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wheneclipsefalls · 1 year ago

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Little Gift- Feast

Dark Adult Neteyam x Fem Human Reader

Adult Neteyam pic by @cinetrix2 <3

Last Part Masterlist AO3

Summary: Your stubborn attitude isn't getting you much. Or perhaps...too much

Warnings: dubcon/noncon read at your own risk, MDNI, kidnapping, oral, jealousy, possessive behavior, dom/sub dynamics, power imbalance, swearing, aged up characters, etc.

Your one woman hunger strike is not going as planned.

Twenty six hours in and you are hungry.

So fucking hungry you are ready to bite off the hand of the next Na’vi to come into your space. Not that you would need to with the delicately cut berry spread before you. The same one that Neteyam had meticulously prepared that morning. Others may think of it as a sweet gesture but you see it for what it really is- a temptation.

In the same way last night’s mysterious, but mouth watering, meat had been. The beast that Neteyam had hunted, cleaned, and prepared with his own hands. The aroma had been so intoxicating that you broke skin from biting your bottom lip as you stared down at your share.

The first time you refused a meal you expected the Olo’eyktan to throw a fit, flip you over his knee, or even jam the food down your throat but he has done nothing of the sort. Instead, he revels in this little competition the two of you have. Because that’s what it is to him.

A game.

Sitting beneath a low hanging tree as you watch him train warrior diligently, there is nothing to entertain yourself with but the food in front of you.

This strange purple fruit in front of you has been cut down into smaller pieces. The inside looks similar to the videos you have seen of peaches and the juice runs down onto the leaf below as if it’s trying to seduce you into finally taking a bite.

Your stomach grumbles as if it’s tearing itself apart.

Fuck, why did you choose to resist food of all things?

The meals at Bridgehead were the furthest thing from a proper meal but you had always enjoyed scavenging out into the forest for various fruits and vegetables to spice it up. It’s one of the best parts of your day. And now that you’ve had a taste of the wonders the Na’vi can create with them, it feels like locking yourself out of heaven.

Neteyam’s gaze is heavy upon you.

Sending him a fierce glare you make a show of nudging the fruit away from you, even as your body screams at you to shove it down your throat.

Neteyam tilts his head, glossy braids swingings over his shoulder as a crooked smirk twitches at his lips. He isn’t frustrated, and isn't deterred. If anything those lips curve as if they hide a secret you are not privy to. So confident he knows who will be winning this tug of war.

You exhale a breath when he finally turns around to correct one warrior’s footwork.

A thump sounds from your side and you almost let out a scream before you realize it is Lo’ak who has dropped down from a tree. With a sigh he comes to sit beside you.

“Looks like fun, doesn’t it?” He gestures to the group ahead of you, eyes rolling as he looks at them in pity.

“Go away, Lo’ak.”

“Jeez what’s crawled down your loincloth?”

You look at him in disbelief. You will never understand where Lo’ak find the audacity to poke fun at your imprisonment.

“Besides Neteyam that is.” He chuckles and your cheeks heat instantly.

“You pervert! Never in a million years-”

“It’s not like I have to take his word for it either. You’re quite loud.” Lo’ak ignore your heated ears and agape mouth as he notices the cut up fruit before you. He reaches forward and plucks a piece with a delighted ‘ooh”.

Shiny juice escapes the seam of his lips as he chews and it makes your own mouth water.

Suddenly a hand is yanking Lo’ak to stand with a fistful of braids.

“What the hell?!”

“You skxawng! Those are not for you.” Neteyam hisses, releasing his brother with a huff.

“Alright alright. Damn, I was just keeping her company.” Lo’ak mutters, arms crossing over his chest with a frown. “Besides, I hate to see food go to waste.”

Their eyes lock as a silent line of communication strums between them. Eventually Lo’ak lets out an irritated sigh before nodding and jogging off into the treeline. Neteyam’s shoulder’s visibly relax, hands casually placed on those sinful hips as he looks down at you.

“You should’ve let him eat it. I’m not hungry.” You lie confidently, jutting your chin up in pride.

“Is that so, tiyawn?”

His deep voice ripples through your body.

“Yes.”

You go to give him a sneer, maybe even the middle finger, but looking up at him from this angle proves to be problematic. His loincloth has a bulge and it lights your curiosity. Despite all the vulnerable and exposed positions Neteyam has put you in you have yet to see what lies beneath that scrap of clothing. Averting your eyes doesn’t save you from witnessing the smirk that dances over her lips.

Stupid observant bastard.

His shadow looms over you as you fiddle with the strings of your loincloth. And then his braids are tickling your neck.

“Perhaps it’s not fruit you are hungry for.” That simmering whisper blossoms a blush once more but nothing in comparison to the one that emerges when he grasps your small hand and places it along his inner thigh.

He doesn’t let you pull away, not before you can feel the corded muscle and smooth skin. Not before your eyes cave into temptation and sneak a glance at the increasing size of that bulge.

“I know your little body has been enjoying our time together but if you’re good, I’ll let you play with me too.”

And then your fingers are traveling over the exposed skin until the silk fabric is beneath your tips. You can’t even look at him. You pray that this aversion will read as nothing more than pure revulsion, because you don’t know what will happen if he senses your underlying lust.

You can feel him twitch under your palm.

Eyes forced closed and heart racketing at your rib cage, it takes all your power to control the rise and fall of your chest.

And then the heat is gone. Neteyam releases your wrists, stands up, and sends a dark smile over his shoulder before rejoining the group. You want nothing more than to hide your face in your hands and scream but that would only show him your hand.

You need to be strong. Keep your mouth shut, fry his patience, and get the hell out of here.

Lo’ak is right about the training. It’s undeniably brutal and strict. While you stare in awe at the rate the young warriors can scale trees and shoot a target, Neteyam shakes his head and sighs before correcting them. You’ve studied a bit of Na’vi throughout your life but there’s no desire to translate his strict reprimanding.

You do, however, find it hard to keep your interest away from the various rippling muscles and shifting loincloths. You’re ovulating. You must be and if you were only in your bedroom back at Bridgehead you would actually be able to take some medication to tamper down this insufferable flood of hormones.

Still, you are stuck here and a group of nine foot tall walls of muscle are fighting, wrestling, shooting, and inadvertently showing off their physical prowess with ease. You swallow a lump in your throat when one Na’vi male tackles another and you get a perfect view of his ass.

Pandora is so hot.

So so incredibly hot and that has to be why you feel the temperatures rising along your cheeks.

Neteyam’s back blocks the view, a stream of instruction flowing from his lips as the two struggle to get the upper hand. Your hungry eyes start to travel up his body instead but you tug them away.

You’ll be on your deathbed before ever admitting to ogling these men but you’ll drink acid before letting Neteyam catch you ogling him.

Another shorter male’s abdomen tightens as he pulls back an ax carefully. Sweat glimmers along his blue form as focused eyes narrow at the target. Within one powerful swing the ax is chucked from his grip and pins a leaf the size of your thumbnail to a tree.

He sighs before reaching back to tie his hair. The stretch accentuates the contrast between his narrow waist and broad shoulders. And yet you catch yourself sneaking a look at Neteyam’s form.

For comparison purposes only of course.

It’s too risky though to notice the slope of his back or the way one strap of his loincloth has shifted dangerously low along one hip. Or note the way his dark stripes smoothly curve over and accentuate his v line. Because that is something you would never do. You would never look. Would never think about him outside of plans to escape. Never dream of his deep voice with that heavy accent or even think about how it sounds in his native tongue. And you most certainly would never anticipate the view of Neteyam between your thighs nightly.

Suddenly the ax-throwing Na’vi has become boring so you veer the focus as far away from Neteyam as possible.

You shift your body to your left, letting your hair create a curtain to block the view of Neteyam pulling back a bow. It takes a bit longer this time to immerse yourself in these next two who spar with long sticks.

All at once your body is ripped from your spot, legs dangling and kicking as you are roughly set to stand. Neteyam’s arm snaps around your waist as he kneels behind you.

“Do I need to put you in time out?” It’s not a joke. Not when his teeth are skimming dangerously closer over your ear. “I would be able to smell you halfway across the forest.” He growls.

Your thighs press together subconsciously as embarrassment floods in.

So maybe you had forgotten about the Na’vi advanced sense of smell.

“Which I wouldn’t mind were it not for your eyes being trained on other men” The ground slips beneath you and suddenly Neteyam is throwing you over his shoulder.

“Wait! Let me go!” You’re not even sure why you try at this point. It’s not like he has ever listened before. The hope of being heard dims even lower when you see his thrashing tail and feel his heavy footsteps as you're carried further into the forest.

But dammit you are hungry and hot and your loincloth is stained with your arousal so you let your emotions bubble over.

“You fucking brute! Put me down right now!” You scream, nails scratching harshly over his back. It doesn’t draw blood but wow those fading marks look so pretty over his blue skin. Not to mention the beauty of his ass swaying with every step. “I’m so sick of this shit!”

Neteyam is quiet.

So very quiet and it doesn’t sit right with you.

“Open.” He commands but you remain still.

Body frozen as you stand before him, his massive member at eye level. It’s almost as if your brain simply can not process the sight before you. The way his cock is so different from the ones you have encountered with its purplish blue hue, speckled glowing dots, and even the precum that shimmers in the fading light. Curiosity sparks once more and for a moment you consider reaching out to touch it.

However, the real shock is the massive size difference. You are no virgin. Bridgehead does not have a plethora of great men but you’ve found partners in the past to satiate your needs. So standing here staring and blushing feels out of the norm but with the way Neteyam is hung, how can you not?

Even at peak arousal, or what you hope is peak, it’s unable to sprout fully, the sheer weight dragging it to hang lower by his thighs. You’ve always assumed the Na’vi would be…bigger but this….you’d never imagined something like this.

The idea of ever fitting it in your mouth let alone inside of you makes your stomach coil.

Are all Na’vi males this way or is this something specific to Neteyam?

Something tells you that thanks to the Olo’eyktan you will never find out.

“Open your mouth, tawtute.” His voice is sharp like a drawn dagger, slicing through the wind to threaten obedience.

“B-but it….it won’t fit.” You try not to think about your choice of complaint.

Not that you don’t want to.

Not that he shouldn’t make you.

No, you simply complain about the logistics.

“You’ll learn, pet. Now open.” The nickname is anything but endearing coming from his lips now, honey eyes darkening as he stares down at you. This is retribution.

Shaking like a leaf, your lips ever so slightly part. It appears Neteyam is tired of giving verbal commands when one large hand grips either side of your face, pressing to force your mouth open wider.

“You won’t let me get any food past those pretty lips, fine. You will take my cock instead.” That growl reverberates through your body until it swirls into a low seated passion and desperation. Neteyam’s nostrils flare, soaking in the scent of your betraying body.

To your surprise Neteyam doesn’t immediately choke you on it but instead guides your open mouth to his base. Prying your jaw open wider, your lips are smeared along the heated skin. Hesitantly your tongue flickers out.

“That’s it, pet. Don’t be shy.”

When your tongue smoothes out to drag along the length of him you remind yourself that this is something you are forced to do. For survival. For escape.

And you prepare yourself to later bury the memory of your desire and curiosity in this moment. To forget how salty sweet his precum tastes as it dances along your tongue. To forget the way his pupils dilate as he purposefully paints your pillow lips with that glowing substance like it’s your own personal lip gloss. To forget the way his abs flex when the head of his cock is finally enveloped by your hot wet mouth.

But most of all, you promise yourself that you will forget how gorgeous Neteyam looks from this angle with his silky braids hanging loosely and glowing eyes devouring you whole.

The back of your throat is reached within record time. Your gag reflex immediately kicks in and Neteyam pulls out while cooing at you.

“Poor little pet. Not used to taking such a big cock, are you?” You take the condescending words without fight, trying to clear your throat and prepare for more. “But then again I’m sure Jeremy has never made you cum until you cry.” Neteyam smirks and your breathing halts.

You look up at him with wide eyes.

Oh God, when did he find out about Jeremy? A dark twinkle shadows the Olo’eyktan’s demeanor, his upturned lips promising an evil fate to your old flame.

“What di-”

“Down you go again, pet.” Neteyam interrupts, prying your mouth open once more and shoving himself inside harder this time. He doesn’t let up this time when you sputter and choke around him. “Relax that throat for me, tiyawn. I know this isn’t your first time doing this.” He chuckles.

Reluctantly you force yourself to follow his instruction, urging your heart rate so slow as you breathe in through your nose. Inch by inch, he slides down your throat until all you can taste and feel is him. A tinge of soreness already sparks along your jaw but stern eyes whisper the consequences of letting your blunt teeth even close to him.

A part of you yearns to get lost in the moment, let your arousal that has shamefully not disappeared since Neteyam’s confession take the wheel and give your mind a break. However, that is not the Olo’eyktan’s design. He means to drive a lesson home.

“I was under the impression that you simply didn’t enjoy giving oral, not with the way your scent soured every time that pathetic man had you on your knees.”

Your whimper of distress only turns into a hum that vibrates along him. Neteyam’s grins, toes digging into the earth below.

“But now I see that is not the case.” His hips roll forward, hand crawling to cradle the back of your head. “Staining that little loincloth for me. You just needed the right man to fill that pretty mouth didn’t you?”

Your protests are nothing more than high pitched whines as he picks up rhythm, only half of his cock fitting inside yet still more than enough to fill your throat.

“No need to deny it, oeyӓ tiyawn. Your body has been loyal to me from the very beginning.” That hand fists into your hair, holding you down on his cock as tears gather over your eyes. “Even when your mind has a hard time catching up.” All sweetness dissipates from his voice, left only with a hard steel.

“Like today for instance.”

You suck in air as soon as your mouth is empty, coughing and crying as he keeps that grip in your hair. A firm yank has your neck straining to look up at him.

“I thought you would know better, little gift.”

You subconsciously grip his thighs in order to keep yourself standing upright.

“But it looks like I need to spell it out for you.”

Suddenly your mouth is filled again but instead of waiting to let you suckle and explore, Neteyam immediately sets pace spearing down your throat. Nails digging into his toned thighs, you focus on keeping your breathing steady and relaxed.

“Good pets do not stare at other men. They do not let them smell their arousal.” Neteyam grinds out, a groan lacing his words as you feel him twitch. Your throat convulses around him, the urge to breathe through your mouth ever increasing. “Because good pets know who they belong to.”

The trembling in your legs skyrockets as your knees threaten to buckle. Suddenly Neteyam’s grip in your hair is not just there to keep you swallowing him down but also as an extra support.

“Do you know who you belong to, little gift?” A shudder ripples over his toned body, balls drawing up tight. And yet he pauses, keeping you frozen but still stretched around him.

He wants a response.

Nodding doesn’t appear to cut it, not when he tacks on a “and who is that?”.

You go to scoff at his persistence but it’s only another choked cough around him, tears spilling down your cheeks. He hips slant forward pressing himself even further down your throat until you are gagging.

“Say it.” The Olo’eyktan demands. “Say my name.”

He pulls out and airs hiccups through your lungs so fast you almost swoon backwards. But his name is still the first gasp to escape your lips.

“Nete-..Neteyaaaam.” It’s come out as almost a complaint but the Olo’eyktan’s joy is not diminished. His tails coils and flickers at the sound of your wrecked voice.

“Good girl.” That praise wraps around you, head lulling to rest against his palm. “Now come here and let me fuck your throat.”

It shouldn’t turn you on. The crude words are the furthest thing from what you should want but Neteyam’s accented voice purrs them like a lullaby. So dark, smooth and alluring that you find your mouth opening on its own accord.

Neteyam’s grins wider than the night that he first saw you tied up with that pretty bow. You push the implications of what you have just done to the back of your head.

Despite his satisfaction, Neteyam doesn’t take it easy on you. The length of him can never fully make it down your throat but that doesn’t stop him from trying. An obscene wet sound is made every time he thrusts back in and you can feel him shiver.

“Aww so pretty like this tiyawn. Wish you could see yourself right now.” His head throws back for a second when your airpipe contracts around him again. “Crying so sweetly for me.”

His gentle tone is a great contrast to the way his cock bullies itself into the tight space. So sweet in comparison to the way he fucks your throat like you’re his own personal fleshlight.

“Maybe we will have to steal a mirror from Bridgehead soon. Let you see what a wrecked masterpiece you are.”

Even as you struggle to breath and your throat aches, his dirty words burn the flames inside of you higher and higher. You will feel ashamed later, you know it, but for now you let him fill every crevice in your brain. It keeps the fear of Jeremy’s safety at bay. It keeps the reality of your situation from catching up with you. It keeps you as his pretty little pet that is doing oh such a good job.

“Fuck! You feel so good around me, tiyawn. Good fucking girl!” Neteyam’s groan is gravely, muscles along his abdomen erratically flexing and you know what is coming before his warning ever reaches your ears.

With a deep groan of your name, thick seed spurts down your throat. It’s too much to fully swallow but luckily Neteyam lets you off halfway through, the remnants painting your cheeks and lips. Your own thighs clench together as you watch him recover, his impressive physique inflating and deflating heavily with every breath.

Your throat feels like sandpaper as you collapse against him, head nuzzled against his hip as you cling to his right thigh. Neteyam’s fingers fondly stroke through your tangled hair as he congratulates you on learning your lesson.

You almost bite his finger when the next piece of meat passes your lips but this time it is by accident. Your habit of grinding your teeth together when nearing climax is becoming a problem. Three massive fingers tease and massage at that spongy spot inside of you as you drool around Neteyam’s fingers.

The Olo’eyktan chuckles and plucks another piece of meat to feed you.

“Remember to chew.” He says with a smirk when his thumb flicks over your clit and you almost choke.

Perched in his lap, smothering his fingers with your juices as he hand feeds you, there is surely not a better picture of obedience one could paint.

A picture that Neteyam cherishes.

But a memory you vow to forget.

I hope you enjoyed! Thank you all for your support and messages for this series especially! Hearing back from you all always makes me excited to write and update<3 Don't be afraid to let me know what you think

Taglist: @pandoraslxna @neteyamssyulang @tallulah477 @criticallybella @sullybrothersmate @lilghostiequinni @chershire23 @lala-1516 @teyamshuman @yawnetu @puddle-nerd @ratchetprime211 @avatargirly @chocolatechocobo91 @kariz-stark @bunnscoffe @avatarwifey @universal-s1ut @witchsprit @heart-an0n @riri-is-a-girlie @rivatar @minnory @ikeyniofthetayrangi @ilovehobi101 @spicymayyo @v4mp1rr3 @nilsavatar @bambithewriter @quicktosimp @itchaboi-itchyboy @thehoneymushroomhealer @ilytulipse @witchsprit @imwutim @crazy4books1 @thegirlwholoveslivesfanfiction @danniackerman @dayyzlol @justabite7 @krispyjellyfishkitty

Please let me know if I missed you or if you'd like to be removed from the list<3

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amazingabellini · 1 year ago

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Every Single Thing 621 is Called on Rubicon

Dog Augmented Human C4-621 You 621 Intruder Illegal Enemy AC Merc Corp AC Registration number Rb23 Raven Callsign: Raven Mercenary Corporate Merc Corporate Dog Interloper Military Force Hostile AC Shameless Coral scavenger Independent Mercenary Hunter Sharp A local An Independent A merc who only kills for credits A real merc G13 G13 Raven Kiddo Freelancer Maggot Fake Redgun Tagalong Sewing club member Not a total amateur Not a pro Corporate Vulture Mere pawn Scavenger Hound of Walter Competition Good for nothing Good for something Wretched vulture Unidentified AC Damn Hyena Rotten Money-grubber Corporate scum Enemy backup One of the infamous Walter's hounds Wallclimber War buddies Comrade Buddy Intruder Doser Shameless Corporate Dog Greedy Mercenary Greedy hound Daring A symbol of resolve Only Other Person That Can Keep Up With Me You Again Old Augmentation Recalcitrant Mutt Vermin Pest The Pest of Rubicon Code 15 Raven the Wallclimber Code 31C Solo Independent Mercenary Pitiful Dog Gen 4 Fine hound Another dead dog Older type of Augmented Human Tourist No ordinary tourist Smart Cookie No slouch A cut above the rest Not afraid of anything Belongs in a museum Freak My favorite little Tourist A certain someone New friend The Freelancer from the dam raid Target Walter's Hound Solo AC Independent Merc Trespasser to Rubicon Walking Advertisement Mascot AC of Unknown Affiliation Suspected Corporate Hire Single AC Code 5, Unknown AC Independent Mercenary Assembly That AC Hostile AC Priority Subject for Termination One helluva merc Hired Operative Intruding AC Grunt Famous Mercenary Fine Soldier One Loose End Corpse Quick on the uptake Not like those savages Cur Scoundrel Oathbreaker Just an AC Patchwork AC Better than the other ACs Like a bird in flight Killer Menace to Rubicon Target for Termination Unknown Intruder Intrusion Attempt Menace Volunteer The Objective Just a Gen 4 Strong Worthy of your name False Alarm Impostor Impressive Pilot Wormkiller Threat to Planetary Closure 20 Iguazus A Real Redgun Not so Special Too Dangerous to Keep Around Not Afraid to Die The Only G13 Who's Managed To Live This Long

One of Carla's

A new friend from afar Strong A Threat Dangerous Another Threat to Rubicon Veteran The Mercenary Who Took Your Name Rat Fool The Big One Corporate pawn Rather Extraordinary Gen 4 Augmentation High Level Threat Strong Candidate One of Allmind's The One Rusty was talking about Head in the Clouds Old-Gen Alive Handler's Hound Old Colleague Subject Beast of burden Guest of Honor The Key Smartass Freelancer Wonderful People Demon Miserable Relic Trigger for the Change to come Dog without a shred of intelligence Not worthy of humanity Stray Dog Obstacle Faithful Hound Biggest Threat Legacy Augmentation The Greatest Obstacle The Liberator of Rubicon The only one The Spark of War The Fires that Haunt Rubicon The Monster who Burned the Stars One With Allmind Aberrations to The Plan Trigger for Coral Release Irregular The Old-Gen Who Could Do It All

The Freelancer Who Had It All

#ac6 #ac6 spoilers #c4 621 #augmented human c4 621 #armored core 6 #armored core #why did i do this #armored core vi #acvi #armored core fires of rubicon #raven #registration number rb23 #g13 #g13 raven

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angelofthenight01 · 3 months ago

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The witch's guardian

Wanda Maximoff x Reader (AU)

genre: horror, fluff || warnings: lycanthropy, witch hunting, violence

The biting wind whips through the skeletal branches of the ancient forest, mirroring the turmoil within you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, each one a painful reminder of the curse that claws at your soul. The moon, a malevolent eye peering through the swirling clouds, fuels the beast within. Tonight, the change is coming. You can feel it, a burning tide rising in your veins, contorting your bones, reshaping you into something monstrous.

You stumble through the undergrowth, thorns ripping at your worn leather tunic, the scent of damp earth heavy in your nostrils. You abandoned the village days ago, fleeing the terrified whispers and the glint of fear in the eyes of those who had once called you neighbor. They knew, or suspected, a truth you had tried so hard to conceal. The truth of the moon’s hold on you, the monstrous transformation that consumed you under its gaze.

You sought refuge in this dark wood, hoping to outrun the terror, or at least contain it on your own. You find a small clearing, a meager sanctuary, and collapse against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. The transformation begins, a horrifying symphony of crackling joints and tearing flesh. You writhe and howl, the sound lost in the symphony of the wind. Claws sprout from your fingers, your teeth lengthen into fangs. Fur bursts through your skin, a coat of thick, dark fur, a shield of shame and revulsion. Finally, you’re no longer a person, no longer human. You are a beast. A werewolf.

You pace, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, your senses heightened tenfold. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, is amplified into a symphony of fear. The forest, once a haven, now feels like a cage. You are both predator and prey.

Days blur into nights. You scavenge for food, the taste of blood and raw flesh filling your mouth, a stark reminder of the monstrous life you’re forced to lead. You learn to navigate the forest in your beast form, becoming a part of its shadows, a creature of the night. The human you once were feels like a distant memory.

One evening, under a sky bruised with twilight, you catch a scent unlike any you've encountered before. A scent as intoxicating as wildflowers, a lingering note of smoke, and something…else. Something ancient and powerful. It draws you in, pulling you past the usual boundaries of your forest territory, toward an isolated glade bathed in the ethereal glow of twilight.

There, beneath a canopy of ancient trees, stands her.

Wanda.

Even in the dwindling light, her beauty is undeniable. Hair as dark as raven's wings frames a face of sharp angles and mesmerizing emerald eyes. She stands with an air of quiet power, a collection of herbs and strange stones arranged around her in a circle. She is a witch, that much is clear from the aura that radiates from her, and even in your feral state, you know it.

She doesn't flinch at your appearance, doesn't recoil or scream as other humans have. Instead, her gaze meets yours, holding a curious mixture of assessment and understanding. It’s both unnerving and captivating. You find yourself stopping, the instincts that drive you as a wolf warring with an unexpected desire for her approval, or rather, her understanding.

Slowly, you approach, your steps wary but driven. You lower your head slightly, a gesture of submission that feels both instinctive and strange. Wanda watches, her expression unreadable until she offers a slight tilt of her head, a gentle acknowledgment of your approach.

“You're hurting,” she says, her voice low and melodic, a soothing balm to the beastly rage that still rumbles in your chest. “And confused.”

You whimper softly, a sound that holds the pain of your existence.

She moves, but instead of fear, she reaches out, extending a hand towards you, her fingers long and elegant. Hesitantly, you lower your snout until it’s close to her palm. She slowly, and with intention, places her hand on your snout. The touch is brief, a featherlight caress, yet it sends a ripple of warmth through your snarled muscles, a calming wave that soothes the edges of the beast within.

"I can help you," she murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. "But it won’t be easy.”

You look at her, and she at you, and from that moment onwards, you know that your life will change.

Over the next few weeks, you find yourself drawn to her glade each night. It’s the only place where the beast feels manageable, where the pain of your condition feels less like a curse and more like a weight you might learn to carry. Wanda helps you understand the nature of your lycanthropy, teaches you to recognize the triggers, and the slow ways of controlling it. She guides your beastly nature to an equilibrium. She uses herbs and her magic to soothe your mind, eases the transformations.

You, in turn, become her protector. Your wolf form is a fierce guardian, a shadow that lurks in the forest, watching her, keeping her safe. During those long nights, you learn of her history, of her isolation, and her unwavering commitment to the forest and its secrets.

You learn to anticipate the hunt, the growing murmur of human voices and clashing steel that means they've come for her. When the scent of men, their fear and greed, floods the forest, you become a dark whirlwind of fur and teeth. You emerge into the glade, a terrifying figure, and stand between the intruders and Wanda. They've come for the witch who lives in the forest, because they fear that which they don't understand.

Their torches flicker, casting grotesque shadows on their faces. They’re armed with pitchforks, axes, and hunting knives, their eyes filled with a mix of fear and bloodlust. They’ve come to destroy her, and you will tear them apart first.

A roar rips from your throat, a challenge to their presence. You stalk forward, your fangs bared, your eyes glowing with an unnatural light. They hesitate, their bravado faltering in the face of the true predator you have become.

One man, larger than the rest, steps forward, brandishing a rusty axe. “Monster!” he shouts, his voice trembling. “We’ve come for the witch!”

You charge, a blur of speed and rage. You lunge past the axe, your teeth sinking into his fleshy arm. He screams, dropping the weapon, and stumbling back with a terrified yell which echoes through the forest.

The others attack, but you are too fast, too strong. You tear through their ranks, your claws ripping at their clothing, your teeth sinking deep into flesh. You feel a primal exhilaration, a savage joy in the violence you inflict, and you fight with a ferocity born of protective rage. You feel as if you could tear down trees and mountains, you could destroy worlds just to protect her.

You let out a terrifying roar, one that comes deep from your lungs, a primal beast sound that sends them scattering back into the shadows. Your teeth grind against one another, itching for some flesh. Some bones to crush.

They flee, abandoning their weapons, their fear palpable on the wind. You stand panting, your fur matted with blood, the scent of human fear heavy in the air. You turn back to Wanda, and she stares at you with a strange mix of pride, trepidation, and something that could only be called love. Her eyes, though wide, are full of care and adoration.

The night is cold, silent, after the cacophony of the battle, yet in the calmness you see yourself for the first time, see the power, the strength, the protector. You have given into the beast, but you’ve done it for her. You have torn them to shreds for her, defended her with your life, and she recognizes it all.

“You protected me.” She says, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, lowering your head, and transform back to a human again. The shift takes its toll on your body, but you're used to it, and you know she'll fix your wounds. You stand before her, naked, drenched in blood, your body scarred and twisted from the transformations, but she takes your hands anyway.

“I know,” she says. “And I am eternally grateful.” She pulls you in, her touch light, yet you feel as if you're being embraced by the sun. "Let’s clean you up. I have some herbs that will soothe the wounds of the body and the soul.”

You allow yourself to be led into the hut, the only place where the beast in you feels at peace, where the human you once were can breathe again. You know that future battles await, that the men will return, and there will always be those who fear the power of Wanda, whom they call a witch. But you will be there. You, the protector, the beast she now understands. Together, you will face the darkness, you, the monstrous protector, and she, the powerful magician, united by a forbidden forest and a love forged in the shadows.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch

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lonewolflupe · 5 days ago

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I finished playing Republic Commando for the first time and have some thoughts to share (: Beware, there be spoilers!

Alright so first of all, I'm a fan, and I think I'm gonna be obsessed with the boys from Delta Squad. Mind you, I haven't read the RepComm books yet, but I have the fullest intention to do so (they're patiently waiting to be taken off their shelves).

To start with, I've really enjoyed picking up gaming again. I've been gaming (mostly Playstation) since I was about 10 years old, and it's always been one of my favourite hobbies, so I'd totally call myself a gamer. Due to adulting, I hadn't gamed for over a year. So picking up my controller to finally game again was such a good feeling <3

So I've seen a lot of art featuring Delta Squad here on Tumblr, so that obviously piqued my interest. Reason number one to finally play this game is definitely @deltasquadweek , because I needed some sort of reference to participate, and what better option than the source material?

Look at me rambling; I haven't even properly talked about the actual game yet. To be fair, I'm really bad with giving a substantiated opinion review-wise, and I'm really bad with analysing stuff. So this won't be a review or analysis, it will just be another Lupe ramble, I guess.

The Game™️

So the game was awesome! I know it just hit its 20 year anniversary, and it obviously has 2005 graphics, but that's alright and I can definitely look through it because I know it's from that year and it actually feels nostalgic (I used to play a lot of Star Wars Battlefront II during my childhood, which also released in 2005). The story was pretty cool, although it had some bigger time gaps with missions jumping through the Clone Wars. I wouldn't have minded more missions, but that's mainly because I would have liked to see more of the boys. (Also detail: I played on Medium difficulty, which was the default setting)

Geonosis was awesome, despite the Geonosians being swift and slimy buggers which were hard to kill in melee, because of them being so.. Swift and slimy. I love that this first mission was right at the start of the war, and now we know how much Delta Squad contributed to the war effort. The last level (the timed one; was this the infamous Belly of the Beast?) was pretty hard and it took me a few times to beat it, but I was super happy to get all four boys out of Geonosis alive.

The ghost ship/RAS Prosecutor mission was pretty scary at some points haha, gave me some Alien (1979) vibes, especially with the face hugging scavenger droids. I have mentioned before on my blog that I'm a wimp when it comes to the horror genre, but I made it out unharmed - again, like the boys. (Although those Trandoshans scared the kark out of me a few times; it had some good jump scares!)

Unfortunately the Trandoshans returned in the Kashyyyk mission, as was expected - but so did the Geonosians, which was a pretty unpleasant surprise. Especially because they kicked our shebs with their elite warriors when they appeared out of kriffing nowhere. How rude. I definitely struggled the most with the Kachirho Bridge mission, because those insufferable SBDs kept killing us. I found it ironically hilarious that the level was called 'A Bridge Too Far', my inner history nerd really appreciated that fact.

I wish I could say I got all boys out of Kashyyyk too, but everyone who played the game knows that doesn't happen. I knew Sev wouldn't make it out with his squad before starting the game, because I guess it's hard to stay away from spoilers for 20 years. It just.. The fact that I knew it would happen, didn't make it easier? Because now I've seen the boys, their personalities and their dynamics, so now it makes it harder. Boss' determination to get Sev out, Fixer's practical answer based on regulation, Scorch's devastation.. Kriff Yoda.

BUT one thing I learned from watching Game of Thrones is that if you don't see someone dying on screen, they don't have to be truly dead (and sometimes when they die on screen, they come back anyway). Right? Right?!?

(Kriff, I wish they'd made that sequel game)

Alright alright, happy thoughts, happy thoughts.. 🧘🏻‍♀️ Yes, Delta Squad! I'd just like to say: I love all of them, obviously. But Scorch is probably my favourite? Although Sev is just <333 And Boss, but.. I can't leave Fixer out now, can I??

I love how they all have their own strengths and skills, and I loved how the game made use if it through the commands feature. It worked pretty well (although I only figured out how to use it on PS4 after Geonosis) and it was a really fun way to move around with computer-controlled characters.

The Blorbos™️

Scorch is just so much fun, I had to laugh at almost every comment he made. I loved his enthusiasm and his dynamics with the others, especially with Sev <3 And Sev is just amazing, I fell for him the moment I heard him talk for the first time. I also love the bloody paint decoration on his armour and his hunter/predator vibe, especially with the sniping. Oh my <3 I loved how Fixer was totally different, maybe a bit more of a follower of the rules, but definitely not less badass because of it. And Boss.. Well I did fall for Sev's voice, but if you let Temuera Morrison voice a clone, you have my vote. And he was Boss alright, since the others had such respect for him and followed all his orders without a doubt.

I'm actually really looking forward to diving into some Delta Squad headcanons, and of course more art and hopefully some fics too! And I can't wait to start creating some Delta Squad content myself!

Alright, have a Commando Cookie if you made it this far 🍪 Count me in as a Republic Commando fan, I'm definitely gonna obsess about it more and more and it's gonna be my hyperfixation (RepComm) within a hyperfixation (TCW) within a hyperfixation (Star Wars). So I guess you'll be seeing me around simping over anything RepComm/Delta Squad (and hopefully the books next) 🫡

#republic commando #repcomm #delta squad #rc boss #rc fixer #rc sev #rc scorch #lupe plays repcomm #lonewolflupe rambles

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sinn-bee · 4 months ago

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[Excerpts from the studies of the Beast Taming peak]

The Gilded Mane Corpse Wolf

A demonic beast from the wastes of the demon realms, they are solitary creatures who seldom form packs. They begin life as scavengers, the pups setting off on their own and surviving off of scraps as they seek out the strongest demonic beast they can find. They learn to hunt and stalk, waiting for the powerful beast they have chosen to meet an untimely end and on the rare occasion delivering the final blow to carry it to death’s door. The Gilded Mane Corpse Wolf will then make its territory around its chosen one’s resting place, guarding the decomposing monster, feasting on it, and waiting for its bones to be picked clean by vermin as it grows to a size comparable to the dead beast.

When the bones are clean and free, the Gilded Mane Corpse Wolf will arrange the bones and roll in them- tangling them into its long golden fur until they are secure. With a surge of demonic energy the fur hardens into a metallic material, permanently affixing the bones as armor.

It is less of a scavenger at this point, depending on the kind of beast skeleton the Wolf has grown to don, it can range from a sleek and quick deadly predator equipped with sharp spurs of bone to a nigh impenetrable foe with thick armor. It then stalks its territory, expanding its borders and driving away strong beasts, inflicting them with deep wounds.

The pups are often sought out by demonic courts as trophies. Plucked from their pilgrimage for their clean and untangled fur that has many uses from a brilliant conduit for demonic energy to being used for beautiful embroidery to hardening into its metallic form for weapons. Less commonly, they are captured to be trained as war hounds. They are difficult to tame and raise, the confinement making it difficult for them to grow and become suitable for the handpicked bones its captors try to make it don. But on the rare occasion that its owners are successful they make formidable beasts on the battlefield regardless of their unpredictable temper.

It is not recommended to approach this demonic beast alone, given as each one is unique outfitted it is impossible to plan ahead to fight. They are best fought with a team of cultivators that possess a wide range of fighting styles and experiences. The bones of the Gilded Mane Corpse Wolf are potent with Demonic energy but if harvested and cleansed can be used for crafted powerful spiritual objects with a strength for detecting evil. The ivory crafted this way always carries a lovely golden sheen. The fur can also be used as a potent material for weaving spells and talismans into fabric. It is unknown if humans are capable of taming these creatures as the pups reside very far in the demon realm and are experts at evasion. On the few noted experiences of cultivators finding escaped trained Wolves, they do not seem keen on taking human instruction.

[end of excerpt]

Did I write a whole journal entry on the Pidw creature I made up for a fic? Yes. Yes I did <3 Fun fact, I sketched this on paper first and then colored it digitally! The specific wolf here is wearing bones based off of a rhinoceros skeleton a dark moon python rhinoceros maybe…

#This creature is coming up in my Liubing fic Don’t Feed Me :3c #Can anyone tell that I like soulsborne from this creechur?? if yes then I’m flattered #sinn bee art #pidw creatures #svsss

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dee-writes-anime · 3 months ago

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Chapter 1: The Witch Accused

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY In a village consumed by sickness and fear, you, an accused witch, are captured by a desperate mob and dragged to face judgment before the King of Curses, Sukuna.

CONTENT WARNINGS detailed depictions of a village struggling with disease, starvation, and decay, mentions of sickly children, livestock death, and human mortality, tense interactions between the narrator and villagers, including verbal accusations and implied mob violence, scenes of witchcraft involving blood and incantations, implied religious conflict, subtle criticism of faith and its intersection with fear and blame.

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The village had always been a brittle thing, teetering on the edge of ruin long before I was born. It was nestled into the crook of a valley, cradled by sinking hills that slumped like jagged scars against the horizon. It wasn’t a place you’d stumble upon by chance- hidden away from trade routes, tucked between forests thick with bramble and treacherous rives prone to flooding. The isolation had once been its greatest strength, a sanctuary from the wars and chaos that riddled the lands.

And then the sickness came.

It began as a quiet invader, seeping through the village like a shadow, causing soil to grow stubborn. Clinging to the roots of crops like a jealous lover, dark and heavy with clay. Even in the best seasons, it gave little, forcing villagers to rely heavily on cattle and scrape by on meager harvests of bitter greens, barley, and the occasional patch of onions.

Then those shadows curled through pens, infecting the cattle that the village had once praised. Once sturdy beasts began to collapse in fields, their bodies bloating under the summer sun, they milky eyes staring blankly into the void. The surviving livestock, fewer in number each year, were gaunt and skittish, their hides stretched thin over sharp bones. They too seemed to sense the growing death in the shadows as their milk soured and their offspring grew weaker and weaker.

And finally, shadows of sickness- of death- slipped through the cracks of straw roofs, finally having curled into every corner. The village itself was a patchwork of survival—wooden homes leaning against each other for support, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of neglect. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys, its bitter scent a constant companion, mingling with the acrid tang of unwashed bodies and the faint, coppery smell of blood from the butcher’s hut. A well sat at the heart of the village, its water once fresh and clear, now tinged with a faint, metallic aftertaste that no one dared question too closely.

The people bore the signs of its slow, merciless grip. Their skin was sallow, stretched thin over angular bones, their hands chapped and cracked from work that never seemed to end. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes told stories of sleepless nights and empty stomachs. Their clothes, once simple but serviceable, were now threadbare and patched so many times the original fabric was hardly recognizable. Loose tunics hung over narrow shoulders, cinched at the waist with frayed cords, and the occasional shawl or cloak—woven from coarse, undyed wool—offered meager protection against the cold.

The children fared no better. Their bare feet left prints in the mud as they scurried between homes, their laughter thin and fleeting. Many of them had red-rimmed eyes from coughing fits that never quite left, their small hands gripping sticks or scraps of wood as makeshift toys. Even the strongest among them looked frail, as though the village itself drained the life from them as payment for their survival.

Generations had lived and died here, their lives marked by toil and prayer, yet little else. The temple at the edge of the village was the tallest structure, its roof patched with mismatched tiles scavenged from who-knew-where. Its wooden beams sagged, and the faint chime of its bell at dusk carried a mournful note. It stood as a monument to the villagers’ faith—faith that had grown brittle over the years, much like the wooden beams that groaned under its weight.

Said temple was led by the “elders,” who could be considered a different breed entirely. They were wiry and hunched, their backs bent from years of labor in the fields and the weight of authority they carried like millstones around their necks. Elder Kazu was their figurehead, his face a web of wrinkles that deepened every time he spoke. His hair, sparse and snow-white, framed a narrow face with sharp, calculating eyes. He walked with a gnarled staff, its wood polished smooth by years of use, and though his voice cracked when he spoke, it still carried the weight of command.

Beside him were the others—Elder Masami, with her thin lips and perpetually furrowed brow, and Elder Daiki, who had long since lost his teeth but none of his sharpness. Their clothing was slightly more intact than the rest of the villagers’, a sign of their status. Masami’s long tunic was adorned with faded embroidery at the cuffs, a hint of red thread that might once have been vibrant. Daiki wore a heavy woolen cloak draped over his narrow shoulders, its edges fraying but still imposing in its bulk.

The market square was little more than a dirt clearing where merchants used to come, though their visits had dwindled to nothing in recent years. Even the well, the village’s lifeline, bore signs of decay. Its stone walls were cracked, and the water within tasted faintly of iron, as though the sickness had poisoned even the earth.

The sickness only worsened from there as fevers stole both the strongest and weakest, the oldest and youngest, with seemingly no pattern, leaving behind far too little with scars in the shape of coughs that lingered like unwelcome guests. They seemed to move through this dying world like ghosts, their footsteps quiet, their voices softer still. A people clinging to the remnants of a life they no longer believed in and no matter how many stories the elders told, their eyes stayed empty. At first, they blamed the river, its waters swollen and brackish after a summer storm. Then they blamed the traders who passed through, though fewer came with each year. The blame shifted like the wind, but the sickness stayed, digging its claws deeper with each passing season. The village had limped through years of disease, desperation a constant companion whispering in the ears of the villagers as they eventually turned their gaze to me.

“Her,” they whispered. “It’s because of her.”

They never said it to my face, of course. They feared me too much for that. When I walked through the market square, their conversations would drop into hushed tones, their gazes shifting quickly to the ground. Mothers pulled their children close as I passed, shielding them as if my shadow might curse them. The few merchants brave—or desperate—enough to trade with me kept their words clipped and their hands trembling as they handed over what I bought. I never bargained with them. I paid full price or not at all. It wasn’t charity. It was control. They’d seldom leave small offerings at my doorstep —half-eaten loaves of bread, broken beads, wilted flowers. Apologies, or perhaps bribes, to keep my wrath at bay.

To them, I was an outsider, not because of where I came from but because of what I could do. They feared me, but they needed me, and that fragile thread had kept their hatred at bay for a while.

But it wasn’t always this way. Once, I had been one of them, tolerated if not entirely accepted. My knowledge of herbs and remedies had been a boon when the sickness first came. I had eased their fevers, soothed their children’s aches, and kept the worst of it at bay for a time. But the lands were sick—sicker than any tincture or spell could fix—and my small successes weren’t enough. The people needed someone to blame, and it was easier to point to the witch who lived on the outskirts of the village than to face their own failures or the cruelty of the world.

Their fear, though, was not entirely misplaced.

I was no saint. My patience had worn thin years ago. The first time someone dared to accuse me outright, I made a spectacle of it. I hadn’t harmed them—no need to dirty my hands for a fool—but I had spoken their name during a storm, loud enough for the thunder to carry it, and left dried bones where they would find them. I let their imagination do the rest. The next morning, they left the village, and no one dared to follow.

Now, they called me a monster behind closed doors, muttering their curses to their gods, but they still came to me when they had nowhere else to turn. When the children coughed too hard to breathe. When their crops failed, and they needed someone to tell them it wasn’t their fault. I helped them—sometimes—but not without reminding them of what I was capable of. They needed the fear as much as I needed them to feel it.

For all their hatred, they couldn’t help themselves. It was easier to fear me than to admit their gods had abandoned them, that the sickness in the lands had no cure.

Despite their fear, the village clung to its routines like a lifeline. The blacksmith’s hammer still rang out in the mornings, dull thuds echoing through the square. Children still played near the well, their laughter sharp and fleeting, as though they knew better than to let it linger. The temple bells still chimed at dusk, their hollow tones calling for prayers that no one truly believed would be answered.

But beneath it all, the air was thick with tension, like the pause before a storm. The villagers had spent years shouldering their burdens, but even the strongest beams splinter under enough weight. And when they broke, they would come for me.

The village was a place that could survive anything, but it would never thrive. It was a monument to endurance, a lesson in scarcity. It had stood against the odds for generations, but I could see the cracks spreading, could hear the creak of its foundations. These people had long since forgotten how to hope, how to dream. I’d watched it happen, year by year. All they knew now was fear.

And fear, I had learned, could only be contained for so long.

“Morning, Elder Kazu,” I said as I passed, my tone polite but edged with sharpness. My hands clutched the woven basket at my side, filled with bundles of herbs I had spent the morning collecting. The elder gave a stiff nod in return, but his jaw was tight, the corners of his mouth pulled downward.

“Witch,” he said finally, his voice low, as though afraid it might carry. “The land suffers, and you—” He hesitated, his lips trembling before he found the courage to finish. “You walk as if it doesn’t touch you.”

I stopped mid-step, turning to look at him. The others near the well froze, their eyes darting between the two of us like rabbits scenting a wolf.

“You think I’m untouched?” I asked, keeping my voice calm, almost pleasant. I stepped closer, slow enough to watch him shift uncomfortably. “Tell me, Elder Kazu, how untouched I must be when you’ve come to me five times this year for teas to ease your cough? Or when your grandson came to me, pale as death, because nothing the temple priests did could break his fever?”

Kazu’s jaw tightened further, and his fingers curled around the edge of his walking stick. “And I paid you for those things.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice like silk. “You did.”

I let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating. One of the other elders shuffled uncomfortably, the sound of his sandals scraping against the dirt breaking the quiet.

“I’ve done no harm to you or this village, and yet you speak of me as though I brought the sickness upon the land myself.” I leaned in just slightly, enough to make Kazu stiffen. “Perhaps you should stop looking for devils in the shadows and instead ask why your gods have turned their backs on you.”

The crowd around us sucked in a collective breath, their fear palpable. Kazu’s face turned red, anger mingling with something sharper, something he wouldn’t dare admit to himself: fear.

I straightened and turned to go, my basket swaying lightly at my side. “Let me know if your grandson’s cough returns,” I said over my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want him to suffer for your pride.”

Later that day, as I sat outside my small home on the outskirts of the village, I saw her approaching. I recognized her as one of the people in the crowd from earlier in the morning, she had been clutching the rosary at her chest as she watched the whole ordeal, shaking like a leaf. The woman’s steps were hesitant, her child clinging to her skirts. She wasn’t the first to come here, and she wouldn’t be the last. Still, I didn’t move, watching as she stopped a few feet away.

“Please,” she said, her voice trembling. Her eyes darted around as though she feared being seen. “My son—he hasn’t been able to breathe all day. The priest said... said it’s in the hands of the gods now.”

The boy’s face was pale, lips tinged blue, his breaths shallow and uneven. It was a cruel sight, one that tugged at the edges of my mind, though I wouldn’t show it.

“And you think my hands will do better than theirs?” I asked, leaning back against the doorframe. My tone wasn’t kind, but neither was it cruel. It was deliberate.

She hesitated, clutching the boy tighter. “Please,” she said again, desperation cracking her voice. “I’ll pay you.”

I tilted my head slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her fear to blossom. Then I stood and pushed the door open with a creak. “Bring him inside.”

She hurried past me, her steps unsteady but driven by urgency. The child let out a wet, gasping cough as she lowered him onto the cot near the hearth. I ignored her trembling, focusing on the boy. He was far gone, but not beyond my reach. Not yet.

“Wait outside,” I said, not bothering to look at her. “You’ll only make it worse.”

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it, retreating reluctantly. The door creaked shut behind her, and I let out a slow breath. Alone at last.

I crouched beside the boy, studying his face. His breathing was shallow, his small chest rising and falling unevenly. Reaching into my basket, I pulled out a bundle of herbs and laid them on the table, their pungent aroma filling the room.

I worked quickly, grinding the leaves into a thick paste with a mortar and pestle. The rhythm of the grinding was steady, almost hypnotic. With a knife, I nicked my finger, letting a few drops of blood fall into the mixture. The paste hissed and darkened as my blood met the herbs, a faint shimmer rippling across the surface.

“Breathe, child,” I murmured, my voice low and steady. “Breathe deep.”

I smeared the paste across his chest, the dark substance soaking into his skin. His body jerked, his back arching slightly as his lungs fought against the weight pressing down on them. I closed my eyes, pressing a hand over his chest as I muttered an incantation under my breath. The words were old, their cadence sharp and commanding, filling the space with a thrumming energy that crackled in the air.

The room grew still, the tension thick as the boy gasped suddenly, his breaths deep and ragged. The blue tint in his lips began to fade, replaced by a faint flush of color. His chest rose and fell evenly now, the rattling gone.

I wiped my hands on a rag and sat back, watching him sleep. The paste on his chest had vanished, absorbed into his skin, leaving only the faintest trace of its presence. I felt the pull of exhaustion settle into my limbs, but it was a familiar weight, one I had learned to carry.

The door creaked open, and the mother stepped inside. She froze when she saw him, her hands flying to her mouth. “He’s—” Her words broke into a sob as she dropped to her knees beside the cot, gathering the boy into her arms.

She turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Thank you.”

I should have known they wouldn’t leave it at whispers. Fear has a way of festering, and tonight, it seemed ready to boil over.

It had only been hours since I sent the woman back on her way that I heard a knock at my door. It was sharp, relentless, and entirely unwelcome.

I didn’t answer at first, letting it echo through the quiet of my home. Only a fool would come to my door so late, but then again, this village was full of fools. When the knocking didn’t stop, I sighed, setting aside the herbs I’d been drying by the hearth. The hour was late, and I wasn’t in the mood for their desperation tonight.

When I opened the door, I was met with the gnarled face of Elder Kazu. Behind him stood three men, their faces half-hidden in the dim glow of lantern light, their expressions tight with unease.

“Elder Kazu,” I said, my voice flat. “To what do I owe this intrusion?”

The elder’s gaze darted past me, as if searching for something—or someone—inside. His knotted hands gripped his staff tightly, and his jaw was set with a determination I hadn’t seen before. Behind him, the men shifted uncomfortably, their fingers tightening around the tools they carried: a shovel, a rusted scythe, and a length of rope.

“The child died,” Kazu said, his voice cracking like dry wood. “Despite your... efforts.”

I stiffened, the words sinking like stones into my chest. The child from earlier. His mother had come to me, begging for help, and I had given it. My craft was strong, stronger than their faithless gods. But sometimes, even I could not bend fate.

“And you think that’s my fault?” I asked, my voice calm, though I could feel the simmer of heat beneath it.

“You said you healed him!” one of the men snarled, stepping forward. I recognized him—Hajime, the father of the boy. His face was twisted with grief, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. “You lied! You cursed him, just like you’ve cursed this whole village!”

I met his glare, unflinching. “Your boy was dying when you brought him to me. I bought him time, nothing more. If you want to blame someone, blame the sickness in the land. Blame your gods for abandoning you.”

Hajime surged forward, but Kazu caught him with a firm hand. “Enough!” the elder barked. His voice wavered but held enough authority to make Hajime fall back, trembling with fury.

“It’s not just the boy,” Kazu said, turning back to me. His voice was quieter now, almost steady. “The crops failed again. The cattle are dying. More children are sick. And yet, here you stand, untouched. Unharmed.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You think my survival is proof of guilt? Perhaps it’s just proof that I’m smarter than the rest of you.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The men moved as one, lunging forward with clumsy but determined hands. I fought back, my nails raking across flesh as I twisted and kicked, but there were too many of them. Rope snaked around my wrists, biting into my skin as they wrenched my arms behind my back. Someone grabbed my hair, forcing my head down as they shoved me into the dirt.

“Let go of me!” I snarled, my voice cutting through the night. “Do you think this will save you? Do you think your gods will return because you’ve tied up the only one who ever helped you?”

“Quiet!” Kazu barked, his staff slamming into the ground with a dull thud. “We’ve had enough of your poison, witch. You’ll answer for what you’ve done.”

They hauled me to my feet, the rope biting deeper as they dragged me into the square. My bare feet scraped against the ground, the cold seeping into my skin as the village came alive around us. Doors creaked open, faces peering out, and soon the square was full of murmurs and nameless faces.

Shadows danced wildly across the thatched roofs of the village as torches flickered in trembling hands. They gathered around me like vultures circling a corpse, their whispers rising into a chant, fueled by fear and hatred that churned like poison in their veins.

I stood in the center of it all, bound at the wrists, my face cloaked in shadow but my eyes unyielding. The ropes dug into my skin, rough and unrelenting, but I refused to show pain. My gaze swept over the crowd, unwavering, as if I were the one passing judgment. Their anger faltered when I looked at them—cowards, every last one of them. Some shifted uneasily, others clutched their children closer, as if I might lash out and curse them where they stood.

“She brought this on us!” Kazu’s voice cracked like dry leaves, his bony finger trembling as it pointed in my direction. “The deaths! The sickness! It’s her witchcraft!”

I tilted my head, letting the ghost of a smile curl my lips. “Witchcraft?” My voice was low, but it cut through the din like a blade. “Is that what you call your own failures?”

The crowd rippled with unease, torches flickering as if the flames themselves feared me. I could almost taste their panic, a bitter tang that fed the growing ember of defiance in my chest. They wanted to blame me for everything that had gone wrong in their miserable little lives. They wanted a villain. And here I was, bound and ready to play the part. Their silence wasn’t just fear—it was a storm gathering strength, waiting to break.

“She has no shame!” a woman screeched, clutching her rosary so tightly it threatened to snap. “We must end this before her evil consumes us all!”

The crowd closed in, their faces a blur of fear and hatred, their torches casting wild, flickering light. I felt the first tendrils of panic claw at my chest, but I shoved them down, keeping my gaze sharp and my spine straight.

“If you think fire will save you,” I said, my voice ringing out over the square, “then you’ve already lost.”

The words did little to calm them. If anything, it seemed to embolden them, their cries rising into a unified chant: “Burn her! Burn her!”

Kazu raised a hand, silencing them with a single motion. “We’ll do nothing without the lord’s permission,” he said, his voice steady now. “Sukuna will decide her fate.”

The name hung in the air, heavier than the smoke. Sukuna. The King of Curses. The monster who ruled over life and death in this land. I had heard the stories—the whispers of his cruelty, his insatiable hunger for destruction, his throne built on blood and fear. A chill ran through me at the thought of standing before him, but I didn’t flinch. Not here. Not now.

The crowd parted as Kazu motioned for the men to drag me forward. My knees scraped against the dirt, my wrists burning against the rough rope. But I kept my head high, meeting their hateful glares with the same sharp defiance I always had.

The forest loomed ahead, its shadows deep and foreboding, swallowing the torchlight as if even the trees feared the lord who reigned over this land. I kept my eyes forward as they pushed me forward, every step deliberate. Each one echoed my silent vow: If death awaited me at the end of this road, I would meet it standing tall.

But deep in my chest, something stirred. Not hope—not even fear—but curiosity. A dark, creeping curiosity. If Sukuna was truly the monster they said he was, perhaps he would see what I already knew. That I didn’t belong in this crowd of cowards and fools. That my place wasn’t here, bound and powerless, but somewhere far greater.

The flames of the torches dimmed as we disappeared into the forest’s embrace. With them went the last remnants of my old life. Whatever awaited me on the other side, I wouldn’t bow to it. Not to Sukuna, not to anyone. If the King of Curses wanted to break me, he’d need far more than rope and cowardly men.

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE what better way to ring in the new year than posting the first chapter to a new series? Hope you enjoyed this one, my loves! More is coming very soon… hopefully 🩷🩷

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sorcerer #gege when i catch you gege #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jjk sukuna #jjk ryomen #jujutsu sukuna #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen x reader #jjk #witchcraft #witches #witch #witchcore #witch aesthetic

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striderl · 1 month ago

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Today's highlight: Styrofilm in Russia

... and the twins he's adopting.

Север (North) and Юг (South).

Reference below for more lore ->

Север (North) and Юг (South), inseparable twins born to a humble farming family in Southwest Russia. North, the elder by only two minutes, was gentle and considerate, with a love for herbs, flowers, and farm animals. South, her quiet yet fiercely loyal shadow — quick-tempered but always obedient to his sister’s guidance. He took on the heavier labor around the farm, never without his trusty shovel, a massive tool nearly as tall as him. North often teased that it was his Excalibur, but in truth, it meant more than that.

Their lives changed forever when they turned 12, barely reaching their teens. The Skibidis tore through the land, and their parents were lost to the descending chaos. The twins were forced to flee with the rest of the survivors with nothing but South’s shovel, a revolver, and some meager supplies they scavenged.

After weeks of hardship, they stumbled upon a survivor camp over three hundred miles from home. It seemed like a sanctuary, filled with other children who had suffered the same fate, offering them companionship and a fragile sense of normalcy. But, South couldn’t ignore the white-suited cameramen moving through the camp, conversing with the doctors, sometimes watching the twins with an eerie intensity.

It was no surprise they stood out. Identical twins of opposite sexes were rare enough, but it was their capabilities that made them exceptional. Years of farm work had given them strength and resilience beyond their age. South, despite his temper, had an unshakable sense of duty, always looking out for the younger and weaker children — more often than not, North had to step in before his shovel got involved. North, in contrast, was a bright and resourceful girl, a natural sharpshooter with her revolver.

Their talents didn’t go unnoticed. Some admired them. Others, however, saw them as a problem.

A year passed before the camp council made a chilling decision. Supplies were dwindling, and the children were deemed burdens rather than survivors. A deal was struck with the Russia Cameramen Division stationed in Khabarovsk: in exchange for two years’ worth of provisions, several children — including North and South — were handed over as test subjects.

The twins barely retained any lucid memories after they were taken — only flashes of metal, sterile rooms, the rustlings of white suits and lab coats. They awoke in the bodies of hulking war machines — foreign, metallic frames of large cameramen.

South was devastated. His body, his freedom, and his humanity were stolen by those whom he had trusted. His grief turned to fury. Let's just say, the first unfortunate scientist cam that entered South’s detainment chamber didn’t come out in one piece.

North, ever the rational one, simply accepted their fate. If the scientists hadn’t intervened, they would have fallen to the Skibidis. But it didn’t mean she trusted them, but she played along — if only to keep South from tearing the place apart.

After rigorous disciplinary measures and military training, South learned to keep his rage in check in front of the high-ranking officers. It didn’t necessarily stop him from glaring daggers at every scientist cams he passed, or from picking fights with the other large cameramen. Despite standing at a mere 9’9”(2.9 m) compared to his towering comrades, he fought like a feral beast.

When the Astro Invasion began, the twins were deployed to the Russian frontlines. Their teamwork was seamless — South carved through close-range enemies with his shovel, while North provided support fire with her revolvers.

During a brutal battle, North was separated from South. A blast tore through her leg as she scrambled for cover. Before she could react, an Astro unit trained its cannon at her, and readied to open fire.

And then — salvation.

Styrofilm, the transferred cameraman scientist, and his assistant Polaroid, intervened. The girl was exhausted and terrified. Without thinking, she slung to Styro, the last bit of her composure crumbling. The war had drained her innocence, patience, and unwavering resolve.

Styrofilm, carried her back to the Russia Division’s base, listened to her story. He didn’t see a soldier in North, only a child who had been betrayed, exploited, and cast aside.

He agreed to sign the petition to be their mentor and guardian.

But when North was finally reunited with South, her brother’s rage reignited at the sight of the white-suited cameraman.

Rage boiled over as he swung a fist at Styrofilm. But the scientist caught it with ease, Letting South vent his fury. The boy spilled accusations, hurled every ounce of pain and hatred toward the scientists that he had bottled up, at Styrofilm.

And Styro only listened.

Eventually, South’s fury burned itself out. North found the perfect opportunity to step in, pleading with him to trust Styrofilm. In the end, South relented — not because he trusted the scientist in front of him, but because he trusted her.

With Styrofilm and Polaroid stationed in Russia for the foreseeable future, Styro has plenty of time to bond with his two newly-acquired, traumatized kids. Whether he was ready for it or not, they were about to become the closest family outside of the Filming Industry.

#Skibidi Toilet #Skibidi Toilet OCs #Large Cameraman #OC Styrofilm #OC Polaroid #OC North #OC South

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catgirlredux · 2 years ago

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what if i was a giant machine of war, once a beast of lightning and steel, pure death encapsulated in a perfect impenetrable skin, a machine capable of turning the tide of a battle merely by my presence, but now decommissioned and aging, parts stolen by scavengers, abandoned in peacetime by the same people who once sang my praises; and you were my mechanic, sworn to secrecy (not that you’re close enough to anyone to tell), making just enough money from your shitty government job to keep the warehouse where I reside powered, sleeping in the shadow of my chassis at night

and we were both lesbians?

#scifi #robotgirl #computerposting #robotposting #this kind of t4t #cheetah writing

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thescarletnargacuga · 4 months ago

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War Wanderer

A HARLEQUIN AU ONESHOT/POEM

A/N: inspired by Rudyard Kipling's "BOOTS" and the 28 years later trailer

WARNING: Post-Apocalyptic

youtube

A lone figure marches on in the vast silence of a dead, war torn world. Only the sound of his own boots against the cobblestone and the clicking of his mechanized body quietly echoes through the alleys of the smoldering City of Circuits.

Seven—six—eleven—five—nine an' twenty mile today—

Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before—

Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!

There's no discharge in the war!

Bodies. So many bodies. The carrion of men, innocent or otherwise, rotted the streets. Scavenging birds feast.

Puppet pieces scattered like scrap left to rust. D.I.E's removed and destroyed.

Don't—don't—don't—don't—look at what's in front of you.

Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again;

Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin' em,

There's no discharge in the war!

He could still hear them. The souls of the damned.

Crying. Screaming. Begging.

Those lost to the lies they were sold.

Liberation.

This was supposed to be... liberation.

If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o' you!

Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again—

There's no discharge in the war!

All that was left were the mechanical monsters. The vengeful legacy of the ruling class.

Man. Puppets. It didn't matter. All were made low by screaming metal.

Great beasts designed in the service of death.

Try—try—try—try—to think o' something different—

Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin' lunatic!

Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!

There's no discharge in the war!

He wished to be free.

He wished to punish those who wronged him.

He wished for revolution.

He wished for her return.

Seven—six—eleven—five- four—seventeen—thirty-two the day before—

Be careful what you wish for, Puppetmaster.

#oh it feels so good to be back #Harlequin my beloved #the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc caine #tadc fanfiction #tadc au #tadc harlequin au #the marvelous mechanical harlequin au #harlequin au #harlequin #poem

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brittle-doughie · 5 months ago

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In the Ancient Beast Order AU, I'd imagine that all of Earthbread is one pin drop away from collapsing into what would essentially be the Dark Flour War 2. Between the conflicts the ABO have with the OG beasts and what the ABO have planned for Earthbread, tensions are high and armies on on high alert. If those embers make a spark... things will get hectic. Which brings me to my little idea. What if instead of being the ruler of the Cookie Kingdom over the course of this theoretical "Dark Flour War 2", Y/N Cookie was a scavenger in this time of extreme chaos?They'd head onto the battlefields of Earthbread to scavenge whatever they can find and quickly get out. Between the ABO, The OG Beasts, and all the other major players on Earthbread; there is no shortage of battle and chaos. Unfortunately for Y/N Cookie, through one way or another, gets on the radar of both the ABO and the OG Beasts. And this time, they have no army at their back...

They might just be that exact pin drop needed to ignite Dark Flour War 2, or at least a contributing factor.

#brittle answers #the ancient beast order au

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theresattrpgforthat · 9 months ago

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do you have any recomendations for ttrpgs with interesting mechanics around inventory management? for example something where you need to fit the items of your inventory in a grid (like dredge (which although it is a videogame rather than a ttrpg does have the kind of mechanic im thinking of)) or where inventory management is a core part of the gameplay.

thank you in advance :D

THEME: Interesting Inventory.

Hello friend! I’ve got a few games here that do interesting things with inventory limit, and I also have some other games that provide limitations on your gear in other ways.

SCRAPPED, by rolomics.

The year is 2124, and 99.9% of the human population is gone. Automatons reign supreme. Homunculi were created by splicing human DNA with other animal/creature DNA to enhance their body structure and strength. Because of this, Homunculi serve as super soldiers for the humans, but even with all their efforts, they still could not stop the automaton take over.

You are a Homunculus, the echo of a past era and all that remains of humanity.

Scrapped is an original post-apocalyptic rules-lite tabletop role-playing game about scavenging, crafting, and surviving in the unforgiving wastes of a planet obliterated by war. This game was inspired by other post-apocalyptic games from the Fallout franchise.

Scavenging and crafting are at the heart of this game, and that means that Scrapped has paid a lot of attention to inventory. The game comes with item cutouts to help you visualize your inventory, and also requires you to ‘slot” certain items into certain places - if an item doesn’t fit, you can’t carry it! Each character occupation starts with specific pieces of equipment, although you’ll be able to scavenge more along the way. On top of that, you’ll also play around with mutations that affect your character, spending Mutation Points to get beneficial and effective mutations.

If you’re interested in this game, it’s currently free! The designers are eager for feedback and would definitely love to hear from anyone who plays it.

Numenera / The Cypher System, by Monte Cook Games.

This is the Ninth World. The people of the prior worlds are gone—scattered, disappeared, or transcended. But their works remain, in the places and devices that still contain some germ of their original function. The ignorant call these magic, but the wise know that these are our legacy. They are our future. They are the …

Numenera.

Set a billion years in our future, Numenera is a tabletop roleplaying game about exploration and discovery. The people of the Ninth World suffer through a dark age, an era of isolation and struggle in the shadow of the ancient wonders crafted by civilizations millennia gone. But discovery awaits those brave enough to seek out the works of the prior worlds. Those who can uncover and master the numenera can unlock the powers and abilities of the ancients, and perhaps bring new light to a struggling world.

I’ve talked about it before but I really enjoy the way items in this system are used to hold really powerful abilities that are usually only used once. Your character can only carry so many Cyphers at any given time, with a risk of strange or weird things happening if they decide to carry more than their typical limit allows. Cyphers can be found on roll tables, which means that any time players decide to look for loot, the GM can just roll a d100 to generate something interesting - and if you really want to get into the nitty-gritty of customizable inventory, I recommend both the Destiny and Building Tomorrow books to complement your campaign.

Breathless: New Horizons, by The Silent Mage.

Breathless - New Horizons is a game based on a primordial future, where giant technological beasts took over with inexplicable awareness, after a scientific crash down. This game is freely inspired on the Horizon Zero Dawn games.

As humanity rebuilds itself from nothing, you act as Hunters, skilled member of the Guilds, scouting the world for lost knowledge and mysterious pieces of technology called Echoes.

In Breathless - New Horizons, your items are nearly equally useful to skills, with a dice attached to each item. As with other rolls in Breathless, the item deteriorates the more you use it, symbolized by the size of your dice getting smaller with each use - but unlike skills, items don’t refresh when you take a break. Use an item too much and it deteriorates to the point of uselessness, which means that getting new items is important if you want to be able to keep adventuring. Fortunately, there are loot check rolls attached to tables, which means that while you might not have a lot of control over what you get, there should be plenty of opportunities to re-stock.

This game also has a special kind of item, called an Echo, which can be carried in limited numbers (typically you can only carry 2). Echoes might require a bit of construction before they’re usable, but have special effects that go above and beyond a regular item, and some of them can even be re-charged.

Dead Meat, by Blind Ink.

Dead Meat is a hack of FIST by Claymore. It is a cyberpunk game set in a brutal, absurd dystopia where man and machine are equally worthless in the eyes of the unrelenting pressure of exploitation. Thrown headfirst into problems beyond their ability to solve, players will have to cheat, steal, and sabotage their way through missions to get by. Put money away in a stash to get out of the life, watching your friends drop like flies.

Dead Meat takes an approach to gear that is similar to what I’ve seen in games like Apocalypse World and Monster of the Week. Your gear is determined by your origin, and how the gear can be used is determined through the use of tags. Some of these tags are mechanically transparent - how many times you can use them, or how much they heal or harm - but other tags are more evocative. For example, a vampiric weapon heals you when you use it, while a messy weapon prevents enemies or victims from being identified by police. I have a feeling some of these tags could also bring a narrative downside - perhaps it’s hard to hide a murder with a messy weapon, and a weapon that houses an AI might disregard the wishes of its user.

As with many cyberpunk games, there’s plenty of items that your character can pick up and carry without that much of a drawback - because regular items aren’t what makes this interesting. What you’re really here for, is the Cyberware. In Dead Meat, Cyberware is difficult to get access to, which means that beggars can’t be choosers - if you decide to get chromed up, you’ll take whatever the market gives you, and you’ll like it. As far as I can tell, getting a new piece of Cyberware is kind of like getting a new PbtA move - for example, if you end up getting Advanced Optics, you get +1 to your Chrome stat and you have the ability to pull up someone’s records off the net.

The Grim Odd, by g0ri.

This is a grim world. Any life lived in this world shall be nasty, brutish and short. This is an odd world. From the foul cracks and fissures of the world creeps a strange and omnipotent current – the Odd. Some say the Odd suffocated the gods. Others insist the Odd is the gods. In either case, the Odd animates the living world and it presents opportunities for the daringly ambitious.

The Grim Odd is a fantasy roleplaying game that takes place in a perilous world of unjust dealings and unworldly strangeness. Roll up a character quickly, search for magical artifacts known as Oddities, and delve - as a group or alone - into a role-play experience where rules are mere tools to facilitate the application of the internal laws of the world itself.

OSR/FKR Games often put the lore in pieces of the game like characters or gear and this is a great example. The Odd is a mysterious, powerful piece of the setting, illustrated through Oddities, strange items that grant you power but demand a cost for their use. You can use these oddities to inspire an adventure or mystery, and let the players keep them as they adventure - at great personal risk.

Characters also start with a basic inventory determined by their career, which they should be able to use to solve problems in ways that help them avoid having to roll - and therefore face death or other consequences. If you want a game where your inventory is a fundamental part of telling a story, you might want to check out games like this one.

Convenience Stores & Casinos, by Archangel Studios.

We've all seen those over-the-top, high action heist movies with get-away drivers, explosives, and wild gun fights. Well, what if you took those tropes, typically reserved for the likes of bank, museum, and casino heists, and applied them to just about anything you can get your grubby paws on? I mean, a heist is a heist is a heist as long as you have the right attitude.

Convenience Stores & Casinos is great for groups that want to go big or go home - even if going big just means an over-complicated heist just to steal a bag of chips. Characters are derived from rolled stats, and playbooks that represent different tropes in heist fiction.

There’s not a lot to do with inventory in this game; the only tables present are the weapon and armour tables. However, weapons and armour are attached to level; you have a chance of getting something good at a low level but that chance is very slim. As the characters prepare for a heist, they can roll to see what kinds of weapons they’re allowed to have, and the higher level they are, the higher chance that they find something that can pack a real punch. Combat is not something you’ll want to get into at the beginning - but as you level up, you’ll take bigger and bigger risks, which will probably lead to more and more things going wrong. I also like the section on the weapon table titled “you just wanted to play D&D didn’t you?”