. Yet Gojo Genmei does not mind. She would not be able to live without it, being haunted by the ghosts. She wanted Kaiko to haunt her, for father to find his way into her arms again. For Suguru to smile at her tenderly again.

As she traces the vacant side of her bed, she yearns for the comforting presence of Satoru. To feel the warmth of his arms overtake the cold echoes of a painful emptiness. Tears flowed from her eyes involuntarily, her lungs halted its usual flow. She couldn’t move herself too well, her muscles tightening in spasms.

A soundless huff left her lips as she tried to get herself together. For a moment she stayed still and just cried. When the time passed, her muscles loosened slightly, Genmei took to taking Satoru’s in her arms and wrapping her arms around it. She can smell the tender scent of his perfume still there. 

He stayed there, already ready to leave for his mission just to feel her for a while. They wouldn’t see each other for a while, so he wanted to make sure he lingered long enough to fill his heart with the tender memories of her. Genmei felt herself settle slowly against the pillow, her breathing returning to its usual pace.

She missed him, she was sure. If he was here, it would have been easier to deal with this. It would have been easier to feel at ease with the memories of the person they both loved. Yet he wasn’t and she had to live with that.

In the cocoon of his touch, he could discern the ethereal boundary between dreams and nightmares, offering solace with a mere brush of his fingertips. A yearning for his tenderness echoes through her being, yet she knows he is absent, entangled in missions that withhold him from her embrace. Her husband was a light sleeper, much more so than her.

The Six Eyes keep him from the slumber of mortals. Satoru is attentive, noticing the small differences of her breath from nightmare to a peaceful slumber. Genmei knew that he would know what to say to her at this moment. He would offer her what he needs. Peace of mind, even for a little while.

But Gojo Satoru’s not here to offer that peace.

Genmei lingers in the memories long gone.

It had taken her a while to compose herself, but she managed to do it. The memories of that summer drifted away into her mind, in lock and key. Once more, a new day begins. There would be no time for the new dawn for the dead already gone. That she knew too well.

The clock's resolute ticking marks the passage of the night, and at 4 o’clock, the room is cloaked in a profound darkness. Genmei, now awake, rises from the bed's vast expanse, exhaling frustration into the still air. The ticking clock, a relentless metronome, compels her to face the waking world. With a resigned sigh, she banishes the covers aside and, in the solemn hush, bathes the room in the artificial glow of light.

Too early for the world to stir, yet too late for her to return to the arms of Morpheus, she contemplates the solitude of her nocturnal sanctuary. The impending challenges of the day loom ahead—the elders' den awaits her, and she will navigate its depths once more. The promise of tomorrow, with Satoru's return, is the beacon that guides her through the predawn hours. She yawns, heading towards their shared bathroom, letting the water run from the faucet. 

Facing herself in the mirror, the sorcerer could only sigh. The weariness of her face was obvious to anyone who would deem to see it. The redness of her eyes from the tears was just as familiar to her than anything else. She was glad that no one was around to see it. It would have been a different conversation, not one she’d like to have. Genmei let her hands touch the water, feeling the warmth and then the cold of the water’s pour.

The morning ought to start.

There was no sense to stay in bed.

She wouldn't fall back asleep anyway.

IT WASN’T UNTIL SHE WAS GOT TO THE KITCHEN WITH THE CAT THAT SHE HEARD MAIN DOOR OPEN. The sound of purring from the feline led her to crotch down and seek out the beloved white fur from the small bed in the living room. Touching his fur, he purred once more. That indicated to Genmei that he was once more in need of his precious water.

But as she held the bright white feline, she came into a stare down with her weary husband as he took off his outdoor shoes. The door barely shut behind him, Genmei heard the cat hiss at her husband. Blinking for a moment, Genmei was trying to be certain that she was seeing things for what they are. But as he lifted the lower portion of his eye coverings, Gojo Satoru grinned at her.

“Well, I didn’t expect this welcome party.”

Genmei patted the cat’s head, silencing the feline into satisfied mewls. “I thought you wouldn’t be home until tomorrow.”

“I thought you had more faith in your husband than that!” Satoru sighed, feigning sorrow at her words. He put away his house shoes easily as he put away his outdoor ones. “You know I could deal with a ton of first–grade curses in a few minutes.”

His wife raised a brow. “So all this time, you just went sightseeing?”

Satoru stopped at his tracks, having been caught. “O–of course not! You know I had to do some wellness checks around the area, you know, to make sure there aren’t any curses I’ve missed.”

Genmei dissected that he already ate his sweets.

Gojo Satoru gulped.

For a moment, his wife’s eyes sharpened at his words which made him nervous. But Genmei merely relented in a sigh, letting the cat down as she headed towards the kitchen and towards the fridge, which she opened to find the water. A short yelp let out of her husband’s mouth but before she could turn around, Satoru smiled at her.

Genmei did not see their cat slowly walk away, with pomp and ceremony as Gojo Satoru’s exposed eye turned to glare at the cat for a mere moment. Satoru would never let his wife know how much he despised the cat. He knew how much she loved the damned spawn. He would bear with it for her sake.

“You okay?”

“I’m more than okay.” Satoru tells her as he leans towards her from the counter, placing a small kiss upon her cheek. “I’m home to you. What more could I ask for?”

“You and your words,” Genmei shook her head as she turned around and headed towards the feline, who rested on the small bed. Genmei concentrated as she poured just enough water. Their cat has had enough salmon before they both went to bed.

Too much water would just indulge him. He’s after all, on a diet plan. Closing the cap, she places the water bottle into the counter and wraps her arms around her husband. He removes his eye covering, his bright blue eyes greeting her. For a moment, they do not speak. There’s usually no need for words when they’re alone like this. 

“You’re gonna get a headache.”

“I can bear with a little suffering.” Satoru whispers to her, leaning forward to peck the small of her jaw. “It’s nothing compared to when I’m looking at you.”

Genmei felt her cheeks fluster in a pretty scarlet. She shook her head. “I can always feel the way you look at me without the eye cover. I know what they look like, even when they’re covered.”

“That’s different.” He argues to her, his fingers tracing the edge of her porcelain face. As he traced her features like stars, his eyes followed. Almost as though memorizing each and every essence of her. “I like being able to see you. Just you. As much as I can with these eyes. Covering is a pain in the ass. It's too much trouble."

“You’re insufferable.” Genmei let out a small giggle, leaning forward against his shoulder. He leans against her too, just to smell the lavender he loved so much on her. Closing his eyes, he feels as though he is safe. He knows he is safe. As long as he is in her arms. “I take it you don’t want to sleep just yet?”

“Hm, how did you know?”

“Because I know you too well, oh insufferable one.”

He leans away, his face in a pout as his wife laughs. “One moment you’re sweet and one moment you’re sour. It makes too much of a whiplash for one man to take, you know?”

Genmei laughs. “But you like it, don’t you?”

He snickers, unable to deny it. “And what of it, darling?”

She shook her head, leaning towards him and pressing a kiss on his cheek. “Welcome home, my love. I missed you.”

“Missed you too.” He closed his eyes at the feeling of her lips against his flesh. “I missed all of you.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Genmei retorted, looking at him. “We’re not doing it. We haven’t eaten anything.”

“But you taste better than the—”

“Finish that sentence and I’m withholding the privilege.” She crosses her arms as he groans.

“Darling, please. It’s been a couple of days. I need you so bad!”

She touts, taking leave of him and back into the kitchen. “I’m making breakfast for you and me. We have to eat first. After that, we’ll see if I’m in the mood for it.”

Gojo Satoru sighed, defeated as he relented as he moved towards the kitchen, following his wife.

Though, he was certain he could hear the cat take a break from drinking water to laugh at him.

He really hated that cat.

SATORU REMINDED GENMEI OF A CHILD AT TIMES. Sitting on their sofa, Gojo Genmei wondered how long this tantrum would last. Satoru wouldn't remove his arms from her waist for about an hour now as he watched an episode of Digimon Adventures. He didn’t speak, but rather focused on his moping. He didn’t even move as the cat moved on his wife’s lap.

As the cat yawned, Genmei let her hand pet the feline’s head as Satoru suddenly started to list reasons why she shouldn’t waste her time around the ‘nasty old farts’ in Kyoto. The top one being that he needed his ‘recharge’ of her after being apart for a few days. The last thing he wanted was to be alone in the house again without her giving him the warmth of her existence.

His bright blue eyes seemed to glow brighter as she detailed her plan to meet with Gakuganji. It was like a god silently judging her as she spoke of the path towards danger she planned to thread. Satoru has always been someone who had something to say.

It was quite a matter when he didn’t have much to say. Genmei had always been aware of Satoru's great distaste for the inner workings of clan politics. He has always been surrounded by it as a young man, with his father dying early and his status as clan head perpetually bestowed at the crown of his young toddler head. 

The thought of a young Gojo Satoru sitting through the dull and whining of the higher ups as a boy, with that unimpressed look on his face crossed her mind. Just hearing the gossip about it by the clan ladies at tea time as a young girl in Zenin manor was enough for her then. Coupled with the years of suffering they had put him through, she can understand his preposition against them.

But even more so, the nature of the conversations around clan politics were never one for the idealists. The air of corruption was easy to spot, even more easy to consume those that touched it. People sided with those they knew peaked their chances to self – interest. It was something anyone would be wise to avoid.

Yet Genmei thought there truly was no certain choice. Mingling with that world, playing a game of flirtation, of hide and seek, was what it took to survive in this world. Everything was as fragile as glass. One step and it all shatters and breaks. Satoru may have convinced them to halt the execution for now. It’s not something that would last.

Just a word seducing them against her husband, the unexpected tide would rush in. It was the ugly truth. If Naoya bribes enough folks, if her grandfather whispers enough words. If the Kamo clan turns and smiles at the right people. Genmei knew that all can twist into disaster. Satoru was but one man, the very essence that could make the world bend to its knees.

Perhaps it was the paranoia, perhaps it was the worry.

But Gojo Genmei feared the day they would turn on him.

She would not let this happen, not on her watch.

His dream was her dream.

They cannot falter.

The sandy haired woman wishes her husband took this in stride. Okkutsu Yuuta had already proven himself, his actions alone last year had spoken for themselves. But Itadori Yuuji was not Yuuta. If Yuuta was the typhoon, Itadori was the tsunami. He had a whole magnitude of concerns that the elders cannot bypass. He was a vessel of Sukuna, the sorcerer that a thousand years ago had wrought their world into misery and suffering. 

If he was reborn, if Yuuji could not control him — they fear the worst, they fear what they cannot control. Most of all, Genmei was truly certain that they feel more distaste at the thought that they do not have exclusivity over him. Itadori Yuuji would not feel anything for them, as much as the king of curses wouldn’t. No, he’d be loyal to her husband. And that was even more frightening to them.

Yet, the boy that Itadori Yuuji was not just the vessel of Sukuna. He was a young soul, someone who should not be dealing with the baggage of this world. The elders, the higher ups — they all forget themselves. Genmei could only wonder how many times they could repeat their mistakes.

How many times would they waste potential, to burden it with horrors rather than nurture? Memories flood back as easily as they happened, as though they were lived yesterday. So many voices ignored, so many voices silenced. She pursed her lips. 

Genmei wondered what her father would have done if he was in her position. 

She had asked that so many times before and still hadn’t found an answer. 

How could he have survived the tides of this modern world? 

Genmei could only release a soundless sigh.

She turned to Satoru, her lilac eyes reflecting resolve.  "You know it as much as I do that they’d listen to me.”

“Listening is different than agreeing, darling.”

“There must be a balancing act. Even if it is a lie, we have to play nice.”

“The phrase ‘playing nice’ has nothing positive to correlate with the higher – ups.”

She cocked a brow. “Don’t you think I know that? But it’s worth a try. Just a precaution. He’s not like Yuuta. This is different.”

“I know it’s different,” Satoru retorted back to her, his lips looped in a frown. “That’s why I spoke in threats, not kindness.”

“Do you trust me?” She takes his face on her hands, forcing the cerulean beam to echo against her lilac gaze. “Do you?”

“What sort of question is that? Of course I trust you.”

“Then let me deal with them, alright?” She whispers to him tenderly. “You had your games with them. Shouldn’t I have my own too? I thought you trusted me more than this.”

Satoru knew that this was for the best. Her words weighed heavily against the higher – ups. Even when he was injured then after what when he was young, it was her that fought against them to ensure he could rest. Genmei was from that world just like him and he can’t forget it. But she was bred to live that life, more than he was. They trusted Genmei. Or rather, considered her a part of the world they created. A life worth more than the ones beyond it.

If not her, then the blood of Zenin Naoki in her veins. 

If not his blood, then the name that birthed her into the world. 

A Zenin was more their world’s favorite than a Gojo.

Satoru's reluctance wasn't rooted in a lack of trust; rather, it stemmed from an overwhelming concern. The Gojo clan leader releases his wife from his touch. Her lilac eyes blinked in surprise for a moment. Satoru turned off the television. She watched as he stood up, his hands threading through his pockets.

His body moves into a small shrug. As he stood there, his mind raced with scenarios where danger lurked around every corner. It wasn't a matter of distrust but a manifestation of his deep-seated worry that threatened to drown him in a sea of panic.

The weight of responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders as Genmei prepared to face the elders in Kyoto. Every part of him, from the furrowed lines on his forehead to the subtle clenching of his fists, betrayed the inner turmoil. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, now reflected the storm of emotions brewing within.

It was the same feeling as back then. Back then when he stood in front of Suguru, back then when he knelt in front of him ten years later. There was that pit he could never escape. But he wished he could. 

Satoru started to pace and soon enough, it became more pronounced. He released a restless energy that mirrored the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind. He was not one to shy away from challenges, but when it came to Genmei, the mere thought of her navigating the intricate dance of clan politics ignited a fire of concern.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you," Satoru muttered to himself, his voice a low rasp. His eyes flitted around the room as if searching for an answer that eluded him. "It's because I worry."

She smiles softly at him. “I know.”

"It's a normal husband thing, you know?"

She giggles. "I know."

The cat left her lap, yawning against the pillow.

Genmei stood up, rising to wrap her arms around him.

His body relaxes in being enveloped in her warmth.

“I’ll be back by tomorrow or the next day, I’m certain.”

“I’ll be going to Sendai with Yuuji.”

“I see.”

She tries to look at his face, but he refuses and leans the weight of his body more and more against her. She couldn’t help but smile further, her hand brushing against the undercut of his snow – like locks. He was once more a child, a child who cannot take part in the parting. Satoru’s never been good at that.

For all the time she had known him, he had always needed to feel the warmth of touch. To have somebody. Genmei could never deny him. How could she, when she loved him too much? Gojo Genmei knew this was a curse she can never exorcise. Her love for him was too much, too overwhelming. And she knows that he knows. He feels the degree of it all just as much.

“Will you have a day off when I come back?”

He sighs, “Who cares? I’ll not leave you alone when you come back.”

Genmei laughs. “You’ll be ignoring life then?”

“What are you talking about? You are my life, darling.”

Genmei felt warmer as she kissed his ear. “You’re too much.”

“So are you.”

“You love me anyway.”

“Hm, I do.”

By noon, she kissed him goodbye as Ichiji waited outside.

Gojo Satoru wanted to go after her and be with her.

But he knew too well that this was something she needed to do.

As the door closed behind her, Satoru's worry manifested in an absent-minded twist of his fingers through his hair. He was a man accustomed to action, yet at this moment, all he could do was wait. It was a form of torture for someone like him, who thrived on seizing control of situations.

He knew Genmei was capable, strong, and fiercely independent. But the worry, the irrational fear that clung to him, was a relentless adversary. He had always made her feel this way – a constant guardian, a vigilant protector. Even when he knew she could take care of herself, he couldn't help but imagine the worst-case scenarios, each more vivid and terrifying than the last.

In the quiet aftermath of her departure, Satoru's gaze lingered on the closed door. His jaw clenched, the palpable tension in the air a testament to the storm raging within him. With a sigh, he moved to a nearby window, his eyes fixated on the horizon as if searching for a sign that would alleviate the weight on his chest.

For now, Satoru found solace in the memories of their shared moments, in the love that bound them together. Yet, beneath it all, the worry persisted, an uninvited companion that refused to be silenced.

He turned to look at the cat.

For a moment, the feline stared back.

“I still hate you.”

It mewled back with the same gusto.

The feline, Gojonyan, hates him back.

SATORU REMINDED GENMEI OF A CHILD AT TIMES. Sitting on their sofa, Gojo Genmei wondered how long this tantrum would last. Satoru wouldn't remove his arms from her waist for about an hour now as he watched an episode of Digimon Adventures. He didn’t speak, but rather focused on his moping. He didn’t even move as the cat moved on his wife’s lap.

As the cat yawned, Genmei let her hand pet the feline’s head as Satoru suddenly started to list reasons why she shouldn’t waste her time around the ‘nasty old farts’ in Kyoto. The top one being that he needed his ‘recharge’ of her after being apart for a few days. The last thing he wanted was to be alone in the house again without her giving him the warmth of her existence.

His bright blue eyes seemed to glow brighter as she detailed her plan to meet with Gakuganji. It was like a god silently judging her as she spoke of the path towards danger she planned to thread. Satoru has always been someone who had something to say.

It was quite a matter when he didn’t have much to say. Genmei had always been aware of Satoru's great distaste for the inner workings of clan politics. He has always been surrounded by it as a young man, with his father dying early and his status as clan head perpetually bestowed at the crown of his young toddler head. 

The thought of a young Gojo Satoru sitting through the dull and whining of the higher ups as a boy, with that unimpressed look on his face crossed her mind. Just hearing the gossip about it by the clan ladies at tea time as a young girl in Zenin manor was enough for her then. Coupled with the years of suffering they had put him through, she can understand his preposition against them.

But even more so, the nature of the conversations around clan politics were never one for the idealists. The air of corruption was easy to spot, even more easy to consume those that touched it. People sided with those they knew peaked their chances to self – interest. It was something anyone would be wise to avoid.

Yet Genmei thought there truly was no certain choice. Mingling with that world, playing a game of flirtation, of hide and seek, was what it took to survive in this world. Everything was as fragile as glass. One step and it all shatters and breaks. Satoru may have convinced them to halt the execution for now. It’s not something that would last.

Just a word seducing them against her husband, the unexpected tide would rush in. It was the ugly truth. If Naoya bribes enough folks, if her grandfather whispers enough words. If the Kamo clan turns and smiles at the right people. Genmei knew that all can twist into disaster. Satoru was but one man, the very essence that could make the world bend to its knees.

Perhaps it was the paranoia, perhaps it was the worry.

But Gojo Genmei feared the day they would turn on him.

She would not let this happen, not on her watch.

His dream was her dream.

They cannot falter.

The sandy haired woman wishes her husband took this in stride. Okkutsu Yuuta had already proven himself, his actions alone last year had spoken for themselves. But Itadori Yuuji was not Yuuta. If Yuuta was the typhoon, Itadori was the tsunami. He had a whole magnitude of concerns that the elders cannot bypass. He was a vessel of Sukuna, the sorcerer that a thousand years ago had wrought their world into misery and suffering. 

If he was reborn, if Yuuji could not control him — they fear the worst, they fear what they cannot control. Most of all, Genmei was truly certain that they feel more distaste at the thought that they do not have exclusivity over him. Itadori Yuuji would not feel anything for them, as much as the king of curses wouldn’t. No, he’d be loyal to her husband. And that was even more frightening to them.

Yet, the boy that Itadori Yuuji was not just the vessel of Sukuna. He was a young soul, someone who should not be dealing with the baggage of this world. The elders, the higher ups — they all forget themselves. Genmei could only wonder how many times they could repeat their mistakes.

How many times would they waste potential, to burden it with horrors rather than nurture? Memories flood back as easily as they happened, as though they were lived yesterday. So many voices ignored, so many voices silenced. She pursed her lips. 

Genmei wondered what her father would have done if he was in her position. 

She had asked that so many times before and still hadn’t found an answer. 

How could he have survived the tides of this modern world? 

Genmei could only release a soundless sigh.

She turned to Satoru, her lilac eyes reflecting resolve.  "You know it as much as I do that they’d listen to me.”

“Listening is different than agreeing, darling.”

“There must be a balancing act. Even if it is a lie, we have to play nice.”

“The phrase ‘playing nice’ has nothing positive to correlate with the higher – ups.”

She cocked a brow. “Don’t you think I know that? But it’s worth a try. Just a precaution. He’s not like Yuuta. This is different.”

“I know it’s different,” Satoru retorted back to her, his lips looped in a frown. “That’s why I spoke in threats, not kindness.”

“Do you trust me?” She takes his face on her hands, forcing the cerulean beam to echo against her lilac gaze. “Do you?”

“What sort of question is that? Of course I trust you.”

“Then let me deal with them, alright?” She whispers to him tenderly. “You had your games with them. Shouldn’t I have my own too? I thought you trusted me more than this.”

Satoru knew that this was for the best. Her words weighed heavily against the higher – ups. Even when he was injured then after what when he was young, it was her that fought against them to ensure he could rest. Genmei was from that world just like him and he can’t forget it. But she was bred to live that life, more than he was. They trusted Genmei. Or rather, considered her a part of the world they created. A life worth more than the ones beyond it.

If not her, then the blood of Zenin Naoki in her veins. 

If not his blood, then the name that birthed her into the world. 

A Zenin was more their world’s favorite than a Gojo.

Satoru's reluctance wasn't rooted in a lack of trust; rather, it stemmed from an overwhelming concern. The Gojo clan leader releases his wife from his touch. Her lilac eyes blinked in surprise for a moment. Satoru turned off the television. She watched as he stood up, his hands threading through his pockets.

His body moves into a small shrug. As he stood there, his mind raced with scenarios where danger lurked around every corner. It wasn't a matter of distrust but a manifestation of his deep-seated worry that threatened to drown him in a sea of panic.

The weight of responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders as Genmei prepared to face the elders in Kyoto. Every part of him, from the furrowed lines on his forehead to the subtle clenching of his fists, betrayed the inner turmoil. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, now reflected the storm of emotions brewing within.

It was the same feeling as back then. Back then when he stood in front of Suguru, back then when he knelt in front of him ten years later. There was that pit he could never escape. But he wished he could. 

Satoru started to pace and soon enough, it became more pronounced. He released a restless energy that mirrored the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind. He was not one to shy away from challenges, but when it came to Genmei, the mere thought of her navigating the intricate dance of clan politics ignited a fire of concern.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you," Satoru muttered to himself, his voice a low rasp. His eyes flitted around the room as if searching for an answer that eluded him. "It's because I worry."

She smiles softly at him. “I know.”

"It's a normal husband thing, you know?"

She giggles. "I know."

The cat left her lap, yawning against the pillow.

Genmei stood up, rising to wrap her arms around him.

His body relaxes in being enveloped in her warmth.

“I’ll be back by tomorrow or the next day, I’m certain.”

“I’ll be going to Sendai with Yuuji.”

“I see.”

She tries to look at his face, but he refuses and leans the weight of his body more and more against her. She couldn’t help but smile further, her hand brushing against the undercut of his snow – like locks. He was once more a child, a child who cannot take part in the parting. Satoru’s never been good at that.

For all the time she had known him, he had always needed to feel the warmth of touch. To have somebody. Genmei could never deny him. How could she, when she loved him too much? Gojo Genmei knew this was a curse she can never exorcise. Her love for him was too much, too overwhelming. And she knows that he knows. He feels the degree of it all just as much.

“Will you have a day off when I come back?”

He sighs, “Who cares? I’ll not leave you alone when you come back.”

Genmei laughs. “You’ll be ignoring life then?”

“What are you talking about? You are my life, darling.”

Genmei felt warmer as she kissed his ear. “You’re too much.”

“So are you.”

“You love me anyway.”

“Hm, I do.”

By noon, she kissed him goodbye as Ichiji waited outside.

Gojo Satoru wanted to go after her and be with her.

But he knew too well that this was something she needed to do.

As the door closed behind her, Satoru's worry manifested in an absent-minded twist of his fingers through his hair. He was a man accustomed to action, yet at this moment, all he could do was wait. It was a form of torture for someone like him, who thrived on seizing control of situations.

He knew Genmei was capable, strong, and fiercely independent. But the worry, the irrational fear that clung to him, was a relentless adversary. He had always made her feel this way – a constant guardian, a vigilant protector. Even when he knew she could take care of herself, he couldn't help but imagine the worst-case scenarios, each more vivid and terrifying than the last.

In the quiet aftermath of her departure, Satoru's gaze lingered on the closed door. His jaw clenched, the palpable tension in the air a testament to the storm raging within him. With a sigh, he moved to a nearby window, his eyes fixated on the horizon as if searching for a sign that would alleviate the weight on his chest.

For now, Satoru found solace in the memories of their shared moments, in the love that bound them together. Yet, beneath it all, the worry persisted, an uninvited companion that refused to be silenced.

He turned to look at the cat.

For a moment, the feline stared back.

“I still hate you.”

It mewled back with the same gusto.

The feline, Gojonyan, hates him back.

IT WAS MUCH MORE WELCOMING TO SEE FAMILIAR FACES.  As she held the hem of her kimono to avoid tripping, she found herself smiling as she got off the train. The weariness of the hectic day started to fade away as she made her way towards them.

Standing in front of them, the two men allowed themselves into a humble bow in front of her. She fondly sighed, shaking her head. They hadn’t changed, even after all this time. There was no doubt in her mind that they had been here for a while, waiting for her train to arrive. 

“Bowing to me like this after all this time,” Genmei says as she crosses her arms together. A tsk sound lets out of her. She waves her hand. “It’s as if we aren’t family.”

“It’s inappropriate to not give you respect.” The smooth tone of the elder of the two, Mikoto Akihiko, echoes. He smiles at her as he positions his body at ease. The glistening of the Mikoto badge, the two herons in flight, was bright on his chest. “You are our liege after all.”

Mikoto Nobuhiko lifts his head, his red haori following gracefully in his movement. His own badge shined in bright beautiful silver, with ruby gems. “Aki–niisama is right. It’s inappropriate to act as though you aren’t our beloved elder.”

Genmei’s lips turned into a tight smile. “Are you calling me old, Nobu?”

Nobuhiko’s bright eyes turned mischievous, but his smile remained serene. “Of course not, Genmei–sama. But seeing as I am younger, shouldn’t I respect you properly? After all, Genmei–sama is four years older—”

Before Nobuhiko knew it, Gojo Genmei started to wrap her fingers against both his cheeks as much as she could. Her smile still remained tight as she squeezed his cheeks, pulling through it as though she was seeing a child for the first time. Nobuhiko started to groan against her, squealing.

“Ah, look at my young baby Nobu! His cheeks are so chubby and cute, what a cute baby boy!”

“Aki–niisama, help me!”

“But Genmei–sama seemed to have missed you, Nobuhiko.”

“I did miss him, Aki–kun! He’s still such a baby. He’s such a cutie, isn’t he, Aki–kun? He’s my cute little kouhai!”

Akihiko chuckled, watching the playful exchange between Genmei and Nobuhiko. “Indeed, Genmei–sama. But Nobu will lose his energy if you play with him too much.”

“I’m already losing it right now!”

Genmei released her grip on Nobuhiko’s cheeks, letting him catch his breath. “I’ll play with you later, Nobu.”

“Please don’t.” Nobuhiko sighed, already weary. “Genmei–sama, I don’t think I’ll last if you do that.”

“But I missed my kouhai!”

“I don’t miss being pinched on my cheeks, Genmei–sama!”

Akihiko, always the calm and collected elder, interjected with a knowing smile. "Well, Genmei–sama, now that you're back, we must discuss the matters at hand. There's much to catch up on."

Genmei nodded, the playful glint in her eyes transitioning into a more serious demeanor. "Of course, Aki–kun. I'm eager to hear about the current state of affairs. Much more on the conversations about Itadori Yuuji.”

“Most of the Mikoto elders seem to be in agreement with the rest of them,” Nobuhiko informs her as they start to depart from the station. “Knowing the clan’s history with Sukuna, they would do anything to ensure his reawakening would not happen.”

The lilac eyed woman nodded. “That’s to be expected. For a thousand years, one of the clan’s will to survive is to ensure Sukuna remains gone.”

“The others do not agree.” Akihiko continues for the younger man, his green eyes gleaming narrowly. “They see the boy first rather than the king of curses.”

“Who’s included in that?”

“Your aunt and your mother.” Akihiko retorts in reply, a small smile on his lips. Genmei returned his smile. “It’s keeping everyone on their toes for now. None of our elders have voted.”

“Hm, Satoru spoke about the Zenin and Kamo votes.”

Nobuhiko snorts, his hands diving through his silver locks. “It’s always those two.”

Genmei reciprocates in kind. “Of course, they have the same mind.”

“The Gojo vote is the most important.”

Akihiko nodded. “The Inumaki vote followed the Gojo vote.”

“Considering its regarding the king of curses, the vote of the Mikoto would sway everyone else.” 

The Zenin born lady smiles. “I need to get Gakuganji to back out. He has the most sway out of the head elders.”

“I doubt he’d say no to you.” Nobuhiko grinned. “Master Naoki was his favorite student, wasn’t he?”

Akihiko nodded, smiling in kind. “Some things are thicker than one’s greed, after all.”

Gojo Genmei looks up in the sky.

She wonders if her father is up there.

She lets out a small huff of air.

“Let’s get going.”

GOJO GENMEI REMEMBERS TOO FONDLY WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO BE A STUDENT IN KYOTO HIGH. As she walked through the torii gates with Akihiko and Nobuhiko, the past came alive in her mind. Laughter echoed like a familiar lullaby, boots thumped through the steps like an endless heartbeat.

The warm layers of flesh against flesh as they rested on each other’s bodies and embraced. The cherry blossoms danced in the breeze, their delicate petals creating a picturesque scene around Kyoto Jujutsu High. It has been a long time.

Genmei walked through the familiar grounds, her lilac eyes taking in the sights that stirred old ghosts to haunt her once more. The echoes of her own footsteps resonated with the ticklish whispers of Kaiko’s teasing tone. The wind’s blows resounded through the place, the chimes going through one after another.

For a moment, Genmei wondered if those names carved on those wooden pools still stood. Like she always was, Gojo Genmei is a prisoner of the past, and yearned to breathe the air seemed to carry the weight of stories only she could tell. She was the only one alive out of the three of them after all.

As she approached the towering gates adorned with the Kyoto Jujutsu High’s mighty symbols, Genmei couldn't help but recall her own years as a student within these hallowed walls. Nothing has changed. It was as if the building was still an homage to the past, still stuck in time and unchanging.

The scent of incense and the distant hum of students practicing their cursed weapons and their techniques brought her back to a time when life was simpler, and the future held limitless possibilities. Youth often gave those promises. It’s the same promise she carries in hope, for these kids. That youth this time around fulfilled its promises.

The training grounds, where she had honed her skills and formed bonds that transcended the battlefield, were now filled with a new generation of students. The wooden dummies, scarred with countless strikes, stood as silent witnesses to the countless hours she and her friends had spent perfecting their techniques.

The thought of those summer days came to mind effortlessly — laughter echoing through the corridors, late-night study sessions, and the thrill of facing curses side by side. Genmei's fingers traced over the ancient trees before her, their branches reaching towards the sky like guardians of the past. For a moment she wondered if such touch from her to this ancient observer could reach them. If for a moment, Genmei could speak to them again.

The weight of loss pressed on her heart, a somber melody playing in the background of her reminiscence. Genmei knew Akihiko and Nobuhiko were looking at her with concern from behind her. Each visit was a torture, that they knew. One of the willful reasons that

Genmei had resolved to send Nobuhiko to Tokyo High instead was to ensure she wouldn’t walk these halls as often as she had to alone. Just to avoid the memories that were so fresh, so easily opened wounds that refused to heal. That was out of her own selfishness, she knew. Not that Nobuhiko would mind. He told her as much. He’s satisfied with his own story.

She halted for a moment, her lips pursed in a flat line as she spotted the solitary bench in the corner. The bench was perfect during sunny days. It firmly stood beneath the shade of the tree, its gnarled branches reaching out like the hands of old friends. Namie often played with her creatures here. Genmei couldn't resist the pull of old days, and she found herself touching the frames of its wooden body.

Kaiko, with her infectious laughter and unruly hair, always grinning as she readied herself to balance off the bench. Namie, innocent and brightly smiling, pouting as she couldn’t get beyond the number ten when she balanced off the bench.

And her, Genmei, telling them off with her failure to keep her straight face as she laughed when Kaiko and Namie would get into a row. Genmei closed her eyes, allowing the cool breeze to carry her back to the days when three loud echoes of laughter graced  through these halls. Beaming so brightly like three stars in the sky.

“I’m sorry if we’re taking too long.” Genmei smiled, turning to her companions. “It’s just….Nostalgia.”

“Don’t apologize, Genmei–sama.” Akihiko shook his head, a small smile on his face. “We were young at one point.”

Nobuhiko crossed his arms, his face full of unreadable emotions. 

Genmei was certain he was remembering his own youth too.

Thinking a lot about that doe eyed boy who never got to grow up.

BY THE TIME THEY GOT THERE, GENMEI WAS CERTAIN THEY HAD MADE GAKUGANJI WAIT ANYWAY. Genmei's strides and steps echoed through the hallowed halls, her lilac eyes focused ahead. It was already late when they got around to the main building, where the offices of the school were located. Akihiko suggested the flow of things, Nobuhiko walking behind him and saying things here and there. 

But for a while, she was sure she drowned them out, almost being dragged by her own spirits and not her wits. Perhaps it was the overwhelming emotions, she was confronted by the past she wanted to run away from and bury. By this point, she would have expected the voice in her head to laugh at her. As gods mostly do. But she supposed that gods too have lives to live.

Before she realized it, Genmei stood firmly in front of the massive doors that barred the gap between her and that world she wishes to forget. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the ancient corridors of Kyoto Jujutsu High.

The meeting with Gakuganji, the Kyoto principal, was long overdue, and the tension in the air was palpable. Much more so since their last conversation last year had ended in a stalemate. Yet by this point, Genmei was certain the waters had cooled and been forgotten. In his eyes, forgiven. After all, the past was the past. It ought to be over.

Entering the grand chamber where the principal often held discussions of great import, Gojo Genmei found Gakuganji seated behind a large, ornate desk. The room itself exuded an air of ancient authority, its walls adorned with tapestries depicting the lineage of Kyoto Jujutsu High.

The scent of aged wood and lingering incense hung in the air, creating an atmosphere steeped in tradition and gravity. Akihiko and Nobuhiko bowed their heads at the direction of the principal, quietly backing away to the doors and shutting them.

Gakuganji's presence was commanding, it always was something that frightened Namie when they were young. The old man’s figure was framed by the high-backed chair that seemed to possess its own history.

The desk before him, intricately carved with symbols of the Jujutsu world's intricate hierarchy, held an array of scrolls and artifacts, each a testament to the weight of decisions made within these sacred walls. Genmei could see it clearly, the words of a long forgotten script bearing the name of Ryomen Sukuna. At one point, she saw her ancestor's name in one of the scrolls. But that failed to read everything before Gakuganji took her attention off the scroll.

As Genmei approached, the soft glow of paper lanterns illuminated the chamber, casting shadows that danced across the tatami mat floor. Gakuganji's gaze, sharp and discerning, met hers with an intensity that hinted at the countless negotiations and confrontations this room had witnessed.

The air was heavy with the weight of tradition and the echoes of past decisions. One would find it easy to be intimidated if they do not endure this often. The walls after all watch as much as they speak. Each semblance of this place reverberates with the unspoken power of the elders and their chosen favorites.

One would find it easy to be intimidated if they do not endure this often. The walls after all watch as much as they speak. Each semblance of this place reverberates with the unspoken power of the elders and their chosen favorites.

Gakuganji Yoshinobu acknowledged her entrance with a slight nod, his eyes locking onto hers. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, met Genmei's with an equal intensity. He shifted his hand toward Genmei’s companions, who raised their heads from their bow. The room felt charged with the clash of two formidable forces.

"Gojo Genmei," Gakuganji greeted, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the chamber. "It's been a while since someone of the Gojo name set foot in these halls.” 

“You never used to address me like that before, Gakuganji–sensei.”

“I’m merely addressing you as your title implores.”

Genmei slyly grinned. “That sounds snobbish even for you, Gakuganji–sensei. I thought I was your favorite.”

The old man snickers. “It is at this point debatable.”

“How heartbreaking!”

“What brings you to Kyoto?" 

Genmei beams at him. “You already know what I’m here for.”

“And that is?”

"I'm here to discuss the matter of Itadori Yuuji's execution.” The sandy haired lady exclaims back to the elder. “I trust you are aware of the situation. Given that you've been urging others to vote in favor of it."

Gakuganji's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Ah, the vessel of Sukuna. A delicate matter, indeed.”

“Indeed it is.” Genmei nodded nonchalantly. “But I’ve an even more pressing matter.”

“And that is?” His brow is cocked.

“Tightening the rescindment until further notice.”

He lets an amused breath of air. “Your husband had gotten the execution rescinded for now, hasn’t he?”

“You and I both know the elders shift like the weather does.” Genmei gave a small laugh at his words. “Why else would I be here, Gakuganji–sensei?”

“I do not have the power to—”

“That’s a bold lie and we both know it.”

“The matter is decided."

“But yours isn’t casted yet, isn’t it?” Genmei reminds him, her eyes narrowing at him sharply. “The matter isn't truly decided until you or the Mikoto clan say something."

“You’re observant.”

Her smile tightens as much as her jaw does. “Of course. My blood is Mikoto. I would notice."

“And you mean to use me to get what you want?”

“You promised.” Genmei reiterated to him.

The Kyoto principal leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together. "Genmei Gojo, you may be a respected figure in the Jujutsu world, but you cannot dictate the decisions of the elders in Kyoto."

Genmei's lilac eyes narrowed, a subtle shift in her demeanor. "I am not here to dictate like my husband. But I don't hold my tongue very well."

"One must know restraint too, child."

"And one must know the value of their words. Is yours so cheap that you forget your place? Or are you just another oathbreaker? Are you not my ally?”

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the subtle creaking of the ancient wooden floors beneath them. Genmei's  words,though veiled in curtesy, carried the weight of a storm gathering on the horizon.

Gakuganji's gaze remained unwavering. "Do not mistake my fondness for abuse or unchecked power, Genmei."

She gritted her teeth. "You do a good job of that without me interfering."

"Still, the decision regarding Itadori Yuuji will be made by the elders based on what they believe is best for the Jujutsu world. You know that better than anyone else.”

“Oh, I know.”

Akihiko’s eyes started to widen.

Nobuhiko started to smile.

At that moment, Gojo Genmei stood.

Gakuganji Yoshinobu’s eyes bulged out.

"After all, you've made me do worse because the elders said so."

The alarms all over Kyoto High started to ring out simultaneously as Gojo Genmei’s body released cursed energy in loud, bright waves. The abruptness of the alarms shattered the ambient stillness, their urgency cutting through the air like a blade.

Genmei's silhouette was outlined by the pulsating glow of her unleashed cursed energy, casting an otherworldly aura around her. The vivid hues of white and cerulean blue danced in harmony, an unbridled display of power that resonated through the ancient walls of Kyoto Jujutsu High. 

Cracks started to take apart the windows, wood started to splinter against itself as the sheer force of Gojo Genmei's energy reverberated through the very foundations of the venerable institution. The large expanse of the office, once serene, now bore witness to the tumultuous manifestation of a power beyond comprehension.

The very fabric of Kyoto Jujutsu High seemed to quiver under the strain. The ancient walls, witnesses to centuries of Jujutsu sorcery, now bore the scars of Gojo Genmei's unleashed power.

Genmei leaned forward, her hands firmly placed on the desk, narrowing the distance between them. "I've come here to warn you, Gakuganji. I am trying to play nice with you. But if you keep pushing my hand, it will be a different story. You’ve proclaimed yourself to be my ally. If you wish to be my ally and fulfill your promises, follow my will. Act like it.”

The principal's gaze, unwavering, met Genmei's. His dark orbs against her lilac haze. The clash of wills continued, but now it was accompanied by the destruction of the room, a manifestation of the stakes involved in the decisions being made. In a flick of a finger, all the power disappeared instantaneously as Gojo Genmei managed to calm herself. 

“You’ve become too comfortable as that brat’s wife, child.”

“And you’ve become comfortable being forgetful, old man.”

Gakuganji snickers. “You’ll regret this decision.”

“I do not think I will.”

The old man started to laugh. “We will see about that, child.”

As Genmei turned to leave, the remnants of the grand chamber bore witness to the aftermath of her unleashed power. The air, thick with the scent of destruction and charged with residual energy, seemed to settle. The alarms, having served as heralds of the tumultuous events, now echoed in the lingering silence.

The sandy haired sorcerer walked through the corridors, the echoes of her footsteps resonating with the hushed whispers of the ancient walls. The faculty across the building who had retreated in the wake of her power, watched in awe and trepidation as she passed by. Nobuhiko started to laugh out loud about Gakuganji’s face as Akihiko tried to get him to calm down.

The sun, casting its final golden rays over Kyoto Jujutsu High, illuminated Genmei's determined expression. The branches on the ancient tree, though shaken by the tumult, swayed in a final salute to the departing sorcerer. As she stepped into the fading daylight, the courtyard held the traces of the intense encounter. The shattered windows, the splintered wood, and the remnants of the alarms all spoke of a clash of wills that had left an indelible mark on the venerable institution.

Genmei, undeterred by the lingering chaos, walked towards the gates of Kyoto Jujutsu High. The weight of her decisions hung heavy, but the lilac-eyed sorcerer carried it with the grace of one who had faced adversity before. The courtyard, now bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, became a stage for the next act in the unfolding drama. The alarms, having fulfilled their duty, faded into the background, leaving Kyoto Jujutsu High in a contemplative stillness.

As Genmei stepped beyond the gates, the leaves fell and whispered their silent farewell, and the ancient walls bore witness to the shifting tides of power within the Jujutsu world. The struggle for Itadori's life continued, and the repercussions of Genmei's actions would reverberate through the corridors of tradition and rebellion.

“Where to next?” Akihiko turned to ask.

Nobuhiko yawned. “We should go. I’m quite hungry.”

“Mikoto–mori.”

Nobuhiko looked at her. “To do what, Genmei–sama?”

Genmei smiled. “To play with the Mikoto elders, of course."

facts about this chapter

genmei was born on january 10th, 1976, year of the tiger. this makes her three years older than satoru and four years older than nobuhiko.

two herons are the clan crest of the mikoto, and members of the mikoto clan wear a badge to signify where they're from. red from the line of the original ryomen clan bloodline and purple for the line of the original mikoto bloodline.

not all members of the mikoto clan are blood related. the mikoto clan prefer adoption, akihiko and nobuhiko are both product of adoption. they are part of the family which is why genmei considers them bowing to her unnecessary.

as stated by nanami in what a wonderful world, genmei has adopted gojo's personality and perspectives over the years. its what annoys gakuganji and the higher ups as genmei was prior to this, was very obedient to them.

genmei adopted gojonyan many years ago and did so because the cat reminded her of satoru. however, gojonyan hates satoru a lot. he's however very friendly with megumi.

genmei has great hatred for the higher ups as much as satoru. being a zenin by birth, she has some pull with them. however, she can reveal her true colors when her emotions get too much. especially if they put the students at risk.

genmei was very close to suguru and satoru, both being her juniors. she formed a great attachment to suguru and has just as much nightmares as she does with namie and kaiko, who were her kyoto classmates.

[fraugwinska]

Chapter 8 - Evaluation

Evaluation (noun) 1. an act or instance of appraising 2. a diagnosis or diagnostic study of a physical or mental condition

Tags & Warnings: Mildy Sexual Tension, Abusive Behaviour

Alastor had sat down on your wing back chair, crossing his legs, cane twisting in his hands.

You had remained silent, sitting down on the bed, head dropped in shame, fingers tightly entwined and awaiting his scolding. With a swift gesture, his shadows swished over your room door, essentially a safety measure he always did when he didn't want to be disturbed, soundproofing the room and locking it.

Shit. Now it was serious.

“I must say, you've put on quite a show this morning, what a spectacle.”

Breathe. You didn't dare to say anything. You couldn't. There was no excuse. You shot a glace in his direction, his head was slightly tilted, watching you, predator eyeing prey. Your ears flattened on your head, twitching with anxiety. His long claws caressed the staff of his cane as it turned in his hands. Behind him, you thought you'd seen Ozul, nervously shifting around.

“Now, now, why are we looking like a cat on a hot tin roof?”

You lifted your eyes, barely. “I'm... I apologize for disappointing you, Alastor.”

“Disappointing me? Au contraire, I'm ecstatic, my dear, overjoyed even! What a fitting new power you've shown, it was a marvelous sight to see!”

Eyes wide, you sat yourself up a bit.

“You are... not angry with me?”

Alastor laughed, waving his hands and giving you a half-lidded, mocking smile. “Of course not. You've accomplished more with that little demonstration than I hoped for.”

He leaned forward, hands resting on his microphone. “Not only have you proven to be quite the enchanting performer – singing yourself right in the hearts of our lovely acquaintances with that sentimental ballad. You've also garnered much sympathy, for the both of us, might I add.”, his voice turned impishly gleeful. “Everyone was so worried after you fainted, a poor, little weak kitten – only to be rescued by her concerned employer, carrying her limp body to her room, not wanting to leave her side. Ah, what a display, you should've seen the looks on the princesses face!”, he chuckled darkly.

“It couldn't have gone better, even if I planned it.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. So he used the situation to manipulate it to his advantage... which was.. kind of a genius move. You might have screwed up, but it had also given him an opportunity to look like 'the good guy'. Huh.

“That's... good then...?”, you asked quietly, lifting your ears just a bit.

Alastor grinned, claws stretching over his microphone.

“Indeed, darling. Better than good.”

Better than good. The edges of your lips tightened into a faint, almost hidden smile.

You did better than good.

Thank fucking satan.

A sudden sound startled you, Alastor had risen from the chair and walked over to you, stopping right in front of you, grinning softly. He reached his hand out and without a second thought, you put your own in his. Your neck tingled hot when his fingers wrapped them around yours, lifting you up and pulling you gallantly into the middle of your room.

“Now, let's discuss that magnificent power of yours, my darling kitten.” He let go of your hand, rounding you while he spoke, tone low and suave – it sent shivers down your back, making your tail puff up slightly. Oh for the love of – get a grip of yourself!

“It seems your abilities harness their energy from your emotions. Which puts you in quite a conundrum. We both know how protective you are of them, aren't you?”

His fingers brushed lightly over your neck, redness shooting up instantly. You nodded, focusing on calming yourself. But it felt so nice...

“As much as I admire self control, it would be a waste not to culture your power because of self-imposed, overcautious reservations.”

He was back in front of you again, lifting his cane to place his microphone under your chin, forcing you to lift your head up to look into his eyes, so full of insidious delight. Your eyes have blown wide, not being able to avert your gaze. You hoped he didn't mean what you thought he meant.

“You shouldn't be at the mercy of your emotions, kitten, no no no, that won't do. Instead, you shall learn how to use them to our advantage, to dominate them. And I will be by your side every step of the way, guiding you there.”

You shuddered, partly out of fear to lose control again, partly because of the sheer intensity of his voice ringing in your ears. He acted weird, out of his modus operandi, out of everything you've learned about him, and that actually scared you. That's what that feeling was, right? For the first time since you landed in hell, you didn't know how to adjust to his behavior. With a drumming heart, you suppressed the tremble in your voice as you spoke. You couldn't question him. You wouldn't.

“Whatever you see fit, I'll do.”

“That's the spirit, darling.” He hummed, retrieving his cane and vanished it in thin air, a contemplating, toothless smile on his lips as he tilted his head at you, thinking. Deciding.

”I want to indulge in a little experiment, my dear, if you could entertain me?”

You nodded, holding your breath. His static licked over your whole body in response, drizzling over your shoulders down the back to your feet. He bared his teeth in a devilish smirk.

“Lovely.” He suddenly melted into shadows, just to materialize behind you.

“Just stay right where you are. And do tell me if you wish to stop.”

Before you could even process what he said, you felt lingering fingers caressing the back of your head. Sharp digits scraping unknown patterns down your spine, light as a feather but burning as a hot iron. You fought a gasp of pleasure, tensing against the touch.

You felt hot breath on your ear “Relax, (Y/n), don't fight it, just feel. You can do that, right?”

Your tail quivered at it's tip, you felt your face burning up at the thought of him noticing.

“Yes.” was all you could manage to say. What else could you say?

You felt his fingers traveling further down, his static thick in your ears, muffling your raging thoughts. What had gotten into him, into you, what the hell happened? You felt tingly all over, itchy in your own skin as his hands slowly brushed over your sides to your thighs, earning a heartbreaking shudder. You barely remembered the last time you were touched , much less like this. Who had you been with? A faceless, amateurish nobody. Not worthy of remembering the name. None of the men you had been with had been so remarkable as to entertain them more than one time. And none of them had ever been this sensual threatening while caressing you. You felt your head fall back inevitably, a smile tugged desperately at the edges of your lips. You felt your limbs, your torso, your everything just getting so god damn hot.

And if felt so deliciously good.

“ȶɦǟȶ'ֆ ɨȶ... ʝʊֆȶ ǟ ʟɨȶȶʟɛ ʍօʀɛ, ӄɨȶȶɛռ... ”

(That's it... just a little more, kitten...")

His voice sounded distorted, hot, dark, rumbling, sultry dangerous. You felt him pull you closer, felt the warmth of his body, your head only says I want this Do I want this?

You felt his claws digging into you hips, sweet sharp pain, you were ready to beg for more to burst, ready to...

🅺🅽🅾🅲🅺

🅺🅽🅾🅲🅺

🅺🅽🅾🅲🅺

Alastor was furious.

Furious about the princesses absolutely disastrous, unfailing, unwarranted, timing.

Furious about how close they came, so unnervingly close to getting one of her little copies to come out

Most of all, he was absolutely seething that he almost lost his own composure.

He could see the echoes of her bright, rosy light still pulsing around her. The second the knocks stopped, he snapped out of it, retreated his hands and melted into smoke, recalling his shadows from the door and joining them in the darkest corner of her room.

She, on the other hand, looked dangerously undone. Breathing hard, skin flushed with such an appealing tint of pink, faint quivers rushing through her body. A pretty little mess.

“One moment, Charlie. I'm indecent.”

She said with an unexpected, clear and steady voice. She took a shaky step forward, placing both hands on her dresser, leaning against it and taking deep, long breaths, her eyes closed, brows knitted tightly together. He stalked her with morbid curiosity, watched her every move, every reaction.

She ran her hands over her face and pushed her hair back, staring at her mirror image. Her eyes, a moment ago blown wide and diluted, had eased back, heavy lidded and dulled. Her mouth stayed shut in a soft frown. She stared at herself for a long moment, pure willpower forcing her skin to pale down. Alastor couldn't help but admire her ability to put her protective mask on, so quick and flawlessly, as if he taught her.

She rolled her shoulders back, turned with a last glance at the mirror and opened the door.

“Sorry for making you wait, Charlie.”

“Don't worry about it. Hey, you look much better! You even got some color on you!”

His kitten, waved her hand non-nonchalantly, her face unreadable. “I told you a good hot shower would do the trick.”

The princess giggled, took her hand and pulled her with her down the hall.

Alastor materialized again at the end of the dark hallway by the ballroom, making sure no one was near to see him. He straightened his jacket and pulled his shirt tight angrily.

It had almost worked. Almost.

One word he truly hated.

He swished his hair back, irritated, and blinked. Alas, at least he found out that his plan hadn't been fruitless. (Y/n) could be triggered, she was able to tap into the source of her energy, and that was progress, despite this little... setback. He scowled.

How he had wanted to see it in front of him, touch the jeweled duplicate himself, touch that power and analyze it.

There would be another chance. Another time.

His smile widened. Yes, his idea had been fruitful. He had suspected that most emotions would be hard to trigger in his dear servant – she would resist greatly to show real anger, for example, joy and fear were also too challenging. Yet.

He had contemplated harnessing sadness. That would have been easy enough, using her memories of her mother. But Alastor had chosen against it. He was cruel, true. But this was even outside of his own twisted moral code.

Not the mother.

Lastly, he decided for an emotion that was as easy to trigger as it was mostly caused by unconscious stimuli, and delightfully alien to him.

Lust.

Inspired also by her unusual, interesting reactions to his proximity lately.

It had been so interesting to see her react to him.

To see her flush at his touch.

To smell the changes in her scent.

ʟɨӄɛ աǟȶɛʀ ɨռȶօ ǟʍɮʀօֆɨǟ

(Like water onto ambrosia)

His shadows buzzed agitated, except for one. He glared at Ozul, who had attached himself to his feet, fizzing lowly. He scoffed at him.

The flow of energy had surprised him, he had to give that credit. It had been unexpectedly powerful, tempting to just bite down and taste it. That had been the reason he lost grip on his form, slipping slightly. Hunger. Now he knew – it wouldn't happen again.

He quickly stepped along the corridor to the bar. Better to be seen than to be questioned.

“Husker my friend!”, he exclaimed cheerfully, flourishing onto a bar stool.

The cat demon growled, scrunching away from him. So rude.

“Will you be a lamb and pour me some whiskey, my chum?”

“If you shut the fuck up.”

“Ahaha, always the riot, Husker.”

He took great joy from seeing his servant begrudgingly open a bottle of Brimstone's Best Bourbon. The glass was half filled, Husker did a sloppy job at pouring on purpose, but Alastor didn't waste energy on such trivialities.

“Thank you, good man.” Alastor sipped the brown liquid. Brimstone's always had such a nice aroma of oak, spices and hot ash.

Husk growled, opening himself a bottle of the cheapest booze, murmuring silent curses at him. Which didn't fall out of the ordinary, but Alastor had seen the shadows over his companions eyes, and he knew the look too well.

“My, my, aren't we especially spicy ourselves today?” he mocked, chuckling while he took another sip. “Care to share what's been eating you, my furry fellow?”

Husk took a big swig out of the bottle, slamming it hard onto the bar.

“Jus' pissed off 's what I am. Guess I didn't think even you'd stoop so low.”

The cat demon, swiped his mouth with a clawed paw, greenish streaks still tracing down to his chin. Alastor snickered at this brazen display.

“ Funny, I didn't realize there was a height requirement for your expectations of me, Husker.“

“Crack yo' stupid jokes, boss. But I know what yo' doin'.”, Husk snarled, baring his teeth in disgust at him. He felt his smile twitching.

“And what exactly am I doing, f r I e n D ?”, Alastor lowered his voice, letting him hear just enough threat to not being able to be picked up by anyone. His patience was wearing thin, especially after the unfortunate disruption from before. With satisfaction he saw Huskers ears slightly flatten on his head.

“Usin' that poor kid you brought in.” the cat demon huffed, his fur puffed up. Alastor rewarded his statement with a disparaging scoff.

“Can't fool everyone with that bullshit story o'yours – fresh sinner, just stumblin' in front of the big bad fuckin' radio demon, no power, no nuthin', and yo' hirin' her on the spot. Outta yo' god damn goodness of yo' heart?” The creature had the audacity to sneer at him. His claws dug into the bar, leaving deep grooves behind.

“Yo' better hope an' pray the princess and her guard dog don' find out yo' made a deal with a fuckin' morta..”

“ɨ ȶɦɨռӄ ȶɦǟȶ'ֆ զʊɨȶɛ ɛռօʊɢɦ.”

(I think that's quite enough.")

His hand had shot to Huskers neck, catching his throat. He squeezed, hard enough for the cat to get the message, light enough not to leave visible marks behind. Alastor hated to get so unrefined, but he had no tolerance left. Not today. His shadows hummed hungrily around him, waiting, longing for his command.

“Let's keep such V i l E and u N n e c C e S s a R y speculations to ourselves, shall we?”

With a final squeeze, he let Husker fall down. He coughed, fear flashing in his eyes as he crouched away from him. Mhm. Better.

“We wouldn't want to offend our newest member, wouldn't we. That poor kitten would be devastated if she knew what you thought about her...”, Alastor laughed, finishing his whiskey and standing up. “Don't worry, my dear Husker, our conversation will be our little secret.”

He walked away, now with a little pep in his step, feeling a bit lighter now that he got some steam off. But he still curled his lips when heard the bartenders mumble, even if it was only to himself.

“At least he doesn't fuck the poor girl.”

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[valeriianz]

A WILD PROMPT APPEARS

Dream and Hob take a very cliché romantic walk on the beach at sunset. really lean in to the rom com tropes. like maybe it starts raining and they kiss in the rain but then they have to run home and they’re all wet oh no however shall they get out of these wet clothes oh my oh dear 👀

xo @hardly-an-escape

EDIT: now heavily edited and expanded on Ao3!

___________________

Most people go to bars after a breakup, numbing themselves from the pain of a broken heart. Some stay at home, curled under a blanket and hiding themselves from the world. Hob had been there, sitting at the corner of his couch and taking on equal amounts of whiskey and ice cream until he was (literally) sick with it.

Morpheus, however, could be found in the stacks of the campus library. Hidden away in silence, sitting on the floor against a wall of books, losing himself in dry, educational text. Distracting his brain from the sentimental, emotional, raw feelings of rejection with the names of dead kings, scientific formulas, or art theory.

“Knew I’d find you cooped up in here, feeling sorry for yourself.”

Hob spoke softly, walking up to his oldest and best friend, crouching down next to him. Morpheus spared him a glance before swinging his eyes– blue, like sapphires, like polished stone glinting in the sun– back to the dull and dusty tome opened on his lap.

Hob remained perched on his heels, watching, waiting for Morpheus to snap out of it. It sucks that Calliope broke up with him, they really seemed great together (even though watching them together, Morpheus holding her hand, pulling her into even a casual kiss, made something ugly and green roar inside of Hob). But what makes the whole thing worse is the reason.

“Too much…” Morpheus had told him. He was too much for her. Too fast, too intense, and her sisters worried about her settling before she was ready, swayed by Morpheus’ eagerness. Hob hated that. He hated the idea of breaking up with someone because they loved too much. 

Hob was desperate to be loved like that. To be the only person in his partner’s orbit, to be the only man worthy of Morpheus’ attention. To be loved so intensely, so frequently that Hob would ache with it, would suffocate with it, drown in it, everything. Everything. He wanted to be everything to Morpheus.

But Hob was his friend, had been since childhood, and that was enough. It was enough to even be in his life, no matter how platonic and at arm's length. So what if Hob had to be there to pick up the pieces of Morpheus’ shattered heart. Offering him comfort, encouraging words and booze to drink, if he so wished.

So what if Hob saw the most fragile, frail side of him and Morpheus never seemed to understand how he was pouring his love into him, filling the cracks and splinters with his soul, his breath, his wanting. Hob had hoped, foolishly, that one day Morpheus would figure out his little crush, his obsession, and act on it. But as the years went on and Morpheus continued dating other people that were decidedly not Hob, he figured it was nothing more than a fantasy

And of course Hob dared not reveal his own feelings, worried to death how that would affect their friendship. He’d never forgive himself for demolishing a perfectly good foundation, the history that they’d already built. As friends. Best friends.

And best friends do not fall hopelessly in love with each other.

“Must be a really good book.”

“I must confess,” Morpheus finally spoke, sighing tiredly. “I have been reading the same page for ages now.”

“Let’s move on then.” Hob slapped his thighs, standing to full height and offering his hand down to Morpheus.

Hob felt himself grin as Morheus studied his hand, watching it like it might bite. Hob wiggled his fingers and Morpheus finally relented, closing the heavy book and taking Hob’s hand, hefting himself up.

—-------------------

It was not proper weather for an outing to the beach, the sky was graying and a breeze had kicked up, carried by the water. But Hob had insisted, taking off his shoes and rolling his pants up past his ankles, encouraging Morpheus to do the same. 

His toes sunk into the cool sand as they walked just out of reach of the shore, the tide ebbing and flowing, scaring off the Curlews who poked their beaks into the sand, searching for morsels.

Hob swung his shoes, stuffed with his socks, in one hand, smiling in amusement as Morpheus did the same, though his arms didn’t swing. His fingers stuck in the loops of his heavy black boots, hanging low and barely moving. He looked dead ahead, his brows furrowed, like he was thinking too hard.

“Hey,” Hob pushed his shoulder into Morpheus’, bumping him out of his thoughts.

“You’re too good for her.”

Morpheus sighed, his eyelids slipping shut, but he kept pace with Hob, kicking up sand now.

“I’m not good.” Morpheus says at length, his eyes opening again, but the stress is gone, replaced with tired acceptance. “I’m selfish and greedy and…” he huffed, a humorless laugh. “Rational. Which I’ve learned recently is just as bad as being irrational.”

“That what Calliope said?”

Morpheus shook his head, his midnight dark hair ruffling in the breeze. 

“That’s what everyone says.”

Hob keeps his eyes on him as they walk, slowly, not so much enjoying the sounds of the waves coming in, or the soft grit of the sand underfoot, but relaxing in the company of one another.

“I like your rationality,” Morpheus peeks over at Hob’s words. “Balances out my impulsiveness.”

“Yes,” Morpheus sighs, amused, the corner of his mouth curling up. “I must keep you in check.”

“I like it.” Hob feels his neck heat up, looking away from his friend as Morpheus swings his head back to him. “Helps me stay out of trouble.”

Morpheus hums, a quiet settling over them once more.

There’s no one else on the beach, and it’s almost eerie, but it’s also relaxing. Knowing they are alone, staring down the coast that stretches on for miles, reveling in the large clouds that move quickly with the wind. The sunlight that manages to peek through the clouds is setting in the distance, casting a deep indigo across the sky. but Hob feels comforted anyway, in good company, and only hopes Morpheus feels the same. His sweater hangs thick and heavy around him and Morpheus’ jacket hugs tightly to his frame, barely bristing in the breeze.

“Thank you,” Morpheus says, the minutes wasting away. “For dragging me out here. I needed this.”

“To feel the sand between your toes?” Hob teases, smiling.

“Mm…” Dream hums, his own smile threatening to break through. “To feel grounded.”

“Anytime.”

Hob looks down, movement caught in his periphery, and watches Morpheus move his boots from one hand to the other, using his freed hand to tentatively grab onto his, slowing their walk to a stop.

Hob only has time to gasp softly before Morpheus is pulling him into a one-armed hug, his face tucking into his neck.

Hob immediately drops his shoes to get both arms properly around his friend, pulling him close and shutting his eyes with it. He feels himself unintentionally rocking them back and forth, like a mother soothing her child.

Though that is the last metaphor on Hob’s mind. Especially as he feels Morpheus drop his boots too, both arms now around Hob’s shoulders, with his around Morpheus’ middle, holding him close, reveling in the heat that emits from his slim frame.

Morpheus inhales deeply, as if he intends to pull Hob into him, sucking his very essence into him, curling further, crushing Hob against him like Hob��s a glue meant to put Morpheus back together.

Hob’s hands move, rubbing soothing motions on Morpheus’ back and failing to hold in a full body shudder that nearly decimates him as Morpheus exhales, long and low and hot against his throat.

Hob’s eyes open, staring into the horizon, scanning the dark water and choppy waves, distracting himself from his own feelings. His own stupid heart racing in his chest, trying out for a marathon run. His stomach clenched in delight, in anticipation, fighting down the urge to turn his head, to press a kiss to Morpheus’ head, to nuzzle his nose past feather soft hair… to sob wearily.

Morpheus needed comfort. Not– this. But the longer they stood there, locked in each other's embrace, Hob couldn’t help but imagine this was happening under different circumstances. That Morpheus clung to him out of want, out of affection. That Morpheus’ cold nose dug into the flesh behind Hob’s ear with intention to lay a kiss there, to bite and leave a mark. 

Christ Hob was a goner. And he was so resolutely fucked.

After a moment, the seconds ticking away and hedging on too much, too far, Morpheus speaks again, his low voice and deep timbre rattling Hob’s brain.

“I’ve been thinking lately…”

“Dangerous.” Hob grins, tapping his fingers now along Morpheus’ spine, certain he can feel the knobs of it even under layers of shirt and jacket.

Agonizing seconds pass, and Hob wonders when a good time to pull back would be (never, he never wants to pull away from this), when Morpheus whispers, soft, careful:

“About you.”

Hob feels his stomach give a delighted swoop.

He licks his lips, finds them chapped. “What about me?”

A pause. Hob feels his blood racing, his nerves singing. Morpheus finally pulls away, but not far, keeping his hands on Hob’s shoulders, their faces mere inches apart.

“I didn’t fight. When Calliope suggested we separate, I didn’t fight for her.” Morpheus looks bewildered with this revelation, his eyes never leaving Hob’s. “I didn’t beg her to reconsider. All I was thinking about was… you.”

Hob swallows, not daring to speak or move, frozen to the spot. He feels his pulse pounding in his ears, it’s a miracle he can hear Morpheus speak again.

“And I was thinking about our time together… all that we’ve been through… how much you selflessly care for me.” He shakes his head, like Morpheus can’t believe it, his eyes trailing down, as if taking Hob in, settling– Hob feels a spike of want stab through his body– on his mouth. 

“You pick me up, you always have. You’ve stayed for so long, despite my ridiculousness– my inability to cope.”

Morpheus’ gaze swings back up, regarding Hob’s eyes again.

“Are you in love with me?”

Hob’s jaw drops, his heart halting in his chest before kicking up again, nearly making him dizzy. But before he can say anything, Morpheus leans in, just a touch closer, noses brushing.

“Because I’m in love with you.”

“Oh.” Hob eloquently says. His body is vibrating, he can feel it. 

And Morpheus is still staring at him, watching, waiting for something. Hob licks his lips again, catching Morpheus’ eyes slipping down, and doesn’t hesitate as he leans in.

Kissing Morpheus, his best friend, doesn’t feel real. Like Hob is in a dream and could float away any minute.

So he hangs on, tightening his hold around Morpheus as he moves his lips, pressing harder, reveling in the way they fit together, like two halves of a whole finally reconnected. 

Morpheus’ arms slide back around Hob’s shoulders, getting his hands in his hair and lighting Hob up, his groan muffled as Morpheus slips his tongue– insistent– past Hob’s parted lips.

Hob is on fire. The long, pianist fingers knotting into his hair coupled with the way Morpheus’ tongue sweeps the inside of his mouth, like he intends to memorize it, sets Hob ablaze. Morpheus tastes like earl gray tea and rainwater and something indescribable, something heady that makes Hob’s head spin, makes him crazy.

The whine Morpheus makes as Hob pulls back, only to bite at his bottom lip, turning into a moan so salacious it causes Hob to momentarily forget where they are, his hips jerking involuntarily, searching for friction. 

“Fuck– Morpheus–”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Morpheus gasps, breathless and misty. Hob finds his eyes and sees how blown his pupils are, the black such a stark contrast to the bright blue of the iris.

“What?” Hob breathes, going back in to kiss along the sharp edge of Morpheus’ jaw, dragging his lips and tongue and teeth to his ear, nipping it and grinning at the noise that pulls out of Morpheus.

“Do you– ahh–” Hob feels Morpheus’ pulling him in impossibly closer as he bites behind Morpheus’ ear, sucking at the skin there.

“Do you love me?”

Hob laughs gently, elated, getting his own hands in Morpheus’ hair, moving them to face each other once more.

“Yes, you impossible creature. I love you.”

Morpheus smirks and it nearly strikes Hob down. He’s never seen Morpheus so… confident, his eyes sparkling with mischief, with euphoria.

“Will you show me,” Morpheus leans in, brushing their lips. “...how much you love me?”

Hob has to bite down something animalistic, something feral that rises in his chest, threatening to come out as a growl. Instead his fingers clench in Morpheus’ hair, pulling to expose his neck (Hob’s arousal jumping in his pants at the choked off noise that comes from Morpheus’ lips, unbidden).

“Yes.”

[tarisilmarwen]

Rebels Rewatch: "Twilight of the Apprentice"

The shadow of Malachor looms in the very highly-anticipated Season 2 finale.

Right, so, technically I've already liveblogged this before and you can go here for some of my more, ah, realtime reactions.

(Spoiler alert: There was a LOT of screaming.)

So for this and other episodes that I've already reacted to before I'm mostly going to be focusing more on commentary and meta observations and also my favorite bits and moments, music and animation, that kind of stuff.

Let's dive in!

Ooh right off the bat we have the more serious version of the "Shenanigans" cue.

I know this exchange here between Ahsoka and Rex is a callback to when they first met. So a heart stab for TCW fans.

One thing I notice about Malachor right away is how dead it looks, even from space. Just a featureless plain gray marble.

We get down to the surface and it's even eerier. In the middle of a giant crater there's this wide, unnaturally glasslike smooth plain, only broken up by weird towering stone monoliths.

Malachor's whole aesthetic leans very heavily into the idea and theme of descending into the Underworld, into a place of darkness and shadows where the light can't reach. Somewhere underground, somewhere full of devils and demons lurking in wait, with many hidden traps and temptations to stumble over.

Like the one Ezra triggers by touching the monolith lol.

This really isn't a survivable fall but whatever.

The Sith Temple is actually kind of beautiful in a stark, harsh, Gothic kind of way.

This whole environment is really excellently creepy and ethereal. The ceiling above recalls a night sky, the holes like pinprick stars casting beams of light down. The palate is almost colorless, mostly grays and blacks with some splashes of red and white. The lighting is muted and dim, heavy contrast with the shadows. The music relies on dissonant chords. The sound effects are full of watery rumbles, voices whisper quietly that apparently only Ezra can hear.

Oh and there's the scorched ground and statues of people frozen in distress, like the casts at Pompeii.

"To defeat your enemy, you have to understand them." A sentiment echoed and repeated later by both Maul and Thrawn, and inspired by the writings of Sun Tzu in his Art of War. You have to figure your enemy out, learn how they operate and what motivates them, in order to beat them. "Knowledge" is another word they keep using this episode, our heroes need to seek knowledge about the Sith in order to figure out how to defeat them.

I'm still not quite sure what knowledge they were actually able to gain during this trip. Certainly the Force did basically slap the truth of Vader's identity in Ahsoka's face, to get her to confront it and break through her denial. There's maybe a lesson to be learned about not seeking quick, easy solutions to one's problems, which wouldn't fully sink in until "Twin Suns". (Ezra's obsession with finding "the key to destroy the Sith" can be traced straight back to the Malachor plot thread.) There's definitely a cautionary tale and warning about the nature of the Dark Side, that Ezra completely ignores due to his guilt and shame and self-blame.

On the surface level, technically, the mission does accomplish what it set out to do. All the Inquisitors we know about wind up dead, Vader no longer has any interest in harassing them, they keep the base safe. But boy the cost of it all.

It's probably really fitting that the finale takes place here on Malachor, a dead world with nothing left but stone remains and a creepy Eldritch Sith Temple housing a superweapon that must have killed everyone and everything on the surface, in the vein of The Deplorable Word or a nuclear bomb metaphor. The victory is hollow and meaningless, because there is no one left alive to appreciate it. Likewise our heroes' "victory" is pyrrhic and empty, they kill the Inquisitors but take more and heavier losses in return.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. We haven't even met Eighth yet.

Hi Eighth!

He's not really developed or explored at all and is really just a generic episode-specific antagonist and ancillary to Seventh and Fifth, but he serves his narrative purpose in splitting the party.

Kanan's worried shout for Ezra after he falls. <3

Ezra looking very nervous here, don't blame him.

HI MAUL!

Oh man, the pre-finale trailers spoiled Maul's appearance and fandom was bonkers about it. (The pre-finale anticipation and hype was crazy man, so much over-analyzing and hypothesizing. There was a Bingo Card we could fill out with our theories. This one was mine.) Not a small amount of people were speculating about the possibility of Maul corrupting and/or abducting Ezra at Malachor.

I was one of them. Obviously. Still a smidge bummed it didn't come to pass, just imagine how devastating that would have been on top of everything else.

Anyway, Maul pretends to be frail and weak and old and harmless like some kind of sick parody of the scene in ESB when Yoda's introduced to Luke.

The appropriate reaction to creepy old men lurking in the shadows lol.

Maul plays on Ezra's compassion at first, and then tempts him with what they came for, "knowledge". Ezra keeps a guard up, but cautiously allows Maul to lead him. I think he's figuring he's going to play this by ear like he did back in "Brothers of the Broken Horn", so he's not giving out his name or really trusting Maul yet. That would come later.

Lol, Maul has met Jabba, he knows full well Ezra's playing him.

There's some excellent tense music for the chase with Eighth Brother but I'm not going to really talk about those segments much since, frankly, all the interesting stuff is happening in the Maul and Ezra scenes.

They're in the roots of the Temple now, very Mines of Moria-esque vibe down here with the columns.

Maul still trying to break Ezra's guard down, playing himself up as an enemy of the Inquisitors and the Sith (even though for all intents and purposes Maul still is a Sith) and I love how awkward things get when Ezra asks him if he was a Jedi, he's all like, "ERRRRRRMMMM."

Talking about his Tragic Backstory though unlocks Ezra's empathy and Ezra lets slip his own grievances with the Empire that Maul immediately tries to manipulate to his advantage, sensing Ezra's anger about it.

Boy if I had a nickel for every time my favorite shows explored the "creepy older villain forcibly trying to make a younger hero their apprentice" plotline...

(I would actually have three nickels now because the Big Hero 6 cartoon also decided to do that plot YOU GUYS GOTTA FIGURE OUT SOMETIME THAT THIS PREMISE IS BASICALLY CATNIP FOR ME.)

Anyway, at this point I think Maul's mostly just using Ezra as a means to an end, he's not planning to kidnap him yet, just needs him for the doors. It's really interesting that whereas the Jedi Temple on Lothal emphasized the individual journey and separated the master and padawan, the Sith Temple forces them into kind of a codependent symbiosis--if one betrays the other like Sith are wont to do, the prize is lost and both of them die--making them have to use teamwork and a certain level of trust.

Chopper stealing Eighth's TIE to use against him is pretty awesome, admittedly.

Maul gives Ezra an abridged lesson in Sith/Dark Side philosophy: Channel your passions--your fear, anger, hate, any strong emotions etc.--through the Force for a lot of quick easy power. Ezra expresses misgivings but attempts it and this time does not immediately pass out, though he's clearly tired by the end of it.

Oh man the sound design here.

Also love that annoyed look Maul gives when Ezra complains about their progress. XD

"Yeah I'm killing you after this, I don't have to deal with this shit."

Watching the expressions on Maul's face is a trip, you can see the subtle little flashes of conniving and triumph.

Aaaaaand every time Maul puts his hands on Ezra I still feel an immediate uncomfortable protective rage. You leave him alone you cockroach. >:(

Enjoy the last vestiges of Ezra's innocence folks, this episode is what shatters that to pieces.

Always loved this sequence, it feels very evocative of the Cave of Wonders segment of Aladdin and also several scenes in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

SO much symbolism with the precipices and pits here.

Love this music cue too.

I already noted in a different post way back when that something subtle I love is how Maul's Force Grip catch around Ezra is clearly much rougher than how Kanan has caught him. Ezra's tiny panicked glances down are great too.

So riiiiiiiiiight about here is when I think Maul decided he was going to keep Ezra, you can see in his expression the mean satisfaction when he grabs the holocron, like he's gotten what he wanted. Ezra gets a prolonged moment of regretting all of his life's decisions before Maul finally decides to haul him up.

Look I know fandom makes fun of the helicopter sabers but I never minded them so this is my only comment about them.

Gah, Ezra's innocent little uncertain expressions here always hurt me.

You know, given the added context of TCW Seaason 7, along with the fact that they had already clearly integrated the unfinished arcs into the background continuity while writing Rebels, AHSOKA YOU SHOULD HAVE REALLY WARNED THEM ABOUT MAUL.

Cool shot is cool.

I haven't talked about the music much because it doesn't really stand out until the climax but it's appropriately menacing and dramatic and ominous, as it should be.

Sam Whitwer's vocal progression through the episode is also amazing, along with the slow shedding of his hood it's like Maul is revitalizing himself, reinvigorated, reclaiming his strength and purpose.

He found something (Ezra) to hang his legacy on and seized it. Or tried to.

Ezra sounds just a bit desperate to convince Kanan, this is likely a product of the straining tensions between them. Maul, meanwhile, takes full advantage of Ahsoka and Kanan's uncertainty to suggest using the holocron to activate the obelisk, not telling them of course that it will turn on the Sith superweapon. Which he's counting on to kill Vader and the Inquisitors.

Ezra's theme in cello bass here, as Kanan decides to trust Ezra.

Almost forgot about Seventh's ID-9 Seekers, didn't we?

Love Kanan's protective bitchiness towards Maul this whole episode. The conflict between him and Ezra is just a little bit contrived, Kanan's been harder on Ezra recently yes, but it also feels a smidge rushed. Then again Ezra's been fixating on trying to solve the fundamental problem of the Inquisitors possibly as a way to assuage his grief over losing his parents, like Anakin he thinks if he can maybe just get enough power he can prevent it from happening again, so he's letting his impulsiveness reign in the quest to find "the key to destroying the Sith" and it's making him have a repeat of "Vision of Hope" where he trusts the wrong person.

Ezra's bright little, "Trust me." here hurts so much because Kanan does trust Ezra, that's the only reason why he decided they would stay and then it all goes HORRIBLY WRONG *SOBS*.

This is a nice sentiment and all Ahsoka, and it shows how much faith you have in Ezra's goodness and Kanan's ability as a teacher BUT ALSO YOU SHOULD HAVE WARNED THEM.

Ezra's out of sight for like a minute and Maul's already picking at his insecurities and need for validation and trying to get him to murderize Seventh.

The momentary pride we feel that Ezra can't bring himself to strike in anger and hate vanishes when Maul tests the veeeeeery limits of the Y7 rating.

Ooof.

I hate this man I hate this man I hate this man I hate him so much. He snarls at Ezra for hesitating, berates his merciful Jedi instincts, and then picks up with that soft manipulative fake concerned tone again. He always uses this tone when he's trying to manipulate Ezra, we'll be watching for it next season, trust me.

Hhggnnl Maul glancing up and seeing the shadow passing over the gaps in the ceiling, he knows Vader's on his way. And he's definitely already made the decision that he's taking Ezra.

Love this brief triumphant cue here, for a moment it looks like they've won.

The matching "Oh crap" expressions on Kanan and Ahsoka's faces when Maul says, "You mean... my apprentice?" they are just a hair too late to prevent disaster.

Yeah so this moment pretty much traumatized fandom. For months.

DUEL OF THE FATES BABY!

And a very unhinged Maul getting a little too excited about using the Sith superweapon to kill everyone.

The presence in the holocron is likely a trace of the Sith Lord who created the superweapon, Darth Tanis.

Sound design appreciation moment, just LISTEN to it.

"The power will be mine! Ezra will be mine!" Very hinged. Much sane. If you had waited maybe five minutes, Maul, and resisted the urge to murder everyone you could have actually had what you wanted! But such is the nature of the Dark Side, the quick and easy way offers fast solutions but hollow ones, in the grasping for what you want it slips through your fingers.

ALL MAUL HAD TO DO WAS NOT TRY TO MURDER KANAN AND AHSOKA AND EZRA PROBABLY WOULD HAVE GONE WITH HIM. At the very least Kanan might have tentatively let Maul hang around. This is the tragedy of Maul's life, he is the king of self-sabotage.

[Insert ramble about the symbolism of Kanan taking up a Temple Guardian mask and how that relates to his role as Ezra's protector.]

I don't remember I think there was maybe one or two people who complained that Kanan shouldn't be able to beat Maul here, but for the most part fandom was agreed that this was awesome.

:(((

Please do note: Maul just kind of... assumed Ezra would use the Sith superweapon when he learned what it was. Ezra's too pure for that, alas.

WELL THAT'S NOT ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING.

Ezra sassing Vader like Kanan sassed the Grand Inquisitor back in "Call To Action" lol.

And there goes Ezra's blaster-saber. :(

I've been a very good girl conserving my limited photos so now you get a lot of Ezra's terrified face.

The Ahsoka-Vader confrontation is pretty much perfect, even for someone who never really watched TCW and doesn't really have the same level of investment as a long time fan would have. Even without the context the emotions and drama come across well.

Ezra veeeeeeerrrrrrrry slowly and carefully trying to scoot away from Vader always makes me giggle.

Vader threatening to torture the information out of Ezra if Ahsoka won't give up any remaining Jedi she knows about. :(((

:((((((((

Still love how TCW recontextualized Ahsoka's angry, "I am no Jedi!" by reframing it as, "I can't be a Jedi anymore, you took that away from me, you killed the Order I loved and wanted to return to!"

I think I heard someone trying to describe Vader here as, "Picture an upright locomotive with a lightsaber." and that's apt, Vader is so heavy and powerful with every movement and swing. This is Vader in his prime, unleashed, against an opponent he won't hold back on and it is glorious.

Chopper guiding Kanan by the hand. :(((

Ezra's horrified realization. :(((((

Small note: Ezra's been nursing his right wrist this whole time, possibly sprained or burned a bit when Vader destroyed his saber. Also a nice parallel to ESB and Luke.

Ahsoka does her best but you can tell she's tiring here.

Some gorgeous animation as the Temple begins to seal back up.

How annoyed do you think Vader must have been to have a blind half-trained ex-Padawan and a scrawny 16-year-old kid managing to fight his Force Pull on the holocron?

Ahsoka swoops in for a Big Damn Heroes moment and breaks open his mask. You're welcome for the nightmares, kids.

Hello so many parallels to Luke and Return of the Jedi.

:(((((

Very effective bringing the orchestra full to the fore with almost no other sound or dialogue here. This whole sequence is brutally powerful.

Kanan and Hera's heartbreaking reunion. The sorrow on Rex's face, feeding into Ezra's clear guilt. Maul surviving to menace us another day. Vader limping off, out of the wreckage of the Temple. Tracking the convor as it flies towards the vague form of Ahsoka descending further into the Temple. The cut to the Ghost with everyone's silent worry and sorry. And closing on Ezra's murderous Kubrick Stare as he gets the holocron to open.

This finale is on people's favorite episode lists for a reason, lol. It's so dramatic and game-changing and tightly-written, leaves us perfectly fuming in anticipation for more.

You know how shows promise that, "Nothing will be the same anymore." in taglines to trick you into watching for the Next Big Twist? Rebels actually delivers on that promise.

It's an amazing ride.

Overall Season Thoughts:

Season Two is stronger than Season One in a lot of aspects. The animation is even prettier with the added budget, the stories remain well-balanced and woven together even with the added breathing room of twenty-two episodes to Season One's fifteen. The show takes advantage of that extra room to build up the finale, especially in the last few episodes, to very good effect. The expanded scope means we're facing bigger and greater threats, and also widening our cast, and yet none of the guest stars overshadow or overpower our mains, who are given plenty of chances to develop and shine.

Aside from one minor misstep in "Blood Sisters", this season is solid through and through.

Onwards to Season Three!

[peterlorres21stcentury]

The Cynical Crook

This may become a mini-series of Peter Lorre archetypes if I'm not careful. Tonight's guests are Marko from Black Angel (1946) and Nick Dramoshag of Quicksand (1950).

not, in fact, the same character

Peter played many crooks, criminals, and kreeps in his lifetime. He could have taken the easy route and played them all more or less the same, but this is Peter the Lorre we're talking about, so of course he was determined to make each one unique. This sort of crook is especially fascinating to me. Both Marko and Nick are shady types of no specific origin or criminal specialty. They're clearly up to something but they conceal all behind a flimsy veil of respectability, whether it's running a nightclub or a cheap penny arcade (in fairness, every single arcade I ever visited was equally shady, so it must come with the territory).

And yet, while the viewer might be inclined to dismiss these characters as just another cheap crook, Lorre hints at hidden depths. Marko admits to being mildly sentimental and makes all his selections for the club musicians personally, hoping to strike it big with the next great talent ("what can I say, I'm a dreamer"), even when he surely suspects that Blair and Bennett have their own ulterior motives. And towards the end when he reluctantly opens his safe to reveal the photo of his adult daughter, I so wanted to know more about their relationship. He clearly cares for her and wishes to protect her, not wanting anyone to know she's "the daughter of a man who served time." Are they estranged? Does she know her father still loves her? Marko's supposed motivation for murder was of course just a red herring, but it's these little ripples, the small glimpses of something beneath the surface, that remain so tantalizing.

The character of Nick fascinates me, too, for different reasons. Outwardly he cares about nothing except money. He nickel-and-dimes the customers. He extorts Mickey Rooney into stealing a car. But I can't help but feel that deep inside, Nick dreams of being more than a two-bit crook. He seems so weary of life. He drags himself lazily through the story, as if even the act of extortion takes too much of his limited energy. He keeps that horrible automated orchestra in his arcade, that cheesy machine that screeches the worst carnival rendition of the Blue Danube waltz ever--but he doesn't get rid of it. Out loud, he might make the excuse that he's still paying off the loan on it or something, but does it, perhaps, secretly remind him of better times? Or does he keep it as an ironic memento of his fall from grace? We will never know, but I like to imagine that Nick has experienced more heartbreak than we will ever see.

[bacchanal-if]

“Society is a masked ball, where everyone hides his real character, and reveals it by hiding.”

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

On the eve of your betrothal to an unscrupulous merchant you are presented with an opportunity you cannot refuse: admittance to the fabled Bacchanal. A night of costumed revelry awaits you at high society’s most anticipated underground ball of the season. Unburden yourself of every pretense, find a romance most real, and satisfy your lust. Can the sentiments endure when the masks are dropped?

Bacchanal is an interactive story about romancing the hidden depths of another, unobscured by layers of practiced charade. The year is 1742, set in an alternate Georgian London where all colors/genders/sexualities are treated equal and magic is subtle yet doubtlessly exists. When the masks are donned the façades are disrobed, and your world is suddenly filled with uninhibited characters. End up in the arms of a courtly charmer, flustered ingenue, mysterious rake, uninvited guest, loathed betrothed, childhood friend, or find yourself torn between them.

18+ filled with (optional but recommended) erotica.

Set your protagonist’s age, gender, pronouns, sexuality, and more.

Choose between a variety of masks, costumes, and enchantments.

6 gender selectable romance options.

Enter a romance with one of 4 masked figures in a love triangle/square where you must establish your final desire.

Entertain yourself with various encounters.

Explore a sexual relationship or remain chaste all the way.

Learn the shocking secrets of your friends, family, and acquaintances.

Marry or declare your independence.

❥ Characters of Interest

Preorder Information

This story is currently under development. By pre-ordering you will receive:

A discount. The pre-order is $3, while the final game will be $5 after release.

Access to the complete nsfw version of the game. The sfw version will be entirely free as a demo, but without sex scenes and other depravities―these will fade to black.

Access to the nsfw game wip and every update.

Access to the nsfw blog which contains spicy asks, drabbles, and art.

Exclusive nude portraits of Edith, Edward, Tamsin, and Thomas.

PLEASE NOTE: The current wip does not have any nsfw content yet. As such, it is currently the same as the demo.