#he is bound by a magical contract

[dreamstriderart]

I find it incredibly funny that most of the Tav BG3 art that I have seen have Tav vibing or being lovey-dovey with some of the game characters.

Meanwhile, I exist with my Tav, Elias, throwing hands with both most the party; holds Astarion at knife point and fully believing that Gale is some sort of con man. (This is early act1 mind you)

[fllagellant]

What flipped the switch in my brain to make me think about The Witcher . Anyways . Um . Witcher au Giilvas and Wyll , Wyll is an Eagle Witcher and Giilvas is a Bear Witcher who mainly hung around Wolf Witchers and picked up their fighting style and for their first few run ins Wyll is trying to guess what school Giilvas is from ( bc he also hides his medallion so Wyll doesn’ t even have that One Bit of visual information ) . Um . They meet everyone else thru a series of contracts that they both keep picking up and doing at the same time ( Omg Destiny ) and they all end up travelling together … sorry I blacked out what was this post about

[frightfulfantasy]

Just want to post my tav on here bc I love them hehe.

This is Chance (he/they). He is a drow warlock with The Fiend subclass.

Lore/background in the tags if interested.

Anyways they're pretty hehe

[smileysuh]

devil's girl

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader I ft. Mingyu & Wonwoo

🔮 preview. “Three hundred years ago, one of your ancestors promised me a descendant as my prophesied betrothed. A girl of her bloodline who would bear my hybrid offspring, children with the power of demons and witches, bodies unrestricted by the laws of heaven or hell. A witch who would be identified by the mark of the Devil, drawn through with three lines.”

tw/cw. foreplay, fingering, oral (f receiving), Cheol is low-key pussy obsessed, overstimulation, 5-inch long demon tongue, invisible demon bondage magic, the demon magic can also vibrate her clit a little, bdsm themes, slight choking, squirting, wet kink, massive cock cheol, pussy stretching, impreg/breeding/cum kink, dirty talk, service dom Cheol, consent is a must, begging, multiple reader orgasms, unprotected sex, hand job, dream/incubi threesome with Mingyu & Wonwoo, double fingering, degradation, dacryphilia, etc… I pet names: (hers) little/my sweet, pretty girl, good girl, whore/slut (1), baby, little love, etc. (his) sir, daddy.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.2k

🍭 aus. king of hell!Cheol, witch descendant!y/n, prophesy, arranged marriage, yandere/possessive themes, slight kidnapping, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. I feel like I need the men I write about every time, but when I tell you I need this man biblically, when I tell you I need him to kidnap me and make me the Queen of Hell and knock me up with demon hybrid babies asap-

Prologue:

It was not a fate that she would have ever wished upon any of her descendants, but there was a price to pay for power, a price to pay for life and a line continued. The old crone signed the contract, bound in blood, with the King of Hell, promising one of her own line as his future intended.

She could not foresee when the prophesied witch would be born, all she could promise The Dark King was that the descendant would bear the mark of the Devil. Somewhere in the world, there would be a girl born with a pentagram birthmark, run through with three lines, and that girl, would bear the task of giving children to the King of Hell himself.

The crone did this to solidify her line would survive the witch trials ravaging the country, the contract would ensure demonic protection from death- none of the King’s loyal followers would allow harm to fall upon any woman who could possibly birth the next Queen of Hell. 

As the trials continued, not one of the crone’s daughters were harmed. Years went by, with the crone checking every new grandaughter and great-granddaughter for marks. When it became clear that the prophesied girl would not be born in her time on Earth, she urged all her descendants to be fruitful and multiply, in the hopes that, with a large family line, the Demon King would have a harder time finding the contracted child.

Upon her death, the old crone’s family took her words to heart. Not only did the daughters multiply after the witch trials had ended, but they split. Some became nomadic, others found places to settle down and have whole swaths of children. Many of these descendants took upon new names, as women always took the last name of their husbands.

In this way, the old crone hoped to cheat the devil himself, and for a very long time, she was successful in her evasion of him.

one

“This better be important,” Seungcheol groans, shifting on his throne to assess the two low level demons in front of him. 

The incubi exchange looks, and finally one steps forward. “Sir, we found her.”

“You found her?” the King repeats. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“The witch,” the second demon says, fumbling as he also moves forward to address Seungcheol. “The one from the prophecy, with the mark.” 

The Demon King feels a twitch of something electric, it makes his finger tips jolt, and he begins to strum them along the dark marble arm of his throne. “What are your names?”

“I’m Wonwoo,” says the first incubi, “and this is Mingyu.”

“Well, Wonwoo, Mingyu, the two of you better not be wrong.” Seungcheol stands up. “Where is she?”

“We can give you the details, only…” Mingyu casts an anxious look toward Wonwoo, “we��re pretty sure she was wearing a high level demon ward.”

“What?” The word comes out as a growl, and in the lava fields of hell that stretch as far as the eye can see behind him, there’s a tremor that betrays the King’s rage.

“A demon ward,” Wonwoo repeats. “An heirloom. It’s a necklace. We tried to get her to take it off, but even while dreaming, she was pretty protective over it.”

Seungcheol can’t believe what he’s hearing. It’s been over three hundred years since he’d made a contract with the old crone. Three hundred years of waiting for the ability to sire a line with a witch who would be able to withstand the process. He’d almost given up the hope of ever finding his betrothed, only for two sinful incubi to find her in the dream state. The fact that she’s warded is the cherry on top of this whole fucking thing.

“That bitch,” Seungcheol groans. “The old crone has done everything in her power to make sure our contract would never be fulfilled, and she’s even left warding jewlery.” 

If the witch wasn’t in heaven, Seungcheol would pay a visit to her himself to enact his revenge for this final piece of treachery.

You do a service to save an entire line of witches, and this is how they intend to pay back your kindness. 

“It’s not the end though,” Wonwoo offers helpfully. “We just have to convince her to take the necklace off, that will break the ward, and you can summon yourself into her room as soon as it’s off.”

“If the two of you do this for me,” Seungcheol notes, “you will be rewarded.”

“We’re just happy we found her for you,” Mingyu says, voice shaky. “It’s been a very long time.”

Too long, in fact. 

two

You’re lost in a dreamy haze. Two pairs of lips are on your throat, one man pressed to your front, the other at your back. Hands caress your form, and nothing has felt this real. You’re moaning, eager for the fiery touches.

“We need you to do something for us,” the man in front of you whispers, licking past the shell of your ear and making you shiver.

“Anything,” you blurt out, already reaching for his cock.

A hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. When you meet the stern man’s gaze, you note the darkness in his eyes. 

“This is a pretty necklace,” he muses, as the person at your back nips at the chain that encircles your throat.

“It’s a-” you swallow back your lust, trying to form words, “an heirloom.”

“How badly do you want to be fucked, naughty girl?” 

“So bad,” you whimper, pressing your thighs together in the hope that you can quench some of your sexual appetite. 

“Then you need to promise us that when you wake up, you’ll take this pretty necklace off, only for a while.”

“Huh?” You’re confused, and the man behind you immediately brings his hand to your core, stroking you through your nightie. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel like they’ve asked you to do this before- but your memory is as fuzzy as the vision in front of you, and the men are more than distracting.

“You can do this for us, right?” he presses. “Please?”

“Why do you need me to take my necklace off?” you ask. It had been a parting gift from your mother before you were put up for adoption, and in her note, she’d warned you never to take it off. You can already feel yourself becoming restless at the turn of this dream, what had started so sweet and sexual has turned darker than you’d been ready for.

“It looks like it needs a little… TLC, don’t you think, baby?” One large finger slips into your core, and at the same time, the man in front of you tugs down your dress to access your breast, flicking at the nipple.

“Tell us you’ll do this,” murmurs the one with his mouth on your chest.

Your fingers tangle through his dark curls, keeping him on your breast while he begins to suck on your sensitive bud. It’s practically impossible to say no to them.

“Okay,” you whisper finally, voice shaky. “Just for a little.”

“There’s our good girl,” the one in front growls, adding a hand to his friend’s so he can slip his own finger into your dripping core. They both begin to work you open, and you can’t help the gasps of pleasure that begin to escape you, your grip flying to broad shoulders to keep yourself standing between the two large men.  “Now we all get our reward.”

three

You wake up feeling relaxed but needy. You remember ghosted touches as you head for a morning shower, washing your body and remembering strong hands trailing along the same path. 

As you do your usual skin routine, your necklace catches your eye in the bathroom mirror, and you’re reminded of the promise you’d made in your dream. Upon inspection, you do think the necklace could use a little refurbishment- you’ve been wearing the chain since childhood, where your commitment to never taking it off had been like life and death.

If you’d had a dream about removing it, if even for a little while, maybe that was your subconscious telling you it’s time to let go of the hold your mother has on you. After all, she gave you up- what do you owe her? What’s the point in still wearing this around?

With a sigh, you reach behind yourself, fiddling with the clasp. There have been a few times you’ve been required to take the necklace off, at hospitals, or the dentist, certain airports- it won’t kill you to remove it for a little while today.

You don’t think much of it as you set the heirloom onto your bathroom counter, in fact, you’re already planning out breakfast. You go to the kitchen, humming to yourself while you open the fridge to look at the contents inside. 

As you reach for the orange juice, the hairs on the back of your neck begin to raise, and you feel a powerful energy, as if you’re being watched.

“Goodmorning, sweet girl.” 

The sudden voice makes you jump, heart lurching into your throat as you whip around.

There’s a man standing in your kitchen. He’s dressed in all black, with a long silky jacket over top of dress pants and a matching charcoal shirt. His hair is dark too, and he has a smirk on his handsome face.

It only takes you a moment to assess ‘oh, he’s hot’ and one more to decide to throw your juice directly at him.

The man quickly lifts his hand, flicking two fingers. It’s as if the container of orange juice hits some invisible barrier, and it goes flying directly into your sink.

“Don’t be like that,” he tuts, clicking his tongue. “Is that any way to greet a man like me?”

“Who are you?” you ask, mouth going dry as you cower back against the fridge, feeling suddenly very naked in your tiny shorts and crop top. 

“An angel,” the man says simply, but the all black outfit is a dead give away that he’s lying.

“Yeah?” you let out a small laugh. “What’s your name then, mister Angel?”

He stares at you for a moment, something dark flashing over his features. When he smiles this time, you notice sharp canines. “Satan.” 

Your entire body runs cold. “I don’t…” You lick your lips. “I don’t see any devil horns, or a tail-”

“Would you like to see them?”

“No?” 

The man takes a step toward you. “You’re reacting better than I expected, Devil’s girl.”

“Devil’s girl?” you repeat, pressing your back tighter to the fridge in an effort to get away from him as he approaches closer and closer.

“That’s you,” he nods. “That’s what you are. It’s who you were destined to be.”

“I don’t know much about destiny-”

“Why would you?” he shrugs. “It’s been three hundred years since your family agreed to the dept they owe me. In that time, you witches have made it extra hard for me to keep track of all of you. I’m not surprised you don’t know anything about the prophecy, although, I will admit I’m a little disappointed you clearly haven’t stepped into your powers yet. Part of me had been hoping for a bit of a fight.”

“I can still fight you-” you insist, reaching out to grab a weapon from the knife block, brandishing it at the intruder.

He simply laughs, and with the flick of his fingers the knife goes flying out of your hand, landing in the sink next to the juice. “Silly little girl,” he grins. “Power reacts only to power, and though I can see you have power in your veins, it’s clear that no one has unlocked it for you. Don’t worry, I’ll help you get there.”

“Why would I want your help?” You cower back against the fridge, unable to move from where you’re standing. It feels like your feet are weighed down, and you wonder if this is another one of his magic tricks.

The devil puts his hand on the surface next to your head, blocking you into your fate. “Because, silly girl, at the moment, I’m your fiance, and soon, I’ll be your husband.”

“What?” The word comes out as a croak, your heart going a mile a minute in your chest.

“Three hundred years ago, one of your ancestors promised me a descendant as my prophesied betrothed. A girl of her bloodline who would bear my hybrid offspring, children with the power of demons and witches, bodies unrestricted by the laws of Heaven or Hell. A witch who would be identified by the mark of the Devil, drawn through with three lines.” 

Realization washes over you. The mark on your ass- the peculiar birthmark, the mark you’ve always been insecure about-

“How…” you swallow thickly. “Why now? How did you find me?”

“I had help. Two incubi found you in your dreams. You were wearing an heirloom with a ward against me, but lucky for us, they convinced you to take off the silly little crone necklace. I couldn’t touch you while you had it on, couldn’t be in the same room as you, but now… I can be here with you, and…” he reaches out a hand, dragging a finger along your collarbone, “I can touch you.” 

“And if I say no to all of this?” you ask. “If I say no to marrying a man who’s literally Satan?”

“Then I’ll convince you,” the demon leans close, his hot breath ghosting over your throat. “I can be awfully convincing… also, if it makes you feel better, don’t call me Satan.”

“Then what should I call you?”

“Seungcheol.” There’s a softening in his tone when he says this new name, and as you stare at his handsome face, you realize that is suits him. “And what should I call you, my sweet?”

You whisper your name and Seungcheol repeats it. You can tell he’s enjoying the taste of it on his tongue, and as you share this close proximity with the man who claims you’re his betrothed, you realize your innate attraction to him, despite the circumstance. 

“So…” you lick your lips. “What now?”

“Now, little sweet, I take you back to my Kingdom.”

“You mean Hell.”

He grins, and you once again get a view of those sharp teeth. You wonder what they’ll feel like against your skin, and the thought has your body tingling with lust and shame. 

“What if I don’t go with you.”

“Like I said, I’m awfully convincing, but on this one, you don’t have a choice.” He lets out a sigh, playing with a strand of your hair. “There are many religions in this world, little sweet, and in many of them, the King of Hell gets his Persephone. Although, in this case, you have no Demeter to protect you. The witch who promised you to me is long since dead, and your family line got muddled and convoluted in the hopes that it would hide you from me. Unfortunately for them, I’m here to collect, and there’s no one in the world who can stop me.”

“But, I mean-” you search for any way to get out of this. “I have a job-”

“Yeah? Tell me about this job.” 

You can’t believe he’s humouring you, a slight appearance of interest appearing in his features. “I’m a full time baby sitter, an au pair,  the girls are expecting me-”

Seungcheol lets out a low growl from deep in his chest. “So you’re good with children.”

Your mind goes back to what he’d said not minutes ago: ‘A girl of her bloodline who would bear my hybrid offspring, children with the power of demons and witches, bodies unrestricted by the laws of Heaven or Hell.’

Of course the King of Hell has an impreg kink and is turned on by your job as a nanny. 

“I can’t go with you,” you insist.

His hand wraps around your throat, thumb teasing your jaw. “It’s not your choice.”

His eyes flare a fiery red colour, and it feels as if the air is sucked out of your lungs. Your hair ruffles, as if you’re in a wind tunnel, and a moment later, you’re no longer standing in your kitchen.

Seungcheol releases your neck, gesturing to the room you’re now in. “This is your new home,” he announces, giving you a moment to take in the black marble floors, scarce furniture, and large bed in the center of the space. There’s a floor to ceiling window that encompasses a whole wall, and through it, you see what can only be decribed as a literal Hellscape. 

You can’t help it, you approach the window, mind going blank as you stare out at the fire fields. 

Seungcheol is silent as he comes up behind you, pressing two hands to the windowed wall and blocking you in with your back to his chest. You can feel his breath along your throat. “Welcome to Hell, sweet thing. This is all yours now, although, I doubt I’ll let you leave this room too often, not until I know I can trust you.”

It’s funny to hear Satan talking about his ability to trust you- a girl who’s done her best to be good her whole life. 

Seungcheol’s lips brush by your ear. “Should we get started, then?”

“Started on what?”

“You know what.” He presses a shockingly soft kiss to your throat, nose nuzzling by your jaw.

“Please, don’t hurt me.”

“I’ll be honest with you, little one, I’m not a nice man. But… I’ll be good to you, if you’re good for me.” One of his hands slips down from the window to grab at your hip, tugging your back flush to his chest. “The way you were good for Mingyu and Wonwoo in your dreams last night.” 

The names mean nothing to you, as the men in your wet dream had never given them, although, they must be the incubi he was talking about earlier. The fact that Seungcheol knows about your sinful nightly escapades with two other demons has you feeling shy, your skin heating at his words.

“Even so, demons need consent to enter human bodies,” the King of Hell explains. “Which means, if you withdraw your consent, I’ll be forced to stop. Although… something tells me you’ll consent.”

His hand glides from your hip to your exposed abdomen, and he teases you on what path he’s going to take- up to your breasts, or down to your aching core.

“What…” you swallow back a moan, “What makes you so sure?”

“I can smell your arousal, sweet girl, and there are signs I can see too.” His hand smooths up to your breast, and he squeezes your sensitive flesh, thumb brushing over your hardened nipple. “I think you’re well aware that I’m going to fuck you, in a way you’ve never even dreamed of being fucked before.”

Your breath catches, and you bite at your lower lip to stop a whimper from slipping out of you. Your back arches, pushing your chest more into his large palm.

Seungcheol grins against your throat. “I can see how much you want this, little sweet. Do you want to see how much I want you?”

He grinds his front against your ass, and you can feel his hard cock- fuck, he feels big. You shiver at the realization that your betrothed is packing, and Seungcheol laughs at your reaction.

“Tell me you want this,” he commands.

“I-” You bite your tongue.

His hand wraps around your throat, lips moving to your ear. “Tell me you want this.” 

“I want this,” you admit weakly. 

“That’s my good girl,” Seungcheol growls. His hand raises from you neck, fingers finding your jaw again. He prompts you to turn your head, meeting his gaze as he leans over your shoulder, looking down at you with a dark expression. 

You know what’s coming, and you can’t help yourself as he draws your lips to his own. Your eyes flutter shut, mind going blank as you enjoy the feeling of him. He’s warm, but you suppose you should expect that from the King of Hell. 

The kiss deepens all too quickly, and you find yourself turning in his embrace, grabbing at his broad shoulders to pull him even closer. 

Seungcheol lets out a growl when your breasts press against his chest, and he leans down, grabbing at the back of your thighs so he can lift you off the marble floor. He presses you back against the window, tongue tasting your own and dominating you as he kisses you like a man who’s waited a hundred years for this- or, strike that, a man who’s waited three hundred years. 

There’s a rage in the way he kisses you, rage in the fact that he was forced to wait so long, but behind the rage is something like desperation. His fingers dig into your thighs, his mouth unrelenting against your own.

You’re not sure how long the kiss lasts, but soon, he’s carrying you to the bed. He sets you onto the lavish mattress, tearing at your clothes until you’re naked before him. He towers over you, staring down at your body while you catch your breath.

“Beautiful,” he muses, reaching down to massage your breast, which sends sparks of delight through your entire form. “You were made for me. My sweet. My little queen. My lost witch.”

When he says it like this, something about it feels right. 

Something about him feels right, as if your soul has accepted him, even after such a short amount of time. 

Then, in the most shocking twist of events, the King of Hell himself gets onto his knees for you. “Come here, my sweet,” Seungcheol says softly, grabbing at your thighs to tug you down the silk sheets toward his face. “It’s time for me to have a taste.” 

He leans toward your core, taking in a lewd breath before letting it fan across your skin. Your core throbs at the proximity. Seungcheol grins at your reaction, tongue moving to prod his own fang- which is when you realize, his tongue is like his cock: monstrous. 

You suck in a choked gasp, eyes widening. You’d thought he was going easy on you by giving you his mouth first, come to find out his tongue alone is probably as large as most men’s cocks- this must be a Devil thing, but before you can think too hard about it, Seungcheol is licking your slit and your mind goes silent.

A whimper escapes you, your back arching, core pushing closer to his face. Seungcheol lets out a small chuckle, his large hands finding your abdomen to pin you in place. “Stay still and take it, pretty girl,” he warns. “Or there will be… consequences.”

He licks at you again, flicking your clit with as skilled a tongue as you’ve ever had. Your pussy is already throbbing with need, and it takes everything inside of you not to buck toward his face again.

You can feel him watching you when you throw your head back, whimpering at the way he circles your clit. Then he drags his tongue down, dipping it into your wet heat. Your body tenses at the intrusion, mind short cirucuiting as inch after inch of tongue invades you, licking at your walls while Seungcheol groans at your taste.

Fuck- a five inch tongue is definitely a demon thing, but you can’t bring yourself to hate it as he begins to literally tongue fuck you stupid. 

Not only does Cheol have the largest tongue you’ve experienced, and a willingness to use it, he’s got an eagerness in the way he eats you out. It’s as if he’s trying to devour you, holding nothing back as he growls and groans his way through working you up to your orgasm. 

The feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach is hot and all consuming, your muscles tensing with effort as you get closer and closer to your peak.

“Fuck- Cheol-” you whimper, unable to hold it in any longer as your hips push toward his face, one of your hands moving down to grab at his hair-

It’s as if hot, invisible handcuffs wrap around your wrists, tugging them up and over your head, pinning you to the bed while you squirm with confusion and lust.

“What did I say about consequences if you didn’t behave yourself?” Seungcheol asks, pulling away from your core and licking his wet lips with that tongue of his.

“I-” you push at the invisible binds on your wrists. “I’m sorry- I was just so close-”

“So close that you lost your manners?” He taps his fingers along your abdomen. “That’s not very queenly of you, my sweet.”

“I’m sorry-” you say again, tears begin to form in your eyes as you feel your orgasm dissipating. “Please-”

“Please, what?”

“Your tongue- I was so close-”

“Do you really deserve it?”

“Yes!”

“You’ll be good for me?”

“Of course, I’ll be so good-”

“If you’re not good for me,” he warns, “you don’t get to cum, remember that.”

“Yes, okay, I understand-” you fight the urge to thrash in his embrace, and it feels like forever that he assesses you before finally bringing his face between your thighs again.

Just as his tongue is about to lap at your pussy, he stops. “Actually, I want to hear you beg for this. Beg for me to let you cum.”

You’re practically delirious, muscles still tight in preparation for your orgasm, and you’ll do anything he says right now. “Please, please, Sir- please let me cum!”

Seungcheol lets out a satisfied growl. “Sir, huh?” He clicks his tongue. “I’ll take that for now, but pretty soon, you’ll be calling me daddy.”

You whimper at his words, core dripping with spit and arousal. “Please-”

He buries his face in your pussy again, holding nothing back. His hands move down to your thighs, squeezing and adding a slight pain that has your entire body tingling. Gasps escape you, escalating in pitch as he drags you closer and closer to your orgasm again-

“Cumming,” you whisper, as the most intense orgasm of your life slams into you.

You do your best not to thrash around, but as Seungcheol obscenely tongue fucks you through your high, it’s the most you can do to stay as still as possible. You push up against the invisible binds on your wrists, gasping and whimpering-

“Fuck, my clit- it’s too sensitive-” you try to tell him, only for Seungcheol to focus more on the sensitive bud.

Your toes curl, a strangled sob escaping you at the stimulus. All you can do is lay there and take the pleasure he’s giving you- you’d thought he was being nice when he’d decided to eat you out, but you see now that maybe there was a bit of sadism in it. He’s clearly enjoying making you cum so hard that you’re beginning to cry, your muscles screaming at you from how tense you are-

“Please, please, please-” 

With one final flick at your clit that has you letting out a high pitched squeal, Seungcheol pulls away from your pussy. He blows hot air on your core and you twitch, thighs closing, body shaking in the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Look at you, crying and I haven’t even given you my cock yet,” Seungcheol muses, standing up and staring down at your body. 

He pulls off his shirt, and even through your tears, you take a good look at his chiseled form. 

Fuck, he’s even more gorgeous with his skin showing. His shoulders are broad, arms all beefy and strong- he’s an absolute unit, but you guess you shouldn’t have expected anything less from the King of Hell. 

Then he goes for his pants, pushing them down to reveal the largest cock you’ve ever seen in person.

Your mouth begins to water, fuzzy mind trying to figure out just how many inches this man is about to bury into your wet, twitching pussy.

“Think you can take it, pretty girl?” he asks, wrapping a hand around the base and pumping his hard length.

“Something tells me you’ll make it fit,” you whisper, your core throbbing at the idea.

Seungcheol grins. “We just met, and you already know me so well. Guess that’s part of the whole destined to be together thing. Makes shit easier.”

Instead of getting on top of you, Seungcheol tugs you closer to the foot of the mattress, then, with one twitch of his fingers, the entire bed raises, positioning you exactly where he needs you to be in order for him to fuck you while standing up.

He grabs at your breast, teasing your nipple while you mewl. Your own hand reaches out for his cock, and he allows you to grab him. You wipe your thumb across the angry red tip, smearing precum along his shaft to add lubrication, making it easier to pump his cock slowly while he continues to tease your nipples. 

His hand begins to decend, and he teases two fingers along your pussy lips. “I guess I can be nice and stretch you out,” he sighs, slipping the digits into your core. 

It’s a kindness you’re not sure you expected from him, and it prompts you to squeeze his cock tighter in your palm while he begins to finger fuck you open, scissoring his digits and testing your inner walls. 

“I can’t fucking wait to ruin your perfect little pussy,” Seungcheol groans, fucking you even harder. “You’re squeezing my fingers so fucking well, gonna be a good girl and squeeze my cock even better.”

“Yes, Sir,” you whimper, abdominal muscles tensing as he begins to stroke your gspot. 

“Should I give you one more before I give you my cock?” Seungcheol asks, thumb finding your clit and making you cry out. “You’re already wet, baby, but I want you dripping when I finally fuck you stupid.”

You pump is cock faster as he pistons his fingers into your gspot, his thumb unrelenting on your sensitive bud. He works you up to another orgasm with deadly precision, your entire body tensing with pleasure before falling over the edge.

“That’s it,” Seungcheol growls, fingers fucking you through your high. “That’s a good girl, squirting all over my fucking hand-”

No man has ever made you squirt before, and the feeling is intense. You’re gasping, crying from how good it feels, like an overwhelming sense of relief washing over you, a warmth spreading out from your core.

The sound of your squirt is obscene too, gushy, spongy noises filling the room with each pump of Seungcheol’s fingers.

“Sir,” you whimper, “need your cock-”

“Yeah? Is my good girl finally ready to please her King?”

You can only nod, letting go of his cock in favor of grabbing the sheets, needing an anchor for what’s about to come next.

“You know what this means, right?” Seungcheol asks, teasing his tip along your wet pussy lips. “You know I’m going to cum so fucking deep inside of you that you’re going to be dripping for days.”

You nod again, whimpering at the idea.

“You want to be bred though, don’t you, pretty girl? You’re practically begging for it now. What happened to the girl who threw juice at me this morning? All it took was a little cock and you’re dick whipped for you King.”

“All it took was a big cock,” you correct him, skin flushing at the words that have just slipped out of him.

Seungcheol laughs, his canines sparkling in the low light of the room. “Biggest cock you’ve ever had,” he agrees. “Biggest cock you ever will have. After this, you’re mine. Completely. Body and soul.” 

In past relationships, you’ve toyed with the idea of forever. It’s been a thought that strikes fear in your heart, but for some reason, looking up at the King of Hell, forever doesn’t scare you anymore.

Something tells you he’s going to take care of you, in a way no one ever has.

It’s clear he’s very protective over you. He believes in soulmates, in destiny, in prophecy- you’re his perfect match, and he’s fully bought into that idea… maybe you’ll buy into it someday too.

“I’m yours,” you agree finally, staring up at the beautiful devil.

He bends over you, pressing his lips to your own. With one hand, he cups your cheek, keeping you close, and with the other, he guides his cock to your pussy again, slowly pushing in.

You gasp against his mouth at the immediate stretch of his cockhead in your tight core, your hands flying to his shoulders.

“I know,” he coos, “I know, but it will feel good in a second, I promise.”

You’re happy he made you squirt, because the wetness coating your pussy makes it easy for him to slowly slide inch after inch into your core. He thrusts shallowly, and the movement helps your body become adjusted to his massive size.

You’re shocked at how big he is- it was one thing to see it, and another thing entirely to feel him- to feel the vein running along the underside of his cock while it drags against your sensitive walls.

Seungcheol’s mouth is hot against your own, his tongue seemingly back to a normal size as he licks at your lips. You think he must be trying to distract you from the intense feeling of being stretched out on his cock, and it’s another kindness you’d never expected from him.

When he’s fully sheathed in your core, you both let out groans of pleasure. 

The King of Hell straightens again, looking down at you while his hands graze your form. “Ready, sweet girl?”

You nod, licking your lips. “Yes, please.”

He grabs your hips, holding you steady so he can begin to rut into you.

Your view of him is insane. How is his body so perfect? He’s chiseled in the best of ways, his chest looks downright biteable, his biceps bulging as he holds you down, his abdominal muscles clenching with each thrust-

You’re absolutely delirious for him, your own hands finding your chest to tease your nipples.

Seungcheol’s gaze shifts to where you’re touching yourself, and a smirk appears on his face. “Fuck, baby, that good, huh?”

You can only nod and let out a needy mewling sound, pinching at your nipples and making your back arch while he rails your pussy.

Each drag of his cock along your sensitive inner walls has you seeing stars, and when his hand flattens over your abdomen, you nearly loose it.

“This is how deep I am,” he tells you. “Bet having-” he groans, “Bet having your guts rearranged by the King of Hell wasn’t on your bingo card this year, was it, little love?”

“No, sir,” you shake your head, whimpering at the feeling of pressure on your stomach from his hand. God- why does this feel so good? You can feel him everywhere, he’s all consuming, and that familiar feeling of an oncoming orgasm is building yet again.

“I can feel you tensing up,” Seungcheol notes with a laugh, his thumb moving down to find your clit. “Gonna cum on my cock, aren’t you?”

“Yes, daddy,” you mewl, the title feeling more than natural on your lips.

Seungcheol’s grip on your hip tightens at the word, his thumb applying more pressure to your clit while he fucks you even harder, impaling you on his massive cock with each rough thrust.

“Beg for daddy to let you cum.”

“Please- please, daddy, fuck- I wanna cum so bad, wanna make you feel good-”

“I’m not cumming with you, not yet,” he warns. “As much as I love this position, there’s only one way I want you when I’m filling you with my seed, and that’s on your hands and knees, face buried in the pillows, crying like my good little whore.”

His words have your pussy fluttering around his cock, and it makes his grin widen.

“You like that, huh? Like the idea of being my perfect little cock slut?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Made for me,” he grunts, pinching your clit and making you cry out. “You were fucking made for me. Cum on my cock, baby, show me you deserve it.”

You can’t even fight the command, your body short circuiting, muscles clenching as you follow through with what he wants. Your orgasm hits you like a ton of bricks, pussy clamping down on Seungcheol’s large cock.

He doesn’t stop, he only fucks you harder as you squeal and thrash against the bed- when you reach out to grab his arms, the invisible binds appear again, pinning your hands above you.

Seungcheol laughs, but there’s a groan in the sound too, and you know you’re probably squeezing him like a fucking vice. 

“Good girl,” he growls, and it only makes your pussy flutter harder.

The squelching sound returns, and you can’t even find it within yourself to be shy about the way your body is reacting to him, you’re too overwhelmed by the euphoria surging through your being to think cohesively.

“You’re crying again,” Seungcheol notes. “How cute.” His pace slows, and suddenly he’s grabbing at your jaw, hauling you into a sitting position, your face just inches from his own. 

His eyes are dark as he looks at you, then his long tongue is lolling out of his mouth, licking away your tears while you struggle and shiver, his cock buried so deep inside of you that you think you might faint.

“Tell me you’re ready for me to breed you,” Seungcheol growls.

“I’m ready for you to breed me,” you say meekly, core throbbing again at the idea.

The King of Hell presses his lips against your own, kissing your breath away while you claw at his shoulders. Then, as suddenly as he’d kissed you, he pulls away, cock slipping from your core and making you whine. 

“Onto all fours,” he instructs.

The bed slowly lowers to an acceptable height while you fumble on shaky legs to get into doggy position. 

“That’s my good girl,” Seungcheol praises you, the bed dipping as he joins you on his knees behind you. His large hands find your body, skimming along your sides.

Then he grabs the back of your neck, shoving your face down into the mattress. 

“Part of me wants to thank you for making this so easy,” he says. “But another part of me thinks you should be the one thanking me for giving you the opportunity to carry the children of the King of Hell.”

“Thank you,” you murmur.

Seungcheol scoffs. “You can thank me when my cum is dripping out of your used hole and you’re still begging for more.”

He slams his cock back into you, and a cry escapes your lips. God, in this position, he feels even deeper- if that’s possible.

Your toes curl at the sensation, and with every rough thrust, his balls clap against your clit, making you dizzy with pleasure.

His grip on the back of your neck increases, skilled fingers finding the arteries that flow to your brain- soon, you’re not only dizzy with pleasure, but dizzy from air being restricted too. It’s a beautiful, tingling feeling, and it has you clawing at the bed, arching your back as you moan like a desperate whore for him. 

You feel something on your clit, but both of Seungcheol’s hands are still occupied, one on your hip, one on your neck-

That’s when you realize that whatever invisible magic grip he’d used to pin you to the bed, he can use to pleasure you too-

Now, you truly feel him everywhere. 

“Fuck, fuck-” you struggle against the mattress, another orgasm bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

“That’s it, take it.” 

“Are you close?” you ask, and from the silence that you’re met with, you’re pretty sure you’ve caught him off guard. “Please tell me you’re close- I want to be full so bad, want you to breed me, Cheol- please-”

He sucks in a shaky breath, gripping your hip so hard that you’re pretty sure you’re going to bruise. His hand moves away from your neck in favour of grabbing both sides of your waist. He roughly pulls your ass back to meet each hard thrust.

“Keep begging.” 

“Please, daddy, please- fuck, this is what you wanted me for, right? This is what I owe you? Then give it to me- give me everything, breed me-”

“Cum for me first,” Seungcheol commands. “Cum on my cock so I know you deserve it.”

The magic on your clit suddenly feels like a harsh vibration, and it’s enough to tip you over the edge. You grab at the bed sheets, letting out a primal sound of pleasure as your core clamps down on Seungcheol’s length for a second time.

He lets out his own groan, and a moment later you feel his cum shooting deep inside of you, filling you up in ways you never even imagined possible.

He fucks you through your highs, his grip unwavering on your hips. It feels amazing to be used like this, to feel rope upon rope of Seungcheol’s seed invading you and coating your walls.

And the sounds he’s making- rough grunts and groans- you’ve never heard anything like it. You’ve never been this head over heals for someone before, and the notion shocks you.

Maybe you really were meant for each other- it’s hard to say what’s real as you sacrifice yourself to be his little cum dump, taking every last drop until he stills behind you, cock still buried to the hilt.

He’s breathing heavily, his gasps teasing your back. 

Neither of you say anything for a solid minute.

One of his hands leaves your hip, trailing along your spine. “Good girl.” 

You can only whimper in response. 

“I will admit, I’m still disappointed you’re not adept in the art of witchcraft, although, that’s hardly your own fault.” What a topic change. “I’ll find you someone to teach you, you’ll have lots of time to devote to the craft.”

His palm flattens against the small of your back, and he wordlessly prompts you to flatten onto your belly, pressing his own large chest against you like a blanket. His lips find your throat, and he peppers your skin in kisses. 

“Your days will be spent learning how to be a Queen, and your nights will be spent like this, with me.” His nose nuzzles by your cheek. “And tomorrow, I’ll make you my bride, officially.”

“Tomorrow?” you squeak. “Isn’t that a little… too soon?”

“I’ve waited three hundred years for you, little love. At this point, there’s no such thing as too soon.”

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading!

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🔮 preview.  “Trust me, little love, I haven’t cum in you for months, pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to help myself even if I tried.” With a grin, you allow Seungcheol to cup his fingers around the nape of your neck, dragging your lips to his. He kisses you as eagerly as he had the very first time, pushing you backward with his large form until you bump against the window. “I’ve got an idea,” your husband tells you, his mouth moving to your throat. “I wanna fuck you against this, want you to look at your kingdom while I pump our second heir deep into your perfect little pussy.”

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, impreg kink, cum kink, oral (f recieving), fingering, demon magic as a vibrator, fucking against a window, fucking while wearing a dress, quickie, biting/marking/blood licking, breast play, dirty talk, praise, begging,  etc…   I petnames. (hers) baby, little love, little sweet, etc… (his) daddy, sir. 

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.7k I teaser wc. 200

🌙 staring. Seungcheol x afab!reader

bonus

Hell is no place to raise a child, and it’s not a place that is easily accessible to witches either- which is why, soon into your pregnancy, Seungcheol made it his mission to find you a safe haven on Earth that you could call home.

Nestled in a small valley, far from any towns or cities, Seungcheol crafted you a home. It’s a cottage, very different from the Hell palace you’d become accustomed to.

Your days are spent basking in the sunshine with your tutor, a witch of a strong family blood line who had long been acquainted with the King of Hell. Your teacher, a woman named Faeble, also acted as your midwife, ensuring your birth with your first child was as seamless as possible, with the aid of magic of course.

She tends to the wards, teaching you about the ways of the witches, and helps you raise your son- she’s become like the mother you never got to have, and your days are peaceful. 

In the evenings, Seungcheol appears, whisking you and your son away to the safety of Hell. It’s a simple little life you’ve made for yourself, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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[smokesandsonatas]

I just want to see the Octavinelle trio get surprised, tongue-tied and amused because the reader is cunning.

Characters: Azul, Jade, and Floyd.

Warnings: None, just the old contract signing the Octavinelle way. First person pov. Mostly in Azul's pov. Tension (?).

Not beta read.

Shrimp Cocktail.

Apparently, it does not take a lot to amuse the Octavinelle trio. Or the story where you took a deal with Azul and it went unexpectedly.

They should learn not to underestimate Shrimpy.

Azul had always underestimated you. In his eyes, you were a mere human—a dimwitted fish floundering in the waters of Night Raven College. You lacked the cunning and intelligence of Jade, who could manipulate any situation with a few well-placed words, and you weren’t a lazy smartass like Floyd, who could memorize an entire book but discard it just as easily if he found it dull and boring. With your easy-going nature, you seemed like the perfect prey.

Well, you are the perfect prey.

Here you are, sitting in Azul’s office at the Mostro Lounge, the twins flanking you in chairs beside you. Floyd lounged with a lazy grin, manspreading on the sofa, while Jade sat, poised like a gentleman, a smirk barely concealed behind his gloved hand. Grim had been left behind at the ramshackle dorm, leaving you alone in the scammer's den. Azul could barely contain his amusement—you had just fallen into his trap, one he fully intended to exploit. You sat quietly in front of him, your face poised with a neutral expression. To Azul and the twins, you looked kind, naive—perhaps even a little stupid. They think you are an airhead. Their excitement was barely contained. They got you right where they wanted you to be. Here in Mostro Lounge, with no one but them watching over you like predators waiting to pounce and choke their prey.

"You're here for the favor of us providing Grim with food three times a day, seven days a week, for the duration of your absence with Professor Trein as the school's official photographer at an event outside Night Raven College," Azul began, his voice dripping with the saccharine politeness he used to mask his true intentions. "In exchange, you agreed that you will work for fourteen days, regular shifts, without any compensation for Mostro Lounge. I expect you to fully commit to your duties."

You nodded, hands neatly placed on your lap, a small smile on your lips. "Yes, that’s exactly it."

Jade’s grin widened slightly. You were so naive, so predictable. Pathetic, really—but there was something endearing about your earnestness. Everyone in Octavinelle liked this about you—how you walked into traps with your eyes wide open, never realizing until it was too late. You really are a shrimp, through and through. No sense of survival, no sense of fear.

Jade could feel his twin looking earnestly in you, their expression one of amusement.

You will never survive in the ocean.

"Very well then, Prefect," Azul continued, practically trembling with excitement as he handed you a golden scroll, a quill magically appearing in his gloved hand. "Sign this contract, and the favor you ask shall be yours."

You took the pen, hovering it just above the dotted line. Azul’s eyes gleamed with anticipation—just a few more minutes—seconds, and you’d be bound by his terms, forced into two weeks of unpaid labor. The satisfaction was almost too much to bear. You would be working without compensation, and Azul could even charge you for any drinks or food you will consume during your shifts!

Azul had also noticed that whenever you work, customers come flocking in! Is it because you're the famed Ramshackle dormleader? He can only suspect so. He might also have you gather more customers—all for free, technically, you are working free to him anyway.

Azul raised an eyebrow when he saw you set the pen down and lean back, that small smile on your lips widening into something sharper, more calculating.

Azul frowned.

"Azul," you began, your voice light and casual, but with an edge that made the room’s atmosphere shift. The twins noticed it too. Jade’s eyes narrowed slightly yet the smirk remains in his lips, and Floyd’s grin widened a little more as they both watched you closely—their eyes glued to you as a clear sign of their newfound interest.

Azul blinked, thrown off by your sudden change in demeanor. "Is something wrong, Prefect?"

"Not at all," you replied smoothly. "I’ve just been thinking about our arrangement. Fourteen days of unpaid work for three meals a day for Grim. It sounds like a fair trade, but then I realized something interesting."

Azul’s hand twitched slightly as he tried to maintain his composure. The contract is perfect in his eyes, all will favour him, how could it not be perfect? "And what might that be?"

You leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming with a mischievous light. "Well, the contract is almost perfect. Almost. But there’s one tiny detail that caught my attention—the meals for Grim. You’ve agreed to provide them three times a day, seven days a week, but the contract doesn’t specify the quality of those meals, does it?"

Azul’s smirk faltered, it is common sense that Grim will be given tuna in cans, isn't it? "The meals will be adequate, and his favourite tuna—"

"Ah, ‘adequate,’" you interrupted, your tone almost playful. "That could mean anything, really. Some stale bread, leftover scraps—technically, that would fulfill the contract, wouldn’t it?" You giggle, a sound so sweet it almost had the twins—in their fascination, to stand up and hover behind you. You heard a thud, no doubt it was the twins. Jade’s eyes narrowed, yet his smirk remains, replaced by a look of intrigued and amusement. Floyd sat up straight, fully intending to be by your side yet his uniform was immediately yanked down by Jade, stopping him from interfering. Floyd almost let out a hiss at his twin, though eventually he relents.

"But here’s where things get interesting," you continued, voice dropping to a near sweet tone that Azul use. "If Grim receives such ‘adequate’ meals, he might not be satisfied. A can of tuna alone won't cut it, he needs meat. A properly cooked, healthy meat seeing as he is a carnivore. He could get hungry, irritated—perhaps even cause trouble." You pout—a gesture which distracted Azul for a second as his eyes fell on your lips—appearing as meek as possible, "And as his caretaker, his henchman, I’d be worried. Distracted. And a distracted worker is an inefficient worker."

You locked your eyes against Azul's blue ones.

Azul’s eyes widened as he began to see where you were leading him. He blinked in intrigued and a mix of irritation and amusement.

"And," you pressed on, now leaning on the table, merely inches away from Azul's face. "if Grim were to get sick or cause problems because of poor nutrition, it wouldn’t just be a problem for me." You roll the scroll and use it to poke Azul's chest. "It would be a problem for Mostro Lounge. After all, you’re responsible for providing his meals, for almost a week at that. Any disruption he causes would reflect poorly on your business, wouldn’t it?"

Azul’s mind raced as he tried to find a loophole, but you had him cornered. Refusing your amendment meant sticking to a contract that could end up causing more trouble than it was worth. Agreeing to it, however, would mean committing to a higher standard of care for Grim, cutting into his profits. Twenty-one cans of tuna is not a big expense for him, but if you're to insist on nutritious meals... Well, that would cost him much more than what he intended to provide for your gremlin of a cat.

A simple overlooked in his part really, perhaps it is his fault for thinking you're one of those anemones that will blindly agree to anything without reading the fine print.

Finally, Azul forced a smile. "What do you propose, Prefect?"

You smiled sweetly, as if this were all a friendly discussion. "I propose that the meals provided for Grim meet a specific standard. Balanced, nutritious, and satisfying. A mix of tuna and properly cooked meat. A steak even. That way, Grim stays in good condition, I stay focused on my task outside of Night Raven College, and Mostro Lounge continues to run smoothly." You smiled at Azul as you lean at the table—mere inches away from his face, the octomerman can practically inhale your scent, have you always smelled this good?

"I also propose that I won't do overtime during my shifts for fourteen days, though I will not get paid, I would love it if my meals and drinks are free of charge—all within the time of my shift, of course."

You smiled sweetly at Azul—the way you don't break eye contact. It's exhilarating. It's making him sweat under his dorm uniform. "It’s in everyone’s best interest, don’t you think?"

Azul hesitated. This was not the agreement he had envisioned. His meticulously designed scheme had been dismantled by your shrewd maneuvering. We're you secretly a trickster? Appearing naive and helpless yet you are the one who catches people in your trap of being a false prey.

With a begrudging sigh, he conceded, "Very well, I’ll agree to the contract your propose. The meals provided for Grim will meet the specified standards, and you shall have the favours you asked during the course of your shift at Mostro Lounge."

You picked up the pen again, a triumphant glint in your eyes as you prepared to finalize the deal. A sweet, sweet, smile on your lips. "Thank you, Azul. I’m so glad we could come to an agreement."

As you signed the contract, Azul's sense of triumph morphed into a tumult of frustration and begrudging admiration. It's disgusting, your body language appeals to him—he knows it appeals to the twins too, given how Floyd is laughing right now, with Jade snickering beside him. You're one of the first—if not the first who had successfully turned the tables on him. It is not even a heavy contract, just an agreement for food and yet, Azul concedes to your demands. Though he suppose it is not bad, since he will see you everyday for almost two weeks. What had seemed like a one-sided victory for him had morphed into a more balanced exchange. You had come into his office alone, seemingly naive, and yet you had outmaneuvered him with words that unsettled him deeply, yet amused him greatly—jellyfishes swimming on his stomach. Perhaps during that time for your compensation he will invite you to his office so he can give you a proper assessment.

Heh, not bad at all.

Jade and Floyd had their mismatched eyes glued on your form, as you stand. Admiring the sway of your hips as you walk outside the room where nobody ever comes out as victorious as you are. You, a small shrimp, had greatly amused the twins. Unfortunately for you, Floyd hates being bored and Jade loves unpredictability—both qualities you tickled the moment you succesfully negotiated a deal with none-other-than Azul Ashengrotto.

As you left the room, Floyd let out a low, almost purring chuckle—how dare you Shrimpy? His blood is now pumping in excitement because of you. "Hehe, Shrimpy’s got some real bite, huh? This is gonna be interesting."

Jade’s gaze followed you with a newfound intensity. "Indeed. The prefect is far more dangerous than they appear. Heh, perhaps they relish the game, much like we do."

Azul was left staring at the contract, his frustration intertwined with a growing, unsettling admiration. You weren’t the dimwitted fish he had thought you were. No, you were a tempest—a captivating, unpredictable force in the waters of Octavinelle. The way you had twisted the terms of the agreement had left him both disturbed and intrigued. Your brilliance was both unsettling and exhilarating, making him realize that you were a much more dangerous fish than he had ever anticipated.

A shiver of something dark and obsessive crept into his thoughts. You had managed to turn a simple negotiation into a display of strategic dominance, leaving him with a dangerous mix of respect and a growing, unsettling fascination. The twins are no better, Jade glues you into his memory, the way you answer casually—it is attractive. Floyd is well, Floyd. He might visit you later and compliment you for outsmarting Azul!

Hehe, who would've thought you are a predator in your own right? Perhaps the shrimp cocktail is a dish best served cold after all.

[pomefioredove]

Hello! I was wondering if you could do the Dormleaders' reactions to Yuu who, given that they're from another world, is immune to any and all magic spells.

Example: Riddle's 'Off With Your Head' doesn't make a collar on their neck, 'King's Roar' doesn't affect them at all, 'It's A Deal' doesn't take anything from Yuu and acts like any ordinary contract, etc.

However, this means any healing spells has no effect, forcing Yuu to heal on their own.

Thank you for reading this!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ magic immune reader

type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, kalim, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

out of all the dorm leaders, Riddle would be the most annoyed

...not that 'Off With Your Head' would've done much, anyway

you have no magic to take away

but... it's the meaning!

it's symbolic!

even a plain old collar would be punishment enough

but he can't even do that!

hopefully, you're not the type to misbehave, so he won't have to worry about it

if you are...

...expect to spend a lot of your week trimming the hedges around Heartslabyul as punishment

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona doesn't even know until his overblot

...well...

until after his overblot

everyone keeps going on about how lucky you are

(personally, he doesn't see what's so great about being magic-repellent, but sure)

he's... glad you're okay

not that he'd ever admit that...

just don't let it get to your head, alright?

being immune to magic means both bad and good spells

and he's not going to be sanding you again anytime soon

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Azul is PISSSSSED lmao

all that work he's put into his latest business venture

and for what??

you're not even BOUND by his contracts!

he has a hard time saying goodbye to Ramshackle...

what a nice cafe it would have made...

but, still

there's got to be some way he can use this to his advantage

he's an adaptable man

and he's always looking for a new assistant

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Kalim is only a little disappointed

first, you can't even cast a spell

now you can't have any cast on you?

you're missing out on all his great party tricks!!!

but... oh, well

he thinks of it as an adventure, or a fun challenge

magicless parties sound kinda cool, right?

and Jamil says it's probably for the better, and Kalim trusts his judgment

(...for now, at least, cough cough)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

not counting the... VDC incident, Vil doesn't care

unlike your annoying friends, he has no reason to curse you

and he can certainly think of many magicless punishments should you ever misbehave

so, no

not really something that crosses his mind

even when you're unwell (because, of course, he's the first to tend to you), he prefers using natural remedies before magical ones

to him, it's just another piece of the strange puzzle that is you

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

honestly what is Idia going to do

open the gates of hell on you?

nah

even boring spells would be too much effort for a guy like him

he does find you kinda interesting, though

I mean, being immune to magic in this place is a total buff!

imagine a group of NPCs firing magic at you, and you're like, wham! whew! zoooom!

...in his own words, anyway

(it's not actually that cool)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Malleus...

where do I even start?

he's so reliant using magic that he can almost sense there's something different about you right away

one on hand, it's a good thing

he worries about you, you know? the students at this school can get... unruly

on the other hand, knowing that you won't respond to magical healing is... worrying

he tries not to think about it so much

his overblot is a different story, though

if he can't put you to sleep, what can he do? trap you at NRC with him forever?

actually... I take it back, he'd totally do that

[tibby-art]

hitman au save me .. its been seven years ..

haven’t been able to draw/write much of this au lately but i want to write a few little scene snippets i have stored my brain :’D ill include them under cut

=+=

“This better be something good,” Scar muttered to Cub as they stepped out of the elevator. The hitman, while bound to his contract, considered ‘boring’ missions to be a waste of his time.

“I hope so,” Cub hummed. “Hope so.”

The ConVex swung open the doors to the NHO conference room, not bothering to check if their bosses were actually ready for their meeting.

“Holy mother of—! Knock next time, will you?” A man setting files down on the conference table jumped visibly as the doors slammed open.

“The Vex require a dramatic entrance, Beef,” Scar said casually. Cub snickered.

“Sure, whatever.” Beef furrowed his brow, used to this behavior. He didn’t have time for this. “Okay. Doc was supposed to do this briefing, but he’s busy with his machines I guess, because of course he is, so.” He huffed, composing himself. “Your new top-secret project. This one’s a doozy. Have a look.”

Beef slid the folder across the table. The hitmen flipped it open, absorbing its contents with hungry eyes.

What caught their eyes immediately were the photos. The person of interest looked nothing like a powerful crime boss or a dangerous anomaly. A young adult with glasses, dark eyes and short, sandy brown hair stared back at them.

“Who’s this?” Scar raised an eyebrow. Is the NHO asking them to assassinate some normal-looking university student?

“That is Grian,” Beef explained, both hands planted firmly on the table. “Grian has been with us at the NHO for months.”

“I’ve never seen him before,” Scar remarked.

“Grian’s case is top-secret. He’s been staying in high-security, private quarters… as well as our research laboratories.”

“I thought you guys seemed super suspicious lately! I knew they were hiding something from us, Cub,” Scar nudged his partner with a grin. Cub did not budge as his sharp eyes combed through the documents. He hadn’t heard a single word spoken to him.

“Cub? What’s the deal?” Scar asked. He preferred to let Cub read their mission files and summarize it for him, anyways. Dyslexia and top-secret government files were not a great mix. Oh, what would he do without Cub?

“Watchers?” Cub finally spoke, looking up at Beef with a quizzical frown. The other man nodded slowly. “You’re kidding.”

“After months of testing and analysis, we can confirm that this individual is the only currently documented case of a mortal possessing Watcher abilities,” Beef nodded slowly.

Scar had heard whispers of the Watchers only a handful of times. As a vex, he knew plenty about the realm of magic, the divine, the fae, you name it! But Watchers were said to be ancient entities, perhaps as old as time itself. So old that they were widely considered to be a myth.

“So this is not a hit,” Scar said after a moment.

“This is not a hit, Scar, good lord, do not kill this person,” Beef put both hands on his forehead and let them slowly drag down his face.

“Mortal, you say?” Cub raised an eyebrow.

“Yep,” Beef said. “She was a completely normal citizen until he got these abilities in some freak accident. Lucky for everyone involved, the NHO was able to take control of the situation before anything… dangerous happened.”

“So,” Scar narrowed his eyes slightly, “If this isn’t a hit, then what do you want from us?”

Beef sighed. “After months of testing to determine Grian’s situation, the NHO has decided that he is too important to return to life as a normal citizen at this time. Instead, we’d like to utilize his abilities in our goals to maintain order in Hermit City, and we need someone to train her how to be a special agent in the field.”

“You want the ConVex to train a Watcher how to be a hitman,” Cub said with a slight smirk at just how insane that sounded.

“Yep.”

“Huh.” Scar put both hands on his hips. “Well, that’s not what I was expecting.”

“I suppose we could give it a shot,” Cub said. Although the ConVex were bound by a fae contract to work for the NHO, the vex took every opportunity to feign control over their situation. There was no choice here. Beef had given them an order.

“Sure, sure! We are very good at our jobs, after all,” Scar grinned. Whatever happened, good or bad, would at least be entertaining, surely.

“You’ll come back here to meet her tomorrow morning,” Beef instructed. “Hand me that file back and be here by 9, will you?”

“Sure thing,” Cub replied coolly, sliding the file back to the man. Scar couldn’t help but grin wider when he noticed Cub’s hand casually in his pants pocket, some folded white paper barely visible in his grip.

“Don’t be late. I’m serious this time,” Beef called out as the hitmen turned and exited the conference room.

=+=

The conference room was tense that morning. Towards the end of the table sat the NHO - Beef, Doc, Etho, and Bdubs. On one side sat Cub and Scar. Across from them, Grian sat alone.

“So, how about introductions?” Doc clapped his hands together. “Er… Cub and Scar, this is Grian. Grian, this is Cub and Scar. You guys already know the deal. Grian is going to come with you on missions from now on.”

The ConVex hadn’t taken their eyes off of Grian since they entered the room, unable to resist their curiosity. They had both read the files, but still found it hard to believe the person before them was a Watcher. Grian sat rigid in his chair, fiddling with his hands, looking tense and exhausted. She eyed the vex curiously as well.

“Well hello there,” Scar greeted. “I’m Scar, and this is Cub.”

“Hey, hey,” Cub said quietly.

“Hello,” The corner of Grian’s mouth twitched in a possible attempt at a smile.

The three continued to stare at each other until Bdubs cleared his throat.

“Wonderful introduction. Now that we’ve broken the ice, let’s talk about your next mission.” The man picked up a small remote, and the large screen on the wall behind them illuminated.

“Before we send our agents out into the field, we meet like this to discuss the details and ensure that the mission is clearly understood,” Doc explained to Grian, throwing a disapproving glare in the ConVex’s direction.

A lengthy file on some high-profile criminal appeared on the screen, as Bdubs proceeded to read off the information. Scar slumped back in his chair. These mission briefings were the worst. It was time to zone out and have Cub tell him the details later with all the fluff cut out.

At about ten minutes in, Scar yawned absentmindedly.

“Oh, are we boring you, sir?” Doc interrupted Bdubs to shoot a piercing stare at Scar.

“Oh, not at all!” Scar said cheerfully, but slumping in his chair slightly lower.

“As I was saying,” Bdubs continued loudly.

Scar glanced over at Grian. Her eyes quickly darted back to the presentation when they made eye contact. Scar looked over at Cub and found he had still not taken his eyes off of Grian. Hopefully Cub was at least somewhat paying attention, because he sure wasn’t.

Grian continued to fidget with his hands. Scar felt a pang of pity for him. The vex were used to this sort of environment, but according to the NHO, Grian had a completely normal life up until a few months ago. Now suddenly, he gains these terrifying powers and spends months in a top-secret lab having tests run on her all day. Who wouldn’t be overwhelmed?

Scar yawned again, this time more intentionally. He earned another death glare from Doc, but Bdubs droned on. He glanced over and saw Grian rubbing a hand on his cheek to help hide a grin.

The art of annoying your boss was a delicate one. Timing is everything. Let enough time pass until they’ve forgotten, or they think you’ve stopped, to continue the game. Scar lets about ten minutes pass before his next yawn, bigger this time.

“Quit it,” Beef hissed. Even Etho glanced over. Doc kept his eyes on the screen, but his jaw was clenched. Grian let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Five minutes later, Cub clears his throat rather loudly. Bdubs stutters over his words for a second, but because Cub is Cub, none of the NHO seems to be able to tell if that was a deliberate cough or not, and they decide to ignore it. Cub shows no emotion.

After an hour that felt like an eternity of Bdubs explaining every possible detail about the case, it seemed to be almost concluded. That was, until a rather loud yawn was heard throughout the conference room.

“WILL YOU LET ME FINISH, FOR GOODNESS SAKE?!” Bdubs finally erupted, whipping around in his chair to face Cub and Scar.

The hitmen stared back blankly. They glanced over across the table, and Bdubs followed their gaze, where Grian sat with both arms over her head in a large stretch.

“Sorry,” Grian said simply when all eyes were on him, lowering his arms. “Just had to stretch a bit.” He stared back at Bdubs innocently.

The NHO stood there, confused. Bdubs was at a loss for words, unable to get a read on the new recruit. He sighed and turned back to the screen. “Well, regardless, I think we’ve about summed things up,” he grumbled.

Scar made eye contact with Grian once again. The two cracked a smile at one another for a second, too quick for the NHO to notice.

Scar had a feeling that him, Cub and Grian were going to get along just fine.

=+=

[darkveracity]

Possible reasons all magical girls are gay

When Kyubey mods your body during the contracting process to make you strong enough to fight witches he also makes you into girls

Being a magical girl involves a dangerous secret lifestyle that can only be shared or understood by other girls in the same situation and so all of your friends and love interests after contracting will be magical girls for the same reason there are lots of gay soldiers

The potential to make a contract requires a deep malaise, an inability to fit yourself into the bounds of the ordinary life society expects of you, a hidden desire so great you’d throw away your life for it. All of this correlates very nicely with queerness and ensures the contractee demographic is mostly gay to begin with

Magical girl culture has heavily normalized lesbianism to the point where meeting a magical girl with a boyfriend is regarded as bizarre and unusual and this encourages newly contracted girls to pursue each other

Actually Kyubey only bothers offering contracts to baby lesbians. He thinks they’re better negentropy generators the same way girls are better than boys. He has a special magic incubator gaydar system to evaluate prospects and everything

[prettybugsinbandages]

Blot!reader pt. 7

Part 7 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

The entire cabin sat in suffocating silence, the air thick with grief, pressing down on everyone like a heavy blanket. Though each person reclined in the lounge with eyes closed and limbs still, it was only a performance—none of them could sleep. Not really. The loss was too sharp, too fresh. Everyone processed it differently, but one truth echoes in their hearts: the tragedy hadn't begun the night you died. It had taken root long before. By the time they truly knew you—truly loved you—you were already gone.

Yuuka took it especially hard. She had always seen you as family, someone irreplaceable, and yet, she hadn't been able to do anything to save you. She sat, hollow-eyed, looping over every memory in painful detail, desperately searching for a moment she'd missed—a sign. Was there a day you came home different? Later than usual? Quieter, colder? She tore herself apart wondering if she had ignored the moment your light began to dim.

Ace wrestled with a different torment. His guilt ran deep. He had known you from the very beginning, or at least, that's what he'd convinced himself. In truth, he saw you—passed by you—but never really looking until it was already too late. You were forgotten the moment you weren't in the room. The thought haunted him. He should have known you better. Should have seen the signs. Should have asked more questions. Lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, he kept repeating that same aching mantra: I should've done something. I knew them. I should've known.

You never spoke about the neglect you endured, not directly. But in the aftermath, the pieces fell into place. It became clear to those who mourned you that something had been very wrong. Whatever deal you'd made to rise so suddenly in the eyes of the world—whatever force had pulled you from the shadows into the spotlight—must have come with a price. And so they wondered, each in their own quiet despair: What final blow pushed you over the edge? Who, in their carelessness or cruelty, handed down your death sentence that night?

When you told them about the Blot—about everything you knew and everything you felt they needed to know—their responses were varied as they were heartfelt.

Kalim, Ace, and Yuuka held onto you with unwavering faith. They clung to the belief that you were still you, that the Blot didn't change who you truly were. They hoped, desperately, that it might fade, or be cured. That things could somehow return to normal.

But others—Vil, Leona—responded with wariness. They had seen what the Blot could do, had felt the darkness clawing at the edges of control. To them you were walking a dangerous line. They didn't say it outright, but the fear was there, unspoken but heavy: Had you been building this Blot inside you for months unnoticed? Were you already a ticking time bomb?

And the unthinkable loomed in their thoughts: If you were to overblot... if the darkness overtook you completely... would they even be able to stop it?

None of them could say it aloud, but the truth lingered in every glance exchanged, every tense silence.

None of them were sure if they could raise their pens against you.

Not if it came to that.

When the talk turned to the possibility of breaking the contract, of severing the tie that bound you to the Blot, the group was split even. They knew, perhaps more clearly than you did, that the Blot wasn't just a threat—it was also your lifeline. Whatever bargain had been struck, however dark, it was keeping you here. Keeping you alive.

Leona, ever pragmatic, offered to try. He mentioned his Unique Magic—how he'd broken so-called unbreakable deals before, even Azul's ironclad contracts. Nothing was truly unbreakable, he said.

And so, with quiet determination, he reached out and took your lifeless hand in his. The moment his fingers brushed the ring, the temperature plummeted. The metal, already ice-cold, turned searching. It burned your skin with such intensity that you cried out, jerking away. A small yelp—but it was enough. Enough to freeze everyone in place.

A warning.

That was the last attempt. They decided then and there—spoken or not—that they wouldn't try again.

Especially not if removing it meant risking your life.

It was unmistakable now; the Blot did not intend to be cast off. it had clung to you with possessive desperation, punishing even the suggestion of separation. It lashed out—not with fury, but with something: quieter. Sharper. Intentional.

Even in sleep, where you should have found escape, peace eluded you. Your dreams were restless landscapes of whispered arguments and echoing what-ifs, and always, always, you felt watched. The Blot's presence lingered like static in the air, wrapping around you—and them—with a warmth that was oppressive now. it pulsed with something old, something aware.

They felt it too. All of them.

This thing, this force that had given you life again, now seemed to loom like a second shadow. To you, it hummed softly—a low thrum that followed you into sleep. A presence. A heartbeat.

The ring itself pulsed faintly now, like something alive. At first, it was steady, a subtle rhythm you barely noticed. But tonight—tonight it was faster.

Uneven. Anxious.

Almost... afraid.

The world you found yourself in was a place that refused to stay still, a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and colors, constantly rearranging itself. It couldn't decide what it wanted to be, but there were a few constants—persistent patterns, repeated hues and forms, that twisted in ways you couldn't make sense of.

Then, you hear it. A voice. Ortho? Malleus? Someone else?

The syllables stretch unnaturally long, each word mangling into the next. The rhythm of their speech is off, warped, the tone repeats your name—but something's wrong. Too many echoes. Too many wrong echoes. You blink, and the voices morph into your own, distorting, mocking, mourning. They plead with you in voices that sound like they belong to someone else, but their sharp edges make you flinch, as if they're cutting into you from within.

Are you dreaming? You can't tell. You're not sure of anything here.

You're not sure of yourself.

As you move through the space, you catch glimpses of your reflection—though it's never whole. Shattered glass splinters at your feet, distorting the image in jagged pieces. In broken fragments, you're not what you remember. You're something else. Your flesh is gone in places, hanging from exposed bone, rotting, decaying. Your neck is bent at an angle recognized as impossible and inside you, insects crawl—skittering through the hollow where your heart should be, where your life should still pulse.

The sight is too much. It's suffocating.

You can't bear to look any longer, but the reflection clings to you, mocking you with every step. You stumble backward, heart pounding, your body aching as if each moment is strenuous. Your legs are unsteady, as if the ground beneath you is not quite solid, and you twist around, turning on your heel.

You run.

But it's difficult.

Breathing is a struggle. The hollow ache in your lungs is a cruel reminder there is no air to pull in.

When you look down, the fragments of your reflection remain—clothing torn, tattered, beyond recognition, and the sight of your chest, cracked open like a broken shell, takes the last of your strength.

The world is wrong. Everything is wrong.

No wonder you can't breathe; you don't have lungs anymore.

The gravity of the place feels distorted, pulling in strange directions that you can't describe, warping the space around you. The world is devoid of color, but your eyes are assaulted by a dizzying array of hues—too many, too fast, too intense to comprehend. It's as if the colors exist beyond the spectrum you know, beyond the limits of your perception.

The Blot's voice—its presence—flooded your ears, your mind, seeping into every corner of your thoughts. It shuddered around you, writhing, as though the dream world itself couldn't hold its form any longer. It was a reflection of the Blot's own stress, its instability. Just as it's form trembled and shifted when thrown off, so too was the fabric of this space.

You could only assume that by being so deeply entangled with the Blot, you had somehow slipped into its mind—or maybe its world. It wasn't clear.

Words collided in the air—some soft, others shrill—whispers, shouts, incoherent fragments. It was like it was speaking from everywhere at once. But amidst the chaos, one voice pierced through the noise, Its tone raw and desperate. It screamed in your head.

"Why? Why are you doing this?" The Blot's voice cried.

Its panic was visceral—almost childlike, trembling between frustration and pleading.

It didn't understand.

"Why are you telling them? We were fine! We were together! You... you were so kind to me this morning before the hike..." It stuttered, its words stumbling in confusion, the longing sharp as it clung to your closeness from that morning.

It didn't understand.

You ran—but you didn't know for how long.

How long had you been hiding from the Blot? From the reflections that mocked you? From the rotting body that you could feel but not escape?

Every step felt like a step toward something other, something incomprehensible. You were a ghost, running from the dark surrounding you.

The collision—the crash—was deafening, shocking you back into clarity. The monolith before you splintered at your touch, shuddering and shifting. It was an immense crystal statue—though it was never still. It shifted, reformed, nearly a living creature in constant flux, impossible to make sense of. Was it a figure? A being? Or something that had once been but had long since lost its meaning?

The statue hummed, a deep, resonant sound like the tuning of a cosmic fork, vibrating through the air, through you. Its surface was smooth, glasslike, but etched with thousands of names, faces, forms—rewriting itself over and over again. It was as if the statue was an archive, trying desperately to preserve its own history, its purpose.

You wanted to reach out, to understand, but before you could touch it, the ground beneath you buckled. The wailing grew louder, sound warping and twisting until it seemed to come from every direction at once. The Blot's presence flared, its grip on you—on everything—shattering.

And then... it was gone.

And darkness swallowed you whole.

Static crackles across your tongue—acidic and sharp, like chewing electricity. You blink rapidly, over and over, your eyes straining against the suffocating nothingness that surrounds you. There's no darkness, no light. Just everything and nothing, layered over each other in a space that doesn't obey rules. A contradiction you can't comprehend.

Then—clarity.

A voice begins, soft and distant, like a recording warped by time. It's not speaking to you, not exactly. It's narrating. Telling a story that feels familiar in your bones, though your memory protests.

Long before time's tapestry unraveled into the mortal world, there existed the Angel of Faces, a being crafted by the divine will to be a mirror of mortal perception. The Creator designed them without a fixed form, a blank slate destined to reflect the countless faces imagined by mortalkind—a bridge. They were the Messenger of Truths, delivering divine revelations in guises familiar and comforting, ensuring mortals could bear the weight of celestial messages.

Images crack open before you—like shattered glass, jagged and glinting, tumbling one after another into focus. They don't move like real things—more like illustrations torn from pages of a storybook.

You see them—a being of indescribable beauty, ever shifting. Their form changes like water caught in starlight, their features never still. They descend from the sky, trailing light behind them, wearing faces borrowed from dreams and fantasies. As they meet mortals, they speak in soft tones and gentle smiles, becoming what people expect to see.

The scene carries the nostalgic warmth of fable, but something about it gnaws at the edges.

Mortals, however, are imperfect storytellers. Each encounter reshaped the Angel of Faces, adding new features, quirks, and expressions. Some saw them as a serene guardian; others envisioned a stern judge or a deceiving trickster. These conflicting descriptions layered upon the angel like masks, making their true self indistinguishable, even to themselves.

You watch the whispers spread—around campfires, across market stalls, through grand halls. People speak of the messenger, the celestial, the angel. You see them again, curled up in a fetal position with their wings cocooning them, their form folding and reshaping themselves as mortals impose identities upon them.

A healer. A warrior. A muse.

Each expectation a mold. Each opinion a new mask.

And though the angel's face remains serene, poised—graceful even—you notice it now. The flicker. The micro-twitch. A wince that doesn't belong. Pain—subtle but unmistakable—buried beneath the surface as they fracture to match fantasies of others.

Over the ages, this shifting identity became a curse. They could recall every face ever worn, every lie spoken to soothe mortal fears, yet no memory of an original self remained. In despair, they sought reassurance from the Creator, pleading for a singular, immutable form. But the Creator remained silent, bound by cosmic law to let mortals shape the angel's existence. They were the bridge between the divine and the flesh—the only way divinity could properly understand mortal and vice-versa.

Then, a throne.

Massive. Towering. Its presence dominates the space. The angel kneels before it, wings unfurled behind them—crushed and colorless, like a butterfly pinned beneath glass. Their head is bowed. You can't hear the words exchanged, but the feeling crashes over you like a wave.

Agony. Sorrow. Desperation. Pleading.

And beyond it all: silence.

A cold, heavy silence that presses into your ribs. The kind that follows disappointment from someone who once loved you. Or worse—pity.

You can feel the weight of the Creator's silence. Not anger. Not wrath. Just... regret. And it's so much heavier than anything else.

Resentment festered. If mortals could define them, why should they not seize control of that power? They abandoned truth, embracing deception. In time, they learned to wield their ever-changing faces as weapons: impersonating kings, prophets, and lovers, sowing discord with whispers of false promises. Their once-pure voice became a chorus of lies, harmonizing with the ambitions and fears of those they encountered.

Scenes follow in rapid succession, kaleidoscopic in nature and fragmented, but you know the angel is there—though their wings are gone, though their face is someone else's.

A king laughs on a golden throne, his kingdom shining. A secret lover slips out of a bed in darkness. An assassin vanishes into a crowd. A prophet raises trembling hands before a weeping congregation.

Then, ruin.

The king's palace, turned to rubble. The lover, now a wife—yet the old wife is miraculously absent. The assassin's victims, nameless in a list. The prophet's followers, bloodied and broken in their belief.

None of them ever saw the angel beneath the face they wore. They never looked long enough, painfully unperceptive—or perhaps unaware.

If no one knew what the angel truly was, then stories couldn't cage them. Rumors couldn't wound them—shape them. And so, they wore more faces. Hid deeper. Buried themselves beneath perception. And when they were wronged—betrayed—they sought retribution. Over and over again.

But the revenge never tasted sweet.

Only hollow.

Thus, the Angel of Faces fell—not through rebellion, but through erosion of identity. Cast from the heavens, they now wander the mortal and infernal realms, a living mask who changes with every glance. They are feared as a master manipulator, a thief of faces and fates, cursed never to be remembered as themselves.

Legends say if you meet someone whose face you forget the moment they turn away, you've crossed paths with the Angel of Faces or their vassals. Pray they haven't taken an interest in wearing your face next.

More faces, more identities flash by, countless and unclear. You can't see them distinctly, but the truth sinks in. You know now. You know who they are.

The Angel of Faces. A creature lost in masks, wandering through mortalkind, trying to feel whole.

A being warped and corrupted by their own nature.

No matter what name they claimed, no matter what role they played—no one ever saw them. Only what they were supposed to be. What others wanted.

A crown. A smile. A blade.

But never themselves.

The images fracture and collapse around you—but not into darkness. This time, they pull you in. Like pages of a book folding shut around you, dragging you into its chapters.

The sun is high, warm and golden, filtering through thick branches overhead. Shadows dapple your skin—real, textured, soft. The breeze smells of pine and something faintly sweet. It feels safe here. Familiar in a way that aches.

But you aren't alone.

Ahead of you, moving slowly through the trees, is a figure. They look like a hunter—simple clothes, dirt on their boots, a bow strapped across their back. It's a quiet disguise, inconspicuous. Something they've worn before, probably in times of mischief or survival.

You follow, but your steps make no sound. You don't rustle the leaves. You leave no footprints. It becomes quickly apparent you aren't really here. Just a silent observer.

The hunter reaches a clearing—a wide expanse of green, peaceful and untouched. At its center stands a single oak tree, massive and ancient, its roots twisting deep into the hill it rests upon. The sunlight catches on its leaves like gold.

You've never been here. Not in memory.

And yet—your chest hurts with recognition.

The ache isn't sudden. It's long, settled. Like a name you forgot but still miss. Like a song you can't hum, but remember how it made you feel.

You miss this place.

But you miss it the way a house misses laughter. The way empty arms remember who they used to hold.

You follow the hunter in silence as he steps into the embrace of the oak's shade, the heavy stillness of the clearing wrapping around him like a familiar blanket. He lowers himself onto the earth with a tired sort of grace, his limbs moving like someone who has worn exhaustion too long to notice it anymore.

You rest just opposite him, your back finding the warm bark. The sun flickers gently through the leaves above, dappling the ground in gold, and for a moment there's peace.

But then it begins crashing over you; a torrent of emotions strong enough to nearly sweep you away.

Regret.

Longing.

Fear.

And grief so ancient it's fossilized into the soul—grief that has learned how to survive by becoming quiet.

It coils in your gut like smoke, pressing against your ribs, too heavy, too consuming. It isn't yours—you know that—but it moves through your body like it belongs there.

It makes you want to rip yourself open just to see if the feelings bleed out. To see if they're real. To see something—anything—clear for once.

You try to drown it out—to focus on the soft hush of wind through leaves, the warmth of soil beneath you, the steady breathing of the man sitting across from you, against the other side of the tree. The quiet hum of the world moving around you. But then—

Footsteps.

Soft, but sure. Grass shifts. A twig snaps.

You tense. Your body doesn't move, but your mind begins to brace itself. You squeeze your eyes tighter, silently begging: Leave. Just walk on by.

But they don't.

They stop—right on the other side of the tree. A beat of silence.

And then—they sit.

Like they belong here.

Like they were always going to.

The bark dug into my spine. My shoulders stiffened, and I pressed harder against the tree, jaw tightening. Whoever they are, they've broken the rhythm of the moment, shattered the fragile stillness I've carved out for myself in this place.

I didn't want to look.

But I had to, didn't I?

Not out of curiosity, not out of fear, but because I felt myself compelled to know who would dare come here, to the one place I'm allowed to not be anyone.

I recall turning my head slowly, angling to peer through the crooked gap in the oak's wide trunk, through what now seemed like a portal to the heavens.

And you sat there quietly, knees drawn up to your chest, head resting in your arms and eyes closed like you belonged there. A mortal, nothing important, nothing special.

I remember shifting to my knees, the bark rough against my palms as I leaned forward, peering through oak's crooked hollow. The memory is soft around the edges, worn thin by time—but you were there, seated as though you belonged.

You must have known the whispers by then—the carefully cultivated reputation, the layers of distance I'd wrapped myself in like a cloak. I'd made myself a shadow, a storm behind furrowed brows and quick footsteps. The kind of presence no one dared to interrupt.

I rose slowly and deliberately, brushing the dirt from my knees with practiced indifference. I took a short walk around the tree, boots pressing quietly into the grass until I stood directly before you. Still, you didn't move. Didn't even glance up. As if my presence meant nothing.

Strange little thing.

Even without knowing the truth buried beneath this face—this shape—I'd made sure the mask was fearsome enough to ward off the curious.

Yet you sat there like you'd missed the message.

I braced my arm against the tree, leaning over you, letting my shadow stretch across your form like a storm rolling in. I remember thinking it would be enough. Surely, this would send you away.

Perhaps I'd grown a little too confident in the image I wore.

And yet, still—nothing.

You didn't move. You didn't cower. You looked at me, eventually, and blinked as though bored by the drama of my entrance. The sky behind you was warm with late summer light, and I remember hating how it caught the edges of your face, like a portrait too breathtaking to forget.

"This is my spot," I said—sharper than I meant to be. The words came out brittle, my tone edged with irritation I hadn't yet admitted was born from something deeper. "Are you a fool? Everyone in town knows not to bother me."

I'd come from a fruitless hunt that day. Old faces Old temples. A bad memory scraped raw by ruins once gilded in my name. And yet you met my bitterness not with fear, but with a half-lidded stare of quiet disbelief—as though I'd just asked something absurd.

Then, you asked me if I had put my name on the tree. On the hill. On the grass beneath our feet.

I had not.

Of course I hadn't.

"You don't seem all that intimidating," you said, head tilted, voice a touch too amused. There was a challenge in your eyes I hadn't seen in ages—cocky and warm like sunlit water that dares you to relax and step deeper.

"We can share."

I argued, of course. Drew lines in the dirt with stubborn words, even threatened you with a bow I never truly meant to raise. I told myself it was principle. Territory. A matter of pride.

But it wasn't.

And still—you stayed.

So I stayed, too.

And it became a game of attrition. A quiet war beneath that old oak tree. Day after day, seeing which of us would yield first. Who would grow tired of the silence. Who would falter.

And yet—

Somehow you slipped into the rhythm of my days. I never meant for it to happen. I never invited you into the quiet rituals I built to keep the world at bay. But time has a way of folding itself around people like you.

Before I realized it, my hours bent at the knee, reshaped by your presence beneath that oak. The days grew long with half-conversations spoken through the gap in the trunk, voices low, laughter occasionally catching on the wind like birdsong.

The mischief faded first—those little pranks, the constant games of pushing and posturing. They dissolved, quietly, as if they had never belonged between us. And in their place: stillness. Companionable silences. Glanced exchanged through the bark. A strange sort of truce that no one decaled.

Summer vanished. Slipped through the cracks like water. The tree grew bare and brittle, its crown stripped of leaves and clothed in frost. Snow came in thick, crystalline blankets, and for a while, I thought that would be the end of us.

Without the tree to claim—without a battleground—I thought you might forget. That I would forget.

So I returned to what this guise knew. I buried myself in the role of a hunter—sharp-eyed and silent. A ghost that moved through the forests and frozen paths. You vanished. Life moved on.

But gods, the winter had teeth that year.

It sunk into me in ways no season ever had before.

I missed you.

You, a mortal—one of the very creatures who had carved me hollow with stories and lies. And yet the ache of your absence bloomed in my chest, slow and unrelenting.

One day—without thinking, without deciding—I found myself beneath the tree again. My feet knew the way better than my heart did.

The air was cold enough to bite, frost curling at the edges of my sleeves, and I stood there like a fool in the snow—ready to accept the silence I'd earned.

But then—you were there.

Waiting.

Lashes kissed white with frost, hair tucked beneath your hood, the pale winter sky behind you like the canvas of a masterwork. You looked like something out of myth—something I might've made up just to keep the loneliness at bay.

"Why are you still here?" I asked. My voice was rough, choked with breath that bloomed white into the cold. The question burned in my throat, but I had to ask it anyway.

You looked up at me with that ridiculous smile—soft, knowing, a little smug—and it tore a laugh from me before I could stop it.

"I won. It's my spot now." you said, brushing snow from your clothes with exaggerated nonchalance.

And every instinct I'd once held sacred—against every philosophy I'd sworn by—I followed you.

I told myself it was curiosity—that I needed to understand. That a mortal like you, warm-eyed and strange, couldn't possibly be real. That something so unspoiled had to be a trick. A lie—like faerie food.

"Where are we going?" I asked, hands clasped neatly behind my back, trying to sound disinterested—detached.

You hummed, tugging your hood a little tighter against the wind.

"Your home," you said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I looked all over town when the cold came, but I couldn't find you.

Your voice wavered just slightly at the edges—the way it always did when something mattered more than you wanted to admit.

"You like to disappear," you added, gaze turned toward the path ahead. "But you can't hide from me."

Hiding?

Had I truly been doing that?

Avoiding the truth nestled deep in my chest—that I'd grown fond of you in ways I never intended? That I was no longer as indifferent as I'd have liked?

"Perhaps I had been." I murmured, more to myself than to you. My head dipped in a quiet concession, and I stepped ahead, reluctant but resolved, guiding you toward the place I called home.

Or rather... the place I'd borrowed.

The home had once belonged to a huntsman who drank himself to death, his loneliness thick enough to choke on. I'd slipped into the shape of him, claimed his bed, his hearth, his name. Mortals rarely question a presence that mimics familiarity well enough.

I've lived in countless homes—shacks, palaces, temples of crystal, and cities carved in marble. Each built around the face I wore at the time. But none of them ever fit right. Every roof felt too low, every bed too soft or stiff. They had pressed against me like ill-fitted skins. none could hold me—not the real me.

And yet... this one somehow, felt different.

You filled the space in a way I never could. Your voice, your laughter, even the way you sulked when the wind crept in under the door—it made the walls feel less like cages.

There were nights when I forgot what I was. Where I wasn't an angel buried under names and masks and vengeance—I was just something warm, watching you speak beside the crackling fire.

And then, as if we had blinked, winter was gone.

Melted into memory.

It struck me quietly one day beneath the old oak—that was the longest I'd kept an identity. The longest I'd stayed still without splintering a town or vanishing into the fog, without punishing someone for the weight of their perception.

That evening, you met me beneath the tree again, a satchel in hand and a grin tucked at the corners of your mouth. You'd saved for weeks, you said, pinched coin where you could, though I knew most of that money had come from me. Quiet gifts slipped into your pouch when you weren't looking. What use did I have for currency? I did not eat. I did not burn fuel. I had no need for comfort.

But you—you used it to buy a book.

And when you opened it, when your fingers brushed the yellowed pages, something shifted.

Because I recognized the words. I remembered them.

My stories. My tragedies. My sins—etched into ink by mouths that had never known me, retold by voices who feared and worshipped in equal measure.

And you were reading them. You knew.

My breath caught in my throat, unfamiliar and painful. That age-old instinct reared its head—run. Disappear. Start again.

I always ran when I was seen too clearly.

My hands trembled. My stomach churned with something not quite shame, not quite terror—a horrible ache. Familiar. Like home.

I stared at you, bracing for betrayal, or disgust, or fear—for the look that always followed.

But instead—

"I—I'm sorry." I heard myself say.

The words tumbled from my lips without permission, jagged and strange, like something living had crawled out from deep inside me.

A part of me recoiled in disgust. Apologizing? To a mortal? I'd never done that—not sincerely.

And still, I searched your face. Desperate. Panicked. Waiting for you to shatter the fragile world I'd built. To call me monster. To finally see me.

The sky spun above us. The forest pressed in. And I—

I felt stuck in my skin. I wanted to tear it off—to leave the hunter behind and vanish into mist, into shadow, into myth.

Because that's all I've ever known how to do.

Flee. Run. Hide.

It's all I've ever done.

But you only shook your head, quiet and steady, and gently pulled me down to sit beside you beneath the tree.

And then—like it was the simplest thing in the world—you spoke words I never imagined I'd be allowed to hear. Words I thought were forbidden to something like me.

"You have no name, no face, no anchor to the world... Do you want one? Should I give you one?"

Your hands were warm—foolishly so, impossibly so—and when they rose to cup my cheek, I leaned into them without protest. Without thought. Just instinct. Bone-deep exhaustion seeped from my limbs, and I slumped into your waiting shape like a story trying to remember how it was first told.

Centuries folded in on themselves inside me: Regret, violence, tenderness, exile, desperation. I carried them all, and suddenly, I was too tired to bear the weight alone.

"That is impossible, my dear," I murmured with the heavy certainty of someone who had begged one, long ago, and learned never to ask again. "Not even the Creator could grant me that."

But you simply hummed, a sound as light as wind through leaves, unburdened by the rules I'd spent lifetimes bound to.

"The Creator is governed by cosmic law, sure. But mortals...mortals were given free will. And they were given dominion over you, weren't they? So I ask again—what do you say?"

Those words hit something ancient and aching inside me—something that had never been named but always lingered, humming under my skin like a prayer I couldn't remember anymore. My lips parted before I could stop them.

"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, please."

And so it began.

We spent four months and eight days fashioning me like a myth retold by firelight.

You scratched categories into the dirt with a stick, had me toss pebbles with my eyes shut to choose hair, height, voice, eyes. We ran through fields and libraries and markets so I could feel what drew me, what felt like mine. We spoke for hours—about food, about stars, about what kind of kindness I might carry. We peeled back the layers and decided who I wanted to be when I wasn't forced to be anything at all.

And slowly, I became.

A name began to rise in me like spring after a cruel winter. A shape. A soul. A self.

And in that self, I found something terrifying:

I had fallen in love with you. And love—what a cruel thing. What a luminous, sickening thing. It turns every other feeling into a shadow. It renders contentment into longing. It corrodes reason and whispers delusion in a voice sweeter than truth. Love is the death of logic, the ruin of kingdoms, the doom of angels. And I needed it. I needed it with an ache that made me stupid. Desperate. Mortal.

So I wrote you little poems under moonlight, clumsy with feeling, desperate to condense eternity into twelve words. I slipped them into your books, between the recipes you collected and the strange ideas you left half-finished in the margins.

I loved you the only way I knew how: endlessly. I would have loved you until our veins braided like roots in the earth and our hearts beat the same rhythm beneath our ribs.

Because you were my Creator. You were the one who saw me not as myth or threat or shapeless horror, but as someone who could be.

You made me real.

And without you, I had no reason to be anyone at all.

I never should have let you give me everything.

Never should have placed you in the path of what I was—what I've always been.

Because while the Creator could not command mortals, could not lace them with cosmic law or shape their choices—it could still ensure. It could correct. It could balance the scale.

And it did.

Because you crossed the line that wasn't meant to be drawn, let alone stepped over. And I stood at your side and let you.

A defiance. A devotion. A crime.

A mortal, after all, was never meant to rewrite the purpose of one of its creations.

To grant meaning where none was given— To name what should have remained nameless— That was a violation. A defiance of divine structure. An offense that demanded retribution.

I remember the night it happened as though it were carved into me. The details seared into the marrow of my being, relentless in their clarity. No matter how much time passes, that memory remains untouched by erosion.

We walked in silence, your hand cradled in mine. I had planned to tell you everything—about what I had done, what I had been, and what you'd done to my heart. I was ready to surrender the whole truth. But your hand was warm, your thumb brushing the backing of mine in small, thoughtless circles, and I found myself stalling to make the moment last just a bit longer.

My divine heart beat with a violence I'd never known—no battle or vengeance or miracle had ever stirred it like this. With you beside me, all of it—every war, every mark, every century—faded into background noise and it no longer seemed as loud in my head. You were more than grounding. You were anchoring.

You made me real.

You chattered about something that had happened earlier that day—some nonsense about a goat loose in town with two children clinging to its back like miniature bandits. The scene meant nothing to me, but your laughter rang like a melody I hadn't known I needed until I heard it. That sound—pure and unburdened—was rest. A kind of rest I'd never been allowed.

And the moonlight? It loved you as much as I did.

It bathed your skin like a blessing, caught in your hair, made your eyes gleam with mischief and warmth. I remember thinking the entire world looked like a backdrop created to cradle your beauty alone—just a stage where you moved freely and unknowingly beautiful.

You looked up at me, your expression full of unbearable joy you always managed to carry, even over the smallest things. It unsettled me, in a way. How could you be so happy in such a broken world? How could you carry such softness without it cutting you open?

And perhaps... perhaps that tiny shard of judgement—of not understanding you fully—is what made it worse. Perhaps that is what made it all the more tragic.

Because I hesitated.

I let the night go on too long.

I let myself fall too deeply into the illusion that maybe, just maybe, I could have all of this.

You. Peace. A name. A future.

And in that hesitation I doomed you.

They moved through time because they existed outside of it.

And your lips—those soft, precious things that said the most wondrous things—had just begun to part with a question or a laugh or a breath, I'll never know. It was lost in the moment your eyes widened, a flash of something ancient behind them—recognition. A silent understanding that something had happened, something final, even if you didn't yet know what it was.

Then came the executioner. A blade plunged cleanly through your back—swift, silent, a perfect strike. It didn't bleed you. No, the blade wasn't meant to be tainted with blood. It was meant for undoing.

It pierced you like a key, not a weapon—unlocking soul from flesh, unthreading the stitches that kept you in this world. You crumpled, so softly, like a page torn from sacred text. And oh, how I wanted—how I needed—to have moved faster. To have noticed sooner. To have thrown myself behind you and taken it all.

The executioner was beautiful. All things from the divine realm are. Beautiful in the way holy things are: absolute, motionless, terrifying. They never opened their mouth. Never broke their gaze. But their presence split the sky inside me. They were not cruel—not even angry. That would have been easier.

Instead, they were perfect. Silent. Unmovable.

And it was that stillness that shattered me.

I felt the weight of every sin, even the ones I hadn't known I'd committed—especially the one I'd inflicted on you. They pressed down on me until I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, as you sank to the forest floor like a puppet whose strings had been snipped with precision.

I looked in fury at them, searching for a sign of injustice I could fight back against, but there was nothing. Nothing but a slight nod—a movement so small it could have been the wind, and yet I felt it. A gesture I couldn't understand then, but now, maybe it was pity. Maybe it was a quiet apology. Because they are only summoned when a divine law has been broken so utterly that even the gods and angels must look away.

It wasn't your fault.

It was mine.

And yet they punished you all the same.

I collapsed beside your body, the earth rushing to meet me. The forest dulled around me, sounds folding into a high-pitched ring, like reality itself was recoiling at the sheer grief of the scene. I gathered you in my arms with trembling hands, and I knew it the moment I touched you—you were gone.

Not sleeping. Not wounded. Just... absent.

Your body was still whole. Still beautiful. The vessel I had admired, adored. But the soul within—that spark that laughed and argued and made me—it was nowhere to be found.

And I didn't know how to react. There was no emotion strong enough, no shape of grief that could express what tore through me.

My form betrayed me—unraveled into the divine shape you had never seen. The one I hated. Wings too large, body too incomprehensible, face too beautiful. My voice broke apart when I tried to speak, to demand why the Creator had taken you and not me. To beg for your return.

But no words came, and when I looked up, the executioner was already gone.

Just like you.

I was alone.

The woods—once warm, once soft—were suddenly hollow. The moonlight, once silver and loving, burned like acid on my skin. The whole world had turned against me.

And then I sensed it. Not just your absence, but your removal.

You weren't in this world. Not in the heavens. Not in the underworld. You had been taken—cast out into another realm entirely, one far beyond my reach. A place even somebody of my caliber couldn't go.

The Creator didn't just correct the error.

It hid the evidence.

You.

Gone.

Perhaps it was the carnal desire to be gone, to undo myself, to become nothing. My form began to break. That beautiful, temporary self you'd helped my build—it cracked and splintered until it was dust. Until there was nothing left but darkness.

I lost my face. My shape. My center.

What remained was a shifting blot of ink and shadow. A void. An echo. And without you, even that felt too much.

I don't remember what I did that night. Or the nights after. Or the years that followed.

Maybe decades. Maybe more.

But eventually, I started to hear whispers—of a shadow that moved like smoke. A shapeless thing that fed on grief and misery. A monster that haunted the edges of villages, stealing warmth and magic from the air.

And I understood.

Without you, without your name on my lips and your laugh in my chest, I had let myself be shaped by mortal fear and legend.

I was forced into a mold again.

I spent years searching for you—my heart, my breath, the axis upon which my very being once turned. I scoured every corner of the living realm, dared disturb the divine with my rotting body of misery, even descended into the underworlds where no light reaches. Always hoping—aching—that the feeling was wrong. That hollow emptiness where your presence should have been was a lie. That maybe I was only panicking.

But it was never a lie. You were gone.

And in that time... I don't know what I became.

Without you—my reason, my tether—I was a thing adrift. Disgusting in nature, I hid and only lashed out. I lived in echoes and shadows, unanchored and shapeless. A being wearing old regrets like skin. I can't remember the faces I wore, or the deeds I committed while searching. There are blank places in my memory, stained only with the knowledge that I must have hurt many in my desperation. I must have destroyed things, twisted fates, left ruin in my wake.

And may the divine forgive me—I would do it all again if it meant finding you.

But you are not here to forgive me.

Not yet.

So I wait.

I wait like a prayer made in flesh. I wait like an abandoned altar beneath a sky that no longer answers.

I wait for my creator to return—not the One in the heavens, but you. You, who named me. You, who gave me a face. You, who made me someone.

I wait for you to salvage me from this endless dark, to craft me again with warm hands and soft laughter. To call me into being like you did before.

Because I believe now, with all the fragile, fractured pieces of what remains of me, that the Creator—the Creator—was hasty. Rash in its punishment. Cruel in its corrections. It shattered us and called it balance, but it made a single, fateful mistake.

It forgot to scratch your name from the ledges buried deep within the grand library of all things that are, and were, and will be.

And all unnatural things, in time, return to how they belong. Like a tide pulling the wayward back to shore. Like a thread—cut too early—still tugging at the loom.

So I hoped. Oh, I hoped with the kind of hope that burns and scalds. With the kind of hope that only something eternal can endure.

It took a long, long time. Longer than most stars get. And in that time I did everything. Begging. Bartering. Lying. Challenging.

The Weaver of Fates hated me, hated the way I slipped between threads, rearranged destinies like pages in a book, like a god with a pen too eager. But like all living things, even the divine, they grew curious. Even they hungered for something new—an unexpected turn in the story. And so, for each fate I promised to rewrite in their name, I was granted one meager decade within their library.

And there—

Amid endless shelves, beneath eternity's whirring lanterns, swathed in dust and starlight and silence—

I found you.

Your thread.

Out of nowhere. Woven anew. Subtle, but unmistakable.

You.

I remember how I staggered. How the breath left me like a struck bell. How my trembling hands reached for the book that held your name like it was the only thing in the universe worth touching.

Because to me, it was—It is.

You were still out there. Alive again. Somewhen.

And the only thing left in me—after centuries of ruin, centuries of silence—was the desperate, carnal need to find you again.

My Savior.

You returned to the world through the smallest crack—a school and a fluke of magic, they called it. But I knew it was fate, twisting itself in impossible ways just to give me a second chance.

The world, however, is as cruel as it is careless. Your fate was once again marred by suffering—cut open by hands that saw you not as a soul, not as the brilliant, unshakable light I remembered, but as a vessel.

A means to an end. A thing to use.

The book said they'd grow to love you. That time would soften their edges, that eventually they'd see the truth of you and come to adore you. but now, my star—how could they not immediately fall to their knees before your purity? How could they ever lay a hand on your gentle spirit and think it anything less than sacred?

I couldn't allow it. Not again. Not after all you'd already endured because of me.

Please. Please rest, my beloved. Let me carry the weight for a while.

Come back to me, curl close to my side. Lay your head against my chest, feel my heart beating for you and you alone. Let it remind you that you're not alone anymore. That you're home, you're safe.

I felt it in the moment you stepped through again—the second your soul returned to this realm. The wind shifted. The light changed. The world, once fueled by my grief, suddenly shimmered with warmth and color.

And there you were. So breathtaking, it almost hurt.

A different form, yes, but still you. Your soul radiated through, unmissable, unmistakable. That light of yours—impossibly bright. Unyielding. Unchanged.

In that moment, I nearly ran to you, fell to my knees before you like a worshipper before their altar. I would have offered every piece of me right then—my hands, my heart, my every divine and ruined piece.

I wanted to pray to you, not the Creator.

Because only you had ever given me peace. Only you made me real.

And so, driven by that desperate ache, knowing what trials were written for you in the pages of fate, I made a choice.

A hasty, selfish, loving choice.

Please forgive me.

I became your guardian.

Not by divine assignment—no, the heavens had long since turned from me. I was no longer an Angel, no longer anything at all in their eyes. A fallen thing. A memory.

Shelter. Protection. A little more time.

Until I could earn back your love, until we could escape this wretched cycle together—somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Somewhere the stars forgot. Hidden even from the Creator's gaze.

I passed my gift to you—the same one that had once forced me to slip through the cracks of perception, to disappear and be ignored by even the divine. I made you forgettable. Your name, your face, your presence—reduced to a whisper in the minds of those around you.

No one could hold you long enough to break you again.

But I was wrong. I was so wrong.

The night I found you in the snow, body broken and spirit dimmed, something inside of me that had been subtly blooming again tore.

My treasure—my heart, my only—shattered again, and I hadn't even seen it coming. You had become so invisible, so perfectly cloaked in my protection that even I could no longer feel the ache of your suffering until it was too late.

And still, even mangled, you begged to be seen.

To be known.

And perhaps—perhaps I had been cruel in my reverence. So intent on protecting you that I denied you the very thing you longed for: connection.

So I lifted it.

The concealment, the cloak, the silence. I peeled it back and let the world see you again.

And I watched you drown beneath the affection you so rightly deserved—both soft and overwhelming, subtle and blinding. Some of it pure. Some of it not.

And I remained in the shadow, unseen. As always. Just your guardian. Just the broken remnant of what you once loved. Waiting.

Always waiting.

For the day you remember me.

And love me again.

Hi?

Sorry this one took so long.

While writing it I kinda got a little worried I was messing up. This is technically a twst fic but this entire 8k word chapter is almost only about the Blot. Which is my own character and I realized some of you might just want twst content?

btw the religious themes have no intentional connection to any real religions. It's my own thoughts, my own story. I hope it doesn't offend.

Did this cook?? I'm so anxious because I really got to write about what I really like and my own OC!

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[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

"Priestess of Isis", "Enchantress" and "Sylph": Occult References in Ellen Hutter’s character in “Nosferatu” (2024)

In another post I analyzed Ellen Hutter’s character in the 2024 adaptation of “Nosferatu” through literary lenses of the Gothic female genre. Now, I want to dwell on her occult and mystical symbolism, and how this translates in her connection with Count Orlok, the undead demon of the story, who’s bound to her. But how and why? And what exactly is she in this story?

“In heathen times you might have been a great priestess of Isis.”

Von Franz tells this to Ellen in their last scene together, because he recognizes her spiritual power and ability to communicate with the spiritual world. Her “hysterical fits” and “epilepsies” also mirror the trance-like states of Pagan priestesses. She inhabits the “borderland”, a peripheral area, a portal between the two worlds: the physical (matter) and the spiritual.

“The pupil is expanded. It does not contract naturally to the light. […] A second sight. She’s no longer here. […] She communes now with another realm.”

“Somnambulists afflicted with these perversions [hysterics and lunatics] oft possess a gift: a sight into the borderland. […] I believe she has always been highly conductive to cosmic forces, uniquely so.”

Von Franz says demons usually obsess over “those whose lower animal functions dominate”, because they like them and seek them out. He elaborates: hysterics and lunatics. However, he says this before he actually gets to know Ellen, and he quickly realizes that’s not the case here. Because Ellen is the one who awoke Orlok from his centuries old sleep. Which is confirmed by three characters in the narrative: Orlok, Ellen herself and Von Franz.

O’er centuries, a loathsome beast I lay within the darkest pit… ‘til you did wake me, enchantress, and stirred me from my grave. You are my affliction.

Which leads me to the next topic:

Why Isis, of all deities?

Isis and Osiris

Isis is one of the major Egyptian deities. She’s more commonly known for her role as “Mother Goddess” of Horus, the Sun god. Isis had mighty magical powers, greater than that of all other gods, she governed the natural world, healing and wield power over Fate itself.

“Destiny!” Ellen cries out to Anna, while looking at the sea. “Providence!” Herr Knock screams throughout the narrative. “You run in vain! You cannot out-run your destiny!” Von Franz laughs in religious fervor as Thomas tries to save Ellen.

Isis is also connected with the themes of death, sex and rebirth in Egyptian cosmology, due to the myth of Isis and Osiris; which are also the core themes of Robert Eggers’ adaptation of “Dracula/Nosferatu”, so it’s not coincidental.

The “Osiris Myth” is one of the major surviving pieces of Egyptian mythology. It’s a ancient tale, with its early versions dating back to the 5th Dynasty (c. 24th century B.C.). It has known several adaptations throughout Egyptian history. The most complete version is in “The Moralia” by the 1st-century scholar Plutarch of Chaeronea, a collection of essays about Greco-Roman culture; that became very popular during the Renaissance era (14-16th centuries) and the Enlightenment period (18th century) in Europe.

Isis and Osiris were brothers, and according to Ancient Egyptian religion, they were in love with one another before they were born, and enjoyed each other in the dark before they came into the world. They eventually married.

Osiris had two facets as a God: in life, he was the God of fertility, agriculture, and vegetation, being considered a “Shepherd God”; in death, he was the God of the Underworld, the judge and Lord of Dead, the afterlife and resurrection. The pharaohs of Ancient Egypt were associated with Osiris in death, because as he rose from the dead, so would they unite with him and gain eternal life through imitative magic. Which appears to be the whole deal between Orlok and Herr Knock in “Nosferatu”, as Knock seeks to gain immortality like Orlok, by serving him.

On Earth, Osiris was believed to take on the form of a bull (the sacred bull Apis). What I find interesting here is that in both the 2016 script and the 2023 script of “Nosferatu”, Orlok’s physicality is actually compared to a bull:

Osiris became king of Egypt, and taught the people how to farm and live peacefully in their villages; he had a reputation for being a powerful and wise king, loved and respected by the Egyptian people. We don’t know exactly how Eggers’ Orlok was in life, other than him being a Romanian or Hungarian nobleman and a Solomonar sorcerer who sought to achieve immortality. But if we go by Vlad III (Drakule or Dracula, the infamous “Vlad the Impaler”) biography, he’s actually considered a Romanian national hero because he defended the Romanian people from foreigner invaders (Germanics and Turks, mostly). Just throwing this out there, because it’s unsure if this is intentional or not.  

Osiris and Isis had a brother, Seth (or Typhon in Plutarch essays), the God of deserts, storms, disorder and violence, who murdered Osiris to take his throne. He tricked Osiris into climbing into a wooden chest/coffin, shut the lid, sealed it shut, and threw it down the Nile River, knowing Osiris would never be able to survive. In some versions, it’s said Seth cut Osiris body into pieces and scattered them throughout Egypt. Interestingly enough, there’s a similar legend associated with Vlad the Impaler, who died in battle against the Ottomans, and, according to Leonardo Botta, the Milanese ambassador in Buda(pest), Vlad’s enemies cut his corpse into pieces, too. and his remains were never found.

Isis is the epitome of the mourning widow in this myth, as she mourns Osiris’ death deeply. Here enters the symbolism of the lilacs in "Nosferatu", the symbolic flowers of Ellen and Orlok: in the Victorian era, they were associated with widows because they represented a memento of a deceased lover.

Can this also be a nod to “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992) by Francis Ford Coppola? Where Dracula himself is the grieving widower because Elisabeta commits suicide? In the 1992 adaptation, Mina also speaks of “flowers of such frailty and beauty as to be found nowhere else”. What flowers is Mina talking about? It’s unclear, but Lilacs are native flowers to the Balkans, after all.

Isis sought for Osiris’ mangled body and with help of tree other Gods (Nepthys, Thoth and Anubis), they sew Osiris’ body back together, and then wrapped it head to toe in strips of linen, creating a mummy. Interestingly enough, Orlok’s corpse appears almost mummified at the end of the story.

In the Osiris myth, Isis uses powerful magic (incantations and magic spells) to bring her dead lover back to life; similar to Ellen who resurrects Orlok with her summoning prayer. In one version, this happened on a night of the full moon; in “Nosferatu” (2024) we also have a full moon connected to Ellen and Orlok, in the prologue, when he reveals his rotten corpse to her:

According to Ancient Egyptian funerary texts, it’s Isis sorrow, sexual desire and anger that empower her magic to be able to bring Osiris back to life. When Ellen prays for a companion of “any celestial sphere” in the prologue, she’s crying (sorrow), she’s upset because her father recoils from her now that’s she’s no longer a child (anger) and she’s in her teenage years/puberty (sexual desire). Like Isis with Osiris, it’s the combination of these emotions that power her magic to unconsciously resurrect Orlok.

However, Osiris can’t remain among the living, because he has to return to the Underworld and become King of the Afterlife. But before he goes, Osiris and Isis conceive Horus, the God of the sun and the sky, who will restore peace and order to the universe.  In “Nosferatu” (2024), Von Franz says that “with Jove’s holy light” before dawn, redemption will come to the people of Wisburg and the curse of Nosferatu will be vanquished. “Jove” is Jupiter, the “King of the skies”, who’s connected with the Egyptian Horus. Horus and Ra are often merged together in Ancient Egyptian religion, making Isis and Osiris the metaphorical parents of the Sun.

In “Nosferatu” (2024), as Orlok and Ellen complete their covenant, consummate their wedding and he drinks from her, the sun is also the metaphorical result of their union. As dawn breaks, the sunlight vanquishes them both from the physical world, as they both die in the material realm.

After being buried by Isis, Osiris goes into the Underworld to rule over it. And from then on, Isis herself is also associated with funeral rites, as she would guide the souls of the dead, helping them entering the afterlife. Through her magic, Isis helped resurrecting the souls of the dead, as she did with Osiris, acting as a mother to the deceased, providing protection and nourishment.

At the end of "Nosferatu" (2024) we see Ellen fulfilling her role as “priestess of Isis” (or as Isis herself?), as the Goddess of healing, who ends the blood plague in Wisburg, but also guides her dead lover Orlok/Osiris with her into the Underworld... where he'll rule as king? Unclear.  

Since we are discussing the Egyptian Gods, I have to mention Greta the Cat, Ellen’s domestic cat. Her name is an obvious homage to Greta Schröder, the actress who played Ellen Hutter in the original 1922 “Nosferatu”. Indeed, cats are predators to rats, however, the Egyptian Goddess Bastet is considered to be Isis’ daughter. She's the "cat goddess" for cats were considered sacred in Ancient Egypt. Bastet was associated with sun gods like Horus and Ra. Bastet was the goddess of pregnancy, childbirh, and protection against contagious diseases and evil spirits.

Enchantress

Orlok calls Ellen “enchantress”, but what does this mean? “Enchantress” is not only a female archetype, but has root in historical realities. Enchantresses were practitioners of feminine magic: oracles, healers, herbalists, midwives and shamanic shapeshifters. They were what’s commonly known as “witches”. These female magicians studied and practiced their art in goddess temples, mystery schools, alchemy schools and hedge schools.

The alchemists of the Middle-ages studied these dynastic lineages of “wise women”, and they had several names: enchantresses, chantresses, encantrices, or incantrix. Many physicians who founded "medicine" and "science" studied these wise women, mainly healers and their use of medicinal plants and herbs.

Ellen’s character appears to fit that of a “incantrix”. Women who used words, incantations, songs, spells and prayers to shape reality. It’s the priestess of an old religion (as Von Franz also calls her); gifted with magic power and authority to command the elements or the body by the power of their word.

Heptagrams

Orlok seal (or sigil) meaning has already been widely discussed by others (symbols of Ancient Dacian religion, mainly the figure of Zalmoxis), but what I want to mention here is the heptagram itself, the seven-pointed star. Heptagrams have several occult meanings, including warding off evil which, for obvious reasons, doesn’t fit Orlok’s character. It has meaning in Alchemy, too, as representative of the seven planets and seven substances.

The heptagram, however, is used by Aleister Crowley in his occult system Thelema (from Ancient Egyptian text) to represent a goddess/archetype: Babalon, which is also connected with Isis, Nuit, Lilith, Kali, among other goddesses and deities. At its core, it’s a goddess of female empowerment and liberation, of divine feminine. According to this occult belief, Babalon has several manifestations (sort of incarnation) and is a spiritual gateway to wisdom and enlightenment through chaos and female sexuality.

In “Nosferatu” (2024), when Ellen and Thomas are returning home, there’s a man in the streets rambling bits from the “Book of Revelations” (Apocalipse) from the Bible: “And I saw a beast rising out of the sea, owith ten horns and seven heads, with ten diadems on its horns and blasphemous names on its heads.” (Revelations, 13:1).

Indeed this passage is about Orlok arrival and how he’ll spread plague among the town. However, we have a character in the “Book of Revelations” which is connected to all of this: the Whore of Babylon, the “Mother of Prostitutes and All Abominations of the Earth”, and she rides this Beast, which is the same as Crowley’s Babalon. What Crowley did was a positive reinterpretation of this biblical figure, symbolizing liberated female sexuality by embracing the powers of the Divine Harlot.

Also known as the “Scarlet Woman” and “Great Mother”, this complex and mysterious figure was established in 1904 in “The Book of Law”, however her roots are far older, and can be found in the Enochian tradition, a magical system by John Dee and Edward Kelly, dated from the late 16th century. In the 2016 script of “Nosferatu”, Orlok spoke Enochian, so it’s clear Robert Eggers is very much aware of all of this.

Initiatrix, Creator and Destroyer, Babalon is the “Great Mother” because she represents matter, Mother Earth. Like Isis, she’s the Archetypical Mother, the Womb, the Great Sea and the Divine Blood itself. According to Crowley, the “whore/harlot” facet is about enjoying sex without the burden of reproduction; and the “mother of abominations” connects with destruction like natural catastrophes, plagues, etc. She’s the ruler of the cosmological sphere and both good and evil (as evil as elemental forces can be or are considered as).

Crowley is a man who was born and raised in the Victorian era where sexuality was to be silenced and repressed, which provides context to his occultist beliefs and his “sex magick” theories. Victorian physicians and scientists were obsessed with classification of sexual perversions, too. “Hysteria” being one example among many. Which is the historical context for Eggers adaptation of “Nosferatu”/“Dracula”, so these references are quite fitting.

According to the Thelema, Babalon is the “Sacred Whore”, and her primary symbol is the Chalice or Graal (symbolic womb). She’s a consort to the Beast, who has seven heads, which is symbolically represented in her heptagram sigil. Crowley described her: “She rides astride the Beast; in her left hand she holds the reins, representing the passion which unites them. In her right she holds aloft the cup, the Holy Grail aflame with love and death. In this cup are mingled the elements of the sacrament of the Aeon”.

To Crowley these were not actual beings but titles/archetypes (sort of speak) in his Sex Magick beliefs: the “Scarlet Woman” is the High Priestess, and the “Beast” is the Hierophant. This fits Ellen (the priestess) and Orlok (warlock, black sorcerer) in “Nosferatu” (2024). The “Scarlet Woman” is a gateway to both the moon and the sun, and we see both associated with Ellen.

Orlok is described as a “beast” several times in the film, including by himself and by Von Franz, who also mentions Ellen’s “dark bond with beast”, and how she gave her love to the beast: "and lo the maiden fair did offer up her love unto the beast, in close embrace until the first cock crow, her willing sacrifice thus broke the curse and freed them from the plague of Nosferatu."

Orlok says Ellen’s passion is bound to him, like Babalon’s passion is united with the Beast. Babalon as “mother of abominations” also fits with how Ellen unleashed Orlok and his blood plague onto the world, bringing destruction and apocalypse.

Your passion is bound to me. […] I cannot be sated without you. […] Remember how once we were? A moment. Remember?

Thelemic followers of the Beast have been trying to call into being an older, more primeval, female force that is lacking in the Modern Age. Interestingly enough, this was the reason why Orlok became interested in Ellen in the 2016 script (which was later changed, because in the 2023 version it’s Ellen who summons Orlok): “I have sought a creature from the depths. A Eve that remembers her Eden. You are such one.” Both Crowley but more notoriously Jack Parsons have tried a bunch of incantations to conjure Babalon into being.

Oddly enough, the conjuring ritual we see Herr Knock performing at the beginning of “Nosferatu” (2024) is very similar to one of the incantations of Babalon performed by Jack Parsons: Air dagger, blood and channeling of windstorms and the Air element, over a heptagram. He also compares Ellen to a sylph; a nymph of the air element from alchemy and hermetic literature. We are told by Von Franz this is Solomonari sorcery, but is it really?

In Ophidian Thelema, Babalon is the Goddess of magick (“Heka”), of the Liberation of the Spirit (ecstasy), of the Liminal Point, of the Underworld, of Vengeance and of the Principles of Life. Their priestesses use the female body (vulva and womb) to channel their power during their magic rituals. This is similar to Ellen’s “hysterical fits” when she’s communicating with Orlok in the spiritual world, especially since “hysteria” was considered a disease caused by “wandering womb”. In the film, we also see Ellen's womb being talked about between Von Franz and Dr. Sievers during her examination, when they say her menstruation is liberal and she has too much blood in her. 

The “liberation of spirit” is in the form of a Serpent, which manifests in the flesh. This notion was present in the “Book of Law”, where its said there’s the dove, and there’s the serpent, and a choice must be made. While the dove represents religion, the serpent represents the spirit. In one scene, Ellen says Orlok is like a serpent in her body; and he replies it’s not him, but her own nature, a nature she denies. Babalon says “my vocation is the serpent.”

The priestesses of Babalon are also in control of their “trances” when they access the spiritual world. In “Nosferatu” (2024) there’s a interesting scene between Ellen and Thomas (the infamous sex scene), when Ellen “comes back” from her transe when he says he’ll call for Dr. Sievers. Does this indicate Ellen is actually in control of her trance-like states?

Babalon is the guardian of the Seven Principles of the Underworld, a place of darkness and transformation. Orlok tells Ellen in the prologue “you are not for the living. You are not for human kind.” Babalon is also the goddess of the liminal point, who can access other realms. As Goddess of vengeance, Babalon punishes when life is out of balance, and exerts violence and corruption upon those who are in the wrong. Ellen unleashes Orlok onto the world, and we can interpret him bringing plague into Wisburg as Ellen’s reckoning against a society that ostracizes her and will never accept her.

All rites and initiations of the Underworld Goddesses include rites of sex and death. Which is what we see with Ellen at the end of “Nosferatu” (2024). By Thelemic occult tradition, she, the manifestation of Babalon, has sex with the Beast (Orlok), “representing the passion which unites them” and her womb (Holy Grail; cup) is “aflame with love and death” (sexual climax, orgasm, with an un-dead vampire).

I will work the work of wickedness; I will kill my heart; I will be loud and adulterous; I will be covered with jewels and rich garments; I will be shameless before all men; I will, for token thereof, will freely prostitute my body to the lusts of each and every living creature that shall desire it; I claim the Mystery of Mysteries, BABALON the Great, and the Number 156, and the robe of the Woman of Whoredomes and the Cup of Abomination. “The Great Beast: The Life of Aleister Crowley”, John Symonds, 2016

Orlok being the Beast and Ellen the manifestation of Babalon explains why she’s promise to him in the narrative, and was never meant to marry Thomas: in Thelemic tradition, the Beast is the consort of Babalon, after all. Orlok's interest in Ellen isn't predatory for its own sake; he sees her as his rightful and fated spiritual consort, which fits the "bride of Dracula" theme of the Bram Stoker original story.

This probably also mirrors the 1992 adaptation by Francis Ford Coppola, where Van Helsing calls Lucy the “Devil’s concubine”: "Hear me out, young man. Lucy is not a random victim attacked by mere accident. Do you understand? No. She is a willing recruit, a breathless follower, a wanton follower. I dare say, a devoted disciple. She is the devil's concubine! Do you understand me? Yet, we may still save her precious soul." In this adaptation, Lucy is full Crowley and Parsons “Scarlett Woman”, with red garments and red hair.

Orlok also gives Ellen three nights to accept him/her nature and complete their covenant. Some are mistakenly associating this with Jesus Christ. These “three days” are possibly connected with another Goddess associated with Babalon: Inanna (or Ishtar), the ancient Mesopotamian Goddess of love, war, fertility, sensuality and divine law. The most famous myth about this deity is her descent into the Underworld, where she spends three days and three nights dead, until she re-ascends (rebirth).

Ellen also goes through the “Myth of Inanna” in “Nosferatu” (2024), which is the theme of the heroine descending into the “Underworld”, to suffer, to be stripped bare, to die, and to be reborn in the aftermath. This is the primal Shamanic crisis. Ellen also goes through three days and nights of suffering and death (witnessing her friends and the townsfolk of Wisburg dying by the blood plague) until she joins Orlok and is reborn.

Ellen and Orlok are involved in sex magick, at the end, clearly. But with what purpose? Sex magick to Crowley has several purposes and strong creative power, conjuring, invocation, etc. He believed deliberate acts of sexual transgression were a radical form of super-human power that promised to explode the narrow boundaries of Western Christian society and open the way for a whole new era of human history. Which is probably what’s happening here? A symbolic ending to the sexually repressed Victorian era as Western societies moved toward a more open-minded and accepting view of sexuality? Or it’s Ellen reborn as a Goddess of the Underworld (return to spiritual state), after going through a initiation rite of sex and death, as she breaks free from her human form? Or both?

Or it can be a nod to Crowley idea of sex magick to unleash supreme creative power to generate a godlike child? This can mirror the Osiris and Isis myth, of Horus (the Sun) as their metaphorical child, like it is for Ellen and Orlok here, as the end result of their union.

Alchemy

Alchemy, at its core, is the transmutation of base materials (lead, etc.) into noble materials (gold), and the pursuit of immortality (“philosopher’s stone”). Occultists reinterpreted this as a spiritual quest of self-transformation, purification and regeneration of the human soul. Hence physical death being seen as a gateway to another life (rebirth); which is the symbolism of the final scene of “Nosferatu” (2024).

Both Ellen and Orlok evolve from a diseased and corruptive state (physical world) into regenerative and perfect state (spiritual world), after being purified by fire (the Sun). Their old selves are empty shells, as their spirits ascend. This also finds parallel in the myth of Isis and Osiris, as they both went from “daemons” to Gods in the Plutarch essay.

And this also finds parallel in the 1992 adaptation when Vlad/Dracula ascends to the Heavens and is reunited with Elisabeta’s soul. Is this intentional? Are we dealing with reincarnation themes in Eggers' adaptation, as well? According to occultists both Babalon and the Beast have had many manifestations (reincarnations) in the physical world throughout the centuries, after all.

Orlok asking Ellen to remember their shared past, is also an interesting nod to Vlad and Mina in the Coppola's adaptation (their OST is called "Love Remembered"): "I have crossed oceans of time to find you." and “I have sought a creature from the depths. A Eve that remembers her Eden. You are such one.” in the 2016 "Nosferatu" script. Which didn't change all that much in 2023, except we don't have an actual explanation for Orlok interest in Ellen, other than her waking him from his centuries old sleep (resurrection).

[merakiui]

Mera... I am weak for singing fish mafia

I am just picturing them singing this song to entice Darling into a deal and it being all fun until she signs the contact and now she is bound to the singing tako and his eels for eternity.

You might have signed your life away, but at least you got a great song out of it!

OTL omg yes,,, those wicked sirens!!!!! Using magical illusion to dress you up and show you all the things you could have if you just sign that line~ Jade and Floyd passing you between each other in dance, sidling up to you, taking your hands to spin you into a dip,,, before ultimately shoving you towards Azul, who sweeps you up in a smooth, swaying dance while he reminds you there’s always a price to pay.

It’s so distracting. You’re having too much fun dancing and listening to their song, and that’s exactly what they want. >:) they’ve lured you in and successfully trapped you with song.

Now just sign the contract and remember to uphold your end of it when the time comes, okay? :)

When the song ends, all the glamour fades away and it’s not so enchanting anymore. Now those twins are leering at you with sharp grins and Azul is already stowing this contract away for safekeeping. A pleasure doing business with you~

[solxamber]

So, reading that fashion disaster reader, I want to ask how would everyone else (seperately, if possible) would react to fashion disaster Yuu and to the Crewel's and Vil's reaction?

thank you for the request! I kept it a little short but if you want anyone's longer, just let me know <3 Characters: All NRC + Staff + Rollo Part 1 with Vil and Crewel here

Riddle Rosehearts:

Before: He’d be mortified, his eye twitching in disbelief. "Rule 203 clearly states: Students must dress with decorum! What…what is this?" He’d try to ban your entire outfit for being an affront to Heartslabyul’s order.

After: Relieved and pleased. "Finally! You’re within the bounds of fashion etiquette. You’re setting a much better example now."

Trey Clover:

Before: Trey would give you a gentle smile, but his eyebrow would twitch. "You look, uh… comfortable? Maybe Vil could give you some tips…"

After: "Wow, you clean up really well. Nice to see you let Vil and Crewel work their magic."

Cater Diamond:

Before: He’d be snapping selfies with you, hashtagging #BoldChoices #FashionDisaster #OMGWhatIsThis. But deep down, even he couldn’t handle it. "You’re killing me, but this is hilarious!"

After: "Now that’s a look that’ll get you trending for the * right reasons! Let’s get another selfie. #FashionGlowUp!"

Ace Trappola:

Before: "What in the seven are you wearing?! Are you trying to blind us all or is this some kind of prank?" He’d mock you endlessly.

After: "You actually look… good? Whoa, Vil really pulled off a miracle."

Deuce Spade:

Before: He wouldn’t know how to approach it politely. "Uh… You sure that’s…right?" He’d second-guess himself but try to support you anyway.

After: "Hey! You look awesome now. Nice job!"

Leona Kingscholar

Before: Leona would look at you, groan, and then roll over to take a nap. "You look ridiculous. Do whatever you want, herbivore. I don’t care."

After: "Huh, didn’t think it was possible, but you’re less of an eyesore now."

Ruggie Bucchi:

Before: He’d laugh until his sides hurt. "Heh, are you doing this on purpose? This is hilarious!"

After: "Vil and Crewel got to you, huh? Well, you definitely don’t look like a clown anymore. Nice upgrade."

Jack Howl:

Before: Jack would be confused. "Why are you dressed like that? Isn’t that… impractical?" He wouldn’t get why anyone would wear such an outfit.

After: He’d nod approvingly. "Now that’s better. More efficient, too."

Azul Ashengrotto:

Before: He’d adjust his glasses, hiding his discomfort behind a business smile. "Perhaps you might be interested in a makeover contract. For a modest fee, of course."

After: "Ah, much better. Consider this an investment in your future…image."

Jade Leech:

Before: Jade would smile his eerie smile, but his eyes would narrow in curiosity. "What a… unique choice. I trust there’s an explanation for this?"

After: "Ah, a significant improvement. You look quite presentable now."

Floyd Leech

Before: Floyd would crack up and nickname you something like "Clownfish." He’d tease you every chance he got. "Hahaha! What kinda sea creature are ya trying to be?"

After: "Boooo, now you’re no fun. You’re too normal now."

Kalim Al-Asim:

Before: Kalim would be completely unbothered. "Wow! That’s such a fun outfit! I love all the colors!" He’d probably compliment you

After: "You look so stylish! Did Vil help? He’s amazing!"

Jamil Viper:

Before: Jamil would pinch the bridge of his nose. "You’re attracting too much attention. Please… just tone it down."

After: He’d breathe a sigh of relief. "Finally. I can look at you without getting a headache."

Rook

Before: "Oh, mon cher! Such daring, such avant-garde!" Rook would dramatically praise your boldness, though it’s unclear whether he genuinely liked it or was just entertained.

After: "Magnifique! You now embody the very essence of beauty and grace!"

Epel Felmier:

Before: He’d be torn between finding it hilarious and hoping Vil didn’t see you like that. "Whoa, what’s that getup? You really don’t care what anyone thinks, do ya?"

After: "Hey, look at you! Now Vil won’t roast us both."

Idia Shroud:

Before: He’d wince and immediately pull up his hoodie, wanting to avoid eye contact. "Uh… Yeah, that’s… something. Did you lose a bet or…?"

After: "I guess Vil’s magic worked. You look like a normal NPC now, congrats."

Ortho Shroud:

Before: "Oh! That’s such a cool outfit! But maybe Vil might have some better ideas?" He’d try to be polite.

After: "Wow! You look so amazing now! Big brother was impressed!"

Malleus Draconia:

Before: Malleus would be unfazed, possibly curious. "You wear strange garments, but I suppose it suits your unique aura." He might think it's some sort of fashion ritual.

After: "You look more refined now, though I did find your previous attire… intriguing."

Lilia Vanrouge:

Before: Lilia would love your odd fashion sense, probably find it nostalgic. "Haha, you remind me of the old days when we wore whatever we could find!"

After: "Ah, you’ve grown into a more elegant butterfly! Though, I will miss your… eccentric flair."

Silver:

Before: Silver would be confused but wouldn’t judge too harshly. "Is this normal fashion? I… don’t really keep up with trends."

After: "You look good now. Vil and Crewel really did a great job."

Sebek Zigvolt:

Before: He’d be outraged. "HOW DARE YOU DRESS LIKE THIS IN THE PRESENCE OF MALLEUS-SAMA?! Have you no shame?!"

After: "Finally, you show some respect! You are no longer an eyesore."

Rollo Flamme:

Before: Rollo would be horrified. "How could you walk around dressed like this? This is an affront to decency and modesty!"

After: Reluctantly approving. "At least now you don’t look like you’ve descended into madness."

Crowley:

Before: Crowley would overreact, saying something like, "Ah! Such tragic attire! Fear not, for I shall personally oversee your rehabilitation, even if it wasn’t my fault to begin with!"

After: "Ah, what a stunning transformation! I knew you had it in you all along, of course."

Mozus Trein:

Before: He’d shake his head, muttering something about the younger generation. "I cannot understand these choices. Please, for the sake of my old eyes, change."

After: "Much better. At least you now resemble a student who takes their education seriously."

Ashton Vargas:

Before: Vargas would shrug it off. "As long as you can run laps, I don’t care what you wear."

After: "Lookin’ sharp! Just don’t let it slow you down on the field."

Sam:

Before: "Well, well, look at you! I have some accessories that might make that outfit pop even more!"

After: "Ah, I see Vil’s had a hand in this. You’ve got the look now!"

Grim:

Before: "Nyahaha! What kinda weird stuff are you wearing?! You look like you got dressed in the dark!"

After: "Wow, you actually look good now! Guess you’re not as hopeless as I thought."

Masterlist

[vesperaink]

Friends, my necromancer!Tango/grimreaper!Jimmy, Team Rancher modern with magic apocalypse AU, Graveyard Shift, for @mcytblraufest's Reverse Big Bang is here!

But wait there's more--go read chasing crimson written by @aliferous-ly, beta'd by @dibs2win, my fantastic team for aufest. If you love enemies to lovers, unlikely partnerships, and the power of soul-bound magic weapon contracts, this hilarious + dramatic 22.9k fic kicks off from this comic!

chasing crimson

Jimmy Solidarity works for the esteemed god of Death, reaping lost souls and taking care of unsavory characters. He's recently finished his training, and is determined to do well on his first solo mission. Perhaps this "Tango" would be a good start. Only, the god of Death disappeared years ago, and Necromancer Tango Tek's long since discovered a way around dying. He can't say he enjoys Jimmy swinging through and killing him where he stands, though.

Thank you to my team for being as feral about this AU as I am, and kicking everything about it up to 110. I had so much developing this world with them!

Thanks to @onawhimsicot for helping me with the comic's dialogue, fixing my composition woes with "just add more smoke," and encouraging me to complete it in full color! Check out Cadence's aufest fic, I take it back (ill follow till I fly or till im dead), a Cult of the Lamb AU about follower!Tango and Lamb!Zedaph, the meaning of devotion, silly experiments, eldritch transformations, and...the most platonic slowburn ever?

Lastly, thank you to the aufest team for another wonderful event! I had a blast again, and was giggling kicking my feet at everyone's reactions during claims, I loved every single one of them. Graveyard Shift is definitely an AU I'm coming back to. As always, my askbox is open if you'd like to chat, and I'd love to be tagged if anyone makes anything <3

Timelapse / AU art chatter under the cut!

While Graveyard Shift is the amalgamation of many of my interests, the main premise for this AU is loosely inspired by the webcomic, I'm the Grim Reaper, in both its apocalypse themes and its aesthetics! Not a required read, but highly recommend if you enjoy this au, as well as the anime and manga, Soul Eater!

I came up with a lot of AUs for this event but necromancer!Tango and reaper!Jimmy have been rattling around in my brain in separate AUs since before I started brainstorming for aufest. So I smashed them together, naturally.

(Unfortunately I didn't record all of my process, but most of it is here! CW for flashing; song is Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene by Hozier)

I could go on forever about concept art and character design if anyone's curious but here's some fun bonus details about this comic:

Originally, Tango's outfit was going to be more like his Dungeon Master outfit but I wanted the setting to be more modern and Jimmy stole the fantasy cloak vibe from him already lol

Jimmy's entrance of lightning is my nod to the Life Series final death sound

The scarf Jimmy's wearing is designed to be a boneyard shawl

The panel of strange text reads "Protection Three" in Galactic :)

+ The name "Graveyard Shift" was thrown at me by Cadence in like 3 seconds flat after i spent 2 days agonizing over a name for this au LOL

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Have no clue why but Princess Stan reminded me of this: https://youtube.com/shorts/AsoKo_ekkH8?si=0bRWi1TGMj2yhIjc

Also Princess Stan: ✨💅 Having a mental breakdown about being kidnapped by my Not-brother the dragon 💋✨👑

The rumors: So did you hear about this Princess getting kidnapped?

Farmer: Which one? They get kidnapped every other week?

Peasant: No, No, this one has like an epic backstory.

I just heard it down from the pub. So according to some buddies of mine, they said that the King of Catticus-ville had an affair, had an unborn child with a Fae. And that child is the Princess Stanelcella, who is rumored to have lived her life deep in the criminal underworld. There are stories of this fair maiden Princess not only stealing the hearts of half of the Princes in the realm but also was leading on the sons of several powerful crime lords. And since she’s half-fae, she can trick anyone with her wits and wile. She’s the most amazing trickster in all of the land. And I’ve heard if you get her on your side, she’d be able to see through spell bound contracts with deities and is able to break them, she’s that powerful.

But because the King did not want his wife to know about his child out of wedlock they say that he sold her to a dragon!! And currently there’s a humongous bounty to retrieve her, to either kill her, marry her or the Queen of Catticus Ville wants to investigate her husband’s child. (Probably to kill her though)

Farmer: Dear lord, that is fascinating my boy. Now run a long now, your wife is calling for you.

Peasant: Aye, I best not keep her waiting.

(Once out of sight)

Farmer: You can come out now, did you hear all that you wanted to hear?

Fidds: *dying of laughter*

Stan: (-᷅_-᷄๑)

Fidds: AHAHAHAHAHAHAH

Stan: Here’s your twenty silver, now do not speak of a word of this to anyone.

Farmer: You are quite an ugly Princess, sir

Stan: You take that back

Fidds: * wheezing* GONNA CLOG MY CIRCUITS AAHAHAHHAHAHA

Stan: You shut up

Every time a new knight shows up Stan gets increasingly bizarre tales of his beauty and power. Stan doesn't know where it's coming from. He's a guy! And also a regular guy! Where's all this backstory coming from! Who's making stuff up about him! Where did he get magic powers! What princes are out there daydreaming about him! He's a grown man! Stop!

Ford would also like them to stop :( this is his Stan, if they want one they need to find another one somewhere else. He got this one fair and square.

Fidds is def laughing at it all.

[yuyu1024]

Prisoner

Pairings: Yoongi × y/n

Genre/tags: Arranged marriage

Warning: 🔞🔞 smut, mention of food/eating, cursing, sensual touching, unprotected sex, making out, needy/clingy, Pet name, lies, kinks, Smoking [lmk if i miss anything]

Words: 3.0k

Disclaimer:

- this story is just made up

- english is not my first language, please be nice 😊

Note: repost. Likes and reblogs are much appreciated 🫶🏻

Check pinned post for more

***

The sound of the wedding bells and the people cheering for your union are still ringing in your ears. You could also still envision your friends and families' warmest smiles and tearful hugs as they congratulate you. Everyone is so happy. They kept on saying that your wedding is the most magical and happiest they've ever seen.

Yes. Your wedding is the grand. The whole castle like church is filled with the whitest flowers that gives an illusion of the place is floating in clouds. You could also see shiniest silvers and krystals all over the place. It felt unreal.

You requested for a simple wedding but you are given more than that and you love it.

The wedding is also filled with people you both love and cherish. So you feel comfortable and loved all through out the ceremony and the party afterwards.

Yes. The wedding is amazing.

Yes. The wedding is to die for.

Yes. The wedding is like a fantasy.

It's because it is... it is a fantasy and no where near reality.

It is only for show to make people believe that you and the man you married is real.

Little did everyone know, your marriage is just arranged. You were just handpicked by the groom because he had no other option. He didn't like the women his parents are suggesting. So he decided to himself to pick someone from the ground and carry to his world. A world filled with darkness and resentment. A very, very, very cold world.

"Miss..." a voice echoes waking you up from your daydream

You slowly open your eyes to see the barely lit room that you are still in. You get up from leaning onto the edge of the bathtub and see your personal maid near the door. Her head lowered not making eye contact with you. She's holding your towel and bathrobe.

"I'm sorry, Miss. But Master asked for dinner to be served soon...he's on his way home."

You look down at your hands peeking from the warm milky water and then pick up the rose petals floating on it. "He's early today..." you mumble quietly

"I heard that the meeting with his father, Mr. Min finished early..."

"I wonder why..." you got up from the bath. She immidiately rush towards you, handing you the towel and bathrobe to use.

"Mr. Min told Master to go home early... because of you Miss..."

"Ah... really..." there is no hint of excitement in your voice. "You can leave now and help them prepare... I'll get ready myself..." you tell the maid, who is still not having any eye contact with you.

You don't sound happy nor sad. Actually, you do sound like a robot with no feelings when you talk.

You were not like this before. Yes you are a quiet person, an introvert and reserved but never like this. You changed quite a lot after getting married. It's not by choice. You just have to adapt with your surroundings.

Living in a big ass mansion with more than fifty staffs and bodyguards but no one to talk to. You have no one to spend your time but yourself. Your world became, quiet.

Yes you do have a husband. You married him. But the man is never home most of the time. And when he is, he does not even make conversations with you unless it's related to his parents; asking you to do this and that. To be present here and there. Telling you what to say and not to talk about. Basically, he only talks to you when its about your deal. Yes, deal.

Funny isn't? You married bound by a contract but that's it. Just by contract. No love is involved.

You know this since the beginning. You signed the marriage certificate plus the contract. You are aware. But you never thought that this will be the kind of life you will have. Alone. But what choice do you have? He offered your parents a huge amount of money for your hands. A money that could let them live a good life even when they retire early. That's how big it is.

And you agreed to it, not because of the money, but because you thought; that maybe, just maybe this is the universe's doing. Him and you meeting under this circumstances but then in the end, getting to know each other and that Maybe...... maybe learn to love each other. But you're wrong. You and Yoongi have been married for more than a year now and its already had taken a toll on you emotionally and physically.

"Miss... Master is just a few minutes away..."

You pause brushing your hair, staring at yourself through the full body mirror. You are wearing the plain black, fitted halter dress that you received as a gift from him. You like this dress because it emphasizes your figure and shows off a little skin because of the slit. He gifted you this dress during your honeymoon. It's probably the cheapest clothing you have in your closet but for you this is the most valuable.

"Do you want me to fix your hair, Miss?"

You put down your hair brush. "No thank you."

Then you sit down and start to put on your shoes. But instead of heels, you put your white canvas shoes.

"Ahm, no heels today, Miss?" She sounds a bit concern

"No." You stand up to look at yourself one last time before going. "My feet hurts so I'll wear something comfy for now..."

"I understand." She hurriedly puts down the heels she had on hand and runs after me.

It is true that your feet is hurting. You've been wearing heels everyday when you go to work. 'Work' meaning is socializing with your husband's family friends and circle. You represent him for charities and parties he can't and won't attend. It's not everyday but these past few weeks, you've been busy. You were away too most of the days of the week. That's why you also barely saw your husband. He's been away for a week and when he came back you got busy too. And tonight, this is the first time you'll be eating dinner with him.

"Tell him to reschedule... I won't be available tomorrow. I have other plans."

You hear him talking to the phone when you enter the dinning room. He's so focused that he didn't even bat an eye when you sit down across him.

"What do you prefer, Miss?" The male servant asks. "We have tender lamb chops braised in wine. Served with pea puree and then wild sea bass with sautéed smoked bacon, red chicory, runner beans and red wine sauce."

"The latter, please..." You try to give a smile to show appreciation but then you halt as you hear your husband slam his phone on the table. It starlted you a bit.

And also, up to now he still hasn't dared to look at you. He just went on to eating his lamb after his phone call.

You want to watch him eat or even glance at him every now and then, just so you could update his image from your memory. You just want to see him, Even just a tiny bit silhouette of his face behind the boquet of flowers between the two of you.

'Fuck.' You curse in your mind.

You always ask yourself why do you even bother wanting to see him or make conversation with him when you know you don't mean anything to him. For him, you are just one of his staff. The only difference is that he talks to about life when he wants to because its part of your business with him. And to add to that, you're only his 'woman' when he needs to release stress. Meaning you two have sex when he needs it. There is no date or time. When he calls you or he comes to your room unannounced, that's it. Saying no is not an option.

But come to think of it, the last time you two had sex was quite a long time ago. It's been months.

'Does this mean... even in sex... he's not satisfied with me? Did he looked for a different woman to do it with?' You talk to yourself

"Leave us." He orders to the servants.

You didn't dare to glance up. You just kept yourself occupied by poking the fish on your plate.

"Your hair got longer..." he says making you pause

Your eyes goes up and see him looking straight at you."Ah... yes..." You answer before looking back down.

"Why ask for the fish if you're not going to eat it?"

You raise your head up again, "hmm?"

He tosses his one up like it's water. "Someone reported to me that you've been eating less lately."

"My appetite is fine... I'm just...off a bit..."

You put down your fork and try to think before you speak again. You can tell him you're tired because how can you be? You have all the assistant you need and more. Plus you are living a lavish life. You could ask for a massage, a facial or swim in the pool whenever you want. You have everything. Except him.

That. You can't mention. You can't dare ask for his attention. He'll get mad. You know he will. He said it in the very beginning of this relationship. That 'You are just his wife in papers. And never expect something more from him.'

"I'll be fine..."

You look straight back at him. You can finally see him clearly. He slightly moved to the side, giving you an amazing view of his face. He's still look as beautiful as you remember. His long hair, sharp eyes, pinkish lips and the scar.

"How's the auction?" He pulls out a cigarette from the pack he have on the table and lights it off. "You bought a vintage jewelry?"

"I did."

"How much is it?" He puffs smoke. His eyes are still fixated to you.

"It's a bit expensive... I'm sorry." You look down at your knotted fingers. "I got it for 1.5M."

"Reasonable."

"I tried to intimidate the other wives... but it didn't work..."

"You need to work on that."

"I will."

"But don't worry about the money... it's going to a good cause..." He stands up and puts off his cigarette on his used plate. "My mother liked the the jewelry set. She said, thank you."

Relief fills your heart and made you relax a bit. You are thankful that his mother liked the one you picked.

It's the only one you bought in the auction. The event is for charity and Yoongi gave you the go signal to throw money like dimes. He said you can buy anything you want.

You liked a lot of things there. Everything is grand, beautiful, meaningful and unique. But none of them bring joy to you. You don't need them so your heart can't afford to splurge.

"I'll go and get ready for bed..." he says as he stand by the window, looking outside.

"Ah... okay..." you look down at your plate and pick up your fork, to continue eating.

"When you finish..." he starts to walk towards the door, "Come to my room."

"Hmm?" You blink, confused. "Your... room?"

He stops just as he got outside the door and adds before totally closing the door "Ask the maid to braid your hair..."

'Braid your hair'. That means he wants to have sex.

"Sure..." you answer in a whisper though he's already not in the room.

***

You are finally walking in the hallway, on the way to his room. Barefoot and naked. Almost naked.

It has been a routine of you to braid your long hair and then just wear a silk robe over to cover your body. He likes it this way. He have particular things he likes and you follow them.

It's almost 9pm. All the staffs are now in their houses. Yoongi asked them to leave earlier so no one could hear and disturb us.

You took a deep breathe before you get ready to knock on his door. But then to your surprise the double door swings open and you see him, in his black jogger pants and a sheer robe over his naked body. "What took you so long?" His brows are furrowed.

"Sorry..." you lower your gaze from his beautiful face to his toned body.

"Get in." He orders, turning his back on you.

You slowly enter the forbiden room. It's like how you imagine it to be; spacious, dark and earth tone colors everywhere. But the things you've never imagined seeing in there are towers of books and comics on the floor. Then there is a gaming area too.

"Do you play?" He asks as he sits down at the corner of his massive bed.

You shake your head, "No... I'm sorry."

He's smoking again. "Come here." He orders as he puff the smoke in betwern his lips. You move closer to him, cautiously. "Why do you look nervous? It's not like it's our first time."

You are now standing in between his legs. "Sorry..."

He rolls his eyes slightly as he puts his cigarette onto the ashtray. "Why do you keep on apologizing?"

"I..." you pause and wait for him to look back at you. "I don't know."

He snorts, "whatever."

He takes off his robe and throws it somewhere behind you. You were about to do the same as his but he stops your hand from untying your robe.

"Are you on birth control?"

You shake your head. "No... we... I mean... you use condom..."

He didn't say anything after that. He just continued; picks up your braided hair thats lying on your chest and pushes it away. Your breathing picks up as you could feel and see him gazing at you. You even felt your body jerk a little when his finger tip brushed over your hard nipple. The sensation is on max. You needed him to touch you. You missed him touching you.

Yes, this relationship may not be real for him but to you, it's something. Plus, we all have our needs. And when it comes to sex, he delivers. More than you can imagine. And you like playing along with his needs.

He pulls the string keeping your robe on you and just watch it fall off your skin like feather.

You feel your cheeks heat up. You are exposed. He can see that you are already turned on. Your breast giving it all away.

"Come closer..." he orders and you follow.

His hands slides over your hips then goes up to your torso, for him to hold on to you. Hug you. He begins to suck one of your boobs like a baby. His eyes are fully close and his grasping onto your skin like he had been so hungry for so long. He's really enjoying it.

You as well.

"Ahh..." you exhale as you throw your head back. His tongue doing all the works and tickling your insides by just playing at your tip.

After a few more seconds, he stops and looks up at you. And you looking down at him.

"You're so beautiful..." you whisper to him as you run your fingertips over the scar on his face.

You lower your head to meet his lips. He welcomed your kiss like it was meant to be there five minute ago overdue. He is into it more than usual.

He finally gets naked like you. His length is hard and up. It's already leaking and looked very inviting for you to sit on. But you're too shy to make the first move.

You did try to sit on his lap though, legs spread out and core is so wet and ready; just a few inches away for his throbbing length. Then his hand goes in between and starts to rub you in the most sensual way possible.

"Holy shit!" You gasps breaking off from the kiss for a second just to take it all in.

A smug on his face can be seen catching you off guard. He had never reacted to you reacting to his touches like this before.

Your hips begin to rock just to feel his fingers on you.

"Y/n..." You look at him after hearing him say your name. "No condom today."

"O-okay..."

"Make me feel good." He says softly but sturn, pulling you close to his length.

The tip touching your opening already made you roll your eyes. He's so warm and big.

"F-fuck!" You cry as he eases himself into you. "Holy shit! Ugh!"

You start to move slowly, feeling it all in you, finding the pace and ryth. you think you could do all night but at the same time make him satisfied.

"You got tighter." He grunts as you go up and down on him while holding on to his shoulder for balance support.

"Holy fuck!" Your eyes starts to get filled with tears. You found your spot and his length is hitting it perfectly. "Fuck!"

You watch him close his eyes and his face showing how good you're making him feel. His broes is furrowed and his mouth open and hissing tiny breathes with you.

You can't believe it. Someone like you who was inexperience with sex, is now married and making your man look so damn sexy moaning.

"I'm gonna come." He hugs you tigh and begins to kiss you again. "I want to come in you." He opens his eyes and meets yours.

"Fucking come in me." You say

He then carries you as he stands up, changing your positions. Now you're the one on the bed and he's on top of you.

"I will rip you apart." He snarls.

Every fucking thrust is mean and yet satisfying. You feel like your insides shuffled from every hit. But it's not pain. It's heaven.

"Fuck!" He hisses as he climaxes with you.

The warmth inside you feels like a warm blanket during winter. It's felt relaxing.

He is breathing heavily, your hands are intertwined and his still on top and inside of you.

"Yoongi..." you say breathlessly as you admire him over you.

He moves in for a kiss. A soft gentle kiss. "Stay with me tonight..."

*****

Part 2

[naga16]

Prompt 1: Red Hunter

(Before we begin, I'd like to say that I've been awake for no less than 20 hours... And it currently half hour before midnight.

Okay?Okay. )

The story begin in the watchtower. Impending doom via asteroids, aliens, gods, ghost, terrible disaster or whatever you wish. Point is, the world might as well die if they fail to find a way.

Generic cult shit and badabing badaboom!!!

GH! PHANTOM!!!! Here to save the day!!!

There's a catch though, of course there is.

Dunno 'bout the technical rules cuz I did no proper research. But turns out that certain people just needs to die to preserve the balance of the world.

Grim reapers cannot kill cause all they can do is wait for death and guide the soul in the afterlife. They don't kill, unlike the popular belief that they do.

So what does that mean? It means that King Danny assigned one of people who summoned him to be his Executioner.

Who does he choose?

Isn't it obvious?

He chose RED HOOD, of course.

Cuz Danny instinctively knew that this man is a dying revenant, starving cuz he's not fulfilling his NEED for revenge and all that shit that made him possess his own body.

So Jason was given a new name, Red Hunter, a remembrance of the good old days. He was also given a book, except for the first page, the book was practically blank.

The first page was a contract, that the person was bound for life to kill ANYONE who's name appears in the book. That the person will do the task dutifully.

Jason, being chosen, signed it since he really have no problem in killing. Truthfully, he was glad that the Big Bat or anyone else (exempt Tim and Damian) was not chosen since, unlike him, they have morals that kept them from taking lives.

So, he signed it, the book vanished with a flash, Danny smiled in victory, disaster avoided and one, two, three!!!

Jason was awoken by his Ghostly Butler. A guide to help him do his job. A person who can answer his question.

So ask he did...

First of, where did the book go? Inside Jason, a little lesson of summoning the book give him a magical transformation to his Executioner outfit.

Does he have a time limit? Yes, apparently, it's 24 hours, a very good news.

What would happen if he fail to kill by the given time? A punishment to his own person. Ghost will attack him for several hours, or just bother him.

How does he do the killing? Whatever he decide. Death by bullet, stabbing, planned accident, poison, arson, or beaten. Really, for as long as he kill the person, the way he would do it doesn't really matter.

Why does he have a Butler? Cause of a previous issue with the last executioner killing themselves with their guilt. The Butler system was made so that that can be prevented.

How would he find his target? A ghost will lead him to it.

What does that mean? You will know at your first mission.

So he kills, what next? You shall use your thermos.

What does that even mean? You will know at your first mission.

Really, why does he have a butler? To give guidance and answer.

So, when will I get my mission? Now.

What?

So Jason took the book and there, written in a fancy calligraphy, the civilian name of Joker. Or at least that is what the ghost of his younger self wearing his old Robin costume said to him.