#of course its his hubris as well | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hemlock-dreams · 2 months ago

Note

Hypothetically, if you were going to write hunting!spider as a fic, how would you do it? Like, where would the story start—with Peter as the bartender, or his backstory? Would you flash back to his old universe?

-🕊️

Like this: ITS A FIC NOW!!

Check is out: Here!

Peter hasn’t worn the suit since here got here. He hasn’t done much in the last two months of his new existence beyond haunting New York like a phantom, trying to figure out who he is and where he stands in a reality that hasn’t been unfortunate enough to have a Peter Parker in the first place.

Or a Spiderman.

Strange hadn’t been kidding about the magic. Peter feels like the victim of his own hubris, asking for a clean start, a world where no one knew him. He’d asked and he’d been delivered.

Almost.

The world is there, technically, but it’s like looking at a painting he’s seen a thousand times, only to realize the details are off. It’s the phones with the home button on the bottom, the different slang, the green money, all his favorite songs with wildly different lyrics, so many painful differences- a slow death by a thousand cuts.

Peter thought it would be easier, like a new beginning stretching out ahead of him, the sea-breeze smell of a fresh start after stepping out of Ryker’s.

But Uncle Ben isn’t waiting for him at the docks this time. Nothing is waiting except the uncanny arms of a city that used to know him. Like running into an ex after years apart, recognizing the same general shape, but being strangers all the same.

Damn it. He should have asked Strange to take his memories too.

At least then Peter would know what to do with himself instead of haunting Brooklyn at night like a ghost, fighting the cognitive dissonance of taking turns he used to know like the back of his hand, only to be startled when they lead into dead-ends or open out into streets that shouldn’t exist.

That’s why he hasn’t worn the suit. Because forget being Spiderman, who the hell is Peter, here?

His melancholy is interrupted by a woman’s voice, faint if not for Peter’s enhanced senses.

“Listen, you’re a sweet guy, but I don’t like mixing work and my personal life.” The voice is extra sweet in the way women get when trying to talk themselves out of a dangerous situation.

No matter the lifetime, Peter can’t ignore that.

So he changes course, beelining towards the source with silence that’s more instinct than experience. He sticks to the shadows, easily avoiding the few flickering streetlights between him and the alleyway. His night vision pierces the darkness, tracing down the detailed shape of the tall, lanky man cornering a woman in the middle of the alley.

He’s leaning, off-balance, clearly drunk, and boxing her in with one leather-clad arm, “Come on, Scarlett. I been asking for your number for weeks. Just one date, give a guy a chance, huh?”

Well, it was comforting to know that no matter the timeline, scum remained scum.

“Paul, you’re wasted.” The woman- Scarlett, is draped against the wall, seemingly at ease and deceptively loose-limbed, even as she fists a set of keys between her knuckles, “Why don’t we have this discussion somewhere a little nicer? There’s a cute cafe that’s open tomorrow-”

“Fuck that. It’s always one excuse after another with you,” The guy- Paul- snarls, swaying from one foot to the other. The frustration is a ticking bomb, “Why are you bein’ such a fucking bitch?”

Like clockwork, the slurs come out, and a peaceful resolution is no longer an option.

Scarlett realizes it too, because the hum of anxiety lacing her syrupy-sweet tone finally bleeds into her body. Her muscles lock, visibly entering fight or flight.

That’s Peter’s cue.

“Is there a problem?” Peter’s voice is like a knife in the dark, popping the bubble and making the two flinch.

“Who the fuck are you?” Paul sneers, face slack and ugly from drink. “The fuck you think you’re doing, butting in?”

Peter ignores him, glancing towards Scarlett, who flicks her eyes between them and the rest of the alleyway. Unfortunately, there’s only one entrance and he’s blocking it. Out of options, Scarlett plasters herself to the wall.

“This is between the lady and me.” Paul is still talking, stumbling towards Peter, “But I’m a nice guy, so I’m going to give you a chance to turn ‘round and walk away.”

“Generous, but I’ll have to decline.” Peter murmurs and crosses the distance, invading his space before the man can respond. The promise of violence always lights something in Peter’s stomach, but for all the man’s shit-talking, the fight, if it can even be called that, is pathetic. Paul is so drunk Peter can taste it in the air, and his spidersense doesn’t even bother kicking in as he dodges one wobbly punch after the other.

He doesn’t bother dragging it out. It only takes one good fist to the gut to drop Paul to the ground, followed by one good kick to the chest to keep him there. The aftermath is anticlimactic, awkward silence punctuated only by the rattling wheeze of the unconscious man beneath him.

Even pulling his punches, Peter probably cracked his ribs. It would take more effort than he’s got to feel sorry, especially since Scarlett is still glued to the wall, eyes trained on him and practically vibrating with adrenaline.

Slowly, Peter creates some space, backing out of the alleyway so he’s not obstructing the exit. “You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah.” Her reply is curt and wary, but Peter isn’t offended. He knows what he looks like, looming in the dark with his ratty clothes and unkempt beard. Best thing he can do to convince her of her safety is to walk away.

So he does just that, and he’s almost halfway down the block when he hears her behind him, clacking heels loudly in the chill night air, “Wait!”

Peter pauses, turning around.

Scarlett stops a few meters away, clutching the strap of her gym bag over her chest. “Sorry. That was rude of me. Thank you.”

Under the streetlights, her face is striking. Her bright green eyes are smoky and sensual, with bold cheekbones and dark lips framed by wisps of red hair falling out of a messy bun. She’s exactly the type of woman Peter would fantasize about back in Rykers, the kind he would see on pinups in Marko’s cell- tall and feminine, with lean legs and a waist Peter could span with both hands.

The resolute look on her face reminds him so much of M-

He shunts that thought as soon as it appears.

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter responds with a shrug. He’s not stupid enough to lecture a grown woman about walking the streets at night. “Was there something else?”

Scarlett chews on her lip, eyes flicking back to the alley before settling on Peter for a few long beats. Whatever she sees in him makes her sigh, and some of the tension leeches from her shoulders. “Feel like walking a girl to her job?”

Peter is a little surprised, and he takes a second to consider, mostly so he doesn’t look threatening, then nods, “Where to?”

“Maggies.” At his confused look, she raises a brow, “Saint Margaret’s?”

Still not ringing a bell, “Is that a…church?” He doesn’t remember any Saint Margaret’s in his Brooklyn, and it just reinforces that fish-out-of-water feeling that’s been choking him for the past few months.

“A church, sure.” Scarlett snorts derisively, laughing under her breath. When Peter doesn’t join in, she shoots him a wide-eyed look, “Oh. You’re serious. It’s an dance bar”

Walking at night makes more sense now. That, and the obvious stage name. “I don’t know where that is. I’m…kind of new in town.”

“I can see that,” She says, and the gold of her hoop earrings catches the light as she falls in step beside him. Peter keeps his strides short and even, staying in her line of vision as they walk. It doesn’t escape his notice that she’s still got her keys between her knuckles, though they’re no longer clutched in a tight fist, “What brought you to New York, Mr. Good Samaritan?”

“Peter.” He says. “I was looking for a fresh start and kind of washed up here,” Peter feels like he’s being called out on some lie, as if anyone glancing in his direction will peg that he doesn’t belong.

But Scarlet is just nodding, unawares, “Nice to meet you, Peter. And I get it. That's why I moved here, too. It might take a bit of time to get your bearings, but it's worth it when you do." They’re heading down the street, taking a turn on 81st that should have led into a main thoroughfare but doesn’t, instead turning into another little set of streets full of gated-off shops covered in graffiti. Even the gang signs don’t look the same. He tries not to think about it.

“I appreciate what you did,” Scarlett is saying, “Paul’s been a pushy bastard but I thought it was all drunk bravado, you know? I never believed he’d actually follow me. I’m glad you were there, but I’m sorry it had to end in violence.”

Resorting to violence is one of Peter’s favorite pastimes, but he’s absolutely not going to admit that out loud. Instead, he hums, tucking his hands into his stained hoodie, “Some people only listen when it's fists talking. Hopefully the lesson sticks.” Peter frowns, “You said he followed you, does that mean he knows where you live?”

Men like that tend to hold grudges. Especially if they've been had their head knocked around in an alleyway.

“Thank god, no.” She shudders next to him, gripping the strap of her bag a little tighter at the thought, “He caught me coming from my day job. I’ll have to tell Weasel to put him on the blacklist for the club though…and change my shift. Ugh.”

Peter nods in sympathy. Shiting schedules between two jobs is going to be a nightmare. “Weasel?”

“The owner of Maggie’s.” She clarifies.

“Your boss is named Weasel?” Yikes. Peter can’t imagine what kind of shit someone had to do to earn that nickname.

“Yeah.” She laughs, “But don’t let the name fool you, he’s weird but he’s decent. There are lots of other clubs in the area but Weas lets us have a bigger cut than most other places. Plus, we get to set our own rules.”

They cut the street, avoiding some dark patches where the streetlights gave out.

“That’s good.” Peter agrees, “Otherwise this is a pretty sketchy walk for a small paycheck.”

It really is a sketchy walk, and his spidersense pings at odd moments, though nothing comes out of it save the odd junkie that wanders out of the shadows.

“I’ve had worse,” Scarlett shrugs, finally tucking her keys back into her purse. The stiff line of her shoulders has completely melted away now that they’re in what Peter assumes is familiar territory. “This is nothing compared to my last job.”

“Which was?”

“Telemarketing.”

Peter would rather take his chances soloing Thanos. “Point taken.”

“We’re almost there. Just down the road.” Scarlett points one long acrylic nail toward a looming brick building punctuating the street. Peter wouldn’t have given it a second thought if not for the single garish neon sign of a scantily dressed nun at the corner, directing his attention towards a nondescript door.

“Welcome to Saint Margaret’s School for Wayward Children,” Scarlett enunciates each word with an eyebrow waggle, grinning when Peter cracks a smile. “Finest entertainment this side of Brooklyn. Thanks for walking me.”

Peter doesn’t doubt it, especially if Scarlett is where they set the bar for dancers. “No worries. Stay safe, yeah?” Then he turns, intending to keep walking until his head is empty.

Scarlett pauses with her hand on the door, “You’re not going to come in?”

“Not really my scene.” A true statement, one that doesn’t have to acknowledge that Peter is capital-b Broke. Hard to get a proper-paying job when he doesn’t legally exist. He’s done a few gigs under the table, but the last few weeks have left Peter sleeping on empty rooftops with an emptier stomach.

“Really? I was hoping I could treat you to a drink. It’s the least I can do.” Scarlett sounds disappointed.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

She puts a hand on her hip, “Fine. Let’s consider it a celebratory drink then.”

“For?”

“Ugh,” Scarlett rolls her eyes. There’s no way she doesn’t know how charming that is. “For getting rid of Paul. Making new friends- whatever you want.”

Peter huffs a small laugh, “Friends? We just met.”

It’s not an outright refusal, because Peter is weak for the first real taste of human contact he’s had in months, and Scarlett smirks like she scents blood, “What can I say? I got a good feeling about you.”

Peter snorts. Now that’s a first.

“C’mon, Tiger. One drink. What have you got to lose?”

Peter exhales a long, slow breath, “Nothing.”

#spiderman #hunting!spider #peter parker #yeah im a clown ive been writing bits and pieces #Hopefully it delivers? I'm not a writer T_T

354 notes · View notes

bookshelfdreams · 2 months ago

Note

What is your Hogwarts house?

yk, I always thought it was a shame that we (here on the Overanalyzing Dumb Pop Media website) consider HP a forbidden topic; or rather, have collectively decided that, because its author is an idiot transphobe, it is unworthy of discussion. There are so many things worthy of discussion about it, about what it believes in, what roles it assigns to people, why it ultimately fails in delivering its message.

Actually, the houses are a big part of that.

What is evil in the world of HP? Not what the text says outright, not the lip-service it pays to Fascism Bad! No, what is shown as evil? What marks an evil person, and in contrast, a good one? (Aside from superficial and again, obvious traits like cruelty or intolerance)

The defining trait of the "evil" house is ambition and cunning - and intelligence. Ravenclaw might not be "the villain", but the characters placed here, when they feature at all, are often morally ambiguous or downright antagonistic. The big bad villain comes from devastating poverty, just like the secondary villain.

What does HP believe in? Well, underlying seems to be the assumption that it is inherently suspicious to want to rise above one's station. It is fine for characters to explore and make use of their natural gifts, but it is wrong and a mark of evil to have ambitions beyond that. Wanting to be better is fueled by bitterness and jealousy; in HP, you either have innate talent, or you're a fraud and a villain.

This isn't something that's put in consciously, I am almost certain of that. Rather, it stems from a cultural background, where everyone ought to stay within their class. Where good fortune, wealth and talent is a mark of God's favour, and trying to achieve better status despite not being born into it, is hubris that ought to be punished.

Now, on the surface, HP obviously rejects this. Harry himself grows up a destitute, abused orphan! Doesn't he?

But he is lifted from his old life when he learns that he was always special. Fate has marked him favourably. He is innately talented in all the right ways, and he's heir to a fortune.

Contrasting that, there's Ron, whose family is actually poor, but who bear poverty gracefully. Who would, of course, never accept charity! And who's father could have had a better, more lucrative carreer, but never had because he enjoys working in his deadend position so much! (And then look at Ron's brothers: The twins find success and a fortune by exploring their innate talents, seemingly without too much care for financial gain. Percy, otoh, who actually has career ambitions, is painted as shallow and selfish for it.)

Even of the protagonists, the one who is the most hardworking - Hermione - is also the most ruthless, even cruel and dangerous at times. And she is allowed to work for success only because all her motivation is purely academic (and also rooted in poor self-esteem). She studies for a love of studying, and because she is terrified of failure. Not because she wants to be the best.

Being the best is something you simply are. Not something you work for.

On the surface level, HP is about defeating fascism. But the whole framework of HP, its underlying worldview, is far more compatible to that of fascism than antifascim. Voldemort kind of has a point! In HP, muggles are constantly portrayed as clueless and idiotic not-people who are needlessly cruel and intolerant towards wizards. Voldemort's offense isn't thinking wizards are inherently better - the narrative believes this too - it's that he's going to far. He's targeting other wizards and that's inacceptable.

Because in the world of HP, the traits and talents you're born with determine your worth as a person. They're the mark of goodness and achieving success beyond your "station", that's evil.

In the world of HP, not everyone is born free and equal. From birth, it is determined whether you're good or evil, and that's unchangeable (which is why there's so little character development in the entire book series). Redemption is impossible. At 11 years old, your character is declared in front of everyone, and this is unchangeable.

So, to answer your question: idk, man. I'm 35, I'm beyond that age when you want to categorize yourself into a neat little box. I don't think people can be easily divided into "brave heros", "loyal servants", "kinda suspicious nerds", and "evil masterminds", we're more complicated than that.

#anonymaus #message #idk if this was bait but thanks for giving me an excuse to talk about hp!#harry potter #thoughts

201 notes · View notes

essektheylyss · 4 months ago

Text

I do find it really interesting and almost sad that Ashton sees the titan turned into a home as a monument to hubris, particularly given Ashton's connection to earth primordials.

On one hand, there is the obvious; that the people living in that rock are well aware of its history and power, because this happened well within living memory. Perhaps some of them are laboring under a denial that it could happen again, but overall, Vasselheim of all places does tend, even sometimes to extremes, to remember—it responds quickly and efficiently to the sudden rise of its dead, harbors grudges still toward arcane magic for wizards' role in the onset of the Calamity, and does keep extensive records of history, even historical information that perhaps would be easier to contain if it was altogether destroyed.

So the fact that people have made homes in this titan's form feels far more like both the spite and celebration of having survived yet another horror than any declaration of hubristic supremacy. And on a more basic level, Exandria as an explicitly post-apocalyptic world simply must choose to continue to live, again and again, in the ruins of the circumstances that history has handed them. Societies continue to grow on the Shattered Teeth in spite of its dangers; Xhorhas is full of people living in ruins not of their making, and who still stumble upon horrors left behind that they must and do contend with; the Ashari themselves are built around this principle, of managing the reality of a world with connections to much more inhospitable planes.

But on a more personal level, Ashton has a piece of an earth titan within himself, yet there is a fear within his comments—that perhaps the titan will wake again. That if it returned, it would not be kind. And I wonder: how does that fear manifest for himself?

It's possible that Ashton feels already as though they've stolen (regardless of how voluntary it was) a power that could be taken back. They've already levied the charge of hubris against themself. They seem, of course, to relish their abilities and increasing power, but at the same time, they have exhausted themself to use it. Is there any part of them that still fears that something larger than them will awaken and take back what's theirs? Do they wonder if they deserve the power they now wield, and do they simply presume that one day someone who sees them the way they now see the gods will balance the scales in turn?

Ashton suggests that the footage of Aeor did make the gods more relatable in his eyes, more personable—perhaps he saw himself in their initial giddy reclamation of power, and loathed it in them because he loathes it in himself. And there are numerous others weighing in on the gods, but very few who would weigh in on Ashton himself and thereby push back against any idea of him as unworthy of life while he wields the power he's gained.

#cr spoilers #critical role #ashton greymoore #cr meta

197 notes · View notes

hana-no-seiiki · 11 months ago

Text

ARDENT EXALTATION, ETERNAL DAMNATION

⟣┄─ ˑ 𝐈. ✧ yandere worshipper! x secret god! reader (ft. yan! god oc)

inspired by my bootiful @sagesskies n baldur’s gate shar/shadowheart

synopsis: if there was one main rule under your creed, it was for your name and titles thereof to never be spoken. but for this worshipper, it’s all that leaves his lips.

tw/cw: yandere & religious themes. yun sadist hours writing. reader calls oc their child but it’s not incest yall ples. character deaths.

TO WORSHIP YOU WAS THE GREATEST HONOR ONE COULD RECEIVE. An honor never to be shared nor declared. Selfishness and secrecy were the traits you valued in your followers. You simply felt that flaunting your presence to be superfluous, if not arrogant — thoughtless. A flaw you often saw in other gods that you wished not to have in yourself.

But of course, you were not perfect. No matter how much you may wished to be, even gods had their failures and oversights.

Once such oversight was Ynaël. The Prodigy, Priest of the Night, and your favorite.

He was immaculate. A perfect example of what it meant to worship you. He dedicated his voice, body, and soul only to you. No one knew his name but yourself. No one else knew he even existed. Those that did were sundered from existence, or lived in the afterlife.

You had only the highest of expectations for your child. He had an outstanding beginning. Unprecedented in your long, well hidden line of followers. You called for his name often. Assisted him in the ways you could as a deity in his adventures. Even allowing him to lay with you underneath the stars as mortals and your more carnal siblings did with their creations.

But as mortal beings and gods alike were, when faced with such high praise, it was inevitable for hubris to fester and slowly creep up on him.

He overstepped.

Sharing his devout adoration to his companions. Showering you with praise as he fought. Spreading your transcendent name throughout the very soil he stepped upon, and the crevices of bodies he’d desecrate.

What more was that he was proud of his accomplishments. You deserved to be known. To be remembered and immortalized. To share the spotlight your fellow celestial beings had. Was it not only right that you praise him even more?

But then, he could feel your presence slowly dimming in its luminance.

You never had a temple built to your name, so he could only ponder at night when everyone else had gone off to sleep or have fun underneath the sheets to wonder why you’ve seemingly left him. Was he too harsh? You were known for valuing mercy and forgiveness, the ability to show compassion even to the most tainted beings. Besides, you would never just leave him behind.

Frustrated with your lack of response to his calls, he sets upon a goal to build you a place for worship. One that was overdue in its establishment, in his opinion.

It took many, many agonizing years without a single word from you, but it was finally complete.

He takes a moment to gaze at the statue of your magnificent form he place behind the altar, soon to be covered with sacrifices and blessings. Anything you’d ask for, just as long as you bless him once more with yourself.

But instead, he is greeted by another presence.

A presence very similar to yours. Yet much, much more powerful.

Their voice almost tore Ynaël’s ears wide open in its magnitude.

“You killed them, you — a worthless scum of a mortal.”

Killed whom? Throughout his years working on your temple he had taken no life. He wanted everything to be completed as soon as possible. He had no time for any sorts of conquests.

“Meet your maker.”

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2024

— to be continued

589 notes · View notes

mercurialmalcontent · 11 days ago

Text

A few days ago I saw someone say in the comments of a post something like Baldur's Gate 3 doesn't have themes. I disagree; while its themes are mainly reinforced through individual major character stories and it's all warpped in the series premise of "if the god of Murder had a bunch of kids, would that be fucked up or what?", they are there.

The main one that comes to mind is a question -- can you find a way to be better than what your circumstances (often generational trauma) made you, or will you continue down the path they set?

We see this in all of the main companions. In Astarion, Shadowheart, and Lae'zel's questlines they face the choice to break a cycle of abuse and escape the lies of their past, or contiue with them for the promise of power and safety. Gale can choose to shed his hubris and accept himself as a person, or give into it and become a god, and thus the one thing he thinks he's good for -- his magic.

It's weaker for Wyll and unfortunately truncated, mostly cumulating in the choice to live for himself or stay shackled to Mizora, with the final touch of what he'll do with his life only happening if you do a mostly unrelated to him quest. Karlach's story fits but in a pretty convoluted way -- she's terminally ill and her most obvious attempt break free of the circumstances (killing the initial architect of her suffering) does nothing; escaping that road requires choices that either isolate her or turn her into something alien.

Anyway, moving on to the main antagonists. They display what happens if one doesn't choose to become better than their circumstances. Kethric has a hundred years of sunk cost fallacy and can only be persuaded to stop, not change course. Gortash has a desperation for control that can only get him killed. Orin is desperate for love and approval from a man who did monstrous things to her, and she breaks if you tell her the truth.

(The Emperor… doesn't really fit this, but whatever.)

This theme isn't really subtle, but it isn't necessarily well-reinforced by a story that has a ton of other stuff going on. It doesn't help that you can play as Just Some Guy who got wrapped up in the whole thing by pure circumstance (Tav, everyone except for arguably Shadowheart and Lae'zel), and that's what a lot of people go for. It is, however, extremely fucking obvious if you play what would have been the sole main character in a game set up like the previous installments -- The Dark Urge.

I figure Larian made the decision to allow for playing as someone unattached to the Bhaalspawn baggage because that seems to be their Thing in their other games, but it's also because The Dark Urge's content is pretty damn disturbing to a level that puts a lot of people off. It's much more graphic than in the previous games, and it's set -- that The Dark Urge did extremely gruesome shit in their past is an unescapable truth and integral to their story.

However, players who choose not to see that route end up not getting the major theme paraded in front of them and lit up with a big flashing marquee. They get some of it if they play as a companion, much less if they play as a Tav who is inherently a victim of circumstance and only has the baggage the player chooses to bring with them, but it is there in full force as a foundational premise of The Dark Urge's story, as foundational as The Dark Urge themself is to the the whole plot.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 meta #bg3 spoilers #I bet you thought I was bored of this game!#I'm not I'm just chronically low on drive space

122 notes · View notes

dailyadventureprompts · 8 months ago

Text

Dungeon: Grandfather's Hungering Maw

Said to have been carved by an exiled dwarven king after his name and ignominious deeds were stricken from the records of his clan, this brooding edifice contains a darkness far deeper than any normal glacial cave.

The dungeon's name comes from a settlement in the foothills, with a mostly human population ignorant of the monument's dwarven origins. In their myths the face is infact that of a great giant, tricked by the folkhero founder of their village into staying very, very still while he was served a great feast, growing so spoiled and indolent that he was eventually buried by the mountain snow and froze solid. A recent series of avalanches that've buried paths and even destroyed homesteads have put it into people's heads that grandfather might be waking up.

Adventure Hooks:

A merchant caravan the party is riding along with takes a detour up into the highlands, following rumours of a village that's paying a premium for foodstuffs of late. Upon arrival they're strongarmed out of their cargo by a crowd of armed villagers, who heap the provisions on an overburned yak cart set to depart up the mountain on the next day. Fear of the giant has made some of the villagers turn into a panicked mob, emptying the granaries and raiding their neighbour's larders to supply ever larger and hastier "tribute" runs up to the mountain's mouth. Food is growing scarce in the village, and those with the foresight to worry about winter provisions dare not speak up: An old woman was accidentally killed trying to fend off the toughs uprooting her garden, and her still warm body was piled into the yak cart next to her unripe rutabagas.

Seeking the power of her infamous ancestor, a disfavoured daughter of the dwarven throne has ventured to the Maw with a group of sellswords in tow in the hopes of discovering the means of making herself queen. Down into the mountain's gullet they've found a great labyrinth, hewn over centuries by the still shuffling corpse of the nameless king, unable to fully rest until he has constructed a tomb worthy of his hubris. The would be ruler and her entourage are eating well thanks to the unsuspecting villagers' food deliveries, and have a few agents in town helping the process along while they continue their delve.

There's more than a stone worn skeleton and a few fortune hunters inhabiting the depths. A millennia ago Ahlkenahl the Vanquisher was a feared demon of war, thought invincible before the dwarven king forged a ring with the fiend's true name inscribed upon it and forced the Vanquisher to pledge an oath of eternal servitude. Driven into exile along with his mortal captor, Ahlkenahl has resentfully laboured alongside the king as he descended into witless undeath, even centuries after the ring was lost somewhere in the tomb along with the chipped fingerbone it rested on. The demon's occasional demolition filled bouts of rage cause the avalanches on the mountain's exterior, and they've only grown more frequent as he's attempted to stop the Heir and her underlings from finding the ring.

It's a three way race between the players, the dwarven heir, and the fiend to see who can find the ring first, having to not only battle eachother, but subterranean monsters, collapsing tunnels, and freezing glacier caverns along the way. Of course Ahlkenahl doesn't play fair, as the fiend can revive any body that finds its way into the Hungering Maw (such as dead villagers loaded on the Yak cart or slain sellswords) into undead minions, growing in strength as the situation becomes more desperate. The fiend can even send the undead down into the valley to do his bidding, chasing after whichever group managed to get the ring first or even go on a murder-filled supply run to bring back more bodies.

Simply getting the ring isn't enough to control Ahlhenahl, as the war-demon's true name is written in an infernal script that must be researched before it can be understood and spoken aloud. This gives the party a chance to catch up if the heir makes it out of the labyrinth with the prize and vice versa. It likewise gives Ahlkenahl's undead minions time to become a real threat both in number and as he deliberately creates more fearsome versions.

The Vanquisher can freely communicate with anyone holding the ring, an ability originally intended to allow the exiled king to command his bound demon in the field which now allows Ahlkenahl to whisper temptation into the ear of whoever holds it. Think of what he could do for them if they let him out of the labyrinth, the enemies he could slay, the kingdom he could carve on their behalf. Sure it would mean unleashing a walking massacre on the landscape but what's a little carnage between pactmates?

Art1 Art2

#mountain #dungeon #dwarf #mountain dungeon #caravan #fiend #demon #highlands #mid level #low level #undead

257 notes · View notes

gabessquishytum · 2 months ago

Note

I've been listening to the Epic musical and now an odyssey au won't leave my head.

There is something so dreamling coded about waiting 20 years with a bunch of suitors trying to become the new king but not accepting any of them because you know your husband is out there & getting seduced by multiple supernatural women and being offended because you're a married man, thank you very much

- 🍃

I think this is absolutely incredible. Just yes.

I feel like Hob is so Penelope coded, right? He's trying very hard to just get on with his life and rule the kingdom that Dream left behind, and also raise their son. He's just doing his BEST. And all these suitors turn up and move into his house, start eating his food and trying to marry him. Yuck. Of course he sits down in front of the loom every day and he's like "when I'm finished weaving this veil ill marry one of you :)) I promise :)) I'm just a really slow weaver okay :))" and then spends the entire night unpicking the day's work. No way he's marrying one of those gross bums.

Meanwhile Dream is having an absolutely hellish time, partly due to his own hubris but also just sheer bad luck. His boat sinks, he gets marooned multiple times, there are supernatural hotties trying to seduce him but all Dream wants to do is pine over Hob and try to build a raft to get home. He's doing his best, okay. He's just a sad wet cat.

When he finally makes it back to his kingdom he finds his house full of creepy men who all want to fuck his husband. Hob has the big old hunting bow laid across his lap and he looks like he really wants to use it, but Dream is the one who ends up efficiently massacring the room full of suitors. Since its been 20 years and Hob is a little suspicious of the man who just came in and murdered a bunch of people, he's like "how do I know that you're my husband and not just some imposter" and Dream is like "Well I'm the only one who knows that our marriage bed is carved out of a single tree because I did it with my own hands".

And then they catch up on the 20 years of fucking that they missed out on, and Hob probably never lets Dream leave the house ever again. Happily ever after, etc.

#🍃 anon #the sandman #dreamling #nsft

74 notes · View notes

doomhands-jr · 6 months ago

Text

The Devil's Advocate - Chapter 7

Pairing: Delinquent!Noah Sebastian X Pastor's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Noah is a delinquent with a lot of anger at the church. You're a pastor's daughter plagued by moral perfectionism, charged with overseeing the community service he's been sentenced to complete. You've never encountered true temptation before. How will you fare up against Noah, who not only isn't bound by the same rules of purity as you, but actively scoffs at them?

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Angst, religious guilt, mentions of religious trauma, mentions of masturbation. Mentions of anti-choice propaganda.

Masterlist

Banner by @flowerynerds

Authors note: Maybe grab a cup of tea for this one.

_________

Noah Davis didn’t like to think of his actions in terms of morality. He understood that right and wrong were subjective. That life didn’t exist in binaries of good vs. evil, and that things like virtue and righteousness weren’t so easily defined.

That didn’t mean there weren’t some steadfast rules he followed:

Do his best to act in a way that aligns with his internal moral compass

Reduce harm much as possible

Do what’s best for the collective, while still keeping his best interests in mind

That line of thinking has served him well over the course of his lifetime. He’d freed himself from moral obligations and had done what he truly felt was best, and in doing so, he was able to walk through life with his head held high, standing by his actions.

The idea that some of his behavior was sinful had not entered his mind since he formally left the church.

But now, as he laid in bed, recovering from the tsunami of brain chemicals that just flooded his system, he felt like a sinner .

The sin coursed through his body, sick and bittersweet. It flowed through his veins, infecting his cells and rotting his bones like a poison. Like a drug.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, clammy palm meeting clammy forehead, cock still twitching with the aftershock.

He’d expected you to put up more of a fight. He’d banked on you shutting him down, batting him away and telling him to behave himself, but you’d walked so willingly into his snare, so eager and needy, offering up yourself on a platter with almost no hesitation.

It was a vile thing that you brought out of Noah. An ugly, profane creature that lurked in the shadows of his soul. He’d been aware of its existence in his periphery. It had been a sleeping beast. One he’d hoped he’d never have to contend with.

But now? It had taken its first shuddering breath, and with it, thrown down its gauntlet. Its demand? You—not as a partner, but as a sacrifice. Sprawled out on an altar for it to consume and defile. To claim for the sake of hubris.

Noah longed to find a way to cleanse himself—confess his sins and pray the rosary. Baptize himself in holy water. Take communion and walk forth a forgiven man. Would that be enough?

War had been waged within Noah, and the odds were stacked against him. He was David, standing at the feet of Goliath. Jonah, staring down the gullet of the whale.

He squeezed his eyes shut and the image of you at the apex of pleasure flashed across his vision. You’d made that offering to him. It was sacred. He’d cherish it for the rest of his life.

_______

Noah had no holy water available to him to wash his sins away. He did have a hot shower, though, and at least that was a start.

Turning on the water, he allowed the steam to gather in clouds around his bathroom. His skin had grown sticky with sweat, and his shoulders ached. As soon as he stepped under the spray, the tension began to dissipate.

He pressed his forehead against the cool tile wall and allowed the stream to trickle down his back.

He had a duty to himself—and to you. There was no denying his affection for you, but therein lied a glaring problem: you were ready for more. You deserved more. You deserved to push past these boundaries of purity and explore who you were outside of faith, and that made you vulnerable. Because whatever sickness lived inside Noah was itching to exploit that vulnerability. Not for your benefit, but for its own.

“Help me figure this out,” he whispered against the shower wall. It was a prayer in the most ironic sense. He wasn’t sure if he even believed in what he was praying to, but without any other ideas, it felt like the right thing to do. “I don’t want to hurt her, but I’m afraid.”

He received nothing but silence in response.

He scoffed at his own actions. What did he expect? Divine understanding?

He grabbed the soap, lathering it up before scrubbing it over his disgusting, unclean body. Why did he even bother? He learned long ago that nobody was going to save him but himself. If he wanted his demons to die, he’d have to be the one to kill them.

________

On a snowy Sunday morning, Noah didn’t have a church to attend, but he did have a pair of work boots, a heavy coat, and a trail through the woods that allowed him to commune with nature.

He also had a pre-roll he stole from Nick, which he cupped against his jacket to light. It took a few tries. The wind wasn’t biting, but it was present, and it flickered the flame in his lighter. He eventually got it lit though, and he took a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs and waiting for it to take effect.

Exhaling slowly through his nose, he closed his eyes to focus on the high setting in. His body began to lift, a warm, cloudy, hollow feeling expanding out from his chest to his limbs, and ten minutes later, the joint was spent and Noah was intricately connected to the forest around him.

He walked on the trail, delighting in the way the frozen leaves crunched under his boots. He forgot his gloves again, so he stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked.

You were probably in church right now. Might even be on stage leading the praise and worship music alongside Isaac, where you were safe.

No, that wasn’t true. You deserved more than the life you’d find within the church. If you stayed put, you’d eventually find yourself on the arm of some 30-something with a trust fund and a perfect attendance record at Sunday school. You’d have to hide who you were from society, pretending to fit in where you didn’t belong.

Noah dug his nails into the palms of his hands. He wanted you to have more than that, but he wasn’t the right person to give it to you. At least not in his current state.

Giving up the idea of you was painful, yes. But it also gave him time to figure out how to contend with the ugly parts of himself. If he could let go of his desire for you, then he wouldn’t have to risk that part of him taking over. He could lock it back into the cage he’s kept it in for so many years and continue on in life as if nothing had ever happened.

He’d never have to know that hunger again.

He breathed in deep, allowing the frigid air to sting his lungs and throat. It wasn’t painful enough for him. He needed to toil and sweat and suffer to repent for his sins. He picked up his pace, letting his feet fall heavy onto the ground. Within a few minutes, his heart rate sped up, lungs stretching to accommodate his increased need for oxygen. All systems firing to pump fresh blood through his body.

That helped. Maybe he could sweat the fever out. Force the toxicity to exit through carbon dioxide and leave it as an offering to the forest so it can convert it back to oxygen.

He broke out into a run, thinking back to the time he caught you running in the rain and wondering if you’d been seeking the same energetic cleanse.

You’d cried in his arms that night.

He slowed his pace, down from a run to a jog.

It was the first time he’d noticed something wrong—the first time he sensed that his control was slipping.

A stray root caught his foot and he fell hard to the ground, catching himself with his palms and knees. He stayed there for a moment to assess his body and see if any damage had occurred, and when he found none, he rolled onto his back and laid in the snow and mud, stretching his arms and legs to the side and creating a snow angel.

The snow fell lightly, catching on his eyelashes. He stuck out his tongue, allowing the tiny flakes to melt upon contact and tasting the nothingness of it all.

He closed his eyes, and he was thirteen again. A nude magazine lay open on his floor. He’d just finished masturbating for the third time that day. Sobbing, he grabbed the leather belt hanging over his desk chair and whipped himself across the back with it. Harder this time than last. Perhaps with enough pain, he would learn his lesson.

He bunched a shirt up and stuffed it into his mouth, biting down hard to muffle himself as he wept. God surely wouldn’t forgive him again after this. He would be sent to hell for being so unclean.

For months, he’d tried to break this disgusting habit, but it was to no avail. He was sick and perverted, and lacked the self-control he needed to resist temptation.

He didn’t want to go to confessional. He didn’t want to have to hear his priest’s disappointed voice telling him to say ten hail-marys.

He took a deep, shuddering breath in, noticing how the icy air stabbed at his lungs. He didn’t want to dwell too long on that memory. He could already feel his throat constricting.

It wasn’t until he befriended Ruffilo that he realized he wasn’t uniquely perverted. Ruffilo hadn’t been raised in a church. He talked about porn as if it was something exciting, rather than shameful. He’d been the first one to bring up the subject of masturbation, making casual comments and jokes about how often he got himself off.

Ruffilo’s world—a world without shame—had been a foreign concept to Noah. After being exposed to it, he realized that faith and freedom were mutually exclusive. There was no way to balance the two, so he chose freedom and never looked back.

Noah’s fingers found a frozen leaf. He caressed the edges, feeling how smooth they were and remembered brushing bits of leaves off your coat that time you’d jumped in the leaf pile. He remembered how you gasped when his frigid hands ghosted over the nape of your neck. He could have cut the tension with a knife.

He couldn’t go back to the church. There was too much pain there to revisit. He cut off that part of him a long time ago, back when believing in God meant engaging in his own self-destruction.

Being with you meant dipping his toes back in the water of religion. You and faith were a package deal. He knew that. You weren’t going to give it up any time soon, and certainly not for him.

He closed his eyes again and felt the sting of saltwater. He wasn’t going to cry. He’d done enough of that in his adolescence. But the feelings were there, and they weren’t going to let him off the hook without being felt.

It was you or self-preservation.

He inhaled deeply and forced himself back up, turning to start the long trek back to town. A conversation needed to be had.

________

There was no priest to whom he could confess his sins, but there was Folio, and late on a Sunday afternoon, he could be found stoned in his room.

“I fucked up,” he announced, standing in the doorway.

Nick was on his bed, controller in his hands and headset on. From where Noah stood, he couldn’t see the screen, but he guessed his friend was mowing down enemies in Call of Duty.

“In the middle of something,” he said. “Give me a few.”

Noah invited himself into the room and sat in Nick’s desk chair, observing the décor. Nick decorated his walls with posters of women in various states of undress. Some of them were holding fish. Others were posed on top of cars.

His fishing rod and tackle box rested in the corner next to his desk. An electric drum kit lined the far wall. Clothes were strewn about the room, along with drumsticks, food wrappers, and half-empty water bottles. A few cans of beer spilled out of the overfull trash can. On the nightstand sat an ashtray with the spent ends of several blunts stuffed in the center.

Quite the confessional booth.

“What’s up?” he said, taking his headset off and turning his attention to Noah.

“I fucked up,” Noah repeated.

Nick blinked twice, but made no other movement. “Okay,” he said. “In what way?”

“You already know.”

“The pastor’s daughter?” Nick guessed, tilting his head lower to stare at Noah through furrowed brows. “Did you fuck her?” His tone was accusatory, and deservedly so.

Noah shook his head. “Not exactly.”

Nick turned on his bed to face Noah head-on. “What did you do?”

Noah deliberated over exactly how much to tell his friend. What happened between the two of you last night was private and he didn’t want to share your business with someone else unless you said it was okay, but he needed to get some things off his chest.

“So,” he began, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. “I think I need to stay away from her for a while. I’ve got some stuff to sort out and until I do, I might hurt her.”

Nick gave himself time to fully process what Noah had just said. He inhaled deeply through his nose, letting his eyes drift away from Noah and relaxing his focus as he mulled it over.

“You really care about her?” he asked.

Noah nodded.

“Want me to stay away from her, too?” It was an honest question, and Noah was suddenly struck with how much his friends cared about him.

Noah squeezed and relaxed his hands a few times to increase circulation in his fingers. They were still cold from his walk.

“No, actually. If anything, I think you’d be a really good influence for her. She could use someone like you.”

Nick’s eyebrows pulled up in the center. He tilted his head to the side. “Why do you say that?”

“She needs to have more fun,” he said. “She’s been repressed for a really long time and I think she’s ready to break out of that and live life.”

Nick’s eyes went wide and he pointed to his chest. “And you want me to be the one to help with that?”

Noah didn’t want Nick to do that. The last thing he wanted was to see you enjoying yourself without him, but if it was between that and you staying miserable under the church’s influence, he at least wanted you to be happy.

“I think you’d be good for her,” he said, working hard to make sure he didn’t sound bitter at all.

“What if I fuck her?” he asked, his momentary sincerity seemingly over.

Noah’s face dropped. “Don’t fuck her.”

“But what if I do?”

Noah clenched his jaw, grinding his molars together as he steadied himself. He knew Nick didn’t mean anything by it. He was just being himself and trying to rile Noah up, but Noah wasn’t about to give in.

“Then make sure you’re on the same page with her about what it means. Don’t lead her on.”

Nick chewed on his tongue. “Where is all this coming from?” He asked. “Why do you think you’ll hurt her?”

“I guess,” Noah said, picking at a bit of dead skin on his lip, “It’s sort of just a gut feeling? I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s something in there that tells me I gotta sort myself out before I get involved with anyone.”

Nick blinked up at his friend, softening. “I didn’t realize you were so serious about her.”

“I don’t know what I feel,” said Noah. “I just need some time to figure that out.”

“You okay?” he asked, hand coming up to scratch an itch at the back of his neck.

Noah nodded. “I will be,” he said. It was true, he would be okay eventually. He was sure of that. He’d survived worse than this. He just needed to figure out what the best course of action would be.

Nick’s eyes flicked back to the paused game on the screen. “So you’re saying it’s cool if I fuck her then?” he said.

Nick could be a real asshole at times. He was abrasive by nature. Many found his personality overwhelming, but the ones who stuck around knew that he was an antagonist, not to be mean, but to challenge people—coax them out of their comfort zones and force them to confront their triggers. He wasn’t always right, and he often stuck his own foot in his mouth, but when he was right, he was so right, it made up for all the other times.

This time, however, he used his skill to diffuse the tension.

“Man, fuck you,” said Noah, slapping the ash tray off the end table. It tipped over sideways and spilled its contents onto Nick’s bed, coating his sheets with ash and spent roaches.

“Bro!” Nick shouted, but Noah was already out of the room, hissing to himself with laughter, and Nick was too couch locked to chase him.

________

“Noah said to tell you he’s sorry. He got called in for overtime again,” Nick said as he walked into the community center seven minutes late.

Your heart sank. Not just because you wouldn’t get to see Noah, but because he could have easily texted this information to you himself.

It was as you’d suspected. Noah was avoiding you.

Over the course of the week, you’d grown more and more stressed. Sunday was fine. You’d woken up feeling well rested, having dreamt of Noah throughout the night. At church, you couldn’t focus on any of the sermon because you were too consumed reliving the previous night.

Monday came and went with no word from Noah. You thought for sure he would have texted you to say hi or check up on you. Some sort of acknowledgement that the dynamic between the two of you had shifted. But you’d also heard it was customary to wait three days.

So you waited.

By Wednesday, your patience had grown thin. You’d given him the benefit of the doubt, wondering if maybe he was nervous and waiting for you to reach out, so you had, sending him a casual hey .

He never responded. You’d been checking your phone religiously over the course of the week, but it had been radio silence on his end.

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” You kept a straight face and a steady voice while you spoke, but it took effort. “We’re supposed to be shoveling snow today but since there’s only us, I’m going to veto that.”

Nick sighed in relief. “Thank god . I wasn’t built for the cold.”

“Get inside,” you nodded towards the doors. “We’ll start with windows.”

He offered up a salute and bounded through the doors, eager to escape the cold.

As Nick got to work, you processed this information.

Noah’s silence was deafening.

Was this your punishment? Was God unhappy with your behavior and was this his way of letting you know?

An element to this was fitting. This was the cost, you realized. This was the price you paid for giving into temptation.

A bitter laugh escaped under your breath.

Was the church right about everything? Was there a reason you shouldn’t fall into temptation?

Maybe Hell did exist—and it wasn’t a lake of fire, but the absence of Heaven after you’d already tasted it.

Even after everything, you probably would still have done it all over again if you had the opportunity. He’d introduced you to a part of yourself that had been dormant for a long time and for that, you were grateful.

But the price was steep.

Your biggest regret was that you hadn’t even gotten to touch him before it was all over. You felt so stupid. Why couldn’t you have held out a little longer? Resisted temptation until you had him fully within your grasp?

But then again, perhaps the loss of him would be even more painful, wouldn’t it?

You sighed and stretched your arms up, resting your forearms on your head as you observed Nick spraying down the windows with cleaner.

You could get through this. It would be hard, but it was within your grasp. People have survived much worse. In the grand scheme of things, this heartache was minor. It would hurt for a while, but eventually you’d recover and life would go on.

It was just a matter of getting to the other side.

You wanted to remember this pain. Savor the full impact and hopefully this would be the only time you needed to learn this lesson. You’d grow, heal, and move on a better and stronger version of yourself.

Eventually.

Right now, you needed to focus on the task at hand: overseeing community service without getting yourself into any more trouble. And that’s what you were going to do. ________

That did prove to be a tougher job than you anticipated. Nick was charismatic as ever and kept trying to get your attention.

You’d throw him a bone every once in a while, if only because it genuinely did lift your spirits to be around him. He was a much safer presence.

“How many weeks do I have left?”

You were strewn across the back pew, doing your best not to wallow, but failing pretty spectacularly, when Nick’s voice broke you out of your ruminations.

“I’m not sure,” you said, sitting up and looking at him. He leaned casually against the back of the pew, rag thrown over his shoulder. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the wood. “I have it written down somewhere. I’d have to look.”

“Can you let me know next week?” he asked, bouncing on his heels. You could see what attracted Ava to him so much.

“Yeah.”

“Or actually, maybe this Friday. Isn’t that when your Christmas thing is?”

You blinked stupidly up at him. You’d forgotten all about the upcoming showcase.

“Oh, yeah. It is. I didn’t realize you knew about it.”

“Yeah,” he said, and then shifted on his feet as if he was trying to figure out a way to avoid saying that Noah told him about it. Which would mean that Nick was also aware of the awkwardness between the two of you.

“Were you thinking of going?” you asked. “You don’t have to.”

“I thought it might be fun to see you sing,” he said, voice soft and lips smiling.

You were momentarily taken aback. You didn’t think Nick cared about anything you were doing. The thought that he might be interested in your life outside of community service was one that hadn’t crossed your mind.

“Really?” you asked.

He looked side to side and nodded, as if it should have been obvious to you.

“Nick, that would mean so much. I would love for you to come.”

“Good,” he said, a self-satisfied smile back on his face. “But try not to suck or I won’t be donating anything.”

You snorted loudly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime.”

The conversation died down, and you could feel the elephant in the room rearing its head.

You could ask how Noah was doing. It wouldn’t be too out-of-character. But you’d give yourself away easily if you did.

Besides, nothing good would come of it. If Noah wanted to contact you, he would. If he didn’t, then he was just someone you needed to get over.

Nick lingered, just as hesitant to leave the conversation.

“You doin’ okay?” he asked.

You sighed, leaning into the back of the pew. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.”

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked.

You rolled your head across the pew to look over at him. His face held a neutral expression, but there was softness in his eyes.

“Maybe some other time,” you said. “Thank you, though.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’m here if you need me.” He punctuated it with a squeeze to your shoulder and your hand came up to clasp over his on its own accord. He was warm, and truth be told, you really needed the gesture.

Perhaps you’d be okay.

_______

“And there were no signs prior to this?”

“No,” you said, collapsing on Ava’s bed while she worked on her Contemporary Art project from her desk. It looked like a big lump of Styrofoam. She held a strip of sandpaper, rubbing it back and forth over a corner and causing little pieces to flake off and litter the desk and floor beneath her.

“And neither of you talked beforehand about what it would mean?”

“No,” you grumbled, recognizing your first mistake. You absolutely should have talked about what it meant for the both of you before doing anything, and you can’t understand why you’d been so foolish to skip over that. “It just sort of…happened?”

Ava fixed you with an imploring stare.

“Babe, I’m really sorry that you got hurt, but. I don’t know,” she began. “Aren’t you always the one preaching about that kind of thing? It seems like you could have used a little bit of your own advice, don’t you think?”

You turned over and let out a loud groan into Ava’s pillow.

“Not helping.”

“I know, I know. That was probably insensitive. I just,” she trailed off, turning back to her project. “Maybe this was a lesson you needed to learn? Not to look down on others for the things they struggle with. And maybe also to recognize that we’re all human. We’re all sinners. Even you?”

You pouted. “You really think I needed to learn that?”

“You’ve been known to judge in the past.”

“I’ve been better about that!” you said, throwing your hands up in the air.

“I know,” she said. “I know you have.” She pouted back at you. “Maybe I’m not the best person for this kind of talk.”

You sighed, crossing your arms over your stomach. “No, you’re fine. I think I’m just feeling sorry for myself is all.”

Ava got up from her desk, brushing as many Styrofoam flakes from her clothes as she could, and crawled into her bed with you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. You melded into her touch. “You’re allowed to feel hurt. He did send you mixed signals.”

“What about you and Nick?” you asked. She chewed on her lip for a moment.

“Nick and I…we talked about it beforehand. We knew it was just for that night going into it.” She rested her chin on your shoulder.

“You didn’t want to pursue anything more?”

Ava shrugged beside you. “Neither of us is looking for anything.”

You leaned your head on her shoulder. It would have been nice had you had the same disposition going into the encounter with Noah. You could have just enjoyed it for what it was and then went your separate ways without any complicated feelings. You admired Ava’s ability to do that.

“You’re right,” you said. “We should have talked about it beforehand. Made sure we were on the same page.”

You turned to bury your face in her shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut to keep any tears from escaping.

“It doesn’t always work out that way,” she said. “Don’t judge yourself for your mistakes.”

She stroked your back as you failed to prevent your eyes from leaking. “Is it okay if I cry on you?” you asked, voice muffled by her shirt, a stray piece of Styrofoam finding its way into your mouth.

“Babe, of course. I’m here for you.”

You nodded into her shoulder, allowing the first of many sobs to fall. She continued to stroke your back, soothing you as you wept.

It hurt. You’d trusted Noah to care for you. You never would have believed him to be the type to get what he wants and then not call.

Plus, he still had five weeks of community service (you’d checked), and there wasn’t any way he could get out of that.

“How am I supposed to face him on Saturday?” you whined.

“Hmmm,” she said. “Is Folio talking to you?”

“Yeah,” you sniffed. “He’s actually been really nice.”

“What if you just talk to him? Use him as a distraction so you don’t have to talk to Noah. Who knows? Maybe having fun with him would help you move on.”

You pulled away to look at her.

“You mean like…?” you trailed off.

She laughed. “I’m not saying have sex with the guy,” she said. “I doubt he’d do that since Noah’s like, his best friend. But he’s a good guy and he’s fun to be around. And you could use that kind of energy in your life.”

You sniffled again and let your head drop back down to rest on her, spitting out another fleck of Styrofoam. It truly was everywhere.

You doubted that hanging out with Nick would help you get over Noah. If anything, it would just remind you of him. But you did need more friends in your life, and he was someone you could see yourself getting along with.

Perhaps focusing on your friendships would help. You squeezed Ava’s middle.

“I love you,” you said. “Please be my friend forever.”

She breathed softly, squeezing you back. “If you play your cards right.”

______

Friday’s showcase had a much larger turnout than expected. People lined the pews and even stood in the back after all the available seats had been filled. You peeked through one of the side doors that entered onto the stage and saw Nick sitting in a middle row. Ava sat a few rows in front of him. She caught your eye and gave you a big thumbs-up for good luck.

Your eyes scanned over the crowd, searching for a tall, tattooed figure and coming up short.

He said he was going to come. He was the one who had pressed you for the information in the first place.

You looked down at your phone screen. 6:53. He still had seven minutes to make it.

You exhaled a deep breath and shook your hands out, trying to calm your nerves.

“Want to pray?” came Isaac’s deep voice to your right. You looked over to find him standing quite close to you. His usual v-neck and beanie had been swapped out for a white button-down and black tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was tied neatly in a bun atop his head.

“Sure,” you breathed, figuring you could use some prayer.

He grasped your hands in his. His were warm. Steady. They helped to soothe your nerves.

“God,” he began, “please watch over us and guide us as we work to spread the good news of Jesus’s birth. Let us not falter. Allow our voices to ring true and fall on ears willing to hear. In your name. Amen.”

“Amen,” you repeated, working hard not to roll your eyes.

It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the prayer. It was just that Isaac talked as if he were living a hundred years ago, trying his best to sound profound, and you weren’t entirely convinced it was solely for God’s listening pleasure. He was a performer, after all.

He squeezed your hands, smiling. “Almost time. Are you nervous?” he asked.

“A little bit,” you said, noticing the discomfort in your gut.

“Don’t be. You’ve got this. It’s just the one solo and then you’re in the choir for the rest of it.” His thumbs rubbed over the backs of your hands, and you were about to pull your hands away from him, but it actually was quite soothing. He seemed like he genuinely cared about you. And he smelled nice. Some sort of expensive-smelling cologne that was the complete opposite of whatever spiced oil Noah wore, but in a really good, clean way.

“You look great, by the way,” he added, taking a step back and giving you a once-over. “I like the dress.”

The dress in question was a high-necked A-line in a bright shade of red to match the holiday theme (Christmas theme, your father would correct you, because apparently no other holidays existed to him).

You wore a dark green cardigan overtop, along with a gold necklace and black heels. Your lips were painted to match the dress. It was the most dressed-up you’d been since last Christmas. When you chose the outfit, you were still under the impression that a certain tattooed someone would see it.

“Thanks,” you said.

You could tell by the way Isaac lingered that he wanted to continue the conversation, but you didn’t feel much like talking. Needing an exit, you excused yourself to go get a drink of water.

Weaving through other soloists and members of the church choir, you made your way down one of the two hallways that flanked either side of the main sanctuary. You rounded the corner, where one of the members of your church’s worship band—Darian—was passing out programs for the event.

“Hey! You ready for your solo?” he asked when he saw you.

You smiled, breathing out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” you said, scanning the stragglers still arriving for any sign of Noah.

“I’d be nervous if I was on first,” he said. You took your eyes off the latecomers and looked to find him smiling encouragingly at you.

“Yeah,” you said, shifting your weight awkwardly. “Isaac insisted for some reason that I open.”

Your stomach sank even more. You couldn’t see Noah anywhere.

“He mentioned it was because your song would set the tone for the evening,” said Darian, but you were only half-listening. “Do you want one of these?”

You looked back at him. “What?”

He held out a program for you to take. “In case you wanted to keep it. For posterity, or scrapbooking or whatever.”

“Yeah, sure,” you said, grabbing it without really thinking.

Your emotional bandwidth had been all but used up, chest tight and head foggy. You felt bad that you weren’t really engaging in conversation, or even paying attention to it for that matter, but hoped Darian would forgive you.

Sensing that you weren’t in the headspace to talk, Darian wished you luck and went back to handing out programs. You thanked him and continued walking across the foyer and down the opposite hallway with no real destination in mind. You were to go on in less than a minute.

You shook your head, trying to get out of it and into your body. You needed to connect with your voice in order to perform, but you couldn’t seem to steady your breathing.

The sanctuary was laid out in a rectangle, with the foyer lining the back, hallways with classrooms running the length of either side, and then a room behind the main stage, so from where you stood at the end of the hall, you could see through the windows of the doors to the stage that the lights had dimmed.

Isaac walked out to the center of the stage from the hallway opposite you. A spotlight appeared on him, and with an abundance of charismatic charm, he thanked the audience that had gathered, before leading them in yet another prayer to bless the evening’s performance and to let God’s will be done.

Throughout the entirety of his introduction, you’d zoned in and out. Your nerves ate at you, consuming your focus and leaving you feeling detached from your surroundings.

You’d performed this song a dozen times at least, and in front of much of the same audience, too. You performed every week in front of the congregation on Sundays. Perhaps you’d struggled with stage fright at one point in your life, a decade ago when you were still fairly new to performing, but these days you were at-home in front of a microphone.

And yet.

Your knees shook. A cold sweat had broken out on the back of your neck, and your stomach clenched and released several times in quick succession.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please enjoy O Holy Night, performed by my dear personal friend, and co-leader of our praise and worship team,” Isaac began.

You heard your name being called, snapping you out of the haze.

The audience applauded. Isaac gestured to the doorway opposite you, where he assumed you would be entering from.

Taking a deep breath, you opened the door and walked to the center of the stage. Isaac turned when he heard the doors open, looking caught off-guard for a moment, but he recovered quickly, gesturing to you and clapping to signal to the audience that they should keep their applause going.

He slowly backed away and gave you a double thumbs-up before exiting the stage.

Recognizing you were still holding the program Darian had handed you, you clasped your hands behind your back and stepped up to the microphone.

The soft piano intro played out over the loud speakers. You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply.

O holy night,

The stars are brightly shining,

It is the night of our dear savior’s birth.

The first note came out shaky. You’d pushed too hard with your diaphragm, allowing more air than was needed to pass through your vocal folds. You closed your eyes and focused on breath control, feeling the spotlight heat your skin.

Long lay the world

In sin and error pining

‘till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

Back in the late 1843, a church in the south of France had its organ renovated. After the renovations were complete, the church reached out to a French poet by the name of Placide Cappeau, asking him to write a poem that could be used as a hymn. In response, Cappeau penned the first iteration of O Holy Night.

Placide Cappeau was a known atheist.

A thrill of hope. The weary world rejoices

When the Catholic Church got wind of an atheist creating a Christmas carol, they did their best to bury the song. They claimed it lacked musical flavor. At the time, the idea of all men and women owning souls was highly radical.

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

O Holy Night has since become one of the most popular Christmas carols known to western society, thanks in part to John Sullivan Dwight translating it to English in 1855.

You knew this, because you’d written a history of the carol for an end-of-semester project back when you went to high school at Calvary Baptist.

Fall on your knees. O hear the angel voices,

At the time, you’d wondered how an atheist—someone who, in your mind, stood against everything you stood for, could write such a beautiful song that touched the hearts of you and so many others.

O night, divine. O night, when Christ was born.

How could someone with no connection to God write something that so clearly captures the essence of the Holy Spirit?

You chanced a look out at the crowd, once more searching for the familiar face you so wanted to see. The atheist who understood more about Christ’s love than so many in the church ever would, and found no sign of him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, preparing for the high note that signaled the climax of the song.

O night, O holy night.

Your voice rang out, loud and with a pleasing vibrato you’d finally learned to control three years ago. You paused for effect. The music cut out, and you sang the last line.

O night divine!

It was over. You’d done it. The piano melody came back in for the closing notes, and you curtseyed elegantly as the crowd applauded.

You exited through the same doors you entered, heading straight for the restroom so you could take a moment to yourself before you had to be back on stage in the choir for O Come All Ye Faithful.

Placing your program on the sink counter, you ran your hands under cool water, intending to splash some on your face when a small blurb on the bottom of the pamphlet caught your eye.

Collection plates will be passed around. Please help us save countless unborn lives by making a donation.

Unborn lives.

Isaac was donating the proceeds to a pro-life organization.

You’d been unknowingly roped in to an anti-choice fundraiser.

A wave of anger erupted from deep within you, washing over your entire body and pulsating through it.

You snatched the program from the counter, storming out the bathroom, across the foyer, and to the adjacent hallway Isaac stood at the end of.

“What the Hell, Isaac!?” you near-shouted, bounding toward him.

Isaac’s eyes widened upon your approach. He took several steps back, running into two of the other choir members, but it wasn’t enough. You slammed the program into his sternum.

“Whoa!” he said, grasping the program you’d thrust at him with one hand and holding the other out to keep you from coming any closer. “Where’s the fire?”

“What is this?!” you said, stabbing the program on his chest with your finger where the blurb appeared.

He looked at you bewildered, then down to where your index finger pushed into his chest, and then back to you like you were a mad woman. “We said we wanted to give the proceeds to charity.”

“Yeah,” you said, ripping the program out of his hand and throwing it down at his feet. “Like a soup kitchen or a toy drive. Not to Life Alliance!”

Isaac’s eyebrows pulled together in blatant confusion. “What’s better than saving innocent lives?” he said.

“Oh my God,” you scoffed, not caring whether or not it counted as taking the Lord’s name in vain.

Suddenly all the air in the room felt like it had been vacuumed out and you found yourself struggling to breathe.

Taking a step backwards, it dawned on you that this was your limit. The church had compressed you your entire life, and you’d finally reached your breaking point. “I can’t participate in this.” You said it not to Isaac, but to yourself. “I have to go.”

“Hey! Hold on,” Isaac said. “You can’t leave. You’re our first soprano. We need you for the high G.”

You shook your head, turning on your heel. You wouldn’t have been able to hit that note even if you wanted to with how your throat was constricting.

“We can talk about this. Maybe we can do more than one charity,” he said, but you were already halfway down the hall, tears threatening to spill over.

The heels you wore made it hard to run down the icy sidewalk, but run you did. Down the sidewalk, down the street. You didn’t stop running until you’d put several blocks between you and the church.

You’d once thought of it as a sacred place—a home away from home.

Now, the only time you felt at home in it was on Saturday mornings, sharing the space with two delinquents who didn’t even believe in God.

Nowhere felt sacred anymore.

Nowhere except the shed in the backyard of Jolly’s house. But you were cut off from that now, too.

Where did you belong now? __________ How are we all feeling after that? Also, if anyone has any artistic skills and would like to help me make a moldboard or a banner or something for this story, I would be forever grateful!

Taglist: @dem11, @starcrossedwasteland @alm0std3add @reyadawn @karenfranco, @glam-cherry-bomb @simpingforniragi, @koalakoala8, @themorticians-world, @sleepytoken99, @xmagdalenaxbrenaxorestes, @dark-mist666, @fuck-me-muke, @xmads-omensx, @just-randomm-stuff @spookychaosstranger, @gravitysembrace, @somebodyels3, @sundamariis, @noahsebastions, @cyber-tiny @livingdeceasedgirl @xxkittenkissesxx @treacheryinblue @flowerynerds @1toreyouapart @badomensls @rain-down-on-me @ilovemewwwww75 @poisongirl616 Click here to join the taglist!

#noah sebastian x reader #bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian #bad omens #the devil's advocate #bad omens x reader #bad omens smut #bad omens fic

141 notes · View notes

yeoja-dream · 11 months ago

Text

Found/Fated/Forever

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Pairing: BTS OT7 x Reader Genre: Fantasy, eventual smut, porn with plot, slow burn, hurt/comfort Characters: Supernatural!BTS, Vampire!Jungkook, Supernatural!Reader Content Warning: Y/N in danger Word Count: 3.6k

Jungkook’s vision went white and he felt the air pulled out of his lungs as in a flash, he was again in the hospital room, Namjoon hovered worryingly over your body. He looked up as you arrived, obvious relief relaxing his features as his eyes landed on Baba Yena.

“Baba Yena,” Namjoon greeted with a bow. “I was only able to do a cursory search, but her kind isn’t listed or documented in any infernal records I was able to get my hands on.”

“Of course, because she is not from the hells, my child.” Baba Yena said, walking to your bedside, and shooing him away. “She is indeed a rare sight to behold, but you will have to ask her about her heritage, she has taken considerable lengths to conceal it.”

“So you will save her?” Namjoon asked, hopeful.

“Yes, horned one. Your mate has sacrificed sufficiently, and this child has suffered greatly as it is. It is not yet her time to die.” Baba Yena said, beginning to pull several black, oily drawing implements as well as a bottle of bright blue, glowing liquid.

Without much regard for the others standing in the room, Baba Yena began unceremoniously undressing your body, causing both the men in the room to turn their gaze elsewhere. Perhaps in a different time or context, it would be embarrassing, exciting perhaps, but they felt it perverse to see you unclothed in such a state. Fully nude, Baba Yena began using the black, oily, drawing implements to draw intricate symbols all over your body.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook asked, back still turned.

“Her body is too weak to house her soul, so it is lost somewhere in the Astral Sea. The water from the Elu Spring in the Fey Wild will heal and strengthen her body. The markings are the spell that will call her soul back to her body.”

With that, Baba Yena sat you up, popping the cork of the blue liquid, and carefully poured it down your throat. Immediately, your almost grey skin flushes with color, and your rapid, shallow breaths begin to even out. Namjoon watched the monitor carefully, breathing a sigh of relief as your heart rate became stronger and faster too. Baba Yena then closed her eyes, extending her arms out straight, palms down. Her palms began to glow with a bright, white light, and as they glowed, so did the markings on your body. Baba Yena’s face scrunched with concentration. “Come on, child. It is not yet time to go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You came to, opening your eyes, rubbing them harshly as to clear your blurred vision. You feel yourself to be weightless, immediately, as if floating on water. All around you, horizon to horizon, were breathtakingly vibrant and clear night skies, completely lit up with stars and nebula as far as the eye could see. Below, was a massive and never-ending sea of the purest, molten silver, opaque and mirror-like, the gentle waves that broke the surface capturing the starlight with such luster you wondered for a moment if the water had been made of the cosmos, perhaps from the tears of the other stars, crying for the fallen.

It didn’t exactly take a scholar to figure out you had found yourself in the Astral Plane, the plane souls found themselves in before continuing onto an afterlife fitting of whomever they worshiped in life. Legend has it that the Astral Sea is what waters the Tree of Life, and drinking from its waters will grant you all knowledge and power akin to a God in your own right. Others said those with enough hubris or guts to try are simply driven stark raving mad, cursed to roam the endless abyss with nothing but the voices in their head to keep them company. Considering that you had yet to hear of a God exalted by this water, you were more inclined to believe the latter.

How the fuck did I get to the astral realm? You asked yourself, anxiety and panic prickling at your skin. You combed through your memories, you woke up, got dressed, had breakfast, and… you hit a wall. You try to push forward, but the more you do so, the more your brain shoots with pain. Something or someone was blocking you from remembering something important, and you judged. Whether or not that was simply a symptom of the situation you found yourself in or a direct action taken by someone, you had yet to discern.

There was at least one thing you knew about the Astral Plane, that in order to travel it, you only had to think, to will yourself in one direction or the other. You started by willing yourself into the vertical, upright position with the sea 10 meters below. What you did not know, however, was how magic functioned in this plane. The first obvious solution was to attempt to plane shift back to your reality, but when you mentally cast your consciousness out looking for laylines to dip into, you couldn’t find any. You willed yourself forward then, continuing the mental search.

Time in the Astral worked differently than in the prime material plane. There was no day or night, time simply did not pass, so it was impossible to gauge how long you truly spent looking, but you only stopped when your head throbbed from the exertion. Could it be possible that the Astral had no laylines? Or perhaps your magic had been cut off somehow, rendering you blind to any laylines that might exist? If that was the case, had you actually died? The thought raised your blood pressure.

Without the ability to dip into the magic, you were certainly not plane-shifting out of this shitty situation. You patted yourself down and only now realized that you were entirely without your personal effects, now wearing a rough spin, off-white tunic, brown pants of the same fabric, and a pair of worn leather boots. More importantly, without your stuff, you had returned to your true form. The realization was not helping the actually dead theory. You willed yourself forward, hoping to run into another soul, maybe someone who could help you figure this situation out.

You floated for what felt like years, decades. You didn’t need to eat or sleep, and with no time reference, the monotony alone would drive anyone mad, you didn’t even need to drink the seawater, you decided. Sometimes you saw people, mostly in the distance, however, and when you’d try to call their attention, they would flee like their lives depended on it. Other times the Sea itself would open up, portals of different shades of light would flash, dropping off newly departed souls, or more often, yanking an older soul into one afterlife or another. No one spoke to one another, and certainly no one spoke to you. That is, until mercifully, you hear your voice called by a friendly male voice behind you.

“Y/N?” The voice called out. The tone was friendly and definitively male, but there was a quality about the timbre that called out to something deeper and forgotten inside of you. You turned around hesitantly, seeing a tall, human man in his 20s. His hair was curly, his features dark and his skin a tanned olive. There was a familiarity to his look, and as he approached closer, it finally clicked.

“Fareed?!” You asked with a mixture of shock and surprise.

“Long time no see!” He said with a friendly wave.

When you had first escaped from the Fey Wild, Fareed was your first friend as a young child. Fareed was a bubbly but fearless kid whose hobbies appropriately included talking to strangers and jumping off the highest places he could find. He often slipped extra portions of his lunch out of the house, but you always suspected his mom knew and was giving him too much food deliberately. His fearlessness got him taken away far too young, and when our country began conscripting soldiers for some war in some faraway land, he was the first to volunteer. We received news of his passing only one month later.

To see him in his current state, alive, well, and sane choked you up and you found yourself fighting back tears.

“It’s Y/N! I must look considerably different now than when you last saw me.” You said gesturing to your true self. “Why are you still here?” You asked. Fareed had died at least 200 years ago, and you had always hoped that he was living it up in some cushy afterlife.

“I could recognize your energy from across all the planes.” He said with a light laugh. “The Astral has guardians and protectors like any other plane,” He explained. “I dedicated my afterlife to guiding and protecting the lost souls that wander here, and when it is time for them to pass on, I help them find that passage.”

“That sounds like an incredibly noble cause and absolutely something you would do,” You said with a laugh.

“Speaking of which,” He began, “I have gotten a sudden influx of souls complaining about a weird, noisy soul wandering around, harassing folks. Which, in turn, leads me to you. What are you doing here, you don’t seem dead?” He asked.

“About that,” you sighed “I woke up here and I can’t remember how or why I got here, and I would have simply teleported back but I can’t seem to use my magic.”

“That is strange, considering that the Astral Plane is incredibly magically potent, equally if not more so than the Fey Wild.” He stated. “Come here and let me touch your forehead, let me see if I can’t get this sorted for you.”

You willed yourself closer to him, and in response, he stuck his hand out, fingers tented, and placed them on your forehead. You feel nothing, but you watch Fareed’s eyes dart around rapidly, making negative vocalizations. After a moment, he drops his hand and focuses his vision back on you.

“Life certainly hasn’t been very kind to you, Y/N, and for that, I want to express my condolences.”

“Fareed the years have made you so well-spoken!” You exclaim with a laugh. “Thank you.” You said, more seriously.

“You have a powerful curse on you, but I think you already knew that. It is strange but refreshing to see your true form.” He stated. You nodded in confirmation as he continued, “You are not dead. You almost died. That is how you ended up here. Someone extremely powerful wanted you to forget what happened to you, so they blocked your memory and your magic. Fortunately, I am also someone extremely powerful and I was able to remove the block, but not the curse on you as a whole. That is a complicated and difficult endeavor not even I can do.”

With that information, you think back again, this time with crystal clear acuity. You remember the club, rescuing the woman, meeting Jungkook, his preposition. You remember being in his embrace, heat and lust and euphoria taking over every one of your senses, you remember begging him not to stop despite fading away slowly, and then darkness.

“I think I have a soulmate, Fareed.” You breathed.

“I am inclined to agree. All things do.”

“He has mates already though, 6 of them!” You exclaimed.

“Then you also have 6 additional mates,” Fareed said matter of factly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even know those people.”

Fareed cocked an eyebrow at you. “Y/N, do you know how soulmates work?”

“Love and magic and shit, no?” You asked with a shrug.

“Not quite,” Fareed explained. “Souls as most people like to refer to them are actually called Fragments. They are the broken-up pieces of Soulias. When the gods created all sentient living things, they made a center of power, into which they put all knowledge, power, emotion, experience, and condition, and they named that power center Soulia. The problem occurred when the gods tried to plant these Soulias into vessels, the power would overwhelm the vessel and tear it apart, and the ones strong enough to withstand were monstrous creatures of pain, chaos, and violence. The Gods decided to fracture the Soulias. The larger Fragments would go into the vessels they were creating, and the smaller Shards, remnants of the fracturing process, would go into all other living creatures. Fracturing also ensured that no two vessels would live an identical life and that only true harmony could be attained when you shared your piece, your life, your soul, with others around you. It was usually convenient to break the Soulia into two, so often you will see soul mates in pairs of two. But for larger Soulias, smaller Fragments are needed, so it is broken up into smaller pieces, so soulmate groups of more than two are certainly possible. The Soulia inside the vessel will spend its whole life pining after its other pieces. Many people never find their true other half, but a good deal will find love nonetheless and find satisfaction in that. Many here found their Shards in life inside beloved plants and animals.”

“I never knew all that,” You stared at him mouth agape. “So my soul, fragment, fits in with all of theirs?” You ask, gripping at your chest.

“Precisely.”

“What happens when all the parts of a Soulia are bought together?” You asked.

“Well, as I said before, the fracturing process is extremely imperfect, and in the creation of Fragments, a great number of shards are also produced, so getting every part of a Soulia back together is practically impossible. You can, however, tie the pieces together somewhat, bonding or mating as you likely know it, which affords all persons a metaphysical line to one another. Through that line, you can pick up on how your partner is feeling, you can send short messages or emotional sentiments. If they allow you in, you can enter their mind, they can share memories with you as they saw them, and they can allow you to feel exactly how they feel, understand how they actually think. It is a powerful connection, and allows for deeper intimacy and connection possible by other non-soulmate or non-bonded pairs.”

“That sounds… intrusive.” You mumble, arms crossed.

“It can be, but everything is done with the consent of both parties. You can ignore the call of your mate down the bond, even after you’ve let them in you can push them out of your mind at any time, and you can block anyone from entering. Just takes a little practice.”

You frown at that, “It sounds like you are selling it to me.”

“I guess you could say that I am. You seem upset, why? Most people are delighted to meet a soulmate.”

“I’m mad that my soulmate almost killed me, I’m mad that I have a soulmate, I’m mad that I have 7 soul mates. I’m mad that I’ve lived the last 50 years of my life in relative solitude because I was sick and tired of getting fucked over and suddenly 7 of potentially the deepest and most intimate connections a living thing can experience is dropped onto my lap so yeah, color me upset! I can’t do loss anymore, Fareed. It’s too painful.”

He looked you up and down, contemplatively. “If I may, one old friend to another?”

You nod in response.

“Look around and tell me what you see.” He said, making a wide sweeping gesture.

“I see endless and endless nothing dotted with lonely, lost souls, hoping that someday they’ll be called to something better.”

“Time may not pass in the Astral, but what I quickly learned is that this is the summation of a human life, Y/N. They live, and most days are bleak, boring, and mundane. Occasionally, another lonely soul will cross their path, and for a time, they find comfort in one another. Ultimately, they part, and at the end of it all, they pass on hoping that whatever next is someplace better, and yet for many this is what they have to look forward to.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you are getting at, Fareed.”

“You have lived a long, brilliant life Y/N, many times longer than many of the souls that wander here. You have suffered more than much more than many of these souls, but you have been gifted the chance to love and be loved much more than many of these souls. So go, Y/N. Set yourself free from grief, worry, and suspicion. Do not shy away from love for fear of pain, love despite it, and love fiercely and unapologetically. When you are called to join us here again, come with joy in your heart from a life fearlessly spent, or be doomed to eternity searching the silver sea for your salvation. You are your own salvation.”

You pursed your lips tightly, looking down at the Astral Sea as you processed his words.

“It isn’t that easy,” You began, your voice wavering.

“For you, it won’t be,” He admitted. “It is true some come into this world full of light and for whom trust and love come easy. But for those who have been hurt as you have, it is going to be hard. Just because things are hard doesn’t mean they aren’t worth doing or that they are bad for us.”

“You know what I am, what I am made of. You see the ticking bomb I am, and yet you insist I allow people to get close to me to what... hurt as many as I can? I will never be free, Fareed. They will chase me to the ends of time and take from me what they feel they are owed. We both know that.” You finish your rant, a single tear running down your cheek. As you do so, a bright white portal opens on the top of the Astral Sea, slowly dragging you closer and closer to its event horizon.

“It seems our time together has run out,” Fareed said. “If you would allow me to leave you with a parting thought before you go. The only memories they blocked from you were of him. They wanted you to forget him so desperately they blocked your magic essentially confining you to a realm where they would never be able to touch you again. That is worth considering.”

As your feet began to hit the portal, Fareed grabbed your hand holding it close.

“Make the world tremble at you, Y/N. I don’t want to see you here for a long, long time. Good luck-” The end of the word was clipped as your vision went white, your hearing went silent, and like you were being flushed down a toilet, you felt yourself being yanked at lightning speed by your feet, and suddenly everything was again dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Baba Yena pulled up her arms suddenly, and in response, your body involuntarily arched. When doing so, you let out a sudden, loud gasp, causing all present to breathe a small sigh of relief to themselves too.

“The child was very deep, so it took me a while to find her.” Baba Yena said, redressing you in a spare hospital bed and tucking you in gently. “Both of you,” She said, turning to the men who had huddled together for comfort during the spell. “Kneel.”

They looked at each other, but rather than piss off a supremely powerful being who just did you a massive favor, the pair concede, sinking to the floor on their knees. Once in position, Baba Yena approached the pair. While kneeling, Baba Yena was at eye level with the boys. She approached Jungkook first.

Thwack! She cracked him across the skull with a walking cane. “What are you doing bleeding girls dry like you're some poor changling with no control of their thirst? You are over 200 years old, act your age! You had no business testing out a connection you had no idea if you could control without supervision.” Baba Yena scolded him thoroughly.

“And you,” Thwack! This time she cracked Namjoon over the skull with the cane. “What the hell kind of doctor are you? You were in such a rush to do nothing you didn’t stop to see the blinding, gold amulet that she wears? The very same type you and several of your mates wear? If he almost killed her, you were signing the death certificate with your negligence ink. You ought to be ashamed.” She finished, brushing nothing off her petticoat, and gathering her things to leave.

“She will wake in 3 days fully rested and back to full health. There will come a time when she has questions about herself, and when she does, find me. Until then, leave me alone. You kids have caused me enough trouble as it is. Oh and, be careful with that one. She has been through enough.” And with that, she flourishes the very same cane, vanishing.

The silence that hangs in the air after Baba Yena leaves is long and heavy, but mixed with relief as the pair approach both sides of your bed, staring at your sleeping form. It was amazing how starkly opposite you looked now to even just an hour before, knocking on death’s door.

“I think you have a lot of explaining to do, Kook.”

“Later,” The younger one pleaded. “I just want to sit here for a little while.”

“Later.” Namjoon agreed, excusing himself. Not but 20 minutes later, he found himself back in the room, second chair and laptop in hand. Jungkook was too guilt-ridden to say it, but he was immensely grateful for the company. He hoped you were too.

_____________________________________________ Tags @luvlykyy ---------------------------------------------------------- Big lore dump this chapter! Some of you may be noticing some inspiration from DnD to lend me some framework for world-building! That is absolutely true, but as I also mentioned I have been using it as a framework, and as such it may or may not veer violently off the Forgotten Realms cannon, so don't get too twisted about "Hey, that's not how that thing works!" It's just a work of fiction I'm writing for funsies at the end of the day so don't take it too seriously. I hope you are all enjoying~

#bts x reader #jungkook x reader #ot7 x reader #namjoon x reader #bts x reader angst #bts x reader smut #bts x oc #bts x you #bts x y/n #bts x fem!reader #ot7 x reader smut #ot7 x you #bts fanfic #bts ff #bts smut #bts smau #bts #bangtan #foundfatedforever

227 notes · View notes

nights-at-crystarium · 5 months ago

Text

DUMPS A MASSIVE STACK OF NOTES IN FRONT OF YOU OKAY SO- No I didn't just wait and hope for someone to ask about them, why'd you think that- I'll omit the details of how they grow close and what pushes them apart, but lemme dive into the broader chemistry. A fair warning for Fragments-spoilers if you wanna experience the comic's story as it unfolds.

Vivi needs An Adult, someone who'd stand up to his unruly character, ground him in reality, protect him. Raha perfectly fills this role, but so does Emet, merely with a different flavor. Vivi needs someone who experiences isolation and dehumanization on his level: being the wol is a lonely experience. He looks for an equal. He's okay with Emet's condescending attitude, his self-esteem doesn't want for coddling, and he can talk back anytime.

The Soulmate Magnet trope's fun, but on its own it's not enough for these two. Well, it obviously is for Emet, who seizes the chance to nibble on some crumbs that are left of Azem, what's dignity in face of all-consuming desperation. Vivi, however, his whole thing is showing middle finger to his destiny, the further it goes, the more allergic he gets to the "ooooohh it was meant to be this way~" bs that gets thrown at him ever so often. Emet's careful with the order and amount of information he discloses to Vivi, like expertly boiling a frog. Manipulation or not, they mutually benefit from this relationship. Emet gets his partner back, even if it's Not Him, half of Him feels pretty damn familiar, and Vivi gets a clear escape route from his destiny. Exchanging meaningful looks and knowing chuckles with you because we can tell that he embraces his overarching, ancient destiny this way, but shhhhhh, let him enjoy his hubris.

Out of the two, it's Emet who's a sad fool making a mistake that'd cost him everything. Of course this relationship has an impact on Vivi, but at least it doesn't kill him, eh- *gets kicked*

More under the cut /o/

Emet knows that he might be sabotaging himself, but he won't stop. He's infinitely more vulnerable to the Soulmate Magnet out of the two. He acknowledges that this could easily fail, that he might have to kill Vivi, but my Emet's killed so many not-azems anyway. He trades the potential pain of tomorrow for the small illusion of comfort today. As time goes on, he dares hoping again, hoping that this time might be different, goes all in with his cards, and, well, *waves vaguely* you'll see how that goes eventually.

The line between wolgraha and wolemet in Fragments is thinner than one may expect, the divergence where Vivi fully sides with Emet hinges on one human impulse. They already feel comfy enough, but Emet still hesitates to bare too much of his heart. They simply need more time together, which they can't have in canon because everyone expects Vivi to keep killing Lightwardens. The moment Vivi sees Emet's genuine smile and realizes that he wants to save him, to make him smile again and again, is when he trades entire world(s) for that. The catastrophic divergence isn't some epic scene, but a quiet click in his head. This decision still doesn't come easy, but Vivi would do it once he's sufficiently invested in Emet. The world owes him so much anyway. Time to take back what's been taken from him.

One important difference between Vivi and his Azem: what they'd do in a trolley problem. Vivi would literally burn worlds for one person dear to him, Azem would do (and actually did) the opposite, he didn't support the Zodiark plan AND left his lovers (Emet and Hyth) because he saw himself belonging to the people as a whole. This's becoming a tangent but Vivi absolutely hates his Azem when he finds out what - who - that infamous betrayal was really about.

But yeah Vivi takes Emet's side once he learns enough about him, he generally finds his company easy and pleasant. Another difference between Vivi and Azem: Vivi's incredibly nonjudgmental, embrace your cringe kinda guy. It takes time (which, again, they don't have in canon) for Emet to stop expecting to get teased at every turn, but even in the canon timeline he grows fond of Vivi, Vivi himself, not Azem, because Vivi's kind to him in a subtle, emotionally intelligent way that Azem's never been, he's casual and easygoing and dismissive, Emet's "tsun" just has no reason to activate. He expects betrayal, and it just. Never happens. (ofc it does in canon, but again, the line between canon and divergence is super thin).

Emet doesn't awaken Azem's memories in Vivi for several reasons. Vivi doesn't remember how they were back in the ancient past, but Emet does, he knows how to hold Vivi, who doesn't need much tbh, just company, just being quiet together. He acts disproportionately tired to the 3 years he's spent being the wol, and Emet, conveniently, just wants to chill with him. Funnily, Raha's regained excitement to be alive ends up being too much for Vivi sometimes, but I'm straying off the topic.

I treat their world as a real world that has literature, fiction, tropes, and Vivi tends to dream of being seduced by a villain. He thinks "enemies to lovers" is hot. He's cringe and he doesn't care. Surely this isn't the main force that drives them together, but it's worth mentioning for giggles.

Perhaps the most deliciously fucked up thing about villain!Vivi is how normal and human he'd remain, and drag Emet back up with him. He has no interest in the unsundered world, but he'd join the labor to make Emet happy. (I think I hit Vivi's chaotic neutral alignment on the head here). As long as Emet's in charge, as long as Vivi has no real pressure of responsibility, as long as he's merely a weapon (ironically, yeah), an instrument in master's hand, he doesn't mind. This pic should make more sense now.

Vivi finds someone who can save him from his destiny, break free from Hydaelyn, he never has to make another decision again if he's with Emet. His manic search for agency loops on itself, but hey, he DOES choose this, so arguably, this's more agency than he has as the wol. Even this early in the comic we can see that he simply wants to vibe, to be left alone. Just for that, Emet's actually better than Raha, if we dismiss the morals and destruction of worlds and all such nonsense.

When Emet's inevitably gone at the end of 5.0, it doesn't spell the end of their story. He lingers in the form of Vivi's obsession, questions that Vivi didn't get to ask him, agony of the Soulmate Magnet that Vivi's now aware of, Raha's bittersweet memories of him. He haunts this story forever. And ofc I'm writing an au on the side where he gets to live. It's not as enticing from the storytelling perspective because it's just "duh Emet lives and gets to be happy", but damn it heals my soul to indulge in that.

#vivien rell #emet-selch #emet selch #wolemet #text post #analysis #replies

118 notes · View notes

fabricated-misslieness · 11 months ago

Text

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: prince alhaitham x knight male reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: after spending some time with you, the prince finds himself wishing for things

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.65k ~ PT.1 ~ PT.2

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: sword training, classism, mention of war

☾⋆☆⋆☽

This is a horrible place, Alhaitham thinks, but instead he says: "This is, well..." and it's not that much of an improvement.

The Crown Prince has never been to the servants' quarters, nor the kitchen, nor the knights' quarters or the troops' training grounds. He has never seen the thorough use of space, and has not experienced the smell of two dozen worked men sleeping in the same room.

Your old pallet-based bed has already been claimed by another soldier, but you know the position well and the new tenant doesn't have many memorabilia to show for his use of the space.

It is lucky that you have visited in the middle of the day while the knights are training, otherwise the Prince would've been nothing but drowned in the crowd of soldiers and their odor; odor so musky it still lingers.

He is vaguely aware of the wing reserved for war generals in the palace and wonders why you do not have one. "Should you not have had your own room?"

"They told me it was all occupied." You reply, to hide from him the truth. You know, from your sparse time in the castle as a war general and your now abundant time as the Prince's knight, that the castle has so many rooms, many are left unused.

Although of course, as the Prince, he knows this too. "Speak freely."

You answer immediately, "I am of low blood."

The Prince nods his head. This, he had expected. Among the many variables he had not, such as the foul odor of the room, something he was correct about pleases him. But, despite the burn in his nose, the rarity of being wrong and what's to come still excites him.

"I used to make polishing oil for my own armor, as well as my sword, and my own whetstone." You said, your hand gesturing to the small shelf above the head of the pallet. "But now the servants, and I suppose the King or Queen, supply me with those."

"Did you read about how to make one?" The Prince asked. It was as much a theory as a question.

"No." Is all you say. You can't just tell him you've never read a book in its entirety before, being read to not withstanding. "I have simply found walnuts work well, actually."

His eyebrows raise, "With trial and error?"

"Precisely." You smile.

He has tried, ever since the first day he had sat down to listen to you speak, to not let his judge of your character to fall into the stereotypes deeply ingrained in him.

That stereotype being that knights were nothing but brawn and battle prowess. They were not taught the word misslieness, for it was hardly necessary, but were taught the word hubris in order to not fall into it themselves. The same stereotype dictates that knights did not seek to expand their wisdom to tidbits of knowledge they did not require, much like nobles did not need to know what commoners did.

Trial and error for measly armor polish one could buy from the market on even a low blood knight's salary was certainly one of those tidbits of knowledge he thought you wouldn't care for.

He shakes the feeling off and listens to the rest of your words, choosing to focus on your explanations of how life was...and the finer smell of your plain armor polish, as opposed to the other odor he could smell.

The very same odor you either ignore or have grown used to. "The other boys snore," You smile fondly, "it is nothing like the sound of swords striking metal in aspects of harmony, but it is just as loud. The palace has been...respite, but hearing my old mate Rohan snoring is something I miss."

"And the bed?" He asks.

Respectful of the new tenant's space, you place your hand on the thin mattress and press down with minimal force. It creaks. "No."

He nods his head, a smile on his lips, despite the misery of smell. "Yes, I imagine a bed in the palace is a lot better."

Glee crinkles the corners of your eyes when you smile at him, "It is."

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Alhaitham is very happy to leave that dastardly room when you're done talking about how it used to be in there. You had talked so fondly about it: about how, even with the lack of space, you treated everyone in that room asa brother. The Prince had heard about it once before, from the less authoritarian, more cocky Knights of Favonius, that they were a brotherhood. He had hardly pictured it from the Sumeru knights who all behaved stiff as twigs around him.

The next stop is the troops' training grounds. On the way there, you explained some things to him. As a war general, you were also in charge of training your men. When your duty became to protect the Prince, the task was awarded to some of the lesser yet competent captains the other war generals often deferred to.

He's beginning to regret asking to follow your old routine, slightly, as one revolting place is replaced with another. He can hardly hear himself think when you step out into the field, beyond the sound of blades parrying other blades and men's shouts and groans.

As you maneuver through the crowd of sparring soldiers, they don't even realize that the Crown Prince is among their ranks.

They notice you first, the captains. "General!"

Their shouts of your name die out in the chaos blasting in his ears, but he stays his ground as he reaches the end of the worst of the men and watches as you continue forward to greet them.

You really are like brothers, bantering, fluffing up their hair and knocking on their speckled armor.

He knows war generals don't speak this way with their subordinates. He knows war generals don't even build bonds with them. He knows that, to them, it is all business: listen to me, plan this strategy with/for me, fight for me.

What is it that's–

"Your highness!" One captain shrieks, and suddenly swords clang and fall to the ground, either on their blunt side or tip first, digging up the Earth. Many men fall to their knees in an instant, more join them in the other.

There is a whole field of men kneeling to him, and Alhaitham turns up his nose with a snarl. "Stand." He says, his voice loud and stern. He cherished the silence leftover in the absence of metal, but he wishes even more for the attention to be off of him. "I thank you for your respect. Return to your duties."

The soldiers eventually stand, and after a reluctance quickly stepped over, they return to their training.

The three devoted generals remain on their knees as Alhaitham strides up to stand by your side, not in front.

"I said stand." Alhaitham repeats, his voice emotionless yet interpreted as angry by the generals.

The first that stands stiffens up like a thin tree in the wind, nervous. "Your highness," His head is bowed, "what do we–"

"Look at me when you speak, Captain."

The captain yelps. He yelps, unbecoming of a man of his stature, build, and rank. "Y-Yes." He says, his voice a pitch higher. When their eyes meet, he knows that the mere act of eye contact makes his pitch even higher when he speaks again, "To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence today, my prince?"

He dislikes the way he calls him his. "I only wish to observe. Carry on as usual. Do not work harder on my behalf."

Alhaitham begins to walk further towards the sidelines, somewhere he can spectate without obstacle as well as listen to his mind.

However, when you call out to him, he stops the both of you. "My prince–"

He does not stop you because you call him yours, but because he wishes for the company of his own solitude and a view of the soldiers as seen by a bystander. "Command them as you would have."

"Yes, your highness." You nod your head dutifully and turn back to your former men.

After the quick talk of "yes, I'm back" and ordering them to train their stances, standing in line and slicing the air almost mechanically, you're back to talking with your captains.

The slicing of the air is a lot more quiet than the clanging of swords, an acceptable replacement he will thank you for later, so now he can actually hear himself think; and also accidentally eavesdrop. The way he does not try to shift his focus away from your conversation waves off the "accidental" notion.

You don't notice him anyway; you are much more preoccupied with catching up with your captains. They are busier now, without a war general to guide them, and you have not seen them since you were appointed the Prince's protector.

"How is the life?" One captain asks you, a bright glint to his worn smile.

Boring, is what he expects you to say. "It's interesting."

"Just interesting?" Another gawks, jaw slack, and Alhaitham can't help but mirror the question in his head. "Tell us all about it! It cannot just be interesting."

"It is gilded, and gaudy. Do you recall General Ipsit's golden armor? It is like that, an unnecessary show of wealth; but all the luxury is actually welcome. The floors are carpeted when wood is just fine, and even the tiles have a design. I can see my reflection on them."

All three of them laugh, as if such an idea is absurd. The third captain, which seems to be quite young yet clearly strong, asks the next question, "Well, how's the food?"

"Like heaven." You chuckle, "The puddings are as fluffy as clouds and the breads crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside. The meats are spiced; dried or smoked or grilled, all so divine it is like eating wealth."

He's never heard you speak in such a way.

"How about your quarters?"

You sigh, eyes closed as though collapsed over your mattress that very instant. "The head of the bed is colored with gold, and the sheets are even lilac." A diluted purple, but the color of royalty and wealth nonetheless. "The mattress is soft, and it molds to my very body."

And by this way, it was with descriptors for such worthless things. When you speak to him, you are always objective. This marble reminds me of magma, this green is very bright, its whistle is not as sharp. This is all in benefit, of course, to him, and it is always the way servants speak to their masters.

"Man. How come you get this treatment?" The youngest captain speaks up again, clearly jealous.

"Oh, dear Nayak," You laugh. It sounds so lively. "you are not the one who slayed a dragon."

And he has never heard you speak so jokingly before.

Perhaps he is not deserving of this, he thinks as you continue to joke with your fellows. He does not deserve to have your humor nor your emotion, only your solemnity. In fact, it is not that he does not deserve it, but that it is the only way you should address him—the only way a knight should address his prince, with objectivity. It is an irrational...fear? Thought–just a thought, nothing more–and it should not be occupying his mind, much the same way that you are treating him as you should.

And yet...there is a yearning. No one has talked to him like this, not his peers at the Akademiya, not the scholars, not his servants, not the knights, not his lesser brothers.

That is why he wishes for this...inessential way of speech. Because it is new.

That is what he's been prodding for these days, he realizes. Not just your friendship, but the unceremonious exchanges as well. He doesn't want you to report to him, he wants you to speak to him.

Nobody's ever spoken to him. There is his father scolding, his mother doting, the servants reporting, scholars exchanging, guards courteously greeting, peasants showing their respect, and you answering his questions.

How does one fix this?

Fix? What is he thinking? This is exactly the way you should be speaking to him. But, oh, he wishes for casualty. Yes, that's it. Companionship, from the man who saved his life, it is only natural.

Now, how to do it?

☾⋆☆⋆☽

When the both of you are back at Alhaitham's personal library, where he spends his time of leisure, the Prince thinks he should collapse into a heap and hide himself. He had thought about the dilemma, and with increasing effort came increasing thoughts—overthinking. He takes you out for an outing, no, you'd be too guilty and grateful to be honest, same thing if he gave you a gift. Having friends, no, making a friend is hard.

And then the blistering heat of the midday sun ruptured his thoughts, and the clanging of swords took over his senses, and then the heat came to rupture that too.

He does collapse in a heap on the couch, albeit more gracefully than in the hypothetical scenario.

Perhaps still affected by the joy of nostalgia and seeing your old brotherhood again, you spark a conversation yourself, despite him not declaring open discussion. "What did you think?"

Alhaitham is glad he didn't have to declare it. "It was horrible." He admits, wiping his sweaty, warm forehead with his damp handkerchief. He grimaces.

You laugh; it sounds nice, better than swords, at least, "I too would think it a horrible place if I had an upbringing such as yours."

You mean it as sympathy, but it only makes the Prince feel privileged and lucky. "Yes...quite."

You sense it yourself, a moment later, of course you do. You're way better at intimately social matters and empathy than he is.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way." You bow your head, already back to the Knight Protector of the Crown Prince.

"It's quite alright." He places his hand over yours, the joints of the iron glove dig slightly into his skin, but he doesn't care for it.

You turn your hand, letting his hand rest over your smoother palm. It feels like turning a new leaf, physically.

"So, it was horrible," you look down, and he tracks your gaze down to your hands, "and..what else was it?"

He wracks his head, thinks about it. Normally he doesn't have to think for such a thing, but he is considering something else now: your feelings. "...admirable."

You burst out laughing at his timidness, and if it were anyone else, he would be offended.

Alhaitham scrambles for something to say, "I mean it!" His face is red, he's sure, "I can't believe you can live under such conditions–without something as necessary as privacy–and fight for our lands and protect our people."

"The knighthood takes recruits before they even reach the cusp of manhood, my prince." You explain to him, and he is grateful for it, "We grow used to it."

"It is not a good thing to grow accustomed to." He says, his voice quiet, small. He is not the Crown Prince here, he is just Haitham.

You speak up again, to ease his worries, "We bear it for the people, as you do, and will." He is so grateful for you.

He grasps your fingers with his own, and has half the mind to intertwine them. He does not. "Thank you, (y/n)."

"There is nothing to thank me for."

There is a lot to thank you for. He doesn't mention it, because you would only shut him down. So he sings your praises, instead, in his mind; and he speaks his wishes there too.

His mind has never been quiet, but for a moment, there is only you.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

ɴᴏᴛᴇ: im sorry folks i am a terribly busy man

#alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x male reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x male reader #🎟 // genshin impact #🎫 // alhaitham #🌸 // success!

148 notes · View notes