#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

[historiaxvanserra]

In Hades I Am With You | Chapter One

Pairing: Azriel x Hewn!city reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: With rising tensions across the sea causing unrest in the capital, the two warring factions of the Night Court must come to terms.

Reader is the ill-fated daughter of a cruel Lord of Night; plagued with prophetic dreams and cursed with rare, arcane gifts. Azriel is the stoic spymaster; forged from violence, lethal and honed to a fatal sharpness. The pair find themselves bound to one another through sacred oaths. For better or worse.

Tags: Forced proximity, strangers to lovers, Night Court lore, Priestess reader, discussions of SA and abuse, discussions of sex work, criticism of misogyny, sexism, and general abuse in all its forms, eventual smut, slight corruption kink, reader is incredibly romantic and horny.

Please let me know what you think. This chapter and readers powers are heavily inspired by Poppy from From Blood and Ash.

I was born on a night like this, I think. 

Storm-streaked, he had once called me. If only he could see me now; standing at the foothills of the mountain, wind-beaten and with the acrid taste of seafret on my lips. When I was a girl my father had told me that I came into the world the way the Old Gods had. Born from the merciless, blue-green depths of the sea. 

To be beautiful and cruel, and fearless.

Now fear is all I know.

The streets of the great mountain city are plagued by a feverish summer storm and, at the fatal peal of thunder I cast my eyes skyward. A terrible dread coils in the pit of my stomach. 

The visions come with the storm; fleeting images of an unforgiving tempest as it ravages all in its wake. The dark figure of a man, who whispers my name like a prayer. 

The God of plagues and prophecy.

Death had first come to me in a dream. Haunting and prophetic. Shrouded in seraphic blue light. 

Heat swells beneath the surface of the hydrangea clouds and the dark waters of the Sidra turn violent. Ivory seafoam coils and contorts violently like the tendrils of some grotesque sea-snake. I think of an old story my father had told me once. A human princess from the continent. She had been beautiful once. Until some dark, deathless God had lay claim to her. A monstrous thing. Rising from the depths of her watery tomb to lay waste to the men who had hurt her. Thrashing and writhing as the waves crested over the port of this wretched city. 

The crack of forked, white lightning against the darkening horizon breaks my reverie and Scylla nestles into my side with a bruising force. I smooth a hand flat on her muzzle. Her lustrous dark mane feels soft under my tender touch and she exhales a hot breath that rises like steam in the wet heat of the Summer storm. 

“Calm, Scylla.” I whisper tenderly to the mare I had taken to mount. My lips graze her dappled coat along her muzzle and I welcome the earthy fetor as it fills my senses. 

“Gentle, girl.” I reaffirm, patting the mount affectionately as I tie the reins to the crumbling statue of some prince long dead. 

“I’ll be back soon.” I promise. My voice wavers with another rumble of thunder. 

When I was a girl, my father had told me to count the moments between the cacophony of thunder and the flash of white lightning to work out how many leagues away it might be. 

At this moment I know that I am standing in the eye of the storm. 

Scylla watches warily as my figure disappears into the darkness of the lower city. I still hear her in the distance long after I am gone. Cloistered in the darkness of the city’s narrow alleys I remove the onyx veil that shrouds my features. I bury it in the folds of the plain, grey cloak I had stolen from Leda. 

I weave through the long, winding streets. I observe the world in flashes of cruel light and sound that permeates the suffocating darkness that saturates the lower city. I hear the echo of it in the lurid shouts of merchants, and the vulgar songs of sailors, coming home from the docks at the mouth of the Sidra. I listen to them all; as they beg, barter and brawl in the filthy streets. The fetor of decay lingers in the air like festering fruit flesh in the feverish heat of the slums. Throngs of beggar children chase the merchant's carts as they roll through the putrid pools of waste upon the wet, cobbled stone. Though, I only catch fleeting glimpses of them each time the cruel, seraphic light cuts through the blanket of the dark. 

As I pass through the Streets of Silk, I hear the bawdy rhymes of the painted whores as they call out into the night like a siren song; all sultry-eyed and dressed in lace that billows in the wretched breeze like the tendrils of a monstrous chimera. Fated to lure wayward sailors to their watery tombs. 

It is then, as the city bells toll their mournful song, that I reach my destination. 

The building stands as one of the last unsanctioned pleasure halls in the city; its weary slate facade is cut from the same dark stone as the mountain that oppresses the city. Its neglected roof tiles gleam in the pallid silver faelights like moonlight on the murky-green depths of the Sidra. Above the door, I observe the pillory that bears the establishment's name. The Jade Pearl, painted in varying gaudy shades of green and gold. 

The pleasure hall on the outer banks of the mountain city is alive with sordid activity. The whores in their fine silks twirl and dance in merry rings like water nymphs, and the serving girls sing sultry harmonies like siren songs, as they fill up the cups of patrons with sticky, honeyed mead. The high-arching melody of lyres and harps cut through the cacophony of carnal sounds; the officious laughter of Darkbringers, the vulgar curses and honeyed words, whispered into the skin of wind-beaten sailors and fat merchants. 

I traverse the narrow corridors that run like veins into the heart of the tavern. Its dark antechamber is bathed in shadow and dying fireglow that casts the word in a pallid light. The emerald bar curves around the hall in the shape of a crescent moon and the tables dapple the room like stars. 

“What a pretty creature you are, Mistress.” A beautiful wraith compliments, tugging and the long sleeves of my stolen robes. With tender touches and whispers the wraith works the buttons of my robes until I am left in the thin champagne shift I had worn beneath my cloak. 

She’s a slender looking creature, with pale blue eyes that look almost silver in the dying light of the hearth. Her long, white hair is braided over her shoulder like the tendril of some mythical siren. 

Dangerous and inviting. 

“Whatever you desire, be it wine or women, I will procure for you tonight,” She purrs, her voice low and sultry as she looks at me with those pale eyes. She’s dressed in the gauzy, silk robes of a whore. The garment flows like water over the curve of her hip and with a deep slit in its middle that exposes the graceful swell of her breasts beneath. And through her guise of beauty and seduction, I see the chains that bind her.

As I am bound. To this court. To the mountain that we call home.

“A drink would be nice,” I acquiesce, sliding a gold coin across the polished surface of the bar, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“It is no trouble at all, mistress- but this far too much coin.” The wraith begins to untether the cracked leather coin purse from her hip. She begins to exchange the gold for smaller coins of silver and bronze, counting them in her open palm. 

“Please - keep it -- I’ve no use for such things anyway.” I command, nodding towards the coin in her hand. The wraith shakes her head and tries to protest but a call from the brutish looking owner draws the girl's attention away from me. I look up from my spot, across the painted emerald surface of the bar, to the games table. A voice, thick with mirth and malice, beckons my attention. 

“There are rumors amongst the legion that the High Lord will return to Court by the moon's turn.” The cruel laugh of a Darkbringer draws my interest as they sit around an emerald table. Crimson cards and dice litter the surface of the table and in its center a collection of coins. The male at the head of the table is dressed in his court robes; a dark overcoat with silver embroidery along the collars and cuffs. The others have abandoned their stifling robes in lieu of casual black tunics and pants. It is only through the tendrils of dark that shroud them in shadow that I know what they are.

These men are members of The Night Court’s legion of Darkbringers; and servants of the High Lord’s Steward. The larger of the three, unsheathes his dagger and places it atop the pile of coins in lieu of money. 

A reminder of their lethal potential. 

A vein of dark power that speaks to a coming vision plagues me in those spaces between the seconds. Untethered and adrift in the ether I allow my fragile mind to wander. I see a lake from which the dead rise like a devastating tempest. I see a King atop a dias, and a throne of splintered bone. And, through the blanket of the dark, I see the gleam of Illyrian Steel and age worn bone. 

Then, that tenuous connection to the Otherworld is severed. 

“The commander of the city watch says that tensions in the lower city are rising.” The deep timbre of the Darkbringer rouses me from thought again.

“I heard that the Lord Protector plans to broker an alliance with the Death Lord himself,”

“ if only to free himself of Rhysand’s leash.” 

“--bring him and that bitch of his to heel morelike.” The youngest of the three smiles malevolently.

“Enough of that, boys, we’re in the presence of a Lady.” The leader implies dangerously and at once, three heads incline in my direction. There are no Ladies allowed in this part of the city. The females of this forsaken city are bound to the Moonstone Palace. Forced to our knees in deference to our male oppressors. The only women that still dwell in the lower city are whores and exiles. Of which I am neither. 

Something dark and terrible roils in the pit of my stomach as the male approaches. I pull the hood of the austere, grey cloak to veil my face in shadows. The pale eyes of the Darkbringer meet mine through the din and his smile curls around the sharpness of his teeth.

The cold, amethyst hilt of a dagger kisses the tender flesh of my thigh beneath the many lawyers of dark fabric and I am reminded of my own lethal potential. The dagger had been passed from my grandsire some years ago. Made and forged from the ancient power that dwells beneath the mountain that we call home. The dagger itself had been set in a hilt of dark wood, trimmed with silver and precious gems; amethyst, sapphire and onyx. Its blade was fashioned of Illyrian steel and honed to a fatal sharpness.

“What a pretty little bird, she is.” He taunts as he approaches, his manner imposing and vindictive as he takes my chin roughly between his fingers. 

“I am no Lady, Ser.” I swallow thickly. It is true, of course. I am no Lady of the Night Court. I had been a babe when they found me. The cursed daughter to a cruel lord and some terrified nymph. 

My mother died giving me life and left me at the ruined Temple of Beara, the Mistress of Storms, deep in the foothills of the mountain. In the hopes that the Priestesses would shelter me from the cruelty of this court. After the temple fell I was brought before the Lords of Night and given to the Temple of Astarion on account of my rare and ancient gift. 

“Then perhaps you might regale my friends and I with the tale of how a pretty thing like you ends up here.” The Darkbringer replies, sliding a coin across the table. His gaze drops to the rings that adorn my hands; fine rings of onyx and amethyst, mined from the wretched bowels of the mountain that I have come to call home. The mark of my good breeding. 

“I assure you Ser, I am no whore either.” I chastise, sliding my hand beneath the folds of my cloak. The lust that pools in his eyes is a dreadful thing. Lecherous and heinous. Though I take comfort in the knowledge that my true identity is concealed. 

As the Pythia of the Night Court a dark veil typically obscures my features from the view of men; save from my eyes, which are heavily darkened with kohl and pigments of sapphire and amethyst that hail from the mines of Illyria. The veil protects me as much as it oppresses me. For if male like this knew of the power I possess, they would seek to control it, to covet that power until I were a vessel of their ill intent. That is why I was given to the Temple as a child. Why my estranged father and the Steward of the Night Court seek to make me their weapon. I know then that if I am discovered I will suffer for it. The kind of suffering that only exists here, in the rotting depths of Hewn City.

“No, I see that now.” Devilment darkens his pale gaze and the cut of amethyst shines in his dark eyes, he releases me from his bruising grip with a dark laugh. 

“Curious little thing.” One of the men whispers. 

“This is not the place for a gentle creature like you, Lady” He whispers, his pointed finger ghosts the cut of onyx on my hand,  “luckily for you I am feeling quite merciful.” 

“I am not as gentle as I look, Ser.” I warn. The three Darkbringers laugh cruelly. I turn to leave when a firm hand closes around my wrist and twists me so I am held in the Darkbringers bruising embrace. His lips drag a tortuous line along the side of my jaw. 

“Now, now little bird,” He coos mockingly against the shell of my ear as I struggle violently against him, “flighty little thing.” 

Bile rises in my throat as the Darkbringer’s companions laugh and fingers dig into the knife at my thigh, unsheathing it in a moment and pressing it against the male's pale throat. Unshed tears line my eyes like flecks of silver starlight as his hands still on my waist. 

“That is what you call mercy?” I laugh bitterly at the man, his eyes hardening as the Illyrian steel blade glints in the dim light. 

“Let go of her, Aeres.” The eldest of the three orders and the Darkbringer unhands me at once.

“Now fly back to your cage, little bird.” The elder male nods towards the rear exit beyond the bar. 

On uncertain feet I Traverse the narrow aisle of the tavern I find myself adrift amongst the dancing tide of patrons. A throng of women, clad in gauzy robes and underthings, twist and contort like columns of technicolor seafoam. The cruel laughter from the dance floor pulls me deeper into the wretched heart of the pleasure house. Lurid whistles and a series of vulgar gestures rouse my attention. A female; dressed in spider silk and lace coils around a portly merchant at the games table. She slips into his lap with a serpentine grace. I watch as the merchant’s weathered hand traces the line of her throat to the swell of her breasts. Smacking his hand away, the woman laughs, it is a beautiful, false thing that glitters in the pallid light.

“Well, girl I hope you fuck better than you play cards.” The merchant complains, laying down his deck of crimson cards. The female curls a painted hand around the cuffs of his tunic and whispers into his ear and the merchant's mouth curves into a lurid smile. One thick hand draws down her stomach, the other brushes the flesh of her thigh, slipping under the folds of her robe between her legs --

Oh.

I avert my eyes at the scene as a blush kisses its way along my neck and chest at the intimacy of it. The merchant rises from his seat at the table, taking the female slender hand in his. The whispered words they exchange are too low for me to hear but her answering smile is enough to know it was something wicked. The female rises leads the merchant towards the sleeping chambers beyond the emerald curtains. 

I watch as the merchant's shadowy figure is swallowed by the darkness as the curtain is drawn. My attention lingers far after they are gone, leaving only the smell of salt and jasmine in their wake. 

I am overcome with a strange, prophetic awareness.; dreams of shadowed light and a bleeding star, scarred hands that track the constellations as they reign over the black tapestry of the sky.

The high-arching symphony of strings and lyres blossoms in the feverish heat of the tavern. The soft melody of the lyres seems to echo off of the high, domed ceiling, as the heavy beat of a drum joins the cacophony of sound. It’s a hypnotizing, deeply sensual beat, that is unlike anything I have ever heard. 

Primal and carnal. 

I find myself adrift in the sway of the dancing sea. Slowly, I make my way along the length of the bar, reaching out to touch the gauzy jade curtains, parting them slowly --

“I don’t think you want to go in there, Mistress.” The lilting voice of the wraith warns. 

“Why not?” I ask curiously, lowering my hand from the curtain. The wraith laughs prettily, her cerulean eyes glinting in the dying light of the fire. 

“Some don’t appreciate an audience, Sweet girl.” 

“An audience?” I ask. 

Through the darkness of the antechamber, I see the silhouettes of the whores and their patrons, writhing and undulating with the beat of the drum. The music is punctuated by panting breaths and lilting moans, and the vulgar sound of men as they find their pleasure. 

“Oh.” The wraith laughs again, her painted lips curl into a wicked smile.

“Is it your first time here, Priestess?” The wraith leans in, the rich tenor of her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. Fear coils in my stomach and my grip on the emerald surface of the bar tightens. 

“I’m no priestess.” I try to emulate her melodious laughter and my eyes narrow in faux concern. 

“You needn't lie to me, Pythia. Your secret's safe with me.” Her words resound in my head and realization dawns. She’s daemati. 

“That type of secret is not safe with anyone.”

“What could I gain from exposing it to anyone? I wish you no ill will.” She returns. 

“You’d earn the Lord Protector's favor, of that I am certain --.” 

The wraith's face twists into a grimace and her sapphire stare hardens to a cold, wicked thing. “I have no need for that viper’s favour.” The venom laced in her voice speaks to the malice she holds for this place, its patrons and the cruel light of Hewn City. Many within the court resent the way in which we live, clinging to the slivers of power we are allowed, cowering in the darkness of the mountain. 

Things are changing as of late, war looms ever closer and whispers of dissent from the continent bring about unrest in the people. Many turn to the High Lord and his Lady for liberation from the dying vestiges and brutal traditions of this court. For many years I myself have lived in servitude and isolation, serving Keir, The Lord Protector and Steward of the ancient mountain city. 

As his coveted oracle; a conduit for his own power.

A cruel wind cuts through the heat of the pleasure hall as the doors open to announce an influx of new patrons. Three men, dressed in court robes enter through the archway, each shaded in shadows and dark wisps of power. My heart hammers thunderously in my chest as the men enter the heart of the establishment. 

“A flagon of wine and some dice, Arik.” The Darkbringer announces to the man behind the bar. My face pales from where I stand. These men are of my personal guard; formidable and unwaveringly loyal to my keeper. 

These men, these good men, are sworn to a monster, and they must do monstrous things to survive here. 

As we all must. 

I veil my face with the hood of my stolen cloak, tucking my hair into the collar so that it is concealed from view, and my face obscured almost entirely. If they were to discover me they would be duty bound to drag me back to the Moonstone Palace and throw me down atop the emerald dias for Keir and my father to punish as they see fit. 

I take another tentative look across the room and observe the men crowded around the game table with women hanging off them, like a swarm of beautiful and merciless harpies. 

“That one’s usual girl looks like you--” The wraith whispers to me, casting her own gaze to Ares who stands alone near the fire rather forlorn for a male in the middle of a brothel.  

“She’s busy with her favorite client upstairs. Perhaps you might retrieve her and make your escape.” Slowly, I turn to the wraith who takes my hand gently and leads me along the length of the bar. 

“You will find Aelle on the second floor -- take sanctuary there. I’ll come for you when your friends are occupied.” 

I hold her hand fondly and press a gold coin into her palm. 

“Thank you.” I say. She presses a chaste kiss to my cheek and ushers me up the stairs. 

As I ascend the steps of the pleasure hall, I slip a hand between the folds of my cloak, fingers ghosting the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh once more. 

The upper levels of the house are painted a deep emerald color and the flickering fae lights saturate the long, narrow corridors in onyx wisps of shadow. The room at the end of the corridor is stepped in near darkness, veins of indigo and navy that obscure everything in a shroud of blue-darkness. The mantle is hung with half-burned candles and a garland of foxglove and jasmine. The antique furniture looks as though it has been carved from the black wood of ash trees and the armchairs in front of the dying hearth are embroidered with dark floral motifs and silver threads. 

I draw in a sharp breath and the scent of pine and night-blooming florals shrouds me in its winter kiss. 

A flash of seraphic light illuminates the room and a deep voice, shaded in nightshade calls out from the blue-darkness.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” 

[heavenbloom]

🇵🇸🇱🇧 BEFORE YOU READ: DONATE TO PALESTINIAN FAMILIES • EMERGENCY FUND FOR MARGINALISED WORKERS IN LEBANON • BOYCOTT TLOU

𓊝 — 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚 | 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐫!𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐱 𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

song: golden hair — slowdive

summary: the ocean is a trepidatious force. abby has never felt its power until she falls into the hands of a siren, a dark and ruinous mistress of the sea.

warnings: mdni 18+, smut, fingering (r!receiving), hair pulling (a!receiving), mentions of death, mentions of religion, profanities, afab reader, reader is a mythical creature and comes off as cold and detached from humanity, set in an unspecified time in the past, a bit of hatred between the two, toxic dynamics, abby is down bad, not proofread

a/n: this is a semi rewrite of a fic i posted on my old blog last year! i don’t have time to write new things at the moment so please accept this even though it’s not my best 🧍

The ground beneath Abby was rough, cold in a way that immediately told her that she was not in the stuffy warmth of the sailor's quarters. Her eyes were screwed shut, her head blaring for relief and her body soaked to the bone. She was not where she was meant to be.

She took a moment, a breath, to regain her bearings, eyes opening to slits. A void met her, nothing visible in the pitch black.

She let no panic inflate her chest or scratch at her already dry throat. To survive the sea for so long was a miracle, and those who rode its waves knew that being fearful was useless, since besting such a beast was impossible. The sea chose her victims indiscriminately, and it seemed that Abby was not one of them. Not in this moment, at least.

She instead shifted focus to her other senses to understand where she was. She reached her arms out on either side, feeling the jaggedness of the moist ground. Her ears picked up a consistent drip, drip, drip and the sound of distant crashing water. The briny taste of the ocean was still sharp on her tongue... she was still near the sea. Good.

As she laid there, her brain strayed to the events leading up to her predicament. She was unaware of how she got here, but she recalled the crashing of the hull against wrathful waves, her fellow sailors staggering back and forth on deck as salty tendrils whipped the ship about. There was frenzy as the crew’s prayers to gods and pantheons from all over filled the air, to either rescue them or welcome them into the afterlife with open arms.

Abby had stayed silent, jaw clenched. There was no deity that she believed in, no soothing prayer that could save her from a sinking, air-absent demise. All that encompassed her mind was, it is fitting that I die here. A frothy headstone to mark her vast grave, a silence settling into her bones.

She remembered her acceptance being cut short by a stillness that came about so suddenly, a golden haze. Then, the first gentle notes of a beautiful hymn...

It was something otherworldly, she was aware of that much. But why did the recollection of it elude her?

As she tried to remember the notes of it, she stilled at a gentle tone caressing her ears. The same song.

Abby's eyes shot open at the intrusion of noise, blue eyes boring into nothingness. It was lilting and lullaby-soft, the loveliest voice she had ever heard, perhaps. But its foreign, silky words and the power gently thrumming beneath its cadence made her spine tremble.

There were many cruel, monstrous things beneath the sea's depths, but there was only one described as so beautiful. Sweet death, they nicknamed the thing. There were only ever stories about them though, for they were as good as legend. Nobody had ever lived to tell the tale of the real thing, these stories made clear. Their victims' long-forgotten bones rested on sandy ocean beds, now used to pick the teeth of these fearsome creatures.

The fear that she had such good grasp on began to bleed into the corners of her passiveness, an inkling of dread. A shipwreck she could handle. A shipwreck caused by one of the most indomitable predators of the seven seas was another thing entirely.

"Sea witch," Abby hissed through gritted teeth, voice pained and hazy. Concentration was a task when all she wanted to do was melt into the gentle arms of your song. But she was no man, no simple sailor. It would take a lot more than this to subdue her.

You stopped singing, only to laugh at her in the near-off distance, still shrouded by darkness. It rang through the space like the distant sound of church bells in a steeple.

"I am no witch, mortal," you spoke perfectly, to her surprise. It was a voice dripping with strength, lightning crackling along the surface of a still lake. “You are all the same. We use your own desires against you and you claim it to be magic… pitiful.”

Abby did not want to care about the implications of your words. You knew nothing about her or her desires. How could one ever want this?

There was a bite to her voice now. "I am uninterested in your games, siren." Even so…

Against all her loathing, her breath quickened as she strained to find you in the darkness. She thought that, as a woman, she would be immune to a siren's charms if they ever did prove to be real, but it seemed not to be the case. Your voice alone was a thing swathed in ethereality, and she needed to see what such a being looked like.

There was dead quiet before the space began to fill with a deep blue light, radiating off of where water seeped in. She sat herself up now despite the throbbing ache in her body, mesmerised as the light pulsed throughout what she now realised was an enclosed cave. Beautiful was the first word that floated to her head. Then a scathing, correctional, unnatural.

After a moment of distraction, she searched for you again, but you were nowhere to be seen. Disappointment dropped in her gut like a pin, but it was enough to ignore the prickle of curiosity that slid up her neck and reddened her cheeks.

"I have said it once already. Your games are of no interest to me, sea witch," she yelled into the cold cavern as evenly as she could muster. "Come on then, enjoy your damn feast."

Perhaps it was foolish to mock something immortal. A beat of silence passed, then another. A soft thud hit the jutting ground of the cave, barely audible amongst the sound of lapping water and Abby’s own chattering teeth.

"I do not care much for feasting on women"," you whispered, mere inches behind her. The hairs on her neck stood on end, alert to your presence. “Not many are led astray… and the ones that are? Well…”

She felt that same dizzying urge to gaze upon you. She turned in the direction of your voice, and this time you made no effort to conceal yourself.

Your bare body was adorned in pearlescent scales, shimmering and reflecting the rich light that danced around the cave. Your hair was damp and it stuck your cheeks in wispy swirls. But it was your eyes, gods, your eyes that she lingered on the most. Alluring and deep, they demanded every morsel of her attention.

What most enchanted Abby was the way you looked so human despite everything, the softness of your being comparable to a maiden onshore. Whenever Abby thought of a siren, she imagined jutting scales from spine, sharp teeth that could put a blade to shame, talons built to rip stocky men to shreds, eyes the off-white of drops of sour milk. The only unsettling thing about you were the slits on your neck, like that of a shark.

Her gaze lingered on your captivating person, drawn to it like moth to a flame. She supposed your appearance made more sense now. Beauty would always strike a person dead before terror ever could. As her heart hammered in her chest, she began to wonder whether the two were intertwined.

"Then... then why, pray tell, did you not let me drown?"

Your surprisingly soft hands came to her chin. Fingers traced her strong jawline, drew a line to her collarbone before softly grazing them over one clothed shoulder. She shivered beneath your touch but did not dare to move away, did not want to. Your hands were the coldness of the deep undersea, as if they had never witnessed the sun before. She wanted to grab them, breathe warmth and life into your inhuman palms… had the sea water left her brain addled?

Your eyes flicked from her arm, where the linen of her undershirt clung to a muscled bicep, back to blue eyes that appeared black in the deep light.

"You were lured by me. I believed you to be a man. I only had a glimpse of your silhouette before you were in my arms, fighting for air, and then I realised. I suppose you could say... your strength as a woman is one I have not yet witnessed."

You gave her shoulder a gentle, intrigued squeeze.

"That is why I saved you, human. Nothing more and nothing less.”

The shivers that racked her body quieted. You expected her to either shy away or move closer, but she did neither. She remained unmoving, staring at you with an expression that warped back and forth between contempt and desire.

“Will you eat me now that your curiosity has been satisfied? Or will you keep me here as a little pet to ogle at whenever you grow bored?” It was a question with teeth, directed to mock your intentions. Her eyes shone with repulsion but also anticipation as she waited for your answer. Did she want to stay shackled to you until she wasted away or you finally decided on what to do with her? Is that what she wanted?

Such a foolish woman she was to question your motivations, but all that rose within you was a light amusement, like that of an onlooker watching a butterfly flit about in a glass case. You had the upper hand. It was you, after all, who lured her into the raging tides to begin with. And it continued to be you who kept her fate clutched in your grasp, still undecided on whether you should squash or embrace her. You cared for none of the furious emotions that roiled in her little, mortal heart,. But entertainment? That could be found in toying with her, just a little.

You moved closer to her once again, humming softly as your hand met her damp and matted braid. Your fingers found the piece of leather knotted around it and you slid it undone. Your fingers raked through the tangled mass gently, with the sweet slowness of a lover. She could almost believe that were the case when her mind started to fog, if not for the chorus of voices screaming within her through the haze. This is wrong, this is wrong.

Each movement of yours set your body alight. Abby had seen a myriad of the night's constellations, but they did not hold a candle to your ethereality. She felt the reigns she held on her convictions slipping. How could this be immoral when this proximity felt like a thing of fate, a thing meant to be?

Your voice was the purest of sugar, sweet and addictive.

"I believe you," your hands found their way out of her hair and to her chest, palms resting flat, "are the one that has been captivated." Your mouth was close, a finger-span distance away from hers. You could feel the way her body tensed, a sharp intake of breath without the release.

"You hate it, do you not?” you continued, tilting your head. That I am the only thing about the sea that can make you feel vulnerable? Admit it... I frighten you."

The blonde woman did not trust her mouth to form coherent words, not when you smelled so familiar, like salt and windswept sea foam. This wasn’t fear, it was something else, itching just beneath the skin and begging to break through. You were too close.

Damn it all.

There was a hesitance in her movements before her mouth descended upon yours abruptly. There was no rhythm to the way her lips pushed against yours, beastly in an overuse of teeth and tongue. You responded almost instantaneously, your mouth dancing against hers with the perfection centuries of seducing countless others sculpted. There was a dim recognition of this as she pressed herself against you and lowered you to the rough ground. She wanted to be the last one you tasted like this. The last one you harboured any kind of mercy for.

She had not prayed on that ship before the wreck, but as she relished in your lips she knew that she had been a fool to shun the notion of holiness. This was divinity. This body, cold and devoid of life. These lips, experienced and deliciously deceitful and tasting oh-so-familiar.

You were the celestial force in which she never believed. She had no altar to pray at yet, but she would carve one out right here, in the depths of your iridescent body. Her kisses would be her offerings. Her heavy, desperate breaths would be the choir.

She pulled back slightly to gaze at your face. Your eyes, glinting with challenge, compelled her to go further. Your icy arms engulfed her shoulders, pulling the brawn of her body, that pulsing human warmth, closer. You could feel her hummingbird heartbeat against your collarbone, could hear the blood pumping through her system again and again, a song all on its own.

Heat pooled in your core, the feeling almost foreign to you after years of its dormancy. There was something so delectable about letting a being inferior to you in, to taste and touch and fuck something that could eat her alive.

Her brows were knitted together, eyes wide pits of blazing blue lust. She was waiting for it, a silent plea in the drag of her teeth against her plump bottom lip and the phantom feel of her palms over your scaled skin. Who were you to deny such muted acts of devotion?

With a honeyed smile, you took one of her large hands in yours, and rested it against your sternum. Searing heat bloomed through your chest and downwards as you guided her wind-chafed palm. The ribcage, the belly button, the divot where stomach gives way to sensitive flesh.

Her breath hitched, eyes droopy as she rocked back onto her haunches. Your legs were sprawled so prettily, iridescent thighs gleaming in the little light there was. She watched as the hand latched around her wrist led her to your folds. Beneath her fingertips, your cunt felt like unspooled silk. It was impossible to suppress the tremor that passed through her.

“Well?” Your voice penetrated the fervoured veil that threatened to swallow her whole. “Cease your gawking, human.” A command. An invitation.

Abby traced her fingers down your slit gently, then parted them. Her lips opened at the feeling of just how soaked you were, breath coming ragged and cheeks painted red at the dewiness of your cunt.

She slipped one finger in with ease, a sigh floating out of her mouth as her middle finger followed suit. Pure velvet, it was heaven wrapped around them. Her wrist trembled, body temperature reaching a feverish pitch as she pumped and curled them within your snug cunt. She watched as your body arched, that same saccharine voice echoing through the cave in a chorus of loud breaths and rhapsodic moans.

She admired the way your body had become an instrument beneath her touch. It was like plucking a harp string, hearing its divine tune ring out and watching as it wobbles and wavers from the force.

She pressed her weight to you, the way the sea and the earth meet on shorelines. Shallow puffs of air were hot against your cheek as she continued her ministrations, face one deep pool of lust as she lifted you higher, molten pleasure building within your gut so rapidly that all you could do to buoy yourself was pull at the knotted mass of her golden hair.

She pressed sloppy, open mouthed kisses to your jaw, to the neck that reminded her over and over that you were not hers, but a vicious thing of the sea. Even then, that could not fizzle the blaze burning within her with each buck against her thigh, each drawled out praise spoken against her lips like dove-soft prayers. She was well aware of what you were, and yet you were heady all the same, like too much ale on a star-riddled night.

For the second time perhaps in her life as a sailor, her mind pulsed with a rare revelation. Sweet was its honesty now, she would be content if it were to be so;

It is fitting that I die here.

[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.

[ravenswritings]

── adrift | 01 [sacrifice]

> love & deepspace; rafayel x fem reader > romance, fluff, angst > multi-chapter; 4.2k > content: the events of the sea god myth, 2nd person pov, reader has a backstory (mix of canon and headcanon regarding the island/temple), chapter 1 is all backstory and written in past tense, pirate!reader (in ch 2) > [ ao3 ]

|| masterlist ||

It started off with an idle question you had voiced in the middle of reading an old book detailing the various ceremonies the Emissaries of the Deep Sea performed, including the various situations and reasons why they would make an offering to the sea. Some areas were glossed over, however. “Human sacrifice is pretty major, isn’t it? What would warrant that?” Your voice rang out suddenly, disturbing the almost suffocating quietude of the archives.

Most of the memories from your childhood and teen years featured a seaside temple that sat on a low cliff at the edge of the island on which you were born and raised.

The Emissaries of the Deep Sea practiced and demonstrated their devotion day in and day out. They were constantly faced with the primary subject of their worship; the sights, sounds, and smells of the ocean easily weighed on one’s mind and senses due to its proximity to the temple. Prayers, chanting, and the singing of hymns resounded through the main hall daily, at dawn and dusk, echoing down the stone walls of the smaller corridors branching off further into the building. The emissaries lit sacred flames during ceremonial rituals held on special occasions, symbolic offerings of light and warmth dedicated to the dark, icy depths of the ocean.

And there you were in the middle of it all, a child in the midst of these followers of the sea and the Sea God, graciously taken in by the temple at eight years old after you were orphaned.

Prior to your life in the temple, you were raised by your single father who was a fisherman and sailor - meaning that you grew up with your father’s intermittent absence. Your mother had passed while giving birth to you, and you had no living grandparents or other relatives. Thankfully, your neighbors (good people, your father often insisted) would keep an eye on you when needed, though once you got a bit older you were allowed to stay home by yourself for a few hours at a time as long as you promised to stay safe and secure in your home.

One night, your father never came home.

Though young, you were made aware of the nature of your father’s trade and the possibility that the sea might claim his life any time he set out. He made you promise that you would reach out to your neighbors in the event that he didn’t return when expected. That night, you stayed huddled up on the sofa, taking up station in the small room that served as a sitting area, kitchen, and dining room all in one. Dread and anxiety clawed at your insides, and you restlessly waited for the front door to open, for your father to walk through alive and well. That suffocating feeling you got when you wanted to cry settled deep in your chest, but you refused to shed any tears, wanting to hold out hope that your father was simply very, very late. You would doze off briefly, only to awaken within the hour by the slightest of sounds.

Come morning, you were jolted awake by several steady knocks at the front door. Squinting at the light streaming in through the thin, patchwork curtains, you rubbed at your eyes as you hurriedly stumbled off the couch. You toddled to the door, gait stilted in your half-asleep state, little legs unsteady. When you pulled it open, you saw an unfamiliar man - looking worse for wear with a sallow complexion, dark eye bags, bruising to his right cheek and jaw, and mussed, frizzy hair - with a deeply apologetic expression, eyes heavy and weary with regret and sympathy. Before he even opens his mouth to speak, you have an undeniable sinking feeling that your father is dead.

It was supposed to be a routine fishing trip; one that took the fishermen out a little further into the seas than usual, but a run that had been done numerous times in the past. But the sea is dangerous and fickle, and one’s safety could never truly be guaranteed. There was a storm - harsh and sudden, the small crew not able to turn the boat around in time to make it back - that resulted in half the crew falling overboard and drowning. The man that had come to the door was one of the few crew members who managed to make it back on the small fishing boat.

Having heard of the tragedy (how could they not, when they often keep a close eye on the comings and goings of ships and boats around the island?), one of the Emissaries of the Deep Sea approached you during the hastily put together last-minute funeral, offering to take you in. Among those who attended the funeral for the deceased fishermen, the now-orphaned child was one of the highlights of discussion. The emissary explained that, while the temple might not be the most ideal place for a child to be raised, they had the means to provide for you. They could allow you to grow up with food, a roof over your head, and people to keep an eye on you and keep you safe. Despite feeling alone and lost and terrified of what the future held, as if you were adrift at sea and about to drown, you agreed without hesitation.

What else could you do, really?

You might have been young and scared and so unaware of many things in this world, but you had some awareness of your situation. You didn’t have any family that you knew of, and your neighbors had their own children as well as their own struggles. You had been staying with them, temporarily, while preparations for the funeral were underway; it had been a tight squeeze in their little house, a strain on their limited food stores. Besides them, there wasn’t anyone else you could reasonably rely on. Since the temple offered help to you, you gladly took it.

For what it’s worth, the emissaries took decent care of you. They may not have been the warmest or most affectionate - you don’t know if you ever felt loved by them - but you had a place to live and people to speak to regularly. The temple’s followers consisted mostly of men, but there were a handful of women as well who, perhaps unsurprisingly, were often a bit more adept at caring for a child, despite most of them not having had children of their own. Your education was supplemented with plenty of teachings about the ocean and the Sea God. Primarily the latter, though the former could not be neglected either.

However, you were rather disenchanted with the idea of the Sea God.

If the God of the Sea was a being so revered and worshipped, why does he allow the ocean to claim so many victims in such brutal and unexpected ways?

The first - and only - time that you expressed those sentiments, you received an hour-long scolding. The sea is powerful and vast, and thus should be respected. Life as we know it would not exist without the sea. You held your tongue after that, but your participation in prayers and rituals were half-hearted at best. Otherwise, you were simply following the motions, doing what was expected of you since the temple was so kind as to take in an orphan such as you.

And then you learned that you were to become a sacrifice, once the time was right.

You were a bit older when you learned of that fact, in your early teens. It wasn’t something that you were meant to find out, at least not at that age. You already knew that people were sometimes offered as sacrifices to the Sea God, though items such as gems, ceramics, and glassware were presented much more often. The idea of human sacrifices, both willing and unwilling, were rather morbid, but you hadn’t thought too deeply about it, simply accepting it as one of the many sides of worship. You know that plenty of other religions made similar offerings. But the knowledge that the temple had long had you in mind as a future sacrifice was new to you, incidentally discovered through someone’s slip of the tongue.

It started off with an idle question you had voiced in the middle of reading an old book detailing the various ceremonies the Emissaries of the Deep Sea performed, including the various situations and reasons why they would make an offering to the sea. Some areas were glossed over, however. “Human sacrifice is pretty major, isn’t it? What would warrant that?” Your voice rang out suddenly, disturbing the almost suffocating quietude of the archives.

There were a few other emissaries in the room with you, repairing old works, sorting and storing them away, and brushing up on old, half-forgotten topics. One of them answers you, his tone rather light and pleasant despite the grim subject matter. “It’s something this temple only does once every ten years. It’s not something we take lightly, of course, but it’s done to ensure the continued safety of our lands. The sacrifice is typically offered before the winter storms, in hopes that the ocean will be more forgiving that year and in years to come.”

With a mild hum, you returned your gaze to the tome in front of you, fingers tracing the edges of the page that was currently flipped open. You supposed the explanation made enough sense, but you couldn’t help but wonder what they believed would happen if they didn’t offer a sacrifice, if there had ever been a time where a sacrifice wasn’t made each decade. And how was the sacrifice selected, anyway? You were about to ask another question when a different emissary across the room had quietly spoken up, speaking to the one beside him.

“That’s why we’re keeping her around, isn’t it?”

His conversation partner quickly hushed him, pointedly ignoring your gaze as your head snapped over to them. For a split second, you dismissed the statement as a joke. But the weight of the silence in the archives doubled as soon as the words were out of the man’s mouth, and none of the men in the room met your eyes. It was true, wasn’t it?

The feeling of betrayal swelled hot and sharp and quick in your chest. But there was a strange, desolate sorrow that dragged it down, drowning it, as if all along you always expected there to be a catch for their previous kindness. You had heard the whispers over the years, a few emissaries questioning why a child was taken in by the temple when there were surely other places they could go. Slowly closing the book in your hands, the slight tremble (out of anger or despair, you’re not sure) in your fingers making it difficult, you turned back towards the emissary who had originally answered your question.

“Is that true?” Your question came out soft and weak, but it felt so loud in the oppressive silence. You hated the way you sounded so heartbroken, like you had truly believed the emissaries actually cared about you.

Some of them, perhaps, cared about you to some degree. You were fond of a few of them, felt that they were fond of you. But that didn’t matter at that moment.

The emissary sighed, eyes downcast. He busied himself with sorting away the books on the cart next to him, unable to bear looking you in the face. “It is something that had been discussed, regrettably,” he spoke eventually, tone troubled and very much a contrast to his lighter tone from earlier. It was not easy news to bear, nor was it easy to hear, but you respected the fact that he admitted to it. “But there is no need for a sacrifice for some time. Many things could change in the coming years. It would be best if you did not concern yourself about it.”

Your eyes narrowed at that, and the bitterness started to resurface, clawing its way through any sort of sorrow you were experiencing. Were his words supposed to be some sort of consolation? Was he trying to placate you, make you believe that your fate wasn’t already decided? Yes, we considered using you as a sacrifice to the Sea God, and we might. But we could find someone else to sacrifice in your place.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Much of your trust and respect towards the Emissaries of the Deep Sea dissipated that day, just like the seafoam that fizzles out as waves dash the shore.

You continued to stay in the temple, albeit rather reluctantly. There were limited places you could run off to on an island, after all, even one that was a decent size such as yours. You entertained the idea sometimes. If you were to run off, would they even bother searching for you? A definitive answer never came to you. But you knew you would absolutely seethe with rage if you ran off, only for them to come looking for you and eventually find you. So you stayed, bided your time, dreamed of finding a way out of this temple, off of this damned island, even.

It was when you were seventeen that you learned that the emissaries had, officially, decided on you becoming the next sacrifice. Or, at least, that was when they officially made it known to you. The head of the temple made some grand, sweeping gesture about it, melodramatically bestowing you with the ‘honor’ of being selected. “Your life, given to the deep, will secure the future of our land and our people. It is a noble duty, one of utmost devotion. In three years, a gift must be prepared for the God of the Sea, and that gift shall be you.”

Three years.

It made you wonder who had been sacrificed when you were ten. It wasn’t anyone you knew, as the people who you had contact with both in and out of the temple were still going about their lives.

But you didn’t want your life to end in three years. You held no grand devotion to the God of the Sea, not sure if you even truly believed in Him. What you did know was that the ocean, for all its beauty, was unforgiving. Surely the worship of a small population would not be enough to influence the nature of the sea. It seemed downright foolish to you.

Besides, you were selfish and you knew it. Selfishness is the reason you don’t want to give up your life for maybe calming the seas around your island for the next decade. You were growing ever jaded with the temple and its beliefs. And yet, you still held some fondness for the sea itself, as well as the life and mysteries it carried, despite the fact that it took your father and that one day it might take you, too.

If the ocean did take your life one day, you didn’t want it to be because you were sacrificed by a group of emissaries who refused to become sacrifices to their own religion.

One year passed, then almost two.

In some ways, your life changed very little. The Emissaries still performed their prayers, chants, rituals, and hymns. The sight, sound, and scent of the ocean bore down on the seaside temple every day; a constant reminder of its presence, of your eventual demise. Really, no matter where one went on the island, the ocean wasn’t far. You were still stuck participating in some of the day-to-day activities of the temple, which you had long gotten used to while you pretended to be devoted to their beloved Sea God.

But ever since your fate was confirmed to you, you’ve spent much of your time dreaming of escape. Except, as time passed - as that fate drew closer - those idle thoughts became more restless, leaving you feeling frustrated and trapped. With your free time, you started roaming the island more and more often instead of staying holed up in your room and refusing to engage with anyone. Each time you went out, you scoped your surroundings for potential places to run off to, places to hide.

Your attention kept returning to the port, specifically to the ships that intermittently came and went.

If there was nowhere on the island that could allow your escape, then the only solution was to leave the island altogether.

The night that the idea planted itself in your mind as a seriously viable option (you had always wistfully considered it, but never placed much stock in it because you had little faith that it would work out), you could barely sleep. You kept tossing and turning, your mind chewing on possibilities only to get choked up on the logistics. It was high risk, high reward - and you know it’s not going to be easy getting the necessary information or even carrying out whatever reckless plan you would decide on. Forcing your eyes closed, dragging the blanket up over your head, you decided that you weren’t going down without a fight.

Whenever you had a free moment, you started gathering data and making small preparations.

While the Emissaries of the Sea often kept an eye on any vessels that left and came to the island, mostly to bless outgoing fishermen and ships, they didn’t hold any influence on who docks or departs. You could manage to get on a boat without attracting their attention quite easily, so long as you timed it right. Ships leaving in the very early morning or very late at night were going to be your best bet; it’s rare that an emissary would be out by the docks around those times.

The tricky part of getting on a ship was either sneaking on without the crew noticing (practically impossible) or somehow convincing them to let you board. You can’t imagine they’d just allow you to set sail with them out of the goodness of their hearts, however.

Maybe you could barter with them. You didn’t really have much in the way of valuables, though, other than a set of matching silver bangles adorned with several small squares of tourmaline in a shimmering teal; simple in design, but still very pretty. The set was one of the few things you bothered keeping over the years that had belonged to your parents, perhaps the last thing you really had to remember them by, but…

If you held onto sentimentality too tightly, you wouldn’t be able to keep moving forward. Your potential freedom was worth more to you than those bangles.

Over the next few weeks, you continued your preparations while waiting for a half-decent chance to escape. One day, when you were out idly roaming the town in the late afternoon after attending to your duties in the temple, you heard the uneasy mutterings of a number of villagers you passed: a pirate ship had docked earlier that afternoon, and while they hadn’t made any moves to pillage or terrorize, their dangerous presence was still unwanted by those that call the island home. You, however, had to suppress the rising hope so it didn’t show on your face.

This could be your chance.

After checking in with some of the villagers who worked near the docks and fishermen who frequently came and went, you learned that the pirates had stopped at the island for the night for a brief reprieve and would be off again in the morning. It didn’t seem like they were up to any funny business, no plundering or attacking, though they had been quite rowdy and rude to the various merchants and the barkeep. Not that any of that really mattered to you, though; the fact that they were leaving in the morning was the only thing on your mind.

It was a sudden, unexpected opportunity, but you’re going to grab it with both hands.

That night, when you returned to your room, you packed a small knapsack with a couple changes of clothes and just a few measly rations of food. It wouldn’t be wise to travel too heavily, you knew, though you couldn’t help but feel underprepared for your potential journey. If it even panned out, that is. Though you tucked yourself into bed, you didn’t sleep, too antsy about sleeping in too late and missing the ship’s departure.

And so you snuck off at dawn, the sun barely peeking over the horizon while shades of pink bled into the deep blue of the sky. Having long memorized the routines of the emissaries, you silently prowled through the dark, stone halls, slipping through the doors and making sure they closed softly behind you.

There were a few fishermen from the village milling about near the shore, but they avoided coming too close to the docks, eyeing the scene warily. The pirate crew was getting their vessel ready to set sail, some men much more energetic than others in the early hours, milling to and from their ship as they dragged some cargo (stolen or properly purchased, you weren’t sure) aboard. It was still early enough that it was half dark, though a few rays of sunshine danced across the very tops of the waves.

This was it. Now or never. You weren’t sure how this would all end up, but it didn’t matter if you made a fool of yourself or got hurt in the process; anything was better than just sitting around and waiting to become the sacrificial lamb the temple wanted you to be.

You ran up to the docks, and a few of the crew turned when they heard your quick footfalls thumping across the rickety wood. Ignoring the mix of confused and amused jeering, the men wondering what a little lady was doing approaching them so brazenly, you declared: “I want to speak to your captain.”

Your nerve garnered some guffaws, but you remained steadfast, expression not wavering from its stern, determined set. Irritated that they weren’t taking you seriously (though part of you couldn’t blame them; you would likely react similarly if you were in their shoes), you were about to open your mouth again to repeat your demand when another voice - a rough baritone - spoke up.

“And what might you want with me, lass?”

Your gaze shot up to a man that had walked to the edge of the ship’s deck. He appeared to be middle aged, skin weathered from being long exposed to the elements and hair that was a rich chestnut brown but graying tied back away from his face. A bandana covered the top of his head, and he wore a stiff, long coat over his tunic and leather armor. There was an amused smirk on his face, eyes narrowed in a speculative curiosity.

You took a step closer to the ship. “I want to board your ship.”

A beat passed before he scoffed a single laugh, sounding at once endeared but exasperated at your naivete. “Really, now? Humor me, lass. What’s the reason for such a demand? And what makes you think I’ll agree?”

“I wish to leave this place, but my options are limited,” you started, voice steady as you began to make your case. “I don’t care if you just drop me off at the nearest island; please let me board.”

“You realize we’re pirates, aye? We’re not a charter for little girls who want to run away from home,” the captain sneered, leaning his forearms against the taffrail, unconvinced by your pathetic attempt to sway him.

With a deep breath, you settled the desperation welling up in your throat. “If I don’t run away then I’m going to be thrown in the ocean to drown before the next year is over, because the temple here wants to make me a damn sacrifice,” you spat, deciding to get to the heart of the matter, your words frank and honest. “Besides, pirates attack coastal villages and kidnap pretty maidens often enough, don’t they? Consider me a captive or something, just walking right onto your ship.”

The captain was no longer smiling, but rather looking at you with an evaluating expression, studying the frustrated desperation that washed over your face and voice.

Unsure if he had been persuaded, you continued. You raised your hand, silver bracelets glinting in the early dawn’s sunlight. “The most valuable things I have on me are these bracelets. They probably amount to nothing you could get from ransacking another ship or village, but they’re yours if you let me on.” You paused for a moment. “Please. I need to leave.”

Considering your words, his fingers drummed the wooden railing in a heavy and slow staccato. The captain let out a short sigh, then straightened up and laughed, the sound rich and deep - but not mocking. “You’ve certainly got guts, I’ll give you that. The audacity of a young lady making demands of a pirate crew!” He made his way from the deck across the gangway, stopping right in front of you on the docks.

“I won’t promise you a comfortable journey, but you can board and we’ll find somewhere to drop you off,” he announced, then held his hand out, palm up. “And I’ll take those shiny bangles as payment.”

And that was how you managed to become a runaway sacrifice, spirited away by a pirate ship.

As the ship sailed off, watching the island become smaller and smaller in the distance felt surreal. There was a bit of trepidation deep in your chest; you were leaving behind everything that you knew, everything that you were familiar with. Despite everything, though, the anticipation of the future overshadowed everything else.

[imimprisoned]

Poseidon: God of the Seas, Earthquakes, Storms, and Horses.

Offerings Include:

1. ocean and rain scented incense

2. conch shells

3. horse, ship, or dolphin statues

4. impossible bottles (ship-in-a-bottle)

5. blue, green, and silver candles

6. ocean and sea scented candles

7. tridents
cloaks

8. wreaths made from wild celery

9. seashells

10. sea salt
starfish or starfish decorations

11. gems such as pearls, sea glass, blue sapphires, aquamarine

12. toys or art of dolphins, fish, and/or horses

13. coral

14. mint

15. mint candies

16. art, toys, or photos of tridents

17. photos or art of the ocean

18. naturally shed shark teeth

19. sand

20. ocean scented essential oils or perfumes

21. art of hippocamp (half-horse, half-fish creature)

Prayers to Poseidon

1) Poseidon, dark-haired god of all waters, by whose will alone do sailors fare in safety. Lord of the black sea depths, swirling dark and deep, swift in thought, sure in deed, fervent in feeling, the ocean's caprice is yours,

O Poseidon; overwhelming one, I praise and honor you.

Mighty Poseidon, unfathomable god, I pray to you. You at whose touch sweet water springs forth, at whose whim the earth breaks open beneath our feet, whose pure power we feel in our bones and our blood, show me life's essence, life's rage; pull me like the tide; grant me safe harbor at last, shield me from storms.

2) May Posideon ward floods, earthquakes, and others from you.

3) Poseidon of the white-capped waves, dark-haired god of the the cold salt sea, of raging rivers and sweetwater springs,

Ancient one, in Knossos and in Thebes your name was known, carved with care on tablets of clay, spoken softly, prayerfully, in old Mycenae.

World-shaker, god who holds in hand the bones of the deep earth,

In Corinth were you well honored with games of skill and prowess;

Throughout the land your temples stood, shining and tall.

The sea depths are yours, Poseidon; your palace lies on the ocean floor, far removed from Olympos heights and yet a glorious dwelling in your wondrous realm.

Bearer of the trident, stirrer of storms, master of horses, granter to mankind of many gifts, Poseidon, mighty son of Kronos, I praise you.

[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]

[akiymgc]

[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)