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writeriguess · 17 days ago

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Please make a dragon king bakugo x reader where she was pregnant and currently were in a room with a few medics, giving birth. Katsuki is forced to stay outside listening to her whining and moans of pain and after a whole he gets to see his baby son. And he and reader goes to their people to show of the newborn baby with Katsukis parents in the crowd?

Heir of Fire and Thunder

The pain crashes over you in hot, burning waves—relentless, all-consuming. You scream again, your voice hoarse, sweat-drenched hair clinging to your forehead as you grip the sides of the birthing bed with trembling hands. The stone walls of the royal chamber echo with your cries, and the scent of incense burns faint in the air in a vain attempt to calm the tension flooding the room.

Around you, a handful of royal medics rush with whispered commands and fluttering robes. The room is warm and thick with magic—ancient dragon runes carved into the walls glowing faintly with protective light. You can’t see them through the haze of pain, but they’re there, just like the quiet murmurs of support from the elder midwives, kneeling at your sides.

“Breathe, my Queen. The babe is almost here,” one of them says gently, brushing your damp cheek. You let out a shaky cry.

“Where the hell is he?” you gasp, fingers clawing at the mattress.

“His Majesty waits just beyond the doors,” the healer replies with soft reverence. “He listens, my lady. He’s… not calm.”

Outside the chamber…

Katsuki Bakugo, Dragon King of the Ember Cliffs, storms in tight, agitated circles before the towering obsidian doors. The roars of a storm dragon echo faintly outside the castle walls—his doing. He’s tried to stay composed. Gods, he wants to stay composed.

But your screams... they’re cutting through him like blades.

He slams his fist against the stone wall, leaving a cracked crater behind. The guards flinch but say nothing. No one dares speak to him right now.

“Kami, I swear—if something happens to her, to the baby—” he growls, chest heaving with restrained fire. His claws twitch in and out. Sparks crackle along his arms where his draconic heritage leaks through, muscles tight with fury and fear.

“She’s strong,” says his mother, Mitsuki, stepping closer, unfazed by his temper. “Just like her mate. She’ll bring your heir into this world with fire in her blood.”

Katsuki huffs through his nose, jaw clenched. “She shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

“You’d tear the walls down if you were in there. You’d terrify the medics.” His father, Masaru, speaks up with a calm voice, though his own hands are folded tightly in front of him. “You’ll see them both soon.”

A long, gut-wrenching cry echoes from inside the chamber. Katsuki’s eyes snap shut.

He wants to roar. Wants to break through the doors and tear down the walls and hold you while you bring their child into the world. But all he can do is stand there and listen.

Inside again…

Your whole body trembles. You scream once more, the fire inside you flaring white-hot as one last, powerful contraction grips you.

“I see the head!” someone cries. “One more push, my Queen!”

You gather every ounce of strength you have left, growling through clenched teeth, and push with a wild, furious roar that shakes the very bed beneath you.

And then—blessed silence.

A gasp. A tiny, piercing wail that splits the air.

You collapse back against the pillows, heart thundering in your chest, tears blurring your vision as you blink up at the ceiling.

“…Is he…” you whisper.

The midwife turns to you with a beaming smile, holding a tiny, red-faced bundle wrapped in a soft gold-stitched cloth.

“A strong boy, my Queen. With your eyes.”

You reach out with shaking arms as the baby is placed in your embrace. His cries quiet slightly as your warmth surrounds him. A soft coo escapes you, and for a moment, nothing else exists.

“Bring in the King,” one of the medics says.

The doors slam open.

Katsuki’s frame fills the threshold in an instant, his cloak billowing behind him, hair wild, ruby eyes frantic. He takes in the scene—your exhausted body, the baby on your chest, the sheen of sweat and tears—and in a rare moment, his entire being just… softens.

“…Princess…” he breathes, rushing to your side.

You look up at him, smiling weakly. “Katsuki… we did it.”

He kneels beside the bed, claws retracting as he cups your face gently, brushing damp strands of hair from your temple. He presses his forehead to yours.

“You are… the strongest damn woman in this realm,” he murmurs, voice thick.

“Meet your son,” you whisper.

Bakugo leans down, eyes locking onto the tiny bundle nestled against your chest. His breath catches. A soft, stunned sound slips from his throat.

“Shit… he’s so small.”

You smile, watching him reach out, cradling the baby’s tiny head with a tenderness no one else would believe he possessed. His son’s hand flails weakly, grabbing at his father’s clawed finger.

“He’s got your stubborn grip,” you say, giggling tiredly.

Katsuki smirks, though his eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Damn right he does. Already a warrior.”

Later, in the throne courtyard…

The great bronze gates of the castle swing open, revealing the royal family. Trumpets sound. The people cheer, thousands gathered beneath the open sky, dragon banners flapping in the wind.

You stand tall beside your mate, your son cradled proudly in your arms, wrapped in a ceremonial cloth lined with dragon scales. Katsuki stands behind you with one hand at your back, the other raised high in a show of strength and pride.

“Our son,” he bellows, voice booming like thunder over the crowd. “The heir to the Dragon Throne!”

The cheers swell louder.

From the front row, Mitsuki beams through tears, gripping Masaru’s arm. “He’s perfect,” she whispers.

Masaru nods, unable to look away.

Katsuki leans down beside your ear. “You sure you wanna do this again in a few years?” he teases, smirking.

You laugh, elbowing him lightly. “Ask me when I can feel my legs again.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Whatever you want, Princess. Just say the word.”

Together, you face the crowd—the Dragon King, his fierce Queen, and the newborn Prince whose cry will one day shake the skies.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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moonmaiden1996 · 16 days ago

Text

The Monster Maomao Created Part 5

Even without his disguise, the room was unbearably hot, with his heavy robes and veil it was pure hell. The thick summer air hung heavy, cloaking everything in a suffocating haze. Heat radiated off the lacquered floor tiles in waves, pickling his back and arms beneath the many layers of silk he was still forced to wear. Sweat pooled at the base of Jinshi’s neck, slick against the collar of his robes.

The only relief came from a narrow window high in the stone wall, where a thread of breeze slithered in, stirring the incense smoke and rustling a strand of his hair that poked through the eye slot It wasn’t enough. But to complain now—before the Emperor, and worse, the General—would have been unthinkable.

The General, a towering man with sun-darkened skin and silver threaded through his temples, sat across from him with all the stillness of a statue. His presence seemed to swallow the room. But still, Jinshi did not flinch. He sat straight-backed and silent, his face a mask of calm, though heat stung his skin and soaked his underlayer. He stared directly at the older man, even as tension crackled through the space like the silence before a battle.

“…so if all bears well, we will return before the next full moon,” the General was saying, his voice like gravel dragged across iron. “The barbarians are no match for your forces.”

“It is only through your leadership, General,” the Emperor replied smoothly from his elevated seat. “You have proven yourself, time and again. Clan Hu remains one of our greatest pillars of strength.”

Jinshi watched the old warrior bow his head with practiced humility, arms sweeping out in a rigid arc of gratitude. His lips parted, a reply forming—but the Emperor spoke again, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“…but I did not summon you to speak only of battle. In the midst of all this conflict, I wish to demonstrate our strength through unity. A marriage.”

“You honor me, Your Majesty…” the General began cautiously.

“But?” the Emperor leaned forward slightly, voice warm with invitation. “Come now, loyal friend. You may speak freely.”

The General exhaled, slow and heavy. “My daughter is not made for the court. She was raised in her mother’s western heritage—too bold, too sharp. She would not thrive as a consort.”

The Emperor’s lips curved in amusement. “I agree. Some flowers do not bloom in gilded cages. Your daughter reminds me of the blue poppy that grows in the high passes—delicate in appearance, yes, but only in the wild does it show its true color. Attempt to cultivate it in the bounds of a garden and it withers.”

A flicker of something—perhaps pride, perhaps pain—passed over the General’s face. His rigid shoulders eased, just a fraction.

“But I do not speak of taking her as my consort,” the Emperor continued. “I speak of my brother. It is time he had a wife, and I can think of no better bride than your daughter.”

The shift in the General’s body was immediate. His spine straightened; his eyes narrowed. Jinshi could feel the weight of his attention shift directly onto him, appraising, dissecting.

“I am aware,” the General said, voice cold now, “that the Imperial Brother gifted my daughter a pin for her birthday. But that is all it is a gift.”

“This prospect upsets you?” the Emperor asked, not unkindly.

The General’s fingers curled against his thighs, the knuckles paling with restraint.“If I may speak freely…” he bites out in a strained attempt at calm. “The Imperial Brother is not what I envisioned for my daughter. He is …unsuitable to her. The court has always assumed that due to… his affliction… he would not marry. So long as the line of succession continues, this has never been questioned. My daughter, though she may not show it, is full of warmth. She needs love and strength from a husband, not a match made of politics.”

The Emperor inclined his head. “It is clear you cherish her greatly.”

“As if she were a son. Perhaps more.” The General’s voice cracked slightly with intensity. “And that is why, though I am honored by the offer, I must decline—not out of defiance, but out of love.”

“If I may.” Jinshi spoke quietly, but his voice carried. The General looked at him sharply, never had the prince's voice been heard beyond the whispers to his courtiers when he did attend count.

“I do not wish to force your daughter,” Jinshi continued. “I do not intend to make a pawn of her.”

The General blinked.

“She is beautiful, yes. And noble. But that is not why I wish to marry her. I may still be the Emperor’s brother, but I am no longer the Second Prince. With the birth of my nephew, I am finally free—to choose not just a bride, but a partner. And I choose her. I chose her the moment we first met.”

The General scoffed, his temper flaring visibly. “You have never met my daughter. You never leave the palace.”

“Oh, but I do.”

Jinshi reached up. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, to the knot at the base of his head. With one fluid motion, he untied the tightly bound mask and let it fall into his lap.

Four things happened at once.

The General surged to his feet, a roar tearing from his throat.

The Emperor smirked

A rush of cool air kissed Jinshi’s damp skin, the freedom of it almost dizzying.

And Gohsan, standing silent by the pillar, visibly aged another five years.

“What is the meaning of this?!” the General thundered. His voice cracked through the chamber like lightning.

“Sit, General,” the Emperor commanded.

The older man stood heaving, nostrils flared, staring down at the unmasked figure before him.

“He is a eunuch!” the General snarled. “What is the meaning of this deception? This insult?”

“Forgive my brother’s theatricality,” the Emperor said with a sigh. “I had hoped for a more graceful reveal. My brother has taken great pains to remove himself from the line of succession—to ensure peace and stability. What better way than by walking among the court unseen? What better way to observe… and to protect? But as a false eunuch, whose else could I trust as a gardener to my garden.”

“That does not mean I will—”

“You may be my most trusted general,” the Emperor cut him off, voice like velvet over iron, “but you will treat my brother with respect.”

Jinshi met the General’s burning stare without flinching.

“Am I supposed to allow this?” the General snapped. “To have this hidden from her? For her to marry a man who deceives her, who will wear a mask and pretend to be a eunuch.”

“I only ask for the chance to court her,” Jinshi said. “And when the time comes, to reveal everything. To give her the choice.”

The General’s eyes searched his face, looking for weakness, for deceit. He found only resolve.

“…Is this agreeable to you?” The emperor asked, voice low.

“Only after I return will this be discussed, and then she may have her choice.’’

A long pause. The tension stretched like a drawn bow. Then, at last—

“Agreed.” The emperor nodded.

The General exhaled, the fire slowly receding from his gaze. He bowed stiffly, each movement strained with unspoken words. Then, without waiting for dismissal, he turned and strode from the room, boots thudding heavily against the stone floor.

The silence he left behind was thick and humming.

The Emperor leaned back in his seat, smirking. “I don’t think your future father-in-law likes you.”

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

The cherry blossoms will be in bloom soon.

You could see them beginning to wake—the tiniest buds cracking their casings, just a whisper of pink and white unfurling at the edges. They lined the garden path like promises yet kept, painting the way to the summer house with the first brushstrokes of spring. A pity, truly, that your father would miss it again.

He had always loved the blossoms. Beyond those high, curved walls, you knew the army was preparing. Swords were sharpened, warhorses readied. Soon your father would ride out against the barbarians in the north, and you would be left behind once again. But if he returned safely—as he always did—you could sit together once more in the shade of the summer house. Drink tea among the falling petals. Speak not of politics or duty but as father and daughter.

You just had to survive until then. A diminutive wren, you thought, protecting her hatchlings against the circling eagle while below vipers lay in wait for a stray chick to fall from the nest.

Your fingers trembled as you walked. If only tou had more time to wave a plan, to plot and strategies. But alas, you were at the merxy of this single meeting. The garden chamber. Your father was there. With them. With him.

If he emerged and spoke the word you’d been waiting for—betrothal—then the path forward would be clear. Marriage to the Emperor’s brother was a hindrance in one sense… but it was safety in another. Especially with the Empress beginning to warm to you. No one would dare strike at you from the shadows once you were part of the royal household. Well, mostly anyway.

You reached the edge of the path just as the doors opened across the garden. With fury your father flew from the door and down across the wooden slats that lined the path.

“Father!”

He brushed past you.

He moved quickly, faster than decorum allowed, his robes kicking up dust as they brushed along the floor. You stepped in front of him, placing a hand on his arm. “Stay,” you said gently. “Walk with me. We could take tea together. You haven’t seen the summer house since the buds started—”

“I can’t.” His eyes darted, not meeting yours. “I… I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

But he was already gone, his boots echoing against the stone, swallowed by the curve of the corridor before you could call out again.

You stood there a moment, heart caught in your throat.

And then you saw them.

Jinshi stood just inside the doorway, the Emperor beside him. He wasn’t speaking. Just… watching. His face, so often composed and unreadable, was different now. Forlorn. Lips parted like he’d tried to say something but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

And your stomach dropped. Had your father refused the match? Had he turned down the protection you so desperately needed? No. No, it couldn’t end like this.

You turned on your heel, skirts whispering around your legs, mind already racing. If your father wouldn’t see this done, then you would.

He desired you. You knew it. You felt it in the way his eyes lingered. In how his breath caught when you moved too close. He just needed a little… encouragement. Maomao had crafted his obsession so carefully that now she was powerless to stop it once she realized the potential of her actions. You would use it, despite every fibre of you wanting nothing more than to run away, to hide, to fight him off.

But you were a woman and you would use everything at your disposal to get what you wanted.

xxxxxxxxxx

The summer house was bathed in golden light. It spilled through the lattice like liquid fire, casting dappled shadows that swayed gently with the breeze. Blossoms clung to the air like snow, drifting lazily across the lacquered floor, catching in your hair, your sleeves, as if the garden itself wanted to adorn you. You had the tea set arranged just so—crystal pot, delicate porcelain cups, a small dish of honey that glinted amber in the sunlight, like a treasure laid out for an offering.

You waited.

The warm hush of the afternoon settled around you like silk. The garden murmured with soft wind and the low hum of bees in the nearby wisteria. You had not hidden your presence; there was no need. And like a loyal hound drawn by some unspoken call, he came—cautiously, uncertainly—skirting the edge of the path.

God of a man. Even from afar, the sight of him stirred something low and molten in your belly. Tall and broad-shouldered, draped in silks the color of ink and starlight, his figure caught the sun like a sculpture. Robes are far too grand for an overseer. His skin gleamed, his hair swept back in perfect knots. He looked, in that moment, like an emperor. You felt foolish for not seeing it sooner, for mistaking him for something simpler. But perhaps that was why it had worked. No one looked past the surface of such beauty. No one expected the sharp mind or the aching depth beneath it.

Jinshi. On his own. Interesting.

Your eyes sparked as you took him in

He was too handsome. Distractingly so. Infuriatingly so. But he made it easy to imagine being his wife. Because, beneath all of that beauty, he wanted you.

“Master Jinshi! Join me. I need some company,” you said as he stepped into the golden hush of the house. “The court can be… so unfriendly.”

He hesitated, one foot still at the threshold, the sunlight like a halo behind him. “You shouldn’t be alone. Not with your father leaving so soon.”

“I’m not.” Your smile was slow, curling at the corners of your mouth like smoke. “You’re here.”

He blinked, uncertain. You gestured to the cushion across from you, fingers light, graceful.

The steam from the tea curled between you, poured with care, letting the scent of jasmine perfume the air between you. Then, deliberately, you reached for the honey.

Your fingers dipped the silver spoon into the golden pool, stirred it slowly into your cup with long, languid circles. All the while, your gaze lingered on him—just beneath your lashes, as if by accident. Then, still watching, you brought the spoon to your lips.

You sucked it clean.

The warmth, the sweetness—it spread across your tongue and drew a quiet sigh from your chest. The sigh was not for him, not exactly. But you knew he would feel it like a kiss.

Jinshi’s face went red—abruptly, violently. He looked away like you’d slapped him, hand tightening around his teacup until his knuckles went pale. He shifted, tense, his breath not quite even. You saw the flicker of something wild in him, something barely restrained.

Beneath the low table, you pressed your thighs together. The heat there made you inhale softly, as the tingle ran through. That was new.

“Is the tea too hot?” you asked, voice low, a teasing purr, eyes lingering on his hands still firmly clinging to the cup.

“No… no, erm… it’s fine,” he managed, his voice rough with something he couldn’t quite swallow. “Is the honey good?”

“Very.” You smiled—soft and slow—and sipped, letting the tea linger on your tongue.’’You should try it’’ Then, as if remembering yourself, you glanced toward the garden, where the first buds of lotus curled open like secrets at the edge of the pond.

He cleared his throat, as if the weight of your gaze—or the heat that clung to the air between you—could be shaken off with such a simple sound. He was trying to gather himself. It wasn’t working.

“Your father is to leave soon.”

The unease, the low thrumming anxiety that had been pacing the edges of your thoughts, returned—settled heavy in your stomach like a stone. Your fingers tightened slightly on the rim of your cup.

“Yes,” you said quietly. “I fear what will happen if he doesn’t return.”

A pause. The sunlight flickered across Jinshi’s cheekbones, gilding them like something carved from marble and flame.

“You have the Imperial Brother’s hairpin,” he said at last. “I’m sure you’ll be looked after.”

But his voice had changed—tight, strained, brittle at the edges. Not conviction. Jealousy.

“You think so?”Your eyes returned to him then, sharper than before, glittering with something close to challenge. “He does send the prettiest poems,” you said, letting the words roll lazily from your tongue like honey. “He’s such a sweet soul. Gentle. Well-read. Everything a woman is supposed to want.”

Jinshi’s expression didn’t change, but you saw it in the way he stopped breathing.

“But,” you continued, tilting your head just slightly, “he won’t even see me. Not once, and I can not visit him.”

You traced the rim of your teacup with one idle finger, watching his hands on his lap—tight, still. “It doesn’t give a very clear signal, does it? Perhaps…” You let the silence stretch, then sighed. “Perhaps I’m not worth the trouble. Or perhaps he simply pities me.”

There was no true hurt in your voice, but you let it echo there anyway, faint and deliberate. Enough to stir something in him. Enough to make him bleed for it.

Jinshi’s jaw clenched—barely, but you noticed. The muscle ticked once. His eyes darkened, though he did not speak. He was too careful for that.

And so, you leaned back, sipping again, smiling as if nothing you said had any consequence at all.

Jinshi’s silence stretched long—too long. You could see the storm of thoughts behind his gaze, the way he warred with himself, unsure if he dared speak what he truly believed. Finally, he said, voice low and strangely gentle:

“Maybe…” He hesitated, then pressed on. “Maybe the Imperial Brother doesn’t avoid you because he pities you. Maybe he fears how you might look at him.”

You tilted your head, the motion slow and deliberate. “Oh?”

Jinshi’s hand curled loosely into a fist on the table. “He must keep himself veiled, even from most of the court. He exhaled slowly. “Perhaps he thinks… if you saw him—truly—you would turn away.”

A soft breeze stirred the curtains at your back. The sunlight moved with it, catching the warmth in your eyes as you looked across at him.

“I don’t care for beauty,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “I care for a man who loves me. Who cherishes me.”

He blinked. You could see the moment those words struck him.

“But love is a luxury I cannot afford,” you added, softer now, more honest. The ache behind the words cracked something open between you. “So, failing that… I must choose someone who will not harm my family. Someone with enough power to shield them. Even if he does not love me. Even if I do not love him.”

You let the truth hang there, raw and bare, because there was nothing else you could offer.

Your fingers played at the edge of your sleeve, twisting the silk. “Pretty poems are not enough,” you murmured. “Not when the world is waiting to devour everything I hold dear.”

Jinshi looked down into his untouched tea, his throat worked as he swallowed, slow and deliberate. The silence built around you like gathering thunderclouds, low and pressing. You watched his jaw clench, tight enough to ache.

“Maybe I should find someone else,” you said, voice light but edged. “Someine like Minister Zhou’s son, maybe. Or Commander Ling.”

The effect was immediate.

He went pale—then flushed. His brows twitched as though struck. A storm rolled across his face—confusion first, then jealousy, and beneath it, something darker still. Something old and buried and just beginning to rise.

“You can’t,” he said abruptly, the words too loud, too sharp.

You blinked.

“He’s—he’s beastly,” Jinshi stammered, almost tripping over the words. “He wouldn’t know how to care for you. He doesn’t even know how to speak to a woman without sounding like a drunk soldier at a brothel—he—”

But he broke off, and the rest was lost in a sudden motion. He stood, too fast, too tense, the cushions shifting beneath him. His breath came shallow now, eyes burning as he leaned over the low tea table—towering without touching. His hands clenched at the polished edge as though gripping something inside himself.

For a moment, just one, you wondered if he would kiss you or throw the tea set against the floor.

“I need to make sure my brothers are protected,” you said, carefully, pulling the heat back to something firmer, rational.

“I could protect them,” Jinshi said, his voice gone low, hoarse with restraint. “I will. I have influence. And power.”

It wasn’t a plea. It was a declaration, dressed in urgency, carved in control.

You reached across the space and laid your hands over his.

The shift in him was near imperceptible—but you felt it. A breath caught. A line in his shoulders softened, but only slightly. As though your touch tethered something that might otherwise unravel. Then it struck you—this was the first time you had ever touched him.

His skin was warm—firm, steady. Expected. But the sensation that bloomed under your palm was not.

Something stirred in you, deep and low, curling with heat. Trembling, almost afraid. A quiet ache that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with him. You turned his palm gently upward, tracing the ridges of callus with slow reverence. He didn’t move. But his breath hitched once—barely—and you knew he was holding himself together with a thread.

You were suddenly, devastatingly aware of how much you wanted those hands. Not as symbols of strength, but as skin—warm and rough against your thigh, your back, your throat. You shifted instinctively, thighs tightening beneath your robes. The friction sent a wave of sharp heat through you—undeniable, alarming.

Your fingertip brushed his palm again, featherlight.

He hissed through his teeth. His other hand gripped the table’s edge so hard it creaked.

“If only I had met you before you chose your path,” you murmured, gaze lowering. “Before you tied your life to the Emperor’s garden. If you weren’t…” You trailed off. “I would accept you in a heartbeat.”

You dared not meet his eyes. Your throat ached with the truth.

Then, softer: “But as a woman, there’s only so much I can do. I’ll do what I can for my brothers and pray for my father’s safe return. It is all I can do.”

Not the truth, of course, as a woman you were quite capable of doing a lot, but using your feminine power was far more effective.

Then—his fingers closed over yours. Not rough. Not trembling. Possessive.

“You are more than that,” he said, his voice rough. His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you of his strength. The depth beneath the mask. The danger.

“You are the strongest person I know.” Then, lower—his voice barely a breath: “And if I had met you before I entered the Emperor’s service… I wouldn’t have waited for you to accept me.”

He looked at you then—truly looked. No mask, no smile, no polished restraint. “I would have taken you.”

The words rang in the silence between you like something sacred. Or profane. You didn’t know which. He inhaled, slow and hard. His hand lifted slightly, fingers brushing yours and for a brief moment tou thoufht he might take tou then and there. Throw you onto the table and ravish you. The fact you even thought of that disturbed you. More so because your corr cletched at the mere thought.

“I will do all I can to ensure your safety. Until your father returns. Then we—then I… then all of this will make sense.” And when his eyes locked on yours again, something inside you faltered. You felt scared.

Because you believed him.

And the horror was—you wanted to trust him.

Sorry for the lack of an update. Life has been awful. But you likes and comments have been amazing and really made me want to write.

So I did, in fact, rewrite this twice as it wasn't hitting. After watching the latest couple of episodes I want and need more dark and possessive Jinshi in my life. Was it worth the wait?

Please let me know what you think!

@btsgangleader @thecrazyone2007 @solatiiium @ylovei @mybones537 @clairedeselene @1-800-peakyblinders @traumatizedpomelo @sarcastic-wit

#jinshi x reader #jinshi apothecary diaries #jinshi #the apothecary diaries #apothecary diaries

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cercandodiscrivere · 5 months ago

Text

Cadere | emperor geta x reader.

word count | 2.7k

warnings | 18+, infidelity / cheating, dark themes (mentions of war, death and murder), murder plans as part of sex talk, prayers, porn with too much plot, unbeta'd.

synopsis | The last time you dared to beg the gods for favour, you pleaded to be given to a man over another.

It seems just like a cruel joke how your wish was granted now—a jest that only serves to make you beg once more.

gifs by @whereisyourpippinnow.

“Dea, quae thalamorum custos es et coniugii praesidium, domum meam ab hostibus defende, me tua virtute sustenta.”

The voice, a low and steady murmur, seeps into the room like a wisp of warm air: Lucilla's prayer is not so much a plea as a soft-spoken lament, her words coated in a quiet sorrow that seems to echo throught the marble walls.

The words she whispers are unfamiliar, not part of the litany you were taught at the temple. Each request is carefully considered and every word is chosen with intention.

The last time you pleaded to the gods with such desperation, it was to beg for them to alter the path your father had chosen—but no divine messenger appeared in his dreams. The gods had greater concerns than the unwanted marriage of a young girl.

You wondered if they watched when your father confirmed Tiberius Aemilius Marcellus’ desire to wed you. If they knew the torment of leaving the sanctuary of the home you had grown in.

If they noticed how, even if you still tried to tint your prayers with the same devotion, they always tasted as sour as vinegar on your tongue.

“Virum meum sanum et incolumem redde, ut cor meum eius reditu gaudeat.”

The voice brings you back to the present.

Lucilla may have been careful with her words, but she showed little regard for the dove that she had her servants sacrifice. A delicate creature, even with its feathers stained red: an offering to Juno, the guardian of the household and of women. A gesture to secure your husbands safe return from battle.

You had anticipated a prayer to Mars, a tradition before men embark on glorious battles (although Tiberius, if he could hear your thoughts, would remind you that the true glory comes only after the brutality of war).

Lucilla appeared to share a similar opinion. "Leave it to the men to pray for war" she said when you had asked her. "We women pray for our lovers' safe return".

Affection is the closest thing to the sentiment you feel for Tiberius: more unbridled feelings are reserved for poetry and drama, not arranged marriages. He is a kind and devoted man, as is expected. As a Legate for the army, he ensures your safety: as his whife, your heritage secures the continuation of his bloodline—and that is all.

“Why not pray to Victoria, then?”.

“Victorious or not, let them come home alive—for if a man dies at war, sad is his wife’s fate”.

And with that, you knelt and bowed your head, listening intently as the woman begun her pleading.

The room is now filled with a dense and overwhelming aroma of incense; the scent clings to your throat, suffocating the air. As the smoke rises in coiling tendrils, it wraps around you, casting flickering shadows that dance along the walls.

The night outside is eerily quiet, the sound of men's laughter echoing through the walls: tomorrow morning, when the Emperors will bid farwell to the soldiers and their purpose, there will be no mirth.

The Emperors.

Your family had once been part of Settimio Severo’s court, your father a cousin to the imposing ruler. You grew alongside his sons—a past far enough that seems almost like a dream. Once, you used to hide with Caracalla to infiltrate the adults’ cenae, trying to steal wine without being seen. You would watch Geta as he trained, a lanky child with a gaze too serious for his age.

It has been years since they watched you leave, the bright nuptial flammeum still pinned to your hair. Now, all that remains to fuel your fantasies are fading memories and the echoes of laughter from the banquet; a grand celebration held by a General seeking approval from his Emperors.

One where lieutenants indulged in sweetened wine, losing themselves in its intoxicating spices.

A gathering not meant for women to attend.

“Pacem et securitatem mihi largire, et ne sinas me in bracchia malignorum cadere, ut sub tua misericordia vivere possim”. Lucilla’s voice falters as she finishes the prayer, the room falling into an unsettling stillness.

In the distance, someone shouts while others laugh. A servant standing behind you moves, her tunic brushing against the floor.

Lucilla's eyes quickly glance in your direction before she speaks. “Will you walk with me in the gardens?”.

To catch one last glimpse of our husbands is the implicit proposition; and while in every other situation you would never deny a woman of such high status, there is nothing you desire less—because catching a glimpse of Tiberius would mean seeing his domine. Your heart would not dare.

“Your request is kind” you answer, hoping your voice comes out as somber as hers. “But I have a son to go back to”.

You regret the excuse almost as soon as it leaves your lips, for the saddened look Lucilla gives you almost makes you stay. Out of all the things you could have said to her as you left her alone in the darkness of her home—filled with Acacio's men but devoid of any comfort for her—somehow it feels as if you chose the most hurtful one.

A moment later, her lips curve upwards in what could be considered a smile; yet it appears more like a mask meant to please others than a genuine reaction.

“I understand”.

Still smiling, she orders a servant to inform your litter carriers to wait for you at the entrance.

You bid Lucilla farewell with a respectful bow, one that she does not seem to register. Escorted away by her ancillas, you assume she will not walk through the gardens now that you are gone.

Indifferent to men’s affairs, the moon casts a silver glow — and yet the night is still too dark, too overwhelming to bear alone.

You should reach the entrance: but as you stand in the peristylium, your feet refuse to move. In the middle of the open courtyard, ecircled by towering columns, you can’t help but feel trapped.

Beyond the opposite wall lies the raucous dining hall, the air filled with laughts and shouts.

There’s music. There’s the sound of plates clattering and glasses clinking, accompanied by the occasional splash of wine that some drunken guests might have spilled. There’s footsteps, right behind you.

Footsteps. Behind you.

"Leaving so soon, without greeting the guests?".

You spin around, your breath catching in your throat —and there he is, just a few steps behind you. Geta.

Bathed in the moon's ethereal glow, his features are sharper than you remembered. You had always envisioned him and his twin as shining gold: gold like their crowns, gold like their coins and their brooches and the divine blood that flows whithin their veins.

Under the silver light, he instead emerges from darkness like a haunting memory from your past.

"Domine" you say as you lower yourself into curtsy—for an Emperor who speaks is one who demands an answer.

Even with your head bowed down you can sense how the ceremonious response displeases him.

"Ah, so formal” he remarks, his tone still teasing. “No need”.

His hand gently lifts your chin, straightening you. “I recall a time when you would refuse to bow before me, just out of stubborness”. A small grin appears on his face—and for the second time tonight, you can't help but feel that something is off about the smiles on everyone's faces.

“You would throw tantrums, and father would force me to apologise on my knees” you agree.

I miss those moments, you almost say—but it would make you seem too desperate.

Geta laughs openly, his hand still resting on you. He’s getting closer; you can almost smell the sweetness of the wine on his breath.

“It’s too early to be leaving” he says. “We haven't seen each other in years. It would be a pity to waste such a rare occasion”.

It occurs to you that you’re entirely alone with him now, and for just a moment you wonder if wandering the house alone was the best idea: your instinct is to give the same excuse you gave Lucilla—the longing to be in his presence so overwhelming it almost scares you.

…and yet, he wants it too. You cannot refuse an Emperor's request.

“You are right. My servants can wait a bit longer; catching up with an old friend is more important. Let’s talk, then”.

Geta laughs once more, his nose almost touching yours as his fingers gently rest on your cheek.

“Who said anything about talking?”

His lips meet yours a moment after.

It’s an insistent kiss, one that will leave your lips raw and red.

Instinctually, you reach up and twine your fingers into his hair while his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you even closer. The resulti s that you fell trapped again—between his warm body and the chill of the marble column—and for a breathless moment, you lose yourself in the feeling.

It’s the sound of something hitting the floor, distant but still uncomfortably near, that has reality crash back like a cold wave.

You pull away abruptly, your heart racing. “Stop” go on go on go on.

Geta leans back just enough to give you space to speak.

"Tiberius is on the other sideof that wall" your voice is trembling—fear, excitement, shame. "A servant could walk this way at any moment. This is madness".

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, as if your words hold no significance. "You recall" he says instead, "you recall when your father would demand that you apologize on your knees". He moves closer, but instead of kissing you again or pushing you to the ground, Geta shocks you by dropping at your feet himself.

His intense gaze used to be a serious one—almost too mature for a young and careless man—but now it’s wild, deranged. "If he let you stay, I would have adored you. Worshiped every step you took".

You do not respond to the delirious declaration, too dazed to do anything beside gasping for air.

“You look just as good as I remember” his voice is soft. “Charming. Sweet. Beautiful… a shame, to see you leave with a man so insignificant”.

As he speaks, his hand sneaks under your tunic, inching up and up and up as he stands.

“I… We can’t” you are not even sure if he hears you. Shame swirls in your loins, mixing with desire—and despite all reason, you don’t stop Geta as he pushes the layers of your skirt up to your hips.

He presses against you once more, his gaze never wavering from yours. He doesn't need permission; even he knows he already has it. He wants to hear you admit that you want him just as much as he wants you. He wishes for surrender.

You whisper his name, unsure if it's a scolding or a plea. He leans in closer, planting fiery kisses along your neck. His mouth sucks on your skin until you moan into the air above him, fingers tightening into ginger strands of his hair.

It’s too much.

It’s not nearly enough.

“Yes” you say. This time your voice is clear. “Take everything you want”.

“I will”.

With that as a last warning, he spears two fingers inside of you, finding you wet and wanting. You hold onto his shoulder tightly, your chest rising and falling with each breath as a loud moan escapes your lips, only encouraging him to continue.

You've shared nights with your husband before—but not like this, never like this.

"Please-" you gasp, trying to hold on to some sense of modesty while also giving in to the rough, demanding movement. His pace is fast and unrelenting, and the most careless of you eagerly surrenders to them in hopes of reaching release.

Geta's grin stretches across his face, victorious as if he has just won a fierce battle. “Oh, it would be a shame to leave you to that man”. His lips caress your ear. “But you won’t be with him for long”.

The worlds ring wrong, but you can't bring yourself to look away from him. You stand still, unable to move, overcome by ecstasy, destroyed by the intense passion that he effortlessly ignites within you.

“Battlefields are cruel. Soldiers get hurt” he continues, and his choice of topic is so strange that it snaps you back to reality. “It is not uncommon for a legate to lose his life in action”.

“What-” and it’s all you can get out before you're overcome with pleasure once again, completely helpless in its grip. You need more, need him, need something that will consume you entirely so you don't feel as dirty as you do in this moment.

Geta seems to understand. The fingers draw away; but before you can even register the loss, he aligns you with his cock and pushes inside.

You let out a sigh—in relief or shame or both—and his hand darts to your throat, not enough to cut off your air but just to silence your whine. The possessive way he grasps you only adds to your arousal.

“Yes, he won’t have you for much longer” he growls again. “I’ll make sure of that”. The confidence in his words is laced with lust: he exudes strength and control– yet, it seems that you have the power to unravel him just as much as he can unravel you.

The pace of his hips is bruising: almost too much to bear, but you can't get enough of it. He's claiming you as his own, branding you with every movement, inside and out.

“Tell me you are mine, just mine”.

“I am yours” you almost scream. “All yours, only yours”.

He lets out a rough groan, using the hand around your throat to grip your hair as he thrusts into you.

A thin layer of sweat has coated his forehead, furrowed brows and parted lips giving away his concentration. Whether it's the feeling of your burning flesh against his, or the whispered fantasies he keeps confessing to your skin, it has his body in a wreck of tension.

His lips leave your neck, chapped and red, his movements now erratic as he nears his impending orgasm.

He does not look at you when he comes: he rolls his eyes up at the dark sky, daring the Gods to judge him. You both dive into each other one last time, clawing, grasping, lost in fiery ecstasy that leaves you moaning beneath Geta as he empties himself inside you.

The act alone leaves you shaken, your back curved and legs trembling as you cry out at the top of your lungs. You hold onto his feverish and heated skin, so that when you come back to your senses the first sensation you feel is Geta—all over you, claiming you as his own.

He traces his fingers over your skin, and you feel completely undone. Spent.

As your heart rate slows and your breathing steadies, the sounds around you begin to resurface: the cacophony of laughter, gentle strumming of lyres, soldiers shouting at each other. You scan the peristylium, looking for any servants or guests meandering about.

“Hush, don’t worry” Geta says, redirecting your attention back to him.

He leans in closer, but instead of seeking another kiss, he simply rests his forehead against yours. “Soon, we won’t have to hide”.

He speaks of war again, and all the ways a man can perish: and as he does, a shadow creeps over his face, sinister and cold. You feel a chill run down your naked arms, this time not from shame.

Geta laughs and promises luxurious silks with precious jewels. He tells how perfect you will be by his side, in gold. How you will bear his heirs—and his alone.

The last time you dared to beg the gods for favour, you pleaded to be given to a man over another.

It seems just like a cruel joke how your wish was granted now—a jest that only serves to make you beg once more.

It’s true that you may never be as devoted as Lucilla is: and yet, as Geta pants beside you, her earlier words still echo in your mind.

Pacem et securitatem mihi largire [grant me peace and safety]

Et ne sinas me in bracchia malignorum cadere [and do not let me fall into the arms of the wicked ones].

#emperor geta x reader #emperor geta #gladiator ii fanfiction #emperor geta x you #geta x you #geta x reader

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peachdues · 20 days ago

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At fifteen, Tengen Uzui is a groom thrice over, yet none of his weddings are alike.

There are commonalities threading the three ceremonies together, of course. Standards and expectations, like the attire (stiff and colorless), or the drab recitation of vows (prewritten, emotionless). Such rituals are set in stone, as archaic as they are unquestionable. So much so that even someone like Tengen can’t be bothered to argue against them.

But in every way his weddings are the same, they are also as different as the women — the girls — who become his brides. And, he finds that he wouldn’t trade one for the other.

His wedding with Hinatsuru is soft. Awkward, as he’s fifteen and she’s thirteen, and this affair is more for their families than it is for them. A formality; the execution of the contract reached between their fathers years before, when Tengen could barely say the word marriage, let alone understand what it meant.

But Hinatsuru’s smile is as gentle and as warm as her hand squeezing his, and the familiarity of it lessens the tension in his shoulders. They are both children, and children too often end up pawns in the games played by adults, but children know how to love. And Tengen loves Hinatsuru; loves her quiet strength and soothing nature. She brings out a softness in him he’s fairly certain his father believes was beaten out, and he loves her all the more for it. For years, he’s managed to cling onto his sense of self thanks to her and the quiet moments they shared, sitting side by side in the grass, enjoying the beauty of a world their heritage rejects. With Hinatsuru, Tengen feels like the man he wants to be, rather than the weapon his father has molded.

Tengen seals his vows with a chaste kiss on her cheek and an affectionate tap on the tip of her nose. Even when tradition demands he escort her out to make their first debut as husband and wife, he finds himself distracted by the blush in her cheeks and the pretty mole beneath her eye. The way she looks at him and really sees him, Tengen, the man and not Tengen the killer.

His wedding to Makio takes place a month later, and unlike the formal perfection he’d endured with Hinatsuru, this one kicks off with a literal bang.

Though trained in stealth, the Shinobi still have a flair for the dramatics. Explosives and smoke screens were a tried and trusted distraction, the perfect means of escape when things got tricky. Fireworks in particular were a useful tool, flashy and mesmerizing in the way their booming colors could command the draw attention from any and all watching eyes, yet innocuous enough not to raise suspicions.

When Makio approaches him the night before their wedding with a box of stolen fireworks and a handful of matches, he doesn’t dare turn her away. Instead, he meets her daring grin with a mischevious one of his own. He helps her into the early hours of dawn, carefully setting each firework and trigger, ensuring maximum flash and extravagance would take over the ceremony the second the priest lights the ceremonial incense.

Tengen’s second bride-to-be is twelve and precocious, and she’s made it clear that she cannot tolerate stuffy formalities. Her clan is wealthy and proper in every way she despises, and their uppity sense of self-importance and propriety suffocates her. For years, Tengen has sat by and watched as they tried to cage her, and every time she neared her breaking point, he was there to assure her that freedom was only a few years and a tired ceremony away. He would not chain her, not when her spirit and fire was what he adored most about her.

So, Tengen is as much to blame as new bride when an explosion of colored fire and smoke is set off inside the shrine just as their clans gather for the pair’s union. It’s a wonder the ancient structure is still standing by the time the Red Dragon — an aptly named firework that spreads its great, fiery wings — roars its way through the entrance, incinerating half the shoji to cinders.

Her father lays a heavy hand on Makio’s shoulder, his knuckles white and his ire, hot. Tengen can see the fear flash across her eyes, can practically taste the dread rolling in her gut. He’s experienced his own father’s wrath too many times.

Except, Makio’s father doesn’t own her anymore. The contract signed with his clan guaranteed that. He has no business laying his cruel hands on her, and Tengen will cut them off if he tries, as is his right.

Makio’s father pretends not to be cowed by Tengen’s threats. He’s seen the same fire in Tengen’s eyes that blazed in his own daughter’s, and he’s too used to stamping it out. Except, he forgets that Tengen is bigger and stronger, not to mention twice as vindictive as his new wife, and that has him wrenching his father-in-law’s arm painfully behind his back, until the joint pops.

Tengen’s grip strengthens around the old man’s forearm, no longer in warning, but in promise. “I will handle my wife, now.”

Makio’s shoulders relax, and the thin line of her lips soften into a furtive smirk. The battle is over before it can be waged, and the ceremony is held outdoors.

And handle her, Tengen does: by handing her off to Hinatsuru after the celebration ends. The three of them are now bonded in blood and ink, and they’re howling with laughter as they recount the screwed-up, pinched faces of their clansmen watching the shrine crumble under the dazzling force of the fireworks that celebrated the new union.

Suma’s wedding is joyous. Not that his other two weddings were lacking in it; more that Suma’s beaming happiness is infectious, and though Tengen cannot wait to be finished with stiff ceremonies and the dour, drawn faces of his clan, he also cannot help but share in her elation. She bounces toward him at the altar with a smile brighter than the summer sun, and she leaves her family behind without a single look back. Her eyes shine brighter than the stars as they exchange their vows and sip from each other’s sake cups. Even the bitterness of the alcohol isn’t enough to dampen her smile, and the twitch in her eye as it slides down her throat could just as easily be chocked up to the strain in her cheeks.

Afterwards, she hurls herself into Hinatsuru’s and Makio’s arms with equal fervor, laughing and crying and singing with excitement and promises that she will work just as hard as they do, will become strong and dependable, and together, they’ll be the best kunoichi the Shinobi have ever seen.

The honeymoon is spent near the sea, and for one week, they are not shinobi and kunoichi. They are not even a husband and his three wives. They are children, laughing and running freely along the shore, splashing each other with cold water and digging their toes into the sand, anchoring themselves against the waves that lap at their shins. No death, no bloodshed, no darkness; only the sun, bright and warm, and their hands linked together as they jump into the water as one.

At night, Tengen sneaks into their shared inn room so they can talk and play cards and stifle giggles behind hands lest the innkeeper discover a man among girls. Nothing marital takes place, though, here — not yet, anyway. They’re all too young, too silly, and too in love with the newness of their own freedom to think about that. The time for bedroom activities will come in a few years’ time, and they’ll deal with it then.

For now, this new family has nothing but time to learn each other. To love each other. And in a world that demands they give more of themselves than they have to spare, it is here, together, where they each find themselves whole again.

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #tengen uzui #uzui tengen #kny #kny fanfic #kny uzui #hinatsuru uzui #makio uzui #suma uzui

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zaynesdesimc · 4 months ago

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a/n: long awaited desi!reader<3 tell me if you want more :3

Your house is quiet when he enters. The silence is eerie after the commotion he'd caused back in the n109 zone, and despite the knowledge that there is no threat to you here, he can't help the surge of worry that shoots through him.

A few moments more and ah, he hears the slow jingle of anklets. Like a siren's song, their enchanting chime lures him in, deeper into the home you've made, decorated with pieces of your heritage, from the sandalwood incense stand to the tapestry, your house is sprinkled with the essence of you.

"Darling?" he calls out, testing the waters, seeing if you'll hear him. A breath later, soft music fills the house and he chuckles, you know he's here.

"In here, love," you say and he follows your voice, the tinkling of your anklets only growing louder as you move around your room, He'd asked you to be ready for a fancy dinner and was close to buying you a dress on his own when you'd waved his offer away.

"Buy me a dress when you take me out next time, jaan. I have the perfect thing for this."

He'd expected maybe a different cut or color but one thing he'd learned when he was with you was to always expect the unexpected.

And so, when he finally walks through your doorway, with the sun rays shining through your windows, he can't help but stare.

Because you're possibly the most beautiful you've ever been in the thousands of memories he's ever had of you. Because the sun shines just right on your brown, glowing skin. Because your kohl-lined eyes gaze at him with all the love in the world, albeit a little nervous, and the dress.

The dress.

"It's a lehenga, Sylus. Do you like it?" you ask, henna-decorated fingers fidgeting.

How could you possibly think he just likes it? When every dragonic instinct instilled in him since his rebirth has resurfaced, when every part, every version of him that is in his head is repeating in his mind, like a broken record-

Hoard.

He fights between wanting to take you to the abyss with him, where you can be with him and his gold and jewels, and showing you off for the world to see. For all the people in the restaurant to admire, and to weep.

Because this treasure is his.

He doesn't say a word, he only moves closer, drinking in every drop of you bathed in the sunlight like a parched traveler.

He gulps, "Darling, you look ethereal." He runs his hands through the intricate threadwork of the lehenga, fascinated with the shine of the set jewels. Your necklace makes him want to shove his face between your shoulder and jaw and tear it off of you, but not for the jewels of the necklace, no, of course not.

The dragon only wants you.

You giggle, a sound he savors, "You like it, huh?"

"I love it." he murmurs, taking your hands in his and focusing on the art on your hands, "I love you"

With a mischievous smile, you look at him, "Look for your name."

His heart beats faster, "My..name?"

You nod, "Legend says that if you find it, we'll be lovers forever."

As if that isn't already the case, he reigns in all the focus he has ever learned to muster to look, to seek, to search for his name. He looks at your fingers, and palms and reverently turns them over, and there, On your ring finger, is his name.

He pauses, kissing your fingers, looking up at you like he's a devotee and you're the benevolent goddess he's worshipped all his life.

"Looks like we're together forever, sweetie."

#sylus x reader #lads x reader #lads #love and deepspace #sylus lads x reader #sylus x desi!reader #sylus x you #sylus x y/n #lads x desi!reader

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growthhyp · 6 months ago

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The Garage Sale I

Jack, a towering figure of masculine power, his straight, tall body sculpted by rigorous bodybuilding routines. He stands confidently in a pair of skin-tight black shorts, showcasing his muscular physique. Above the waist, he dons a vibrant black tank top, the material stretching tautly across his broad chest and bulging biceps, emphasizing his strength. His attire is completed with a pair of white sneakers, the laces tightly bound to mirror the snug fit of his clothing. A silver necklace with a gothic cross rests against his collarbone, reflecting the sun's glow. In his right hand, he holds a cardboard sign that reads "Jack' Closet Sale" in bold, hand-drawn letters. Behind him looms an ancient-looking house with ivy climbing up the walls, hinting at a long lineage of secrets and mystical heritage. The setting is a quaint neighborhood with well-maintained lawns, adding a whimsical contrast to Jack's dominant presence. A sense of intrigue is cast over the scene as we realize that Jack, the owner of the house, hails from a lineage of witches. The vibrant garments displayed on a rack beside Jack suggest an eclectic taste that blends with the enigmatic aura of the house's history. The array of tight-fitting shirts, leather jackets, and dark pants speak to Jack's edgy, magical style. The sun shines brightly, casting sharp shadows that play across Jack's defined abs and the various fabrics of the clothes for sale, while a gentle breeze whispers through the air, stirring the leaves of a nearby tree. The scene is alive with a palpable energy, the juxtaposition of Jack's alpha demeanor and the whimsical, mysterious backdrop of the house inviting passersby to explore the secrets and treasures hidden within the garments. Little did the buyers know, these garments contains magic which the buyers will know once they tried to wear them.

A tender moment between two skinny young men, Anthony and Tony, whose love for each other is unmistakable. They stand in an intimate embrace, their bodies intertwined in a way that speaks of deep connection and comfort. The light from the sun casts a warm, soft glow upon their faces, highlighting the love in their eyes and the gentle smile that plays on their lips. Both are dressed casually yet stylishly, with Tony in a fitted t-shirt that emphasizes his lean frame and Mateo in a button-up shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing his slender neck. The contrast of their dark and light hair, Tony's in a short, spiky style and Mateo's in loose waves, adds a visual interest to their embrace. Their slender arms are wrapped around each other, and their long fingers are interlocked in a delicate yet strong grip.

As they walk, their eyes are drawn to the unusual spectacle of the garage sale. They see Jack, a colossal figure, his muscles rippling like waves of power beneath his clothes. The sight of him is so unexpected in this serene neighborhood that it feels like a mirage, a sudden jolt of the extraordinary amidst the ordinary. His biceps bulge in a way that seems almost supernatural, and the vibrancy of his black tank top draws their gaze like a beacon. The two lovers exchange a look of wonder, their curiosity piqued by the stark contrast between the seller and the delicate garments he's peddling. They whisper to each other, their voices low and filled with excitement, as they contemplate the story behind this mysterious man and his enigmatic wares.

They approach the rack of clothes, their eyes scanning over the fabrics, colors, and styles. The wind picks up, carrying with it the faint scent of incense, hinting at the arcane nature of the garments. The shirts and jackets seem to whisper secrets to them, promising an adventure beyond their wildest dreams. And then, as if by fate, Anthony's hand brushes against a piece of white spandex. His eyes widen in amazement as he tugs it out, revealing its form-fitting shape and sheen.

"Hey, Tony," Anthony says, his voice thick with excitement, "Check this out."

Tony looks over and sees the white spandex in Anthony's hand. His eyes light up with understanding, knowing the allure it holds for his partner. He chuckles softly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, really?"

Jack, noticing their interest, steps closer. "That's a fine piece of clothing," he says, his deep voice resonating with a hint of amusement. "It's one of my favorites. It's got a bit of a… stretch to it."

Anthony blushes, the heat rising in his cheeks as he holds up the white spandex. "How much for this?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

Jack, with a knowing smile, says, "That'll be twenty bucks. It's a special piece, one of a kind."

Anthony nods, his heart racing as he hands over the cash. The transaction feels charged with more than just money changing hands; it's as if he's purchasing a ticket to a new world of pleasure and power dynamics. Tony takes the spandex from Jack, holding it up to his own body with a playful smirk.

"I'll wear it for you tonight," he says, his voice low and seductive, sending a thrill through both of them. The fabric seems to glow with promise, stretching tautly between Tony's fingers.

===

The sun dips below the horizon, and the neighborhood grows quiet. The only sounds are the distant laughter of children and the occasional car passing by. Inside the house, the curtains are drawn, and the lights are dimmed, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere. The air is filled with the scent of their dinner, a romantic meal they've prepared together.

Anthony lies on the bed, his skin pale and almost translucent against the white sheets. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, his anticipation building as he imagines Tony wearing the white spandex. He runs his fingers over his own flat stomach, tracing the lines of his ribs and the contours of his lean frame. The black briefs he wears cling to his hips, showcasing the excitement of what's to come.

The sound of the shower running fills the house, the water pounding against the tiles echoing through the walls like a heartbeat. Tony stands in the steamy bathroom, lathering his slender body with soap. He's lost in thought, a smug smile playing on his lips as he visualizes the evening's events unfolding. He runs the bar of soap along his flat chest, his hands gliding over his flat stomach and down his narrow waist. The warm water cascades over him, highlighting his skinny body and the sharp angles of his bones.

As the shower comes to an end, Tony steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist and grabbing the white spandex from the counter. He slides it over his legs, the fabric clinging to his skin with surprising ease. Despite being a bit large, it seems to hug him in all the right places, showcasing his toned thighs and the outline of his manhood. He pulls it up over his hips, feeling a strange heat radiating through his body. The spandex fits snugly around his waist, the elastic digging in slightly, as if the garment itself is alive and eager to become one with him.

Walking into the bedroom, Tony lets the towel drop to the floor. The sight of him in the spandex sends a jolt through Anthony, his eyes widening with desire. "Damn, Tony, that looks… incredible on you," he murmurs, his voice husky with arousal. The room seems to pulse with energy as Tony struts towards the bed, the spandex accentuating every step.

"You look… amazing," breathes out Anthony, his voice thick with desire. The compliment hangs in the air, a palpable force that makes Tony's confidence swell. He knows he's not the most muscular or the most traditionally attractive man, but in this moment, he feels like a Greek god.

Tony approaches the bed with a predatory grace that's new to him, the white spandex shimmering with an otherworldly glow. The fabric seems to pulsate with every step he takes, the room's shadows dancing along with his movements. The scent of their dinner has been replaced by the intoxicating aroma of pheromones and excitement.

Tony, feeling an unusual surge of horniness from the magical spandex's influence, Tony leans in and captures Anthony's mouth in a passionate kiss. The suddenness of it takes his breath away, but he eagerly returns the favor, their tongues dancing together as if they've been waiting for this moment forever. The spandex seems to pulse with energy, the material seeming to tighten around Tony's body, fueling his desire.

The kiss is demanding, almost aggressive, as Tony's hands move to grip the sides of the headboard. He pulls himself closer to his lover, his lean body pressing against the firmness of the bed. The fabric of the spandex whispers against their skin, a seductive sound that seems to echo their passionate intentions. The room feels electrified, the air thick with the scent of lust and the promise of something more.

Anthony, feeling the sudden change in Tony's demeanor, gasps as his partner's hands begin to roam over his body, the touch growing more insistent, more powerful. Tony's grip on the headboard tightens to pin down his lover, his fingers digging into the wooden frame.

With a fiery hunger in his eyes, Tony reaches down and frees his cock from the confines of the spandex. It stands tall and proud, the veins pulsing with a magical vigor that matches the rhythm of his racing heart. He lines it up with Anthony's quivering hole, the tip of his erection glistening with pre-cum. The room seems to hold its breath as the two men lock eyes, the tension palpable as they hover on the brink of something incredible.

Anthony feels Tony's hardness press against him. He moans, the sound deep and needy, his own cock responding in kind. The anticipation is exquisite, a delicious ache that makes him squirm with pleasure.

As Tony's hips begin to move, his cock sliding along the cleft of Anthony's ass, the spandex seems to come alive, the material tightening and releasing with each thrust. The sensation is unlike anything Tony has ever experienced, the fabric almost seeming to breathe with him, to move in sync with his body.

With a growl, Tony's hand comes down on Anthony's plump, round cheek, the sound echoing through the room. The slap resonates with power, leaving a red handprint that seems to glow against the pale skin. The shock of pain sends a jolt through both of them, but instead of recoiling, it only seems to heighten their arousal. The spandex stretches and clings to Tony's body, the fabric moving with him like a living thing, as if it's urging him on, feeding off the energy of their desire.

Tony's cock feels like it's swelling, growing larger and more substantial with every thrust. He's never felt anything like this before.

Anthony gasps as Tony's hand squeezes his hip, his fingers digging into the flesh. The spandex around Tony's waist is stretching, the fabric straining against his suddenly growing frame. His abs are becoming more defined, the lines between each one deepening and becoming more pronounced. His chest is expanding, the muscles swelling.

The transformation is subtle at first, but it's as if the very essence of the magical garment is seeping into Tony's skin, reconfiguring him into something more than human. His arm, the one holding onto the headboard, bulges with newfound strength, the veins popping out as if they're about to burst through the skin. His shoulder widens, the muscles growing taut and powerful.

Anthony feels it, too, the bed shaking beneath them as Tony's body changes. He watches in awe as Tony's back, once a canvas of lean muscles and smooth skin, begins to expand, each vertebrae becoming more pronounced, the muscles swelling and rippling with every thrust, tracing the contours of his newfound power.

The white spandex, stretches and morphs with Tony's legs, bulging with each flex and release of his newfound muscularity. The fabric clings to his calves and thighs like a second skin, the material seemingly alive and responsive to his every movement. Each pump of his legs is now a display of unbridled strength, the spandex tightening around his quads as they bulge and release like pistons.

Anthony's eyes are wide with a mix of fear and excitement, watching as Tony's body continues to change. The man he loves is becoming something else, something more powerful and primal. The spandex, once a mere piece of clothing, now seems to be the vessel for an ancient power, molding Tony into a creature of pure, sexuality. Tony's hips rock into him with an intensity that's almost violent, the fabric of the spandex whispering with each powerful thrust, the sound sending shivers down their spines.

As Tony's body changes, so does his mind. Images of female beauty flood his thoughts, and for a brief, disorienting moment, he feels a strange arousal thinking of a young woman appearing in his mind. Her breasts bounce slightly with each step she takes, and he feels his cock throb with a hunger that's foreign to him. The spandex seems to pulse with a dark energy, feeding on his confusion and amplifying his desires.

The room seems to spin around them, the air thick with the scent of magic and the heady aroma of lust. Tony's eyes glaze over, no longer focused on the man beneath him but on the phantom female figures that dance in his mind's eye. He can almost feel the softness of breasts, the wetness of a pussy, the heat of a woman's embrace. His hips continue to thrust, driven by the power of the magic within the spandex, his body moving almost involuntarily as he chases the illusions in his thoughts.

With a final, powerful thrust, Tony's body goes rigid, and he roars out his climax, his cock pulsing with the power of the magical spandex. The fabric seems to glow brighter, the aura surrounding it pulsating with every spurt of cum. The intensity of the moment overwhelms them both, and their orgasms crash together like waves upon the shore, leaving them gasping and trembling in the aftermath.

Exhausted by the sheer power of their lovemaking, their bodies entwined in a mess of sweat and passion, they slowly come down from their peak. The room returns to a gentle stillness, the only sound their heavy breathing and the distant whispers of the night.

Tony lies there, his body now a monument to power and desire, the spandex clinging to him like a second skin. His newfound muscles, bulging and defined, cast strange shadows on the wall as he catches his breath. The fabric whispers as it settles against him, seemingly satisfied with the transformation it has wrought. His mind swims with the images of feminine beauty that have taken over his thoughts, a stark contrast to the man he's always been.

Anthony sleeps soundly, oblivious to the turmoil within his partner. His slender body, so fragile in comparison to the new titan beside him, rises and falls with each breath he takes. The soft curve of his hip is a gentle reminder of the love they've shared, a stark contrast to the newfound aggression and power that now courses through Tony's veins.

#muscle growth stories #personality change #gay to straight #jock tf #jockification #ai generated

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lesorciercanadien · 5 months ago

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My Current Inventory of Magic Tools

Here's a list of tools I use in my spiritual practice that can inspire others that are on this path! While some are heritage pieces that cost a lot of money up-front due to craftsmanship, the every-day tools are pretty inexpensive. For example, most candles can be found at the dollar store, and incense can be personalized to your taste. For my practice, I use cedar incense, since it is known as a cleansing plant in the Christian tradition, and many Acadian and Québécois households used cedar on Palm Sunday before palms became widely available.

Most of the heritage pieces, for anyone wanting to participate, I strongly encourage investing a few extra dollars to get good quality items! It will last you years of magical practice, and you can use them with pride.

La ceinture fléchée - the woven sash

A symbol of identity to the Métis living on the Canadian plains, the historical Huron-Wendat people, and historically worn by French voyageurs and fur traders and their indigenous partners in trade, these sashes were strapped around the waist. These were mostly useful in keeping the woollen coats closed, store belted tools, help with the strain of carrying heavy pelts, and prevent hernias and back strain on long canoe expeditions. The long strands on the end could also be used as impromptu sewing thread. These sashes would reach about 15cm to 25cm and its length easily passes 2 metres. These sashes were traded among indigenous groups for furs, and later, by the Hudson's Bay Company in the 19th century. It became a part of the traditional Québecois peasant clothing at least since 1776. As the sash travelled upriver to the plains and beyond, Métis groups adopted the sashes, elaborated on its craftsmanship, and truly made it one of their most recognized symbols. Depending on where the sash is woven, the colours can change. For example, for Québec, they preferred a blue colour scheme, for Montréal, red, and for those woven in between Ottawa and the Red River, black was more prominent. Hand-woven sashes can take up to 500 hours to complete. (1)

The one pictured above I bought from Etchiboy, a Métis artisan. The sash I bought was inspired from the Assomption sash motif, one of the oldest known woven patterns from the 18th century. I wear it on my woodland wanderings, for rituals, and cultural days. I especially wear it in winter to keep my coat closed. I chose to adopt the sash into my practice after lots of research. It is an item of rich history between the French and their indigenous allies, and a consequence of the fur trade in our country. I encourage anyone who's interested to buy from artisans who hand-weave them! There are machine-woven ones nowadays that might be less expensive, but nothing beats the quality of good wool and good weaving. With the richness of variety in the weaving patterns depending on the region they're from, why not have a sash that harkens back to the history of your region?

The walking stick or 'le gourdin'

In Québécois folktales, the stick, known as 'the gourdin', was most seen as a gift from a woodland fairy (like a guardian of all trees, or a mistress of the birds) to the intrepid hero Ti-Jean. This magical stick could thwack all his adversaries with the simple command of "tappe, gourdin!" (slap, stick!), among other fabulous deeds (2) This stick was a tool of protection on long journeys fraught with peril. So, what better companion to the Canadien witch than a walking stick? I use mine for every excursion, and have added to it some talismans of a wolf, owl and skull to keep evil spirits at bay. There's also a portable rosary around the stick, and the Ste. Anne of Beaupré religious medal. Historically, she was often a saint prayed to by voyageurs before they undertook the long and perilous journey to the fur trading posts, usually near present-day Montreal. (3)

The pocket knife

The pocket knife is a multi-talented tool of our trade! It can carve folksy figurines, cut wooden branches for weaving, harvest plants, cut curses, and keep les feux-follets (willow-the-wisps) at bay. Folklore has it that if you're out camping in the woods, fold you knife so that it creates a 90-degree angle, and stick it into the bark of a tree bordering your campsite. In the morning, if the blade is bloody, chances are it was the feux follet being intrigued by the space between the blade and the tree, and cutting its throat, thereby being free from its doomed roaming. (4) It is also a well-known tool in case you need to free a loup-garou (werewolf) from its curse by cutting it on its white spot on the forehead where he previously received communion as a kid. (5) By extension, it is a vital tool to break curses. Of course, don't make anyone bleed with the knife. That goes without saying. Treat the knife well, keep it sharp.

The rosary

Yes, my path has Catholic tools in it. Of course! Quebecois and Acadians of my ancestry were Catholic people primarily. It is a versatile tool in my practice, used for spellwork as well as meditative prayer. For those who are interested in praying the Rosary traditionally, I'll create a separate post. For spellwork purposes, I usually say a round of "Hail Mary" ten times before starting a spell for the ultimate protective shield. There is also known folk uses for the rosary in Acadian and Québécois communities. For example, to fidget with the rosary without intent or purpose brings about the Devil. (6) The rosary can also be used as a tool to find lost items. Simply toss the rosary over your shoulder, and the crucifix will point in the direction of the lost item. If you want good weather on your wedding day, hang up your rosary on your laundry cord the day before. (7). Rosaries nowadays even come in decade forms as portable rings for your pocket, and some are actual rings you can wear on your finger. I got a few rosaries myself. One for special rituals (I never toss that one over my shoulder!), and cheaper, more portable options for the tossing spell.

Holy medals

I amassed quite a collection of holy medals for individual saints. Other notable ones are those for the souls in Purgatory (worn on All Souls Day), the Holy Spirit at (worn on Pentecost or when I do divination), Jesus the Shepherd (it's comforting), Stella Maris (patron saint of Acadians). I have a few of the same for more frequented purposes, for example, I keep a Saint Luke medal on my artist's pencil case, since he is the patron saint of artists. Traditionally in Acadian communities, it was known that when your day was going awfully, and your bread dough just wouldn't rise, you just needed to boil some holy medals in water to turn your luck around (8). They are quite inexpensive, so it's fast and easy to grow a collection in a short period of time. Many catholic retailers sell them.

Divination tools : the playing cards, dice and coin

My divination tools can be found in anyone's cupboard and drawers. The trusty playing cards deck nowadays comes in such amazing variety of art, the one I picked for myself was the Bicycle Aviary Playing Cards. It has such a lovely folk art vibe to them! The way to divine them comes from sources of card-playing and superstitions from history and folktales from folklorist Marius Barbeau, and people over centuries carrying around the cards for entertainment and perhaps a glimpse into their futures. One guide on reading the cards: Fifty-Four Devils: The Art & Folklore of Fortune-Telling with Playing Cards by Cory Thomas Hutcheson. Dice can also be used in the same manner if you're doing a numerology-based divination. The coin can be used as a simple yes or no divination by playing 'heads or tails'. The coin can be a beautiful commemorative coin like mine, or a simple 'cenne noire' (blackened penny), or whatever currency you have on hand.

The sewing kit and fibre arts

I wanted to add this iconic cookie tin into the folk witch's repertoire, because we all had grandmothers who had this tin lying around with their tools to mend and sew anything. In my practice, and in my hobbies, I make clothing and I embroider. I can use this tin to house my relevant supplies to have some sacred time darning old socks, creating spiritual garments by hand, or embroidering pretty things. You can also draw sigils on the rim's inner side for blessing your items inside! There's also other uses for some of these tools in your home! For example, my great-great grandmother used to use her thimble to create the holes in her croxignoles, these woven doughnut style rings from the Magdalen Islands.

Musical spoons

Musical spoons, sometimes made of wood to be used for musical purposes, as shown here, or made from every-day metal spoons held together for the same effect, are an iconic instrument in French-Canadian folk music. I would recommend learning how to play them rhythmically and to use that as a grounding tool. I just find these way more authentic than a drum. Not to mention rhythmic foot tapping and step dances are frequently used in our folk music to set up a beat.

Woven Cloths

These beautiful cloths or 'serviettes' were woven by my mother on a giant hand-loom, often employed by local farmer's guilds in Québec. Les Cercles des Fermières du Québec sometimes has craft fairs where they sell these among other hand-crafted items. In folklore, the cloth was present when Ti-Jean needed to create a magical feast on the fly, create a magical tent for shelter, or carry around all his tools for his journey. These cloths however were almost always given by a fay creature, so best be cautious in eating food from it. Nowadays, it can be used as altar cloths, protective shields for your tools, or to apply healing energy to an ailment you carry. (9) I use mine to do my card readings, wrap special items. If you are lucky enough to find a 'catalogne', which is a heavy blanket woven on those big looms from scraps of old t-shirts, cottons and the like, that's like, a massive cloth you can have over your bed and its folkloric properties can be used for protection and good dreams. It is also the best weighted blanket for anxiety, tried and tested by me! Mine was woven by my grandmother.

Cited sources

Wikipedia "Ceinture Fléchée" consulted on Jan 21 2025/ 2. Barbeau 1st series/ 3. Podruchny / 4. Butler/ 5. Maillet / 6. Dupont 83. / 7. Dupont 122. / 8. Dupont 83. / 9. Barbeau 2nd series

Bibliography

Barbeau, Marius, « Contes populaires canadiens », The Journal of American Folkore, vol. 29, no 111, janvier-mars 1916, 154 p.

Barbeau, C.-Marius. “Contes Populaire Canadiens. Seconde Série.” The journal of American Folklore 30, no. 115 (Jan-Mar., 1917): 27-36. http://www.jstor.org/stable/534454.

Butler, Gary R. Histoire et traditions orales des Franco-Acadiens de Terre-Neuve. Québec 1995. p. 156

Dupont, Jean-Claude. Heritage d’Acadie. Collection Connaissance, éditions Lemeac. 1977.

Maillet, Antonine. Rabelais et les traditions populaires en Acadie. Les presses de l’université Laval, Quebec. 1980.

Podruchny, Carolyn. Making the Voyageur World: Traveler’s and Traders in the North American Fur Trade. University of Toronto Press. 2006.

#witchblr #folk magick #french canadian #quebec #folk magic #acadia #canadian #witchcraft #christianity #catholic #folklore

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rightwheretheyleftme · 5 months ago

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How the ‘Avatar Legends’ retcon fails Kya

Let me show you 2 moments from TLOK:

season 2, episode 9

season 2, episode 13

Both of those moments deliver the same joke: Kya doesn’t know how to meditate and when she attempts it, she ends up clumsily messing it up. In the first instance, it’s even a visual joke: Check how Jinora and Meelo, 2 characters who know how to meditate, have one stick of incense placed in front of them while Kya is awkwardly holding 2 sticks.

These jokes take on a deeper meaning when you read how the showrunners first conceived the character of Kya:

The Legend of Korra show bible

They envisioned Kya as someone who didn’t know her father very well- therefore, she doesn’t really know his culture or how to practice it.

Then in 2022, we got this retcon:

[…] she did internalize some of his [Aang’s] lessons about philosophy, meditation, and balance, holding them close to her heart for her whole life. Now, as the Air Nation's growth strains its leadership's time and energy, Kya has stepped up to help teach those same lessons her father taught her, both at Air Temple Island and out of her Dragon Flats-based clinic.

If you have encountered any K*taang account in the wild, you know that this semi-canon paragraph has been wildly celebrated. Now, out of nowhere, Kya knows meditation so well that she can teach classes about it! Hooray!

Bryke, stop bullshitting us. You established twice over that Kya doesn’t know how to meditate, you can’t erase what you portrayed in your show and try to convince us that she was a meditation expert all along. It’s clear that the showrunners don’t care about the Kya as a character, they see her as a tool to clear the mistake that they made when they wrote TLOK!Aang as a neglectful father.

Anyways, here is the full information that we get about Kya in Avatar Legends and I’d like to remark my favorite quotes:

“When disaster strikes, she can quickly switch between healing the injured and taking on attackers without missing a beat.”

“She does have some lingering pain, though, from her father favoring Tenzin, the Airbender, over his other children.”

“When she's in the city, the waterbending master Kya runs a free clinic out of a converted tenement in the middle of Dragon Flats. The clinic provides physical and mental healthcare, preventative to emergency, to a neighborhood that most needs it and can least afford it.” (emphasis mine)

“Katara broke boundaries as the first woman known to modern history to receive formal training as a master of both waterbending combat and waterbending medicine. Her daughter Kya was part of the first generation of young Waterbenders to learn both disciplines side by side.”

“Kya grew up frustrated that the world saw her as just a Waterbender, and not another child of Air Nomad heritage. Yes, she is an expert Waterbender, and she gladly accepted the traditions and culture of her mother... but she has always felt an affinity with Air Nomad culture. Her father taught Tenzin about Air Nomad culture far more than he taught either her or her brother Bumi […]” (empashis mine)

I love Kya so much. I wish the writers did as well.

#tlok critical #anti lok #katara deserved better #anti bryke #anti tlok #anti kataang #lok critical #kya deserved better

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astra-ravana · 2 months ago

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Japanese Magick

Japanese spirituality and folk magick are deeply rooted in Shinto, Buddhism, and indigenous traditions that blend animism, kami (spirits), and ritual practices. While Japan does not have a historical "witchcraft" tradition in the Western sense, it has a rich magickal heritage that includes onmyodo (esoteric cosmology), shugendo (mountain asceticism), folk magick, and spiritual practices passed down through generations.

So, let's explore the key elements of Japanese witchcraft and magick, including history, deities and spirits, traditional magickal practices, and how modern practitioners integrate these elements into their craft.

Foundations of Japanese Magick

🏮Shinto (神道) – The Way of the Kami

Shinto is the indigenous spiritual tradition of Japan, centered on reverence for kami (divine spirits) found in nature, ancestors, and sacred places. Many Japanese magickal practices stem from Shinto beliefs and rituals.

Key Concepts in Shinto Magick:

• Kami (神) – Spirits or deities that inhabit all things, including trees, mountains, rivers, and animals.

• Purification (禊 Misogi & 祓 Harai) – Cleansing oneself or a space of impurities before engaging in spiritual work.

• Offerings (供え物) – Giving food, incense, or prayers to kami and spirits to seek blessings or protection.

• Omamori (お守り) – Charms that provide luck, protection, and blessings.

🏮Onmyodo (陰陽道) – The Way of Yin-Yang

Onmyodo is an ancient system of esoteric cosmology and divination based on Taoist principles of yin-yang and the five elements. Practitioners, known as onmyōji (陰陽師), were skilled in astrology, geomancy, exorcism, and protective magick.

Onmyodo Magick Includes:

• Divination (卜占) – Fortune-telling using astrology, geomancy, or sacred texts.

• Talismans (護符 Gofu / Ofuda) – Paper or wooden charms inscribed with sacred symbols or prayers for protection.

• Spirit Banishing (鬼払い Oni-barai) – Rituals to remove negative spirits and influences.

• Elemental Magic (五行 Gogyō) – The Five Elements (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) used for balance and spellwork.

🏮Shugendo (修験道) – Mountain Asceticism

Shugendo is a mystical tradition that blends Shinto, Buddhism, and Taoism. Its practitioners, known as yamabushi (山伏), are mountain monks who engage in spiritual endurance training, chanting, and nature-based magick.

Shugendo Magical Practices:

• Nature-Based Rituals – Using waterfalls, mountains, and caves for spiritual cleansing and empowerment.

• Firewalking (火渡り Hi-watari) – Walking over fire as a purification ritual.

• Mantra Chanting (真言 Shingon) – Reciting sacred phrases to invoke deities and spirits.

Key Deities and Spirits in Japanese Witchcraft

🏮Major Kami Associated with Magick:

• Inari Okami (稲荷大神) – Kami of prosperity, agriculture, and fox spirits (kitsune). Often invoked for abundance and transformation magick.

• Tsukuyomi (月読命) – Moon deity, associated with night magick, divination, and intuition.

• Ame-no-Uzume (天宇受売命) – Goddess of dawn, joy, and ritual dance. Invoked for creativity and uplifting energy.

• Raijin & Fujin (雷神・風神) – Thunder and wind gods, called upon for storm magick and elemental work.

• Susanoo-no-Mikoto (須佐之男命) – Kami of storms, exorcism, and warrior energy.

🏮Yokai (妖怪) & Spirit Beings:

Japanese folklore is filled with supernatural creatures, some of which play a role in magick:

• Kitsune (狐) – Fox spirits associated with transformation, illusion, and trickery.

• Tengu (天狗) – Mountain spirits and warriors with powerful knowledge of magick and martial arts.

• Yurei (幽霊) – Ghosts and ancestral spirits that may require appeasement or exorcism.

Traditional Japanese Magickal Practices

🏮Divination & Fortune-Telling:

• Omikuji (おみくじ) – Paper fortunes drawn at shrines to reveal one's luck.

• I Ching (易経 Ekikyō) – Taoist divination practice adopted in Japan.

• Tenmon (天文) – Japanese astrology, used by onmyōji for predicting fate and auspicious times.

🏮Talisman & Charm Magick:

• Omamori (お守り) – Protective charms bought from shrines, charged with blessings from kami.

• Ofuda (御札) – Paper talismans often hung in homes for protection.

• Shide (紙垂) – Zigzag-shaped paper strips used in purification and shrine rituals.

🏮Protection & Banishing Spells

• Salt Purification (塩清め Shio-kiyome) – Sprinkling salt around spaces to remove negativity.

• Oni-barai (鬼払い) – Banishing rituals to drive away malevolent spirits.

• Suzu (鈴) – Small bells used to ward off bad spirits.

🏮Elemental & Nature Magick

• Waterfall Purification (滝行 Takigyo) – Ritual bathing in waterfalls to cleanse the spirit.

• Moon Rituals (月の魔法 Tsuki no Maho) – Working with lunar phases for manifestation and divination.

• Kitsune Magick – Calling upon fox spirits for wisdom, transformation, and trickster energy.

Modern Japanese Witchcraft & Contemporary Practices

While Japan does not have a strong tradition of "witchcraft" as seen in the West, modern witches and spiritual practitioners integrate traditional elements into their craft.

🏮Ways to Practice Japanese-Inspired Magick Today:

• Shrine Visits – Offering prayers and petitions to kami.

• Japanese Herbal Magick – Using plants like mugwort (ヨモギ yomogi) for protection and cleansing.

• Tea Rituals – Preparing and blessing tea with intentions for peace, health, and wisdom.

• Shinto-Inspired Spellwork – Creating small home altars (kamidana) for divine guidance.

• Combining Onmyodo with Western Practices – Blending astrology, talisman magic, and elemental balancing with modern witchcraft.

Japanese magick is deeply connected to nature, spirits, and ancestral traditions. While Japan does not have a direct equivalent to Western witchcraft, its spiritual and folk practices offer rich ways to work with energy, divination, and protection magick. Whether you are drawn to Shinto nature worship, onmyodo divination, or spirit work with yokai, Japanese magickal traditions provide a fascinating and profound path for spiritual exploration.

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saxophonesir · 5 months ago

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Tim Drake-Wayne had learned early on that people saw what they wanted to see.

At first glance, he was just another white boy with sharp features and dark hair, another rich kid in Gotham’s elite circles. The son of Jack and Janet Drake, heir to a business empire. Later, the adopted son of Bruce Wayne, another billionaire with a penchant for collecting lost children.

But Tim knew better.

His mother, Wu Jianyu, Janet, had been mixed—half Chinese, half white. Her features were delicate, but her Mandarin had been crisp, her knowledge of tradition ingrained in Tim’s childhood.

When he was younger, his mother would correct him on his tones, guiding his hand when he held chopsticks wrong. His father, when he was home, would scoff at it, saying Tim didn’t need all that, that Janet was wasting her time trying to teach a kid who would never need it. But she had insisted. And so Tim learned.

Ang Pau on New Year’s, lighting incense and bowing at shrines of Gong Gong and Ah Ma, folding dumplings together. Fond memories of the few times his mother was there to be his mother, the times she was Jianyu.

And then she died.

And then his father died.

And then Bruce took him in, and suddenly, the world had a new narrative for him: Tim Drake-Wayne, the brilliant, calculating, white son of Gotham’s Dearest Prince.

It wasn’t like he could correct them. Not without inviting questions he didn’t feel like answering, not without people picking apart a heritage that had already been whittled down to scraps. He didn’t look like Dick, with his obvious Romani features, or Damian, who had Talia’s sharp, unmistakable bone structure. Even Cass, who had grown up isolated from her own culture, was still undeniably, visibly Chinese.

But Tim? Tim was ambiguous at best, invisible at worst.

It was easier this way.

Easier to let people make their assumptions, easier to ignore the tug in his chest when people scoffed at the idea that he was anything other than what they saw.

“You don’t look Asian,” someone had said once, offhand, like it was a compliment.

And Tim had just smiled, the same way he always did.

Because if no one saw it, if no one questioned it, then no one could take it from him.

It was easier this way. To let people assume.

But then there were moments that felt like ghosts—like when Damian switched to flawless Mandarin mid-argument, and Tim hesitated before responding. A visit to Gotham’s Chinatown, and an old shopkeeper eyed Tim warily before addressing him in English. When he saw Bruce and Damian standing side by side and realized the world would always see Damian’s bloodline before it saw his.

He didn’t resent it. Not really. He knew it didn’t matter, shouldn’t matter. It had no place in his mission, Bruce’s mission.

Still, sometimes, when he was alone, he would pull out his mother’s old notebooks and trace the characters she had once made him practice.

Part two

#ramble inspired by when I mistakenly called my friends grandpa gong gong #and she looked at me weird and asked what’d that mean?#I said it means grandpa hello?#she said no tf not and that’s when I realized based on how I was taught languages I didn’t know which words were Chinese or not #because my entire family on both sides are heavily mixed in and titles and honorific just get thrown around and mixed #I had no idea of what I was saying was Chinese or the other language because everyone around spoke a mix of the two #asian Tim Drake

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coven-of-genesis · 7 months ago

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Beginner in witchcraft tips? Like where should I start?

Beginner witchcraft tips

Part one : where & how do I start

1. Research and Respect Open Practices

• What Are Open Practices?

Open practices are spiritual or magical systems that do not require initiation, cultural heritage, or permission to engage in. Examples include eclectic witchcraft, kitchen witchcraft, green witchcraft, hedge witchcraft, and secular witchcraft.

• Avoiding Cultural Appropriation:

Practices like smudging (specific to Indigenous cultures), Hoodoo, and Voodoo are closed practices unless you are properly initiated or invited. Instead, use general terms like “smoke cleansing” with herbs like rosemary or lavender.

2. Build a Foundation of Knowledge

• History and Ethics of Witchcraft

Study the historical persecution of witches, modern witchcraft movements like Wicca, and the ethical principles (e.g., Wiccan Rede, the Threefold Law, or personal moral codes).

• Learn the Basics of Magic:

• Correspondences: Study how herbs, crystals, colors, and moon phases align with magical intentions.

• Intentions: Understand that intention is the core of magical practice. Clarity and focus are vital.

3. Start with Simple Tools and Techniques

• Common Tools:

You don’t need expensive or elaborate items to begin. Everyday objects like candles, notebooks, or kitchen herbs work just as well as specialized tools.

• Candles for fire energy (tea lights are excellent for beginners).

• Herbs like rosemary (cleansing and protection), basil (prosperity), and chamomile (calming).

• Salt for purification.

• Crystals like clear quartz (amplification), amethyst (calm), or rose quartz (love).

• DIY Approach:

Craft your own tools or collect items from nature (leaves, stones, feathers) for more personal meaning.

4. Create a Sacred Space

• Physical Space:

Choose a small area for your altar or sacred space. This can be a shelf, a table, or even a portable box. Include items like:

• A candle for focus and light.

• Representations of the elements (e.g., a bowl of water, stones, a feather).

• Personal objects that bring comfort or inspiration.

• Energetic Space:

Use cleansing techniques to clear your space, such as sprinkling salt, using sound (bells or clapping), or wafting incense.

5. Practice Energy Work

• Grounding:

This helps connect you to the earth and stabilize your energy. A simple method:

• Sit or stand barefoot. Imagine roots growing from your feet deep into the ground. Visualize excess energy flowing down these roots into the earth.

• Centering:

Gather scattered energy into your core. Visualize a glowing ball of light in your chest or belly, representing your personal power.

• Shielding:

Protect your energy by visualizing a protective bubble or shield of light around you.

6. Explore Divination

• Tarot or Oracle Cards:

• Start by pulling a single card daily to learn its meaning and connect with your intuition.

• Many decks come with guidebooks to help beginners.

• Pendulums:

Use a pendulum for yes/no questions. Practice by asking simple, clear questions and observing the swing (e.g., clockwise for yes, counterclockwise for no).

• Scrying:

Try gazing into a bowl of water, a mirror, or a candle flame to receive intuitive insights.

7. Learn Magical Timing

• Lunar Phases:

• New Moon: Set intentions and start new projects.

• Waxing Moon: Build energy and take action.

• Full Moon: Amplify power, perform gratitude rituals.

• Waning Moon: Release and banish unwanted energies.

• Days of the Week:

• Example: Thursday is associated with abundance and success.

• Seasons and Sabbats:

Research the Wheel of the Year (e.g., Yule, Beltane) and celebrate the seasons in ways that resonate with you.

8. Work With Nature and the Elements

• Earth: Grow plants, use crystals, or walk barefoot outside.

• Air: Burn incense, write affirmations, or meditate on your breath.

• Fire: Light candles, work with fire-safe herbs, or set intentions during sunsets.

• Water: Take ritual baths, work with moon water, or meditate near a body of water.

9. Keep a Grimoire or Book of Shadows

• Document your spells, rituals, and experiences.

• Include correspondences (e.g., herbs, colors, moon phases), affirmations, and journal entries about your practice.

• This will help you reflect on your progress and refine your methods over time.

10. Develop Your Own Path

• Personalize Your Practice:

Use what resonates with you and leave out what doesn’t. Witchcraft is a flexible and personal journey.

• Be Patient:

Progress takes time. Focus on consistency rather than perfection.

• Stay Open-Minded:

Connect with other practitioners to exchange ideas, but always critically evaluate what you incorporate into your practice.

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