#prayers of the voiceless voice
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Prayers of the Voiceless Voice
"This card can be used to Ritual Summon any LIGHT Ritual Monster. You must also Tribute LIGHT monsters from your hand or field whose total Levels equal or exceed the Level of the Ritual Monster. If a face-up LIGHT Ritual Monster(s) you control leaves the field by an opponent's card effect (except during the Damage Step): You can banish this card from your GY; Special Summon 1 'Sauravis, the Ancient and Ascended'; 'Saffira, Queen or Dragons' of 'Skull Guardian, Protector of the Voiceless Voice' from your hand or Deck, ignoring its Summoning conditions. You can only use this effect of 'Prayers of the Voiceless Voice' once per turn."
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Lo, the Prayers of the Voiceless Voice
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dress up
#theyre lesbians btw#^_^#yugioh#yugioh tcg#yugioh ocg#lesbians#YURI!!!!!#Lo Prayer of the Voiceless Voice#Diviner of the Herald
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@ramlightly graciously let me write a fic based on this comic. Check it out, it's so cool!
"Dominate Person" is a nasty spell that can fully submit a humanoid to your power. It's unclear if the victim has self-consciousness in the moment but since it's possible to throw Wisdom saving rolls I think you can feel that you are controlled.
Thanks @bhaalbaaby for beta-reading!
Puppet Master
Synopsis: Astarion is enchanted by the "Dominate Person" spell and almost kills Tav.
Tags: angst, comfort
TW: A description of physical violence
Read on AO3
Masterlist
Headcanons
Astarion wants to move. To hide in the shadows and shoot the necromancer from there.
You are surrounded, but you keep doing your work.
But he can't.
His body is paralyzed, and he feels a wave of panic.
No, not this. Not "Hold Person"!
He can't do this. He can't make it.
Paralysis is like being sealed in a tomb with too little space to move. Helpless, voiceless.
What if something happens to you when he is like this?
"Astarion, use your daggers!"
Is it you? Or one of the adventurers you've teamed up this morning to kick necromancers out of the town?
Astarion just has to wait. The spell wears off when the spellcaster is down. Or a healer manages to find a way to get rid of the invisible chains.
Or...
USE THE DAGGER
The voice is intimidating, too loud, and too powerful.
It's like the Cazador's voice in his head again. Suppressing. Ordering. Torturing.
No, no...
Astarion feels his hand move toward the dagger. The strings make him move.
It's not "Hold Person".
It's "Dominate Person".
Full control of the victim. The voice your body cannot resist. You become one of them, fighting for them.
Murdering your loved ones.
KILL
Astarion rushes forward to you. To the only person he loves and cares about. The only person in the entire world who has never hurt him.
"Astarion! Help me! Astarion, what's wrong?"
Astarion pushes you into the ground with all his newfound vampiric strength.
No, no, please, stop it!
MURDER THEM
The dagger stabs through your stomach, causing an internal rupture. The second dagger wounds your chest.
You stare at him in pain, in silent prayer. You watch your lover killing you.
Blood. So much blood. Your blood.
A strong hand pulls Astarion from you, but it's not enough.
Astarion has an order from his new master.
To kill you. To make sure you are dead.
It is the worst type of dissociation. He is just an observer.
His hands rip you apart as if you are a prey he's found in the woods. Your eyes are full of terror and pain.
VAMPIRE, DRINK THE BLOOD.
No, no, I won't do it. I don't take the blood without consent... NO!
His fangs pierce into your neck, taking the blood non-stop. To satiate him, to let him feel alive.
And to drain you.
He is less than a slave. A puppet. With his locked mind in agony.
CRUSH THE SKULL
Astarion grabs a handful of your hair to smash you against a stone. Your body is motionless. Broken. Almost dead.
And then...
The agony of death pierces the mind. It's an acid flare of horror - too familiar for the undead.
It happened to him once, many years ago. When he was killed by Cazador and revived as a vampire spawn.
That's how death feels.
But he isn't dying. More than this, his body is his again.
Astarion stands up, feeling the nightmare wearing off.
Your body lies on the ground in blood and gore.
Astarion falls to his knees, his hands shaking.
And yells.
**
You wake up, your body sore and in terrible pain.
Astarion.
Your mind reacts with a panic attack - a near-death experience causing mental anguish. Your body remembers how Astarion jumped on you with his daggers.
How he ripped your throat.
How he almost crushed your skull.
You try to collect yourself. "Dominate Person". One of the nastiest spells necromancers know. Create a humanoid puppet and make them kill their friends and loved ones. While they silently scream, locked in their minds.
Some people never recover from that. Offing themselves, not being capable of dealing with what they did.
Damn, and what did it do to Astarion? It's what happened to him during his enslavement. Orders impossible to resist.
You want to call for him, but your body refuses to act. It remembers.
His hands, his fangs.
And his eyes in such desperation you've never seen.
Before you manage to collect yourself again, you fall into oblivion.
**
Astarion is silent.
His nails pierce his scalp. His teeth are clenched. His eyes open wide as he stares at the wall.
The companions who murdered the necromancers ignore him, but he doesn't feel any hostility.
Just a spell. It happens.
"Astarion... Is this your name, right?" a young fighter approaches him. "You need to take a bath."
Astarion looks at himself. His clothes are covered in blood. Your blood.
"Tav will be fine. We have good healers here. Don't blame yourself."
As if enchanted again, Astarion walks away. In silence, he locks himself in the bathroom - a small wooden room with a tub full of hot water. But instead of putting off the dirty clothes, he submerges himself fully clothed.
The fabric clings to the body, and Astarion hugs his knees. The blood mixes with water.
His back hurts as if his scars are bleeding.
He doesn't know how long he spends there. An hour? A day? A week? The water is cold. but he can't care less still hearing your cries.
The door creaks, and he notices familiar soft steps.
"Astarion? Are you alright?"
He can't look at you. Can't make himself. Can't witness the damage he caused.
"I almost killed you, and you ask how I am doing?" his voice breaks.
"The necromancer almost killed me," you say firmly. "Not you. Hey, look at me!"
Your head is heavily bandaged. There are bruises all over your face, and he knows there is much more evidence of his violence below your shirt and trousers.
"It wasn’t you. It was them. You would never do this to me."
"I did."
"You didn't. Come on, take off your clothes. They’re all wet."
He wants to make you go, make you leave. He will be happy knowing you are somewhere safe and far from him.
You touch his neck, and he can't resist. Astarion allows you to pull off his shirt and then manages to take off the trousers as well.
"I am sorry," he whispers.
"Don't." You start rubbing his back, and he flinches when your gentle fingers touch the edges of the scars.
"Tav... You need to rest..."
"Don't be selfish. I need this, too."
"What? Why?"
You take his chin and make him look up at you. "Because my body remembers you killing me. Because my subconscious tells me to run away. Because I remember these gentle hands of yours driving blades into my chest. I need to forget it before it's engraved forever. So please, don’t push me away. Not now..."
You keep rubbing his back, hands, and chest. You plant kisses on the clean skin. You wash his hair, stained blood, and gore, and make sure your touches are light and tender.
"If you want to talk about it, I am here. I know what exactly it reminded you of," you whisper in his ear.
And at that moment it's too much.
His body shudders as he starts crying, hiding his face from you in his palms. You drop the rags and wrap your hands around his neck.
You sit like that for an eternity, lulling each other until the healer starts banging into the door, demanding you to return to bed. You reluctantly let Astarion go.
You kiss him goodbye and leave, hoping the darkness won't hold his mind again, and he won't run away from you and his guilt.
**
The bed is comfortable as you lie motionless on a blanket. The healer did a great job patching you together. But you will need to fully recover. And gallons of healing potion.
Astarion enters the room. He wears fresh clothes, and if it wasn't for his facial expression, you could think nothing bad has happened.
"Come," you ask him. "I am sorry, but the night of passion isn't an offer today."
"Don't be ridiculous. How are you feeling?"
"Beaten. Wounded. Tired. And you?"
"Violated"
You both are silent. Finally, Astarion lies beside you and wraps his hands around you.
Your body stiffens against your will. Astarion feels it and tries to let you go.
"No. Hold me like that!"
He obliges and gently places your head on his chest. His cool skin feels nice.
Astarion loves me. He won't hurt me.
You repeat it like a prayer before finally being able to fully relax.
"I love you," he mutters. "I won't hurt you. You hear me?"
You nod.
"I love you, too," You smile, and your heart rejoices when he smiles back.
--
Tag list
@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx@astarion-beloved@tallymonster@caitlincat-95@tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars
#Angsty Romance Prompt List#astarion#baldur's gate 3#bg3#bg3 astarion#astarion bg3#astarion romance#baldurs gate 3#astarion x tav#astarion x reader#astarion angst#baldurs gate astarion#astarion fics#astarion fanfiction#astarion x f!tav#astarion x female tav#baldur's gate tav#astarion fic#astarion ancunin#astarion fanfic#tav x astarion#spacebarbarian fics
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Voiceless | Resilient Hearts
Tommy Shelby x Reader
The hospital's sterile walls couldn't contain the restless energy that permeated the air. Doctors and nurses rushed Y/N into an emergency surgery, leaving Tommy pacing the halls in his bloodied suit, his mind clouded with fear and uncertainty. The Shelby family, a stoic facade crumbling under the weight of worry, congregated in the waiting area.
Finn and John's wife Esme, having heard the distressing news, joined the anxious gathering. The collective tension was palpable, a silent prayer echoing in the hearts of each family member.
Unable to find solace, Tommy's pacing became a frantic dance of despair. Polly, the pragmatic voice in the storm, approached him with a stern expression. "Tommy, sit down. You're driving everyone mad."
His nerves frayed, Tommy snapped, his voice cutting through the sterile silence. "Calm down? How the bloody hell can I calm down when the woman I love is fighting for her life in there? I can't lose her, Pol. I just can't."
As the words escaped Tommy's lips, an unexpected vulnerability revealed itself. He sank into a chair, his disheveled appearance mirroring the chaos within. Polly, softening her gaze, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"She's strong, Tommy. Y/N will pull through," Polly offered, a blend of comfort and motherly wisdom. But Tommy, his eyes fixed on the swinging doors that separated him from Y/N's fate, couldn't shake the overwhelming fear that gripped his heart.
In a moment of raw honesty, Tommy's voice wavered as he confessed, "I've loved her since we were kids, Polly. She's always been the one. My future was meant to be with her."
Polly, understanding the weight of his admission, offered a silent nod. The hospital's cold walls bore witness to a man stripped of his tough exterior, laid bare by the possibility of a life without Y/N.
The Shelby family, their collective breath held in anxious anticipation, found solace in the news that Y/N's surgery had been a success. The weight that had settled on Tommy's chest lifted, replaced by a cautious optimism that permeated the air.
Days turned into weeks, and the hum of the hospital became a familiar backdrop for the Shelby family. Y/N, still in a state of delicate repose, lay in her room, eyes closed, connected to the rhythmic pulsing of the machines that monitored her recovery.
Tommy, a constant presence by her bedside, held her hand in a silent promise that everything would be okay. His gaze lingered on her peaceful countenance, a stark contrast to the chaos that had enveloped their lives.
In the stillness of the hospital room, Tommy spoke to Y/N as if she could hear him, expressing sentiments he had never dared to voice before. "I've loved you since we were young, Y/N," he confessed softly. "You're my future, and I can't imagine my life without you. We'll get through this together."
The room, bathed in the soft glow of the evening, witnessed a moment of vulnerability from Tommy Shelby, a man whose heart had long been entwined with the resilient spirit of the mute girl who had captured his affections.
As Y/N's recovery unfolded, the Shelby family found strength in unity, a testament to the bonds that held them together through triumphs and tribulations. The quiet hum of the hospital became a symphony of hope, echoing the resilience of hearts that refused to be broken.
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#tommy shelby x reader#tommy shelby imagine#peaky blinders imagine#thomas shelby imagine#tommy shelby imagines#cillian murphy#peaky blinders imagines#thomas shelby imagines#peaky blinders#tommy shelby#tommy shelby fanfic#tommy shelby angst#tommy shelby x you#thomas shelby x reader#thomas shelby fanfic#thomas shelby#thomas shelby angst#peaky blinders fanfiction#peaky blinders fanfic#peaky blinder fanfic#peaky blinder imagine#peaky blinders x reader#peaky fucking blinders#peaky fookin blinders#cillian murphy x reader#cillian murphy imagine#cillian murphy fanfiction#cillian x reader#cillian x fem!reader
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A Sea-change
Tar-Míriel & Uinen | G | ~900 words | AO3
Mercy. Salvation. Míriel’s footsteps pound to the beat of her heart. Mercy. Salvation.
She is the rightful queen of Númenor. She is Faithful. She will not die like the accursed who gathered at the Temple of Melkor like flies to a carcass.
She must reach the flaming peak of Meneltarma, that the Valar might see her, know her to be Faithful, and save her.
She cannot look behind her. If she does, her heart will surely quail and her footsteps falter.
She looks despite herself. The wave rises in a green wall above Elenna. The blackened dome of the Temple of Melkor splinters beneath the weight of the water, cracks with a roar like an explosion of glass, and the sea purges the temple of its filth. The temple falls into the heart of the sea, marked only by the steam rising from where it stood.
She turns. The path climbs steeply ahead of her. She has so far to go.
The wind buffets her. Míriel falls, strikes her face hard against the earth as her ankle twists in a ring of searing fire. She tastes blood, spits it out. Rain streams in her eyes, and she scrubs a hand across her face, rubbing grit into her eyes. She screams—in fear, in helpless anger—but her voice is lost to the wind.
She scrambles upright, staggers, and limps forward. The peak is too far, her ankle alight with fire.
Still she runs, tearing blindly at her skirts until scraps of fabric hang in tatters about her waist. Her feet, slick with rain and blood, slap wetly against the path. Mercy. Salvation.
Her breath is fire in her lungs, and a cramp stabs her side. Water swirls about her ankles and tugs at the hem of her shift, pulling her back. This, too, she tears off, and it floats away from her, ghostly in the dark water.
The mountain shudders beneath her feet, throwing her stumbling into its side, and she scrabbles at the side of the cliff for purchase, lunges forward. Mercy. Salvation.
The ground rolls again, and Míriel falls to her knees, crying out in fear and supplication. Know me, I am Tar-Míriel, faithful and rightful queen of this land! But her cries are lost in the roar of the vengeful sea, her voice stolen by the wind and scattered over acres of rolling waves that hungrily swallow her words.
The water sweeps beneath her, lifts her up and carries her to where the peak of Meneltarma burns with divine fire, a beacon blazing furiously in the midst of the thrashing waves. Before her eyes close against the stinging waves, she catches sight of the sky, night-dark and lashed with lightning, and knows that no mercy has been reserved for her.
Water fills her mouth, her lungs in a burning rush. She cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot thrash against the unyielding grip of the water. Her limbs loosen and her body sags in the water, giving in to the furor of the waves. The embrace of the sea is a fierce shove and a tender caress, sterner and gentler than anything Míriel has known in life.
With the clarity of the dying, she remembers suddenly every prayer she whispered to Uinen, huddled at the edge of the sea, murmuring penitent prayers for the misdeeds of her husband and her people as the waves lapped at her feet. The words well in her again, unspoken.
Darkness seeps beneath her eyelids like ink, and she welcomes it, falls into it. The waves brush her brow in the tenderest touch she has ever felt, and she knows no more.
Míriel sinks, a glimmering jewel falling into darkness.
She is dead, and she is not. Her body is no more. Where once she had arms, fingers, legs, and feet, she is now no more than seafoam, a stirring of the current, a tide propelling the waves. She is formless, voiceless but sees clearly and keenly through the green water that swirls about her.
A flash of gold catches her gaze. Ships of sable and gold sink slowly, their sails billowing to slow their fall. Men fall from their decks, their arms spread wide. Their armor glints dimly in the darkening water. In the center of the wreckage sinks the mightiest ship of them all, a floating castle, huge and many-masted, with many banners of sable and gold rippling from its masts.
Míriel draws closer. The king who boarded the ship in foolish, vain pride is gone, trapped beneath the hills in ceaseless torment. But his men remain aboard—his men who followed every order he uttered, who knelt in worship to Melkor, who gathered the Faithful and slew them on the altar of the temple, who stained Elenna with every drop of blood they spilled.
The sea churns, and the falling ships shudder. With voiceless laughter, Míriel seizes fore and aft of the Alcarondas and folds the ship in half until its timbers burst and its masts tangle and break and its banners flutter like torn rags.
And she draws the Castle of the Sea into the deeps.
#the silmarillion#tar-miriel#uinen#fotfics#silm fic#tolkien fic#tfon#february ficlet challenge#< please ignore that it is now june. i'm very behind#still working on the galadriel fic but wanted to finish a few more of these before the ao3 collection closes next week#my fic
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The Russian Shades of Red - introduction
A/N - hello hello guys! back from my big big hiatus, and finally have motivation to write again. this is an idea that has been marinating in my drafts for over two years now, and i've decided to try and make it an actual story. anyhow, i hope you enjoy reading this introduction chapter!
"Love is a lie, Chaisan. No matter what kind, it will always be an equivocate. It makes you weak."
I walk by his side, every step heavier than the one before. It was getting hard to keep my stride as voiceless as my reactions to the stupid words coming out of his mouth.
I know that he knows.
I know how he knows.
I keep my silence, trailing behind him, knowing deep down there's no turning back anymore. The dark, unforgiving concrete hall stretches out endlessly before us, its oppressive atmosphere thick with unspoken dread. To my left and right, young faces, etched with both defiance and despair, watch me pass with eyes that speak of horrors endured and futures uncertain. Each step echoes ominously, a grim cadence punctuated by distant sounds of training and pain. His presence beside me is a palpable force, a silent reminder of the ruthless authority that governs this labyrinthine world.
As we move forward, I can feel their gazes upon me-a mix of fear and hope flickering in their eyes. They are the lost souls of this clandestine realm, their innocence stripped away in the pursuit of a cruel destiny. Their whispers cling to the cold walls like desperate prayers, pleading for a chance at freedom from the shadows that consume them. In their fleeting glances, I glimpse the raw determination to survive, tempered by the harsh reality of their existence. I steel myself against the rising tide of empathy, knowing that in this place, compassion is a luxury none can afford.
Dread clutches at my heart like a vice as we move further and further into the intricate corridors of this forbidding place. The oppressive silence is punctuated only by the faint hum of distant machinery and the occasional muffled sound of activity from unseen rooms. Every step forward feels like a descent into the unknown, each turn potentially leading to another trial or revelation that could shatter whatever remains of my fragile resolve.
As we approach the door at the end of the hall, my apprehension peaks. He pushes it open with an indifferent gesture, revealing the room beyond-a stark chamber bathed in a subdued, ominous light. The air within seems heavier, charged with a tension that mirrored my own escalating fear. Without a word, I enter, and the sensation washes over me like a wave-the chilling certainty that this was the place where I had been forced to confront the darkest aspects of myself. The dim lighting cast eerie shadows that danced on the walls, conjuring memories I had tried so hard to bury. This was the room-the one where I had faced the ultimate test of loyalty and survival. The walls seemed to close in around me, each corner whispering echoes of past decisions and haunting choices. The weight of those moments hung palpably in the air, a silent testament to the darkness that had once consumed me.
The sudden impact of his fist against my chest takes my breath away as the intensity pushes me on the cold floor of the cell he dubs "Chaisan's Room". Pain radiates through me, but it's nothing compared to the realisation sinking in like an anchor in my gut. In this dark, suffocating room that holds memories of anguish and betrayal, I know now what he expects of me.
His voice cuts through the silence, his Russian accent filled with a chilling certainty that sends shivers down my spine. "You're worth nothing, Chaisan. You're just an experiment. You're mine, nothing else. Not a best friend, not a sister, not a daughter, not a girlfriend. You're nothing but a puppet, and I'm holding the strings while the world watches the show."
I push myself up on my elbows, the taste of blood on my lips as I meet his cold gaze. This room, where shadows dance cruelly upon the walls, is where the truth becomes undeniable. I swallow hard, steeling myself for what lies ahead, knowing that the only way out may be through a darkness that threatens to consume everything I once held dear. In the fear of being caught in an even more emotionally vulnerable state, I shut my eyes, only hoping to buy myself a bit more time.
My closed eyes can't block out the image of the smirk on his face. I stay motionless, aware that any movement could escalate the situation. The subtle sound of calloused fingers brushing against fabric, combined with my years of training, tells me he's smoothing out his shirt.
"Clean up your mess, Chaisan, and I'll see what I do with you later. You're not getting out of this so easily."
It takes some time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room, but once they do, I wish they never did.
"Vitaya."
I repress the cold chills climbing up my spine, looking deep into the blue eyes of the young girl whose hair I combed less than 5 hours ago. She isn't looking at me. She's looking at the gun pointing at her head. She sees the trembling, I do too, and we both know he does too.
"Are you weak, Chaisan? Are you, a thirteen-year-old, as weak as this six-year-old pathetic girl?"
The silence in the room is deafening. The girl's breaths are inaudible, despite her chest heaving with the effort of her overworking lungs. As I shake my head, her ocean-blue eyes shift from the barrel of the gun to meet mine.
I see the waves, menacingly poised to engulf the dunes. I see hope, buried deep within the ocean, much like the rocks we once hurled from the cliffs. I see trauma, as pervasive in the sea as salt in the water.
I see eyes full of life.
"Chaisan."
We both look at the man ruining our lives.
'If you don't do it, I will."
I know what that means. The long awaited shower the little girl will be promised to have won't run on water, but gas.
Driven by survival instinct, I pull the trigger, my gaze still fixed on the man who just forced me to kill my sister.
But now, instead of the ocean-blue eyes of my sister or the forest-green eyes of the girl i thought i'd be met with, I stare into the azure-blue eyes of my best friend.
My best friend, tied in the fair in front of me, holding my frantic stare steadily. She seems calmer than I've ever seen her before, almost as if she has the situation under control.
Which she doesn't.
My eyes drift lower, to the necklace she's wearing, matching mine.
"I can't," I whisper desperately. "Don't do this, Dreykov, please. I'll do anything. Spare her. Take me instead. Just keep her alive."
His imposing presence closes in around me, stifling and suffocating. I stay motionless as he extracts one of the knives from my suit's compartment and presses it against my jawline.
"Am I sensing love here, Chaisan? Love is for children."
He emphasises his last sentence by tearing my hidden necklace from around my neck and digging the blade of my knife into my cheek.
A single tear traced a crimson path down my face, lingering over the fresh wound where my necklace once brought solace and hope. Dreykov thrust a gun into my trembling hands.
"It's okay, Vee," the blonde girl in the chair reassured me. "I promise."
She nodded, her affectionate smile tinged with pride, love, bravery, and tears. One streaked down her cheek, a poignant testament to her resolve.
I shook my head as I raised the gun, blocking out Dreykov's commands. My focus narrowed to the girl before me. I wanted to imprint every detail into my memory: her golden hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes alive with memories of lessons shared and bonds forged. Her smiles, smirks, sobs, and now, another tear tracing her cheek.
I felt Dreykov's gun against my temple, but her presence anchored me, and I didn't hear his threats.
"I'm sorry, Bee," I whispered. "Я люблю тебя." [I love you]
She gave a faint smile, nodding before closing her eyes.
"Я тоже люблю тебя, Витайя," she murmured. "I promise. It's okay. You've got this and I'll be cheering you on from above." [I love you too, Vitaya]
I close my eyes before pulling the trigger.
A life for a life.
"YELENA BELOVA, terminated by VITAYA CHAISAN."
#natasha romanoff#natasha romanoff x reader#natasha romanoff reader#scarlett johansson#scarlett johansson reader#scarlett johansson x reader#black widow
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arabella___rose
What is it to pray? Why pray? Or to wish, to have faith or to trust... Merely just by being & embodying ones truth is a prayer. Creator knows our deepest secrets. Why do I need to pray? Prayer gives voice to the voiceless, Prayer gives voice to the secrets held beneath your bones, embedded deep within your heart prayer gives voice to your blood... to acknowledge the mystery into the altar of spoken word & ignite that spark longing to be heard
I feel like Im on the precipice of great change old limiting beliefs & patterns are decaying as new landscapes & ways of being unfurl into my days.
With this winter solstice I give thanks to my past that has cultivated the woman I am. I give thanks to all those who walked before me, shaped me & birthed me into existence. I give thanks to my mother for raising, nurturing & caring for me I give thanks to my father for his constant support, firm love & encouragement. I give thanks to simplicity, slowing down & the spaciousness for resting upon this sacred country.
I feel l have been struck by love A lightening bolt so immense Im understanding love doesn’t come without pain. Its that intense contraction, friction & hurt that alchemises one to combust to open... to open up to more, to clear the stagnant that was trying to hold on... to open for more life force, more mana to radiate through
It’s been over 6 months since I broke my right forearm bones. In short it was like the world crumbled around me & everything I ever new changed form. I was forced to sit with myself & reflect on my life thus far how all of my choices had lead me to that moment.
What was spirit teaching me? What was karma teaching me? Where was I not in alignment?
Im so grateful to all those who expressed their love & care to me through in that time. There is no greater power than the power of love. Thank you #LOVE for teaching us, for teaching me how to live in comm-unity. To receive, to trust, to feel, to understand we need each other. Its in the dying that one can be born again. I give thanks to the spark of life within singing songs of hope, i give thanks to the courage & strength of will to utilise my voice to paint the artwork of reality.
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watch party for japan vs. argentina men’s volleyball match tonight @ 8 pm!
osamu doodles jerseys in the corner – his brother’s #11 and his boyfriend’s #20. he stands to admire the sandwich board, startling at the voice behind him. “not #18 fer aran? that’s disrespectful of ya.”
“kita-san!” he whirls around to greet him, bowing slightly. “i know, but i have a feelin’ if i don’t put ‘tsumu’s number, he’s gonna blame me fer givin’ him bad luck.”
kita’s smile is slight, amused. “an’ suna?”
“that’s my boyfriend that yer talkin’ ‘bout.”
“yes, yes, as if i’d forget. i’m comin’ by later, so save me a seat, please. let’s talk more then.”
he watches him continue along, likely to visit the other shops on the block, and then ducks back inside his restaurant. it’ll get busy, if the tokyo olympics set any precedent, especially with how vital this match will be. after losing to germany, they’ll need to win, and then perform well against usa. only then will they qualify for the quarterfinals.
inside, the decorations have changed. the jerseys on the wall, once msby and ejp, are now their olympic counterparts. although the photos still show onigiri miya’s humble beginnings, he added a few taken with the team, including one where they’re all holding his onigiri. it pained him being unable to watch any of their games live, but he wouldn’t change it for the business it gave him.
for the rest of the day, he and his staff work to serve their customers, fulfill takeout orders, and prepare for the watch party. about half an hour until eight o’clock, he tunes into the sports channel, where subtitles of analysts discussing japan’s performance and future odds appear on screen.
there are two tvs – one on a shelf over the bar and the other in the corner of the seating area. he has a tablet set up behind the counter to watch whenever there are orders, but the livestream is still on standby. he turns the screen off as the door opens. “welcome back, kita-san. ya want the usual?”
“yes, please.” he takes the empty seat directly across from him, the same where any of their friends would sit whenever they visit. “are ya expectin’ a full house?”
“yeah, it’s usually busy. i imagine it’ll get busier once japan qualifies.” osamu takes a handful of rice and begins molding it. “they’re under a lotta pressure. ‘tsumu was almost in tears when he called.” it hurt that he couldn’t physically be there, relegated to phone calls and video calls, but if listening helped air out frustrations, he’d gladly sacrifice his sleep.
“the world is expectin’ a lot from them after they placed second in the vnl,” kita agrees. “hopefully, they’ll be able ta get it together tonight.” the two of them watched their friends and family compete mere months ago, bringing their nation to the podium, and consequently, to the top of the world. it’s natural to assume it’ll happen again, but so far, it isn’t easy as it sounds.
the clock strikes eight, and the broadcast starts with official warm-ups. atsumu and kageyama are setting to their players at the net, jumping to spike. it changes to serves, the players taking turns to warm up. osamu watches suna, who spins his ball as part of his pre-serve routine, and then tosses it for a jump floater. it isn’t as fast as atsumu’s, nor as deadly as kageyama's, but it’s earned them aces in the past. he hopes it’ll happen again.
the teams line up to sing their countries’ national anthems. a solemn silence falls over the restaurant as everyone follows along, osamu included. the camera zooms in on their faces, strict with determination and focus. suna looks into the camera when he’s in frame, and osamu whispers a voiceless prayer to him.
atsumu is the starting setter, along with ushijima, sakusa, aran, suna, and hakuba. yaku is their libero. the others stand on the sidelines. “must be goin’ fer heavy hitters to blow past argentina’s blocks,” kita comments. osamu nods in agreement.
oikawa tooru is argentina’s starting setter. the whistle blows, and the match begins.
c’mon, guys. i know ya’ll can do it.
the first set doesn’t start off well. japan falls behind in the first half, falling short to argentina’s clean sets and spikes. hakuba is rotated to the back, and suna steps on, hands in front of him. he gets a hand on the spike, and sakusa receives it. atsumu sends it down the middle, suna jumping and rotating his torso to get around the block. japan gets the point.
his customers cheer. osamu hides a small fist pump under the counter. he shares a smile with kita. the commentators are just as excited as he is. “what an unbelievable spike from middle blocker suna rintarou! he’s known for his flexibility and game sense. will this give japan the push they need to get ahead?”
and he does. japan matches and overtakes argentina. kita claps at atsumu’s clean set to ushijima, who slams it down in the opposite court. the team huddles for a cheer and then take their positions. suna is back at the net, hands in front. his eyes widen at the camera pointed at him, and he rotates his fingers to form a heart, mouthing a message. he turns away at the whistle, but that’s enough for the world to see and wonder exactly what he said.
only osamu knows those words by heart.
japan takes the first and second set, but argentina comes back for the third. however, japan takes the fourth, after switching in hinata, and they cheer in celebration. argentina looks devastated, oikawa most of all, and osamu doesn’t miss how japan’s athletic trainer, iwaizumi, pats his arm off-court. he’s sure there’ll be more gestures once the cameras are turned away.
the customers begin to call for their bills and shuffle out. osamu gathers their dishes, kita helping despite osamu's protests, and it isn’t long before they’re the wiping tables clean. they listen to the post-game interview with the players, starting with aran, the captain, and then atsumu. finally, they talk to suna.
“you did an interesting gesture in the middle of the first set. would you like to explain what it means?”
osamu turns to watch. suna has a towel around his neck, hair unruly after the match. his voice doesn’t waver when he replies, “there’s a certain someone that i know is watching, and i wanted to let him know that i appreciate his support and love him.”
“is that related to what you said to the camera? fans are dying to know what you said, by the way.”
“yes, but that’s between me and him.” suna winks, turning slightly to face the camera again. “and if he’s watching – i know he is, by the way – i want him to know that i couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”
the broadcast ends. osamu smiles to himself, adding his rag with the others. he’ll lock up, head home, and text the team his congratulations. atsumu will probably call him in the middle of the night, again, to put him on video as they celebrate. osamu will lose sleep, again, but it’s worth it, seeing his brother happy, seeing his best friend glowing, and of course, his boyfriend living his best dream.
watch me, 'samu.
osamu will never take his eyes off him.
---
inspired by this fanart of suna's gesture and osamu's reaction! <3
#flyingwargle original#drabble#haikyuu!!#haikyuu drabble#miya twins#miya atsumu#miya osamu#suna rintarou#olympics 2024#paris 2024#post timeskip#sunaosa#i did watch japan v. argentina but#don't remember specifically what happened anymore#poor oikawa my man deserves better#did you see that sliver of iwaoi#it's because i'm weak for them#fanart august
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Never stop speaking about them. Be the voice for the voiceless.
Palestine is uniting the Ummah.
They are freeing us.
They fight even though death is imminent.
They are the true meaning of Tawwakul.
The Eeman and Tawwakul of a 5 year old Palestinian cannot be compared to a grown adult of the world outside.
We are so caught up in our own problems, our self made issues, that we forget the Allah swt created us all for a test.
No matter how much sins you have commited, its never too late. Come back to Allah. Do that prayer. Even with doubt, Start. Start slowly. No human being is perfect. Slowly, strengthen your eeman. Leave those friends who lead you astray.
Take one step towards Allah swt, he will come running towards you.
Allah swt is aware of everything. Of your tears. Of your pain. He knows. He is Al-Aleem (The All-Knowing, The Omniscient).
Allah swts mercy encompasses anything in this universe.
Never forget that we are all from Allah, and unto him we will return.
Keep praying for them, keep them in your dua.
We are all humans.
One day, we will have to answer to Allah swt for all our actions that we have done on this temporary world.
Come back to Allah.
If you see this, consider it a sign.
May Allah swt guide you and me.
#muslim#islam#islamislove#duaa#islamdaily#islamic#life#islamquotes#sabr#patience#Palestine#Gaza#Dua#ComebacktoAllah#Sins
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Come Wander With Me
Morpheus x f!reader
Status: Completed one-shot, requested by anon
Wordcount: 5.1K
Warnings: light smut, religious trauma
Summary: Morpheus finds the reincarnation of his former wife in the house of god. He tries to find out whether they could be each other again.
—
He came from the sunset
He came from the sea
He came from my sorrow
And can love only me
—
In that cool evening, when he sits in the park he frequents with his sister, The first sight of her binds his chest in a shrinking rope.
Her laughter is the same tune from centuries ago. Millenniums. A familiar smile plasters on her face, laughing along with children, small fingers grasping her calf-length skirt, begging to go home. A silver cross hangs on her chest, winking under the sun.
He is rooted to where he sits. Fear made him so. If he so much as blinked, twitch a finger, let out his tears, she could be taken from him and it all would just be an illusion.
She walked away with a toddler on her arm and a boy no more than 7 hanging on to her hand.
—
She dreams of a silver cage with a restless serpent trapped inside. She dreams she lays bare inside that cage, voiceless and decaying inwards.
Morpheus is the king of dreams. Every creature that sleeps he knows them all. But this, watching her dreams, quenching his thirst with slivers of imagery feels like a violation because she bears the face of his long-deceased mortal wife taken too soon by his sister. Some ages ago when mankind’s hubris offended god that he decided to converge their speech in other variations.
The curse of the endless is that every aspect of themselves is also endless. His contempt is everlasting, his rage stretches for centuries. His love eternal. Nada, Calliope, Kilalla, (y/n). Each of them unequivocally holds a part of him. But his dear (y/n)... half of his being, the only one who could take him completely has gone. Her shadow is the only part he has of her, carved on the marrow and the spine of the dreaming.
If he could take the chance to recover what was…
He rises from his throne and sets himself to where she dwells
—
The convent she lives in is on the same grounds as the church. A small one that had only been thrice renovated despite being 3 centuries old.
He pushes through the double-lidded door, and he finds her figure in a black habit lighting a prayer candle before a stained glass that depicts a saint on the wall to his right.
He steadies his heart. Swallows the heaviness in his throat. His feet carry him to approach her.
“Will you tell me about this saint, sister…” He trails his voice in hope that she would catch his meaning.
He sees her hesitation.
“(Y/n).” her voice throws him to his days as a husband, and he feels slightly lightheaded. The ground feels unsteady under his feet.
Even her name is the same.
“Saint Anthony of Padua.” She shifts her gaze to the stained glass. Her face glows with light refractions in arrays of blue, red and purple.
“Patron saint of lost items, lost people, lost causes and souls.” she continues.
Morpheus silently clears his throat.
“Should one pray to this saint, will my lost one be returned to me?”
“If God wills it.” Her voice is low and quiet. If he was a mortal being he would not hear it. But he hears her clear as day. The growing strands of her hair and her decaying cells if he wants to.
There is nothing more to say. The truth is he doesn’t know what to say.
She walks away from the room and he merely watches her.
Morpheus takes an unlit candle, burns the twine in the fire she lit moments ago.
—
He comes to pray beside her before the saint the next day. The next, and then the next. He attends Sunday mass and shed his coat in the summer to blend in with the congregation.
He still doesn’t know how to properly make conversation with her for she doesn’t seem to have the inclination to make small talk with him either. She seems to be—understandably—wary of new people.
He really can’t just say hello, you are the carbon copy of my dead wife and I want to get to know you.
All he manages to say is formal pleasantries that she meets with polite nods or few syllable answers. Then she returns to pray before the Saint.
He finally summons the fates and asks if she is truly her wife in some form of rebirth he doesn’t understand, and the fates confirm that she is the direct descendant of the same family tree. She might be her very own reincarnation, but that answer would cost him a higher price to pay.
“What is it that you gain by putting her in my path?” sometimes the thought of her pierces him a little too hard, unbalances his breathing. The fates are cruel creatures he knows of this, but to play with his dearest one like this—
“Dream, you speak as if your brother is not Destiny itself.” The maiden wears a coy smile.
—
When he visits the church again (y/n) is not to be found. He asks Sister Siobhan—the matronly old woman who always greets him kindly—and informed him that she had fallen ill. A sudden fever struck her and she resides in her room
“Would it be alright to pass her my well wishes?”
Sister Siobhan hums as she rests her arm on the tip of her broom.
“What do you have in mind?”
He sends her large bouquets of flowers and some sweets she might like with a get-well-soon card. Then he visits her dream that night.
Trapped bare in the cage with a sleeping Serpent, (y/n) lays on its scales. Her hand rests on her stomach. Her breathing rags.
As if she understands his presence is not conjured from her subconscious, her eyes are probing him, wrings his inside with little thrill, the eyes that used to bloom flowers in the Dreaming in its image.
“What are you doing here?” she rasps. Morpheus has no words to answer that question.
—
He waits for 3 days until he visits her again. Relieved when she sees her figure praying in front of Saint Anthony.
“Thank you for the gifts. You didn’t have to do that.” She says when they’re standing side by side.
“I do.”
“For what? You barely know me.” her brows crease slightly.
“I… would like to get to know you.”
She laughs. He swallows, it reminded him that laughter used to linger in his throne room, his library, his chamber…
“I am married to god, Morpheus. My spouse is a jealous man.”
“I- enjoy your company. As a friend nothing more.” Morpheus doesn’t know whether his words are true. What it is he hoped to unearth within her. The soul of his former wife, a memory he hoped she’d remember, it all seems foolish but he had to try.
I want to know whether my wife is inside.
“It’s funny, I saw you in my dream a couple of days ago. It feels… it feels like we’ve known each other for a long time.”
Her words slightly tremble his hands.
“Perhaps an age ago we did.” he manage to say.
“Perhaps.”
—
The life of a nun is bound by Christ, it requires her to be away from worldly endeavours. Morpheus know and understand this, he becomes patient with this fact. (y/n) doesn’t go outside much except for taking the orphan kids to the park or helping in the soup kitchen. He meets her on both occasions apart from visiting the church.
“What do you do, Morpheus?” (y/n) asks after she swallowed a slice of Tangerine they currently share. The peel settles at the bottom of her net bag, along with 2 bottles of water for the orphan children after they stopped playing.
He ponders for a moment.
“I’m a creator.” he takes another slice of Tangerine.
“What do you create?”
“Everything.”
She chuckles at the ambiguity of his answer.
“That’s a little vague.”
“One day I promise I will show them to you.” he gives her the last slice of the fruit. She puts it in her mouth, smiling.
“Alright, I’ll be waiting.”
—
What traces left of his wife he found is merely in her physical appearance, name and gestures the mortal eyes can easily be missed. Where his wife was an exploding cacophony of exuberance, (y/n) is quiet and talks as gently as winds of spring.
He finds himself sinking deeper into her when she sits beside him watching the children play. A content look graced her lovely face. When her wilful kindness and her sense of duty come to act to help those who need help. When her patient voice would always come to her little orphan kids, to the needy. Her endless devotion to them. He can’t help but stand beside her to ladle soup into the bowls with her. He tries to wear the same warm smile just like her for the people who say thanks after each bowl.
“There’s not much to know, this is all i am.” she says one afternoon when he walks her back to the convent from the Soup Kitchen.
“What you are is extraordinary, all of you.” he replies. He notes the little bashful smile she tries to contain.
When they say their goodbyes at the gate of the church, Sister Siobhan stands at the doorstep, she gives him a knowing smile and look.
Morpheus hides his own bashful smile as he walks away.
—
“Why do you become a nun?” Morpheus asks at one point. Sitting beside her in the afternoon watching over the children play. Her leg crosses on top of the other.
“I have a very religious family. I’m just following their footsteps.” she says quietly, in the tone only he could hear.
“Do you believe in him?”
“God?”
He nods.
“i- hope he doesn’t.”
He waits for her to continue.
“I have many friends that would… that would…”
She trails, her eyes darting around the park.
“He made parts of them that he rejects in his book. I almost hate him that way.” she finally says.
“I understand. He can be fickle and obtuse.”
“You made it sound like he owes you money.”
A smile creeps on Morpheus' face.
“Do you?” she returns.
“No. He exists, but he is not of my belief.”
“And how do you know he exists?”
Morpheus turns his body towards her, drinking in the beauty of her eyes.
“Because he owes me money but lives in a mansion somewhere in Las Vegas.”
Gentle laugh breeze from her lips like winds of spring. Morpheus’s heart quickened slightly. The featherlike tingles on his stomach are something entirely new, relentless.
—
Every week he looks forward to meeting her. There is not a second that passes that she stopped lingering in the crevices of his mind. A month turns into three, then six, and a year they develop a kinship with one another.
Her, this new form of his long-deceased wife that is in fact an entirely different being, eclipsed what he tried to find. Puts him to shame for his false pretences.
He realised at one point when they prayed before the saint, when the refraction of light landed soft on her face, altogether he stopped looking for something that doesn’t exist. He chose to cherish her as a friend, her irreplaceable presence that comforts him in their routine. Her dearest (y/n).
But lately, when he meets her, her eyes are sunken ever slightly. Her silence seems to be that of wariness instead of contentment.
“You are troubled, (y/n).” he nudged her knee with his knuckle as they sit in the park again once they take the children home. An unusual request from her.
Only her silence meets his observation.
“Are you alright?”
She focuses her eyes on the horizon instead of answering his question.
“You can tell me anything.”
“I’m fine.” she snaps at him. Morpheus closes his mouth. Fall silent in resignation. But as moments pass he can feel her agitation, see her thumb digging into her palm. Notice the film over her eyes, an indescribable sort of anguish.
“I’m sorry.” she sighs.
“Don’t be.” Morpheus assures her.
I used to…” she breathed. Hesitating for a moment.
“I used to teach at the elementary few years ago. I remember that it was hard work, and the hours are long. But I never felt that sense of purpose in my entire life. It was all I wanted to be.”
She says quietly. Morpheus waits for her to continue.
“And I fell in love, you know, with one of the teachers there. She’s brilliant. And kind. She has a way that makes your insides just- melt into mush. I had the best summer holiday with her before my father found out.”
There is a yearning smile. Morpheus notes the tears gathered in her eyes.
“He is a bigot and wealthy. There are no more dangerous traits than those combined in mankind.” she says then laugh bitterly.
“You took your vow unwillingly.” The realisation hits him.
“All because I love men and women equally.” she mutters bitterly.
“The sisters are kind enough to let me see you regularly, even sister Siobhan fought with my father for my release. They know that this life… it’s bleeding me dry.”
Then there is nothing but hollowness in her eyes. All the rage and yearning and restlessness dissipate in a blink. In turn, he feels it tenfold.
“I could give you another.” he offers.
“You don’t know how powerful my father is.” she whispers.
“I can assure you that would pose no problem for me.”
“He’ll find me even at the edge of the world.”
“I’ll make sure he won’t even so much as think of you.”
For a moment she looks hopeful, but the light is doused quickly.
“Leave the convent. Break your vows. You shall not be disturbed by your father.”
“Please Morpheus. You’re being foolish.” irritation laces her words.
“Trust me i-”
“Enough. No more, please.” she pleads.
Desperate, Morpheus uses a last resort as he takes her hand.
“You dream of a serpent trapped in a silver cage. Tonight you shall dream that she is free.”
“What?”
“Please. Trust me. I shall be with you when you walk away.”
She contemplates his words, her eyes never leave his. Then she tips her face to the moon. To the horizon in the distance. She mulls over it for almost an hour, Morpheus is there beside her every second.
—
Morpheus stands at the gate of the Church as he watches the sisters tearfully say their goodbyes to her on the doorstep. (y/n)’s eyes do the same thing, filmy and wet. She wave one last time and blow her kisses. But once she reaches the gates and walks away with him, her tears never fall. The usual cloud over her brows is replaced with something else, something light and easy.
Hob Gadling is kind enough to let her stay at the New Inn upstairs. She settles there quietly. Resumes her teaching as a private tutor to the children of the parents who frequents the church. Resumes her service in taking the kids to the park and participating in the Soup Kitchen.
Once they meet at the park again, when the last traces of sunlight sink in the horizon and the sky wear its dark blue, she asks him a long overdue question.
“What did you do, Morpheus?”
He falls silent. For if he open his mouth, he fears that everything would pour from his lips and the truth would drive her away. The omission of truth lies heavy within him. But he could no longer do such a thing.
She notes his unnatural silence. Her inquisitive eyes burn his profile as he rests his arms on his knees.
“What are you?” she whispers once more.
Morpheus straightens his form. Then look her in her eyes.
“There are no words that would suffice to tell you what I truly am. I can only show you.”
He offers her his hand. She eyes it cautiously, faint crease forms between her brows. But she takes his hand nonetheless.
—
She takes him so readily. Her eyes take in the Dreaming unflinching. Takes his nature without fear as he explains. There is even wonder twinking in her eyes. The part of her mouth in Awe of his Dreaming. Morpheus can’t help but preen under her marvel, never felt more proud of his creation.
Then he saw Lucienne’s bewildered face as he takes (y/n) to his throne room. It must be quite a sight that the ghost of her queen wanders the halls beside him.
“My lord.” Lucienne greets him. Rigid and strained.
“Lucienne, this is (y/n). My friend.” Morpheus notice the even widened eyes of the Dreaming’s librarian.
“Welcome to the dreaming, Lady (y/n).” Regardless of Lucienne’s bewilderment, she can’t help but give (y/n) a warm smile.
“Please, just (y/n). It’s nice to meet you.” (y/n) returns Lucienne’s smile.
“Of course, (y/n).” Old habits die hard, Morpheus think of Lucienne. The title was used affectionately. After all, they were as close as any sisters could be when his former wife reigned beside him. He notes something of nostalgia in Lucienne’s eyes. The longing. The daze. Morpheus can imagine Lucienne’s feelings upon it, remembers he’s the one who felt it first.
“Come, my friend. There is something I want to show you.” Morpheus beckons her to a hallway that leads to his chamber. As they walk through the stretching floor, on the wall to his left are the windows overlooking the sea of the Dreaming. On the wall to his right hangs all manner of paintings from all genres. Tonalism, Realism, Abstract and more. Subjects from still-life, animals, historical, vistas to portraiture.
Morpheus stops at a portrait wedged between an abstract of Joan Miro and the tonalism artwork of Angel de Cora. He awaits for her response.
“Who’s- who’s that?” she stumbles upon her words
“My former wife. The queen of the Dreaming.” In the style of Naturalism, he depicts her in draperies of white Muslins surrounded by bushes of her favourite flowers, smiling softly as her hands folded on her lap. He painted the portrait with his own hands, when his longing was too unbearable that he doesn’t know how to relieve that burden.
“You are the descendant of the same family tree as her. Her name was (y/n).” The truth bursts from him. The guilt weighs too heavily.
There is only silence. The slight labour of her breathing. She leans on the wall, trying to catch her breath. Morpheus paces to support her but she pushes his hand away.
“I want to go home.” she mutters under her breath. Refusing to look him in the eyes.
“My friend-”
“Take me home.” She speaks with a finality in her voice. Morpheus understands whatever he would say after that point would be of no use to her well-being. So he nods and grants her wish. He commits her form, her face engulfed by sand as he watches her disappear. Not knowing if she truly lost to him once more.
—
The subjects of the Dreaming know that their king is in a state of agitation. They can feel it in the constant changing of the weather every hour. Some parts of the Dreaming plunges into sandstorm then rain, dry clear skies, drizzles of snow then sandstorm again in no particular order. The sun is quivering from one into three then four, as does the moon.
Morpheus waits and waits and waits, until the second week passes and she calls his name. He appears outside of her room before she could finish mouthing all three syllables.
She asks if he would like to accompany him to the park when she opens the door, at the very second of that midnight.
They sit in silence. Barely illuminated by the white light with a tinge of pale blue from the lamppost in the distance. Neither knows how to start the conversation, Morpheus more than her.
“What are you doing here Morpheus?”
He recognises her allusion. What is your intention with me?
“Do you wish me to be her?” there is a hint of fear in her voice.
“No, (y/n). I do not.” he muster earnestness as best as he can.
“Do you pity me?”
“No. never that.”
“What are we doing Morpheus?” she whispers.
He falls silent.
“It’s true I approached you because you bear my former wife’s face. But I found myself comforted merely by your presence. I found myself thinking of who you are constantly, not who you’re supposed to be. I can assure you that you are far from what she was.” He says, his throat heavy.
She nods. Recognise the sincerity in his voice. Her quiet exhale sound that of relief. Then she takes his hand, he tangles his fingers around hers as he counts her tears dripping one by one. His own heart aches at the sight of it.
“Thank you. For everything.” she whispers once more. His grip bound tighter. His whole being sinking into the pools of her irises.
—
In no time, her list of students is growing, her lives are busier. Bountiful. Her smiles and laughs are lighter and airy. In several months she moves out of the Inn and lives in her own apartment she rents. And Morpheus is in every step she takes, admires how smart and sharp she is, how it is in her nature to be kind and gentle. How dear she becomes to his heart that it almost hurts.
He would always be there whenever she needs him in any way, even so far the only thing she asks is nothing but his company, he would always give her more. Inspire her with the sweetest dreams.
He frequents her apartment with all sorts of gifts. He’d bring her favourite flowers, her favourite takeout, books she might like, his own favourites, and her preferred brand of wine.
This time he brought her a necklace forged from the stone of fiddler’s green that bears the same colour as her eyes. The stone is no bigger than her fingernail but she claims she never seen a stone so beautiful and otherworldly. So stupefying when a direct light hits it. She conveys her thanks and sheepishly turns on her back to let him clasp the necklace around her skin. His breath brushes her nape, he hears her heart beating erratically. The hairs on her arms stretching on ends.
Now the jewellery dangles between her collarbones.
He wishes his fingers could linger on her skin a little bit more.
“Pasta or Roast chicken?” she flutters away to the kitchen with his answer, her necklace winking under the afternoon sunset filtering through her apartment’s windows.
Morpheus can’t help his own smile, strangely feeling mortal-like in their routine. He cherishes their routine.
—
“This sounds like the bowels of Tartarus.” Morpheus says as he listens to one of her favourite records playing on the turntable, an Oratorio sung in Baritone integrated with gentle synths and Cellos, composed by a recently deceased composer that makes her cry the whole day when it happened. She lets him comfort her that day.
“No fucking way, the Pantheons are real?”
“Not just them, The Vanirs, Aesirs and their kind, the Sumerian gods and all.”
“Wow…”
He can’t help his smile spreading as he watches her eyes, drooping lovely by the wine they currently share on the dining table side by side. The cores from eaten Strawberry Apple stacked on the bowl.
“So… he’s real too?”
“Unfortunately.” Morpheus sip the wine from his glass.
“Fuck. I just know I’m going straight to hell.”
“No. I’ll not let that happen.” Morpheus says it earnestly, she chuckles and gives him a lazy grin.
“The perk of befriending a god, huh?”
His smile grows wider.
“I’m not a god.”
“To me you are.”
He pauses. His heart picks up slightly at the words. Feel the heat creeping to his neck.
“You’ve done more for me than he ever did.” she continues. Her fingers search for his, memorising the texture of his nail with the pad of her finger.
“Do you worship me?” Morpheus leans inch by inch. Brushes her hairline. Twirl the necklace between her collarbones.
“I know you heard my prayers.” she gravitates forward towards him.
“I do.”
(y/n) tilts her head to the side, drinking in his features. He recalls her prayers whispered quietly at midnight. The words trembled his hands on that night. Burns his chest with euphoria.
“Your prayers, your recent dreams, I witnessed it.” he almost says breathlessly. Heat pools in his stomach.
“Does it reflect your desire?”
“Yes.” she whispers. Her own voice strangles by desire’s hands.
He watches the expansion of her pupils. Hears her heartbeat pace quickly when he focuses on it.
“You will have me?” he asks.
“Yes.” she licks her lips.
“I am wholly yours.” he claims when their faces are close enough they could count each other's eyelashes. He brush away the one that fell on her cheek, then caress her jaw with his fingers. She leans into his touch, into his warmth. Her hands fists on his chest as she presses her lips to his cheeks.
Morpheus sighs in pleasure. A thrill of shiver runs along his spine, his hand circling her back as the other takes her jaws to kiss her on the lips. She kisses him hard enough to turn him inside out, to make her a god if she asks for it.
That night, every being that sleeps dreams of her glistening skin against his, of her lips chanting his name. Her eyes and her satiated sighs. Her tears of pleasure. Morpheus swallows everything he could.
—
“Hello little brother.” Death's warm voice calls to him. He turns from the waterfall and meets her warm smile as she opens her arms to receive him, Morpheus return her gesture.
“It’s been quite some time since you summon me to your realm.” She says as she takes in the beauty of Fiddler’s green.
Morpheus stays silent because she knows the answer to that statement. The last time she was here, Death took the queen of the Dreaming. And the dispute after that, the calamity he wrought after their fight can be felt even upon the waking world.
An altercation that he believed was a betrayal. She took centuries to mend their relationship into what it was.
“So, what is it Dream?” Death squints slightly under the sun of the Dreaming.
He remembers last night, when (y/n)’s half asleep from euphoria after their intercourse, his dearest said the words that stir him with complete devotion. That fills his stomach with dread and reminds him of his duty as an Endless. I love you, Morpheus. I would do the unthinkable for you.
“You know what this is about.” he firmly says.
Death’s mouth twists into a faint grimace. But she nods.
“Promise me, Death. Promise me.”
He sees Death’s throat swallow.
“What affection you have for me as your brother, promise me this. Do not betray me again.” He rasps. His chest feels the heaviness on that day.
“Please, Morpheus, I did not betray you. It is only the rule that binds, little brother. Our duty” she takes a step towards him. Her hands reach but he pulls back.
“You owe me.” he whispers. His tears sting the back of his eyes.
Death's lips are pursed thin. Her gaze remorseful and rue.
Death takes a deep breath.
“Make her an Endless then. I will help you.”
Her words stun him into silence. A proposal that is painstakingly leviathan in nature he never thought his dutiful big sister would ever offer him. A proposal that is to be made in such a short time and the risk would be insurmountable for both siblings.
And he couldn’t think of someone more worthy to be an Endless.
“I will help you before it’s too late. After that, we’re square. Deal?”
He nods. Unable to find his words for a moment.
“Agreed.”
—
“Hi!” She giggles with glee when he circles his arms around her as she’s preparing the ingredients for dinner on the counter of her kitchen.
“You’re early.” she turns and gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“I couldn’t wait.” he murmurs as he buries his eyes on her shoulder.
“I can tell.” She teases. But when he is silent, he takes his face in her hands. Search for his evading eyes.
“What’s wrong Morpheus?” she gently calls for him. Concern between her brows.
“There is something I must ask, (y/n).” he says restlessly.
“Of course.” she replies.
He takes her to the dining table and sits side by side. He explains what it is to be an Endless. How one of their great weaknesses is bound by the ancient rules that predate even their creation. One of them, the Endless can not fall in love with a mortal and prolong their affiliation, or the Mortal’s downfall would soon follow.
A tear slips from her eye.
“You’re leaving me?” she asks, strikingly calm even through her tears.
“Without the alternative, I must, (y/n).” he caresses her jaw. His own eyes smarting. His chest weighs heavily.
“And the alternative?” she takes his other hand to anchor herself down. The numbness in her legs became too much.
He feels her pulse quickening on her wrist.
“Understand this. I was blinded by my foolishness, it was not my intention to put you in this precarious position and I assure you I never wanted to jump into your life to just leave-”
“Just say it Morpheus.” she whines.
“Will you become an Endless?” he blurts.
She stares at him for a moment as if he grows a second head. Then quickly realises the gravity of his question, the unsaid pleading in his eyes, his inability to beg her because he does not want to pressure her into compliance but his heart—rending eyes, his bright—sharp eyes, the colour of a brewing storm, says it all. She wants to weep for those eyes.
She takes his face in her hands. Kisses him on the lips. She feels the tension lining his shoulders melt away. His hands slither to grip her waist, washes her body in pleasure.
“Yes. Make me a god.” she says when she pulls away.
His wide smile could replace the sun. She realised, in a heartbeat, that she would do anything and everything just so she could see that beautifully divine smile for the rest of her life. Would do the unthinkable for him. Devote her life to her Dream. Devotion and Dream, that is all she needs. Devotion and Dream for eternity until the universe erodes and blinks away.
—
Taglist: @aurorarevenclaw1927
#morpheus x reader#sandman x#the sandman#morpheus#ost: reunion by matthew herbert#ost: come wander with me by bonnie beecher
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Lo, the Prayers of the Voiceless Voice
"If you Ritual Summon exactly 1 LIGHT Ritual Monster (Warrior or Dragon) with a card effect that requires use of monsters, this card can be used as the entire Tribute. You can only use each of the following effects of 'Lo, the Prayers of the Voiceless Voice' once per turn. If this card is Normal or Special Summoned: You can place 1 'Voiceless Voice' Continuous Spell/Trap from your Deck face-up in your Spell & Trap Zone. If a LIGHT Ritual Monster (Warrior or Dragon) is Special Summoned to your field, while this card is in your GY (except during the Damage Step): You can Special Summon this card."
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look into the name Declan for me?? enable my brainrot akldfjgh
Let the brainrot flourish! Declan, as your The Raven Cycle fandom source material would suggest to you, is an Irish name. It's remained relatively unchanged since Old Irish (Declán).
According to vetted sources, the origin is unknown, but -án is a diminutive suffix used in many Old Irish boys' names. That leaves us with a mysterious undefined root, 'decl.' Other -án-suffixed names show us that it's used after both nouns (Cúán = cú 'hound, wolf' + án = 'little wolf, little hound') and adjectives (Senán = sen 'old' + án = 'little old one'), as well as some combinations (Caíndelbán = caín 'handsome' + delb 'image' + án = a handsome little sight).
It's possible the word the name is based on was archaic by the time of its first recording, but looking at Old Irish glossaries, I can make some wild speculations. I'm starting with the 'cl' ending, because it's not a consonant cluster that exists at the end of Old Irish words. That suggests the original word likely changed, dropping a vowel either after or between those consonants. Clú, meaning 'fame' immediately sticks out as both a common name theme, meaning-wise, and a viable phonological origin. From there, I see a prefix, deg-, meaning 'well-,' which is promising because when a voiced velar plosive 'g' is placed before a voiceless velar plosive 'c' (pronounced 'k'), they almost always combine. The pre-Anglicized Modern Irish version of Declan is, in fact, transcribed with a 'g' instead of a 'c'! This would give deg+clú+án, pronounced 'deh-klahn' or 'dehg-lahn' the meaning 'little well-famed one.'
I think that fits Declan Lynch pretty well, don't you?
As for its history, Declán of Ardmore was a 5th century Irish Christian saint who was notable for converting the Déisi, a social class in southern Ireland. These pre-Patrician saints are often overshadowed by St. Patrick, so the following of St. Declan is fairly regionally restricted to County Waterford in Munster.
As a side note, Wikipedia's disambiguation page says, without a source cited, that the name is believed to mean 'man of prayer' or 'full of goodness.' I can find no evidence of an Old Irish word 'prayer' which would support the first meaning. The second could be supported by the Old Irish dag- 'good,' but there's nothing to support 'man' and the exclusion of the diminutive leads me to believe this is a meaning contrived without evidence by the Catholic Church, which they did with several saints' names throughout history.
Irish baby name records only go back to the 1960s, but Declan was in the top 25 most popular names from the start of records start until the late '70s, when a slow decline began. Ireland only tracks the top 100 names, so it's probably still fairly popular, but it did drop out of the top 100 in 1999.
In the US, on the other hand, Declan has seen a skyrocketing increase in popularity from around the same time - 1998. It shot from below the top 1000 to within the top 500 by 2001, the top 200 by 2011, and peaked at 95th in 2019. It's ranked at 390 in the UK, which is the lowest it's been since the 1990s, and is fairly popular elsewhere in the Anglosphere.
I've seen a few movies credited with the rise in US popularity, but none seem particularly compelling to me. What I find more likely is that it was aligned with an overall increase in popularity of Irish names at the end of the 90s, with names like Aidan, Donovan, Brennan, Reilly, and Reagan also suddenly shooting into rankings at the time. This is aligned with an increased popularity of Irish and Irish diaspora in media at the time (Boondock Saints, Angela's Ashes, Traveller, Mystic River), perhaps stemming from the end of The Troubles in Northern Ireland.
In any case, Niall Lynch was right in time with the trends when he named his son.
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Do you have any insights into Valek that you'd like to share? We know so little about his character in that movie.
---
Well, I think, as a human, he lived a sheltered life to the point that in a way, there's not much to know, if that makes sense. By that I mean that it wasn't an existence fraught with controversies.
He was a medieval Bohemian. Undoubtedly dedicated his life to the cloth very early on (might've come from a numerous family too, with many siblings and relatives to the point having one son dedicate himself to the cloth exclusively was a sacrifice (and privilege) this household could very well make or maybe even had to, for reasons of practicality and to have one less mouth to feed; something that was also a thing people commonly practiced back then and part of me wouldn't be surprised if Jan himself volunteered for the duty to alleviate the burden from his parents because he just has this odd streak of nobility to him) --- doing so as young as an adolescent or even as a child, perhaps, going from the apprenticeship of being an Altar boy to Priesthood with nothing in between because this was always the way it was always intended to be for him and it was a quiet way to be alive. One of prayer. Servitude. Piety. Temperance. Honor. Certainty. Life back then moved slower. Was infinitely simpler. Years and years could pass without change. Without ups and downs. I think Jan Valek took great joy in being a priest, or at least, to phrase myself better, he took profound solace in the duty. I think he took profound solace in the duty of helping his flock. Helping his congregation. Those in need. People in general.
I think he genuinely took the tenants of Catholicism to heart in very legitimate sense.
How do I know this?
Well, we're told that somehow, this man ended up being the leader of a Bohemian peasant's uprising at one point in time, which can only lead me to believe that he not only took the tenants of Catholicism and the whole 'help and love thyne neighbor' fully to heart, but that his continued dedication to said creed possibly amassed a following so large that he either ended up being placed at the head of this revolution or simply poised himself as a leader personally. Which means, somewhere along the way, his helpful and perhaps kind, justice loving nature in the face of inequality, poverty, abuses and aiding the 'downtrodden who would inherit heaven' has been inspirational enough to a large quantity of people that they all looked for Father Valek for guidance in their cause --- as such, I imagine that as a priest, in his human life, it is reasonable to assume he was very charitable. Something of a local patriot and the champion of the unchampioned. Feeding the poor. Helping those without help. Giving voice to the voiceless. Doing so continually and purely because he felt that's what Christianity is all about. Being kind enough to the point where it might've started becoming a thorn in the eye of the higher ups in the very church he was serving. Thing is, Father Valek was here emboldening the serfs to stand up to their god ordained lords and masters --- an idea that was, when push came to shove, extremely modern and extremely threatening considering the time period. I think this idea set the Bohemian countryside ablaze, literally and figuratively and that Jan Valek, becoming somewhat legendary among the small folk of the land, had to be pegged down a notch to avoid massive civil unrest.
Which is how this story ends.
With his execution.
Tried and burned for heresy (under what I consider are extremely trumped up, fraudulent charges and more a political tactical move to quickly and very messily silence opposition and kill the morale of the uprising than anything heretical or truly transgressive) Jan Valek found himself betrayed by the very church he sought to serve with the very tenants he was idealistically and full heartedly upholding --- namely, helping those in need. Which is exactly what led to his downfall. Ironically, if Jan was a worse man, he might've had a long and prosperous human life. And to add insult to injury he wasn't just betrayed in any ordinary fashion. He was undoubtedly imprisoned, paraded, made an example of, humiliated, abused for months, deemed to be possessed by evil spirits and demons to appeal to the superstitious mentality of the era, stripped of all his honors, subjugated to an exorcism (which is really just elaborate torture) and only then, finally, executed in an extremely and unbelievably painful way in the town of Berziers where his trial was observed, so everyone who previously followed him would see that this is what happens when you neglect your god-ordained lot in life and play revolution.
The echo of this message whimpered across Europe.
In the aftermath of his horrible treatment, his body remained destroyed, charred, mutilated, broken and massacred --- possibly even displayed somewhere publically, to drill the point home. Both fortunately and unfortunately, though, the incident led to the opposite effect the church intended and all they achieved was making Jan Valek into both a literal and metaphorical martyr who died for a cause, which only made his teachings stronger and more alluring until they grew into something of a sect. A cult germinating larger and larger around the scope of sadism Father Valek suffered and continued suffering, even as his posthumous remains were mishandled.
Jan went from a once-upon-a-time Bohemian priest of unusual kindness, a helper of the disenfranchised, someone teaching and encouraging the said disenfranchised to stand up to their oppressors because that's exactly what Christ himself taught too, to the enemy of the established order, to someone accused and trial as a criminal to a near saintly figure in the local folklores of the neighboring peoples. The Catholic church made Jan Valek into a priest and a man of the cloth. Then they've made and assigned him a traitor when he led a people's rebellion against the Holy Seat's and the local aristocracy's interests. They've made him into a criminal. A martyr when they've condemned, botched his exorcism and executed him. And then ironically, a saint when they canonized the very man they've had killed (possibly to cover up, for the lack of a better word, the scale of their cruel screw up). They've also made him a Vampire with a failed exorcism. Everything he is because the church itself has made him so. Perhaps, the first thing Jan Valek had agency in making himself was when he became the Father of all Vampires, taking on everyone who was ever like him a creating a great many all on his own, forming a new community as a reflection of his old congregations. No wonder he is so protective of his brood and children. They're the extension of a divinely given free will that persists even into his unlife.
The severity of the betrayal the church, though, and by extension, a God he felt abandoned him all those centuries ago in his hour of dire need when all he did was serve his community the way God himself ordained it was grand enough to not grant him peace, ensuring he rises from the brutal condition of his death and wonder the land like a blight for six centuries, feeding and making himself strong, draining others and infecting a great many, creating his own new community, following --- coven, if you will --- becoming what he is now. A Vampire. Accursed. Forsaken. Soulless. When that was the very opposite of everything Jan Valek initially was. He was simply a kind man who had good principles. Who got embroidered in a cause greater than himself because he wanted to help people --- truly and genuinely --- paying the ultimate price for it and ending up unjustly and unfairly punished for it forevermore.
#when you unpack the context of his backstory it is actually absolutely tragic and heartwrenching#the objective of jan valek seeking out the cross of berziers so he could walk in sunlight again?#he feels he's justly owed that privilege because he feels he's done nothing wrong and was if anything wrongly accused#jan feels god quite literally OWES it to him#owes him some sunlight#some semblance of normality after so much suffering#jan valek#vampires#john carpenter's vampires#backstory#character analysis
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Lo, the Prayers of the Voiceless Voice
This is a drawing I made to celebrate 50 followers on Bluesky.
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Warm Toy Story
Scaramouche x Fem! Reader
POP MART AU ‘cause i luv the new skullpanda series sm hehe
The body falls numb as a sharp blade of a nail pierces through it impatiently — like how a predator soaks its teeth into its prey, and it’s almost ludicrous how helpless the victim would be as it sits in silence, waiting for its body to be mangled and shredded just so its insides could be harvested — and all of this is done for the vile entertainment of the predator. All that the poor victim could do is stay still, voiceless at its last moments before its disposal.
“Damn it, it can’t open,” you mumble to yourself, having the ripped box in your hand. Foolish, you could tell that the box was more ripped than it should be, making it almost impossible to resell if you did receive a duplicate figurine inside.
Your power drains into the blind box, harvesting your energy each instance you dig your nails into it. Gritting your teeth, a hopeless sigh rolls out your flared nostrils — perhaps all it needed was another strike in the head for it to open up. Once more, you curl your hand, sinking your fingertips until the top of the box finally rips open. A shimmering glint appears in your eyes, optimistically hoping for the figurine to be the right one. The right one to finally achieve the end of the newest Skullpanda collection, after a brief, long hour of shaking and measuring every box’s mass, surely you were confident that you’d collect the missing piece to your puzzle.
Internally you pray and pray to the Lord of toys reigning in the toy corner, begging relentlessly as you close your eyes. Your fingers roam inside the little box, scurrying for the identification card of the figurine. Heat rushes to your face as you quickly realize that you stopped your breathing solely out of the sheer excitement electrifying your organs -- the fattest, largest breath of fresh air diffuses into your nostrils as you begin to function properly once again. Within 30 seconds, the card enters your palm, your fingers covering the picture.
You hold the card close to your chest as your heart beats into it, a blissful warmth surrounding the picture.
A final prayer to the Lord of Toys escapes your lips. Once and for all, you decide to open your eyes and face the potentially harsh consequences of an unhappy reality — before finally lifting your fingers to meet your new toy.
Your eye twitches and your lips quiver. The devil’s fury awakens beneath. You feel that it’s about to swallow your body whole if you don’t keep your cool. The fleshy, beating piece of muscle deeply engraved inside your chest stops for a split second, as you find out that — things in life don’t always go your way, no matter how much time you put into it, no matter what the balancing scale says, and no matter what the contents of the box tells you — you can simply just be wrong.
“The secret toy… AGAIN?!” cursing to yourself, you yell.
“Sucks to be you,” a voice from behind you chuckles, and you look back to see a male with hands in the pockets of his trousers. He seems to be around your age, slightly taller, and with raven-like thick hair; long enough to frame his face — accompanied by bangs reaching slightly below his eyebrows. His shoulders relax and he leans closer to you, his porcelain-like, pale hand pulls his white headphones down to hang freely on his neck. He smirks as he reaches for the boxes, spending a few minutes shaking and listening to the toys’ movements before landing on the final verdict. “Which one do you want again?”
You point at the toy you want, the Petulant, named after the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland. You currently own all of the other figures, with an extra secret one. Well aware that everyone chases after the Secret toy, you can’t help but feel disheartened having an extra one when all you want is one of the other ‘common’ ones.
“Ah, this is the one,” he reaches his hand out to give a thumbs up, “I’m getting it for myself then.”
“What?” you frown, clutching onto the box you just opened. You just met this guy, and he’s already acting as selfish as this?! Can he just feel a little sympathy?
You observe the male figure get smaller and smaller with each step he takes as he walks to the cashier, quickly pulling out his card to make a purchase. You couldn’t believe what you just experienced — somebody watching you grieve in utter pain, and then selfishly purchasing another toy just to make you feel sheer envy; it sounded like the devil’s work.
The shoulders you had confidently raised a few moments ago, now droop in misery. Shuffling through the ceramic floor as you make your way back to the train station, you mumble and sing songs on the way out of the toy shop while holding onto the pathetic, sad soppy piece of toy you spent minutes opening up. All hope is lost for now.
The train card presses onto the censor before the red plastic ��gate’ opens for you to pass. That devil boy could’ve been your karma for spending too much of your money on these ‘stupid toys’.
You shot your chin up as a spark of electricity grazes on your shoulder — a warm tap suddenly filling you up with anticipation. You turn your head back, widening your eyes as you saw the same devil boy from before, holding the Petulant figure carefully in his hand before shoving it in your palm. It felt like the universe was all coming back together.
“You walked away too quickly. Wait a little longer next time for my luck to work on you,” he grins, brushing his hands onto his knitted sweater. He seems pleased looking at your silly reaction; your eyes as round as spheres and mouth gaping open as you stare deeply into the figure you swore you’d treasure.
“Yes, it’s free of charge, I have this whoooole collection already, living peacefully at home, ” he mumbles. “Nice to meet you, sad fellow toy collector. I’m Scara.”
#scaramouche#scaramouche x reader#kunikuzushi#oneshot#pop mart#skullpanda#genshin impact#genshin impact x reader
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