#loose tapestries

[vince-noir-666]

Source

[noel-fielding-web-page]

Can you name any celebs that you just can't include in the tops?

It's not because I don't like them. It's just something between top 20 and outtops, so it's just impossible to include them anywhere. But I still luv them :)

+ David Tennant

This dude won me over when he was the host of the NMTB Doctor Who Special. He was very funny, plus handsome. He didn't become my favourite, but I still respect him :)

+ Bobcat Goldthwait

American comedian, very interesting person. I've never knew him. But when I watched some videos with Noel's conversation with him, I found him so hillarious. They could be wonderful tandem with Noel together. I would be happy :)

+ Robert Downey JR

Great actor and so lovely person. He playing serious brutal characters that very different from him in real life. In real life he's so smiling and adorable that's why I like him :)

+Joan Jett

Thank Noel for letting me find out about this woman :D He's actually remind her in youth. I like her as character. But the music - not quite my style :)

+ Roger Taylor (Queen)

Many people love Freddy Mercury. So, I'm one of the bastards who never liked him :D But Roger is wonderful. Look at this blonde. How not to love him :)

+David Bowie

Very insperetional person. Sadly that he passed away. He was one of the style icons

+ Jim Morrison

The Doors! One of my favourites! That means Jim is favourite singer! Classic never dies!

+ Jared Leto

Stunning actor and singer! 30 Seconds To Mars is amazing band! :)

+ John Cooper Clarke

I've never knew him before Never Mind The Buzzcocks! He's just genius guy! He's humour is better than of any typical stand up comic. True punk poetry! It's great respect :)

+ Joe Lynn Turner

Great singer! I like Rainbow! Eternal classic!

+ Yungblud

Young rock singer. I like him as a person. He strongly reminds Noel, I wasn't surprised at all that they become good friends :)

+Ben Kowalewicz

It's a frontman of Billy Talent. He's a Polish born in Canada. I can't say that I'm big fan of this band, but still find this guys interesting and hilarious :)

+ James Gunn

Maybe, not the best actor, but the great director :)

+ Brandon Flowers

Beautiful singer from The Killers. I think, many people will agree with me that this band is cool :)

+ Amanda Somerville

It's a symphonoc metal singer. I love her voice! Just awesome! :)

+ Sergio Pizzorno

Kasabian and Loose Tapesties singer and just a good mate :)

Thanks for asking :)

[deermouth]

I love every season on its own merits, but I still think the end of tsv ch1 is one of the most exquisitely atmospheric pieces of horror in the whole show.

[the-skin-inthe-bath-is-mine]

Crochet cardigan based on the Crazy:B uniform.

Incoherent rambling below

This damn thing is a unholy amalgamation of different techniques just so I didn't get bored while making it. Tbh I didn't care of it looked decent, I just wanted to play around with different stitches. Projects like this feel like a puzzle so it was more fun than frustrating. This did turn out extremely clean though so yippee~~ Didn't include any gold or yellow because with the red on this specifically it reminded me of Ronald McDonald. Also. The hexagons look clearer from the inside but that's just because the wondering yarn helps define the shape.

The hardest part was getting the sizing correct. I accidentally used a smaller hook than I'd usually use for clothing so I had to dick around some to get the correct size. Figuring out how to taper the sleeves was low key evil too. The only thing I'm not happy with is I couldn't figure out how to do the upper back panel with the houndstooth stitch without it warping or it looking weird so I just went with plain black. Other than that I'm very proud of my monstrosity :]

[dukemeropide]

Fading in Time

2024 Birthday drabble | gifts received from @huntersoath, @iustitians, @fanfaire, @dellarosula

(Wriothesley character story spoilers)

Wriothesley could count the number of birthdays he’d celebrated on one hand. The very concept of them had become, by now, the stuff of fantasy, consigned to the place in his memories occupied by fables spoken by ordinary animals and humans that could fly all on their own. In other words, something for innocent-minded children with the kinds of well-adjusted families that only existed in fiction. He had been that, once.

For a long while, it had been hard for him to reconcile the happiness and love he knew conceptually to be a part of celebrating one’s birthday with what he had witnessed to be little different than throwing a party for a lamb set for slaughter the very next day. Three of his siblings had disappeared before he realized the truth, but he had eyes, and he had ears, so he denied himself the excuse of age. He should have known, even as young as he was. 

Cake tasted like dirt from that day onward. His own birthdays passed in hazes of fury and grief. It had been someone’s birthday when he laid on the floor of his parents’ manor, drenched in their blood, choking on his own. That had been the last one, he’d made sure of it. And it was, for a while.

The Fortress of Meropide had hammered him down into an insignificant number in the years that followed, but he’d come to enjoy the anonymity. The fools who celebrated their birthdays down here might as well have put a sign up asking to be robbed, or beaten up, or both. Wriothesley had taken advantage of his fair share of fools. It was either that, or risk going hungry in the dog-eat-dog world under the sea. It was their own faults, he reasoned, and pretended like it wasn’t the resentment that festered just skin-deep during those first few years. Even so, the Head Nurse always had something for him on the same day every year, usually little more valuable than a piece of buttered toast, so that Wriothesley didn’t catch on until he’d been conditioned to expect it.

One year, as he sat on a cot in the empty infirmary while Sigewinne, humming a little song, poured peppermint tea into a nondescript cup, he realized just how talented the Fortress’ Head Nurse was.

Birthdays became easier to stomach after that, although he was still a prisoner of no importance until the day he scared the previous administrator from his post. Rumors followed the fearsome Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, among which was a distaste for birthdays, and yet he’d find his office collecting little trinkets, wrapped boxes, desserts, and a dozen or so hand-drawn stickers every year from then on.

There is far more clutter this year, even if “clutter” might be too harsh a word for the gifts and letters carefully delivered to his desk. The Duke has tried to clear space to work, to no avail, so he stands over the spread with a look that can be described as none other than fond exasperation. Little blue, pink, and yellow stickers speckle the tall back of his chair, and a shark sits on his shoulder. He’s left them all for the occasion, because he knows it’s futile to remove them today. More will soon take their place.

Where to start, he thinks, and his eyes land on a neat, no-nonsense signature he recognizes at once. Clorinde knows his preferences well by now, for how often they trade bets over life’s trivialities. The box and the thoughtful letter accompanying it showcase the champion duelist’s pragmatism, but it’s the new gloves that capture Wriothesley’s attention. He lifts one from the box to try, and it fits perfectly. She’d always had a good eye, but it seemed she knew him even better than he thought. With a soft laugh, he carefully returns the glove to its pair. A duel would be in order if he wanted to break them in, so he makes a note to invite her to the Pankration ring next time he sees her.

Alongside this box is a smaller one in beautiful wrapping, topped with a letter signed unmistakably by the Iudex’s precise hand, with the Iudex’s characteristic apologies. Wriothesley reads through it with an amused smile and then with the shake of his head, sets it aside to open the gift he knows deserves no such humble preamble. The tea within is wholly new to his collection, which lacks much of anything from Natlan, and when he opens the lid, out rolls the scent of bonfires and warm spices. It’s no legal codex, certainly, but it's at least something more practical. 

Wriothesley thinks he might prepare himself a cup now and contemplate the rest of his cleaning project, but the massive iron doors down below suddenly rumble open.

”Another delivery for you, Your Grace,” calls the courier. “From Lady Furina.”

”Bring it up,” he directs, studying his desk like one might a puzzle. Where to fit a new box…

But it’s not a box that arrives at the top of the stairs. Instead, tray after tray of cakes, cookies, macarons, and other finger treats file into his office, which the Duke stands by to watch helplessly. Only when his tea table has been covered in a spread fit for a small party does the courier finally leave. What has he done to earn such extravagance from the former Archon herself? he wonders, and, still bewildered, approaches one of towering gift baskets to inspect what else she might have sent. There, he finds the gilded tickets for a show at the Opera Epiclese nestled in the filling, as if it were the real gift hidden under layers and layers of the most ornate paper one could find.

Another knock at the door. Wriothesley quickly slips the tickets into his breast pocket and goes to the top of the stairs to send back whatever else might be on its way up.

”Just leave it down—“ Eyebrows raise with surprised pleasure at the sight of a familiar, albeit entirely unexpected face. 

“Now, to what do I owe a personal visit from Madame President?” he asks cheekily, following her to his desk to clear a space for the box she carries. It’s the result of the bet he’d technically lost, as it turns out, which Navia sets in front of him like a mafia boss presenting a suitcase full of mora.

”Let’s see what you’ve got here…” Leaning down for a better look, Wriothesley picks through the selection carefully, inspecting each tin as if searching gemstones for flaws. Lifting one in the middle from its bed of velvet, he spies the little note hidden beneath. If Clorinde is straight and to the point, Navia is anything but. With a soft huff, Wriothesley sets it back down.

"To be honest, I can’t remember if I’d tried any of these during my trip to Liyue last year. I guess the only thing to do is to have a taste test.” He shrugs his shoulders like it’s a matter of course, then flashes Navia a smirk. “Care to join me? I have a whole spread of desserts I need to figure out what to do with, too.”

So he sets his kettle to boil, because he expects that she won't say no. And after years and years of his birthday passing without any fanfare, Wriothesley thinks that, for once, it wouldn't be so bad celebrating it. Especially with someone else.

- -

He'd need a second hand to count them now.

[mossterunderthebed]

[ciriceart]

THE STRANGER — Acrylic yarn, hemp twine, jacaranda branches. 11x17 inches, not including hanger and branches.

This image came to me in a vision. It was my first experiment with weaving actual shapes! It was fun and I think it turned out pretty nicely and well defined for a first attempt.

[wildflowercryptid]

spoilers & speculation for the mermaid's tongue demo below the cut!

okay, i need to talk about this bc it's making me go batty. i was looking through the demo again, ( mostly to grab screencaps bc i might update the wikia if someone doesn't before me, ) and i already found something i missed in my first playthrough.

i'm really gonna have to remember to thoroughly look over the clues in this game bc i didn't check the back of the her painting at first. and well...

hey, that symbol looks familiar.

yeah, i think the stonetops are going to be important to this game's plot. we're getting more freya family lore, baby!!

[bipinlor]

WHO ARE YOU. WHY WERE YOU IN A BATHROOM DRAWER. ARE YOU JUST A FAKE BUTTON THATS ACTUALLY A PIN? WHAT ARE YOUR SINS???

[vince-noir-666]

[edenslostwallflower]

the conflict between wanting her to be a strange comparison of a bubbly mentat vs the serious ones. and also wanting her to be serious because the mentat training caused her to dehumanize herself to the point she thinks herself an object, a tool, a human machine only meant to take in information and spit it out and doesn't know how to act like a person.

[halftheway]

underrated form of storytelling is when a piece of media starts out for sillies and goofs and then when a plot starts to be introduced it makes callbacks to earlier details and makes them retroactively important

[deadsetobsessions]

Ghost King Phantom was an odd addition to the League. J’onn was often the last to find others odd but from the get-go, Phantom was the only quiet spot he’d have in his telepathic field. At first, it was off putting as most of the people that slipped beyond the reach of his immediate field tended to be villains and the like. But as Phantom remained in the Justice League, J’onn had come to learn to appreciate the calm spot in the turbulent sea of his friends’ and coworkers’ thoughts.

“You have taken to me faster than the others. Why is that?”

Phantom hummed purringly, another peculiar sound that J’onn had yet to see any of his human or alien heroes recreate with any success. They sat at their usual spot, face facing the cosmos and backs guarded by their friends. Plus, J’onn and Phantom could look directly into the sun without painfully loosing their sight.

“I guess I’ve always been fond of the stars. Of space, and everything in it. What about you? Why did we become friends so fast?”

J’onn shook his head, a human motion he’d learned a long time ago to imitate. “No, we became slower friends than most, as my telepathic abilities allow for easier communication and understanding of one another’s motives. With the exception of Batman but I have found he is often the exception to most expectations.”

“That checks out,” King Phantom laughed. “Well, I’m glad we became friends. It’s very cool to meet a Martian. Space is one of my Obsessions, you see.”

J’onn nodded. “I see. I am sorry that I am the only Martian you will meet.”

“You are?”

J’onn nodded again, slower. Sadder. His facial muscles, in this form, does not imitate human patterns well and he knew that most people could not pick out his emotions without his verbal expression.

Intuition tells J’onn that Phantom knew regardless.

“Would you mind telling me what happened?” His voice is gentle, the emotions that Phantom pushes at him are gentle and questing, but not demanding. It has been a long time since anyone has asked him of memories he clung to. And so, J’onn J’onzz speaks in the way that was natural to him, the way his people communicated.

With his mental voice flowing into Phantom’s head, J’onn tells him of the wonders that used to be his home. He provided images and sounds of how his home shone as the sun rose, how the shadows that fell when the sun dipped beneath the horizon felt as comforting as a Martian’s first telepathic cradle. He tells Phantom of his twin brother, grief and agony entwined in the memories of someone he had loved. He spoke of his wife and their daughter, and their cozy home on the windswept plains of Mars.

King Phantom sat still with him as the Watch-Tower moved along, around a king and his friend who was recounting the stagnant grief of his past.

J’onn tells him of the virus, borne of his twin’s hatred, and how he watched everything around him burn. How he had desperately tried to prevent his wife and daughter from using their telepathic abilities. He spoke of his failures. He wove together a tapestry of insanity and grief, built upon the burning bodies of his wife and their beloved daughter. He tells Phantom how the Mars now was just ashes and dust of his former home. How he could not look upon the planet and not see the shades of his wife and daughter and parents and friends, walking upon a barren planet that no longer held anything familiar to the last Martian.

Phantom had hummed again, a soothing rumble. Sadness dripped from the edges of his consciousness.

“If it was not for the Doctor, I would be dead and shattered.” J’onn spoke for the first time in three hours. “It is… less painful to live. I have purpose.”

“I am glad that you are not either of those things.” Phantom stood. “Come with me. I have to show you something.”

J’onn trusted Phantom, and thus followed the king into the glowing green portal.

They flew past many doors, Phantom often glancing at him before shaking his head and changing directions.

They stopped at a door that felt familiar. J’onn knew it from somewhere.

“Go ahead, open the door. But know that you can’t stay long. You don’t belong to this realm quite yet. Not for quite a while.” Phantom moves, hand gesturing towards the door without a knob.

“How..?”

“How else? You have telekinesis, don’t you?”

J’onn blinked. Right. He opened the door and- oh.

The door warped with the screaming storm of grief and love and oh-how-I’ve-missed-you that J’onn unleashed.

Because there in front of him were M’yri’ah and K’hym, his wife and daughter.

The door was an imitation of his home, back when he had not known true loss.

“Impossible,” he stumbled back.

“You are in the realm of the dead. You didn’t think the title of the Ghost King was for fun, did you, J’onn?” Phantom smiled and- a move J’onn would definitely engage in petty payback for, later after he’d gotten over the shock- pushed him flying right into the room.

M’yri’ah and K’hym cradled him with telepathic swirls of love and husband!-dad!-love-love-love-safe!

And J’onn shuddered and gathered the his world in his arms to say goodbye.

——

[hcneymooners]

⋆ you pull my hair, you call me.

jinx x mermaid!f!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you are a mermaid living in a hidden grotto of the undercity. one day, jinx wanders into your territory. or more accurately, the ruins of her old haunt.

cw: mermaid!reader, canon divergence!au, discussions of trauma, discussion of child loss, mental health issues, non-sexual intimacy, sfw, however, there are suggestive themes, age gap, girl you are literally thousands of years old.

notes: in these coming days, i hold on tightly to fantasies. they become stronger, more intricate. i feel it is my only way to survive. this is dedicated to @s-4pphics, the only person who makes me feel like a real life mermaid.

The water remembers everything. It's why you were born into it. Your mind is a steel trap, a lattice of love and loss.

Water does not coddle the memory, but it soothes. When your mother crawled into the reservoir to birth you, it did not coddle her naked body as it twisted and expelled you. It did nothing to lessen the sore peaks of her nipples as her breasts swelled and hardened with milk. But it soothed.

Your birth was similar to the experience of having birds flutter out of one’s chest. You came into the world with the rush of wind and at the peak of death, eyes big and your silence even larger. You were a beautiful baby with a delicately scaled face, and from the beginning your mother knew you were different.

She holds you, tells you her name—a name that means one thousand flowers. It fits her; you understand this even one minute fresh into your life. Your mother was one thousand flowers both blooming and decaying at once.

You were born in the winter, snow touching the tender skin of your forehead. It is also winter when your mother, a woman of a thousand flowers, dies.

Her body seems to flutter and pulse until it shudders into foam. The water soothes you as you sink. You stay on the ocean floor for what is close to forever. The years pass, but water remembers.

It remembers the screaming, the fire, the way the undercity shattered like a dropped mirror. The shards spun out and out. You never braved the world, then. You would come close to the surface, float backward and bent as you watched the sky smear into green gas and heat. The water—and therefore you—remember the taste of ash and gunpowder, the iron-rich flavor of blood and revenge.

But mostly, you remember her—that odd girl with chaos pumping inside of her like a second, third heart who came stumbling through the wreckage of her old workshop, trailing ghosts and grief like a burial shroud.

You've been watching her for days. Your kind has always been drawn to broken things, to the places where pain bleeds into water until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. She fascinates you with her paleness, with her long body that is painted and bared by the shoddy work of her pants and the cut of her top. You hide behind large chunks of driftwood, eye the swivel of her hips as she paces and turns. Her eyes are strange, too pale ghosts colored silvery blue. She closes them, opens, closes.

She is like a small bird, this woman. She carries destruction in her hands but cradles it like a wounded animal at times, afraid to hold too tight, afraid to let go. The first time she breaks, it's like watching a star collapse.

She falls to her knees at the water's edge, her wail echoing off the mineral-crusted walls of what was once her sanctuary. Her hands tear and tug at her braids as if she could rip the memories right out of her skull, like plucking loose the weave of a tapestry. The water around you shivers with her anguish, and your body preens; it tells you that you cannot stay hidden any longer.

You rise from the depths like a dream, your hair carrying traces of phosphorescent algae that provide a lazy glow as it swirls around your face. Her eyes fix on you, fever-bright and wild, but she doesn't run. Maybe she thinks you're a hallucination. Maybe she's just too tired to be afraid. 

You understand this.

The silence lasts for a while. The two of you exist across from one another, your face settling on your hands as you inch forward. She has yet to notice the flutter of your tail, but it's only a matter of time. You can see the light refracting off of it into a million sparks of light, dancing across the ceiling as you near her.Her mouth parts and you feel your own hinge open. You are trying to remember, trying to make yourself just like her if only to assuage her fear. Your tongue unfurls, neat and a deep blue. She blinks in surprise, which allows you to speak first.

"I am [Name]," you say, and your voice is a gentle purr like someone has stumbled over the strings of a harp. You are learning, thinking of how humans relate to one another. You don't tell her your real name, your name birthed by ocean and the melt of your mother's scale in the middle of your tongue. You are a woman of a thousand white waves, because every woman in your family has a thousand of something. "This, here, is my home."

You reach out now, because you have seen this before. Her people hug and grasp at one another in welcoming. The woman jerks, falls with a sick crunch on one of those pale hips in an effort to get away from you. You are hurt, and alarmed, and retreat further into the water. Your hand is still clawed as if to hold hers.

"Get back," she warns, voice raw and hoarse. Her eyes repeat their pattern. Close, open. Open and close. You close yours to see what she sees. Your eyelids are thin, translucent. The world can still be seen. She is right in front of you. "I'll hurt you. I'm a curse; I hurt everything.”

You open your eyes now, reach for her anyway. Your scaled hands catch hers, gentling them away from her hair. You smooth the strands, like your sister would do to you when the poachers came.

"My kind cannot be cursed," you tell her. This close she can feel the vibration, the way that your voice carries echoes of tidal pools and deep-sea trenches. "We are older than magic, older than pain. A different kind of creature."

She laughs, and it sounds like breaking glass. "Yeah? Well I bet you've never met anything like me before."

But you have. You've seen the way trauma can twist a soul, how it can make someone forget the shape of their own heart. You've watched your own kind waste away from grief and pollution, watched your bloodline dwindle to almost nothing. You recognize the look in her eyes—it's the same one you saw in your sister's before the toxic waste claimed her, before disease took your mother.

"Do not tell me what you think I know," you answer and she fidgets within your hold.

You are unsure of how to calm her, so you rummage deep inside of your long memory. You think of your mother. Now, you know. You pull her into the water with you, and she thrashes at first—all spinning limbs and desperate gasping. She is much like a fish at the end of a hook, you think. But you hold her, humming an ancient lullaby that vibrates through the water around you both.

Your singing voice, your Melody was always more unsightly than the others. So much higher and almost dissonant, like the cry of a whale during its migration. You mostly Sang alone, while others Sang together. But it winds around Jinx; maybe she is dissonant too. Slowly, so slowly, she stills.

"This is my body," you murmur, pressing close, your scales catching the ethereal light. "And this is yours." Your hands trace her tattoos like star maps, feeling the stories written in ink and scar tissue. You pause at her stomach, feeling an old grief there. You cast your Melody again, and it falls like a net over the skin underneath your fingers.

"You had a child," you say softly, and she goes rigid in your arms.

"Yes.” She admits this truth as if it hurts her. “She was not—not mine.”

“What was her name?”

“Isha,” she chokes out. “She was... I was supposed to protect her." 

“Mmm,” you say. “She was yours. I can feel it. She was yours, and you lost her.” 

You adjust your embrace, thumb at her bottom lip to reveal her blunt teeth. You have no understanding that this is not normal, that this touching and holding and avid tenderness is not of their culture. This woman, this bloodless weeping woman gazes at you. 

“Your motherhood,” you murmur, “sits inside you like a stone. It is closed, like an oyster. You must name it to begin to release the pain.” 

You press down on her lip. 

“What is your name?”

“Jinx,” she whispers.

“Good,” you tell her. “So, you are Jinx. Jinx, mother of Isha.”

The words seem to break something loose in her, and suddenly she's crying—great, heaving sobs that shake her whole body. You hold her through it, letting her tears mix with the mineral-rich water of your grotto. Strange woman, you think. She is a strange, sweet thing.

Her stomach tenses and releases, over and over. You never once stop your Song.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

Days blur together after that. Time moves strangely here. The two of you are a jigsaw puzzle of connection, platonic or maybe familial. You do not ask, preferring to preserve what you have. 

Jinx is shy in the first few moments, a trait you suspect is unfamiliar to her. She builds herself a nest above the waterline: a chaos of stolen furniture and salvaged tech that somehow fits the space perfectly. You watch her work, fascinated by how her hands can create as easily as they dismantle. Sometimes she catches you staring and explains things to you—human concepts that make little sense but delight you anyway.

You measure progress not in days but in small victories: the first time Jinx falls asleep with her head in your lap, fingers curled trustingly around your scales. The morning she lets you rebraid her hair, your webbed fingers gentle against her scalp as you weave strands of luminescent crystal through the blue. The day she shows you how to make paper boats and sets them afloat with tiny lights inside, until the cavern ceiling reflects a mirror image of the stars she remembers from her brief childhood.

You offer up knowledge in return. You speak the thick language of old, born of trench sand and sulfur cracks. She loves when you sing, when your mouth unhinges to show your blue tongue and slightly jagged teeth. She wades into the grotto, standing in the shallow water that barely reaches her ankles, and closes her eyes. She sways as your Melody flows over her, shivering as if touched by cold.

You usually finish the performance by swimming to her, carefully holding her ankles between your extended claws and calling directly to her. This is your favorite—a secret you keep close. You adore how she gazes down at you, how her eyes trace the curve of your slick breasts and torso as you rise to meet her.

You climb until your noses brush, and then you laugh, a sound like the gentle puff of a flute. When you laugh, your gills seize and flex, and Jinx places a hand against them, tracing them until you crook your neck and trill. (That's her favorite.)

"[Name], you can't just walk around topless all the time," she tells you one day, trying not to laugh as you examine a shirt with obvious confusion. The fabric flutters strangely in her hands. "Humans are weird about bodies."

"But they're just bodies," you say, running a webbed hand over your scales. Again, her eyes follow. She closes her eyes, thinking of how your breasts are round and soft like the moon in her hand. You reach out, drawing her closer until she's touching you. "See? This is just flesh. The body is only a  house for our soul."

She grows quiet then, thoughtful in a way that makes her look younger. "Maybe that's why I'm so messed up. My house is... kind of a disaster zone."

You pull her close, letting your tail manifest and wrap around her legs. "Then we'll build you a new one. Piece by piece."

The trust comes in fragments, in stolen quiet moments. Some days she can't bear to be touched, and you give her space, watching from the depths as she paces and talks to ghosts you can't see. Other days she's almost peaceful, letting you massage her scalp or teaching you human games with cards that always seem to explode at exactly the wrong moment.

One night, the voices in her head were particularly loud. You hear it from beneath the water—you sleep closer to the surface since meeting her—and rise to find her jolting in her sleep. You don't think, only move, remembering to rid yourself of your tail only when it scrapes against a sheet of metal jutting from the sand.

You hum agitatedly, distressed by her furrowed brow and trembling body, then take her deeper into the grotto than she's ever been before. Here, crystal formations pulse with bioluminescence, casting rainbow shadows on walls that have never known sunlight. Schools of blind fish dart around you both, their scales glowing like fallen stars.

It takes her a while to wake, but you stay suspended and curled around her. You keep watch, eyeing the murky kelp forests that tease at your fins. There are other, older ways into this grotto that never bothered you before. But now, you're too aware of all the ways someone could reach the jinx resting in your arms.

You see bubbles snort from her nose as she begins to stir, and you move quickly to pluck a shell from the rainbow-dusted walls. The inside is sticky and suctions to her mouth, threading a tendril inside to loop around her lungs and better facilitate her breathing underwater. You don't understand why it works, but you've seen the surface swimmers use it before.

Jinx makes a horrible rasping noise before the shell's work settles in, and then breathing comes easier. The shell is now translucent and attenuated. She cups your side as she shifts in your hold, her unbraided hair thick around her face.

"This is beautiful," she whispers, and for once there's no edge to her voice, no great waiting catastrophe. You know she means you.

"Thank you," you respond, smiling with all your teeth. She smiles crookedly back.

"This was my mother's sanctuary," you tell her, leading her to a cave where ancient glyphs cover the walls. You see her back bend with the water's pressure, and you slow your pace. "There used to be many of me, my bloodline. But the surface world's poisons reached even here." You trace one of the symbols—a spiky, spherical rune that you think means 'confession'. This glyph is older than you, part of a complex language no surface dweller nor merfolk of this time has spoken in millennia. "Now there are only three of us left."

She's quiet for a long moment, her hand finding yours in the glowing water. "Does it ever get easier? Being the only one who survived?"

You think of your sister's last days, of your mother's fading voice. "No," you answer honestly. "But it becomes... different. The pain changes shape, becomes something you can carry without breaking."

She leans into you at that, and you feel the tremors that always precede one of her episodes. But this time, she doesn't fight it. She lets you hold her as the chaos revisits her, trusts you to keep her head above water—in a manner of speaking—as she shakes apart and slowly, slowly comes back together.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

It doesn’t simply disappear. Jinx is one of the spirits’ favorite souls to torture and possess.

Most nights, the past continues to crawl up through the cracked floors of the grotto like a cadaver, its saccharine breath seeping into Jinx's dreams until she wakes screaming. And on most of these nights, you find her in her nest of blankets and broken things, her skin fever-hot and her eyes seeing horrors you cannot share.

But after you take her down, beneath the surface, it is different. Now, most nights, she comes to you.

The pattern is the same: you hear her bare feet on the stone before you see her, padding toward the water's edge like a sleepwalker. Her hair is almost always loose, falling around her face in a cascade that reminds you of the sharp stretch of evening sky across the Arctic Ocean. Then she reaches the pool's edge, but she doesn’t stop.

The water accepts her like a lover, closing over her head in a gentle baptism. You rise to meet her, your form shifting in the dipping waves. You cup the nape of her neck and insert the shell. Your skin takes on its natural sheen, scattered with scales that catch the light like opals. Your hair moves as if still underwater even when you break the surface, glistening tendrils floating around your face. Your eyes are all pupil and hold the depths of the ocean, ancient and knowing, utterly without fear. You reach for her, and, like in the beginning, she still tries to pull away; you simply shake your head.

"Your curse cannot touch me," you remind her, your voice like water over stones. "I am not of your world." Your hands move to cup her face, thumbs brushing away tears that roll from the puffy cliff’s edge of her pale eyes. "I am of the deep places, the dark waters. We recognize our own, remember?"

Remember? You always ask her this. It’s all she ever does.

You rise fully from the water then, your form shifting like light through waves until you stand on human legs, naked and gleaming. You pull Jinx to her feet and begin to undress her with the innocent purpose of a child, unbound by human conventions of modesty or shame. She allows it, trembling—not from cold or fear, but from the overwhelming sensation of being touched without consequence, of being seen. She has yet to confess how much she needs this.

"This is my body," you murmur, pressing close, your scaled hands tracing the bridge of her spine. You are reminding her. "And this is yours. We are both such difficult creatures."

"I don't understand you," she whispers, but her hands come up to trace the patterns of your scales, mapping the places where your skin shifts from human to something else entirely.

You catch her hand and press it flat against your chest, letting her feel the strange rhythm of your heart—beating in time with the tides.

"Fear is for those who have something to lose. My kind has already lost almost everything. What's left is..." You pause, searching for words in a language not made for shadowy creatures like you. "What's left is precious because it survived. I am surviving. You are surviving with me.”

Something shifts in her expression then, understanding blooming like oil across the top of a gulf. Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch.

"Show me again," she breathes, begging. Her breath smells sweet, like candy under the tongue and behind the teeth. "Please."

You take her deeper into the grotto than before, past the engraved walls and into the true heart of your domain. Here, the water is almost desperately alive, swirling with colors that have no names in any human tongue. Your tail manifests fully, lashing out. You seem to be made of living jewels. You are a terrible, beautiful monster; your body twists like a snake as you duck and dive. Jinx watches, transfixed, as you dance through the water, showing her your true way of living.

You do what your kind does when in love. You Sing. You Pull her.

"I've been trying to fix my machines," she says when your last note fades. You are shaking. You have never Sung that hard before. Your Melody has undone you, and you swim weakly back to her. She touches your face, dusts your cheeks with her pruned fingertips. "To make lights that look like this." She gestures at the bioluminescent display around you. "But I keep fucking it up. Everything I touch turns to..."

"A mess," you finish for her. These thoughts are not new. "But a mess is not always born of destruction." You guide her hand through the water, watching the way the disturbed bioluminescence creates new patterns, new constellations. "Sometimes it's just change. It is new, without guidance. You are trying again, relearning. This is only necessary disorder."

She laughs, but it's softer than usual. "Is that what I am? Disordered?"

You pull her closer, letting your tail wrap around her legs as you float together in the heart of the sea. "You are what you choose to be. Here, in these waters, you don't have to be anything but yourself." You pull back so that you can see your hands as you sign to her, curl your fingers into the symbols she’s seen on the walls.

You have changed me. You mouth the words so that she truly understands. You sign it again, across her naked chest so that she can feel the drag of your claws and the pump of her blood in response.

"I don’t feel changed, and I don’t want to ruin you. What if I am still broken?" Her voice cracks on the last word.

"Then be broken here with me," you tell her, pressing your lips to her temple. "The water remembers everything, but it also cleanses. It changes. It heals."

She turns in your arms, and for once, her eyes are clear. No fever, no muddle—just Jinx, looking at you like she’s seeing you for the first time. Her hands find your face, thumbs tracing the almost invisible scales at your temples. You raise your hands, fingers contorting as you sign once more.

We have changed each other. It is a symptom of love.

Jinx says nothing, then she moves. You forget how agile she can be at times. With a few spritely movements, she is holding your waist and treading water. One hand comes up, cradling your face. There is a pause, and you glance at her, eyes wide with confusion and anticipation. This is new. She studies you, and you belatedly realize she is waiting for something. Permission, you think.

“Yes?” you ask. She smiles; it’s the right answer.

She slips out the shell, and you startle. This is dangerous, but she doesn’t care. She stops you.

Her hand nestles thoroughly in your hair, tilting your head until your flesh is exposed to her lips. Again and again, she presses her mouth to your neck. She suckles, nips, until your tail flicks. She is kissing you. You’ve never been kissed before—not like this.

Her teeth dig in, needling at the meat of your throat until it’s mottled and bruised. Then her lips come up to yours. At first, you breathe into her mouth to give her oxygen. Jinx pulls back, grips your jaw, and shakes you slightly. Then her lips return to yours, applying pressure until you open your mouth and allow her tongue in. She licks at your teeth, tracing the points as she holds you to her.

You feel lightheaded, disoriented. You feel good; you want more of her. After a long while, she breaks the contact. Her thumb settles at the base of your throat, slipping to the side to play with your gills. You trill sharply, and she laughs. You don’t want to say it, but you know—you want it to stay this way forever.

Jinx takes her shell from where she had placed it on her stomach. She allows it back into her throat, breathing in deeply. Then she lifts her hands and signs to you—clumsy but earnest.

Yes. You have changed me. It is a symptom of love.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼

"I used to think I had to be loud," she tells you one night, floating on her back in the shallow parts of the grotto. Her hair fans out around her head like spilled ink, and you can't help but run your fingers through it, watching the way it parts around your hands. "Had to be crazy, had to be Jinx, because if I wasn't, then I'd have to be... her. The girl I was before. And she was weak. She got left behind."

You hum softly, the crystals below resonating in harmony. "Perhaps she wasn't weak," you suggest, tracing the constellation of freckles on her shoulder. "Perhaps she was just unfinished, like a pearl before the ocean completes its formation."

She turns to look at you then, the emotion in her eyes making your heart beat in that strange double rhythm that only happens when she's near.

"Is that what you're doing?" she asks. "Finishing me?"

You shake your head, pulling her closer until she's cradled against your chest, her back to your front, both of you suspended in the gentle current. "No one can complete you but yourself. I'm just... holding the space for you to do it.”

She's quiet for so long you think she might have fallen asleep. Then: "I’m in love with you." Her voice is barely a whisper, as if the words might shatter the peace.

Instead of answering, you press your lips to her shoulder, right where a new tattoo is healing—a pattern of waves and crystals mirroring your own scales. You helped her design it, watching in fascination as she used her clever hands to create the automaton.

"For us," you tell her, "it is different. We don't fall in love the way humans do. There's less emphasis on choices. It’s more like... finding a current that matches your own, something that pulls you in the same direction for the rest of your life. I've been swimming in your current since the day you arrived. There’s a vibration you release, deep inside me. You set it off, again and again."

Your mouth works oddly around the word "belly." She smiles at your struggle, turning in your embrace to press her forehead to yours in the way she knows you love. Her hands find your face, and you press a kiss to her fingers, grazing your teeth over her thumb. She shivers, captures your mouth briefly, then tucks herself back against you. Drowsy, she begins to dream and you let her, drifting your body lazily along the stretch of water to rock her.

It is then that you hear them—footsteps on stone, careful and measured. You recognize them instantly: the heavy tread of the enforcer, the lighter step of her companion. They've been searching for months, following rumors of blue hair seen in the Undercity's depths.

Jinx doesn't hear them, not yet. She’s drifting in that peaceful place between wakefulness and sleep, her body trustingly pliant in your embrace. She’d had an episode before this—memories of fire leaving her shaking for hours. But now she's quiet, her breathing synced with the gentle lap of water against stone.

You sense her presence before you see her, a disturbance in the air that makes the algae pulse brighter. The Sister. Her presence feels much like Jinx’s but more weathered, carrying the weight of blood. It catches in your throat unpleasantly, making you want to cough. Her footsteps falter at the grotto's entrance. The other one—Caitlyn, you recall—steadies her with a touch, but neither makes a sound.

They stand frozen at the sight before them: Jinx floating in the ethereal water, her hair unbound and threaded with living light, her face peaceful in a way they've never seen. Your tail curls protectively around her legs beneath the surface, scales catching and reflecting the cavern's natural light until it seems like you're both in some unreachable heaven. You bare your teeth to shatter the fantasy.

The Sister’s sharp intake of breath echoes off the stone. Jinx stirs slightly, but you soothe her with a soft hum, reworking her lullaby until the water itself vibrates in harmony. Her fingers tighten briefly on your arms before relaxing again.

When you meet the Sister’s eyes over Jinx's shoulder, you see tears tracking silently down her face. There's recognition there, and grief, and something like hope. You see the moment she understands what you are—not just a creature of the deep but a guardian. Her sister’s keeper; her sister’s mate.

Caitlyn moves forward as if to speak, but Violet—yes, Violet—stops her with a gentle touch. They watch as you shift slightly, letting them see how Jinx's newest tattoos mirror your own patterns—not random splashes of pain and memory but flowing lines that speak of partnership, of flesh and form meant to slot into one another.

A soft noise escapes Violet’s throat, something between a sob and a laugh. Jinx stirs again, and this time you let your gaze drop deliberately to her face, your webbed hands smoothing over her shoulders in a gesture that couldn't be more clear: She is safe here. She is loved here.

You raise a hand, your eyes slipping into their true state to make your threat clear. You know the Piltover girl will understand; her home is the home of poachers. Safe, you sign. Then, Go.

The Sister nods once, tears still falling. Her hand finds Caitlyn's and squeezes hard. You watch understanding pass between them—the recognition that sometimes healing happens in strange places, that sometimes love wears unfamiliar, frightening faces.

They turn to leave, but at the last moment, Violet looks back. Her lips form words you can read even across the distance: Thank you. Only when their footsteps fade completely do you press a kiss to Jinx's temple, tasting the salt of tears that aren’t your own.

"Are they gone?" Jinx's voice is quiet, still heavy with sleep.

"Yes," you answer honestly, because you've never lied to her and won’t start now.

She turns in your embrace, pressing her face into your neck where your scales fade into skin. "I'm not ready," she whispers. "Not yet."

"You can stay here," you promise, letting your tail wrap more securely around her. "For as long as you need. But you will not lose me. I will not lose you.”

She lifts her head to look at you, and her eyes are like silver dollars. You mimic her blinking for what must be the millionth time. Open, close. Close and open. She smiles at this. You smile, hollowing your throat to coo, mimicking the call of a bird of paradise. She laughs now; you are pleased.

 "Tell me again," she murmurs. "About your promise."

Your tail flicks as you nod.

“I will never leave; I will only follow,” you begin. The words are heavy, sacred mating rites belonging solely to your tribe. “The water flows across the earth; it is immovable. It is the human that will fade, not the earth, not myself. We will both replenish. Where you go, I will be there—past death and beyond.

Jinx rises, cupping your face firmly, her touch restricting your movement.

“Promise?” she asks, her voice dipping low, laced with danger.

“I promise.”

She presses her lips to your neck, her teeth sinking in as always. You let out a high, trembling sound, your control slipping. Suddenly, you’re human, treading water. Jinx hooks an arm beneath you, lifting you effortlessly as the water renders you weightless.

“I promise.”

You repeat it, over and over.

IpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseIpromiseI promiseI promise—

Jinx drags you from the grotto, positioning herself over you. Your words are still spilling out like a mantra.

“I know,” she murmurs.

Her warm, sugary lips cover yours, silencing you. She swallows you down.

© hcneymooners.

⚚ special taglist: @thatgrlnany @bubblestrbls @iluvwomensm @so-calledstr8 @the-record @blackdykegirlblogger @bugsinmypantsono @drgnflyteabox @montmorencys @rottngrl3 @vifilms @stupendousbananasharkcop @vminswrld @sevslefthand @fleshunger @soniiyi @sunhurtz @shootingc @diorblusher @nightlyconfusion @darkerstarsstuff @dollinin @16novvs @reign-azzz

[faebled-stories]

In the Shadows of Fantasy

Kinkvember Day 2: Roleplay/CNC

Shin Ryujin x Male (????)

TW: Non-Con Themes (first time writing this sort of scenes.)

6.2k words

On a quiet evening in her snug apartment, the bustling world outside felt like a distant dream, imbued with an air of surreal calmness. The remnants of a vibrant day, filled with the excitement of promoting for ITZY, lingered faintly in her mind, but like a gentle tide, it was ebbing away, gradually replaced by the soothing hum of her sanctuary. After conquering the frenetic energy of rehearsals, interviews, and eager fans, Ryujin relished stepping across the threshold into her own little bubble of peace. The muted symphony of the city—a soft hum of distant honks and faintly echoing conversations—enveloped her, whispering tales of life outside while allowing her the comfort of solitude.

Her sanctuary was a refuge, a warm hug against the chill of the metropolitan hustle. As she entered her cozy space, the atmosphere exuded comfort; the soft, golden glow from carefully placed lamps created playful shadows that danced across the walls, turning the stark lines of her apartment into something softer, more inviting. The ambiance wrapped around her in layers of warmth, a stark contrast to the chaos of the outside world. As she sank onto her plush bed, enveloped in a knitted blanket, the remnants of the hot shower she had just indulged in lingered around her, a steamy embrace that melted away the exhaustion of her day. The warm water had worked wonders, loosening her tense muscles and leaving her in a state of relaxed bliss.

Wrapped in her silky pink pajamas—a delicate tapestry of fabric that brushed against her skin like a soft whisper—Ryujin felt a wave of relief wash over her. The delicate lace trim of her pajamas was not just an embellishment; it was a small act of indulgence, a reminder that even in a world that demanded strength and poise, the quiet luxuries of self-care were invaluable. Her long black hair, still damp and slightly tousled from the shower, had been pulled into a loose, messy bun, radiating an effortless elegance as if she were embodying the beauty of simplicity. In this personal space, Ryujin cherished the joy of authenticity, free from the public scrutiny that accompanied her life on stage.

Before fully sinking into the serene embrace of her evening rituals, Ryujin felt the familiar buzz of her phone. She reached for it, quickly thumbing through her messages. A smile tugged at her lips as she read through the lively chatter in her group chat with her bandmates. They were making plans for the night, a rare and precious opportunity to unwind amidst their demanding schedules. She quickly typed her response, crafting her words with care,

“Sorry, I can’t meet up later. I’ve already got plans for tonight.”

A wave of hesitation washed over her. It was true—she had plans, albeit not the kind that involved meeting friends for dinner or drinks. As she sent the message, a flutter of excitement coursed through her, igniting a spark of anticipation. The girls replied with understanding, their supportive words bringing a warmth to her heart. She locked her phone and tucked it beneath the comforting folds of her blanket, her pulse slowing as she glanced around her apartment. The gentle glow of candles flickered soothingly, the air thick with the aroma of serenity, a sharp contrast to the exhilarating chaos she had just left behind.

The scents of lavender and vanilla blended harmoniously, wrapping around her like an invisible shawl. A diffuser on her nightstand sent delicate puffs of lavender oil into the air, its calming properties weaving throughout the room, while a vanilla-scented candle flickered softly on the coffee table, casting moving shadows that danced playfully across the tidy space. Scattered around her were remnants of the day—magazines, photos, promotional flyers—tokens and trinkets of her fast-paced existence. Yet, in this tranquil sanctuary, they felt more like mementos of a bygone affair, whispering echoes of a vibrant life now tucked away as she embraced her present.

Ryujin let out a deep, contented sigh, surrendering fully to the plush comfort of her bed. As her mind wandered, she began to scroll through pictures from the day’s events—captured smiles and spontaneous laughter with her bandmates and the adoring fans who filled the venue with enthusiasm. The vivid memories—bright stage lights, pulsing music, and the electric energy of a crowd—swirled within her, a vibrant tapestry woven from moments of authenticity and connection. Yet, here, nestled in her softly lit living room, with the city humming a lullaby outside, she felt a reassuring sense of peace wash over her. This was her moment, a rare stillness amidst a world that rarely paused to breathe.

With her feet tucked comfortably beneath her, Ryujin relished every second of this quiet solitude. The world outside could wait; tonight, she would luxuriate in her own tranquility, enveloped by warmth, the scent of her favorite candles, and the knowledge that within the chaos of her life, she could carve out a corner meant solely for introspection and self-appreciation. Here, in her sanctuary, she could simply be Ryujin—the girl behind the stage lights, the one finding solace in the quiet power of her own company.

The tranquility of Ryujin's home was shattered by a sudden, deafening crash. The sound, akin to a gunshot, reverberated through the living room, its echoes bouncing off the walls and jolting the young idol from her peaceful reverie. The serene stillness of the dimly lit hallway before her was now a corridor of uncertainty, a pathway to an unknown danger that had so rudely intruded upon her sanctuary.

As the initial shock subsided, the pounding of heavy footsteps against the wooden floorboards sent waves of dread through Ryujin's petite frame. Each thud was a drumbeat of impending doom, the rhythm growing louder and more insistent as the source of the disturbance drew nearer. Her heart, a wild drum in her chest, pounded in sync with the advancing threat, the surge of adrenaline sharpening her senses to a painful acuity.

The darkness in the hallway seemed to deepen, and from its depths, a figure emerged—a menacing silhouette that moved with deliberate intent. Ryujin's instincts screamed for her to flee, but fear rooted her to the spot. Her attempt to cry out for help died in her throat, a silent scream that hung heavy in the air.

As the intruder drew closer, the dim light revealed his obscured features—a black ski mask concealed his identity, and his eyes, those piercing, manic eyes, gleamed with a dangerous intensity that sent shivers down Ryujin's spine. His presence was a palpable threat, a predator in her home, and she knew with a sinking certainty that her world was about to be upended.

With a roughness that took her breath away, the man seized Ryujin by the shoulders, his grip an iron vice that she couldn't break free from. He hoisted her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing, ignoring her frantic struggles and the blows she rained down upon his back. Her attempts to break free were met with a firm smack to her backside, a humiliating assertion of his control over her. His hands, now freed from the task of restraining her, roamed over her body with a sense of entitlement that made her blood run cold.

The journey down the hallway to her bedroom was a blur of panic and disbelief. Ryujin's mind raced, searching for a way to escape the nightmare that had ensnared her. But her efforts were in vain; the intruder's strength was overwhelming, and her bedroom—a space that had always been a haven—was now the stage for her terror.

Tossed onto the bed like a ragdoll, Ryujin's breath was knocked from her lungs. The bedframe creaked ominously under the sudden addition of weight, and she scrambled to regain her footing, to put distance between herself and the monster that loomed over her. But he was on her in an instant, his body pinning hers to the mattress with terrifying ease.

"Stop! Who are you? What are you doing?" Ryujin's voice was a tremulous whisper, laced with the kind of fear that claws at the throat and threatens to suffocate. The room, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison, the air thick with the scent of her own fear and the sickening sweetness of the intruder's breath.

His response was a cruel laugh that seemed to mock her vulnerability, he silenced her attempts to scream. "Silence," he hissed, the command a low growl that filled the room and silenced the last of her protests. His hands, calloused and rough, tore at her clothing with a ferocity that left her exposed and shivering in the cool air.

Ryujin's heart pounded in her chest like a trapped animal desperate for escape as she lay there, her wrists firmly ensnared in the iron grip of her captor. His hands, large and unyielding, were like manacles, pinning her to the cold, unforgiving surface beneath her. Her struggles were futile, her strength no match for the brute force that held her captive.

Tears carved rivulets down her cheeks, each one a silent testament to her terror. Her voice, once strong and defiant, was now a mere whisper as she begged for mercy. "Please, don't do this," she pleaded, her words laced with desperation. But the intruder, his eyes darkened with a lust that brooked no room for compassion, was deaf to her entreaties. He was a man possessed, his mind clouded by a perverse obsession that had consumed him whole.

"You’re mine now," he declared, his voice a guttural growl that resonated with the promise of unspeakable acts. The words hung in the air like a specter, filling the room with a palpable sense of dread. Ryujin's body trembled, not just from the chill of the room, but from the deep-seated fear that gripped her soul. She knew that her life was hanging by a thread, and that the man above her was the only one who held the power to sever it.

His breath, hot and ragged, washed over her face as he leaned in closer, his intentions clear. Ryujin felt a wave of nausea rise within her as she realized the horror that was about to unfold. She closed her eyes, trying to transport herself to a safer place, a happier memory, but the reality of her situation was an unbreakable chain that tethered her to the present.

The intruder's hands roamed over her body with a sense of entitlement, each touch a violation, a desecration of her being. Ryujin's mind raced, searching for a way out, a miracle that would deliver her from this nightmare. But as she lay there, helpless and afraid, she knew that her fate was sealed. The only thing left to do was to endure, to survive by any means necessary, and to hope against hope that she would live to see another day.

The roughness of his hands scraped against her soft skin, leaving a trail of dread in their wake. Ryujin's heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drumbeat that echoed the turmoil in her mind. Each grope, each unwanted caress, sent shockwaves of revulsion through her. His touch was a violation, a harsh juxtaposition to the gentle caresses she had once known.

His fingers, unyielding and intrusive, pried at her most private sanctum, a sacred space now desecrated by his relentless, cruel exploration. The intimate touch that should have been filled with warmth and mutual desire was instead laced with a cold, brutal possessiveness. It was a reminder of her loss of control, her autonomy stripped away by force.

Ryujin felt her very essence recoil from the abomination of his touch. Her body, once a vessel of joy and pleasure, now served as a battleground, a site of abuse. With each passing moment, the vile invasion further tainted her, leaving her feeling irreparably soiled, her spirit crying out against the defilement of her temple.

In the depths of her being, Ryujin's mind railed against the horror, a silent scream reverberating through her consciousness. She clung to the fragments of her dignity, a desperate act of defiance against the physical and emotional ravaging of her person. With each heartbeat, she fought to preserve a piece of herself untouched by the brutality that surrounded her, a small flame of resistance flickering in the darkness of her ordeal.

His depraved taunts sliced through the air, each word a lash against her dignity. "God look at you getting wet, I knew you were a slut hiding as an idol," he sneered, his voice dripping with malicious glee. His words were not just spoken; they were a deliberate and cruel violation of her spirit, an attempt to strip her of her identity and reduce her to nothing more than an object of his twisted desires.

Ryujin's denials were fierce, yet they seemed to dissipate into the ether, unacknowledged and invalidated by the monster looming above her. She mustered all her strength to form coherent words through her sobs, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and outrage. "No, please, you're wrong!" she pleaded, her eyes wide with terror, reflecting the shattered remnants of her once untouchable world.

But her tearful pleas fell on deaf ears. The intruder reveled in her distress, feeding off it, his smirk growing ever wider as he watched her struggle against the nightmare he had forced upon her. With each passing moment, her torment seemed to intensify, a crescendo of emotional and psychological pain that threatened to consume her entirely.

The man who claimed to be her fan, who had morphed into her captor, traced the contours of her vulnerability with a touch that was both invasive and terrifying. With a single finger, he probed her innocence, curling it in a gesture that was as much a violation as it was a perverse display of control. Scooping the essence of her fear and arousal, he brought it to her tear-streaked face, a macabre exhibition to prove his twisted point. "See? Even when you deny it, you love it," he sneered, before indulging in the taste of her terror, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure as she watched, paralyzed by the moment, her struggles futile under his oppressive grip.

The chill of his words cut deeper than the physical intrusion. "I've been watching you for some time now, I even attended your fan meet," he growled into her ear, the proximity of his breath a violation in itself. "The way you spoke to me, I knew you wanted this, wanted me." His statement was a delusion, a fabrication born from his obsessive desire to possess her.

With no regard for her well being, he forced his three longest fingers into her, cruelly exploring her depths as she fought against the invasion, her legs flailing in a desperate attempt to deny him access. A swift, stinging slap to her thighs served as a harsh reminder of her helplessness, and he pinned her legs open with his knees, ensuring her resistance was crushed under his relentless assault.

His hands were unyielding, pistoning with a ferocity that ignored her pleas for mercy. The slickness of her own arousal betrayed her, fueling his relentless rhythm. Each thrust was a reminder of her captivity, each cry that tore from her throat a testament to her suffering. But Ryujin was not one to surrender easily. With a surge of adrenaline, she mustered the strength to fight back, freeing a leg and landing a kick that momentarily freed her from his grasp. The brief respite was a fleeting victory, as her attempt to escape was swiftly thwarted by his longer reach and quick reflexes.

"You never know when to quit, do you?" he taunted, a smirk playing at his lips. "I should have seen this coming; you were always so strong." His eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of admiration and malice. "But that only makes it sweeter—knowing how satisfying it’ll be when I finally reduce you to nothing but a toy." His words, dripping with twisted admiration, laid bare the sinister depths of his obsession.

The room that was once a haven of tranquility and self-expression, a scene of unfathomable horror was unfolding. The room, bathed in the dim glow of a solitary lamp, bore witness to a transformation that would leave its occupant forever scarred. This was no longer a sanctuary; it was a site of a struggle that would test the very limits of human resilience.

The walls, once adorned with vibrant colors and personal mementos, now stood as silent sentinels to an act of domination. As the assailant's eyes swept across the room, they settled on an object that would chill the blood of any onlooker: a length of rope, its very presence an ominous harbinger of what was to come. The rope, an everyday item twisted into an instrument of torment, lay coiled and waiting—its innocent origins now a distant memory in the face of its dark new purpose.

With a grip born of malice, the assailant seized the rope, its fibers a cruel contrast to the softness of the skin it would soon bind. The victim, a soul whose light had drawn many, now found herself ensnared by the very space that once celebrated her essence. As she was dragged towards the bed, a symbol of comfort turned into an altar of suffering, the rope in the assailant's hand became a grim portent of her impending entrapment.

"What is this for? You're a kinky little bitch, huh?" he sneered, the words a vile distortion of intimacy. Ryujin's denial was written in the frantic shake of her head and the terror etched across her face. Her gaze flickered towards a drawer.

Noticing her glance, he leaned over and pulled it open, his expression twisting with dark amusement as he uncovered the hidden item. "Well, well," he murmured, lifting the rainbow-colored dildo wrapped in cloth. "Looks like you've got your secrets." His tone was laced with cruel satisfaction as he held her private joy aloft, a personal item now transformed into a weapon for her degradation.

In a swift and brutal motion, she was thrown onto the bed, the force of the action resurfacing memories of what happened just moments ago. The assailant, driven by a desire to dominate and degrade, secured her hands to the bedpost with ruthless efficiency. The rope dug into her flesh, each strand a thread in the tapestry of her suffering.

The decision to leave her legs untied was a calculated one, a means to leave her completely and utterly vulnerable. The sense of exposure was all-consuming, rendering her utterly defenseless against the violence that was to follow.

Ryujin, whose name evoked images of a fierce idol known for her strength, grace and power. Now found herself trapped in a human drama of the darkest kind. Her heart raced, a frantic drumbeat against the silence that enveloped the room. With each desperate pull against the restraints, her unyielded spirit shone through the darkness of her situation, a beacon of resistance that refused to be extinguished.

The moment of violation arrived with a swift and violent plunge, an act that would seek to strip away her sense of self. The toy, once a source of personal enjoyment, was now an extension of her assailant's twisted desires. Its rainbow markings, a grotesque contrast to the act they were now part of, stood in stark contrast to the vibrancy they were meant to represent.

The struggle was internal as much as it was physical. I can't… not like this she thought, but her body, a finely tuned instrument honed through years of dance and performance, betrayed her. A quiet gasp slipped out, her legs trembling as she fought to maintain a composure that was being systematically dismantled. The toy filled her in a way that was impossible to ignore, its movements an unwelcome rhythm dictated by hands that had no right to touch her.

Teetering on the edge of her endurance, her mind spun in a desperate search for an anchor—a lifeline to cling to amidst the relentless onslaught. But the man, a specter of menace was unrelenting, a manifestation of her deepest fears made flesh.

With each passing second, Ryujin felt the invisible grip of inevitability tighten around her. It's too much, she realized, the thought piercing through the haze of her resistance. And just as this realization coalesced into a stark acceptance, her body tensed, betraying her final shred of resistance. A soft cry, born of a place where strength and vulnerability intertwine, escaped her lips as she let go, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation that threatened to consume her whole.

The orgasm that followed was not just a physical response; it was a shattering of the self, a detonation that rippled through every fiber of her being. For a moment, everything else vanished—erased by the pulsating, all-consuming release she had tried so hard to deny. "No, no, not like this—" she gasped, but her plea was lost in the tempest that raged within. The orgasm crashed through her like a rogue wave, her entire body seizing with the sudden intensity, leaving her breathless and exposed.

Her legs shook violently, her control lost to the tide of pleasure that surged through her core in overwhelming pulses. Each throb was a testament to the power of her adversary, a man who watched with a dark satisfaction etched into the harsh lines of his face. His gaze was fixed on her, a predator savoring the sight of his prey coming undone in his arms.

Ryujin's body arched into the pleasure she had tried so hard to resist, her mind too clouded with sensation to mount any further defense. Her composure, once a fortress, lay in ruins, each shudder tearing away the last remnants of her armor. She was completely vulnerable, exposed to the cruel whims of her attacker, a man who seemed to revel in the unraveling of her defenses.

With her legs trembling and the last of her resistance shattered, her orgasm wracked her until there was nothing left to give. She lay there, spent, her breaths coming in shallow bursts as the aftershocks pulsed faintly through her limbs. He held her, still reveling in the sight of his idol succumbing so completely to the moment.

The assault on her dignity continued as he began to undo his pants, letting her glimpse his hardening cock—a sight that was both repulsive and terrifying. He repeated his previous actions, dipping his fingers and letting Ryujin see just how wet she was from being handled against her will. "Just accept it, Ryujin, you're a slut, a slut who loves to be ra-" His words were cut off as a glob of saliva hit his face. Her defiance was palpable, "how dare you say such things, let me go, you freak," she tried to intimidate him despite her position.

This only made the man chuckle, a sound that was incongruously light against the gravity of the situation. He wiped the spit from his face and, without warning, he slapped her pussy and suddenly inserted his full length into her throbbing folds. A sharp gasp escaping Ryujin's lips as her body adjusted to the sudden abuse. His pace was relentless, each movement rough and mechanical, offering no reprieve from the overwhelming sensation.

"Stop… please…" Ryujin whimpered, her voice barely audible as she fought to hold on, her body bucking beneath him as she tried in vain to push him away.

"You want this," he hissed in response, his hips slamming into hers. "You knew what would happen, all those times you were up on the stage, shaking your ass with nothing but shorts that didn’t even cover your ass, you know what you were doing, don’t pretend you didn’t."

The words sent a shudder through her. In the privacy of her home, the fear took hold—would anyone even know to come help her? She should've just gone with the ITZY girls, but this was what she had wanted, a moment to herself, a chance to stay home and relax. Now, her desire for solitude had backfired, trapping her in a nightmare. Her mind rebelled against the raw brutality of it, while her body betrayed her with its responses.

"I… I don’t…" Ryujin gasped, her voice trembling as his thrusts became more punishing, forcing her to feel every inch of him inside her. The sensation was overwhelming—pain and pleasure mixed into one confusing, intoxicating wave.

The man grunted, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "You will take it. You’ll take everything I give you." He forcefully grabbed her hair, using it as a handle as he thrusted harder into her. If she just slightly brought her eyes down, she would be able to see the assault happening to her precious core, a sight that would haunt her long after the physical scars had healed.

Tears of frustration and shame spilled down her cheeks as Ryujin struggled to process the overwhelming intensity. Each brutal thrust tore through her, making her feel both powerless and consumed. Her body quaked with each movement, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fought the conflicting emotions warring inside her.

"Please… stop…" Ryujin whispered again, but the plea fell on deaf ears. Her body, traitorous in its response, began to react to his touch, a warmth pooling deep within her core, betraying the turmoil of her heart and mind.

This scene, fraught with a harrowing mix of fear and arousal, is not just a moment but a narrative that underscores the intricate and often misunderstood nature of human sexuality and consent. Her voice, barely a whisper, laced with a mixture of fear and desperation, "No… No… I can't cum like this, not again," underscores the internal conflict that many victims of sexual coercion face. The struggle within her was palpable, a conflict between the primal urges of her flesh and the clear boundaries she so desperately wanted to maintain.

Yet, her tormentor was relentless. "You can, and you will. You want it, your body craves it," he growled, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate within her, stirring feelings she wished would remain dormant. His words were not just a statement but a command, an assertion of control that left her feeling powerless and exposed.

The intensity of the situation was undeniable, pulling her closer to the edge despite the tears that streamed down her face. Each sob was a silent scream, a plea for mercy that went unheard. She hated how much her body had betrayed her, how it responded to the very touch that repulsed her mind. The paradox of pleasure and pain intertwined, creating a storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

Just as his brutal thrusts reached their peak, his voice broke through in a ragged growl. “Fuck, your tight pussy is making me cum. I’m gonna fill you up so well,” he groaned, his member starting to pulsate inside her.

Panicking, Ryujin tried one last time to regain control. “Please don’t—anything but that. I’ll swallow everything, please don’t cum in me. I need to keep my job, please!” Her voice was desperate, her pleas frantic. But he ignored her, too far gone, the sound of her cries only pushing him closer to his inevitable release.

With a final, forceful slam of his hips, he buried himself deep inside her. His body tensed, grunting as the rush of his climax took hold. Ryujin’s body, pushed to its breaking point, betrayed her in the worst way possible. A choked, involuntary cry escaped her lips as she felt a molten heat bubble up from her core. “No, no, no—I can’t cum like this, I can’t—OH FUCK! NO!” Her protest turned into a scream as an intense orgasm ripped through her, unstoppable, her body convulsing against her will..

Every nerve was on fire, her entire being wracked with sensation as her climax overtook her. She could feel him inside her, his length pulsing, pumping one wave of release after another, spilling every drop of his cum deep into her womb. It was too much, her body buckling as the pleasure overwhelmed her.

When it was over, she lay there trembling, her limbs weak and unsteady. Conflicting emotions tore at her—shame and disgust mingled with the unsettling, undeniable relief her body had experienced. She felt a profound sense of humiliation, haunted by the fact that even under such circumstances, her body had responded so intensely, climaxing harder than ever before.

Her breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps as she tried to make sense of the chaotic swirl of sensations and the hollow feeling left behind. Finally, his movements slowed and stopped, his weight pressing heavily into her, pinning her further into the bed. For a moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing, thick with exhaustion, filling the air like an unwelcome reminder.

But then, something shifted. He slowly peeled himself away from her, his movements hesitant, as though the air had grown thick between them. She felt him exit her, and a cold breeze hit her core, leaving her to shiver and her pussy pulsing. He stood, silent, and as Ryujin looked up, she saw him reach for the mask he had been wearing. He pulled it off, the fabric falling to the floor.

Her gaze followed it, and then she looked up, meeting his eyes. Something in his expression made her heart lurch. It wasn’t anger or disgust that she felt now—it was guilt. Sympathy and regret welled up inside her, twisting her stomach.

You stood there, staring down at her with a look of conflict, your shoulders heavy as if the weight of the moment had just settled on you.

“Did you… like that?” you asked finally, your voice soft, uncertain, almost fragile.

Ryujin blinked, trying to sort through the storm of emotions inside her. She had liked it, loved it even—there was no denying the raw intensity of what had just happened. The power of the orgasm had been overwhelming, consuming her entirely. But seeing the guilt in your eyes now made her chest tighten. She hadn’t realized the toll it had taken on you.

“I did,” she admitted softly, sitting up and pulling the blanket around herself for comfort. “But… I didn’t think it would be like this for you. I thought you’d enjoy it too.”

Her voice was tender, her eyes searching for understanding. She hadn’t anticipated this outcome, hadn’t realized that what had been a moment of intense release for her had left you feeling something much different. The realization hit her hard, and suddenly the thrill of the moment faded, replaced by the weight of everything left unsaid between you.

You let out a slow breath, running a hand through your hair. “I thought I would enjoy it. But halfway through, it stopped feeling like an act. It felt… too real.” You shook your head, guilt flashing across your face. “I don’t want to hurt you, Ryujin. Even if it’s just role-play.”

Ryujin’s heart sank as she heard the strain in your voice. The plan she had been so excited about—the one she’d been texting you earlier, coordinating in secret—suddenly felt like a misstep. She had wanted to explore this fantasy together, to push your boundaries, but now she saw how deeply it had affected you.

Seeing your troubled expression, Ryujin immediately reached out and took your hand, squeezing it gently. “You didn’t hurt me, I promise,” she said softly, her voice full of warmth and reassurance. She shifted closer to you, her fingers brushing through your hair, trying to comfort you. “I trusted you completely, and you didn’t cross any lines. You gave me exactly what I wanted.”

Your eyes softened as you looked at her, but the weight of your emotions was still evident. “I just didn’t expect it to feel so real. Seeing you like that—so vulnerable—it scared me. I wasn’t sure if I should stop. I wanted to make you feel good, but then it felt like too much.”

Ryujin’s heart ached seeing the guilt and confusion in your eyes. She could sense how much you had been battling internally, pushing through the moment for her sake. Her fingers gently traced your jawline as she spoke. “I know it felt intense. I know it was a lot. But you did everything right. You didn’t hurt me. It’s okay to feel unsure sometimes—it means you care, it means you’re thinking of me. And I love that about you.”

She pressed her forehead against yours, her breath warm and steady as she tried to ease your anxiety. “I’m sorry if I pushed you too far,” she whispered, her hand gently squeezing your shoulder. “This is our time, not just my time. If it ever feels too real, or if you’re uncomfortable, we stop. That’s what the safe word is for, remember? We’re always in control together.”

You exhaled, your body relaxing a little as her words sank in. You knelt beside her on the bed, your hands resting on her thighs, drawing strength from her presence. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “You looked so caught up in it, and I didn’t want to let you down.”

Ryujin shook her head gently, her heart full of affection as she cupped your face in her hands. “You could never let me down. You did exactly what I asked of you, and you did it because you love me. That means more than anything. We tried something new together, and that’s what matters. The fact that you care enough to worry about me—that’s what makes this work.”

Your eyes filled with gratitude as you leaned into her touch, feeling the weight of your worry begin to lift. “I’m not mad,” Ryujin continued, her voice soothing as she spoke. “We don’t have to rush back into this. I know it was intense, and maybe we can try again in the future if we both feel ready. But not until you’re comfortable.”

You nodded, your forehead resting against hers. “Thank you… for understanding and for being patient with me. I really didn’t like seeing you cry, even if it was part of the role-play.”

Ryujin smiled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “I know. I could feel it when you hesitated, but I also knew I was safe with you. You did everything right. It’s okay to take things slow next time. We’ll figure out what works for both of us.”

As she spoke, Ryujin wrapped her arms around you, pulling you close. She could feel the tension slowly ebbing away from your body, replaced by the quiet understanding that, while you hadn’t shared the exact same feelings during the moment, your love and trust remained strong.

“I love you,” Ryujin whispered into your ear, her voice steady and full of care. “We’ll always figure this out together. Don’t carry this weight by yourself.”

You hugged her tightly, your grip firm but tender. “I love you too. I just… I want to be what you need.”

Ryujin pulled back slightly, her eyes locking with yours. “You already are. Just by being here, by talking to me like this—you’re everything I need.”

Your breath hitched slightly, and Ryujin could see the relief wash over you, your shoulders relaxing as the guilt you’d been carrying finally started to dissolve.

You sat together, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the earlier intensity now softened by the quiet hum of the room. The air, still charged with the echoes of your shared vulnerability, gradually became a sanctuary of comfort. The rhythmic thrum of Ryujin’s heartbeat under your ear anchored you, a gentle reminder that in this moment, safety and love surrounded you.

The night hadn’t unfolded as either of you expected. While it was intended to push boundaries, it ended up brushing too close to an edge that felt unsettling. But here, in the quiet aftermath, the true strength of your bond revealed itself—not in flawless moments, but in facing the imperfect ones together.

Ryujin’s hand moved with a tender steadiness, fingers threading through your hair as she held you close. Her eyes, soft with understanding and glistening with unshed emotion, searched yours. The apology she whispered carried the weight of sincerity. “I’m sorry again for making you do something you weren’t comfortable doing,” she said, her voice low and earnest. The kiss she placed on your forehead lingered like a promise, warm and reassuring. “We should always both be enjoying it, okay?”

You felt a lump rise in your throat, a mixture of relief and gratitude. Her words resonated in the space between you, washing away the remnants of doubt that had lingered in the corners of your mind. You nodded, the gesture small but full of resolve. “Okay. If it ever feels like that again, I’ll tell you,” you said, your voice steadying as her hand tightened over yours.

A smile broke through the lingering tension on Ryujin’s face, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she nestled closer. The room felt warmer, filled not just with the heat of bodies, but with the shared understanding that mistakes were not failures—they were lessons. The moments of discomfort were laid to rest, and in their place grew something deeper: the affirmation that your love thrived not in perfection, but in how you navigated the imperfect.

Ryujin’s embrace became your refuge as the minutes passed, her breathing synchronizing with yours in a comforting rhythm. The world outside fell away, leaving only the steady beat of two hearts, learning and loving as one. Trust, communication, and care—these were the foundations of what you had. And in that moment, it felt like more than enough.

[betterthanyalls]

hey betty wetty bo confetti

How’s about Ares x Reader in which she’s the daughter of Odysseus and and and she’s defending Telemachus & Penelope from the suitors and after getting into a fight with Antinous or however u spell his name, she meets Ares somehow?

BTW DONT FEEL PRESSURED OR FEEL THERES A TIME LIMIT - TAKE YOUR TIME 🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵

Okay love ya 🤩🤗

that nickname concerns me BUT HIIIII so ion know how good this is :sobs: , i made it in the span of like 2-3 hours from a burst of motivation. HERE YOU GO TAKE THIS AS A LATE BIRTHDAY PRESENT

Masterlist

Warrior's Blood

Ares x Reader

EPIC: The Musical ~ Oneshot ~ Action

Words: 1.4K

Published: 11-3-2024 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A loud belch sounded from the palace’s dining hall, followed by boisterous laughter and unorganized yells. The princess of Ithaca glared down the hallway while she stalked past the dining hall to her destination of the training grounds. “Men,” a loud voice called, the speaker standing up on a wooden bench, “we have been waiting for the throne for far too long. Can’t you see we are being played?”

Y/n slowed her pace, taking a peek into the crowded room to see the one suitor she hates the most speaking. Antinous. 

“I say, we take the throne. That boyish prince and his sister only stand in our way to the queen. Once we are rid of them, we shall have full access to the crown." Cheers and yells followed quickly. The onlooking royalty sneered in disgust. Normally, Y/n would only walk away and tell her mother about the new plan, but something inside her felt different—an urge to fight, a need for conflict. 

Taking a step into the light of the hall, Y/n cleared her throat.

“What would my mother think of this? Threatening to kill both of her children and then seizing her by force?" Y/n had to keep from gagging, not only at the idea of their threat but also the horrid stench of the room. 

Antinous turned to the princess with a look of pure murder and flame.

“Well, if it isn’t the weak girl. If you speak even a word of our plan, I will rip you limb from limb so you can meet your father in the underworld,” he stalked towards the younger girl with a vicious grin. “Now that I’ve thought about it, how about we begin that plan now? Starting with you.”

Y/n was wise enough to duck down, blocking an oncoming punch, only to be nailed in the gut with his knee. Falling to the ground with a sharp gasp, she was pulled to her feet by her hair. “Come on, girlie. You had the strength before to challenge me; where is it now? You’re as weak as your father.”

Staggering and getting out of his grasp, she pulled up a loose fighting position. The princess narrowed her eyes at Antinous’ insults while taking steps back to match his steps forward. Y/n tried to find some sort of strategy to take him down, like how Telemachus taught her. Her brother would always say to fight with wisdom, but there was no wisdom anywhere near this fight. Strategy only works if your opponent has strategy too. Antinous was anything but a planned fighter. 

So with her next best option, Y/n grabbed a nearby vase and chucked it at her rival's head. She missed, making Antinous even more angry. With a yell, a foot made contact with her stomach, throwing the princess to the floor and her head hitting a pillar. Pain shot through her entire body as she struggled to regain her breath. 

‘So, I did this easily. Thanks for the amazing lessons, Tele.’ Her mind wandered, forgetting about her approaching opponent as she took a glance at a nearby wall. There, up high, hung a tapestry by her mother. The twelve Olmpyians were displayed with divine glory. Glory that could help Y/n not die, if only they saw her. With nothing left to lose, the princess sent up a silent prayer before deciding to help herself.

With much pain and huffs, Y/n managed to stand on her feet once more with a sway.

Antinous offered a loud laugh, ricocheting off the stone walls.

“You just can’t stay down, can you? Do you not want to see Odysseus in Hades?”

“Don’t you dare speak my father's name,” she hissed through gritted teeth. She leaned onto the pillar with one hand while her other held her hurt stomach. Something other than pain burned inside her—a yearning to see him hurt, to see Antinous suffer. 

A new energy boosted her body; her muscles didn’t feel as sore, and the pain was dissipating. Deciding not to question this, Y/n dodged another punch aimed for her jaw. With fast footing, she grabbed a spear off the wall beside her and countered another punch.

Antinous grabbed the spear to rip it from Y/n’s grasp. Quickly, Y/n pulled the spear closer to her and kicked Antinous in the ribs. Instead of knocking him down, he only stumbled back. 

‘Left’ A voice spoke in her mind. Y/n was about to question the order until she noticed Antinous barreling towards her and instantly followed the demanded direction. 

Dodging a swipe of his sword, the princess swung her spear down at the man's knees, causing him to trip. Looking down to where he fell, a sudden push of rage flowed through her veins.

‘Blood’

She didn’t need to hear the voice again to know exactly what to do. With momentum, Y/n brought the weapons head down into Anitnous’ thigh, earning a scream from the male. She ripped the weapon from his flesh only to bring it down once more with another bloody cry. Her thoughts seemed barren except for a new order from the unknown voice. 

‘Stop’

That order only seemed to boost her adrenaline. Stop? She couldn’t. Not with all this pent-up anger and frustration she felt for Antinous. Y/n needed to make him learn where he stood as a guest in her kingdom. But as she raised her spear once more, the voice barked a command louder and all her pain and exhaustion rushed in.

‘STOP’

In an instant, her spear clattered to the floor as Y/n held her head with a groan. Antinous was being tended to by his fellow suitors, who had opted to stay on the sidelines. With labored breaths, Y/n managed to stumble away from the dining hall and towards the empty training grounds. 

Exhausted, she slumped to the sandy floor and leaned her back against a rack of swords. Her eyes shut against the glaring sun as the royal attempted to regain her breath. To her pleasure, the heat was blocked by a sudden shadow. The young adult cracked open her eyes to see a darkened figure wearing the full armor of a Spartan soldier. A mixture of emotions flooded into her soul as she recognized the nation's armor. Was this news of her father from serving beside the Spartans? But her hope was snuffed out as the familiar voice spoke.

“Stand up.”

She wanted to argue, but something in her felt compelled to follow the instructions. So, shakily, Y/n stood up in front of the warrior. From a new angle, she could see the stranger's identity. All breath escaped her lungs as she recognized the being from similar statues and paintings.

“Ares.”

The god, who towered over her with his divine form, smirked at the recognition.

“Indeed. I’ve seen your skill, princess of Ithaca. You fight well,” the god of war stalked around the girl in a circle, seeing her state after the fight. 

Finally, the two pieces connected in her mind as she turned to face him.

“It was you. The voice. The orders. That was all you.”

“You follow orders well, except for when you’re told to stop. I like that sort of fight.” Ares stood tall, power and bloodlust radiating off him as his armor seemed to brighten a bloody red in the sun’s light.

“Why’d you stop me anyway? You are the god of bloodlust, are you not? I could’ve killed him and solved the whole problem!” Y/n argued, upset at the missed opportunity.

“Have you forgotten the laws of hospitality? You would have been punished harshly by the gods had I let you continue. Not even I can defy those.” He glared down at her with warning. In response, she looked away with a defeated huff.

“Why’d you even help me then?” She grumbled, looking at the nearby swords; a few training weapons had begun to rust from limited use. 

"You have the ambition needed for the battlefield. Why would I let such skill go to waste with no proper mentor?” This caused Y/n to look at him instantly in shock, meeting the gaze of a grinning god beneath his helmet.

“Mentor?” 

“Y/n of Ithaca. You fight to protect. You fight to the last stand. That is a warrior’s blood. Like your father before you, you have the makings of a legend.” Ares held out his hand like he was shaking for a deal. “Become my champion, and I will help you become stronger than any opponent you shall face.” 

Y/n thought it over for less than a few seconds before grabbing the gods hand in her own and shaking them up and down. 

“Deal.”