#old sailor prayers

[babylon-crashing]

roiling

In the old sailor prayers their songs go ----

“9 waves, 9 tides, 9 times the sea has come.”

I've known only 3 ocean storms. I know,

I'm told, the gods of the sea are gruesome.

Even now, with the rain falling in sheets,

something vast and deep, full of roiling clouds

with long, tangled strands that lurches and beats

on the deck, howling through the stays and shrouds,

halyards and braces, hungers. I hunger,

too. 3 times this hunger has come. With you,

like the old sea prayers, I would make it 9.

I am full of lascivious anger ----

but you knew that when you kissed me. You knew

this storm would be both grotesque and divine.

[akiymgc]

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: enemies to lovers, past bullying, reformed bully x victim

♡ fem reader

“No way.” You shake your head—face warped in something akin to disgust. Judging him for even asking, glaring in disbelief at him and what dangles from the clothing hanger in his hand. He couldn't be serious.

“Come on, please, for me?” he pleads, downright pleads. But there’s no way.

“No.” You say more firmly, planting both hands on your tilted hips. “I don’t get what you’re thinking, but it’s not exactly a time in our lives I want to relive.”

He pouts and sags a little where he stands, clasping his hands together in prayer, making the ill-taste outfit swing. “Oh, come on, it won’t be the same as then,” he promises with zero believability backing him. He even dares smile as he spouts the bullshit in his next words, “It’ll be like therapy. Let’s reframe your trauma together.”

You scoff. He’s unbelievable. “You’re stupid.”

He feigns feeling insulted. “I’m serious!”

“You always said I looked like trash in that—no way I’m not putting it on,” you dismiss.

But then he gets down on his knees. Hands still together as if in worship. Looking up at you with puppy dog eyes. “I was lying through my teeth back then—you know that! I’ll be honest this time around. Tell you exactly how often I had to change my pants because of you—”

“Ew, stop.” You can’t believe the spectacle he’s creating—such a drama queen—and all for getting you to put on a make-shift copy of your old high-school uniform.

“Come one, pretty, pretty, pretty please?” He shuffles forward on his knees until he’s right by your feet—bottom lip jutting out in his pout. “The prettiest please?”

You look down at him—you mouth a prim pursed line, gritting your teeth to try and steal yourself. Grimacing at the outfit sprawled on his lap. There’s no way. Absolutely no way.

“Pretty please?” he continues, making you roll your eyes with a sigh.

“Fine,” you bite out but quickly add, “But you have to wear one, too.”

You think you’re being smart. But he only grins—a wicked little twinkle in his eye.

“Way ahead of you.”

From behind the outfit meant for you, he pulls forth a black gakuran to match.

Okay, so you hadn’t really thought he would have bought one for himself—you realize now the mistake in your speculation. Of course, he’d bought one for himself. But hold on… You raise your brow, folding your arms atop your chest. “And where’s the pants?”

“They didn’t have my size, but my sweats are already a good lookalike,” he explains away. “This doesn’t really fit either, but it won’t stay on for long, so’ doesn’t matter.”

He gets up and hastily pulls his shirt off of his head, then, with just as much enthusiasm, pulls the black school jacket on. And he’s right—his black sweatpants could pass for the old Tobi trousers he used to wear. All in all, it’s a sight for sore eyes. Looking at him feels just short of seeing his old high-school self.

“Come on. You said.” He holds out the rendition of your old uniform. “Get dressed.”

You regret conceding. But it’s too late to go back on your word now. Rolling your eyes, you receive the hanger with a sigh, “Oh, fine. Just this once, you freak.”

You get dressed without making much of a show. Leaving your current comfy outfit in an unceremonious pile, you pull the tacky articles on hastily. Black pleated skirt and sailor blouse with a little red bow sash—there’s even a pair of knee-high socks to go with it. As a grown-up, it’s utterly humiliating having to wear it now.

But he doesn’t seem to share your discomfort. Only groaning, “Damn. There she is—my prettiest little junior~”

You ball your skirt in your fists. Glancing up at him only to look down again, fixing your gaze to the floor. Heat in your face. Mumbling, “This is weird—you look dumb.”

“Oh yeah?” his voice curls with newfound enjoyment. “Well, you don’t look a day older.”

He comes closer, and oh god—you don’t know why you’re so nervous. But fuck—you feel like your back in time—back in time when you were a sorry loser getting picked on, and he was… he was a—

“Perv,” you manage to say. Though, that’s not really the word you’d been thinking.

He chuckles, so close now that he also starts to play with the hem of your skirt. “That’s for damn sure.” Agreeing, he hums, “Only for you though. So’s fine.”

He bends down and finds your neck with his tongue and teeth—his hand traveling up under your skirt without further ado.

“Hey,” you protest, wringing his ill-fitting jacket in both fists, hauling him off. And even though it makes him look back at you like a kicked puppy, you don’t let it get to you as you scold him, “Thought we were reframing my trauma. At this rate, you’re just itching to make me relive it.”

He tries giving you one of his innocent smiles. “Oh?” His arms curl around your waist, pulling you close—chest to chest—simpering while leering down at you, voice in a purr, “It won’t be any fun if I can’t bully you a little bit like I used to.”

He tries leaning down to catch your lips, but you push him away. Breaking free, then scoffing, “Tch, if that’s how you’re gonna play this, then have fun beating off on your own.”

“But—” He starts, but you’re already on your way to leave the room. Hooking two fingers into the band of your skirt, he stops you and spins you back, now all mopey and sorry, “I’m sorry, don’t go, princess—how about we one-eighty it, and I tell you all the reasons I love you? Will that make you humor me?”

He’s back to pleading.

And you can’t help the small smile it gives you. Muttering, “Maybe.”

He smiles giddily, too, “I love how pouty you can be sometimes.”

Your brows furrow, “Hey!” That’s not a compliment.

But he only laughs and continues, “And I love your snippy little tsundere attitude.”

“Those are both insults, you tit—” you argue, but he doesn’t care, hugging you close, lifting you off your feet before falling with you down on the bed. Hanging over you, he admires every inch of your perfect body tucked into that cute little uniform he used to make fun of because he was scared of how silly you made him feel.

“I love how you tell me off.”

Deciding to face his fears was the best decision he’d ever made.

“I love how you look at me.”

It’s crazy to think you’re here with him still, after all these years.

“I love how you put up with me, how you make all my wishes come true—how, even though I don’t deserve you, you stay with me anyway—how you’re mine even though I’m a scumbag.”

You’re eyes soften under his speech. For all his tactlessness, he can also be really quite sweet. You raise both hands, reaching out to cup his face—beholding the softness in his eyes—that way he looks at you. It makes your chest stir.

“You’re not that bad,” you confess, pulling him down to tease his lips with yours.

Kissing you once, he accredits you, “That’s ‘cause you make me a better man.”

You smile and kiss him again, then resume your teasing, “Don't get ahead of yourself. You’re still a boy.”

He lifts and raises a brow down at you in retaliation, “Is that so?” And oh no, you recognize that look.

“Well, this boy is feeling hormonal and horny and just raring to go—” he overplays. Gasping, “And what do you know? How lucky!” He lowers himself again, then starts peppering kisses all over your face in between words, “I’ve got this perfect little high-school sweetheart lying here all up for the taking—”

♡ BNHA – Hawks, Dabi, Bakugou, ♡ JJK – Gojo, really silly in-love Sukuna ♡ HQ – Kuro, Atsumu ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Sanemi ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Aufhocker

An Aufhocker (top sitter), also called Huckup, is a pressure spirit and shapeshifter in German folklore. It is a kind of goblin, who jumps onto the shoulders or backs of hikers who are still out at night, becoming heavier with each step.

The hiker is paralyzed, suffers from feelings of oppression and anxiety and is unable to turn around. The Aufhocker remains sitting on the hiker until he is released by the approaching light, a prayer or the ringing of a bell.

The nightmarish experience often takes place in three phases. The hiker is first approached or accompanied by a sinister being, then the demonic companion grows to supernatural size and finally jumps onto the back of the victim. The Hackestüpp from Düren is one such Aufhocker, who initially accompanies the victims as a playful little dog, then jumps onto their backs, cannot be shaken off and becomes heavier with each step.

Typical haunted places such as streams, bridges, lakes, forests, ditches, crossroads, ravines, churchyards and sites where murders or executions happened are the usual places for an encounter with an Aufhocker, which can result in physical and mental illness and sometimes even death for the hiker. The Bahkauv ("stream calf") of Aachen is an Aufhocker who is said to frighten drunken men at night and ask them to carry him on their shoulders.

Sometimes an Aufhocker first appears as pitiful old women; but they can also take on animal forms such as a bear, a calf (as in the Bahkauv), a werewolf (as in the Stüpp of the Western Rhineland) or a dog (as in the Sürthgens Mossel of the Hürtgenwald forest). Elemental beings such as mermen or will-o'-the-wisps also act as Aufhockers. What is important is not the shape of the Aufhocker, but the oppressiveness of the situation. Aufhockers are not limited to German folklore. An Aufhocker in the shape of an old man is also mentioned in the oriental fairy tale collection One Thousand and One Nights, in which he meets "Sinbad the Sailor" on a deserted island.

The figure of the Aufhocker has its origins in the fear of the revenant, the undead. The oldest reports of Aufhockers clearly speak of "haunting corpses" and not of goblins or ghosts. Unlike Nachzehrers, who did not have to leave their grave if they wanted to harm the living, other undead, like vampires, rose from the grave and stole people's vital force. This could happen in a tangible way by sucking out blood, but also in a more abstract form. As recent research has shown, this also applies to vampires, who are said in the oldest reports to have a damaging effect through "strangling" and "emaciating", but not through bloodsucking. In the western Rhineland, the Aufhocker merges with the werewolf to form the Stüpp, a dangerous monster that unexpectedly jumps on people's shoulders and forces the victims to carry him around, causing trepidations, anxiety, feelings of oppression and panic attacks until they die of exhaustion.

[hewantshisbrideback]

ARYA STARK AND THE GODS ❦ BOURNE FOR THE GOD OF DEATH

Thirty different gods stood along the walls, surrounded by their little lights. The Weeping Woman was the favorite of old women, Arya saw; rich men preferred the Lion of Night, poor men the Hooded Wayfarer. Soldiers lit candles to Bakkalon, the Pale Child, sailors to the Moon-Pale Maiden and the Merling King. The Stranger had his shrine as well, though hardly anyone ever came to him. Most of the time only a single candle stood flickering at his feet. The kindly man said it did not matter. "He has many faces, and many ears to hear."

The Many-Faced God, also known as Him of Many Faces, is a deity worshipped by the Faceless Men, a guild of assassins established in the Free City of Braavos. The tale of the guild's beginnings centers around a figure of unknown origins, the first Faceless Man, who heard the prayers of the slaves to their various gods of death and came to conclude they all prayed to the same god "with a hundred different faces", the Many-Faced God, and that he was "that god's instrument".

This belief came to be reflected in the Guild's temple, which has a large public sanctuary that contains idols of thirty death gods. The religious order refills its pool of black water with a poison, so that drinking from it leads to a painless death. Visiting worshippers light candles to their god, then drink from the fountain using a stone cup, then go lie in one of the alcoves. Others take advantage of special alcoves, called "dreaming couches", which have special candles that bring visions of the past, for a sweet and gentle death.

Followers of Him of Many Faces consider death to be part of the natural order of things and a merciful end to suffering. The guild will agree to kill anyone in the known world, for a price, considering this contract to be a sacrament of their god. The price is always high or dear, but within means of the person if they are willing to make the sacrifice. The cost of their services also depends on the prominence and security of the target.

The High Valyrian words associated with the cult and its assassins are valar morghulis, or "all men must die", and its traditional response, valar dohaeris, or "all men must serve". This philosophy runs deep. Members are made to forsake their identities for the service of the Many-Faced God, and may only assassinate targets they have been hired to kill. They are not allowed to choose who is worthy of the "gift" by themselves.

[immediatebreakfast]

There are no wolves in England.

Modernity, and its need for land killed their home, and in consequence killed them too.

The people of Transylvania live with their legends at their front door, covering their necks with rosaries, and prayers. Closing windows, and hanging flowers. Less another life gets taken by that Evil Being whose eyes now point beyond their borders. A young english man was the last victim, who knows if his visage now walks in those forests, waiting for an unsuspecting traveler like he was.

There was something Inhuman aboard on the Demeter. It killed the crew, and pushed the captain to the edge of humanity, yet he held his head high, and made himself deserving of honor among the sailors of Whitby in death. All proud of the captain who completed his duty to the end.

"It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that this had developed persistently throughout the voyage."

A huge, unknown dog jumps from the tragedy of the Demeter, and hides in the shadows. Because it couldn't be anything else than a dog, there are no wild canines in England.

The log of the captain doesn't mention a dog. However, it is weirdly filled with superstitions.

Something, a horrible unknown beast is killing the poor dogs. We must do something! What if it gets the poor dog that left the Demeter in such a hurry, it might get hurt!

Even the oldest people in Whitby laugh at their legends. Only constructed to bring in tourists who are curious about them.

They could be true! Says an old sailor, but we don't need those anymore. There is no need to put rosaries on our necks, nor lock our doors.

After all there are no wolves in England.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Types of hotd men as yandere

characters : Viserys, Corlys, Otto and Larys

warnings : obsession, implied murder, gaslighting, abuse of power, incarceration,

Info : Oh man the dilfs where one is none well what can i say lords of a house come and save me…even larys our snake like clubfoot

masterlist

video gif by me

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

Viserys (compelling) : The King of the Kingdoms Viserys was a man who enjoyed throwing parties, organizing tournaments and making peace.

He was happiest when his family and people were well…and his beloved wife. Aemma Arryn, his first wife, who had once been the only one in his life to make him happy with Rhaenyra, was now over.

His little Rhaenyra soon grown up with Lady Alicent in the gardens for hours he had to realize that it was time to marry again. He was the king every party tried to turn his daughters to him but the king had his violet eyes on a lady for a long time. A lady-in-waiting to his former wife, a flower at court who held back until the dragon approached her.

Viserys beneath all the friendly smiles, the jokes and his fascination with his true home of Valyria was one thing above all…a man with power and a man with power was everything in his world.

He was the blood of the dragon, the head of the family and even without a dragon, as king he had the influence he needed. She was his and with his peaceful smile he had married her that long spring in King's Landing.

Had flattered her with gentleness, vulnerability and gifts…even though she never had a choice. Had publicly executed any voices that dared to call his wife a "mistake" and the age of peace wavered, his allies became uncertain and his small council had more to discuss. But despite everything, he didn't care, for the first time he became his half-grandfather Maelor Targaryen.

He took a new dragon Vermithor and for his wife the dragoness Dreamfyre, ,,I know it may seem intimidating darling but now you belong to me she will accept you" he encouraged her as he stood behind her his one hand placed on her side never gently always with a certain pressure, a pressure that let her know he would not let her go. His other hand placed on hers gently and warmly as he instructed her to touch Dreamfyre's snout.

They would fly through the air together like Jahaerys and Alysanne they would fulfill the dragon dreams and she would not die with a dragon by both their sides she would have a son and he would keep his wife in the flesh….er would not make the same mistake again. Her prayers for him to come to the realization that she was not a Targaryen were ignored with a kiss, a warning look or a raise of his voice.

,,Forgive me, darling, but you see once you're sitting up it's not so bad, is it?" he asked as she sat on Dreamfyre, completely stiff and afraid, giving him a forced smile that satisfied him. ,,No-no it's…wonderful so beautiful" she replied and held on tightly to the harness of the dragoness who seemed confused and didn't know why a non-dragonblood was sitting on her.

But all this seemed to be just the beginning of the forced dragon excursions, during which she hid her deadly fear under smiles and gratitude. The parties and games all for her to make her happy. She was not Aemma, no, she was something he could make her into. His perfect Targaryen wife who would fulfill his dragon dreams and he would do anything to keep her happy with fire and blood.

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

Corlys (Taking) : The Sea Serpent a legendary merchant, sailor with the blood of ancient Valyria and two dragons in his family. A man who honored the wealth and influence of the Hightower family and one of the lords and men of the small council.

He was one of the king's most important and powerful allies and had blood that once belonged on the throne. But above all, he is also a legendary sailor and the old tradition of sailors is not only dedicated to the sea but also to the women he met on the voyage, who he kept in inns or simply took.

Adventure and exotic animals were the sailor's domain, but one day they had been at sea for two years. The sea serpent longed for a woman, his crew longed for the warm embrace of a woman and perhaps it was in a moment of alcohol or frustration that they headed for the next best island and pulled off a heist, a heist in which he got himself a mermaid.

Her voice softly pouring him a beer minutes before, now yelling at him to let her go as he grabbed her and took her onto his ship. The captain had finally found the pearl on his journey and he would use this beauty for more than just the night. ,,Let me go back to my home!" she protested, trying to get the door of his cabin open, his sweetie had not yet realized that the ship had been at sea again for hours.

A smile escaped him as he approached her and saw her practically throw herself against the door before the wood gave way and she fell to the deck in front of his crew. ,,Mermaid, I told you this was your home now," he reminded her as he pulled her up by the arm so she could see the sea, the wood of the ship and his crew.

From then on, she was initially his, locked up like a fish in a box in his cabin, serving him. But after a few days he let her on deck and gave her small tasks to do, keeping her at work so that she didn't have to think about home.

At night he made her happy by taking her at his own pleasure, making it clear to the crew that she was his. He tried to teach her his passion for sailing on smaller ships and took her ashore with him, even if she ran in next to him. ,,Pearls and shells for a beautiful woman of the water" he praised her and bought her a glittering necklace of the ocean which he put on her.

His hand gripped her chin firmly and demanded a kiss in thanks…in the end she would do what he wanted her to do, he was in charge of her.

At the end of the journey he saw how nervous and energized she became his pretty mermaid probably thought he would take her home. ,,You are now a woman of the water and a woman of the household Velaryon my love" he shattered her hopes as he saw tears running down her cheeks salty as the sea which he brushed away and pulled her to him his fingers playing with the necklace.

The necklace with pearls and shells a sign that she was his, his concubine as soon as they returned to Driftmark. He would deal with Rhaenys and his children had to accept it, but a sea serpent would find a way to wrap itself around his favorite.

To sneak up to her at night and make her feel like she had never left his boat. ,,I have taken you and you are mine…never forget that" he had said to her that night and gently stroked her cheek, the same thing he now did every night knowing that she could do nothing but nod, agree with him and hide behind her "savior" when the wrath of the water dragons and the princess came crashing down on her. Because he always had a hand on her…a protective hand for his property.

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

Otto (paranoid) : Otto Hightower a man of pride, influence and an old rich house of trade with the great rock tower at Oldtwon. The brother of the head of the house the hand of King Viserys and with his children Alicent and Gwayne with whom he pursued his own plans that would come to pass in time.

But since the death of Jaehaerys, the leech had attached itself to the new King Viserys, influencing him, drilling him and replacing his own tokens with the green of the Hightower. The green of the House of Hightower took over more and more slowly but surely…until the day he lost his beloved wife.

His lady wife dead, he had loved her, enjoyed her love, had children…but despite her death after his grief and after seeing that damned grin from the rugged Prince Daemon, the leech felt the Targaryen's poisoned blood for the first time.

Leading his daughter to Viserys, taking his own son to the city to keep an eye on Dameon while the lord himself resorted to a game that would bring him both influence and a woman he had seen long before.

Since trading with the Baratheons his grandchildren were related to the Baratheons, Ser Otto had taken himself a wife of the house. The blue eyes and the black hair the blood of the stag flowed through her and since his marriage he felt something.

What was at first a mere plaything that could be moved now became something he was afraid to lose. I will vow to the gods to protect you my lady," he had told her as he had draped the cloak around her, his hand on hers and kissed her.

She was pretty was the prettiest of the house prettier than the princesses, prettier than the queens she was prettier even than his first wife…she was his and he would not let him lose her in the upcoming fight for the throne for which the foundations had already been laid with the birth and the years after Aegon's birth his first grandson.

With that came the first dispute and another and another and at the latest when Daemon returned from the Stepstones and his violet dragon eyes settled on the new wife of the Hand, Otto felt his hand on hers.

Jealousy was more poisonous than any poison he had ever used. It was jealousy that kept him awake at night when he lay next to his beloved doe, his fingers gently playing with strands of her hair, the color green adorning her clothing.

Before the king and the law, she was his, "But what if she isn't? What if something happens?" he asked the questions and watched as she continued to grind fiddly while he lost himself more and more in the spiral in which she was seduced by the Targaryen prince night after night.

Dameon was the greatest enemy to himself and his family and the prince was known to stop at nothing. Especially not when the war was brewing and Otto saw what this conflict was capable of when not only Harrenhal burned but Daemon killed Vaemond in front of everyone and Otto stood in defense of his wife.

,,It's done enough dear this is for love and your safety…I will not lose what is mine" he said as he practically fled with her to Oldtown she was taken to the tower and even though the rooms were large and the tower encouraged exploration it was her insecurity that clung to the stone as Otto became more paranoid and insecure.

Doubling the guards was just a way of keeping her safe, every meal had to be tasted and he was the only one with the golden key to her room. He graced her with his presence as often as he could, but in his dark eyes, once soaked with love, there was nothing but obsession and paranoia.

His hands held hers painfully as she looked up at him on the bed and he made sure that no one was here, that there was no flame burning that he hadn't lit himself. ,,You are safe here with me in this tower and no dragon or prince will change that I will not allow you to be taken from me by him" he murmured but his gaze seemed to pass through her as he turned with hatred towards the first prince of the realm.

His beloved wife was his and no one would come near her in his paranoid existence no one would harm her as long as his beloved just stayed here even if the dragon fire broke over them she was his and he would rather raise the sword against himself and her than let Dameon even near her for was this not the duty of a man to his beloved wife?

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

Larys (controlling) : House Strong whose then head held the hand of the king for a time, the firstborn son a legendary knight and a member of the Golden Capes with the zwietegbornene son in the shadow Larys Strong or Clubfoot as he was called by his enemies and any others who hoped to hurt him, a nickname he was long accustomed to in his role as advisor to the queen and someone who had his insects everywhere to see and hear.

But most of all, he was slowly getting what he wanted…the deaths of some for his own advancement, the advancement of his own house, and the king of whom he knew that with his connections he could get even more of what he wanted.

The death of his brother and father in the tragic fire made Larys Strong the Lord Strong of his house and the castle the only man with the crest and the one who could now assert that right undisturbed. And so it was that he continued to stay in hiding at the side of the Queen of the Witches, assisting her with the little nasty things and killing his insects off the corpses.

While for all the others he remained the ignorant one with the clubfoot while he realized that the party of the blacks wanted his head soon but for that they had to get it first which is why the lord stayed around the castle…until he found her in his vaults as Lord Confessor and Master of the Whisperers. He found a pretty butterfly in his cells between his cages.

,,A sight I don't often see, what beauty has strayed here, deceiver?" he asked as he stood in front of the cell, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. He knew he was a lady-in-waiting of Rhaenyra who had helped her "queen" to escape and was captured. So why shouldn't a cripple put something beautiful at his side?

Why shouldn't he also show what a lord had the power to do? Because he had her life in his hands and she had no choice when he came into the cell, his torturers beside him ready to use the hot iron rods on her.

It didn't take much more than two fingers for her to land the golden brooch of her queen's dragon next to her severed body parts and she swore herself to him. ,,You will see I am not a man of cruelty my butterfly…I can be gentle but you know that" he murmured to her as she came into his chambers with bandages wrapped around her two stumps but he had already provided replacements.

She was his, his to dominate and control was something he had always had in one way or another and he would not give that up. By putting on the golden finger prostheses with the symbol of butterflies and insects, it was just a small sign that she was his. The clothes that were once black with dragon symbols turned green and matched his color.

He raised his hand from the walking stick to use it to play with a strand of her hair. ,,Nothing is more beautiful than seeing you," she greeted him when they met, whether at lunch, in the morning or in the garden. He saw her tense up, her wince when he ran his hand over her golden prostheses and kissed her.

But it didn't matter, he didn't have the blood of hundreds on him to stop using her. Nothing happened without his command, his look or his word.

The pretty butterfly lady always walked beside him and a meaningless smile graced her lips, her eyes mostly focused on the colorful flowers, especially the black and red colors that signified Rhaenyra's former existence. But apart from that she was his and Larys put this on show with clothes, gestures and alliances…but there was one thing above all that he would not miss.

One look was enough and his pretty butterfly gave him a kiss and for him it was pure love, love that he had never experienced and it felt like he could laugh at all those who had laughed at him so far.

He had the title of Lord, he had lands and he had his wife who was his in every sense of the word and he would kill anyone in the shadows who would take his darling from his control.

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

[crazylittlejester]

“OH GOD ANOTHER ONE” everyone screams as I cackle and post a second fic on ao3 in a 12 hour period. “HE’S GOING TO VANISH OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH AGAIN AFTER THIS ISN’T HE!!” one person cries. And to that my friends I say I have no clue, but anyways here’s this:

Summary: Time’s fine. Really, he is. Because he has no other choice. With everything all the younger heroes around him are going through, one of them has to be okay enough to support the others, and it’s going to be him.

It was strange how isolated one could feel while constantly surrounded by so many others. Strange, the way Time felt so trapped, stuck beneath the icy surface of a churning river that simply wasn’t… real. He wished it were. The river would be easier to fight against. This feeling of drowning in his own mind, of being dragged down further and further, was suffocating.

He had to be strong for the others. He had to care for them, for these young heroes who needed someone to look up to, he didn’t have time to let his thoughts consume him.

Wind had once told Time, while half asleep and extremely sick, that being around him must be what it felt like to have a father. Those words had struck him like a knife to the chest. His heart had ached for the poor boy, delirious in his arms, who so innocently thought that a mess such as himself would be worthy of such a title.

“Dad,” he’d actually called him, when he was far past the point of being able to actually recognize the people around him. And Time hadn’t the heart to correct the little sailor, despite the nausea he felt crawling up his throat, choking him at the sound of the simple, simple word.

He wasn’t ‘Dad’, he couldn’t be.

‘Dad’ was Warriors when he’d kissed Time’s broken elbow to ‘make it better’ and sang him to sleep when he was ten years old and there had been no healing potions left because supplies shipments were slow during times of war. ‘Dad’ was Warriors still when he’d picked up Time’s slack and cared for everyone the night Time hadn’t been able to get off his knees on the hard floor beside Twilight’s bed, hunched over in prayer, begging every single goddess he could remember the name of that his descendant would just make it through the night. ‘Dad’ was Warriors when he’d made sure all the boys were fed that night and comforted them sweetly, doing his best to ease their worries when Time had done nothing but shut himself away and make it all worse.

He’d failed to protect Twilight. After he’d promised his wife he’d look out for the boy, too.

No, Time was no father. He wasn’t worthy of that title. A father was supposed to take care of and protect his children. Maybe he didn’t even deserve to be their leader, with how often he failed the boys. He got too deep into his own head and he was harsh with them, Twilight called him out on it more than once, Warriors too. He wasn’t the smartest of the bunch, not by a long shot, he wasn’t fit to lead, and while he knew Warriors would never accept an offer to take his place, he was sure Sky or Legend would be equally as capable as the captain of leading them all if it came down to it.

[read the rest on ao3]

[ascendingaeons]

Set As a Champion of Mental Wellness

One of Set’s most prominent domains is that of a Storm God. Ancient Egypt was the most far-reaching civilization known to history, to the point that less time has passed between the life of Cleopatra and the present day than the construction of the Great Pyramid. Ancient Egyptians had archaeologists and engineers to study and repair structures that were already millennia old. For much of its history, life along the Nile was homeostatic and predictable, so much so that Set came to embody all that was disorderly and unexpected.

Think about the scene in the Book of Coming Forth by Day where Set plunges His spear into the throat of Apep. Set is fighting for Ra when He is incapable of defending Himself. During a time of mental crisis, we are not unlike the linen-bound Sokar, our greatest nature suppressed during the nadir of drastic, catalytic transformation. And Who is there for us in our darkest hour but the very Eye of the Storm?

I recently drew a connection between storms and the release of stress hormones during traumatic moments. When we are in a dangerous or intense situation our adrenal glands release a chemical called cortisol which is essentially the “fight-or-flight” hormone. The release of cortisol is meant to ensure our survival until such time that the danger we’re facing passes, much like the role performed by Set on the Solar Barque.

Here’s the funny thing about that: danger always passes and, in that moment, a new kind of self-care is required. There comes a time when our bodies no longer need those stress hormones. Even though they once helped us survive during hardship they inevitably become armor that is otherwise detrimental and must be set aside. Consider that maybe the parts of you that are making life so hard are the remnants of those survival habits and that, even now, they are doing everything they can to keep you safe. They have no awareness that they’re making things worse. The key to healing, then, is loving the parts of you that are trying to kill you.

Set is a many-faced Netjer. The aspect of His nature I’m proposing is but one of many both within and beyond us. Set is simultaneously the tempest, the ship, and the very heart of the sailor. Were He much less than that He would not have been worshiped since before the dawn of the written word. That’s the funny thing about the perception of value: it is most prone to change depending on where we’re standing.

Mental illness is a multifaceted battle fought every single day. Some days offer ceasefires. On others, a violent storm can bring a reprieve. Many days can simply blend into one long continuum. Imagine this as a mountain, if you will, or the long hours of night mentioned in Ancient Egyptian papyri. Regardless of the imagery you choose, the implication remains the same.

This too shall pass.

I write this as I struggle with my own hours of night, from a place where it is easy to feel my prayers go unheard. Set is a bastion of the greatest form of strength – that which is self-begotten. Set is the one Netjer I do not have to pray to during hardship or crisis for one very simple reason: He is already and always there. It doesn’t matter whether you believe in the existence of Set or the Netjeru. What I offer you to take away from this is that no matter who you are or where you find yourself, you possess exactly what you require to take just one more step. That is what recovery and healing are, essentially, just taking one step at a time.

I offer you this lesson much as I offer my experience of it to Set. May it serve you well, my friends.

Dua Set!

Image is credited to Joan Lansberry.

[seaglassandeelgrass]

Songs of nautical complaint and dissatisfaction.

Cover is cropped from the lithograph 'Le Grand Serpent de Mer' as held by the PEM.

Off To Sea Once More- Lou Killen

The Grey Funnel Line- Maddy Prior & June Tabor

All Bound to Go- The Foc'sle Singers

The Topman and the Afterguard- Blowzabella

Big Bow Wow- The Darndanelles

Marching Inland- McGinty

Pump Shanty- The Crimson Pirates

The Worst Old Ship- Jesse Ferguson

Auckland to the Bluff- The Maritime Crew

Wings of a Gull- The Starboard List

Desolation- Ewan MacColl, Peggy Seeger, & A.L. Lloyd

South Georgia Whaling Song- Ina Miller

The Sailor's Prayer- Seamus Kennedy

13 tracks; 41 mins. [Spotify]

[my other playlists]

[batfambrainrotbeloved]

My take on Batfam, but Pirates- Dick's Origin

Hayleys were a group known among almost every coast, made of people still stuck in the "old ways" back when countries had no power over land of people who did not permenatly reside.

They were nomads, people who lived and breathed by the ocean and whose vessels called "barbaic" to some were some of the most skilled sailors to ever traverse the waters.

The "Flying" Graysons were the artists even among the most skilled, known for their expertise and ability to swing from ropes and rafters as if they were soaring through the sky.

But life as nomads in a modern time was far from easy. No longer were the lands free as the seas, and it seemed even the seas themselves were being claimed.

Zucco owned the docks by several major port cities, of course "own" meaning he had no papers- but if you did not pay his toll it was likely there would be grave consequences.

Tired of being extorted during one of their latest trading adventures they docked and did not pay. And they paid the price far more than gold.

The Graysons were targetted, caught on their own side vessel and shown no mercy. Even at the face of Dick, their little Kea, he was picked up by Zucco himself and thrown overboard for the seas to claim.

Despite his entire life off shore, the currents still proved too much for the boy and his strength was sapped away as he watched the dimming light of the monsters lanterns fade away as he drifted further and further from shore.

Dick gave a soft prayer to the sea, begging for her waters to calm and spare him. The waters did not calm, but Dick still believes she heard his prayer. Right as he was struggling his last breath, he saw a ship come into view, black sails, but his mind too foggy to recognize.

He slipped under the currents.

Only to come too Safe and warm inside the lower deck of Lady Gotham, having been saved by her elusive Blackcape, a notorius pirate, but one that did not pillage nor rape, but took justice out on open ocean.

Dick was nursed back to help by the captian and his older companion, but the rest of the ship was empty, not even a swabbie. It didnt take long for him to get the real story of the legand as just a boy like him, whose parents were claimed unwillingly by the sea via the hands of cruel men.

Bruce Wayne was his name, though few recognized it anymore now lost as sand drifted out. He explained Dicks rescue and insisted he would help get Dick back to Hayleys and back Home.

But of course, getting a kid back to a place that didnt exist only in people that never stayed still for long was easier said than done.

By the time they managed to track them down- they were overjoyed to hear Dick was alive, but the boy suprised just about everyone but his old family that he wished to stay on Lady Gotham.

Because to him, Home had never been a place, it was always people.

Bruce of course was not too keen at first, but it seemed his new sons stubborness was stronger than even his own, and soon enough Lady Gotham gained a First Mate.

Blackcape gained his Kea

Pt 1- Pt 2 (this)- Pt 3(WIP)

[akiymgc]

[utilitycaster]

It could be true that Ludinus survived the Calamity, but I think he is as old as he appears to be, which is to say, perhaps 650 or so. And if that’s the truth, this might be his story.

He was born in Molaesmyr - the only real city in the region, and quite honestly, the only one of size on the continent. There are scattered communities on the coast. It is unclear if the Kryn have begun to rebuild in the shadow of Ghor Dranas and if they are, who would think to look there? Perhaps there are dwarves who survived under the mountains and have rebuilt, but elves and dwarves do not always communicate much. The humans and halflings of western Wynandir are surviving as best they can. This is Wildemount, circa 200 PD.

The forest around him had burned for over a century. Molaesmyr is an oasis of greenery and civilization surrounded by ash that is only just beginning to regrow.

His parents remember a time when great workings of magic were common. He hears stories of the times before the Calamity clear in the memories of older elves, a shining time before the end. This is a motley crew of survivors and their children in Molaesmyr, some of whom had been on the terrestrial cities for whatever reason when Aeor fell and had survived the remainder of the devastation by whatever means they had. Some could remember escaping Avalir, as children, on skyships that left for anywhere but the lost continent of Domunas. Some had always lived surface-side, in cities that don’t exist anymore. Some believe themselves to be the only survivors of those cities.

They say Zemniaz crashed some ways to the south, and Draconia even further. Cross-continental communication is rare, but rumor is that Cael Morrow is gone. Nothing has been heard from Tal’Dorei. Only Vasselheim stands, of the cities his parents recognize from their youth.

In Molaesmyr, the elves worship Corellon and Sehanine. The oldest clerics can perhaps be persuaded to speak of a time when they met these gods - when they walked Exandria like anyone else. Some saw them in battle, to the east, massive, fighting against their betrayer counterparts.

But the gods aren’t here anymore. They can only reach them in dreams, in indirect signs achieved through ritual and prayer. There is a hesitance in the ceremonies young Ludinus Da’leth attends. Something missing, or something that never had to be done before. It feels slow, as if it’s pushing through an impossibly thick barrier. There is a sadness that surrounds the older clerics that makes services an awkward affair, and once he’s old enough, he stops going.

Ludinus doesn’t want to be a cleric. He studies the arcane, or what’s left of it. So many secrets have been lost. One of his teachers mutters that they wish they’d paid more attention, that they didn’t know half the spells of Exandria could now only be found in their ancient, battered spellbook.

The world around him ended not long before he was born. That’s what Ludinus knows, most of all. He was born into a dead world scarred by the gods, and his city is what they’ve managed to make of the scraps that were left.

Centuries pass. Human culture begins to rebuild. Marquesian sailors and the Ki’Nau people of the western coast of Wildemount form a seafaring society and a loose chain of allied cities forms. Two human nations arise, one in the southern valleys and one out of the ruins of Zemniaz. They fight and form, however disjointedly, an Empire to the south.

When Ludinus is in the prime of his life, the world ends again. Well, not the whole world, but the part where he is, which is what matters.

The child refugees of the floating cities, now in their old age, die in the poisonous haze. Molaesmyr falls in days. He is shocked at how surprised he feels, because he has always known, before he knew anything else, that what takes centuries to build can disappear in a fraction of that time. No one can step in to save Molaesmyr. No one can fight for it. There is no god coming in battle like the clerics have recounted.

He sees the power vacuum created after what the Empire calls the Eve of Crimson Midnight, and he steps into it. Power is a tool, after all, and he needs to amass it. The Empire is a modern creation, no mageocracy, and the kings will accept anything he tells them if they believe it’s for the good of their expansion. Whatever information he needs becomes a matter of national security, and elves live a long time. Long enough to find the answer, when the texts from Vasselheim are unveiled.

Maybe the smaller moon did speak to him. It’s possible that red storms gave him nightmares, and that he fled the purple-gray mist nearly laughing hysterically, that his dreams had been right but the color was wrong before he learned the truth.

Or he might have never dreamt of Ruidus. He might have just read a missive from Vasselheim, that something was broken into, and perhaps worthy of mention to other important political powers, and despite growing up in its shadow, did not know the history he was about to retrace.

[my-name-is-apollo]

Hello! I'm currently trying to research the ways Apollo would be worshipped and prayed to by his followers in everyday-life for a writing project but I'm struggling to find any sources on actual practices and rituals, whether from the ancient Greeks or present-day worshippers.

do you know of any reliable sources for ancient Greek practices or anyone who does work with Apollo that I could ask directly?

Hello! The usual way to worship Greek deities seems to have been making an altar for the god, offering some sacrifices, praying to them and pouring libation. This was also accompanied with music, songs and dances - and I can give you a lot of instances for this. This was common to almost all the gods I believe, and the difference was probably that certain kinds of offerings were given to certain gods.

Since you asked specifically about Apollo, here are some instances I have found:

[Apollo]: and in as much as at the first on the hazy sea I sprang upon the swift ship in the form of a dolphin, pray to me as Apollo Delphinius; also the altar itself shall be called Delphinius and overlooking for ever. Afterwards, sup beside your dark ship and pour an offering to the blessed gods who dwell on Olympus. But when you have put away craving for sweet food, come with me singing the hymn Ie Paean (Hail, Healer!), until you come to the place where you shall keep my rich temple.

- Homeric hymn to Apollo (Trans. Evelyn-White)

Here Apollo himself instructs the Cretan sailors on how to worship him. And they do the as instructed:

Also they made an altar upon the beach of the sea, and when they had lit a fire, made an offering of white meal, and prayed standing around the altar as Apollo had bidden them. Then they took their meal by the swift, black ship, and poured an offering to the blessed gods who dwell on Olympus. And when they had put away craving for drink and food, they started out with the lord Apollo, the son of Zeus, to lead them, holding a lyre in his hands, and playing sweetly as he stepped high and featly. So the Cretans followed him to Pytho, marching in time as they chanted the Ie Paean after the manner of the Cretan paean-singers and of those in whose hearts the heavenly Muse has put sweet-voiced song.

- Homeric hymn to Apollo (Trans. Evelyn-White)

In the Iliad, the Greeks also do something similar when they bring back Chryseis in order to appease Apollo:

They brought forth the hecatomb for Apollo, who strikes from afar, and forth stepped also the daughter of Chryses from the sea-faring ship. Her then did Odysseus of many wiles lead to the altar, and place in the arms of her dear father, saying to him: "Chryses, Agamemnon, king of men, sent me forth to bring to you your daughter, and to offer to Phoebus a holy hecatomb on the Danaans' behalf, that therewith we may propitiate the lord, who has now brought upon the Argives woeful lamentation." So saying he placed her in his arms, and he joyfully took his dear child; but they made haste to set in array for the god the holy hecatomb around the well-built altar, and then they washed their hands and took up the barley grains. Then Chryses lifted up his hands, and prayed aloud for them: "Hear me, god of the silver bow, who stands over Chryse and holy Cilla, and rules mightily over Tenedos. As before you heard me when I prayed—to me you did honour, and mightily smote the host of the Achaeans—even so now fulfill me this my desire: ward off now from the Danaans the loathly pestilence." So he spoke in prayer, and Phoebus Apollo heard him. Then, when they had prayed, and had sprinkled the barley grains, they first drew back the victims' heads, and cut their throats, and flayed them, and cut out the thighs and covered them with a double layer of fat, and laid raw flesh thereon. And the old man burned them on stakes of wood, and made libation over them of gleaming wine; and beside him the young men held in their hands the five-pronged forks. But when the thigh-pieces were wholly burned, and they had tasted the entrails, they cut up the rest and spitted it, and roasted it carefully, and drew all off the spits. Then, when they had ceased from their labour and had made ready the meal, they feasted, nor did their hearts lack anything of the equal feast. But when they had put from them the desire for food and drink, the youths filled the bowls brim full of drink and served out to all, first pouring drops for libation into the cups. So the whole day long they sought to appease the god with song, singing the beautiful paean, the sons of the Achaeans, hymning the god who works from afar; and his heart was glad, as he heard.

You can find more examples in Argonautica by Apollonius Rhodes:

1.402: Next, piling up shingle near the sea, they raised there an altar on the shore to Apollo, under the name of Actius and Embasius, and quickly spread above it logs of dried olive-wood. Meantime the herdsmen of Aeson's son had driven before them from the herd two steers. These the younger comrades dragged near the altars, and the others brought lustral water and barley meal, and Jason prayed, calling on Apollo the god of his fathers:

1.452: [after saying his prayer] He spake, and with his prayer cast the barley meal. And they two girded themselves to slay the steers, proud Ancaeus and Heracles. The latter with his club smote one steer mid-head on the brow, and falling in a heap on the spot, it sank to the ground; and Ancaeus struck the broad neck of the other with his axe of bronze, and shore through the mighty sinews; and it fell prone on both its horns. Their comrades quickly severed the victims' throats, and flayed the hides: they sundered the joints and carved the flesh, then cut out the sacred thigh bones, and covering them all together closely with fat burnt them upon cloven wood. And Aeson's son poured out pure libations, and Idmon rejoiced beholding the flame as it gleamed on every side from the sacrifice, and the smoke of it mounting up with good omen in dark spiral columns.

1.961: Here they built an altar to Ecbasian Apollo and set it up on the beach, and gave heed to sacrifices. And the king of his own bounty gave them sweet wine and sheep in their need; for he had heard a report that whenever a godlike band of heroes should come, straightway he should meet it with gentle words and should have no thought of war.

2.694: and at length Orpheus spake as follows, addressing the chiefs: "Come, let us call this island the sacred isle of Apollo of the Dawn since he has appeared to all, passing by at dawn; and we will offer such sacrifices as we can, building an altar on the shore; and if hereafter he shall grant us a safe return to the Haemonian land, then will we lay on his altar the thighs of horned goats. And now I bid you propitiate him with the steam of sacrifice and libations. Be gracious, O king, be gracious in thy appearing." Thus he spake, and they straightway built up an altar with shingle; and over the island they wandered, seeking if haply they could get a glimpse of a fawn or a wild goat, that often seek their pasture in the deep wood. And for them Leto's son provided a quarry; and with pious rites they wrapped in fat the thigh bones of them all and burnt them on the sacred altar, celebrating Apollo, Lord of Dawn. And round the burning sacrifice they set up a broad dancing-ring, singing, "All hail fair god of healing, Phoebus, all hail", and with them Oiagrus' goodly son began a clear lay on his Bistonian lyre; how once beneath the rocky ridge of Parnassus he slew with his bow the monster Delphyne, he, still young and beardless, still rejoicing in his long tresses.

2.911: Quickly they drew in sail and threw out hawsers, and on the strand paid honour to the tomb of Sthenelus, and poured out drink offerings to him and sacrificed sheep as victims. And besides the drink offerings they built an altar to Apollo, saviour of ships, and burnt thigh bones; and Orpheus dedicated his lyre; whence the place has the name of Lyra.

4.1694: and they made for Apollo a glorious abode in a shady wood, and a shady altar, calling on Phoebus the "Gleamer" (Aigletes), because of the gleam far-seen; and that bare island they called Anaphe, for that Phoebus had revealed it to men sore bewildered. And they sacrificed all that men could provide for sacrifice on a desolate strand; wherefore when Medea's Phaeacian handmaids saw them pouring water for libations on the burning brands, they could no longer restrain laughter within their bosoms, for that ever they had seen oxen in plenty slain in the halls of Alcinous.

- Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica (trans. Robert Cooper Seaton)

Notice how often the Argonauts had nothing fancy to offer, but they managed with whatever they could get, and I suppose this held good for day to day worship.

And then you have the Hyperboreans, who are said to be constantly singing as a form of everyday worship:

Moreover, the following legend is told concerning it: Leto was born on this island, and for that reason Apollon is honoured among them above all other gods; and the inhabitants are looked upon as priests of Apollon, after a manner, since daily they praise this god continuously in song and honour him exceedingly. And there is also on the island both a magnificent sacred precinct of Apollon and a notable temple which is adorned with many votive offerings and is spherical in shape. Furthermore, a city is there which is sacred to this god, and the majority of its inhabitants are players on the cithara; and these continually play on this instrument in the temple and sing hymns of praise to the god, glorifying his deeds.

- Diodorus Siculus, Library of History (trans. Oldfather)

They were also said to have regularly asses for Apollo:

Yet was it with these that Perseus the warrior chief once feasted, entering their homes, and chanced upon their sacrifices unto the god, those famous offerings of hecatombs of asses; for in their banquets and rich praise Apollon greatly delights, and laughs to see the rampant lewdness of those brutish beasts.

- Pindar, Pythian Ode 10 (trans. Conway)

There is also this interesting story:

Apollon and Artemis had a very great affection for him [the Babylonian man Klinis (Clinis)] and he frequently attended with these gods the temple of Apollon in the land of the Hyperboreoi where he saw the consecration of the sacrifices of asses to the god. Returning to Babylon, he too wanted to worship the god as among the Hyperboreans and arranged by the altar a hecatomb of asses. Apollon appeared and threatened him with death if he did not cease from this sacrifice and did not offer up to him the usual goats, sheep and cattle. For this sacrifice of asses was a source of pleasure for the god only if carried out by the Hyperboreans.

- Antoninus Liberalis, Metamorphoses 20 (trans. Celoria)

So goats, sheep and cows were the usual sacrifices made to him. Wine and water could be used as libation. There was also a practice of offering cake to Apollo:

Enthrypton : Made of pastry; a flat-scone, that is. Alternatively, cake crumbs. Some associate it with initiation-rites. And Apollon is called Enthryptos amongst the Athenians.

- Suidas s.v. Apollon (trans. Suda On Line)

And Pythagoras was said to have forbade all animal sacrifices when praying to Apollo Genetor (giver of life), so non-animal sacrifices were also there (Jason also offered barley meal in Apollonius' Argonautica).

Anyway, this is what I could find. I hope that answered your question, at least as far as the textual evidences go. As for modern day worshippers, I've known @teawiththegods for a long time. She also has a podcast/YouTube channel to help beginners, so you can def check that out!

[lal-ffxiv]

Prompt #6: Halcyon

The unpredicability of the seas was the reason Lucien never became enamoured with idea of being a pirate.

For two moons of sailing the seas where calm as could be, the wind giving them speed for a timely journey.

The captian wise to avoid storms by the smallest signs.

The very same capitan was strugging to keep the ship in one piece against the storm which sideswept the ship into its cold embrace.

Having lived by the sea, Lucien knew that a storm could only be weathered.

How can a storm be weather at sea with no shelter?

Lucian asked the same question of the capitan.

"I haven't time for complaints! The days of serne seas are over!"

"I haven't sailed four seas, and part of the glass ocean to die on the shores of higanashi!" Luken shouted back over the winds and rainfall.

"Our fates are in the hands of the Navigator now, so go below and pray for Llymlaen's mercy."

Lucien did not pray as a rule. None of twelve owned his life, not even the Spinner.

Lucien did sing as his mother did.

cuando hay una tormenta // el cielo grita // Y la tierra tiemble // estoy aquí para ti // dame tu manita y nos sentiremos las lagrimas del cielo//

The days were his mother's agitations could be lulled were the peaceful days that Lucien missed the most.

One nights of full moons, with sea of stars, under the trees they would sing and make stories until the sun came up.

sentiremos la lluvia // respirar con los vientos // se la calma y no el miedo//

Lucien realized in the last verse that the rage of the storm has quieted. He ran above deck, but did not recieve the clear skies he had expected.

Above him a bird with malms of wingspan soared. It had spotted wings, sunburt chest, and an aetherial glow.

A warbling call resonated in the silence in the eye of the storm. There was an answering call as a another bird broke through the windwall to join its mate.

"The Halcyons" an old sailor said in awe as he sail fell to his knees.

The birds joined together in flight swooping into the sea. Then, breaking from the surface, parting from eachother. Both fly high and out of the eye. One to the west and the other to the west. The wind from their wings dissapated the storm.

"What was that?"

"An answer to prayer." The captian said with revel. "Land ho!"

Sure enough, the lights of Kugane's port twinkled in the distance. The Spinner wasn't done with him yet, or the thread of his new life.

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt. 49)

(Sneak Peek) (Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: a series of bad days has hobi feeling all sorts of fragile. you keep him from breaking.

Tags: Hurt/ comfort, Hobi x m/c focus, self-esteem issues, implied/referenced self-harm (not in like a intentional way, more in a letting yourself get hurt to prove a point way), falling in love, transphobia, Homophobia, Flashbacks to past Sexual assault, coerced sex, Manipulation, Implied emotional abuse. 

W/c: 10.0k

A/n: Be mindful the tags with this one! I wouldn’t say that the self-harm in this is like- the most triggering thing i’ve ever written but still! there is a SERIOUS homophobia (alphaphobia?) in this sneek peek! ALSO- the lovely @imperiussexrex​ has made a little bily Discord server over here- be mindful of the rules and tbh SPOILERS ABOUND- but its been really nice to talk to people! 

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

Chapter 49 Sneak Peek: Rotting Halo 

The shame follows him when he leaves too, making his feet drag the whole walk home. He hunches his shoulders against the sun- isn’t fall supposed to be cloudy? Why did it have to be such a nice day when Hobi’s in such a black mood? He knows the way home by memory, he barely has to think to walk it. 

In a few months, it will be too cold to make the trip, and he’ll have to use his car all the time.

Hobi genuinely loves his car- but after the initial fanfare it had gotten a lot harder to drive to work. At first the purr of the engine was intoxicating, equally as enticing as the idea that he finally he had something so nice that was only his. There’s a sense of identity in it; The car looks like him the same way that looking at the house feels like looking at you and Yoongi. The average person wouldn't say that places should hold so much meaning, but to Hobi they do. 

The car is a place to him, a small little bundle of safety and pack that he can transport wherever. A portable vestibule for the packs prayers in the form of beach trips and fastfood runs. It’s funny to be nostalgic over something that hasn’t happened yet. But Hobi knows that he’ll drive the car until it rusts out. 

At first, he even liked the looks that passersby’s shot him. a bright-eyed kid here, an old sailor with a rough-hewed face there. But then the hushed murmurs and jealous jabs started. The casual indifference of his coworkers and the insistence that Hobi could pick up the late-night hours.

“Or do you not want to risk getting mugged when you drive home- oh wait I forgot you live in the nice part of town now-”

Yesterday at work, he’d overheard something he shouldn’t have, he’d finished up early on an order for a wedding (too many white roses, too much baby’s breath) and had headed out back to help unload more annual flats with the rest of the coworkers. His body hidden by the box truck. the sound of his steps quieting as gravel became packed dusty earth and his paced slowed.

 He recognized the hushed sound of a secret. The low tones of people who don’t want to be overheard. 

“Funny that we get all the hard work when carrot top in there gets to play with daisies all day” the plastic trays thud against the metal plant racks. 

“Boss plays favorites and it’s not like he needs the money” Hobi had gone still,  The bitter huff, the derision leaking from their voices- every bit of it rubs Hobi raw “Hobi's just a sugar baby.”

 “I’m not surprised. I kind of thought-” the person breaks off saying something Hobi can't hear, indistinguishable from the rush and thump of unloading trays. “-Wonder what he had to do to get that car.”

“Probably a lot. Can you believe he’s got 3 other alphas in his pack? That kind of dynamic can’t be fun.”

“What you think he takes a knot up the ass or something?” The jab prompts laughter. The joke clearly hitting on some sort of grade school level humor but Hobi just burns regardless, unable to be brave and just come around the side of the truck and confront them about it. Because Hobi can never be brave when it’s just himself on the line. Anger makes him shake and he has to ball his hands into fists to keep himself from trembling.

“I’m saying it’s already weird that an alpha likes flowers so much.”

Coming Saturday March 4th at 5pm EST (Timezone adjustments below)