#my taste in men is a divine punishment from god | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theredripper · 5 months ago

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“you speak blasphemy,” he rebuffs him with a fierceness that leaves no room for argument. toron lived by the divinity passed down by his father, himself a disciple of the Drowned God. through him, toron lay claim to holiness and birthright, as if his hands themselves were that of a god’s. in times of peace, this is but a passing fact. with the tidings of war, however, such holy lineage makes them the fiercest of foes.“the Drowned God is the well from which the ironborn draw the strength to vanquish our enemies. if you are not one of us, then what are you?” the quandary brought on by dalton’s sacrilege does not allow toron to look onto his father as anything but a stranger. so he looks away instead, with a sadness doubled, trebled, and rising high enough to drown a leviathan in a sea of uncertainty. “who are you?” every moment felt like a drop of his blood was lost. now, dalton makes mention of an offense coordinated against him and his kin and toron begins to understand the conspiracy uniting against them, with the queen at the head of it who comes as holy benefactor, a god with the power to both feed and starve. giver of warmth. purveyor of famine and death. that his father, the red kraken, would not answer an affront with equal force but instead lap at the outstretched hand of an enemy and slobber over it in gratitude was inconceivable. “the old way will not be easily suppressed.” he answers gravely. “reaving and raiding has always been our trade. your own men will oppose you. what will you have us do?”

from all the kinds of kinship that exist between people, bonds of war and bonds of love, bonds gleaned from serving the same god or drawing blood for the same cause, toron’s ties with dalton were the strongest. that his father would occlude him of these revelations and direct his rage at him for daring to want more leaves him cowering in shame and fear. every passing moment a new bruise upon him, some new ache. toron’s tears pour forth at dalton’s feet with each new grievance. “pyke has never been enough. how can i be content with something when there is nothing to be reaped from it? must my son and my son’s sons fight for every small measure of food and plunder, round and round until the world ends?” his tears form a trail down to his neck, his face bright and shiny with the saltwater of them. he looks well in the shape of a whetted blade. “no, i shall live on past it while you build new walls but fight the same wars. i will gather lands and turn pyke from a dirt and stone hamlet into a glorious kingdom awash with the lion’s share of coin and gold. i will not fear to seize the mantle of history.” toron turns away from his father at the exhaustion caused by the exertion of his pain. his senses have dulled that toron cannot begin to parse a single word from dalton’s fervent muttering. there are pieces of words that he hears: who, says, kill. it was madness to invite dalton’s punishment unto his men, but toron says nothing, but even he does not know what he wants. bandages and comfort? a warm washcloth and a soft bed? are these things that toron would receive from dalton? that could not be. some fathers cushioned their sons from the dangers of the world. dalton had cracked the world like a bone for him and taught him to suck the sweetness from its marrow. dalton loved like knives. the only comfort he ever had to offer was revenge. it tastes bitter in toron’s mouth and his vulnerability becomes all the more the spectacle for it. he stares at the ground in shame and renounces his father’s pity by withdrawing from the question altogether, even if every insult by his father’s men had brought toron pain. but that was the way of the world; a man must fight to live, even if that man had once been a boy with no one to gladden his heart when every victory in the training yard had been begrudged, every whisper made to poison his uncle against him.

dalton’s voice cuts toron like a new blade from the forge – hot and sharp, a complex alloy tempered by writ-in-stone forewarnings. the image that dalton paints is not lost unto him and in a moment’s weakness he considers the lamentable havoc yet to be wrought, the shadow of the cursed emerald arriving like the hand of judgment in the chill darkness of the night and its captain all the more woeful for it; no husband would be spared because of his wife, nor wife because of her husband, and no parent spared from a helpless child. toron was a man grown with but even he would not be spared the sight of rohanne’s blood curdling and blackening the earth from where gold and silver freely poured out. his beloved siblings would be reduced into pounds of flesh between the great maws of the lions of the rock with only toron to look on and wail his laments against the greying sea. toron shakes his head and meets dalton with eyes roused to battle and the ages old dictum of their house, the moorings by which they had always sailed away from the iron islands and fastened their ships above the sands of such distant shores with the promise of assured victory. “that which is dead cannot die. for he who has tasted death once shall never have to fear again.” toron swallows doubt away in one mouthful of air, feeling himself scoured clean and renewed with purpose. “i was drowned but i have come forth stronger than before, with steel and fire. my body may pass onto the watery halls of my god, but my spirit will live on. i will brave this storm and the victories that will come with it.” it’s a thought toron finds almost placating in its lack of specifics. there is an element of control to it, a reliability; toron knows he can count on the Drowned God to be an isle of respite in the sea of uncertainty. so much of his life had been left to the goodwill of the Drowned God when his father was but a speck of light in the distant horizon and his own mother was a passing ship in the night, always following her own ambitions on her merchant guild and returning with tall tales of the golden lands to the west. his parents may not have found much use of him as a son, but he had been consecrated as a babe in the waters of the Drowned God, his worth weighed and measured by the lord beneath the waves. toron would have no fear because the Drowned God had not found him lacking.

so unknown was a father’s guiding hand to him that dalton’s bellowing command lands like a battleflag being waged by the cruelty and impetuousness of a despot; a stranger taking what has been requested before it can be proffered, assured as he can be that toron and his whims belong to him alone. a man cannot build a wall without building a gate, and this was what his father was to him: the points at which the world opened up for him, but never the gates that shuttered him in. toron takes the insinuation of possession with a bitter cackle and his rage is all the worse for it. “you cannot command me! you are not my captain anymore.” toron means to hurt dalton as he has hurt him, raising his chin in defiance and in measure of his own manhood. “i am my own man with my own ship. i will stand alone with broadsword in hand and my own two feet with a prayer to the Drowned God upon my lips as the storm draws closer. as i always have.”

Dalton realize Toron would never change his opinion unless something terrible happened. « Why can't you see it? You cannot be blind. » —Why would any sailor go willingly to the Storm God's domain? —He didn't see the point to their fight. His body tenses. « I'm the Red Kraken, yes. But I'll give it all back to see my uncle again. Who remembers him now? Only me. » His talent in the battlefield prove to be bittersweet the more friends he saw die in battle. —I made myself a terror. Don't give credit to the drowned god were there is none. I did it for our family and no one else.

The idea of Rhaenyra forcing him to kneel makes him laugh, a nervous laugh.— The Queen already did. She already said she'll have her second Harrenhal gladly if we don't change. —He let the silence lingered, because Dalton haven't said a word about it until now. He needed Toron to understand the danger in his words.— Why are you so eager to become a second Harren the Black? Stop running towards the flames.

« For drowned god's sake, not again. » Dalton isn't in the mood to hear Toron protesting about his marriages for the thousandth time. Things would be so much easier if that was his only complain, as his anger continues Dalton finally understands it was so much more than just marriages. He watches in icy silence as Toron destroys his own work. Every word felt like a dagger in his heart.

—Who says that? —He asked on a whisper. Dalton's concerned is genuine. Whoever insulted Toron had the decency to never say it to his face. —Name them and I'll kill them. —He had the hunch it was his own men « No, Cerrick wouldn't do it. Right? » If it happened so often; why no one told him before? Not even Amarys? « Toron won't say a word, will he? If it occurs so often, do his siblings know? Why they didn't say anything? » Trying to find culprit was already giving him a headache. « The only one to blame is yourself. » When did he failed? When did it all go to waste?

—No! It's not about how high you can climb. It's about the price it needs. Imagine, for some lucky reason, you managed to get your stupid golden Rock... What happens then? Do you think the lords in the Westerlands will accept you? Do you think their armies won't knock your door? When Rhaenyra is forced to act; which one of your siblings will die first? Are you waiting for Rohanne's corpse? When their blood is spill and their bodies shredded and you are all alone, will it be worth it? WHY ISN'T PYKE ENOUGH FOR YOU?! —He didn't planned to scream. He had never scream to any of his children. It was one of those things he promised to himself to never do.

Word of secrets don't interest him. Not when their whole family could die. « Why don't you see it? » Their home can't transform into ashes, not while Dalton could stop it. Toron's plan is excellent. He can't help but feel proud. A little smile forms on Dalton's lips, even when his son's voice is melancholic. A simple nod of approval is all he gives as answer. « I'm still can fix it. » But Toron plans to leave and he can't stand it. —You are not doing such thing. —Dalton never acted as anything close to an authority, Toron could disobey him and Dalton would be able to be angry at him; to judge him. If anything he'd apologize. « Stay here, please. Let me fix it. I'm sorry, my little kraken. We can fix it... right? I need you to respect me and listen just this one time. Please. » Dalton didn't know what to say. He stared at Toron's eyes, looking for an answer. —You'll stay here, where I can watch you and clean your fucking mess.

#C. / D. GREYJOY.

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unohanadaydreams · 3 years ago

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i needed you. i needed you, and you weren't here! so where the HELL were you?! " + Aizen Sousuke

my brain is saying angst lately so <3 This doesn't follow the exact same dialogue because I don't think Aizen would ever say that full out. But y'know.

Features: ANGST. one man ruining all his relationships for one bet that went to absolute shit.

"I Needed You" + Sosuke Aizen

Captain Kyoraku leaves you the moment the necessary bindings are undone. As though he's done something you ordered, saying nothing when you thank him. His lone eye can’t meet yours, smile stuck rather than meant.

You wonder how deeply it cuts the man bound before you, to see such humble actions from the captain who is closer to divinity than he ever will be. The smooth expression Aizen wears gives nothing but the features he can not help but show. If he could, you’re sure he would wipe his face clean, to remain an inhuman mystery, more than he already is.

The real mystery is why you've allowed yourself to do this. To go through the steps of requesting a meeting with Captain Kyoraku and every step after being a deliberate move toward this moment.

At no point did you feel how you do now, grasping your own stomach to keep the world from spinning you sick.

"You look horrible," you say, swallowing the sting in your throat. "You've sat there the entire time?"

Not even a smirk or smug widening of the eyes greets you. And your stomach flips, hopeful.

"And I will sit here until they get careless," he says. "Or more likely, when they have need of me."

"Have you been eating, at least?"

Aizen's face flashes, but the ripples calm before you can understand what caused the disturbance in the first place. "No."

"But...how? Your spiritual pressure..."

"Is suppressed. They wouldn't allow anyone lesser to do what the good Captain just did for you, day in and day out."

Your frown pointed to your sandals. How poor had your spiritual pressure been, as a child? And still...you'd hungered. Surely, he still did too.

"I'm sorry," you say, eyes desperately trying to pull SOMETHING from him, scrambling against the stone of his expression. "That isn't right."

"Nothing in Soul Society is right," he sighed. "And it never will be."

'Because I am down here' went unsaid, but rang off the reishi-supressing walls loud enough to be heard.

"I wish..."

Your tongue stuck to the roof of your dry mouth and you thought better of going on with that line of thought.

Changing your approach, you try again, "I miss you. Everyday passes so fast without you."

If you'd done this before the Quincy war, you'd chew your words with more bite. But that war had held you underwater, starving of you breath until your last, and every day since had been a failing battle to dry yourself off.

Everything exhausted you. And you missed the man who tried so hard to be God. Some days you thought his failure was best. Others, you cried for him, wanting so much for him to be up there. To have something, even if you couldn’t.

"Perhaps the Gotei 13 will grow desperate and attempt to rehabilitate me. Would you enjoy that?"

Aizen did smirk then, leaning back the small amount he was able to in a play at repose.

"No," you say with a cracked voice. "I don't want you to be a Captain again. I just want you."

He leaned harder, smiled wider, and you bit your cheeks until the pressure felt unbearable. Until you were sure your teeth would pop through.

"Somehow, I doubt that."

Releasing the tension in your jaw, the smooth inside of your cheeks, you tasted metal and hissed smoke, "Oh, don't. Do not do that."

"Doubt? I am a cautious man," Aizen said. "As you should know."

You felt as punished--as thoroughly imprisoned--as he looked. The tears you had been holding off gathered in your eyes, spilling over as your shoulders shook.

"Stop acting like this."

His lips thinned as you brushed tears from your face. "My apologies. You can imagine how few guests I have nowadays. I've forgotten my manners, haven't I."

All at once, the horrible maelstrom of feelings you'd been hugging to your chest since he betrayed the Seireitei broke free in one wet gasp of air.

"You're not being fair! You expected me to...to stand by the man I fell in love with as he turns into someone I can't even touch? To watch everything burn? How could I? What was I supposed to do?"

"Fair," Aizen said in a flat tone, his smirk making it unkind. "We're in the Seireitei. Of course nothing is fair--not even you."

You weren't able to stop crying, the tears soaking the sleeve that covered your eyes, "I still loved you. I still love you now."

The silence that answers is ugly with your own sobs. You think he's done talking. That he's going to leave you there, holding all of your pain and his.

You hear Aizen sigh, unrefined and tired, "You were still needed."

“By who,” you said. If you could only shake at him. Claw at his shoulders until he spit it out. “Who needed me?”

“…We needed you,” Aizen barely managed to shrug, solemn face not matching his tone. “For the war.”

The war.

Of course nothing you hoped for would happen.

What a bastard.

You interrupt your own crying with a bark of laughter that shudders back into a sob as you inhale.

He couldn't tell the simplest truth. That he needed you. That it was him who needed you the same way you needed him. That he was a man who felt angry, betrayed, and abandoned--just like you did.

Letting your arm fall to your side, you gave him one last once over. One last moment. One last chance.

But peeled fruit rots if you don't eat away at it. And the man in front of you was a dark pit, the flesh long gone.

"Why cant you just say it," you pleaded, wanting very much for these not to be the last words you spoke to him. "That you wanted me to go to Hueco Mundo, because you love me."

Aizen said nothing. Spared you no witty rebuttal. Just sat, face pale and blank, on his consolation throne. Buried too low to be God and sat too high to be yours, to be Sosuke Aizen, the man you fell in love with.

You left with Captain Kyoraku, eyes still desperately searching for something--anything--to break through, until you forced yourself up the stairs. Into the sun.

Back to the world that drove good men into broken gods.

#sosuke aizen x reader #aizen sosuke x reader #sosuke aizen #bleach imagines #angst! it’s what’s for dinner #he’s literally made for angst #god man said I’m gonna ruin all my relationships for a throne

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scarletarosa · 4 years ago

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Belial

One of the goetic demons and is a king who serves under High King Lucifer in his domain. Like all other goetic demons, Belial is a deity who served the Source as an Angel many ages ago. This information was shared to me by Belial and also learned through my workings with this magnificent infernal god.

Rulerships: politics, law, rhetoric, tactics, strategy, diplomacy, prosecution, truth, and justice/retribution

History: In the distant past many eternities ago, Belial was created as the second being within this Universe, many ages after Lucifer (the First-Born) came into existence. These two and the rest of the elder Angels were all directly created from the Source, the supreme god, who is formless and incomprehensible. The Angels were all created to manage the Universe and be agents of the Source and his feminine counterpart, the Queen of Heaven (who created some Angels as well). As the first-born deity of this Universe, Lucifer is the most complex, so he became leader of the Angels and was at the head of the Seraphim order. As the second-born, Belial was in charge of the Cherubim (the second-highest order of Angels) and was appointed as an Archangel as well. This lasted for countless ages until the corrupted Aeonic god, Jehovah, entered the Universe from the Void; leaving behind his duties of forming Universes in order to usurp our Universal Throne.

After arriving, he immediately began causing mass destruction and giving out malicious orders to the Angels. Lucifer began a rebellion against this, with Belial being the second Angel to join him in the Fall. After a long traumatic war, Jehovah defeated the rebels and threw them into Hell; condemning them all to this bleak wasteland. Once here, the dark and twisted energies of Hell began to alter the essences of the Fallen ones, making their energies dark as well. Their wings blackened, they grew horns, and some developed red eyes, spikes, claws, or other strange features. They were now a race that came to be called “demons”, and the strongest of these became the three High Kings of Hell: Lucifer, Satan, and Leviathan.

Since Belial had always followed close to Lucifer’s own values, he joined his kingdom and was made one of the kings. And due to Belial’s natural talent for persuasion and finding the truth, he was also appointed as Lucifer’s Truth Tester, or General Investigator. Overtime, Belial gradually became just as much connected to deceit as truth, since he realized the convenience of lies and their many uses. With deception, he often uses it as a method to teach truth (similar to how Lucifer does at times), test whether someone is telling the truth, but also lies whenever he feels the desire to. For this reason, the Christians began calling Belial the “Father of Lies”. Besides this, there was a time in the past where Belial was fond of the Samurai of Japan and encouraged their ideas of Bushido. Yet this was not to last since the Samurai were eventually all killed off by their Emperor. Nowadays, Belial does not much care for humanity in general and has very low expectations of others since people constantly make the same mistakes.

Rank: King

Elements: Air and Fire

Colours: Cream, Black, Vermillion, Metallic Grey, and Peridot Green

Appearance: An elegant gentleman in his late 30’s with short, wavy black hair, dark brown eyes, and light skin. He wears classy outfits or suits that are usually black in colour and wears leather dress shoes. Normally, Belial doesn’t manifest his horns and wings but tends to do so when angered. During battles, he wears elegant dark armour and his choice weapon is either a longsword or katana.

Personality: Belial is very confident, suave, intelligent, strategic, sophisticated, and is a connoisseur of refined tastes. He speaks smoothly and can be sarcastic, though never reveals much about himself to others. He is also willing to speak to anyone of any religion as long as they don’t waste his time or are interested in seeking truth. Belial especially loves speaking to Abrahamists in order to challenge their perspectives (which he never fails at) and takes great amusement in the terror they feel when their veils of ignorance are being lifted. Yet this is too easy of a challenge for him since it doesn’t take much for Belial to convince others of things. So far, the only one who can match Belial in the intellectual art of persuasion is Lucifer.

Overall, Belial tends to have very little patience with humans and doesn’t wish to be disturbed unless someone is serious. He wishes to either provide truth (if he chooses) or assist in certain matters. Otherwise, he won’t show up and does not like to stay around people just to be friendly. For those who work with him, Belial may act as a pedagogue and will have patience for those who try to succeed, even if they fail. However, if a person complains about things without ever trying to make things better, he will have no patience for them at all. As for those who try to sexualize Belial against his will, he severely punishes them and does not forgive it. The same thing goes for those who mock him, call him nicknames, or make him appear “soft”.

In regards to politics, Belial strongly prefers to cunningly solve things through diplomacy and making intelligent maneuvers towards prosperity (even if we must manipulate or deceive in the process). Therefore, Belial may also teach that lies have their place and are not as bad as we have been taught. He also says how truth is the most hated of all virtues because this world is in love with lies. Those who speak the truth wholeheartedly are often called liars and are usually murdered in the end. Because of this, lies are often very necessary and can be used to gradually teach certain truths that would not usually be accepted. Along with Lucifer, Belial is a master strategist able to create incredibly complex plans in order to make the best future possible. He is even in favour of space colonization, provided it is done intelligently and not greedily. For this value of progress, he tends to share his plans of a better world to promising politicians (which is difficult since the majority of politicians in every country are corrupt). Besides strategy and rhetoric, some of the other things Belial tends to enjoy are elegance, classical music, sword fighting, martial arts, horse racing, chess, the game “Go”, expensive things, Versace fashion, luxurious libraries, stock markets, Rolls-Royce cars, satin sheets, mahogany, and the following instruments: violins, pianos, clarinets, and saxophones.

How to call him: Speak to Belial as you would with any other god, be polite and considerate. Contact him through telepathically speaking in your mind, directing the words to him (you can do this verbally, but if malicious spirits hear, they may pretend to be him). When inviting a Goetic demon to you, try to dress well for them since they are divine and royalty.

What he can help with: mutually served interests and dynamic progress through smart resolution and maneuvering. Helps with resolving conflicts through strategy, silencing and/or harming enemies (if he agrees they should be punished), advises on intelligent political maneuvers towards prosperity, and teaches harsh truths

Belial’s Enn (for meditation or devotion): Lirach Tasa Vefa Wehl Belial

Offerings: champagne, pink champagne, expensive wine, spiced rum, dry gin, Irish coffee, beef liver, smoked salmon, lobster, caviar, truffle chocolates, veal, veal fillet, pigeon meat, ostrich meat, basmati rice, truffle mushrooms, ground black pepper, cinnamon, Siberian ginseng, red roses, white roses, black roses, daggers, katanas, longswords, mahogany writing desks, black marble, black tourmaline, black star sapphires, snowflake obsidian, peridot, expensive pens, expensive wristwatches, Italian leather men’s shoes, expensive men’s coats (high society), gold, gold foil in oil, silver, bonsai trees, fancy chess boards, black dice with white dots, fancy playing cards (preferably black and white), expensive colognes

*no pork or lamb offerings, he detests them

*also don’t offer chicken or turkey since he will not accept these

#belial #demons #goetic demons #goetia #infernal gods #deity work #demonology #demonolatry #luciferianism #theistic satanism

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sunny-sings-sooth · 4 years ago

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Daphne

Words: 4.5k

TW: Sexual assault, abuse

Here's my retelling of the myth of Apollo and Daphne! Highly experimental, as I usually write in first person and not so poetically. Hope you enjoy, and if anything doesn't make sense lemme know and I will add some context here. (Also FYI some of the dialogues are pulled directly from Homer's narration)

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Phoebus Apollonas had been alive too long.

He was young by god standards, barely over a millenia old, and still one of the youngest Olympians. And yet he had grown exhausted. He’d been suffering the curse of life long enough to see the boy he used to be -- Phoebus -- die. The demise of the boy began when, in attempt to protect his sister Artemis, he had committed his first murder and thereby lost her forever. The boy decayed further when he’d held the corpses of his sons in his arms. And he’d finally killed the boy with his own hands when he turned his grief-fueled wrath on mortals. Phoebus, the bright, the innocent, the golden prince of Olympus, was dead. All that remained was Apollonas, the destroyer, the terror, the monstrous god of plague.

Except he no longer wished to be Apollonas. Apollonas was addicted to alcohol, drowning himself in it so that he wouldn’t have to face the memories that had murdered Phoebus. Apollonas had struck his younger brother Hermes, the only friend he had left, in drunken rage. Apollonas was despicable and deserved death. He could never be Phoebus again; that he knew and had accepted. But perhaps he could rid himself of Apollonas and become just Apollo. That did not mean erasing Apollonas; he had too many crimes to pay for, and running away would be a dishonor to all those who had suffered at his hands. He would repent for everything he had done as Apollonas, and thereby recreate himself as Apollo.

The first thing he needed to do was to break alcohol’s hold on him, which meant distancing himself from Dionysus. He didn’t want to abandon his youngest brother, but the temptation to drink was too strong in his presence. He hoped Dionysus would understand, and that he would one day be strong enough to bridge the gap of his creation.

He had been clean for three whole days. It didn’t seem like much -- blink of an eye in the lengthy lives of gods -- but that alone had taken him all his willpower. In the absence of the gallons of drink he had been consuming daily, not only was he plagued by memories and sheer self-hatred, he suddenly became highly attuned to the gossip that trailed him. Every moment on Olympus, hundreds of eyes were trained on him, and the whispers never escaped his sharp ears. It wasn’t that he was not used to being the center of attention, but rather the harsh truth of their statements. Phoebus Apollonas is a murderer. He flayed Marsyas alive for daring to challenge him. He curses anyone who questions his authority. He has killed thousands with his plague arrows. He is a monster. He knew these were all true and that he deserved to be pierced by such words, but the anxiousness caused by his withdrawal made them unbearable, and he had to escape to the woods. Here he found solace. Here he could work to slowly put himself together again until he was strong enough to face those who he wronged.

If he hadn’t been so lost in thought, then perhaps he would’ve heard the flap of wings before Eros was standing before him. He nearly dropped the silver bow that he’d been restringing and looked up to meet the other god’s gaze. Eros was the only man Apollonas considered a possible competitor in terms of beauty; his fair skin was smooth as a pearl, his wings the color of one, his features the aspiration of every artist’s portrait. And yet there was something unnerving about the other god. Perhaps it was his hair that, while comparable to a young maiden’s blush, was also the same shade as blood. Perhaps it was the deep red hue of his eyes, made of crushed hearts and rubies. And perhaps it wasn’t his appearance at all, but the mystique that surrounded him; he was the fourth being to come into existence and was old as time itself, and that was one of the only two things Apollonas knew about him.

“Phoebus Apollona,” Eros stated in greeting, and Apollonas hated how wrong it sounded, though he couldn’t tell if it was the names themselves or simply the one who spoke them.

“What do you want?” He couldn’t hide his irritation. The other thing he knew about Eros was that he was the god of love, and love had only ever caused Apollonas pain. He had no reason to like the god nor felt the need to veil his displeasure. All he wanted was the solitude necessary to rework himself.

“I was simply admiring your bow, oh He Who Shoots From Afar.” There was no missing the mockery in Eros’s voice, and his eyes gleamed as he gazed at the weapon. “Why, your skill is almost comparable to my own! Perhaps with some effort, you can become the greatest archer in the land.”

“Are you implying that you are the greatest archer?” Eros nodded, and one glance at the winged god’s slim arms and the modest bow slung across his back sent Apollonas into a fit of laughter. It was many moments before he could calm himself enough to speak. “What have you to do with the arms of men, you feeble thing?”

“I am merely suggesting I may be god of archery as you are god of plague.” Apollonas’s head snapped up at the idea, and his hands curled into fists as he stood, towering over the shorter god. If Eros was a painter’s fantasy, then Apollonas was a sculptor’s. His toned body was the epitome of perfection, the ideal balance between strength and beauty. He was well aware of this fact, and though he rarely preferred to use his appearance for intimidation purposes, Eros’s insult necessitated such action.

“Do not lay claim to my honors,” he hissed, his sky blue eyes glinting with divine power. Archery was the one constant he could always rely on. With his bow and arrows, he could protect and punish, wound and save. It was the one part of him that stayed no matter if he was Phoebus or Apollonas or whoever, and he’d be damned if he allowed this worthless winged wretch to even suggest taking that from him.

“Let us put it to test, then,” Eros declared, unfazed by the archer’s anger. What would the ancient deity have to fear from the youth? He was well aware of his capability, and little did Apollonas know he was falling into another trap, his emotions and naivety deceiving him once more. He was but a pawn in Eros’s game. “What say you to a battle of skill?”

Apollonas did not grace the other with an answer, lifting his weapon and drawing an arrow from his golden quiver in response. The toned muscles of his back flexed as he pulled back the string and released, and the arrow had barely gone forth an inch before he sent forward another, and then yet another. His arms were but a blur as arrow after arrow went flying, striking the most minuscule of targets: the pupil of a fly’s eye, the thread of a spider’s web, the stem of a single olive. Apollonas did not stop until his quiver lay empty, and he took in the perfect shots before him that seemed almost artistic by his hand. No matter how low he may have descended in these past years, there was no denying the masterpiece he created from the most basic of weapons. This was his domain. He couldn’t keep his lips from curling in conceit as he turned to Eros.

“That gear becomes my shoulders best,” he declared, setting his bow back beside his quiver to draw emphasis to the weapons that had adorned him for centuries. “I wound my enemies; I wound wild beasts. My countless arrows slew the bloated Python, whose vast coils across so many acres spread their blight. You and your loves!” Apollonas couldn’t hold back his scoff at the mention of Eros’s inferior work. “You have your torch to light them. Let that content you. Never claim my fame!”

“Your bow, Phoebus Apollona, may vanquish all, but mine shall vanquish you. As every creature yields to power divine, shall your glory yield to mine.” At Eros’s threat, an enraged response was making its way up Apollonas’s throat, but before it could spill off his tongue, the love god drew his own golden-tipped arrow. In the blink of an eye, he shot it forth right into the other god’s heart before taking flight.

Apollonas stumbled back, a gasp more of shock than pain escaping him as he clasped his hands over his chest, fingers fumbling for the arrow. However, it had already dissolved into him, its magic making its home in his body. He felt something ooze into his heart and bloodstream, shoot up his spine, ensnare his mind. He turned his attention inward, trying to identify the invader, but he could not locate it, nor could he compare it to anything he had ever felt before. What had Eros done? He lifted his head, searching for the god, but instead his gaze fell upon another figure altogether.

There, a few feet away, stood the sweet river nymph Daphne. He knew her -- he knew the names of many of the nymphs that resided in these woods -- but beyond a passing glance and a murmured greeting, she had never caught his attention. But now… he couldn’t seem to look away, his lips parting in awe as he stared at her, dumbfounded. Had she always been so breathtaking? How could he have missed such a beauty? Her dark locks flowed down like a waterfall of ink. What it would be to hold that silky hair between his fingers, to braid it and adorn it with flowers and beads! Her eyes were a startling shade of not blue, not green, but something between the two, and he could spend hours drowning in their depths. Her figure had the slightest curve to it, the outline of a river, and he imagined that her body had been crafted to fit against his perfectly. He saw her, loved her, wanted her.

“Daphne.” Apollonas whispered her name, marvelling at the nectar-like flavor that coated his tongue. If just her name was so sweet, then how must her lips taste? Looking was not enough. The urge to find out was unbearable, the earlier argument stolen from his mind entirely as he found himself tossing aside his bow and quiver. What did archery matter when he could master the bow of her lips instead? He would claim it, make it and the rest of her his and his alone. He took a step forth, a giddy smile alighting his features.

“St-stay back,” the nymph stammered, icy fear coiling in the depths of her stomach. She could read his intentions clearly on his face, from the crazed look in his eyes to the wolfish grin he wore to the way his hands reached towards her. Daphne knew all too well what this man planned to do with her, and that should she fall into his grasp, she would not be able to stop him from having his way. So when he took another step forward, she turned and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Apollonas gaped only a moment before rushing after her, an arrow released from its bow.

“Daphne, please wait! I am no foe! You don’t need to fear me!” he cried out after her. Daphne did not answer him, her thoughts only on escaping. Thorns and brambles tore at the bare skin of her calves, yet she refused to slow down. “You run as if I am a wolf and you a lamb, but that is not so! It is love that spurs me! Don’t fly so fast, lest you fall and wound yourself!”

“Leave me be, you horrid man!” she shrieked, not stopping even as her dress got caught on the surrounding plants and began to tear, revealing her to him little by little. Apollonas’s brows furrowed in worry at the sight of bloodied cuts on her legs. From within him a voice called out: What are you doing, Apollona? Why are you tormenting this poor girl? Leave her be! You will not have your way with her! But before the voice could say more, he caught a glimpse of the bare skin of her thigh, and everything left his mind. His conscience was once more bound and gagged by Eros’s power, forced to watch it all in horror. Speaking of the god of love, he also watched, flying unnoticed above them, yet he felt only amusement from the sight. The sheer terror that had contorted Daphne’s face and drawn panicked tears from her eyes made him smirk, and Apollonas’s frantic yelling drew out peals of laughter. They had both bent to his will so easily, and he was eager to see how this played out.

“You run because you do not know. I am no peasant, no shepherd!” Apollonas called out to her again. She was only afraid because he didn’t know who he was. He knew the moment she realized his true identity, she would stop and turn to him with a blessed smile. “I am the son of Zeus, prince of Olympus, lord of Delphi. By me things future, past and present are revealed. I shape the harmony of songs and strings. You will be happy as my bride, dear Daphne! I will see that your every wish is granted and that no desire goes unfulfilled. Please stay!”

“No! My only desire is to escape you!” Yet this would not be granted, as her body was beginning to fail her. Try as she might, she could not outrun Apollonas; he was strong from years of training and battle, and though she was swift and sure-footed, she had used up all her limited mortal strength. Her legs trembled with every step, her lungs two pits of fire in her chest. And so her traitorous body came to a stop as she gasped for breath, and Apollonas finally had her. He held her hip tightly, freezing her in place. Had he been in his senses and had control over his own body, he’d never have done this, and his conscience screamed within him. But he was deaf to it, the lust coursing through him silencing all else. His eyes soaked in her bare skin when he would’ve shielded them, his hands pulled her closer when he would’ve let her go, and he was ready to claim her when he would’ve done anything but this crime.

“My love.” His warm breath brushed against her ear as he leaned down, pressing his lips against the pale column of her neck. Daphne gasped and tried to pull herself away, but his grip was too strong, utterly unbreakable. How could she escape a god? She was helpless and frail, trapped and alone. There was no one to aid her, no one to stop Apollonas from running his hands down her body and forcing himself against her. And then he was turning her around, wishing to taste her lips, and a final plea escaped her.

“Help me, Peneus!” she screamed for her father. She knew her father could do nothing against an Olympian, but perhaps he could do something to her, and she would accept any escape from this fate. “Open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger! Let me be free of this man from this moment forward!”

Daphne’s prayer was answered, and she was changing.

A stiffness had taken over her body, the swiftness that had protected her for so long sacrificed to escape Apollonas. Her arms lifted of their own accord, her fingers elongating up and her feet rooting into the ground. The dark waterfall split into a hundred streams that lightened to a soft green. Her curved figure fell away as her body thinned into a single arc, her legs fusing and her hands reaching higher and higher. Bark was creeping up from her extremities, down what were now branches and up what had transformed into a trunk. It conquered her shoulders, her chest, her neck. A soft sigh, her last breath, escaped her just as her lips were encased.

Apollonas’s lips met rough bark that cut at his soft skin. With a small gasp, his eyes flew open and he looked straight into Daphne’s piercing eyes. The waves in them had finally calmed, as the storm that had tormented them could no longer ripple its waters. He stared into those beautiful orbs, breathing her name, and watched as they shut forever.

Apollonas couldn’t tear his gaze away, his mind still unable to process the transformation that had unfolded before him. His hand trembled as he raised it, placing flat against the trunk of the tree. A steady pulse graced his fingertips -- a heartbeat. Daphne’s heartbeat. She was this tree, this sorrowful laurel tree, lost from him forever. His legs gave out beneath him as he wept, wrapping his arms around her and leaning his head against her bark. And yet the lust hadn’t left him, and he was kissing the wood over and over, whispering her name and an endless string of apologies as the skin of his lips tore and blood dripped down his chin.

“Oh, Daphne. My Daphne,” he cried, yearning what could’ve been. He thought the image of her smiling sweetly at him, kissing his cheek and calling him ‘husband’, was a vision, a prophecy promising that he could be the source of her happiness until the end of time. But he was wrong. It had been a fantasy, a dream that had slipped out of his grasp. And now she was gone. His sobs doubled in intensity as grief wracked him, and he didn’t notice Eros approaching until he spoke.

“Isn’t this a beautiful sight?” the god of love asked, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Phoebus Apollonas, broken and filthy inside and out. A slave to his desires. Do you accept defeat, oh lustful one?”

Apollonas turned to the other god, and the grief in him sharpened to rage. His beautiful Daphne, the love of his life, had been stolen from him, snatched right out of his hands, and the cause of it all was simply standing there, taking amusement in his loss. He reached for his bow only to find it missing, and so he lunged forth and tackled Eros to the ground, wrapping his hands around the smaller man’s thin neck.

“You monster,” Apollonas growled, his sky blue eyes glowing with divine power. This horrid creature had taken his Daphne from him and deserved nothing less than death. Apollonas would deliver him to the gates of Tartarus himself if necessary. The man must pay for his crimes. He increased the pressure, causing the other god to choke under his iron grip. “You did this!”

“Oh no, Apollona. I merely gave you a nudge. The rest was all you,” Eros gasped out, managing to laugh even as his windpipe threatened to collapse altogether. The sun god’s brows furrowed at the statement, and Eros subtly waved his hand, calming the effects of his magic. “And who knows what you’ll do next if I keep nudging you forth? You’ll be giving your father quite the competition, won’t you?”

The spell finally broke, and Apollonas’s grip slackened as the lust drained out of him and the truth became clear. He had chased Daphne. He had chased Daphne with the intention to force himself on her. He had tried to kiss her and claim her as his own with no care for her terror. He pushed her so far that she thought it better to lose her humanity than to be his. Oh Fates, what had he done? You are the most wicked person to live, Phoebus Apollona. You are no better than your father. You did this to that poor girl. You ruined her.

“N-no,” he whispered, backing away from Eros and clamping his hands over his ears, but it was in vain. The voice came not from outside but from within, where his conscience was finally free to reclaim its owner. And so Apollonas relived the incident that had just taken place. He saw himself chase after her just as Python had chased him and his family, heard his plans to ruin her just as he believed Orion had intended with Artemis, felt himself force himself upon her just as Zeus did to his mother Leto. Never in his life had something been so achingly clear to him as this truth: while he had spent his whole life painting others as wicked, he had been the most terrible monster all along. Apollonas doubled over, spilling his insides onto the earth as though he could purge the maliciousness from his body. But alas, he could not; he was born the destroyer, and he had truly lived up to his name. He could not tell if his scream remained in his soul or ripped out of him. He didn’t know if it was tears or fire spilling from his eyes. All he knew was the terrible truth that he has been blind to all his life.

“You are weak, boy. But I can make you strong,” Eros declared, towering over the hysterical god. He wondered how Olympus would react to seeing their golden heir broken on the ground, sobbing like a spoiled child. He could only imagine they’d be just as entertained as he. Still, the time for games was over. Making sure to avoid the pool of vomit, he crouched down and placed a thin finger under Apollonas’s chin, forcing the young god to meet his gaze. “Here is my offer to you: vow to me on the river Styx that you will follow my every command, and I will save you from further humiliation and heartbreak.”

“What, so I can spend my life blind and deaf, a mindless slave to a heartless man?” A dry, humorless laugh slipped out of Apollonas’s lips. He had seen and tasted truth, and he would not give that up to become Eros’s puppet. He scowled and spat at the love god’s feet, glaring into those blood-red eyes. “That is what I think of your offer.”

“I expected the god of intellect to be wiser than this, but I now see the difference between you and Athena.” Eros sneered, wrinkling his nose at the sorry display. “Do not be hasty, godling, and ponder my words carefully. I am offering you invulnerability. I will harden your heart to stone so that none may hurt you. Without your greatest weakness, you will be unstoppable. You will never have to feel such pain again.”

Apollonas paused for a moment, considering Eros’s claim. To never feel this soul-tearing agony again? To be free of the organ that rebelled against his mind at every moment? Now that he contemplated it, the offer was quite tempting. Without his heart, he would only have to rely on his body and mind, both of which were immaculate. He would indeed be unstoppable, finally the golden heir of Olympus he was expected to be. And yet… his gaze moved to the laurel tree, and a single leaf drifted down before him. Apollonas caught it in the palm of his hand, carefully tracing its pale green veins. If he were to remove his heart, to lose his ability to feel, would that not be a dishonor to Daphne? After all he had put her through, did she not deserve to be mourned and remembered? And what about all the others, every mortal that had suffered at his hand? He would be spitting on their graves by choosing to run away from the pain that, in the face of what torment they had lived through, was nothing. And so Apollonas rose to his feet, stretching to full height and then kneeling down so that his face was merely inches from the love god’s. “Rot. In. Tartarus.”

“You really should have chosen the easy path,” Eros muttered, the smirk sliding off his face as he grit his teeth. Apollonas wanted to regret? Then he’d give him reason to regret. His hands flew to Apollonas’s temples, freezing the younger god in place. Eros’s eyes glowed, twin pits of lava, and his voice boomed as he invoked his ancient power. “I curse you, Phoebus Apollona. May love be your enemy and your heart a traitor. May you be powerless to control the whims of your desire, and may you be the cause of pain to those you love, over and over until the end of time itself.”

Apollonas fell to the ground once more, struggling as the curse rooted itself deep in his soul, at the very essence of his being. By the time his throat had grown too raw for him to continue screaming, Eros had already flown away, leaving behind nothing but punishment. He found himself crawling back to the laurel tree, to Daphne, leaning his forehead against her trunk as he wept. He wept for her, for those before her, and for those after her.

“I’m sorry, Daphne,” he whispered, holding on so tightly the bark dug into his skin and realizing how powerless he really was. “I’d change you back if I could, sweet nymph, but I cannot. Instead, I swear by the river Styx, I won’t let you be forgotten. I bless you so that your leaves are never shed and instead will be woven in wreaths that will become a symbol of honor, the very thing I tried to steal from you. Let mankind see me to be the monster I am if that means your memory will live on. And even if your name no longer forms on the lips of men, they will live on eternally upon my own. This I vow to you.”

With this, he lay one last touch upon the tree before turning away, trudging his leaden feet back to Olympus. He heard the whispers as he arrived in the city, but he paid them no mind and made way to his house. Barely moments after he entered, his fingers scurried over the wall until they found the loose brick that he yanked out and tossed aside. His hands trembled in a moment of hesitation before reaching in. He grasped the bottle of his poison, his secret, his solace. Apollonas lifted it to his lips, tears running down his face, and drank his worries away.

#Apollo #apollon #apollo deity #greek mythology #greek gods #greek myth #daphne

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qm-vox · 3 years ago

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So You Want To Play A Fairest

(Portrait of Erin Peters by cantankerousAquarius. The character originally appeared in Night Horrors: Grim Fears, published by White Wolf; catch my take on her in New Avalon)

Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, So You Want To Play An Elemental, So You Want To Play An Ogre, & So You Want To Play A Darkling

You ever wonder, flipping through a Monster Manual for D&D, or a Bestiary for Pathfinder, why nymphs and hags are both always, always, women? It’s older than you know. Dig into the sordid history of tabletops and you’ll find sylphs that Gary Gygax wrote, Chaotic charmers who use mind control to reproduce with non-sylph men; you’ll find the legacy of the matriarchal drow, who follow a mad goddess, and you’ll find the medusae, whose sexual dimorphism is so complete that their men are beautiful and can turn stone into people.

Dredge deeper and you’ll find the tales that Gygax and his wretched ilk based such creatures off of.

You ever wonder why we assign such powerful Gender to creatures of beauty and horror?

Fairest don’t. They know, every time they wake up from a nightmare that is also a wet dream. They know, every time they get hit on at the bar and have to decide how they’re playing this. They know, every time they look in a mirror and see not their own face, but the ten thousand horrors that made it beautiful.

If you are very patient, and lucky, and kind, they might tell you why.

If you aren’t, they may show you.

This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost and Winter Masques, as well as Swords at Dawn and Night Horrors: Grim Fears. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for sexual violence, sexual slavery, abuse, gaslighting, addiction, substance abuse, self-harm, self-image problems, mentions of fascists & fascist ideology, and just, so very much incel bullshit.

Bonus Material Part Two: The Seeming Part

The end of this article, just past the customary Sample Fairest, will include some additional material intended to help you select a Seeming for your character and otherwise build them up as one of the Lost, much as So You Want To Run A Spring Court included material for Courts as a topic.

Take Me To Wonderland - Fairest Overview

Fairest is the fourth Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost and possibly the most confused about its own identity. Its sections in Winter Masques present depths and nuance that are completely absent in core, essentially making Winter Masques required reading for Fairest players in a way that no other book is - especially since Fairest keep getting written in a particular way alluded to in the Ogre article, which I will expand on later in this article. Fairest is numerically well-represented in canon and popular in the fanbase, home to many memorable character concepts, but its bones with folklore and tradition are weaker than it fronts as.

Ogres and Darklings claim an innate relationship to physical violence; so too do the Fairest claim a relationship to violence. The violence of Perception and its dark twin, Judgement; of Rumor and its mad dog, Prejudice, the violence of Lies and their merciless master, Truth. Fairest, alone among the Lost, have casual access to the resources of a society that refuses to service or acknowledge Changelings, and with access to that society comes both opportunity and temptation. To be Fairest is to wield power that many other Lost cannot, but the opportunity that power offers is a lie; a Fairest can smile until her face breaks like a mirror, but she’ll never be “sane” enough for the masses to see her as anything but a useful pet.

Life’s Lush Lips - Homecoming As A Fairest

Fairest can make the dubious claim of having the least clear memories of Arcadia amongst all the Lost, with Darklings and Beasts jockeying for second place. This isn’t to say that the experiences Fairest have are necessarily more intense or more inherently traumatic than that of other Lost, but rather that the abuse Fairest suffer is so emotional, so targeted at their perception of their selves and their situations and their self-image, that the memories which do form are inevitably colored by those emotions, coloring the dreams they have of Arcadia with both the emotional resonances they had at the time and with their later attempts to grapple with their own trauma and transformation. For many Fairest, who cannot trust even their strongest memory dreams, attempts to understand their own Durance must rely either on the word of their Keepers (and Faeries lie, oh, how they lie), or on reverse-engineering their own behavior to try and conceive of a trauma that could cause it.

Inevitably, however, some things are seared into their minds. For almost all Fairest, their Keeper is high on the list of things they remember with absolute clarity. Other facts, shattered and scattered, vary more widely. Erin Peters remembers stretched years kept in a cold, dark room lit only by her own hatred; every detail of her cell is scorched onto the back of her eyes, but the otherworldly balls her Keeper took her to blur together like food coloring in syrup. The slaves of the Candle Countess have terrible nightmares of the choices they were confronted with, the decision, offered over and over again, to become complicit in the Countess’s cruelty or to be victimized by it. Metallic Flowering from the Shining City struggle not to use drugs to mimic the rush of pleasure they’ve grown used to receiving for performing their jobs well; they also scream in terror if people touch them. A Draconic and a Shadowsoul both remember being used for the sexual pleasure of alien horrors; the one dreams of coiled scales and terrible teeth, the other a lifetime of lurking in an alien maze, tasked to perform the duties of a living trap for the “wicked” and “unwary” who had not yet shed the last vestiges of kindness.

There are no “wild” Fairest. For worse and worse still, to be Fairest is to have been defined by the inescapable and all-consuming attentions of your abuser, and it is this more than anything that other Lost so often fail to understand about the Fairest. Their Keepers heap them with reward and punishment, manipulating the Fairest with honeyed praise, godly wrath, gaslighting, neglect, withholding food, wondrous rewards, drugs from beyond the realms of earthly pleasure, and other hooks and crooks designed to make the Fairest dependent upon their abuser. It is hideously effective, and the first obstacle, maybe even the mightiest, that a Fairest faces to their escape is the simple horror and joy of being alone again. Their masters will try other tricks to keep them in place - tempting them with pleasures, horrific punishments, oh-so-sincere apologies - but before a Fairest can escape into the Hedge she must face, in her mind’s eye, the lonely flight back to the Iron Lands.

The memories that draw Fairest home often have parallels to their experiences in Arcadia. A slave in the Shining City bites into an otherworldly pastry and recalls her grandmother’s pie in its place; the bride of the Demon Lover, curled up under the sheets, thinks about the broken smile of the boyfriend she left behind at home. A Dancer remembers the roller rink where he fell in love with skating, while across the endless tides of the Fairest of Lands, a Shadowsoul holds on like grim death to years of work at haunted houses, scaring kids for fun and for Halloween. Fairest, so famous for their skill at words, struggle to articulate to other Lost why this should be so. Darklings assume it’s because these memories are less intense than Arcadia, and that the Fairest are fleeing to safety. Beasts get it a bit more right by thinking that these memories taste like home. The truth of the matter is that those memories have an intrinsic and nameless meaning; the highs and lows of Arcadia are divine, flawless, absolute, and therefore worthless. They are the proclamations of merciless gods. What draws the Fairest home, more than pain and pleasure they can have on their own terms, is the understanding that those gestures - for weal or for woe or for anything else besides - were made because someone cared about them, personally. Once they fully internalize that their abuser views them as disposable, the Fairest comes home to someone who won’t.

Three Kiths And Flowering Is One And A Half Of Them - Fairest Kiths

Yeah we’re about to be like that about it.

All Fairest can excel in the social arena; their Blessing can be used to flare almost every social roll in the game, and Fairest can never be caught off-guard in a social context (they suffer no untrained penalties to social rolls). With the sole exception of Empathy (usually rolled with Wits) and sometimes Streetwise, there’s no time a Fairest can’t fall back on their words and expect to win through or at least buy time. This is, as you might imagine, a godsend when it comes to attempts to pass in mortal society; Fairest can usually front, charm, bluff, or Manners(tm) their way through things like renting an apartment, nailing a job interview, asking their roommate to do the FUCKING DISHES, or getting stopped by a cop, but both the books and the fanbase miss something here. While Fairest are superb at active social events, they’re no better at keeping a lid on themselves (Composure-based rolls) than mortals are - and given both the nature of their trauma and the fact that they are, you know, Lost, Fairest have a lot more to keep a lid on day-to-day than the human society they’re trying to blend into. Thankfully, Fairest are pretty good at being able to politely leave a situation and go somewhere else to scream, shout, cry, or have a psychotic break, as appropriate.

Of course, Fairest can’t make something from nothing. As discussed in So You Want To Play An Ogre, you can’t win a social game someone else refuses to sit down to, and social rolls shouldn’t be mind control. All the Glamour in the world can’t make your roommate do the FUCKING DISHES if they’re deep in the throes of executive dysfunction, nor can it make the cashier at Walgreens fail to card you for wine when their computer literally won’t advance without an ID. People who are keyed up about honeyed words or whose own trauma came at the hands of manipulators and abusers might refuse to play that game on the terms the Fairest is setting, which makes it hard to, as it were, turn this problem into a nail. Lurking down this path as well is the specter of becoming like the masters who made you this way; if you get used to saying what will get people to listen to you, eventually you start seeing people as enrichment puzzles that dispense the things you want. Madness waits down that road, and it waits for Fairest with a giant spiked bat, thanks to their Seeming Curse.

There’s no pretty way to say this so I won’t: Fairest are always on the verge of losing their minds. Their curse hits them with a flat penalty to all rolls against losing Clarity, which means that Fairest lose Clarity faster than other Lost and they do so more consistently. This necessitates a balancing act with avoiding becoming heartless manipulators; Fairest must engage in control-seeking behavior in order to stay mentally well, must be able to trust and rely on people close to them, structure their lives, and anticipate important changes or they end up on the fast way down. Other Lost often don’t understand this need or the Fairest curse to begin with, and so Fairest end up in unofficial support groups for one another, similar to those run by Darklings except no one will admit it’s a support group even at gunpoint. Woe fucking betide the friend or life partner who gets between a Fairest and her “book club”, “girls’ night”, “D&D campaign”, or other excuse for this vital community support.

Fairest Kiths are...bad. They’re bad. This is the part of the article where I’m supposed to talk about thematics and symbolism and metaphor, and I cannot do that here, because they are bad. Fairest has three viable Kiths that are actual Fairest Kiths, one that’s a Beast Kith who got lost and wound up here by fucking mistake, and a pile of garbage bigger than my self-esteem problems. I’m almost tempted to only talk about those four Kiths and save myself the time but I suppose I should show the work like I’ve done for all the other Seemings, so here we fuckin’ go I guess.

Flowering - This is it. This is the Fairest Kith. If you want to roll any other kind of Fairest you must first pass the trial of justifying why you’re not playing Flowering. In theory, Flowering draws its mythic heritage from nymphs and dryads, charming flower sprites, Knights of Flowers, and the like, but in practice Flowering’s only mechanical effect is 9-again on Persuasion, Socialize, and Subterfuge with no qualification or requirement, which doesn’t just make you better at everything Fairest is good at, it makes you better when you spend Glamour to flare it too. Want to represent a biobahn sith’s hypnotic dance? Flowering works. Want to create a vampiric Fairest with a sultry voice? Here comes Flowering. The siren at the bar who smells like sea air and gunpowder? Flowering. Everything is Flowering. Even the things that aren’t Flowering are Flowering because all Fairest Kiths have a social focus, which is Flowering’s undisputed arena of mastery.

Bright One - In theory, Bright Ones represent beings of light in the vein of Victorian fey (which...ugh...Victorians), but their Goblin Illumination is, how you say, useless, only becoming vaguely useful for a total of 2 Glamour as a passive defense that took you 2 turns to set up. Anything you want to represent here can be found in Flowering and with Elements or Communion (Light).

Dancer - You know how Flowering gives you bonuses on all social rolls? Would you like those same bonuses but on 1 less skill and only on rolls that “involve physical grace”? No? Run Flowering here and give your character a Dance specialty in one or more skills.

Draconic - One of the game’s premier melee options and a Beast Kith who took a wrong turn and ended up getting a free makeover intended for someone else. Draconic in theory represents Fairest as dragons, monster girls, demons, and in general at their most physical, but that idea sorta...falls down a bit? Draconic’s bonuses are all about Brawl and all the sample Draconics are swordsmen, which might suggest to the discerning reader that someone in the office wasn’t reading their own fucking game. Draconic Fairest don’t make bad melee boys if you invest in Lethal Mien, but honestly this is Dual Kith bait; slap it on your Hunterheart or your Razorhand and go apeshit.

Muse - Close but no cigar. In theory Muses are, well, muses; figures of inspiration, mentorship, teaching, creative fire. Their Kith Blessing is strong but requires access to mortals, which is complicated and roundabout on the best of days. If you have an idea that you think is Muse-shaped, use Playmate instead.

Flamesiren - Behold, we enter the realm of Okay(tm). Flamesirens are what Bright Ones wanted to be, and their hypnotic aura is actually a pretty neat tool; with cunning you can make it a one-sided penalty, and even if you don’t it’s an interesting method of de-escalating a social or combat situation by subjecting everyone to the tar pit that is your presence. If your concept involves light and color and you’re resistant to Flowering, Flamesiren will do more than nothing.

Polychromatic - Polychromatics don’t have a lot of roots in mythology; their modern inspirations are, well, Manic Pixie Dream Girls. But they get a shout-out here for being the only Fairest Kith who can muster up decent emotional defenses; not only can they magically boost their Composure rolls (and non-Composure rolls to resist magical and mundane emotional attacks for that matter), but others get a flat penalty to Empathy rolls against them, which makes them talented dissemblers. You’re still probably better off with Flowering - in a world of passive Kith Blessings, Polychromatic’s is extra passive - but I can see this Kith passing muster, and even being worth the two dots to Dual Kith in-house.

Shadowsoul - This one’s insane. Ostensibly Fairest Does Darkling, Shadowsouls get their Wyrd to Intimidate rolls which could be the whole Kith on its own and still be worth the slot, but in addition to that they get 9-again on Subterfuge (matching Flowering and Darklings there) and access to Contracts of Darkness, one of the most powerful in the game line, as an Affinity Contract. Is your Fairest spooky? Would you like them to be spooky? Here’s your one-stop shop.

Telluric - This is a Kith made of ribbon bonuses. In theory related to stars and celestial light, Telluric’s bonuses to rolls “with precise timing” isn’t...really worth considering. Run ‘em as Flamesiren and move on.

Treasured - In theory also able to muster emotional defenses, Treasured are Fairest who are literally made into works of art. They’re Okay(tm) but in their niche are beaten out by Polychromatic with a better effect for less resources.

Playmate - The last Real Fairest Kith(tm), Playmate appears in Night Horrors: Grim Fears where White Wolf tries to sell it as Peter Pan, but its powerful team-oriented bonuses mean that Playmates are useful anywhere Muse is wanted and more places besides. The front woman of an indie rock band could be a Playmate; so too could be an idealized baseball captain, the director at your local theater, the middle manager of a sinister conspiracy, or the night shift lead at a research lab. Do people do a thing in teams? Playmate does that thing.

And She Had Huge Titties, I Mean Massive Badondadonks, Absolutely Enormous Bazoggahoggas - Lost’s Canon Fairest

Remember when I said we had to get back to this after So You Want To Play An Ogre? Now we’re getting back to this. I’m not gonna re-state my caveats from that article and I’m not really gonna go back over the bit about So White Wolf Was Run By Fucking Nazis because, in all honesty, I do not have the fucking time to restate all of that in new words. Give thanks that OPP got out alive and let’s get right down to it.

Fairest have a very consistent characterization in canon that is only really challenged in Winter Masques; the narrative put forth in Lost is that Fairest, being attractive, have an uncomplicated power which privileges their lives. Which is a rather bloodless way to describe how White Wolf kept writing and publishing Fairest as heartless abusers and manipulators getting their jollies and emotional needs met by casually destroying their fellow survivors, manipulating them through sex appeal, outright lies, cattiness, cruelty, and betrayal. Much as simply queering Ogre does not help Ogre in and of itself, queering Fairest only takes you from incel and Nazi propaganda about women into...incel and Nazi propaganda about twinks, femmes, & in general anyone with the temerity to be found attractive by straight white people.

I’m not bitter, you’re bitter.

So what do you do at your table, with your Fairest concept? Lemme open up by saying that like, Fairest qua Fairest is perfectly solid, and if it wasn’t there wouldn’t be an article here; Fairest has a lot to say for itself about feminized violence, about your personhood being reduced to a product for the consumption of others, about emotional abuse & neglect, gaslighting, and sexual assault, but the conclusion White Wolf arrives at (”Fairest have unalloyed power over mortal and Lost society and they abuse that power”) is super fucking obtuse and betrays a serious lack of concern for what the Fairest undergo. It ignores the way a Fairest’s ordeals will force her to confront her relationship to her own gender and alter her willingness and ability to be consumed, disconnect her from her former society while also isolating her from her new one, and these questions are important for you if you’re looking to play a ‘classic’ Fairest.

But that leaves some hanging questions. Male Fairest face the almost inescapable fate of “failing” maleness on patriarchal terms; even the most strapping, broad-chested, athletic Adonis of a Fairest has become a man of layered words and reflexive empathy, whose Manly Stoicism(tm) is a cracking facade at best and entirely abandoned in a more typical circumstance. Men who become Fairest thus face a second journey after their escape from Arcadia; confronting what being men means to them and building their gender identity back up from the rubble it’s become. The temptation to accept success on society’s terms is always going to be present, and it’s always going to be offered like it’s possible, but it’s a losing game for these Fairest; they simply cannot be the men that other men demand they become.

Now, the discerning and loyal reader is surely about to ask, hey Vox, where’s the butch Fairest I was promised back in the Ogre article, to which I respond WE’RE GETTING THERE but I gotta use this as a bridge to talk about something that cuts across Fairest of all genders, be they cis or trans. Lost 1e makes a lot of hay out of the idea that Fairest “are rarely conventionally attractive”, and core even provides some interesting written concepts for that...which make it into exactly none of the art. Every published Fairest is conventionally attractive for various definitions of conventional, be it as a supermodel or a waif, but that leaves the question of Fairest who genuinely are not - and, tragically, Fairest who were not, and were then made into someone more easily consumed by their Durance. You know what I’m about to say, and I know you know I’m about to say it, but I’m gonna say it anyway: all bodies are beautiful, but Fairest know well that beauty and attraction aren’t the same, and neither are beauty and happiness. All Fairest, from the roundest bear to the most wide-eyed waif, are the products of Keepers who valued their bodies in that state, and that idea is going to haunt them day in and day out for the rest of their extended lives. There is no such thing as a Fairest with an uncomplicated relationship to their body, and that White Wolf seems to think that an uncomplicated relationship is their default state is...disgusting, frankly.

Which brings us, at long last, to butch Fairest (also bear Fairest but I’m gonna stick with the one set of terms or I’m going to go mad and this will never be published), who have a complicated journey ahead of them. On the one hand, the assertion of control and ownership over their own bodies, their own identities, cannot be overstated. On the other hand, elements of those bodies are going to be completely out of their control; a nascent butch Fairest may well hit the gym to get swole only to discover that she literally, physically cannot, that she has been Assigned Dex Build At Durance. Hauling your corpse out of Arcadia with an extremely feminine appearance shaped by your Keeper might complicate attempts to present in a more masculine manner or even just to appear androgynous, and those complications can be discouraging. For those that stick to it, this journey will take them two places; one is the bared-teeth, bloody-knuckled assertion that this life is theirs and you can have it if you can fucking take it, and the other is into the ranks of the Freehold’s retained warriors, usually in Summer or Autumn, though a vibrant representation of Spring knights will make it seem as if Spring has more butch Fairest than it actually does. These Fairest are aware, or will become aware, of how much of their job involves de-escalating or pre-empting violence; a focus on Physical stats or skills is not necessarily common, but hyper-specialization therein likely is. A butch Fairest is a lot more likely to have, say, Brawl 4 (Multiple Opponents) and no other Physical skills than she is to have Brawl, Weaponry, Athletics, and Stealth, in part or in whole because her first weapon of choice is going to be an Intimidate roll.

At every turn you’re able to, challenge White Wolf’s narrative about Fairest by asking yourself what your Fairest wants, why they’re this way, what they’re frightened of, and how the way they behave relates back to these. They’re not products; they’re people, just as hurt and Lost as the rest of their peers.

Princesses And Pastries - Fairest In The Courts

Fairest have a complex relationship to the society of their fellow Lost. On the one hand, they have the same need for community, support, companionship, understanding, honesty, and material aid as all Lost; a Fairest is not magically proof against being homeless, against starving, against the dangers of existing in the modern world without things like a photo ID or car insurance, and Freeholds provide all of these things. On the other hand, the thing most Fairest fear most, even if they can’t articulate that fear, is their own power - social influence, emotional trust and betrayal, status, political power, and authority. Fairest are all too aware that being good at this game does not make them immune to it - after all, that’s the lesson they learned at the hands of their Keepers.

What follows from this is a complex dance of interactions that each Fairest in some ways has to feel like she’s managing on her own, even if she’s not (and she rarely is; those support groups exist for a reason). If you give a Fairest a doughnut in a social setting, she will lick that doughnut even if she doesn’t intend to eat it right away, solely to hear someone else say something along the lines of “well it’s yours now”. As Fairest filter into Freehold society and take up social roles at all levels of power - officers, messengers, ‘ambassadors’ to mortal society, secretaries, pledge-smiths, teachers, monarchs - their responsibilities and rewards become their doughnut. That Fairest make a big deal out of both their job and the benefits that come with it is rarely, as other Lost sometimes think, about aggrandizement or reveling in power for its own sake; it’s about the sheer relief and assurance of hearing someone say, to the Fairest’s face, that this is her doughnut and no one is going to take it from her.

Younger Fairest tend to flit between two or three Courts; their initial selection may be based entirely on friendships, Vibes, or a gut-check decision based on an initial pitch by that Court, and Fairest can go quite far even in a Court that doesn’t quite actually fit their needs. Eventually, though, those Fairest who survive their youth will gravitate towards a Court whose ideals speak to them, even if its current social order isn’t living up to those ideals. If they’re going to be condemned to live as exiles in the world of their birth, the Fairest can at least be the person she wants to be, god damn it. Fairest aren’t any more or less vulnerable to a toxic Court environment than other Lost, but they’re good at detecting it beforehand. Unfortunately they’re also good at telling themselves they can change it.

Spring - Though early Spring joiners are of course rare in general, Fairest are among those Lost who more commonly choose Spring as a first Court. Spring’s highly social focus and chaotic internal organization is almost tailor-made for the skill set of your average Fairest, but therein too lies a sense of threat; for many Fairest, Spring can remind them of their Durance, and their joining of the Court is as much motivated by fear of a powerful cultural body as it is by any genuine Desire, maybe even more so. Many such Fairest end up caught in Spring’s middle-road trap, spinning their wheels without recovering or worsening more or less until they finally die, but when Autumn can sniff out the fearful ones it puts a lot of work into cooperating with Spring to get them out and where they can be helped.

Summer - More Fairest dabble with Summer for dreams of glory, or because they want to believe in Summer’s apolitical sales pitch, than ultimately stick with Summer. Those that do stay often serve as officers, as the Sun’s Tongue or the Arrayer of Distant Thunder, and as Court sorcerers. Fairest skilled in Contracts of Separation can make for surprising Jaegers, hounding their prey down more like a private investigator or a serial killer than a traditional hunter, but while striking this is fairly rare. Fairest who stick with Summer are those who are looking for its high ideals and are often among those rare Summer Courtiers who can competently articulate both those ideals and their pitfalls without falling prey to cynicism and bitterness.

Autumn - For those Fairest who hurt others to feel safe, Autumn is waiting. The Leaden Mirror can be attractive to young Fairest because it’s easy to perceive Autumn as atomized, defined by personal relationships rather than webs of political influence, but when the Fairest discovers those webs the existence of Option Two: Resort To Violence as an acceptable tool to the Ashen Court is perversely reassuring rather than threatening. The image of the Fairest as a witch, tempting and threatening, clings to them in Autumn but it’s honestly not their most common role; Autumn employs its Fairest as rumor-mongers, the Other Woman who seems a little too familiar with your husband, therapists & counselors, oneiromancers, and ambassadors to Hedge communities. The work Autumn does is harsh on Clarity, and Fairest are especially vulnerable to that harshness, but if the Court invests the time in helping its Fairest members, the self-awareness and self-confidence it offers can be a godsend that no other Court can give them.

Winter - As the Court which is actually selling what Fairest think Autumn has - to wit, the ability to simply say “no” to all social interactions with no justification required - Winter has a strong undercurrent of Fairest membership at all tiers of its power. Fairest often end up directly involved in Winter’s money-making enterprises, and flourish as Squires and Armigers with their fingers on the pulse of the Court’s morale. Winter’s hands-off approach displays a tremendous amount of trust in its Fairest from their perspective, and the demeanor of the Coldest Court - Winter’s indifferent equality - has a potent, merciless appeal. The trap of drowning in Sorrow sucks more than a few Fairest under, but if their peers can be there for them there’s always a way back out.

This Is Not A Pipe - Fairest And Lost’s Themes

My many thanks to Izzie M for her extensive help on this section. I’m not sure I’d have been able to grapple it down, emotionally or intellectually, otherwise.

Fairest go through some intense shit, and the shit they go through can never fully be addressed, never fully be recovered from. It’s no mistake that Fairest, like Wizened, are among those Lost likely to never fully gain resolution with or from their Keeper, and this is because they embody the dark truth that no matter how much progress you make, how much you heal, your trauma has changed who you are as a person and you will be dealing with it until you die. But, as alluded to extensively above in the discussion of Fairest and gender, Fairest also embody the way in which society will attempt to stamp you, mold you, turn you into a product to be consumed or an archetype to be placed into its churning machine, and its attempts to reshape who and what you are and can be are, in themselves, a form of trauma and abuse.

Fairest deal a lot in expectations. They’re expected to be perfect victims, they’re expected to be happy (because they’re beautiful and attractive, because they can front as Doing Okay, because they have a form of access to ‘normal’ society), they’re expected to want romance and sex (since everyone else wants those things out of them), to perform emotional labor, to be available, intimate, understanding, to keep up appearances. Fairest escape the chains of their Keeper only to be clapped in the chains that extend into the eyes and minds of their peers, and they cannot move without hearing the clink of them.

Fairest are primed to represent victims of ongoing emotional abuse and neglect; sex slaves and victims of child abuse might find themselves in Fairest, as might husbands or wives of abusive partners (and boy, re-living my bullshit there was a bonus prize I didn’t want to receive for writing this article), children pushed to over-achieve (here overlapping with Elemental) until they break, pastor’s daughters and cult kids (here overlapping with Beast), and others. However, Fairest also hit their thematic stride when talking about trauma from a society that will not give you an exit. A trans person is first punished by society for “failing” to perform their assigned gender, then made to perform their new one to expectations that they cannot set, do not control, and do not consent to; such a person might easily be Fairest, as might a man breaking under the expectations of Maleness, a college student losing their mind in finals week with no one to help, or even more ‘ordinary’ sex workers expected to perform emotional and physical labor for a society that rewards their work with violence and dehumanization.

Fairest are people with complex internal worlds and they damn well know it, but the temptations to let others define them are numerous; society promises all manner of rewards for being who and what it wants you to be, for wanting the things it tells you to want, for being the kind of person who wants and does those things. To be Fairest is to know at any time you can start faking it and receive those rewards insofar as they’re actually on the table, but it is also to know, every second of every day that you’re performing that role, that it is fake. If you can’t find a community with which you can be genuine...well. You can always get more hurt, and in this way Fairest also bring another theme of Lost into focus: that the Lost owe compassion and understanding to their fellow victims, because failure to care can only hurt both them and everyone in their blast zone.

Feet Pics For Legos - Coping As A Fairest

Fairest are among those Lost who are most concerned with their day-to-day social interactions and safety rather than their immediate, very physical environmental safety. They are perhaps the Seeming most likely to live in a group setting (in an apartment with roommates or romantic partners, in a house shared between multiple households, splitting the bills in a condo, with their parents), and are definitely the Seeming most comfortable with the idea of living with mortals who aren’t ensorcelled. Indeed, Fairest don’t tend to do well living alone; even a Fairest who wants or needs a private place to be, choosing to keep a home in which others cannot lay a claim, will likely crash at friends’ places, sleep over at the Freehold commons on some pretext or another, stay the night with a lover, or otherwise have a place to flop down while surrounded by other people. Having other people - their greatest reality check - around the place helps keep the Fairest centered in the real reality, better able to pick apart the mortal from the Wyrd from their own unrelated hallucinations, and a Fairest who is isolated - or who is permitted to isolate herself - quickly begins to dissociate and may soon be incapable of caring for herself until someone can get her back into the present.

Those invited over as guests to a Fairest’s home may note a lot of concern for those she lives with. She likely schedules the event well in advance, is clear about the boundaries of those she lives with (”That’s Brenda’s room, the door stays shut.”) and in general treats her communal home with a lot of respect and love. Respecting these boundaries and in turn having her own respected is very validating for the Fairest and is vital to be able to feel safe and at ease in her own home, and impressing their importance on guests further reinforces that this is, as it were, her doughnut. While not dismissive of their own literal physical safety per se, a Fairest’s anxieties rarely center around her body being violently attacked by strangers. For those that do have such anxieties, they may choose to solve that problem by simple expedient of rooming or living with someone large and scary.

Another detail of note which is touched on in Winter Masques is that Fairest tend to seek out life’s little pleasures. Though they are not necessarily wealthier than other Lost, how a Fairest chooses to spend her money tends to follow particular patterns. Rare is the Fairest who doesn’t have clothing they like, a phone that works, a wallet or purse that can actually hold all of their stuff, and in this regard most Fairest without a special interest in fashion as a hobby in and of itself will have an aesthetic that is self-expressive but serviceable and hard-wearing, but any place the Fairest haunts, frequents, or lives in will get little touches everywhere. Fairest spend the little bits of extra money for good toilet paper, soft soaps that won’t hurt the skin, good shower supplies, high-quality razors, boots that won’t wear through - and they spend their serious money on their hobbies and preferences. A Fairest with a passion for cooking scrimps and saves to get a fully-stocked kitchen; a Fairest who likes building and connecting invests in Legos or Hot Wheels and creates elaborate environments for them. A gamer Fairest has headphones that can vibrate your constipation away and a fiber optic connection to ensure that lag will not stand between her and your doom. The reasons for this are manifold, and Lost’s canon writing suggests that Fairest seek pleasure to alleviate a desire to return to Arcadia. This is, to put it mildly, a stupid assertion; rather, the Fairest provides her own pleasures in part because it is one of the most emotionally clear ways to lick the doughnut, and in part because it reminds her that she can be happy under her own power, can seek pleasure, stimulation, engagement, without placing herself at another’s mercy - ironically making it easier to go out every day and do exactly that as a member of her various societies.

As a Fairest settles in she tends to look for “her” people, and quite often they’re good at compartmentalizing this, wearing different hats and having different feelings about those hats without feeling fake or distressed about the bare fact of that. She’ll have her personal friends and family, like her housemates, her girlfriend, maybe her mortal family, her neighbors, and then folks like her Motley (which are like her personal friends and family, but In The Know), her fellow Fairest and the Freehold broadly, her work friends and fellow hobbyists. A Fairest who does, say, sex work, thinks of herself as a Sex Worker and understands herself in the context of that broader social group. It can be a lot! Many Lost barely have a handle on being a member of both the Freehold and a Court, and the way Fairest flit to and fro between many communities, slipping seamlessly from one role to another, can be exhausting to watch - but by doing so the Fairest also builds bonds between those communities, highlights their common needs and interests, draws them together over their similarities and strengths. Darklings and Wizened get a lot of the work on the ground done, but it’s often a Fairest in the role of whistleblower, figurehead, and champion all at once.

After all, this, too, is her doughnut.

Example Fairest - Clara Belltower, Spring Playmate

Clara Belltower is a mime.

Well, no, not exactly. Clara Belltower is a self-employed porn actress, erotic script writer, and director, whose primary thing is mimes, clowns, and more broadly circuses and performance venues. She came back from Arcadia eight years back fleeing life as her Keeper’s Stepford Wife, and ran face-first into the money issues that haunt the Lost in general. What started out as a practical choice in new career - and an attempt to find and express an identity not created for her by her abuser - became a creative passion that has stayed strong with Clara and propelled her to status in the Spring Court, which retains her keen eye for decoration, direction, and theatricality in service to its high rituals and revels. Clara’s livestreams and online presence are also a convenient avenue for the Freehold to launder its less legal revenue streams, which has endeared Spring’s “silent siren” to the Winter Court and cemented her as a mover and shaker.

Clara’s ambitions reach beyond erotic miming, as talented as she is at both creating and purveying such. She has her eyes on four different strip clubs in Freehold territory alone whose owners and operators need to fucking go, and she wants Winter’s help making it happen; further, she wants the Freehold to take over operation of those establishments for the benefit of the workers. Clara’s vision is popular in Spring and has its supporters in Summer too, but the Declining Seasons have been cool on the concept, citing a need to maintain subtlety and avoid entanglements with the mortal world that might invite the eye of, say, the IRS - or mire the Freehold in a protracted war with local police departments. Clara’s passion burns with a righteous simplicity, envisioning a Freehold that is active in improving the city around it - if the cops want to throw down, bring it on! Her influence over Winter means the Coldest Court cannot simply dismiss her desires, but neither is it willing to go to war. Something is going to have to give, soon.

This concludes the Fairest portion of the article. Some additional thoughts on Seeming follow.

Bombing Your Own Position - Choosing Your Seeming

So it’s been six articles and I’ve talked about the ways various Seemings can represent responses to the things which traumatize us; neurodivergences for which society abuses us, the machinery of capitalism, violence, prison, and more. But how do you go about choosing your character’s Seeming? The obvious choice is to make a character that puts a lot of yourself at the table; to seek out a Seeming that reflects your own traumas, your own issues, your own anxieties and struggles, and then grapple with them in this fictional context. But RPGs can be an emotionally challenging medium, and you may well not want to deal with your own bullshit during your magic trauma fairy game. That’s valid!

Now, the second obvious piece of advice is to think about your proposed character’s themes and traumas and then select a Seeming from there, but this can get complicated. Many Lost players feel as if they need two Seemings, and to those players I say: no the fuck you do not. But it is true that people are messy and do not fully resolve, that the broad spectrum of the world of sorrow and loss is not easy to fit into 6 discrete categories whose creation was often managed by, not to keep repeating this point, fucking Nazis. I have found in my experience that it can be helpful, when you’re torn between two Seemings or you have a character you’re sure is this Seeming even though they look like or could be that one, to ask yourself why the character is not the other option. Why is this alluring and sensual Darkling not a Fairest, what makes this brutal and violent Wizened not an Ogre? This question naturally leads to others about their abuse and their reaction to it, and can start your momentum for writing your concept out.

As an addition, while I’ve spoken of various Seemings as being well-equipped to represent specific traumas, they don’t own those traumas. Elementals are metaphorically autistic, but there’s nothing stopping you from running an autistic Fairest or an autistic Beast instead. Rather, those Seemings outlined as being “for” or “about” certain traumas are those whose selection will make those traumas thematically central, cause you to return to them as a topic over and over by virtue of being who and what they are. Real people have complicated problems which intersect with one another, spawning new problems that are more strange than the sum of their parts, and it’s both valid and interesting to write your Lost that way - just keep in mind that it’ll still be complicated at the table too.

Van Helsing Hate Crimes - Seeming Politics

White Wolf spent a lot of time waffling back and forth on whether or not Seemings represent distinct cultural and political identities in a given Freehold, drifting towards ‘yes’ when the writers thought about the way Blessings and Curses create consistent, measurable differences between Lost of various Seemings, and towards ‘no’ generally whenever they were asked to actually outline a Lost society such as a sample Freehold or Entitlement. Some Entitlements are locked to specific Seemings, often times with little thought as to why, while other times Seeming-based power blocs are alluded to as worldbuilding elements (such as in Lords of Summer) without much in the way of supporting detail. Why should these things happen, when, how, what does the buildup of this violent fracture in a Freehold society look like?

On the whole, I have taken the stance in these articles and in my own worldbuilding that some amount of fantastical prejudice exists amongst the Lost, but that the systems of oppression have not taken root. Maybe it’s idealistic of me to view the Lost as unwilling or unable to produce internally racist power structures that create an underclass for the benefit of an appointed elite, but in general I feel as if Freeholds are too small, each individual member too precious by simple dint of being a living being in a physical body, for this kind of evil to flourish. That said, you may have also noticed that I identified two Seemings - Darklings and Fairest - as explicitly self-uniting and in some senses self-governing on the basis of common traumas that they often cannot fully explain to outsiders, and indeed community with people that understand your bullshit without you having to say it aloud - that is, those who share a Seeming with you - can be invaluable to all Lost. Ultimately, however, I want to advise against looking at Seemings the way that, say, Vampire: the Requiem looks at Clans, and instead to treat them as reactions to trauma rather than a kind of alternate racial identity.

Next up: So You Need To Write A Fetch

#Changeling: The Lost #rpg #fairest #trauma #abuse #seemings #violence

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holylulusworld · 4 years ago

Text

True love

9000 followers celebration - sequels

Pairing: Thor x fem!Reader, former Steve Rogers x fem!Reader, former Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Characters: Wanda Maximoff, Tony Stark

Warnings: angst, self-doubts, comforting, fluff, Thor being a sweetheart, we talk a lot about roses, falling in love, angry Thor, soft Thor, cuddling & snuggling, implied smut

A/N: Sequel to: Wasted love

A/N: divider by @writeyourmindaway

Two weeks after you broke up with Steve and Bucky…

“You should eat something, Lady Y/N,” Thor knocks at your door once again. “My dove open the door, please. I know Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes hurt you deeply, but I’m worried about you.”

“Thor,” sighing you open the door, poking your head out, “I’m fine, promised. I just need more time to forget I wasted so much time on Steve and Bucky. I believed they love me, Thor. How could they do this to me?”

“I don’t know, my love but, if you are willing to let me in, I’d like to tell you about Asgard, my home,” Thor looks at you, offering you a single white rose. “Wanda told me the meaning of white roses, my dove.”

“Thor, you shouldn’t waste your time on me,” not giving in Thor enters your room when you open the door wider. “I’m not worth it.”

“Lady Y/N, never say things like that again,” he offers you the rose once more and you take it, sniffling silently.

“What did she tell you about the meaning of a white rose, Thor?” you watch Thor sit on your sofa, huffing as the furniture creaks under his weight.

“Lady Wanda said that a white rose represents purity, innocence, and youthfulness,” you giggle at Thor’s serious expression. He holds out his hand to bring you into his arms. You squeak, giggling again as he wraps his strong arms around you to cradle you in his arms. “She also said that white roses are often associated with first love and eternal loyalty,” you look up at Thor, giving him a soft smile as he wipes your tears off your cheeks with his thumb.

“Eternal loyalty?” humming the Asgardian looks at you in his arms, a soft smile playing on his lips. “White roses can also symbolize a new beginning and everlasting love, Y/N. I want to give you all of it.”

“Thor, I just broke up with two guys,” you sigh deeply, head resting against Thor’s shoulder. “I don’t think you want what’s left of me. I’m a fool for love and got played well. Luckily I didn’t get pregnant,” Thor growls low in his throat, already imagining you round with his child.

“You’re not a fool for loving someone, my dove,” humming you close your eyes as Thor starts to talk about Asgard, his friends, Mjolnir, and how much your smile helped his broken heart to heal. “You deserve all the love in the world, Y/N. I will give it to you.”

Only moments later you sleep peacefully in Thor’s arms for the first time since you broke things off with Steve and Bucky.

Two months later…

“No, Y/N,” Thor booms through the gym. “You will not back down only as they are here too,” the Asgardian slings one arm around your shoulders to lead you toward the treadmill. “You promised to help me train, my dove. We will ignore the men breaking your heart and have fun.”

“Fun?” you huff, looking around the gym. “Thor, training is no fun for me! I’m not a god or something. Everything aches after training, okay. Sometimes I even get a headache.”

“My love, I will rub your back and take care of you,” the smile Thor flashes you let Bucky and Steve fade into the background. “I will help you.”

“I’ll take your offer with pleasure,” you laugh as Thor scoops you up easily to carry you toward the treadmill. “Hey, what are you doing?” Instead of placing you onto your feet, Thor starts to run on the treadmill, you still in his arms.

“Training, my love,” Thor smirks, giving Bucky and Steve an angry look as they dared to look at you in his arms. “This way I’ll get stronger to protect you and you, my dove, won’t feel exhausted.”

“I like that kind of training,” you giggle, hiding your face in Thor’s chest. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Y/N…”

Four months later…

“Oh. My. God,” you look at the huge bouquet of roses in Thor’s arms as he walks into the common room. “How many roses did you buy?” giggling you watch Thor’s eyes light up when you rush toward him to sniff at the roses.

“It’s your birthday, my little one,” Thor smiles widely. “Wanda said red roses symbolize love and romance. I want to show you someone is loving you. I will wait for you, my dove,” pressing one hand to your heart you miss Steve’s pained expression as you start to sob uncontrollably.

“Oh, Thor,” you gasp when Thor hands you the roses. He brought two hundred and twenty-five and your legs give in. “Heavy.”

“Let me help you, Y/N,” Thor smirks at Bucky who gives him a bitch face as he doesn’t like Thor picks you up in bridal style to help you carry the roses toward your room.

“We will need so many vases, Thor,” not taking your eyes off the roses you smile as Thor doesn’t even know how much his gesture means to you. “Thank you, Thor.”

“Anytime, my love…”

Six months later…

“That’s beautiful,” you knew about Thor’s powers, even saw him fight using thunder and lightning but when he illuminates the sky only for you your heart begins to flutter.

You don’t see Steve and Bucky sulk in a corner, watching you step closer to Thor to stand on tiptoes. The tall Asgardian watches you with an amused smile when you cup his face to press your lips clumsily to his chin.

“You’re too tall,” whining you look up at Thor. He doesn’t hesitate. His hands grasp for your waist to lift you easily. “Better,” your arms wrap around his neck before you press your lips softly against Thor’s. “That was the greatest thunder and lightning I ever saw.”

“You liked it, Y/N?” mumbling the words against your lips Thor wraps his arms around you. “I’ll always give you the most beautiful thunder and lighting if you want me to.”

“I want you to,” you breathe against his lips. “Just give me a bit more time. I feel safe and loved around you, but I’m still scared of loving someone again.”

“I will give you time, my love. Just asked me to be there and I will, anytime – my dove…”

Eight months later…

“You look beautiful tonight, my love,” Thor compliments, holding out his arm to lead you into the ballroom. Natasha and Wanda helped you decide on a ballgown. It’s a simple blue robe with a slit, revealing your left leg. “No other woman can compare to you,” you smile up at Thor like he’s the sun and Steve feels like someone punched him in the guts.

“I hate it,” Steve grumbles, grasping for yet another drink which won’t ease the feeling in his stomach. “She should’ve been ours.”

“She was yours, Capsicle,” Tony flashes your former lovers a smile. Hell, you let the girl go. I don’t want to know why you messed up, but you did. Let Y/N be happy. If you try to intervene or if I see you only staring into her direction to make her feel unease, I’ll look for a way to get my hands-on a cryostasis chamber.”

“Y/N shouldn’t be with him,” Bucky grunts. “We messed up, okay. No reason for her to fall in love with that alien punk,” Wanda snickers at Bucky’s words, still, she slaps the back of his head.

“If Tony doesn’t punish you for disturbing Y/N’s date, I’ll do so. She deserves happiness. None of you was ready to give her love and devotion. You are selfish little men who used her for their pleasure,” Wanda pokes her finger into Bucky’s chest, giving him a bitch face. “Thor is the one she needs to heal the wounds you caused. Now shush and let her have a dance with the man loving her unconditionally.”

Almost 12 months later…

“My dove, oh-All-father, help me not to fall more for my queen,” Thor groans, falling onto the mattress with a loud thud. His chest heaves up and down as you crawl up his body, flashing him a grin. “You defeated me, my love.”

“I like little one more,” you whine, hiding your face in Thor’s neck. “I never thought that I can defeat a god,” Thor grins, ogling your naked form on top of his sweat-slicked body. “But I did.”

“You did, my dove,” his large hand runs up and down your back, tickling you with featherlight touches. “What you did with your mouth and hands, and your secret garden was divine.”

“Did you just call my pussy a secret garden?” giggling you cup Thor’s face to press soft kisses to his chin. “I like it, my king.”

“My mother used to call it like that or it’s similar to the words she used in our tongue. It described the secrets a woman is hiding from other men. That she will only find true satisfaction and fulfillment with the rightful man by her side and inside of her.”

“That’s beautiful and kinda dirty at the same time. I like it, Thor,” you rest your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes to inhale his scent. “Thank you for giving me back my trust in love, Thor. I know that I can trust you with my heart.”

“You can, my little one,” Thor purrs, hands shamelessly moving to your ass to grope it. “Now that I tasted your nectar, I’m a helpless slave to you, my dove,” humming you slide your fingers over his chest, drawing patterns with your fingertips. “I never want to taste anyone else’s.”

“I don’t want anyone else to taste my,” you giggle again, looking up at Thor, “nectar either, my king.”

Now…

“A ring? He got her a ring?” Steve chokes on the water he tried to drink. “When did that happen? Why? And how?”

“Last week. He wants to propose as they love each other,” Wanda shrugs, hiding her smirk poorly. “That’s all I know.”

“I heard them last night,” Bucky sighs. “He said something about her secret garden or crap again. I still don’t know what this means.”

“You don’t want to know,” Steve grits out. “I guess, we must congratulate them sooner or later Buck. This is our doing. If only we saw her sooner.”

“You snooze you lose,” Wanda giggles, walking out of the common room.

“Or we could just snatch her out of his hands, Stevie,” Bucky grins, forming a plan. “I got an idea…”

“It’s beautiful, Thor. Stop saying the ring is not perfect,” you close your eyes when Thor wraps his arms around your waist. “I don’t want a better ring. This one shows your love and devotion to me, my king. I really like it.”

“My dove,” Thor looks at the ring he got from a gumball machine, “I wanted it to be perfect. The ring I got was perfect. Then those monsters stole it and I had no other choice but to give you this one,” he points toward the pink ring on your finger. “I will get you a better one.”

“No, I like it,” you whine. “Let me have this one. I don’t care if it’s made of plastic or gold. You are the man I love, and I will marry you. A diamond ring or not,” you glare at Bucky and Steve who awkwardly watch you and Thor. “Don’t think we do not know it was you.”

“My dove let me bring you to our room,” Thor booms before a bolt of lightning strikes right next to Steve and Bucky. “Our bond is unbroken. Leave us be.”

“We lost,” Bucky hangs his head in shame. “How could I steal the ring? I’m no better than a criminal,” Steve nods, watching you and Thor walk toward your room.

“Let’s give it back, apologize, and wish them well. Y/N, she looks happy, Buck. Happier than with us,” admitting his defeat Steve looks at his friend. “We need to admit, Thor is Y/N’s true love, not us.”

“I hate it – but you’re right, Stevie…”

----

“I like it! I don’t want the other ring, Thor,” you purse your lips when Thor offers you the diamond ring Bucky and Steve gave back. “Let me keep this one till our wedding day. I like it.”

“I will do anything for you, anytime, my love…”

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#9000 followers #9000 Followers Celebration #Lulu's 9000 followers celebration #thor odinson #thor odison x reader #thor x reader #angst #fluff #implied smut #thor odinson x you #thor odinson oneshot #thor odinson x reader #thor x you #thor x fem!reader

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aikoiya · 11 months ago

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It really was. Such a sweet, healthy ship. Then again, it may have shaped my taste in men a bit...

Interesting. You said something about a Freya once. Speaketh. What character springs forth from the depths of your mind?

Also, that's an effed up thing to do. Like, what'd FD do to warrant that?

Then again... Zeus strapped Prometheus to a boulder for eternity where an eagle would come eat his liver for bringing fire to man, so it isn't like there's no president for disproportional punishments amongst the gods anyway.

Personally, I pair FD with Hylia. Mostly because most of my LoZ ships tend to involve some sort of Zelink. (Not all the time, but enough to be noticeable.) So, I like to think of them as soulmates. (Because, I'm a basic bitch like that.) And, if they weren't, then, in my mind, it would mean that none of my other Zelink ships were soulmates either.

Though, I'd like to note that I very specifically make soulmates work differently than a lot do. Specifically Stephenie Meyer's Twilight. But I can go into that some other time if you're interested.

Right?? So brooding!

Oh, absolutely! It's practically criminal that we can't just have, like, separate rooms inside our heads to store massive amounts of cultural/mythology facts.

Aw... Yeah, Ancient Egyptian is also super cool. I tend to take a bit of inspiration from Egypt when developing the Gerudo culture.

Both the good & the bad...

Hmmm.... I've heard of the Hero's Purpose, but I haven't looked into it... I might check it out...

Much appreciated!

Mmm... I think he could, but not because Four has that power himself. More so because it's connected to the Four Sword. And so long as FD Four has it, he can do it.

The question is whether the transformation would change the Four Sword too or if it'd remain unaffected.

Mostly, I think that what'd be drawn out of both Four & Legend would be FD's knowledge & capabilities as a god of the forge. Specifically regarding swords, including divine ones. Not to mention things like runemagic & crystomagic infusion, which helps with the creation of magical weapons.

I think he'd be particularly interested in any magical gemstones or monster parts that the rest of the Chain managed to pilfer. Especially any Light Dragon parts that Wild might have leftover.

In such a case, I think that either would be able to reforge & repair the Master Sword more powerful than ever.

As nice as it is that "bathing the Master Sword in sacred light" helps it to regenerate, I doubt that it's a substitute for actually being repaired by a literal god-tier level swordsmith capable of actually forging divine weapons.

... Yeah, that's fair. It would be really difficult, wouldn't it?

LoZ - FD Depictions in Hebra

I'd honestly like to see art of Fierce Deity in a Norse style. Specifically with him having very distinct Týr influences. Like, with the Tiwaz rune on his forehead.

Also, wearing a wolfskin headdress.

I think it'd look amazing.

LoZ Cultural Masterlist 1

#legend of zelda #loz #fierce deity #fd

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thatlongspringnight · 4 years ago

Text

The Song of Solomon (Taehyung/Reader)

⏤ Pairing: Priest!Taehyung/Reader

⏤ Genre: smut, porn w/ plot, romance, forbidden love

⏤ Word Count: 2972

⏤ Warnings: Smut, sacrilege, cunnilingus, sex in a church, sex with a PRIEST, religion, Catholicism, tons of bible references, forbidden romance, oral, fingering, public nudity, sex in a public place

__ Rating: 18+

Summary: Kim Taehyung left your town right after high school a boyish rake, and returned a pious man. Now you’re together, and the whispered words between you both are only heard by the silent, empty church.

A very special thanks to Willow who edited this and helped make it beautiful <3

Tagging: @wwilloww @hesperantha @jin-fizz

You shouldn’t be here.

Here, in the darkened church, the only lights are the flickering of half a dozen candles, here at the front, by the altar, by the crucifix and statues that have always stood here. Here where nothing has changed, since the beginning of time. You feel small, even in the bobbing lights you can see the stained glass, holy mother gazing down at you, clutching her son. Is she passing judgement? You aren’t sure, her expression is the same serenity as always.

Although at this moment you are anything but serene.

“I compare you, my love, to a mare among Pharaoh’s chariots.” His smooth voice, so deep - too deep, like the Nile river itself. “Your cheeks are comely with ornaments, your neck with strings of jewels. We will make you ornaments of gold, studded with silver.” He’s standing in front of you, fingertips brushing your cheeks, gentle but firm as he cups your chin, gaze hot on your own. The verse speaks of love, and it's love in your heart. Forbidden and wildly untamed in your chest.

No, you shouldn’t be here at all. You should be at home, kneeling at your bed and saying your prayers there. You shouldn’t have accepted his invitation to compline. You definitely shouldn’t have agreed so eagerly when he suggested you read from the Song of Solomon.

You shouldn’t have. You try to convince yourself, like you aren’t kneeling before him, hands clasped, eyes gazing upward at the giant crucifix. Like you aren’t an active participant in whatever is to come. You try and focus. Eyes trailing up - up -

Up - to Taehyung’s face, the only passion play you could bare to watch.

“W-While the king was on his couch, my nard gave forth its fragrance.” Your own voice stumbles, at first, tripped up by the echoing drum of your racing heart. “My beloved is to me a bag of myrrh that lies between my breasts - “ A catch of breath - it's yours, it's yours because of those hands, his - warm and rough - cupping your breasts as you read. He’s eye level now, and you swear there is nothing more beautiful than the feeling of his hands on you. Your beloved. Still, you forge forward through the verses. “My beloved is to me a cluster of henna blossoms in the vineyards of En-gedi.”

“Ah, you are beautiful, my love;” He briefly strokes his thumb across your cheek, and the feeling makes you shiver. His eyes are dark in the candlelight, and molten as you meet their gaze. “Ah, you are beautiful; your eyes are doves.” He recites the words, a poem he knows by heart, fingers trailing under your shirt. “Ah, you are beautiful, my beloved, truly lovely.” Taehyung is slow, nimble fingers taking his time with the buttons. He takes his time, as though he is cherishing the moment, like you are. A comfortable silence, until It's gone, fallen to the floor. Will you be bare here, too, then? A sinner bares their soul in confessional...and you would bare your body here, on the floor in this house of God.

“I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valley.” Your voice ceases to waver, strength hidden in your bones rising up. “As a lily among brambles, so is my love among maidens.” You sigh, and sigh again as his nose brushes your throat, as his hands trace your skin.

It feels like he is worshipping you, that you are the sacred body here, the red candle flickering in the corner. “As an apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among young men. With great delight I sat in his shadow, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.”

“Taste me.” His words are sweet, poison laced sugar as fingertips press against your lips, part for him, Moses and the red sea, and you taste. Taste the salt of his skin and crave him, crave more. More of his gentle smile, eyes alight as he sees you. More of the firmness of his hands, often on your back as he guided you down the hallways of this ancient, holy place. More of his laugh, still boyish and beautiful after all this time. More of every single piece of him.

“He brought me to the banqueting house, and his intention toward me was love. Sustain me with raisins, refresh me with apples; for I am faint with love.” You...you feel faint before you even say the words. The longing, the love - it makes you tremble. How can you be absolved from this? Why don’t you want to?

If this is sin - this beautiful, divine feeling - then what is the point of it all? He is David and you are a harp, ready to play his tune. “O that his left hand was under my head, and that his right hand embraced me!” Your voice echoes, his hand cupping your cheek, the other sliding down to wrap around your waist.

He hasn’t even kissed you yet. This feeling is your own sin, eyes eager to devour the words on the page, to decipher his next move. Overcome, it’s lust licking the sweet tendrils of flame in your belly. Hellfire?

“Your lips distill nectar, my bride; honey and milk are under your tongue.” He tilts your head back, mouth so utterly close to yours. But he doesn’t move any closer, even as you feel the warmth of his breath on your face, the press of his body against yours.

Is he...is he toying with you? And yet, the thought doesn’t match the desperation of his gaze. The way his hands tremble when they touch you. “The scent of your garments is like the scent of Lebanon. A garden locked is my sister, my bride, a garden locked, a fountain sealed.” The words are choked and you understand.

You are locked to him, forbidden, closed. If you want him...you must be the one to open the gate. He won’t go forward without it, without knowing that it isn’t just him that wants this - this beautiful, terrifying thing. You want it, want him, want every drop of his love that he’ll offer you.

“A garden.” You break the silence, the holy book in your hands clattering to the ground. “Solomon built the temple. He was a priest and a king, a man. Like you.” The implication is clear. Solomon was no celibate. And this time it’s you, gripping his face: “this is not a sin to absolve me of father.” It’s your lips on his. Desperate and wanting, you kiss him like a woman starved, and you are starved...starved for him, this culmination of all of your wants, here in front of you.

He could tread in your garden as he liked. So long as you could taste the nectar of his lips - You would find the milk and honey of his body. Forbidden fruit - let his juices soak you to your core.

“Not a sin?” Taehyung’s voice, deep in your ear, hoarse. “Fucking a priest in your church isn’t a sin?” His voice is deep, and there is an edge there, a hoarseness that would match your own. He sounds so - so wanting, it almost shocks you. Like his lips, soft and warm against your neck, fingers buried in your hair, tugging at the strands.

“Not one for the priest to absolve me of.” You reach up, grasping at his collar. “How can I be forgiven if I am not sorry?” What has come over you? The words are bold, foreign on your lips - but you mean them, pulling him back to kiss him again.

He’s so warm, and his grip only tightens at your words. You - you want to succumb to those desires, to the sin in your heart that was for him and him alone.

“Guilt. Shame.” The man muses. “Shame, our punishment for trusting the snake. And yet - Solomon called his lover a garden, beautiful….decadent. Perhaps the garden of eden was like his lover - “

“The garden hid the original sin.” Sin, his hands leaving yours to grasp at his belt - the snap of it in the empty air. Sin, him pulling you forward, onto your feet, bruising lips, bruising fingertips on your thighs, as he drug you forward, pressing you against the altar, the sacredest of spaces. “Forbidden knowledge, is - is knowing you forbidden?” He’s the one on the ground now, on his knees in front of you. “Is it - father?”

“Taehyung.” He grabs at his clerical collar, the white tossed to the ground as he parts your legs. “I am touching you as a man, not as a priest.”

“Maybe you should touch me as a priest.” You can feel him tense. “Consecrate my body, drink of me until we are both holy.”

“Sacrilege.” He speaks, pulling down your skirt. “And in the house of God no less.”

“If you will fuck me on the altar, why shouldn’t you -“

“It’s the Song of Solomon.” He interrupts you, nimble fingers pulling at sheer fabric, the only barrier between you and him. “Or have you forgotten?”

“You - you want to finish the recitation?” He nods, barely perceptible, the sound of his voice as he tugs your sheer underwear down your legs, slowly - so slowly, taking time like he had done with your shirt.

“Your channel is an orchard of pomegranates with all choicest fruits, henna with nard, nard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon,” Your underwear hangs around tense ankles now, gaze trained on him. “with all trees of frankincense, myrrh and aloes, with all chief spices– a garden fountain, a well of living water, and flowing streams from Lebanon.” He sounds amused, even as he touches you, your sacred space. “A channel, a fountain, ripe fruit for the picking, d’you know of the love Solomon is speaking?”

“Carnal…” that answer was easy. “Desire - carnal love.”

“More than that, he speaks of this.” A finger, swirling against you, sliding into that part of you you were told not to touch...not that you followed that rule.

Perhaps that was a sin you could confess to. “Of this act, pleasuring you, and who am I not to follow the words of that famous king...and worship at your font - your well, your garden, till your juices drip down my chin like pomegranate juice.

“Let my beloved come to his garden, and eat its choicest fruits…” You speak, remembering the line even without the bible in your hands. “Please Taehyung…” Your hands grip the altar table, bunching the embroidered cloth under your grip.

He’s worshipping you, you’re sure of it, with tongue and teeth. It's messy, and he’s not shy, those lips that could stir a congregation with their sweetness, his golden tongue - now they were on you, fingers still in you to the hilt.

It is not quiet, either. Your gasps barely muffled, the wet, lurid sounds he was drawing from your body echoing in the room.

How often had you sat in those pews in front of you, how often had you knelt, gazing up at this very altar, bated breath as the transfiguration took place, over and over.

Now you are transfigured - you will never be the same after tonight, even if you want to be. But there can be no regrets as he murmurs your name against your thighs. As he makes you tremble and gasp, tensing under his touch, falling apart like the walls of Jericho, turning to dust in the wake of his fervent, ardent desire.

“How graceful are your feet in sandals, O queenly maiden! Your rounded thighs are like jewels, the work of a master hand.” Slick fingers grip at your thighs, ruddied cheeks meeting your gaze as you pass your tongue over your lips. His mouth - it's wet, and that makes you blush...though you aren’t sure why at this point.

This is adultery, you muse, and of the worst kind. Taehyung is a priest, he’s married to the Church, and yet...and yet it's not communion wine smeared across his lips...no...he’s ripe for kissing with your essence glossed against his skin.

“Your navel is a rounded bowl that never lacks mixed wine. Your belly is a heap of wheat, encircled with lilies.” He’s mouthing across the skin of your stomach, up and up, till he’s standing again, hands at your breasts, gentle kisses more heated the closer he gets to your mouth.

“T-Taehyung.” Your soft murmur of his name breaks his recitations, but only for a moment, his gaze altogether too hungry to be kept occupied for long. “Please - “ Please what? Please what to this beautiful man, who has already given you so much.

Please more - please don’t stop - please love me.

“Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle. Your neck is like an ivory tower.” Your neck falls victim to this trap all too easily, tilting to the side as his pretty lips press against it, as teeth mark your skin. It’s painful in a way that pleases you, your body still a shudder of pleasure and desire. “Your eyes are pools in Heshbon, by the gate of Bath-rabbim. Your nose is like a tower of Lebanon, overlooking Damascus….” Why is his gaze so sweet? The words barely process as his fingertips ghost over your face, as his lips brush your forehead.

“Your head crowns you like Carmel….How fair and pleasant you are, O loved one, delectable maiden, You are stately as a palm tree...and your kisses like the best wine that goes down smoothly, gliding over lips and teeth.” He’s skipping verses, you realize, and he’s asking you for something, something you give. Kisses, like wine, your mouth against his, soft and gentle, and then more.

This time it is you, it is you touching him, hands unbuttoning his pants, ghosting over the heaviness there.

“I am my beloved’s, and his desire is for me…” You hear his half gasp as you cup him, and you wonder how long it's been since he’s touched a woman. Are you the first one since he left for seminary? Since he returned back to your little town, a man fully grown, to find that he wasn’t the only one who had changed.

“I-It is.” The man’s words, they’re darling, even as he’s grasping your hands, pulling them away from him, from his cock - out and hard, beautiful too - even as he’s letting you tangle your hands in his hair, biting at his lower lip. “It's for you.” There is no guile in his tone, nothing in his eyes but honest desire. “For you - I’ll break my vows, over and over.”

“Come, my beloved…” Your words are choked with emotion, and then cut off completely, because it's him - hot, inside of you. You wonder if he’s surprised that you don’t come to him a fresh and blushing bride, a virgin. But you both have changed, you remind yourself.

And those changes had brought you here.

“I’ll be the one to say that.” He grips at your thighs, his strokes as sure and steady as him. Taehyung was the earth beneath your feet, and - and he was the wind in your hair, the air in your lungs, his touches now - heaven sent.

You know it now: Taehyung is an angel in disguise. Perhaps he’d strike you down when it was all done, for your sins. And you’d gladly go, if it meant this was the last feeling you had, you could die in his arms and spend the rest of your days in hellfire, or in the cold quiet of purgatory - wandering as a wraith, if it meant that he would keep looking at you this way.

“S-say what?” You stammer, pulling him closer, so close to you, barely caring that he was fully clothed, and you were stark and nude. It seems fitting. Of course you should bare yourself to your priest, haven’t you done it to him countless times before in the confessional booth? Baring your soul and sins out for him to see.

To forgive.

Your thoughts are idle, and he is murmuring sweetness into your ear, golden tongue - the snake in the garden. No, Taehyung is no snake dripping poison on your tongue. Taehyung is just as much lost soul as you are. You feel so hot under his touch, sensitive, full - on the precipice of it all.

“Come, my beloved.” His voice is almost as amused as it is desperate. “Come…” And you were falling, falling against him, letting him hold you as you trembled. “Come and there I will give you my love.” Love, in spurts and a muffled moan, his body staggering against you, pressing you further into the altar table.

“Love…” You murmur, breath returning to normal as he pulls away from you. “The love of God to man, or the love of Solomon to his queen?”

“Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave.” Taehyung answers, ever cryptic. His touch is still warm as he helps you put your clothes back on, touch slow, gentle as he re-buttons your shirt, as he uses your underwear to clean the drips of arousal from the floor. “We are called to love the church as God loves us. But i’m called to love you...like Solomon loved his woman.” It’s a peck to your forehead, you watch him pocket the sheer material, and this is as much of a confession as you expect, surprised when he pulls you in for a gentle kiss, fingers entwining with your own.“Whatever it means, I won’t deny it, even in death, it will be your name on my lips.”

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hotdamnhunnam · 4 years ago

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Drink You Up

A/N: Here’s a super kinky fic for my Kinkfest based on the below requests! I think it works really well as a sequel to my prior Papillon fic, Smoke You Out. *This fic has KINKY KINKS (see warnings), please don’t read if this isn’t your thing* Note: I’ve never done anything like this in reality (and have no interest personally) but am OBSESSED with the idea of it in my filthy Charlie fantasies 🥵

Pairing: Henri Charrière (“Papillon”) x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, dirty talk, dom/sub, watersports (reader begs him to piss in her mouth/face) **please don’t read if that’s not suited to your tastes** Requests: Request 1 (+ follow-up) + Request 2

Word Count: ~3.2k

Note: The prison reference in this fic is not a reference to Henri Charrière’s experience in reality (or in the book or movie) – rather imagine it as a minor jail sentence from which he was released pretty quickly. I just wanted a good excuse to use the above gif, basically 😜

**Please note warnings above**

Kinky kinks begin after ‘Keep reading’ cut...

***************

“...then what happened?” you excitedly ask him, convinced that the story has not met its end.

Henri is telling you all about this one incident back when he spent a few months in a shabby old prison. How he had exacted revenge, in defense of a fellow inmate he considered a friend. His friend’s safety was threatened— some mean-spirited bastard was making a show of exerting his power, by violently bullying weaker men, while they were all naked and vulnerable in the prison’s communal shower.

Of course Papillon wouldn’t stand for such wicked injustice. He took it upon himself then to ensure that the crime would be properly punished, and pummeled the son of a bitch with his furious fists.

The image is clear in your mind—of your man with hot water and blood and grime cascading down the smooth planes of his chest and his spine, looking downright divine—a glistening god all caught up in a slippery mess, as he so heroically took care of business. Something tells you the story does not end like this...

Henri pauses before he proceeds to the finish. “Then I stood over him and took a piss.”

...Oh. You’re not sure what you had expected him to say. But it most certainly wasn’t that. Now you know—is it bad, that the answer he gave has you feeling some kind of insane, indescribable way...?

You shift where you’re cuddled up next to him in bed, curious why you feel strangely aroused by what Henri just said. Even more so as he pulls you toward him tightly, so your bare skin rubs against his half-hard cock. “I see...” you murmur quietly. “Well, that’s savage as fuck.”

His sculpted shoulders lift up in a shrug. “I thought it’d get the point across. Show the scumbag who’s boss.”

“Like there was ever any doubt,” you sigh in bliss, as Henri holds you close to claim your mouth. Tracing his sinful tongue sensuously against your upper lip before he takes it in a kiss, the way he always does.

You turn to mush beneath his touch. His kisses are so dangerously delicious. God, you love this man so much... such endless love... constantly filled with the impulse to suck him off, to taste him all over and eat him up... or drink him up, as you’ll discover soon enough.

***************

You spend the whole morning with Henri’s enormous cock deep in your holes, filling you up so perfectly full, to the core of your soul. Letting him use you up like a rag doll. You fucking love playing this role.

You’re his good little girl; he’s your whole fucking world.

Of course, you are the center of your lover’s universe, as he is yours. But when it comes to sex the dynamic is much more one-sided. Your instincts are always submissive and you’ve never once tried to fight it.

Your urge is to give yourself to him in service, because he’s so gorgeous, so flawless, a literal god and he fucking deserves it. Thankfully Henri also gets off on this, treating you like something filthy and worthless. It’s perfect.

Though his dominance is infinite, still he has his limits. There are certain deeds Henri would never dare do, regardless of how desperately you beg him to. Anything that would cause lasting injury, anything that he sees as a serious insult to your dignity... those are all simply out of the question. And you know better than to even attempt to persuade him or test him.

And yet today as you are down on your knees worshiping Henri’s massive erection... your slutty desires suddenly lead you in a somewhat intense direction. One that neither of you was expecting.

You realize that you’re fucking thirsting. For more than his pearly white seed. Scrumptious as it may be, always quenching your filthiest needs, there’s another hunger surging up within you on the verge of bursting.

And you can’t contain it any longer. No hunger you’ve harbored has ever been stronger.

As Henri floods your throat with his thick creamy load, you happily tilt your head back once every precious drop has been swallowed. A slobbery mess of your spit and his cum coats your lips in a shiny wet gloss. Gazing up at him now you summon up the courage to go down this uncharted road. “Taste so good, sir. But now I want more. Just as you did before, to that scumbag who took such a loss... I think you ought to show me who’s boss.”

Your man instantly knows exactly what you mean. And the look on his face is quite frankly the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. He’s appalled, and is not on the same page at all, as you knew to expect since you know him so well.

“What—Y/N, what the hell...”

Henri steps back, unable to hide how the upstanding gentleman in him reacts. Though he may be a criminal, he’s also noble and pure on some level. He can’t stand the thought of disgracing a woman like that. Let alone the woman that he loves and respects, more than anything else.

“But love, please...” you beseech, leaning forward toward him where you’re down on your knees, as he moves out of reach. “You just made me realize this is something I need, when you told me about that whole incident...”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Henri, I don’t mean that you did it intentionally. It’s just what happened when you mentioned it to me.”

This is still a concept that he cannot begin to process. “But... but why would you want this?”

“Because I love you, and I want all of you, to be honest.”

“But this...”

“My love, I want to drink you up. Every last drop. Want you to drown me in your godly golden piss.”

At that statement, his bright blue eyes blink and go wide in amazement. He’s frozen in shock. And that’s when you see evidence he can’t deny—the body doesn’t lie—those words seem to have had an effect on his cock.

One word slips from his luscious pink lips in this mind-blowing moment; he knows that you’d noticed. “F-fuck...”

Henri also wants this. The throb of his stiffening cock is so shamelessly honest. And you can’t believe your damn luck.

Though you’ve just finished servicing his glorious hunk of meat, gulping down his delicious white seed... now he’s gonna give you something else that is just as delicious to suck. Your man has more to feed. And your job is to drink it all up till you choke, because that is what both of you need.

***************

“Are you sure that you’re ready for this?”

Henri earnestly asks the question, as you kneel down before his perfection. Grateful for the privilege to worship someone so impossibly gorgeous.

“Yes, sir,” you respond, as you squirm in pure bliss, quivering on the floor, while a flood has begun in your cunt. “It’s everything I want. I’ve never wanted anything more. Please let me be your whore, and drink all of your piss.”

At the unfiltered words you’ve just said, he briefly throws back his beautiful blonde head, finally letting himself surrender to this sinful indulgence of pleasure. You can hear his breath hitch, as the piece of meat gripped in his tight fist pulsates with a powerful twitch.

“Dirty bitch. Do you think you deserve such a privilege?”

Oh, you know that you don’t. You pathetically groan, as his free hand takes hold of your head to pull you toward him closer. “N-no, sir...”

“Then why are you so desperate for it, you pathetic little whore?” he laughs, taking hold of his shaft, encircling the base, aiming it toward your face. “Just can’t resist, how bad you want my fucking piss? Fill up that filthy mouth of yours? You want a taste?”

Good fucking grief. His dominance is just the best. Aroused beyond belief, your hands spontaneously rise up to your chest, to play with your bare naked breasts. You roll your nipples slowly in your fingers as his grip on your head tightens till you whimper at the pressure. “Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Mmm...” Henri hums, watching your tongue flick out across your bottom lip to lap up lingering droplets of his sweet cum. He is clearly enjoying seeing you like this. “Tell me what you want, bitch. Tell me while you’re playing with those pretty tits.”

You happily obey, as you will always. For as long as you exist. “I want your piss,” you answer. “Want to feel your piss dripping all over me, Master. Please, Henri. Want to taste it if you’ll let me.”

He generously drags your face down toward his balls to let you sniff them for a moment, hanging low and heavy, making you moan as you breathe his manly scent. “Look at you, slut. So fucking messy. Smothered in my cum and sweat. Want me to piss right on your pretty face to clean it up?”

Each word from his mouth is so hot. You mumble words muffled against his sweaty nuts. “Oh yes, oh God...”

“That’s right. Now shut your mouth, bitch. Shut it tight,” your man commands. “I’m gonna soak you in my piss and you don’t get to drink it till I say you can. You understand?”

On the instant, eager and prompt, you seal your lips just as he wants. Ever desperate to please your dom. “Mm-hmm...”

“Now I don’t give a shit how bad you want a taste. You keep your mouth shut while I soak your face. Just keep it shut,” he orders, as he poises his cock in position to shower you down while denying your thirst. “Gotta get you all cleaned up first, dirty slut.”

The tip of his semi-hard dick is aimed straight at your forehead, and you are so fucking excited you can barely breathe. Henri knows you live for it. It’s all that you need...

When he finally releases the first hot stream onto your face, with a guttural groan that sends you spiraling into subspace, you have to force yourself to bite your tongue and purse your lips against the urge to open them. The steamy wet sensation in this moment... it feels even more amazing than your inner whore was hoping.

From the sound of your sighs and your moans, Henri knows that you cannot go on for much longer like this with your mouth closed. Yet you must do as you were told. Dare not defy your man’s demands. And so you don’t.

Just keep on toying at your tits with frantic hands, writhing in torturous pleasure as golden piss gushes out from his gorgeous dick and splatters straight onto your worthless face, loving the way that it cascades, straight down your cheeks and dripping from your chin onto your chest and down the rest of you as you gaze up at him in rapture, worshiping your master, wide eyes thanking him for gracing you with the most glorious gift ever.

Fuck, there’s so much of it. And you’re so grateful and so glad for every bit. Only wish that you could drink it like you’ve always wanted. Show him just how much you love him, every beautiful inch of his body and every single drop that comes out of it.

“Shit—you are so damn pathetic. You love it,” Henri marvels now as he hoses you down, pausing every so often to tease your closed lips with the tip of his dick, then using it to spread his hot piss all around, making a mess. And then he points his cock a bit lower to shoot onto your chest. “Get those hands off, bitch. Gonna soak your fucking tits.”

The feeling of his steaming piss landing directly on your breasts, splashing over your stiffened nipples, spilling down your cleavage as it trickles, is beyond your wildest dreams, and fills you with the need to scream. You keep your mouth clamped tight, afraid that he’ll stop pissing on you if you don’t obey him right.

The puddle on the floor beneath you is expanding every second, the pool of your own pussy juice from all this degradation getting flooded with the hot flow of his piss while you kneel there silently begging. Fuck, it’s hell and yet it’s heaven.

Henri sneers down at your trembling body, towering above you tall and godly, looking at your filthy skin glistening in his golden spray. He’s dominating you in every way. You could keep doing this all day, to be quite honest. “Ugh, you’re such a piece of shit,” he laughs at how badly you want it. “Soaking wet, shaking in bliss. Bathing in my piss. Makes your pussy drip, doesn’t it.”

You nod up at him breathlessly. The sheer humiliation is so heavenly...

“Why don’t you touch yourself, you fucking slut,” he taunts, as you struggle to keep your mouth shut. “Wanna see you squirming like a cheap whore while I shower you with piss just like you want. That’s it, play with your cunt.”

You do as told, fulfilling your role, even though you derive much more pleasure from serving him than from playing with yourself. Even so, it does feel undeniably good, as you knew that it would. It’s degrading as hell.

Now what really feels good is when rivulets of Henri’s piss dribble over your wrist, and get you wet down there with not only your own worthless juices, but also with his wondrous fluids, washing over you. A dream come fucking true. Your hips start bucking wildly, as his firm grasp digs into your scalp to hold you in place tightly, keeping your head up by his crotch, steady enough to be poised for the next shot of piss which he aims at your face while you get off on loving him so fucking much.

“Wanna say something, bitch?” he snarls as he watches your whole body tremble and twitch. You’re bursting at the seams, about to die. “Feels so damn good you wanna scream? You wanna cry?”

He’s an actual god. And his grip on your head is so firm now you can’t even nod, even so much as try.

Henri snickers down at the sight of you so goddamn helpless and stops pissing just for a second, to slap your sloppy cheek with his throbbing erection. He then runs the tip of his juicy dick over your tightly pursed lips, teasing you with the meat you’re so desperate to worship.

“Now I’m gonna tell you to open your mouth, but I don’t wanna hear you make one fucking sound,” he growls out loud, sadistic and savage. “Just swallow my piss like a good little bitch. Drink it all down. You think you can manage?”

His fist in your hair loosens slightly so you can respond with a nod now. You don’t know if you can survive this but need to attempt it somehow.

“Mmm, that’s it,” he purrs, his perfect body standing tall and proud above yours, gloriously naked. “Just sit there and take it. You know this is what you live for. Are you ready, whore?”

You nod again, grateful to be servicing a god among men.

He pushes his cock harder up against the entrance of your mouth, still firmly shut. “Now open up, you fucking slut.”

Your jaw immediately drops, heart stops, tongue hanging out across your lower lip, then wriggling in bliss as it’s finally blessed with the heavenly gift of his piss. Holy shit. The feel of it, the taste of it, spurting straight into your thirsty mouth, everything you couldn’t live without...

Your mouth is flooded in a matter of seconds and you feel like your body and soul are combusting.

“Swallow,” he commands, as you apparently were too far gone in ecstasy to follow his instructions.

You silently thank him for the reminder as your throat contracts in an eager gulp, struggling to keep it as noiseless as possible, drinking him up, like it’s your fucking job. Making sure to keep your mouth wide open to continue to receive the ceaseless stream. It’s such a dream...

“Good slut,” he utters in degrading praise, absolute music to your ears, ruining you in all possible ways, staring you down as he fills up your filthy mouth with his delicious piss until you’re brought to tears. “Every drop. Wash down all that cum you took deep in your dirty throat. That’s it, don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

You swallow hard again and again, taking him in, cherishing each and every drop, yourself hoping that it will never stop. But then the flow slowly subsides to a trickle and you realize that he’s nearly finished. Even a god such as him still has bodily limits. His supply isn’t infinite; Henri can’t keep on pissing in your mouth for eternity no matter how badly you might’ve wished it.

You drink up the last serving of his piss that has pooled up inside your throat and then gaze silently up at his gorgeous face in groveling gratitude. You’ve never felt so absolutely used. It feels so right to feel so wrong. He smacks the head of his cock softly on your lolling tongue, so that the last few drops that clung onto his flesh land on your tastebuds, letting you lap them up like a good little slut.

As you slobber all over his dick, loving it more with every lick, you notice how much bigger and harder it’s gotten since he started pissing on you. So long and thick... so fucking big...

“Ughh, fuck...” he grunts as he pulls your face slowly off of his cock, running his thumb along your dripping lips. “You like that, bitch? You like drinking my piss?”

You bob your head in an enthusiastic nod, beaming up at your god, in utter bliss. Your fingers are still absentmindedly playing with your piss-splattered clit. Getting off on being such a kinky piece of shit.

“Say it.”

“Yes, Master, I love it,” you answer, ecstatic as ever to do as he wishes. “Love drinking it all like a good little bitch. Looking up at your beautiful face while I swallow your piss. It’s so fucking delicious.”

“Mmmmn,” he growls, blue eyes ablaze and aroused, admiring what a mess he has made of your mouth. He looks pleased and incredibly proud. “You look so pretty like this. Showered in my piss. I cleaned you up real nicely, didn’t I?”

“You did, sir. And I thank you for it, sir,” you reply, with wide eyes, in a worshipful whisper.

“Of course you do,” he coos, enjoying the view of you totally sluiced in his golden god juice. “That was ridiculously hot. You really are my perfect little slut. I fucking love you.”

“Mmm, I love you, too...”

You’re both literally overflowing with love. And you will never have enough. That was the first—but surely not the last—time Henri quenched your deepest thirst, drenched you in piss just as you asked. As far as you’re concerned, today you’ve learned... there is no greater show of love than falling on your knees to drink him up.

***************

...Sooo I hope there are some kinky bitches out there who enjoyed this, and would love to hear if you did!! 🤗❤️

– Masterlist

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sapphirelycoris · 4 years ago

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𝑨 𝑩𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑩𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝑨𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 & 𝑨𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕: 𝑰

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Suggestive lines, pining (like a lot because Enji's a simp), enemies to lovers style writing, weird 19th century type dialogue but I think it's still readable. Please tell me if I missed any.

Ship: Enji Todoroki x female reader (she/her)

Word count: 2,707

Music: Pride & Prejudice Music & Ambiance

Author's note: I know some of the character's relationships with others are kind of weird but I casted them according to personality. For example, Ryuko reminds me of Charlotte Lucas and Nejire reminds me of her little sister, Maria. I just kind of threw names around haha... A NSFW and continuation soon to come. God, it's been a while since I posted anything on this blog.

Written/created for: @pleasantanathema's Through Ink and Quill | A Classics Collab

Summary: A Pride and Prejudice inspired piece, featuring Enji Todoroki as the male love interest. Loosely following the plot of the actual novel with a few twists on the actual story's dialogue, characters, & events. When you meet Mr. Enji Todoroki, he was the last man in the world you'd ever want to be around. However, as your paths cross more and more, you see that your first impression of him was inaccurate.

"The world works in mysterious ways. He doesn’t know what happened and when it began. Suddenly, Enji cannot stop longing to be in the same room with you. To go one more moment without you seemed like a sin or some unbearable divine punishment for his greatest flaw: pride."

𝑉𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠, 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑦𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑙𝑦. 𝐴 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑣𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝑃𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑠; 𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦, 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝘩𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑢𝑠. -𝐽𝑎𝑛𝑒 𝐴𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛

The world works in mysterious ways. He doesn’t know what happened and when it began. Suddenly, Enji cannot stop longing to be in the same room with you. He dreamed about the sight of your eyes, glancing at him with mild contempt. You occupied his thoughts, both innocent and indecent… He was going to go mad if you didn’t share the same affections that he did. He didn’t want you. Not at all. He needed you by his side. To go one more moment without you seemed like a sin or some unbearable divine punishment for his greatest flaw: pride.

When he blatantly insulted you at the first gathering he attended and saw you laugh about it with Ryuko, for once, he felt uneasy. The same woman he had slighted was now the one who controlled him. He noticed the way you looked embarrassed at your family’s antics. It disgusted him that he was obsessing over someone with that kind of background.

It certainly shocked Enji when you stood him up at Sir Yorio’s gathering. How dare you! For him to stoop down and offer to dance with you, only for you to reject him, was truly offensive. A woman far below his social status, refusing to stand up with him. The nerve.

Every single snarky quip that left your lips swam around in his mind. Your sharp tongue was attractive. The moment he saw you with mud on your dress, walking from your home to Toshinori’s country estate, he was taken aback. For some reason, he couldn’t get rid of that image. The sun hit your face perfectly, creating an enchanting glow that accompanied your delightful countenance.

“Ms. (L/N).” Your name rolled off his lips so naturally.

The regrettable moment you had to leave Toshinori’s estate, he helped you into the carriage which would take you home. Something transpired, far beyond his comprehension. Your hand fit so perfectly in his, he couldn’t help but want it to stay there forever. The missing piece to a puzzling man such as himself finally found its way to its rightful spot. It seemed you wished for the same thing. His grip was secure, he felt safe, and you were trapped, staring into the most beautiful cerulean eyes. At the same time, Enji could drown in your eyes forever. The confused look you gave him was endearing when he refused to let go.

His actions also startled him. Why was he so stuck on you? He flexed his hand, imagining that yours never left as he watched the carriage shrink, moving further from the manor and into the distance. When was the next time he would be allowed to see you? What was it going to take to cure this infatuation?

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

The next time he saw you, was under more unfortunate circumstances. He was riding downtown with Toshinori when he spotted your little party. Unlike his friend, Enji looked unhappy when he saw who you were talking with. You briefly exchanged eye contact with him before he had a clear look of disdain displayed on his face.

Keigo’s eyes followed yours. He tipped his hat, but Enji made no attempt to return the friendly gesture. He hurried away on his horse without saying a word. The encounter was certainly unusual. Keigo looked discomforted by the interaction. You wondered what could have transpired between the two men that caused such tension.

That night, at your aunt’s home, you sat down and heard what Keigo had to say about his reunion with Enji. He told his side of the story. He painted Enji as the villain in his narrative. Seeing as how you already found the man so disagreeable, you couldn’t help but believe Keigo’s words. He was much more forthcoming than his old friend; he didn’t seem capable of telling a lie. This new story caused you to see Enji in a new light, only deepening your dislike for the man.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Toshinori was a man of his word and held the ball that he promised your sisters. Enji was less unenthusiastic than he usually was. Knowing that he’d get to see you there was the night’s one redeeming feature. He was excited at the thought of getting to lay his eyes on you once more, and it sickened him.

Many of the officers were attending the ball. While linking arms with Toshinori and walking around the ballroom, you searched for Keigo among the redcoats the officers wore. Instead of finding him, you found a pair of familiar blue eyes that looked at you with well-hidden passion and yearning. Enji wanted to tear you away from Toshinori’s arms and have you all to himself. He had many selfish desires, and he usually got what he wanted, but you were the exception.

Women fawned over him, trying to get a taste of his money. Even Rei tried being overly friendly with him. He cared little for them; he wasn’t looking to fall in love. He was not in search of a wife. Enji was quite content with the life he had. Everything he wanted was in his grasp. But you? You were so close yet so far. There was an uncomfortable amount of emotional space between you and he wanted to close it. Being in the same room wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted to touch you, feel your skin, claim those alluring lips for himself. He wanted to see your whole being without any pesky fabric in the way. If only he could rip that dress off of your body after forcefully pulling you into a vacant bedroom.

He made his way over to you, but an officer blocked his view. He informed you that Keigo would not be in attendance. Part of it was because of an assignment he had to do, but he also wanted to avoid a certain man… Your younger sisters drug the officer away, leaving you alone in the middle of a crowded room.

Fortunately, you spotted Ryuko, who was standing alone in the corner. You went to inform her of everything that had happened lately. An unwelcome guest interrupted you.

“Ryuko, may I introduce you to my cousin, Mr. Tobita?” While remaining civil, you introduced them to each other. He took your hand and led you to dance. As it turns out, the man can’t dance. He went the wrong way, bumping into another lady. It was embarrassing, to say the least.

Enji watched in amusement as he saw you struggle to keep a smile. You made eye contact with him again, almost sending him a look of desperation. Dancing with him would be better than your current situation. He simply smirked and waltzed around the room, observing everyone.

While you were busy venting to Ryuko, the very man you were talking about came up to you. The two of you exchanged glances and bowed. “If you are not otherwise engaged, would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me?” Enji’s odd invitation made your eyes widen slightly.

There was no way out of it. You tried coming up with an excuse, but nothing came to mind. He smiled slyly as you fumbled over your words. “I- well I hadn’t... yes. Thank you…” With no escape, you were trapped. He walked off, and you lingered behind for a minute.

“You’d be a fool if you didn’t take him up on his offer. It’s a great compliment that he singled you out.” Ryuko commented.

“The last time he singled me out was to slander me. Hateful man…” you hissed before going to follow him.

As the music started to play, you studied Enji’s face. It was the first time you’d ever really taken the time to analyze all of his features. You hated to admit it, but he was handsome. Unusually handsome.

Finally, your hand had made its way back into his. Even if it was only for a brief moment, that feeling would stick with him until the end of the night. The two of you danced around with your words, conversing back and forth when the time was appropriate. You simply couldn’t bear the silence.

Couples pranced around the dance floor elegantly, stepping where they needed to. You two moved in sync, never letting your eyes wander. There was a burning passion for the man that you couldn’t get rid of. Whether it was burning hatred, lust, or love, you couldn’t tell. Hostility and tension seemed to be all that came out of your encounters with him. The sexual tension was the one thing that kept you from completely despising Enji and you hated it.

In an attempt to rile him up, you remarked on Keigo and the last time Enji saw you. “The last time I was in town, I was forming a new acquaintance.” A sly grin spread across your face as the words came out.

“Mr. Takami’s friendly personality is what allows him to make friends so easily. Though his ability to keep them is debatable.”

“How unfortunate he must be, to lose your friendship, a loss I am sure he will regret for the rest of his life.” You mocked in an airy and hushed tone. Before Enji could snap back, Mr. Toyomitsu came over to hint at a marriage between your sister and Toshinori. The two of you glanced at the smiling pair before dancing again. “Didn’t you say that you rarely ever forgave? That your hatred, once set in stone, was set indefinitely? Surely a man such as yourself is careful when breeding such hatred.”

“Of course I am.” Enji scoffed.

“And I presume you do not let prejudice blind you?”

“No. What is the purpose of these questions, if I may ask?” He grumbled, disliking your inquiries.

“Simply a means to figure out your constitution.” You laughed, “Trying to get a good idea of your character.”

“And your findings?”

“None. I have heard of you on different accounts by different people with different views of you. You shall remain a mystery until I comprehend you.”

With the dance ending, Enji remained silent. Once the music faded, he supported your hand as you lightly held it over his. “I request that you do not attempt to perceive my character right now. It would do us no favors if you judged wrong.” He claimed as you left the dance floor.

“I may not get another opportunity, so I might as well try while I have the chance.”

Enji placed himself right next to you and leaned to whisper in your ear. He lowered his voice, making sure only you could hear. “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.” His finger brushed against your arm as he walked away. All the heat in your body rushed to that spot. You wanted his warmth against your skin, you didn’t want him to go.

And yet, you were standing alone in the corner of a crowded room, fixated on the man who you swore to never like.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Much had happened over a short amount of time. You had rejected Mr. Tobita’s marriage proposal and got an earful from your mother. Keigo got engaged to a rich young lady, and Ryuko had gotten engaged to Mr. Tobita. Enji and Toshinori’s party had left his estate, and your sister was disheartened. Everyone had such high expectations for her and Toshinori, only for him to up and leave.

Now, you were on your own adventure. You, Sir Yorio, and Nejire were going to visit her and Mr. Tobita. They lived in a small house on Lady Chiyo’s property. Greenery grew on the stone, adding to the natural feel of the house. It was a quaint little grey structure with a clear blue sky in the background.

As soon as the carriage stopped, Ryuko and her husband rushed out the door to greet you. They showed you to your rooms while Mr. Tobita kept on about Lady Chiyo’s house and how grand it was. It seemed he was more in love with Chiyo than his own wife.

“Are you happy here?” You asked Ryuko as you watched the other three walk around the garden.

“I am quite content with my situation. I barely see him during the day. He sits in his book room, walks to Lady Chiyo’s every day, and-”

“And you prefer to sit in your own wing of the house.” You finished. Whether it was what she was going to say or not, you stated your mind. Ryuko smiled wistfully, “Yes.”

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

While you and Ryuko were walking through the woods, along with Nejire, Mr. Tobita came running after you. He was clearly out of breath but told you his news, anyway. Enji and his cousin, Kugo, had arrived. He urged you to make your way back to the house, since they wanted to visit with them.

“Pleasure to finally meet you Ms. (L/N).” Kugo smiled.

“Oh? ‘Finally’, sir?”

“My cousin speaks of you often.” He informed.

“Ah…” You sighed, looking over at Enji who met your gaze, only hungrier.

Enji’s eyes never left you, though. There was a protective aura emitting from him. Just in case Kugo spoke or acted out of line, he was ready to come to your aid at any moment. He rested his knuckles against his mouth. Instead of addressing anyone else in the room, he was intently watching and listening to your conversation.

“Pray tell, why is Mr. Todoroki staring at me?” You asked Kugo, having enough of being watched over like you were some kind of prey, “Have I done or said something he finds offensive?”

The man stood up from the sofa and meandered over to the table you were seated at. He had no control of his own actions. It was quite an impulsive move, and now he didn’t know what to say. “How is your family?” He choked out.

“Well.” You replied, “My sister has been in town for quite some time. Have you happened to see her?”

“No.” Enji lied, “Unfortunately not.”

“As you can tell, Mr. Todoroki and I are not very close.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe.” Kugo exclaimed.

“Truly? I believe in first impressions, however, Mr. Todoroki’s good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.” Your words caused him to turn around, and he saw your smiling face, making a joke of him.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

The grounds of Lady Chiyo’s property were breathtaking. When the weather allowed, you took advantage of the sprawling greenery and went out for as many walks as you could. Without a cloud in the sky, an endless sea of blue, and shining sun, you wasted no time in getting outside. It was much more productive and enjoyable than sitting in the house.

A beautiful little trail, hidden by the estate’s magnificent trees, was the path you found yourself walking along. You looked up to admire how tall the trees had grown. They stood proud and provided you with shade. The birds sang a lovely little tune, supplying you with a unique sound that rivaled that of the best musicians.

Enji came trotting through the path from the side. He halted his horse once he saw you. No painting could do you justice, even one made by the best painter in the world could compare to your beauty in person. The sight of you admiring the picture in front of you made his heart pound. Though you said nothing, he believed that you, taking the time to simply look at him, was the greatest compliment he would ever receive.

And for those few precious minutes, he drank in your appearance. He was hopelessly in love with you. Being in your presence was the best part of his day. He found himself looking forward to seeing you. He always prayed for you to cross paths with him. Even if he simply caught a glimpse of you, suddenly it brightened his entire day.

Unfortunately, he had other things to do. Enji spurred his horse forward and trotted away. Your presence in his life was much bigger than he expected when he first met you. And somehow… he didn’t mind it. He hated yet loved the feeling of being in love.

#endeavor x reader #bnha endeavour #endeavor #todoroki enji #enji todoroki x reader #todoroki endeavor #enji x reader #enji x you #19th century #shitty writing but it's something #I kind of hate this but I hate everything I write #my hero academia enji #endeavor x y/n #I am disgusted at myself for being so late to submit this for the collab #Pleasantanathema forgive me.#What's up with the shitty title #not proof read forgive the shitty grammar and punctuation

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