#i liked the drawings too much to prevent them from seeing the light of day so.... here have them!!!!

[disorganizedguts]

have some doodles because these characters make me go insane!!!!!!!

Also a little sneak peak of a future post ~ooooh~ :3

[sublimitymp3]

Pray for me

Pairing ✵ Gwayne Hightower/Niece!reader

Warnings ✵ Hotd season 2 spoilers, incest, littleee bit of crybaby!reader, smut (frottage, oral F receiving, fingering, and slight dacryphilia), and religious themes

Word count ✵ 2.5k

Summary ✵ Your uncle Gwayne arrives from Oldtown at your brother's call, and pays a visit to you while you pray.

"Your mother told me I might find you in here,"

You whipped your head around to see the source of the voice that disturbed you from your prayers and saw none other than your uncle, Ser Gwayne Hightower. He had finally come from Oldtown, answering your brother's call for assistance in his war.

"It is the seventh day, I thought I ought to pray. Especially now..." You explain with a small smile. You stood from your kneeling position on the cold, unyielding sept floor so you may look upon him. Your face twists into a cringe as you feel the bruises from kneeling for so long begin to form on your knees, and you are sure they'll be an ugly purple color later. Relaxing your features, you finally turn on your heel to face your uncle. It has been so long since you've seen him.

Too long.

He's as handsome as you remember, with his auburn hair, pale blue eyes, and the faint freckles that dust his face. How you wished you could map kisses along those freckles, connecting them with a trail of where your lips had been. But your faith and virtue prevent you from giving in to the desire. Besides, you are sure that if he ever found out you ever thought such things, he'd look at you with such revulsion that you'd crumble to the floor in shame.

He steps closer to you, tucking a stray hair behind your ear tenderly. "You have your mother's beauty, but your father's features," he hums, tweaking your nose playfully before wrapping you in a firm hug. It is not lost on you the slight curt tone his voice took on at the mention of your late father, but you dismiss it.

"And tell me, how have you been fairing during these trying times, hm? Don't tell me you hole yourself up in this sept all day." He teases, bringing a feeling of embarrassment over you for he had guessed correctly. Recently, you do spend the brunt of your days at the sept, praying to almost every facet of the Seven for mercy, strength, wisdom, and safety. Today, you were praying at the statue of the Mother, and after you lit a candle for her altar, you prayed for mercy and protection for your family members. It is one of the few things that brings you comfort nowadays, your faith in the Seven who are One.

"Well, there isn't much I can do," you shrug, letting a small frown tug at your lips. "It's not like I can sit in on a council meeting, and mother refuses to let me on my dragon. She seems perfectly content in keeping me idle and useless," you remark with a tone of annoyance, one that draws a low laugh from your uncle.

"Your mother means well, sweet niece. You're better suited here, getting favor from the gods as opposed to being in the midst of battle. Believe me, it is a bloody, nasty affair, and you are far too delicate to join in," he grips your chin in between his forefinger and his thumb, keeping your lilac gaze trained on his ocean-blue eyes.

You cannot even think of a response to his dismissing words, as you are too busy trying to push away the familiar ache you get between your thighs. It always comes at the most inconvenient of times, like when you watch the men in the training yard move, sweaty and shirtless, or when you spy on your brother coupling with a serving girl. All you know is that it persists for ages, and no amount of praying stops it.

But you can only try.

"S-Shall we pray, uncle? So that the Mother may grant us safety, of course," you propose, shifting nervously on your feet. Perhaps it is the light flush that has appeared on your face, or how you try to discreetly press your thighs together for some form of relief, but Gwayne knows. He always knows.

To save yourself some embarrassment, you resume your kneeling position before the statue and altar of the Mother, clasping your hands together in the standard praying position. You expect your uncle to kneel beside you, or just leave the sept all together, so you are quite surprised when you feel him loom behind you.

His firm chest swiftly presses against your back, and his larger and calloused hands come to rest over your softer ones, and you find yourself trapped in this embrace. Whether it is to your delight or misfortune, you cannot decide. You squeeze your eyes shut and silently beg for forgiveness for the unseemly thoughts that run through your brain at his actions. 'Who thinks such perverse things in a holy place?' you think, mentally chastising yourself.

"Well, go on then, sweet one. Pray for me," he whispers, and you can feel his breath fanning against the shell of your ear. Gwayne is enjoying this, enjoying this little game of denial you two play. Of course, it is wrong for him to want to take you in the lewdest positions, to have you scream his name so everyone knows who is fucking you so good, but he has restrained himself all this time. Patience is a great virtue, yes, but he wishes to reap his reward for remaining ever so patient now.

"M-Mother Above, have mercy on us all. I beg you for your protection, and for you to-" you cut yourself off with a gasp as your uncle buries his face into the crook of your neck, and gently nips at the soft skin there. He begins pressing himself against your ass, making your cheeks flush even more.

Noticing your sudden pause, he pulls back to look at your blushing face with a devilish smirk. "Well? Go on, don't mind me," he says before going right back to nipping and sucking at your neck. It is impossible for you to stay concentrated on your prayers as he continues, and you resign to praying in your head as your words fail you.

Your prayers only falter as you feel something hard poking against your backside, prodding and bumping against you relentlessly. Gwayne begins peppering kisses from your neck and to your jawline before tugging your head back gently, and letting his lips brush against yours. He only pauses as you tilt your head a little bit away in reluctance.

"U-Uncle, this is wrong. N-Not here, we cannot do this-"

"Shh, enough with that. It isn't wrong, not in the slightest. It's not wrong, not when you're meant for me. Surely even the gods will understand," he mumbles against the softness of your lips. You feel in that little moment of pause that his are a bit chapped, most likely from days of riding on horseback and camping in the wilderness. But it matters little then.

Once his lips are on yours, you cannot help the cascade of little moans that leaves you. His mouth is overwhelming and easily overpowers your rather inexperienced one, and you feel his hands move from their position over yours. One hand moves to your neck, and the other to your breast, fondling it through your dress as he continues humping you from behind.

You are thankful the sept is empty today. If word of what you do now reached your mother, of the depravity you partake in with her own brother, you're sure she'd have you sent far away to become a septa.

With a final peck to your lips, your uncle stands. He drinks in the sight of you like this; cheeks flushed, hair a bit messy, clothes rumpled, and swollen lips, all from him, of course. He swears then and there he's never seen a more beautiful sight.

"Up you go, princess," he mumbles, before picking you up with ease and setting you to sit on the edge of the altar. He messily pushes away the candles and various offerings left there to make room for you, and you cringe at the disrespect, disrespect born from lust and hastiness.

The new position allows for you to be relatively level with his face, and he soon hikes your dress up and stands between your parted thighs. As he begins to rub his erection against your clothed cunt, you grab onto his forearms to ground yourself.

His erection rubs against your dampened smallclothes, brushing against your bud and your folds. With each grind of his hips, you feel something like a fire burning through your bones. But with your clothes acting like a barrier, and the slightly awkward angle, it's not enough for you. Even with your unfamiliarity to such actions, you still know it is not enough.

"M-More, more. Uncle, I need more." you whine, pulling him closer by the laces of his breeches, eliciting a sly smirk from him.

"Well well, I never thought I'd see the day where my own niece was begging for me like a whore." he teases, making you frown at the crude and cruel word.

A cruel word indeed, and you feel the familiar sensation of your eyes watering, and your nose instinctively sniffling. Gwayne's smirk falters for a moment as he watches little tears spill from your eyes, but only for a moment.

"Aw, come now sweet girl, don't take offense. It was all in good fun, yes?" he coos to you, and you feel him begin to lick your tears away, catching the salty evidence of your crying on his tongue. "But oh, darling one, how pretty you look when you cry. Are you gonna cry more with what I do to you, little princess?" he asks with a mocking little pout, before kissing back down your neck.

You've always been a bit of a sensitive girl, everyone knows this. The smallest hint of frustration or anger to you, or even words spoken to you all in jest send you easily into tears. What you were not expecting was for them to be met with something other than the typical annoyed shushing you are used to receiving when you begin to cry.

Soon, Gwayne is kneeling before you, and pulling your wet smallclothes down. His lips pepper light kisses along your soft inner thighs, teasing you once more. "So wet...all for me, little princess?" he asks before nudging his nose against your bud, making you jolt with pleasure. He inhales your sweet scent. 'The scent of a wet virgin', he thinks crudely to himself.

You keep yourself propped up with your arms, and you look down at him between your thighs. Both of your legs have been thrown over his shoulders, and the instinct to wiggle your core closer to him grows. With a knowing gaze, Gwayne looks up at you with a smirk, before his tongue darts out and he dives in.

He eats you like a starved man.

His tongue licks stripes along your core, lapping up your arousal hungrily. His mouth works expertly, and all you can do is sit there helplessly and moan. Your little squeals and high-pitched whines sound adorable to him, and he laughs against your cunt. The vibrations, of course, make you jump again.

"My my, little niece, aren't you quite the sensitive one? Is your cunny as sensitive as your heart, hm?" he teases, as he continues to lick and suckle you. You cannot respond, too incapacitated by the pleasure his mouth brings you. It is nothing like you've ever felt before. Even your pillow or your hands don't feel as good as this.

"U-Uncle, uncle Gwayne, it feels s'good," you practically babble out as the lewd sounds of him slurping against you echoes around the sept. Your hand comes down to grip at his auburn hair, tugging him closer to your cunt. You care not anymore if this depravity is sullying a holy place, or if the gods watch with disapproval. There's always time to repent, after all.

The little pain you yanking his hair brings him makes him groan against your puffy folds, adding only to the stimulation you feel. "Yeah? Feels good? Oh, baby, you have no idea..." he murmurs, leaving you a little confused at his choice of words.

But you soon find out what exactly he means.

His mouth moves to focus only on your sensitive bud, sucking on it gently while he introduces two fingers to your wet folds. His fingers dance along your slit, dragging up and down in a slow, almost torturous manner.

You cry and squirm against him, greedily pushing his face right against your cunt. He heeds your signal, and finally pushes his fingers inside your velvety walls.

The stretch and feeling of something penetrating you are new and utterly foreign, but with the added stimulation his mouth still gives, the uncomfortableness of it all soon washes away to make room for pleasure. He begins pumping his fingers in and out of you slowly, careful to not hurt you as he works you open.

Once he is sure you are ready, only then does he move his fingers faster. Your thighs squeeze around his head with the intensity of it all, and he has to wrench them back apart. "I can't move if you're trying to block me, sweetling," he chuckles, earning a sheepish "sorry" from you.

As he continues his ministrations, his fingers finally brush against and find that spongy sweet spot hidden up you. He begins to nudge against it with his fingertips, making you gush your arousal all over his face. You've never felt such an intense and yet wonderful feeling in your life, and soon you find it all beginning to build up and crescendo.

His free hand massages and strokes your hips gently, and rubs circles over your belly a little, just to soothe you. He can feel your walls tightening up, and how your thighs tremble and shake around his head. "You can do it, baby, you can do it. Go on, sweet niece," he coos, finally sending you over the edge.

With a loud cry, you tremble and feel such intense pleasure crashing over you like the waves during a tumultuous seastorm. You chant his name, worshipping him as if he were a god.

Once your peak washes over you, you slump against the base of the statue of the Mother. Gwayne promptly stands, his mouth and chin dripping with your juices. "You're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted. Perhaps I should have you every night instead of wine." he smiles, before thumbing stray tears that rest on your flushed cheeks away.

He wipes his mouth with his forearm, before kissing you once more. You can taste yourself on your tongue. "I have to go now, sweet one. Pray to the gods for me, will you? And when I come back, we can pray together again. Wouldn't you like that?" he grins, cupping your face in his hands.

A knowing smile forms on your kiss-swollen lips as you understand the insinuations of his words. As he rides off to fight your brother's war, you will remain praying in the sept, longing for the day he will return and come to pray with you again.

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[with-my-calamitous-love]

and i know i make the same mistakes every time / least i did one thing right

k. bakugou x reader

the trials and tribulations of loving japan’s fiery, #1 pro hero. pros and cons format, headcanons light nsfw but nothing too explicit, for his birthday ·˚ ༘

·˚ ✎ i have another bk x reader in the drafts but that one is very sad and angsty and i wanted to have a less heartbreaking one for his birthday so here it is (😭🤍)

song: call it what you want

pro: he spoils you

in more ways than just money or materialism. emotionally, he's there. he's so much more attentive than people give him credit for, knowing your little anxious fidgets or little details even you forget. the entire world could be calling you a liar, and he'd see the truth in you.

and physically? he's passionately rough, skin welding into yours, lips grazing your soul, fingers finding all those right places. he has one of two ways of acting in bed: either he's looking into your eyes, lips and tongue working in a perfect melody over your skin, drawing out every gasp from your lips. or, he's practically crushing you between himself and the mattress, making you forget your own name, never daring to stop until the sun comes up.

his love language is acts of service. he'll scoff in annoyance or groan when he holds your bags for you, opens each door and lets you sit in the passenger seat while he drives. he roll his eyes at your "dumb" gifts while he religiously wears the bright pink heart bracelet you got him some time ago. he'd never let you know it, but he's wrapped around your finger. he lives to see your smile. he knows that he's made mistakes, some of them over and over again, but he thinks of you as the one thing he's done right.

"you didn't have to do this." words that fall deaf on his ears as he hands you a bouquet of flowers, surprising you at work. though the surprise part was ruined, considering you could hear the sounds of him shrugging off and yelling at reporters while heading to you. he can deal with the flame, but not when it prevents him from seeing you.

"yeah yeah, just take them. your office needs it." he feigns irritation while pressing a kiss to your head. "dinner's on me tonight."

con: he has a temper

this is obvious. even years after graduating and making a name for himself, you have moments you remember UA high school student katsuki bakugou: the guy who'd call everyone extras because he didn't bother to learn anyone's names. the guy who was muzzled after winning the sports festival because if they didn't, he'd still be kicking and swinging. they guy who is mildly angry on a good day, and dangerously fuming two minutes after.

its one thing you've learned to love about him. he's a guard dog, barking and snapping at anyone who dares to even think badly of you. if he could be summed up in one word, it'd be protector. he'd give up a limb before giving you up, and act offended by the idea that he'd do anything else in that situation.

but similarly, its something both you and him feel exhausted over at times. you may truly be the only person in the world who can deal with him, even when he's saying fuck in every other sentence and his voice goes up 3 decibels. he respects you for it, but won't deny the pinch of guilt in his chest when he sees you taking a deep breath, summoning patience for his impatience.

he isn't sure why you put up with him. but he knows better than to question something he doesn't want to lose.

4 hours after an explosive argument, katsuki comes back to your bedroom. you can tell by his hair and wrinkled clothes that he's been tossing and turning on the couch. and katsuki can most definitely afford good furniture, which means the source of his insomnia is guilt- not bad cushioning.

sometimes, he apologizes like he's practiced and rehearsed it in his heard. for once, he's filtering himself, thinking of what he's saying, because what you hear matters to him. more than anything else does. "you didn't deserve to be yelled at. i'm sorry."

are you still angry? yes. do you miss laying your head on his chest in bed? also, yes.

pro: he’s loyal

the truth is, katsuki could have anyone he wants. models, actresses, other glamorous heroes like him. he's loved and adored and idolized by every flashing camera in the world. but all of that fades to nothing when he looks at you, knowing he already has everything.

his devotion to you is endless, even himself wondering how far he'd go to protect you. he knows deep down that his loves reaches till the end of the world. because with you? he has a reason to push through rubble and flames and blood, to put his life on the line each day, and to watch orange incandescence emerge from his palms and into the sky. hero work means nothing without purpose. you give that reason a whole new meaning.

he has a necklace he never told you about, just something he let you figure out on his own. it was brought to your attention after seemingly everyone on instagram was on some kind of mission to decode the silver letters he wore in a delicate chain around his neck, wanting to decipher what they mean. and when you do find out? he says nothing, just pulls you closer kisses your temple.

"i want one now.' you smile, eyes misty from the gesture. "with your initials."

"yeah, yeah, idiot. you have my card."

con: he’s insecure

and its something that no one would ever even guess about him. how could he, the up and coming number 1 hero, the most dedicated, handsome, strong person in the world, possibly be insecure?

he's used to being a tank, taking hits and punches and fatalities, walking it off before heading back into battle. he's conditioned to ignore the purple arising to the surface of his skin and the cracks in his bones that continue to grow. but you see it in the way he stays up at night, looking up at the ceiling, wondering which day will be his last if he dares to blink and be anything less than perfect. or when he keeps the shower running cold, like trying to wash out those sticky, gloomy thoughts that penetrate his head. he's the best. he's supposed to be the best. what if one day, he suddenly wasn't?

oh, and the reason katsuki knows how to deal with panic attacks is because he's had so many of his own. even after recovering, they've gotten worse after the war. if its not doubts, its memories of the pain, of the blood he didn't realize he could lose, the life he lost for a heartbeat. he knows death. but it isn't his own death that scares him. the thought of losing anyone else to that fate is the worst possible thing that could ever happen to him.

"told you i'm fine." he utters, cocking his head to you as he gets into bed. nobody died, and his agency wrote it off as a miscalculation, but he almost broke down in the shower after he failed to prevent a fatal accident while on patrol.

"its just me and you here." your voice mellows over his hidden anxieties, like honey. the breath he lets out his shakier than he'd like it to be as he starts to open up.

pro: everything he is, is yours

sometimes he wonders what exactly he's able to offer you. a nice life, for starters. protection and security. but beyond that, katsuki looks at you and finally understands why people lost their minds and fought wars. he understands the nervousness, the anticipation, the longing.

he looks at you, and then himself. at his hypothetical or factual shortcomings and imperfections. he sees them and wants to keep growing, to keep getting better until he deserves you. he’s always lived to be the best. but now he lives to be the best, for you.

and at the end of the day, he has nothing to prove. he’s already everything. the world can call it what the want.

[erosiism]

SACRED | YANDERE PRIEST X M!READER

prompt: yandere!priest x transmigrated!male!reader

character(s): priest (anton), you

warnings(s): mention of violence, god complex, religious imagery, dub-con, not to be glorified or romanticised

note(s): male reader, second person, past and present tense, not beta read. from twisted faith on my wattpad.

It takes a few moments for you to truly process what just happened. From the coarse sheets underneath your skin that differ greatly from the silken ones you have grown so accustomed to, to the air that smells like blood, you know something is terribly wrong.

Then you see a mural of a priest on the wall, and you remember where you are. A horror game.

Anton. It’s the name of the priest you need to find.

The first time you see the priest is the day after you transmigrate into a horror game. The said game, Spiraling into the Abyss features almost a cult like fanaticism with religion: you learn in the first few seconds of your time in the new world that they worship a priest like a God, and that they sacrifice humans to please the apparent gods of the heavens.

You’re a sacrifice. You know that. You are found to be guilty of some stupid crime you didn’t commit, and as far as you know, you are a worthless extra who will die by burning—you will do everything to prevent that.

To survive, you need to get into his good graces. You see him on the day or worship, when you come early to the Church: and his beauty astounds you. Symmetrical features—and the whole blue eyes and golden hair combination that is seen as rather cliche, in terms of beauty—but Anton doesn’t have a common kind of beauty; he is radiant. Benevolent. Ethereal. You marvel at him. His skin is without a blemish, and is fair, like he hasn’t gone out in the sun for a while...yet it has a healthy glow to it. His expression is serene. Anton's hair frames his face perfectly, and his eyes are expressive and rather captivating, with long, dark lashes that draw attention to it. His cheekbones are well-defined, his nose straight—and those only add to Anton's appeal.

He speaks to you in lilted tones, and immediately, you realize the priest isn’t just evil—he’s downright a menace.

"Sometimes I forget you are a new, naive believer. God is perfect, is he not? So his messengers, in turn, can do no wrong. He sends his messages through me. God is part of me. I'm merely ridding the world of evil."  He strides to where you are, and his hands touch the top of your head lightly. His fingers fall to your cheek, and he strokes it gently.

You can only swallow. “Yes, Father Anton.”

There’s one day where you ask him why he burns those bodies. He calls it “cleansing”, apparently.

“They donate to the church out of the kindness of their hearts,” you tell him, swallowing the bile down your throat as you hear more screams. “Is that not…a little extreme?”

“Extreme? Why, no, not at all.”

“You burn people alive.”

“That is the cleanest way to proceed. Their ashes tumble away, and it makes it much easier for the people, too. If we were to use magic, or beheading, or even hanging—it would be much messier, no? And I believe fire is such an awfully beautiful thing. It can make death look inviting; and even though the heavens might cast them away…in hell, all they will see is the fiery pits. This is their punishment. To feel sorry for them is strange, Y/n.”

Despite this, for the sake of your survival, you continue to visit him. Now, such visits are rare: Anton barely makes time for anyone. But he does, for you. 

Of course, this partial treatment doesn’t go unnoticed by you. He treats only you like this: it’s concerning, actually. His words are light and gentle, but the weight of it isn’t. In fact, he speaks of cleansing, he speaks of murdering in such a calm manner that you wonder if the devil truly resides in him.

But one thing is clear. 

To survive, you need to get into his good graces.

You feel your sanity slip each minute you spend in the game.

Anton kills. So does the Church. And you still can’t explain the goddamn obsession he has with you. Why has he not killed you yet? Anton is no saint, not at all.

Perhaps Anton was ensnared by the promise of Godhood—ensnared by the tendrils of his own self proclaimed grandiosity. Perhaps he had been idolized so much…worshiped by the devoted believers that he had simply been led to believe in his imagined divinity. Anton was a mortal who had dared to cast a shadow that eclipsed the very stars that he had reached for. Anton was simply adorned in robes of imagined omnipotence, and smelt of the fragrance of narcissus.

Here, he was god, but Anton was completely alienated from empathy. For what was a god in isolation but a sovereign ruler over an empire of one, ruling over a realm devoid of the richness of God’s grace?

You can’t deal with him much longer. He keeps murdering: he murders those who come to you under the guise of the silly notion of cleansing, he finds it amusing to see you sob and cry…and he has no qualms about drugging you. If not for the items you have stored in your inventory, warning you of drugs, you would have succumbed long ago.

Anton is no priest. 

And now he stands before you, his lips curling into a smile when he sees the look of despair on your face. He has just killed a friend,

You have to. You have to fight Anton…you have to…

Anton leans forward. You two are a hair’s breadth away.

God. Is God real? Is the devil real—has he taken form in Anton himself, twisting, persuading, begging, tempting people to court evil, to withhold the stench of death? The crimson flames have not faltered for long, and have only seemed to welcome him with fiery contempt, only surrendering when everything has been destroyed in its wake.

You long to spit curses towards Anton. You long for your limbs to connect with his face, and leave a mottled bruise there. You long for your twitching fingers to wrap around the priest’s neck; watch as oxygen slowly slips from his lungs out of your throat. You long to see his body grow limp.

“You are so perfect,” Anton murmurs, “so, so divine. So perfect…”

You don’t get why he says this. He’s been telling you this for ages: it’s the reason why you’ve been treated well. He claims you are some savior from an oracle ready to save him, he claims you saved him.

And now in this scenario, where his fingers are grazing your cheek?

You swallow. There was no way, right? No fucking way—

“I want to kiss you.”

Your heart drops. “…If I say no, you wouldn’t listen.”

A kiss. It would just be a kiss, right? That was okay. It means simply brushing your lips against Anton’s…yeah, that was possible.

You want to cry. Anton presses his lips on yours—it’s a mixture of heat and warmth; the way Anton ravages your lips has some sort of twisted hunger to it, craving and craving and craving. There is an obscene sheen of saliva coating your lips when you part.

The kiss tastes just like the forbidden fruit, plucked from the tree of desire. It is the same way that Eve sinned—eating a fruit that had belonged to the serpent. It was as if you had forged a pact with the devil himself—that in kissing Anton, it was like sealing your fate in the molten wax of sin, staining the canvas of your soul. Had matted it black. 

It was shameful. So utterly shameful that the kiss…

Once Anton fully lets go, he smiles, and you collapse on the ground, tears running down your face.

He needs you, Anton thinks, he needs you. You are the savior who has brought him from the depths of hell. You are his miracle. You are his little pet; his little divine sacrifice, the white sheep with the white wool. You are the one who will follow him guiltlessly. Untouched, untainted, clean.

You are shaking like a newborn lamb.

He presses another kiss on your forehead.

[ before, Anton’s pov ]

The world was dirty.

It needed a savior. Someone to bring them out from the depths of hell—to cleanse them. After all, was that not what the texts read? Was that not what he had learnt, ever since young? Was that not what had been instilled in him since his very birth? Luke 15:11-32. The wayward son who squandered his inheritance but was welcomed back by his forgiving father—Anton had marveled at it when he was young. To think someone would have such boundless grace; such forgiveness for a foolish person…

The oracle. Anton saw the oracle as a gift—a symbol from God. It had been delivered to him when he was young, naive, and careless. 

Anton remembered very little about his childhood. Extremely little. He remembered his mother, his father. But that was it—but oh, how he hated them. Anton did not remember why he hated them, why the portrait of his family had been torn out. He regarded life then, and now, as the beginning of the end.

Something fleeting, something ephemeral. Something tragic. Life was a wonderful tragedy.

People look at me with such endless wonder; such spellbound eyes and widened mouths. They see me as God—they see me as a deity above them all.

And that was true, Anton thought. That was very true. Sinners. Wretched, dirtied, horrid sinners, all of them! Anton despised humankind; they were worthless—made of brittle bones with flesh. He did not even see them as humans. They were just mere vessels in need of salvation.

“Father Anton!”

“Father Anton, would you please help me?”

“Bring me to the path of salvation!

He was anointed by a divine purpose to purify the soiled souls of the world…

Yes, that was his purpose.

It was relieving and calming to have a purpose. To drift in the vast expanse of the world; the universe without a tethering purpose is akin to being a feather in the breath of the wind. Useless, damaging, lonely. Anton could see—it was very easy for him to see who were those who were aimless in life, compared to those who had the bright, bubbly life shining magnificently in their eyes.

Oh, Mother. Anton would stand before her grave. Again, he did not remember much of what he believed was to be a mundane, boring childhood, but his mother’s name left a bitter taste on his tongue, horrid and painful. Somehow, he did not feel a single bit of…remorse, or guilt when he gazed at her tombstone. He expected to feel guilt for something he was quite sure he didn’t do.

But his lips would always curve into a smile when he saw the words etched on the grave. She was dead, he would remember. Dead. Occasionally, snippets of memories would come to him—her shrill voice, her messy, jagged hair, her crazed, crazed eyes. The way her fingernails felt on her skin when she scratched at him wildly.

Clearly, she deserved to die. How did she die, though? What exactly transpired? What kind of person was she, and what kind of person had she tried to make Anton into?

Anton found, to his surprise, that he was bothered about this. Detachment was something he prided himself on: he would never venture too close.

To have attachment with someone would be detrimental. Annoying. Haunting.

There were times—many, many times when Anton had awoken, hollow and void. 

The oracle.

The oracle.

When is it coming? When is it coming? Have the gods lied to me?

The oracle—his lifeline since he was young—was the very proof that this world had a chance, to live on, to heal.

A savior.

There were times Anton would grow impatient. He needed to do something about the state of the world. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? Why did people falter in front of flames? What did people shun away from blood? Was the sight not wonderful, not enchanting? The heat was welcoming—a gentle caress. Those who ventured in, would have their faces bathed in mesmerizing glow. Nevermind their screams, nevermind their bleeding, rotting flesh. 

The fire illuminated the world before it dissolved like nothing. Like it hadn’t existed. 

“Horrible! Horrible! You’re fucking horrible!” Then the stinging of flesh. There was something piping hot, something burning him.

“Why won’t you even flinch, you monster?”

Anton smiled loosely. Another memory. They came into his mind occasionally and quickly. He never pondered over them—it was useless to; for he already had everything he wanted.

The day you came into the world, was the day he felt alive. Waiting had become a bore to him—it was the same routine over and over again, with the same stupid, foolish people—

Something extraordinary had graced his reality. The oracle. You were the chosen one. The chosen one. The chosen one. The one he yearned for; seeked for; the change in the world.

“Dear God,” You had said the first time he saw you. “I confess I have been impure in my holy spiritual presence…”

Anton had seen you before the mural; your head lowered, your words soft and quiet.

Anton had stepped before you, tilting his head to the side as he observed you. In fact, you seemed to be struggling.

“You have to be sincere. You can’t just read off the mural.” Anton sighed.

You seemed to look at him with flickering recognition.

“Forgive me, Father Anton, for I have sinned.” You appeared shocked for the words to even slip past your lips; and oh, you were beautiful. Lovely. Innocent. Anton gazed at you—this was the person he had been waiting for his whole life—fervently, impatiently, silently. 

“You don’t seem to be used to this,” Anton said at last, as he took off his hood. He had not meant to come to church today—he was aware the crowd was growing more stifling, more crazed by the minute. The women of the church reminded him of his mother. There were times he wished he could draw a blade to their throat, and watch the blood spill out in a wonderful crimson.

“I’m afraid it’s been long since my last confession.”

Anton couldn’t help but smile. You were lying. 

“That’s alright,” He said calmly, “you have come now. Is there something in particular that’s troubling you, perhaps? To bring you to confession?”

“I…”

Anton could read human beings exceptionally well. From the way their eyes narrowed, the way their pupils widened marginally, to the gap of their fingers…you were trembling. You were thinking of what other lies you could say.

An adorable fool.

“You…?” He prompted. “You must not feel self conscious in the eyes of God. He already knows, Y/n. He is only waiting for you to confess.”

I am only waiting for you to confess. To tell me that you are from the oracle.

“I cannot even recall it.” You admitted.

You cannot recall it because it is not true.

“What do people come here for, Father Anton?”

Many things.

“The ones who have sinned so awfully they are made to be sacrifices.”

Oh. Sacrifices. Anton did not even—

There were times he would stand before dead bodies, blood in his hand, blinking slowly. When? When had he killed them? It all happened so fast, he wasn’t even aware of the blood staining his clothes, the bodies riddled on the ground.

“You tell me, Y/n.”

“Murder…?”

Anton wanted to laugh. A textbook answer. You had much to learn, didn’t you? It was alright. Anton could teach you. Teach you from ground zero, till you would become who you were supposed to be.

“Mostly, it’s their lack of faith. Rebelling against us. It is their perceived lack of loyalty, and their utter ignorance and disregard for God that leads us to take drastic measures.”

“But that’s…that’s killing isn’t it?”

So pure. So untainted, so innocent. 

The oracle. The person from the oracle. 

“But that doesn’t matter,” Anton said softly, “you show a desire to learn. And that is always very splendid, always welcomed.”

Anton would morph you and turn you into something splendid, divine.

remember to reblog and like! comments are always appreciated

[stars-obsession-pit]

I’ve seen this idea mentioned sometimes that the Joker has something set up where if you kill him, he infects you with something that tries to make you into another Joker. I have no idea if that has any basis in the comics - it hasn’t turned up in any of the stuff i’ve read - but either way imagine using that with a “Danny kills the joker” story.

He might be partially protected thanks to not being fully human, but he doesn’t know. All he can tell is that he’s at least somewhat affected. It’s not like he knows of any examples of this happening before. Maybe his powers saved him, or maybe the toxin wouldn’t be fully effective on a normal person either. Or perhaps it just acts slowly, or it prevents him from realizing how far it’s warped him. He can’t tell.

He’s getting paranoid, he knows. But what else can he do? He can’t just ignore it and give in. He hates this. Why did this have to happen to him? Is there some force in the universe determined to ruin everything for him? Is his whole life some cosmic joke? He should burn it all down, then they’ll see who’s the joke—

no.

He refuses to do that. He doesn’t want to do that. He is was a hero, right?

But he was hated then, too. And now he doesn’t even have a respite. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him whenever he goes outside. He knows they’re judging him, waiting for him to snap. The one that try to help are clearly just trying to avoid him targeting then first. He hates it. He hates them. If he makes them fear him, maybe their stares will stop. No, no, he’s trying to avoid that. It is true that it might be safer for his loved ones if he drives them away though…

Maybe he should turn himself in. That could keep them safe. But what if they try to study him again, cut into his brain and see what makes him tick just like the GIW did?

Jason reaches into his jacket and begins to draw his pistol, readying for a fight. Neither hide nor hair of the Joker has been seen in days, and he’s constantly on edge. And he just heard the distinctive sound of sobbing laughter of a Joker Toxin victim. Part of him wanted to rush in guns blazing, but he forced himself to move slowly, carefully. He was not walking into a trap again.

Peaking into the room, he saw a single figure sitting within; a person, curled up in the corner with head in hands. Shit. He re-holstered his gun and began to approach slowly.

They didn’t seem to notice him, even as he stood right beside them and took in their appearance more closely. It was a boy, probably not much younger than him but looking much smaller in fear. His fingernails were chewed bloody, with more blood staining all around his mouth. His skin was incredibly pale, and Jason couldn’t tell if it was from a natural pallor, fear, or some sort of chemical effect. Jason reached out to touch his shoulder, and the boy suddenly jerked back and scrambled away, only seeming to notice him now.

“S—stay back!” he yelped. Jason thought his eyes flashed green for a moment, but he assumes it must have been the light. More importantly, the bloody lips clearly weren’t just from the boy’s hands; there were sizable wounds in his cheeks, presumably from more chewing.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,” Jason said, showing his empty hands and trying to be reassuring.

“Stop lying! That’s what they all say! No one ever actually cares.”

“I promise you I’m telling the truth. Here— I’ll take a step back now. I’m not going to attack you. But you do need medical attention—I can get you an ambulance.”

“No– I can’t– no hospitals,” the boy hiccoughed. “Not safe.”

“How about a private clinic? I know some that won’t ask questions.”

“No, it’s not them! I’m not safe! I’m a ticking time bomb! I killed—” he broke himself off. When he spoke again, it was quiet, almost a confession, “I– I can’t, I refuse to be like him. I won’t follow in his footsteps.”

“Like who?”

“The Joker.”

[tinylilacbun]

Based on the scene where JJ saves Sarah from drowning but with maybank!little!reader instead!!

The sun casts an ever burning heat over the dunes of Morocco, Rafe and the pogues clinging onto the thought that you and JJ are alive and well, the constant unease going through the group but neither of them giving up hope.

Rafe sits on a dune with a good amount of distance from the others, lost in thought and staring at the ocean, desperately waiting for you to emerge any second.

If those idiots wouldn't have tied him in the bathroom he could've saved you, he could've prevented the worst thing he ever thought possible, losing you.

The thought of you all alone and scared, screaming for him to come and save you nags on his mind constantly.

Sarah occasionally goes over to him, pleading him to drink some water to keep at least hydrated, telling him that him dying from dehydration won't help you if you and JJ actually show up.

He keeps silent until she walks away again, grabbing the bottle of water and taking a few sips, the ache of his throat momentarily distracting him from the sting in his chest.

At night he couldn't get himself to sleep, too much on edge to close his eyes even for a moment. Everyone else is already sleeping and the silence is only broken by Sarah's sudden voice. "We'll find them soon. She'll be okay."

Rafe looks at her for a moment before looking back straight ahead again. "I never wanted her to be involved in this in the first place."

"Do you think JJ did? You know how she doesn't like to do what she's told, she's a Maybank after all." She responds, throwing another piece of wood into the fireplace.

Another day of waiting and Rafe keeping his distance, not wanting the others to see how terrified he actually is as he keeps turning the ring on his finger, the moment of where proposed to you before all this stuff happened replaying in his head.

Over the time in your relationship he kept promising that he will take care of you, to protect you from any harm, and he failed. He failed you.

Looking to the side his body stiffens, lifting his head when he sees blurry figures in the distance. He stands up, thinking he now starts hallucinating from the heat, lifting his hands to block the sun.

As the figures draw closer his legs automatically drag him in their direction, sliding down the dune. He picks up his pace, the shapes turning more clear.

You are so exhausted, your legs hurting together with your dry throat. JJ has an arm draped over your shoulders, keeping up his usual joking persona to light up your mood.

"I swear when we get that crown I'll buy a whole toy store empty just for you." He says with a smile and you giggle at that.

By the call of your name you stop in your tracks, tearing your gaze from the sand to see someone approach you both, instantly recognizing who the voice belongs to.

"Rafe..."

Letting your shoes fall from your shoulders you start running without hesitation, almost stumbling a few times as you can see Rafe more clearly and jump into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Rafe holds you tightly against him, fearing that if he lets go that you'll just disappear again. He buries his face in your shoulder, hearing you start to sob. "You're okay...I've got you."

"I-I thought you...I-" You stammer but he just shushes you softly.

"I'm here now. Daddy's here..." He assures you, his hold on you tightening ever so slightly. "I'll never let you go again..."

He gently sets you back down onto the sand, pulling back to cup your face in his large palms, scanning over your face to make sure you're really standing in front of him, tears pricking in his eyes.

Rafe leans down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment before pulling back again. "I thought I lost you..."

"I-I was drowning but Jay saved me..." You explain while sniffling, turning your head to look at JJ who has his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Are the others okay?" JJ asks and Rafe nods.

"They're up there." He answers, pausing for a moment before asking. "You good?"

"As good as I can be." He replies, walking past you both and patting his shoulder.

You both follow behind him while Rafe has an arm around your waist to keep you close and you lean your head against him, your arms still wrapped around him as you continue walking.

Taglist

For everything:

@my-river-lilly @pauntedblacknails @fanfictioniseverything @devilslilbabysblog @buckymydarlingangel @hallecarey1 @daybreakwinter @loveshineslikethesky @wandaslittlewhore @vase-of-lilies @white-wolf1940 @simpingbutch @mischiefsemimanaged @alina02 @teddybearsgrr @doozywoozy @angelbabydoll28 @glxwingrxse @lilymurphy03 @veryvaughnny @lokigirlszendaya @youngstarfishdinosaur @little--baby--bear @minideathgoddess @rach2602 @gh0stgurl @flourishandblotts-inc @lovelyy-moonlight @yoruse

@mythixmagic @iris-xoxo-juhu

For Rafe:

@chiaraanatra @chimindity @erikasurfer

[the-s1lly-corner]

yayayayay im so glad the thing is over now :3!! can i have hoodie and bloody painters reaction to reader just losing their shit from being overstimulated?

Hoodie and Bloody Painter x overstimulated!reader

Grrrr it's finally getting cold in my state and I hate it. Morning walks are about to be hell. I just hope the power doesn't go out for a few days like last year (or was it the year before??)

Side note did you guys know did. Did you know. That I really like the paint spreading gifs

Notes: reader is gn, short post, basing this off of my own shut downs/melt downs- my experiences and behaviors may not be universal, these two have similar approaches I think

CWs: none

HOODIE

Overstimulation often leads to irritation before the meltdown, but he takes your snippy comments and harsher body language in stride. He's already trying to figure out how to help you out before shit hits the fan

He's there in an instant when it all becomes too much- doesn't smother you, and let's you have a minute to just. Feel. Leads you to your room when it either starts dying down or worsens. He's already got everything set for you- your blankets, the lights are dimmed, your favorite items right in reach

He... doesn't see much point in trying to prevent an impending melt down, they happen and (at least in my experience) it builds up over time into something inevitable. So he makes preparations to take care of you as well as trying to prevent it as much as possible

If you're up for it, he traces shapes onto your skin with his fingers.. no talking, just tracing and holding

BLOODY PAINTER

Has a similar approach to hoodie but he doesn't wait for that release which forces it to happen later down the line-- he does have a list somewhere for what you need as well as a little routine to help you regroup after letting it all out

Maintains his own calmness throughout it. If you're doing something that may lead to harm (hair pulling, hitting yourself, picking skin, ect) he puts something else in your hands to keep them busy

Obligatory he lets you scribble and draw things on some paper. You don't need to make anything. Sometimes scribbling and trailing the pencil to paper can be soothing

He kind of gets it, honestly. He himself gets irritable if things start getting too loud or too many things happen at once or- okay he definitely gets it but he's unaware/thinks his needs aren't as.. hmm.. as yours, primarily because he doesn't lose his shit.. at least, not in the same way you do

[godlessondheimite]

Will and Emma are having relationship problems because Will is not taking COVID seriously enough ("Therapy"). The next day Will takes his frustration out on the glee club and accuses them of not taking COVID seriously enough (Finn doesn't understand germ theory and Brittany is QAnon.)

Will says, "You guys lack historical perspective. Back in the 80s and 90s there was a young gay composer named Jonathan Larson who saw disease and suffering all around him. When he found out he was afflicted with AIDS, he put all of his pain into the timeless and unreproachable work of art, RENT. RENT taught us about community and caring for one another and more importantly...it taught us that musicals can rock." Will sings the title song from RENT with Artie and Finn.

That night: Santana is fed up with lockdown restrictions and sneaks out of her house to visit Brittany ("Out Tonight"). Brittany is planning a big show that will blow the whole COVID conspiracy wide open. She previews it for Santana ("Over the Moon"). Santana is freaked out and breaks up with Brittany. Santana can excuse ignoring disease prevention guidelines but she draws the line at being Republican about it.

Also that night, Will tries to sleep with Emma but she's too COVID-cautious ("Green Green Dress"). She says maybe they need some time apart because of their different priorities.

While grocery shopping, Will runs into Holly Holliday. Holly is lighting scented candles in the middle of the store but for some reason all of them are defective/unscented ("Light My Candle.") Holly propositions Will. Will says he's seeing Emma, and Holly admits she also has a boyfriend.

"I'm sure we can work something out," Holly says. "Meet me at the basement of the swinger's club at 9:00."

Will shows up at the swinger's club and spots his old rival, Brian Ryan (the Neil Patrick Harris character). They glare at each other, then confront each other and it's revealed that Brian is Holly's boyfriend ("Tango Maureen.") She knew Brian and Will were old high school rivals and set all this up because she's into the whole enemies-to-lovers thing.

Will scolds her. "That is so cruel and manipulative of you. I can't believe you would do this."

Holly tries to convince him to live life to the fullest. ("Another Day.")

Eventually Will thinks about what proud openly gay icon Jonathan larson would do, and he has a threesome with Holly and Brian ("Contact," I'm afraid.)

The morning after, Will can't believe he kind of cheated on Emma/hooked up with Brian and really enjoyed it ("Real Life").

On Monday, Brittany and Santana are still broken up but sitting on opposite sides of the choir room is emotionally difficult for them ("Without You.")

On the way home from school, Kurt and Blaine are like "Aren't you glad we're not like Brittany and Santana, breaking up every 5 seconds over something stupid?" and they sing "I'll Cover You" but then they break up over something stupid.

Will contemplates his sexual awakening, torn between Holly+Brian and Emma ("Johnny Can't Decide/Come To Your Senses" mashup).

The tension in glee club is unavoidable.

"Mr. Shu, this is ridiculous," Rachel says. "Ever since you brought up RENT and Jonathan Larson, it's been nonstop hookups and fighting. Also, Jonathan Larson wasn't gay and he didn't die of AIDS! He was straight and died of some random heart thing."

"What? Jonathan Larson wasn't gay? So my sexual experimentation was under false pretenses?"

Will immediately calls and breaks it off with Brian and they argue ("What You Own").

The next day Santana says "I can't believe we caused this much fuss over a straight man, who died of a random heart thing."

"Wait, just because he was straight doesn't make his words less powerful," Finn says.

"You're right," Will says. "Maybe I'm bisexual." ("Louder than Words.") And then they all sing La Vie Boheme.

At some point Santana and Mercedes sing "Take Me or Leave Me" as their glee club presentation. (It's a four-part episode.) Also I think Gwyneth would have fun with Today 4 U, don't kill me.



[speedartist-skyliner]

Sparking charcoal au

Sparking charcoal au This is inspired by fanart from @rolyat-insonia for the charcoal rivers by aglobzzy.  And I was inspired to put the haf Fox makes on Genya by @chichiriyarts fox mask nezuko AU. and the watermelon draw was in inspired @mjtheartist04

This is an au were after the shinazugawa's demon insadent. And genya was left to fend for himself Tanjiro's mother adopted him in the kamado house. genya shinazugawa/kamado he uses ether last name interchangeably or combines them on paper work. He never wants to give up ether family ties. Becomes the demon out of the 3 survivors of Kamado's house-holed. Due to how Genya's jeans would allow him to eat demons and become partially demon to gain their strength. His body would eventually adapt to being a demon better. I think when he gains his sense of self again. He has more control over himself. plus his diet of eating demons. This leads him away from the desire of wanting to eat humans. The smell of human blood smells wrong after a while. He still does have the temptation earlier on in the story that's why he has the muzzle and now his mask. but around the red light district ark, he's nearly lost any temptation of humans. P.S. Genya over the years helping Nezuko and their -kamado- mother has learned how to do hairstyles but basic ones. But still knows enough to do Nezuko's and Tanjiro's hair. they both keep their hair long enough so Genya can mess with it. it is one of the bonding things they do to relax.

for more details of the beginning of the story under the cut.

Genya Shinazugawa/kamado is the eldest son -by 4 months~- adopted into the Kamado family. Even so, on the most front, Tanjiro acts as the family's eldest son. Genya doesn't mind too much due to him already having an older brother. Genya is more used to being more of a supporter anyway. Genya and Nezuko tag team taking care of the younger siblings to help their Mom. Genya likes to make warning stories about demons in the dead of night to prevent the younger siblings from getting eaten. Nezuko normally has to wack him on the head to stop him from scaring them too much. Tanjiro finds the stories pretty fun and doesn't take them too seriously.

the day that Tanjiro left to sell charcoal. Genya felt that something was off and tried to get Nezuko to go with Tanjiro but she refused pointing out that there was too much work left to be done at the home. Genya didn't push it -he wished he did-. 

When Tanjiro got back he saw the massacre of the Kamado family, his family. He was devastated but then he heard something he heard crying.   

Tanjiro nearly fell over running to the sound he saw Nezuko crying over Genya's body. when Tanjiro was sleeping in Mister Saburo's house. Genya was outside the house looking at where the stars were supposed to be. The cloudy night hiding most of them. He was a bit far from the Kamado house trying to see if Tanjiro was coming. Nezuko wandered out with a blanket for Genya knowing he might stay out a little longer waiting for Tanjiro. Genya thanks Nezuko before both of them hear a torrent of screams coming from their home. Genya quickly covers Nezuko in the white blanket telling her to hide while he goes to the house to see what's going on. Nezuko tried to protest but Genya wasn't hearing it.He hid her and went back home. Nezuko waiting nearly leaves her hiding spot before feeling a force of fear running down her back like ice water. The smell of blood fills the air. The creature's presence overwhelming and crushing her. Even though it wasn't near. made Nezuko pass out.

 leading to now. Nezuko was in shock. But when she saw Tanjiro she cried for help saying "Genya's body was still warm."

the confrontation with Giyuu more or less stays the same. Genya becomes the demon instead. and the fun Begins. the confrontation with Giyuu more or less stays the same. Genya becomes the demon instead. and the fun Begins.

[coolmiaw]

The only Student he ever taught

Drawing not over but I have other pieces I would like to finish :)

Little illustration of my fic (I find myself spending more time on illustrating it than finishing it nowadays XD)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘You’re not focused tonight.’

The cold voice cut through the air and Alienor turned her tired gaze towards the Headmaster, biting back her retort.

‘I… - don’t snap, don’t snap – am sorry. ’ Seeing the way Black’s eyebrow shot up, she could tell he was as surprised as she was. ‘It’s just that with the coming Task, I have a bit too much on my mind …’ The eyebrow arched a bit higher in a more interrogative way. ‘Well this isn’t exactly the training I should be doing to survive the Task, is it?’ she clarified a bit annoyed.

‘Is it?’  The Headmaster repeated flatly. His face remained impassive, but the brief flare of his nostril told her everything she needed to know regarding her ability to choose her words.

As in poorly. Very poorly.

‘What was it then?’ Black insisted. ‘I think we covered lengthily the importance of intention so what was it this time? Did you forget the instructions?’

There was no correct answer to this question, was it?

In any case, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to provide one. For a moment everything had been going smoothly and the next, a thought had arisen, and she had lost her concentration. So technically, she hadn’t forgotten the instructions…

‘I just got distracted,’ was her weak defence.

Usually, the hint of a sneer that played about the Headmaster’s lips would have ignited her anger or stung her pride. It would have done something, making her double her efforts just to prove him wrong. But this time, her shoulders swiftly dropped, like sails suddenly starved of wind.

‘You’re still wary of your power.’ Black’s voice pierced through the wall of her thoughts, but she didn’t raise her head to meet his gaze. What for anyway? There was nothing to challenge. He was right. ‘Being distracted is not the issue here. But caging your ancient magic away at every shift of attention won’t get you far.’

But at least, it would prevent any accident.

‘Miss Lecomte, look at me.’

From his contemptuous look to his sly smile, she had been prepared for anything.

The softness in his eyes caught her off guard.

In disbelief, she watched him cover the distance separating them until he stood right before her. Slowly, he raised his arm and quietly snapped his fingers which started to glow with a faint light.

Ancient magic.

‘As I explained to you,’ he said eventually, barely loud enough for her to hear, ‘I am not a wielder of ancient magic. As Headmaster of Hogwarts, I am merely the school’s vessel.’ He slightly rotated his hand, and the light grew into a wisp that gently swirled around his fingers as if it was playing with Black’s gaze. ‘The day I accepted this position, it became a part of me.’ He tore his eyes off the wisp and waited for Alienor’s eyes to meet his own. ‘But you, it’s not only part of you. You are a natural wielder.’

‘I know that.’

‘Well then, are your distractions so demanding of your attention they make you forget even your own identity?’

‘I am not following you,’ she said with a light frown. She braced for the coming part as on the list of reasons why Professor Black had never taught, impatience was most certainly on top of it.

In lieu of a snide remark, she got a smile. A genuine, understanding smile that made her question everything she thought she knew about him.

‘Ancient magic,’ he said softly, ‘is not a part of you. You are ancient magic.’

Last time she checked she was human.

She must have looked as puzzled as she felt for The Headmaster went on before waiting her reaction: ‘Who are you?’

Which didn’t really help.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he quickly added as she was opening her mouth to reply. ‘I don’t want you to talk, I want you to think.’ He joined his index and middle finger together and pointed them at her.

‘Who – if she didn’t back down as he moved his hand closer to her, it was because he must have petrified her… right? –

Are – his fingertips were so close to her forehead, she could feel the light warmth emanating from the wisp –

You?’ -  she couldn’t remember when she had ordered her head to move and yet, she felt it push into the Headmaster’s touch as if it was acting on its own.

First she felt the lukewarm sensation of his fingertip on her forehead and then, the caress of ancient magic. Black had conjured it and yet, it felt just like the traces she had tracked in her fifth year, or the calm swirls of the repository as she had set it free. Flowing within and around, dizzying. She felt herself falter but, as if he had sensed her discomfort, Black slightly increased he pressure against her forehead, grounding her. As if his magic was holding her steady.

A familiar, curious, lively and formidable magic.

Not his, nor hers.

Her.

[unhonestlymirror]

Vatņiki of the month:

I know that whenever anyone gains a bit of history knowledge, they immediately leave this fandom (because they finally realise how stupid and cruel it is) - and that's why here are mostly idiots left - nevertheless, I'm not gonna allow the number of idiots to increase. Thus:

1. This post was so cringe my phone crashed and refused to take a normal screenshot. So be it. Did you know that "BiG BrOthEr" has been killing and raping Belaruthians for centuries? Including nowadays? Did you know they burnt Polatsk with its huge library to the ground and stole our books and knowledge? And that's where many "russian" fairytales wihout an actual origin come from? Did you know about the Night of the Executed Poets? It's like Розстріляне Відродження but in Belarus. Please learn the actual history of Belarus instead of spreading stupid harmful russian propaganda. russians are rapists and mass murderers.

2. Same thing, but now posted by a roleplay Latvia account. Op, you should visit real Latvia one day, I'm actually curious how fast you're gonna end up being beaten to near-death experience.

3-4. *heavy sigh* It always amazed me how people in this fandom refuse to educate themselves, refuse to improve their knowledge based on the real world but just stick to same ideas FOR YEARS, to ideas once drawn by a crack-addicted prorussian Japanese who wasn't even able to graduate. Lithuania is such an amazing country, with an opulent history and culture - but the only thing you're interested in is... drawing russia abusing Lithuania? Why are you, guys, so addicted to genocide and violence? Why do you think mocking our national tragedies is funny and acceptable, dear artist from "China, Hong Kong"? Would you like it if somebody drew, e.g., America or India beating up your home till blood, calling your home "a kid in the basement"? I don't think so! The fact you think it's funny and totally normal to post publicly is genuinely pathetic.

Also, the fact many artists here use "russia abusing Lithuania" trope to put their OTP in the best light (usually LietPol, occasionally AmeLiet)... it's making me speechless. See, one of the countries who actually has been protecting Lithuania from russia for centuries is Ukraine - due to our geographical position and resources - nevertheless, I, as a Ukrainian, would never dare to draw Ukraine "saving poor little Lithuania from russia." Because this is REALLY offensive. In Ukraine, we know perfectly well how much suffering russia caused to others, and how many, e.g., Lithuanians died protecting their home - portraying them as Damsell in Distress means just nullifying and mocking all their sacrifices and tragedies. Once again I am convinced that only Eastern Europeans are capable of understanding this. Personally, as much as I love Lithuania, I would hate to see anyone drawing Glorious GDL saving poor little crying Ukraine from the Golden Horde - because the majority who suffered and who fought the Horde were still Ukrainians. Even if Lithuania still helped us a lot and fought with us, too. With Poland, it's even more complicated and fragile, because Poland used to kill a lot of Lithuanians and destroy their culture, and even making alliances with russia to divide my land - and even the Poland's partition by russia didn't prevent the 1920s massacres.

I hope this post will make you take a thought rather than be just offended.

[aardvaark]

only murders in the building s3e8 spoilers ahead!

this is the best photo i could get of the strips of paper that have been pieced together so far. all we can see is:

"02/16/2023

mmence on

sion, and

until and

(line gap)

society,

performing

composer

however,

right to

where it"

now that’s… fairly vague, lol. not too much to be gathered, except that it relates to the play itself - words like "performing" and "composer" seem to show that. in other words, it’s probably not the autopsy report or someone’s diary. the first unfinished word is probably "commence". this makes it sound formal. again, unlikely to be a diary or a letter to a close friend or something.

so what could it be? personally, my current standing theory is that it’s Maxine’s review. i have a few reasons for this:

we know that Maxine has written a review. yes, she was originally writing by hand and her pen ran out of ink, but she mentions in episode 2 that it was some of her best writing which sounds like she had finished it later, plus it’s her job to write these reviews, im sure she must have finished it. and so there exists a "vitriolic" absolute pan of the play somewhere. one that we’ve never seen and which Maxine didn’t show to Oliver. maybe we can’t see it because it’s been shredded.

the language, from the small bits we can see, would make sense for a review. first she states when the play "commences" for its opening night. then she reviews the various elements of the play, such as the "performing" and notes things like who the "composer" is and whether they did a good job. the word "however" makes me think that the writer is giving some sort of a negative opinion there. which, you know, is what the review is.

Maxine is a character we were introduced to in the second episode but really haven’t explored. i don’t necessarily think she is the murderer; in fact, i can’t even think of a motive she’d have. but, i think they introduced her for a reason.

a scathing review could absolutely generate anger or violence in someone. imagine you’ve put your heart and soul into your performance or crew role for months, only to get insulted and for the show to be an utter failure. it could mean the end of your career or the loss of a lot of money.

but even if it is Maxine’s review, and even if someone was upset by it, why would that lead to Ben’s death? i do have a theory for that. it might not be the correct one, but it’s my best shot at the moment:

Cliff and Donna (the mother and son producer people) have repeatedly expressed that this play is high stakes for them. it’s Cliff’s producing debut and they need it to be perfect. the problem is, the show was far from perfect - something that they may have already realised to an extent, but which that pan confirmed. plus, a terrible review by a famous reviewer would lose them money and reputation. if one or both of them got their hands on Maxine’s review, it makes sense that they’d destroy it and want to put an end to the show in a way that can’t be blamed on them. an accidental death on stage - with the autopsy report altered to day there wasn’t any poison, and we know it was altered cause it was negative for meth - would solve their problem, as well as draw them a lot of press attention (any publicity is good publicity), and finally, would prevent the review from ever being published because no one would publish a scathing review of a recently deceased young man’s performance. i can imagine that the producers would have access to and knowledge about the set and theatre, which would allow for the spooky ghost stuff that seemed like more than a coincidence in "Ghost Light". they’d also have access to Ben’s room to plant the poison cookies (because c’mon, he was clearly talking to a plate of cookies in the dressing room video).

additionally, Donna’s speech to Loretta in the bathroom makes me suspect her more. and Loretta’s song, while clearly more about sacrificing herself for her own son in that moment, could double as meaning that Donna would kill for Cliff’s sake to protect his reputation in the industry. and as Loretta says, poisoning as a murder method tends to point to a woman murderer - this is actually true according to data on homicides. Donna is a woman, she would do anything for her son, the review would ruin his reputation in her mind, she poisons Ben to end the play.

then there’s Ben’s apologies in episode 1. to Cliff… well, he forgets Cliff’s name for one thing, and then he basically just says he’s sorry for being so annoying to them and complaining about his dressing room. then he continues to complain about his dressing room before moving on.

while Donna may have done the first murder, i don’t think she did the second. perhaps it was Cliff, pissed at his non-apology and wishing the man was dead for real. perhaps it was someone else entirely (probably a man since they haven’t had a male murderer so far and have even pointed that out).

but again, this is still a very loose theory based solely on the possibility that that document is the review. what else do y’all think it could be? or what else could have happened if it is indeed the review?

[breadnabreadd]

✦ Oh boy! Here we go.

I created a LMK Au just for funsies. A furutistic, high technologic world with cyberpunk vibes! (Because I absolutely love this type of aesthetic)

✦ the picture above is just a quick drawing I did of Macaque in this AU. I will get into details about the AU while showing a few infos of a few LMKs characters alongside with their designs. (Just a reminder I'm still creating the AU and it's my first time making one. It might be a little messy, so I apologize if it gets too messy--)

Oh! And by the way, the characters on this AU follow the same basic formula as the original characters. So it doesnt have much changes, other than the world they live in, their clothes and a few events.

✦ MK, The Monkie Kid

• Its the same thing as our little MK from the animated series, he works at Pigsy's Noodles as a delivery boy, is the Monkey king's biggest fan and is his successor and pretty much the basic stuff.

• He learned about the Monkey king with Mister Tang. He is a huge fan.

• Tho he isn't a great expert, he knows how to how to fix computer cases, machines and vehicles and build stuff by using old pieces (he learned with Pigsy and Sandy, just in case his delivery vehicle breaks in the middle of the road or a something start malfunctioning in the noodle store). As we can see, he works more in the hardware part.

• He likes to collect the old pieces of old devices that people throw away in the city's old graveyard. It's like a type of recycling. (That's also how he find the Monkey king's staff but that is a thing I will tell in details in another day--)

• He loves to draw!!! Hooray!!! He also likes to play games. Is always playing video games with his best friend, Mei, on the arcade or online.

✦ Mei, The White Horse Dragon Girl

• She's a programmer/developer of softwares (Yes I know that in I drawing I said she's a "hacker but a bit clumsy" but actually i wanted to say shes a programmer. I was sleepy, it was 2 am, and my brain wasn't braining 😰😰😰---) with a few knowledge about hardwares. She created her technological helmet system with MK's help. (Her helmet it's similiar to Iron man's helmet from inside.)

• She built her own motorcycle, again with MK's help. She participates a lot motorcycles race just for funsies.

• Loves to play games. I guess I could say she is quite of a professional gamer? She play to win. But when she is playing with MK or with other friends, she doesnt care losing or winning, she only cares about enjoying some quality time with them.

✦ Liu'er Mihou, The Six Eared Macaque.

• Pretty much same as the original Macaque. (Lost his eye in the past with a fight against Sun Wukong. Omg betrayal. Yknow the deal-)

• Here he is a Hacker/Cracker.

"But what is a cracker?" You may ask. Now it's time for my nerd/TI studant side take over. A cracker it's a mean hacker. The cracker breaks/attacks the systems and webs for their own benefit, which it's for illegal purposes. Now a Hacker it's actually a job, which their purpose its to find the security breaches and ways to how break it, so then they can make the security stronger and prevent invasions/attacks at the system.

With that being said, Macaque is a hacker/cracker. So he makes defense systems to himself and breaks into other systems for illegal purposes.

• He got these gloves that helps him hack things better, he created it himself. He create floating holograms like it's a tablet screen and can hold on these holograms using these gloves. With a simple touch he can steal database from a device and hack it's system. (He can hack machines, computers, tech weapons and even the light system.)

• He got his shadow magic too, same as the original one. Shadow clones, shadow portals... but he kinda makes a fusion between his magic and the technology he invented to himself. (Before anyone say it. YES! I got heavily inspired by Sombra from Overwatch. 😔)

✦ The Monkey King, Sun Wukong

• Yeah, the Monkey king. The great sage equal to heaven. The silly who made a havoc on heaven---

• HE GOT THAT HUGE MECHA WE SAW IN THE ANIMATED SERIES BECAUSE HE DOESNT LIKE USING HIS KAIJU FORM !!!

But he doesnt use the mecha much. It has been CENTURIES since he last use it. Now MK is the one who uses it because he is Sun Wukong's successor.

• That's not his "Monkey King" royal clothes. It just some casual/comfy clothes to use in everyday life.

• He already knew who MK was. MK is a stone Monkey just like himself. Wukong have been watching the kid grow up from far. He grow a bit attached to the boy.

Sun Wukong surely wasn't expecting to MK being able to lift his golden staff, so he think in the opportunity to make him his sucessor and teach him how to use his new powers. (Yes, I was lisiting to "the horse and the infant" song. How did you kn--)

Oh God. That explanation was long.

✦ Welp, that's all for today!

I will post more stuff about the AU in the future. And I still need to think a name for it...

It is clear I got heavily inspired by Cyberpunk, techwear, overwatch, New Gods: Nezha reborn, Arcane and other stuff. I'm sorry, BUT I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THAT AESTHETIC AND VIBES!! HHHHHHH-

✦ I'm a huge nerd. 🤓

[thesullenprincess]

Any other writers out there struggle with going back to writing that one fic they haven’t finished yet because they’ve come up with a new idea and WANT to write about THAT instead??

I want to expand on my newest fic ‘Coming Home’ vs working on the first fic that I still haven’t finished but keep telling myself I’ll get around to it… Sigh.

Anyway here’s an excerpt of that said heartache.

“Please, touch me,” Mitsuri begged without embarrassment, unwilling to break eye contact so that he understood she was ready and willing.

Obanai wasted no more time in trying to talk himself out of anything anymore. He did as he was told, starting with her right breast. Since his hand was already mostly grabbing it, he just slightly adjusted his fingers so they were evenly splayed over the whole mound. Even so, he couldn’t get his whole hand around the entirety of her, and he didn’t know whether he should feel incredibly embarrassed, or incredibly turned on.

Growing up, Obanai was fully aware how much smaller he was compared to other men his age, something that had gotten under his skin frequently, but no more so than the time he’d been promoted to Hashira and gotten a first look at Tengen and Gyōmei. The latter especially was a towering mountain of a man, twice the size of Obanai, but was someone the Serpent Pillar quickly came to count on, trust, and respect due to the man’s commendable power and relaxed, silent nature. Tengen, on the other hand, was a different story. Unlike the Stone Pillar, Uzui Tengen was boisterous, self-assured, and—to hear him describe himself—a “Flamboyant God of Festivals”. It had taken Obanai a good long while to see beyond Tengen’s cocky attitude and need to make everything about himself but eventually, Obanai also came to rely on the the Sound Pillar, seeing him not only as a worthy ally and dependable on the battle field, but also a decent man of morals when it came to destroying demons and helping others.

In the earlier days, however, Obanai would often feel dwarfed, emasculated, compared to them. It didn’t help matters too that out of all the Hashira, he was closest in height to Muichirō, a 14 year old boy, and Shinobu, a woman. But he reasoned being locked up for over have his life, subjugated with endless torture and trauma, and not eating most days stunted many things about him. There was no changing that and he eventually made peace with that part of himself.

But now, staring at his hand that didn’t quite fit over Mitsuri’s right breast, Obanai was starting to question if everything about himself would not be enough for her, be quite right for her. What if she thought he was too small, too thin? Would he be able to perform well enough to satisfy her, or would she find the whole experience underwhelming, leaving her feeling starved and empty at the end?

She whimpered, drawing his attention from her chest to her face. “S-Sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing,” he blushed, about to pull his hand away completely if Mitsuri’s inhuman strength hadn’t prevented him from doing so. She squeezed his hand over her breast.

“You’re fine! I-I just…like it done harder.” Mitsuri shyly smiled while Obanai struggled to contain himself. If he was this flustered with some light groping there was no telling how he’d fare when he finally got to have all of her.

He took in a deep breath through his mouth and out his nose, allowing his fingers to close around her harder. “Mitsuri…” he murmured in adoration, watching intently as her face came to life. Her mouth opened, and he took the opportunity to kiss her, sticking his tongue inside as he did so.

At the same time, his hand was moving like it knew what it was doing. Her back arched in appreciation against his hand and he felt her nipple harden under his palm. Obanai relished at how soft yet firm she was. The clothing separating him from her skin was a nuisance but that did not diminish the feeling of her. He’d never felt anything like it.

“More,” she mewled against his lips when they broke their kiss, “touch me more.”

“Where?” he panted.

Mitsuri stared into his eyes, loving the way they’d darkened with his desire. Desire FOR HER. “Here,” she whispered, continuing to watch him even as he pulled back slightly and she opened her legs wider. Her heart thrummed wildly when those eccentric eyes of his followed her movements and widened in surprise. Her skirt was pushed up around her hips, giving Obanai an unobstructed view of all of her.

[lottiesnotebook]

Happy Thedas Weekend! How about some Tabris/Morrigan Mermaid AU? Have fun!

Oh you do not know what you activated in me when you asked for this AU XD Full disclosure, the oldest fics on my AO3 account (and my first fics written as an adult) are both Fucked Up Mermaid AUs, and I think this a worthy successor for my new hyperfocus, though it is based on some bloodier mermaid folklore that I think is from Japan, where eating a mermaid's flesh can grant immortality...

Morrigan/Luna Tabris, mermaid AU, cannibalism (mentioned), injury, healing, dark fairytale themes

@mickeysalamander | @thedasweekend

lure you like a landslide

In theory, Morrigan knows much of the merfolk of the deep. She knows, from her mother’s books, their powers to entrance and to summon storms, how some of them bear gifts of prophecy or prosperity, where others can curse those who displease them for a thousand generations or more. She knows of their shapeshifting, their strange, protean forms, drawn from some strange deep-water power that humans forgot long ago. She knows much and more of their anatomy — her mother’s book categorises every inch of their flesh and blood and bone into neat alchemical notes: the strength of their bones, the charm-magic tangled in their hair, the immortality bestowed by their ever-beating hearts.

None of those diagrams, neatly divested of flesh then fat then muscle, resemble the mermaid who lies unconscious but breathing in the beach’s deepest rockpool.

Her blood blooms red-black in the clear water, blotting out anemones and smaller fish that flitter up towards her shyly, tentatively tasting the blood in the water to see if it denotes food above them. Her hair is a cloud of silver, flowing around her in swirling rivulets where it does not cling to the curves of her breasts, and her tail — her tail is the most marvellous thing of all, glittering brighter than silver in the sunlight, where it is not scored with dark, bloody scrapes.

It would be easy, perhaps merciful, even, to cut a deep, careful line into the pale curve of her throat while she lies here, powerless to prevent her, to carve her into the semblance of the more-familiar images of the alchemy books, to carry pieces of her home to Flemeth and bask in the rare light of her approval. But Morrigan has never been called merciful, and today, at least, pleasing her mother is the least of her concerns. She has been called ‘foolish girl’ one too many times to wish to bring her such rare bounty as this.

Besides, she has hesitated too long — the mermaid stirs in the water, and her eyes flutter open, dark as the night sky, and focus on Morrigan, first with wonderment, and then with terror. She dives then, an ungainly movement, revealing the ragged ruin of one of her tailflukes. She will not survive long in open water with such an injury, though perhap she does not know it, yet.

Now, though, she sinks to the bottom of the pool, beyond the reach of Morrigan’s arms, and stirs up a cloud of silt to conceal her until she is only flashes of silver hair and scarlet blood in the darkness below, and Morrigan- Morrigan wants.

She does not speak to her, that first day. She does not even attempt to approach her again. She leaves a basket of raw fish on the lowest ledge, and watches from a distance as a pewter-coloured head slips seal-slick from the depths, and pale, webbed fingers reach for her offering and tear into it with sharp and eager teeth. For all that she looks so very lovely, and so very close to human, she eats like any starving animal — all fury and desperation and blood and claws.

The second day, she’s bolder — when Morrigan approaches the pool with a netful of fish, she’s leant up on the ledge, chin on her elbows, tail stirring currents in the pool like a whirlpool in miniature, drawing the smaller creatures of the depths into her storm.

“Hungry, are you?” Morrigan asks, and she only blinks, those dark, liquid eyes betraying no sign of understanding or deeper thought, but she moves quick enough when Morrigan tosses her the fish, biting into it with vicious, ravenous hunger, staining her lips bright with blood. She drags her catch down to the depths, and does not resurface until it is nothing but bones. In this way they continue, Morrigan’s throws growing shorter and shorter until the mermaid takes the last fish straight from her hand. Her fingers are webbed, with needlesharp claws in the place of nails, and Morrigan wants to grab hold of it and study it — the ivory of her flesh, the pearl of her claws, the pale translusence of the webbing, the shadowed suggestion of scales on the inside of her wrist where, were she human, her veins would show through, but she does not, not yet.

She earns her trust by slow and careful degrees, first with food and then with potions added to the water of her pool, and eventually with sticky poultices smeared onto the ugly gashes in the silvery beauty of her tail. This is the crucial part of gaining her trust — her heart will be useless if she is sickened, infected, and Morrigan does not seek a poisoned immortality. The first time she smooths the sticky poultice over her scales, she knocks her bakc wiht the heavy muscle of her tail and wheels, diving below. Morrigan lies on the rocks for a few long moments, winded by the blow, but sits up when she hears the splash of her return to the surface, sees the silver-and-red span of her tail shyly presented for further healing. She is clever enough to understand the connection between the ointment and the dissipating pain, then — that will make things easier, though she will have to be more careful.

It is easy to forget to be careful around her, though, too easy. She is a lovely creature, when she suns herself on the rocks, and when she smiles, revealing all her sharp, white teeth, Morrigan cannot quite bring herself to look away. A weakness, she knows, but nobody has smiled at her so often before, and she cannot quite divorce herself from the flare of warmth it sparks inside her. It almost balances the inconvenience of feedings and poultices, and being splashed by her patient when she runs late for her ministrations. Sometimes, as the days grow longer, she lingers on the rocks, watches her prize glitter in the sun, or let out strains of nonsense song that hang bright and golden in the air until the sea breeze sweeps them away. Sometimes, the mermaid will tug at her hand, try to lure her into the water, but of course, Morrigan is never quite so foolish as to allow herself to be dragged down. The rockpool is hardly an ocean, but it is quite deep enough to drown in.

A part of her does not want to remember that, though, as she dips scratched, aching feet into the cool water, as the mermaid traces the bones of her feet, her ankles, the ticklish gaps between her toes, with something that, were she fanciful, she might call fascination. Even with her claws, her touch is far more careful than Flemeth’s has ever been, and something in that is almost bruising in its tenderness, painful in a way she does not have words for, even as she cannot pull away. The bruise, the strange, needy discomfort, only grows as the mermaid lays her head against Morrigan’s bare thighs, cheek pillowed on her hand, and allows her to pull a comb through her hair, as she realises there is nobody else in the world for whom she’s felt anything like this, and this truth will not save her.

“I will miss this, I think, when the time comes to take your heart,” she confesses, quietly, as she untangles a particularly thorny not. “I will miss you. ‘Tis almost a pity.”

“It is.” She freezes as, for the first time, the mermaid speaks to her aloud, in the tongue Morrigan so foolishly assumed she did not know. Her claws prick gently above the largest artery of her thigh, a silent threat she never thought the creature capable of. As if, this whole time she’s been studying the creature, she’s been studied in turn.

“When I am strong enough to eat your heart, I will heal, and return to the sea,” the mermaid confesses, and the arousal that creeps through her as her fingers continue to trace the veins and arteries of her inner thigh is not entirely fear. “And then, I think, I will miss you very much, human girl.”

[starsaroundsaturn]

12 more small ways to be knightly

I did one of these before and a lot of chivalrous humans enjoyed it.

so here are twelve more small things you can do to make the world around you a more kind, beautiful, chivalrous place. again, not all knights have means as great as their hearts, so low-cost or free options are starred!

buy someone behind you in line their meal or drink. this one is all about making someone else just feel good and loved. this is not so much about providing someone else what they do not have, but about giving joy.

help someone who is sick or has just had a baby. bring them a meal or clean a room for them. especially if you have friends who live alone, there's nothing worse than to be sick and have to care for yourself and your space when you have no energy. make sure to get consent first! I live alone and when my family did this for me it meant the world.*

write someone a letter just because. there are few things that make other people happier than getting a smol thing in the mail.*

make something for another person. this could be something crocheted, cooked, sewn, crafted, etc. there is nothing more knightly and gallant than to work with your hands.*

protect and care for children. show them respect and kindness. children are new at being humans, and they truly need and deserve love and affection. this could be smiling at them at the grocery store, showing them patience and love when they cry, or teaching them a new skill!*

reject fast fashion. whenever you can, purchase sustainably made or second hand clothes to protect our world.

find a skill you'd like to improve on. maybe it's a new language so you can speak to strangers. maybe it's music so you can bring someone else lightness of heart. maybe it's drawing so you can make someone else a beautiful picture. being a knight takes some work, so spend some time on the things that you want to be better at to make the world better.*

find something that brings you peace and practice it often. maybe this is meditation. maybe you sit on the porch in the morning till you finish your coffee. maybe it's prayer. the knight brings peace to the world around them, and the best place to start is inside of you, because when you have peace, it's easier to share it.*

build a community. everyone in our world is so lonely. by reaching out to others to do things together, whether it's sewing, reading a book, or hanging out for coffee, you will not only protect your own heart, but other people's too.*

protect animals! donating to a wildlife conservation fund can help us to prevent a beautiful creature from dying out in the wild completely. one of our species of rhinos has gone extinct in the wild recently. however, wildlife conservation has moved many species of raptors (think of eagles and hawks!) from being critically endangered to more likely to survive!

donate to remove someone's medical debt. https://unduemedicaldebt.org/ is one way to bring someone freedom and peace of mind from HUGE medical bills. you are literally healing the sick and fighting the monster of poverty by doing this.

remind yourself and everyone around you that your actions matter. you are changing the world one step at a time. never give up. it's the bravest knights that persevere when the days are darkest.

if you want to see my previous post for more ways to be knightly, see here!