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pedgito · 1 month ago

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𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

summary | A female gladiator plucked from the arena by the most powerful general in Rome, convinced to serve under his command. You learn that his taste for blood might not be so different from your own.

author's note | the horny demons strike again. this has a little plot, thanks to the beautiful minds of @ovaryacted and @kedsandtubesocks who deal with my crazy so generously.

content warning | 18+ mdni, set pre-gladiator ii, description of war & mistreatment of women in roman society, female gladiator, dark-ish!acacius, reader has minimal backstory, but is revealed to be nameless (uses monikers given to her: medusa, fury, minerva), fighting, m*rder, blood tw, gore tw, sa warning (i have it annotated further below with content, but nothing graphic) acacius covered in someone elses blood as he fucks you, copious smut, biting as a little treat

word count — 8k

“How much?” Acacius inquires, tapping his finger against the iron bars holding you prisoner, staring back at the men. The ginger twins and a man—no, a general. Dressed in a toga of thick material, embroidered with intricate designs, gold bangles at his wrist, a telltale sign of high honor.

“Oh, she is…” The older one, Geta, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he shakes his head, “priceless—quite the fighter, too.”

“Does she have a name?”

Geta smirks to himself, “They call her Medusa. She favors beheading, it seems.” Geta waggles a finger through the bars and smirks, nose scrunching as he addresses you, “Correct?”

You ignore him, responding with a stare—much like your given moniker; if looks could kill.

“She’s bested them all,” Caracalla boasts from beside his brother, Dundus fiddling with his hair from where she was perched on his shoulder, “even our lion that we’ve had since kids.”

“It was a stupid idea, your fault,” Geta retorts, “but—again, she’s not for sale.”

“I’ll conquer India within the next few nightfalls, a handful of new gladiators fresh for the choosing, for your entertainment—how does that sound?”

Greedy as they were and entirely too incompetent, Caracalla agrees before his brother can open his mouth.

“Will you bring her back to visit?” Caracalla inquires with an underlying excitement—the poor brother was nothing but a dunce, erratic and impulsive, but all too easy to manipulate. “The others may miss her.”

“Indeed,” Another swift but convincing lie, Caracalla and Acacius shake hands on the deal before Geta can retort, fuming with rage as he stomps away.

He’d taken a liking to your fighting style despite his distaste for the arena. Strategic and skilled, brute strength and a drive that was built around pure survival but somehow all while maintaining the perfect amount of gracefulness that men did not. Constant calculation, finesse, it was like an art.

He’s gone through several guards over his rule, some from sacrifice but others out of pure ignorance. He needed a strong base, malleable but resistant. He could shape you into a leader, he thinks. He knows.

Your hard stare is like ice as the keys jingle into the lock, a defining click a resounding echo of freedom and General Acacius extends his palm.

A gesture of freedom, a new life, trepidation fills you despite your yearn for a way out of this prison. Here it was, served up on a platter covered in intricate facets of white and gold, stubble brushing his cheeks and soft brown eyes offering kindness.

This was not a man of sheer violence, not the tales they tell about him—this was a man of trouble, conflict, and an instinct to protect himself. And he’d chosen you.

Your hands slips into his, a similar roughness to match his own and scars that Acacius knew well enough of—you were a true fighter, a warrior.

The two boys—calling the men would be too easy, they often acted like spoiled children, were already off to their own chambers, and Acacius had only dropped his hard facade slightly, still under the watchful eye of Rome’s guards, he led you onto your new life.

“I cannot accept,” You argue, as respectful as you could manage, hands crossed firmly over your front, near your waist as you spoke to General Acacius in his private office at home, a place few have stepped foot into, but yet somehow, again, you were given a free pass.

“Are you refusing my order?” Acacius counters, there’s pillowyness to his tone, almost taunting.

“Sir—er, General,” It was all new to you, formalities, structure, rules, “I…am a woman.”

“I am not blind,” Acacius squints his eyes slightly, before leaning back in the creaky chair, “my men—they will not question my choices. They listen, they do their duties. They need strong leadership. Gladiator, I believe you can bestow that upon them.”

“I am a stranger to you, you know nothing of me,” You tell him, a full truth, “General, I fear you may have made the wrong decision, I am not what you think I—”

Silently, Acacius fingers curl around the handle to a drawer hidden behind his desk, pulling out a sharp knife with a handle carved of bone, twisting it in his grip before he’s rearing his arm back, throwing it in your direction.

It zips by with force, the tip of the knife snagging and burying itself deep into the wall behind you, your head whipping to the side to follow it, the sharp blade barely missing the skin of your ear.

Quick reflexes. You turn back to a smirking Acacius.

“I am positive, had I thrown that between your eyes you would have caught it without overthinking the consequences—most of my men would do the same,” Acacius lectures, standing with his brutish frame and walking toward the wall, the soft flow of a breeze kissing at your fists.

“Though, I have another proposition,” Acacius says lightly, twisting the knife in his hand, the pointing spinning against his fingertip as he circles around you, “—attack me.”

“Sir,” You argue, “that surely defeats the purpose of—”

His fist balls up tight and aims for your side. Acacius sees it, the anticipation as you block his hand. He chuckles underneath his breath, “Please, continue,” He teases, twisting out of your grip to pull another punch that you block with ease—he was going easy, you think.

Natural reaction takes hold and his test quickly turns into a full-out brawl, twisting and slipping underneath his grip until you have him pinned against a nearby wall, teeth bared with his forearm pressed against his throat, struggling to grip his free arm.

The real test is here, as Acacius bares the knife near your neck, an immediate reaction to protect yourself rather than go for the kill shot, knowing that anyone of normal skill would be too full of bloodlust to think of anything other than killing you. Protection and defense came first, taking the small nick of a cut to your own forearm before you’re knocking the knife out of his hand and wrestling him to the ground with a swift kick to his leg, rendering him helpless.

“Indeed, you are exactly what I think you are,” Acacius says with finality, “I want you to lead my personal guard. Whatever it is I must do to obtain that, my lady I will do—riches, bribery—”

You push away from him with a heavy exhale, standing and adjusting your clothes, brushing your hair away from your face, “No need, I will do it.”

Acacius rolls to his back, hand extending once more.

This time, it is you offering the help as he uses the leverage to rise to his feet before speaking to you with a triumphant tone.

“Commander,” He grins, “let us plan.”

–

He often asks of your lineage, your home. But, there is nothing to offer. A long conquered piece of land now under the rule of Rome and a home that was never a home. An orphan you had always been, nameless, taking greedily whatever name was bestowed upon you.

In the arena it was Medusa, the tale of a vicious woman with god-like power. Caracalla had told you of the story, the boys having taken a liking to you in different ways. Geta was fiendish, hungry, often seeking you out for his own pleasure to which you wouldn’t deny. Couldn’t. He could be rough, but he wasn’t.

He seemed lonely, the poor boy.

Carcalla was only searching for a friend despite his unruly, chaotic nature. When he wasn’t ruling with tyranny over Rome, terrorizing the townspeople, he was telling you stories.

Other times it was only she. Or her. Or just girl. The girl.

You were only what people assumed of you, expected you to be.

“Medusa, ay?” A greasy looking man confirms, one of the six men who were to be under your command, “The gladiator?”

“You will respect her,” General Acacius had warned them, “or an apology will be your dying breath.”

It had struck most of them with fear. Most of them.

And for many nights, countless, it seems—the transition of leadership was smooth. You had an unyielding grip on them, awaiting direction, following your orders. It was the kind of rush most would only dream of, and as a woman, it was an unforeseen privilege.

“They address you as Medusa, too,” Acacius notes during a roundtable session as the other men wander off for dinner, “do you wish for them to address you differently?”

“I have no name, General,” You admit, “I am whatever I must be. If they think of me as so, that is what I am. Though, I would love to turn a few of them into stone, given I was granted her powers.”

“I believe you could manage that feat without them,” Acacius jokes, “—but, nameless? Even at birth?”

“I know nothing of my birth parents. They told me I was found wrapped in cloth under the bridge that led into the town your army eventually turned to rubble,” A bittersweet feeling, speaking unusually out of term, facing him with the facts, “though, it does not matter. I enjoy the fear they have of me, keeps wandering hands at bay.”

Such an enigma, Acacius eyes you curiously. It was the most you’ve opened up to him since retrieving you from your cell, and even then, still forcing him to face the consequences of war.

The guilt followed him at every waking moment.

“Do you need anything further of me, General?” You ask politely, “You have spoiled my appetite as of late and your men are greedy with the stew.”

“You are dismissed,” He speaks distantly, turning over the thick, coarse paper with a drawn out map of the territory they were to invade soon, a lingering well wish leaving his lips, “sleep well, commander.”

Unfortunately, you’ve turned to sleeping with a knife under your bedroll—with a lingering ache of betrayal, you weren’t allowing yourself to lower your guard.

The attacks do not start at night. Rather during the day, when the General is off and away, scouting ahead further when half of his army while the other half sticks at camp, keeping claim.

That is when the insults come, the disbelief, the mockery.

Most of his men settled with the idea, having accepted your position even if it displeased them.

But, there was one. Like a bull—hardheaded and stocky, fists and arms like clubs, testosterone radiating from his body in crashing waves. He wants you to fear him, submit to him.

You feel it. You see it. And you’ve been through it before, other large and brutish gladiators thinking with their muscles rather than their brains. It wouldn’t take long for them to meet their demise, but this one was…different.

He approaches you with a smile than anyone could see right through, a finger brushing your cheek as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in to brush his lips against the shell of it.

“They are hungry,” He drips of vicious intention, “—I say, you give us a show. Entertain us, Medusa.”

Your eyes snap to him, staring him down.

“Pitiful Acacius isn’t here to save you,” He warns, “though, I have reason to believe he is as weak as most men—spread your legs and he’ll be begging for a taste, too.”

“I will gut you where you stand,” You warn, reaching for the thick machete at your waist, “you’re like a pig. Brainless and greedy for whatever you can get. Touch me, I dare you.”

The rest of the men are relatively quiet, but they do not stop him. Smirks and half-smiles hidden behind their cups, lounging on a log near their tents, enjoying the entertainment.

It was nightfall, the fire crackling between you and them, a towering presence at your backside.

And as he dares to, his hand slides up your waist.

Without hesitation you flip the weapon in your grip, grabbing at his wrist and slicing at his arm—a featherlight touch, it was merrily a glorified papercut, but his eyes widened in shock.

“Let us see how well you touch without fingers,” You threaten, flipping the machete until it is pointing in his face, death grip on the handle if he dared to take it, taunting him with the sharp end of your blade, “hands?”

That deep, rumbling sound of hooves approaches through the darkness, everyone slowly falling back into their paces as you welcome back your General with a forced smile.

Acacius hands off the reins to another rider, taking scope of the situation that seemed to be defusing in front of him, but still—he notices. His eyes trade glances between you both before he nods at you to follow him.

Speaking under his breath, “The others have coined you as fury,” He laughs softly at the pseudonym, “little fury, they tell me. Like the Furies. I cannot say I disagree with them. Has he been pestering you long?”

Your brow furrows at the reference, lost on your ill-informed mind.

“Long enough,” You answer honestly, “though, he was bestowed a parting gift this time.”

You raise your blade, his blood still painting the weapon.

He raises the curtain to his tent, allowing you to enter before him.

“Do you know nothing of the Furies?”

“I was not privy to bedtime tales, General.”

He nods, thoughtful as his lips pull together in a thin line, slowly removing his armor as he sits, directing for you to take a seat opposite of him, a few feet away on a decaying stump.

“Goddesses,” He states simply, “of vengeance, striking the wicked down. You have…fire, deep within you. Do not let them put it out, it is your weapon.”

You nod obediently, feeling the humidity stick to your skin, clothes glued to your body as you sit in the uncomfortable heat. There was no world in which you felt safe enough to strip down, quell your body of this unbearable summer weather. You would rather suffer, thick garb covering your body.

Acacius tilts his head, but does not comment.

“I require your protection tomorrow, we must scout an additional day and I fear danger is imminent—relay this to them,” He instructs, “and my lady, if you fear they will visit you at night, that they might strike when you’re vulnerable, you are welcome here.”

He already anticipates your response—he knows, but the gesture was an offer. A kindness.

“If they try, you will be searching for new men by sunrise, General.”

Acacius smirks in amusement, nodding to your words.

“It would not be difficult to replace them,” He notes, “though, little fury, you are irreplaceable.”

General Acacius wasn’t an easy man to protect, but you managed. Over the few weeks that you had taken point within his guard it has leant you plenty of opportunities to prove your worth, slaughtering opposing soldiers like cattle for the glory of Rome, his booming voice pronouncing vie victis as the dead are laid rest under fire and smoke.

But, conflict comes when you are faced with a decision as the camp was raided under complete, utter darkness. It was your shift to guard the General, perched outside of his tent with constant, roaming eyes. Eventually, you drift. It was peaceful, nature taking hold and pulling you under, awoken to the sound of blood curdling screams, the ground painted with the innards of both Acacius’ men and the others.

You were forced with a choice—defend the camp, something Acacius would have told you to do in a moment of desperation, a self-sacrificing man himself. Ironic, given your position, that you even think otherwise. Of course, your feet pull you toward him, whipping the flowing fabric of his tent door back.

There was a knife at his neck, a man towering over him. He’d snuck past—taken advantage of your exhaustion and your mistake was putting the General’s life at risk, his face stoic as he pushed back against the blade with his palm.

Without thinking, you rush toward the man, pulling back at his collar to plunge the knife pointed at Acacius into his own throat, a silent death through the notch of his neck, the blood flowing out like a river, tossing the lifeless man to the side before you’re reaching for your General.

“Do not worry,” He assures you as he rises, still groggy from sleep, “go—protect our camp.”

“But, General,” You plead, not realizing that your hand was grasping on his own, or that he had initiated the touch as a gentle push, a confirmation that he was truly alright, “it is my fault.”

His eyes peer behind you and to the man lying lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around his body.

“Though, it seems you have done your duty,” Acacius comments, head turned down as he stares at the body before his eyes peer up at you under his dark lashes, pensive, “now—kill them.”

You had lost a hundred or so men, nothing to the army of five thousand, but any loss was felt within General Acacius’ army—men of honor, with families or not, deserved a proper farewell.

Covered in the blood of many, some of your friends and some of strangers, hair matted and reeking of death, you approach General Acacius who was sending off a group of men to begin digging the mass grave to dispose of the bodies.

Your body ached, bruised and nicked from battle—you had killed at least five hundred men alone. Pure rage and fury, not a memory of it as you approached him now, a blank stare void of emotion that concerns Acacius, his hand reaching for your wrist as you begin to pass him, heading for your own tent to collapse in exhaustion.

“You did well,” He notes, catching your gaze as he turns his head to infiltrate your line of sight, “wash off before you turn in, you…reek. There’s a river beyond the bend—clean, warm.”

You nod despite only paying half-attention to his words, walking mindlessly toward the river before you are faced with the unfortunate crowd of men, undressed to their natural state, avoiding the watchful eyes and preying gazes, stripping your armor off down near the empty end of the river, pulling at your tangled hair, pulling off each remaining piece of clothing despite your body’s protest, screaming for relief.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, the looks—you bathed alongside all the men under the arena without a thought, knowing most of them were vying for freedom and wouldn’t dare risk it by allowing their cocks to work overtime, forgetting rational thought.

But, to them, you were a trophy. Someone—something, to be conquered.

The thin, flimsy undergarments come off last, stepping into the water and sinking down slowly. The blood washes away as you scrub, back turned as you dip your head into the water before committing entirely, plugging your nose as you dip underneath the water, finding peace in the silence.

“I had my doubts, Medusa,” A voice bellows from behind as you rise, your eyes peeling open with a quickly growing annoyance, “of you being a true woman, but—”

“Careful,” One of the men warned, a stable boy, “she will run to the general.”

It was the same man from many nights ago, big and brutish, always looking for a fight, even with the other men. He hadn’t learned his lesson, clearly.

“Acacius is busy,” He retorts, “so—what say you give us the show you owe us?”

You stand frozen in place, staring daggers at the man who seems only more amused as the anger in you builds, permeates.

(sa themes below: noncon touching, reader is naked in front of several men)

“Get out of the water,” He demands, “unless you prefer I come get you.”

You survey your choices, knowing that staying in the water wasn’t a safe option. They can and will wait you out. Your eyes track toward your clothes, further away than you had left them. Your eyes track the scar on his forearm and you smirk, teething peeking out behind your lips, “How beautiful,” You tell him, his eyes slowly following your own, “quite the scar, is it not? Fancy another?”

You spot the knife sheathed in his leather belt, taking your chances despite the vulnerability that remains with your naked frame on full display as you retreat from the water, he nods with confidence as you approach, a faint whistle in the distance that you’ve heard before. The oaf seems to ignore it, though. His large hand comes to your breast in an instant, body dripping wet and a sickness churning in your gut as the sticks of torch and fire approach amongst the murmuring crowd of men, less than subtle about the rowdiness that was ensuing.

He pulls you into his body with a greedy hunger as his opposite hands gropes at your backside, following the curve of your ass as your hand snakes toward the blade, but the voice that rips through the crowd is enough to wake the dead, silence falling over the area in an instant.

“Remove your hand,” Acacius voice travels, the same booming voice he uses to declare victory over a new territory, “or I will remove it myself.”

“General,” The man addressed in a drunkish manner, inviting, “she was offering—Medusa, tell him.”

Your silence is expected, his hand wandering toward your other breast, biting hard enough at the inside of your cheek that it draws blood—Acacius sees your hand wrapping around the blade and speaks again, approaches closer as the mud sticks to his boots, “I will tell you once more. Remove it.”

The man eyes you with disdain, dropping his hands away as you relinquish your hold of his weapon, allowing the breath caught in your chest to escape, but it doesn’t stop the touch that follows, taunting with its intention as his palm curls around the back of your head, tilting your head to the side as he squeezes, “I forget—you are the General’s property after all.”

(end of sa themes)

“Take him,” He orders the other lingering guards, men who’ve never shown you anything other than respect—they value their lives and limbs, as any sane person would, “and start the fire.”

Acacius looks around at the lingering eyes, “I suggest all of you return to camp. Now.”

That was all it took, most of them scrambling for their own clothes and armor as they retreated like scurrying mice or dogs with their tail between their legs, leaving you under Acacius' careful gaze. He reaches down to fetch you dirtied clothes, looking them over with disgust.

He removes the black cape around his shoulders without a word, opening it as an offering. Desperate to cover yourself, you slip your arms in the sleeves with his help, his eyes wandering no further than your face as you turn to him, tucking the cape around yourself. He reaches for the hood, pulling it down.

“Come,” He demands, “I would like you to witness.”

–

The screams are audible as you approach camp, a few feet behind Acacius as he rounds the fire and separates the crowd to create a path, approaching the man bound at his feet, one arm roped at his side and secured away, leaving him to fight the men that held him down.

“General, gen—general, I am sorry,” He pleads, “she—you do not understand, she taunts. She is poison, not a leader,” He continues, despite Acacius lack of response, making a motion with his hand to remove the man’s weapon and hand it to him, pulling it from it’s leather cover and examining the blade, he makes a soft sound to himself, “Acacius—you have known me for years. Do not let this woman trick you.”

“Gag him,” He ignores his pleading, leaning down to grip the hand of the man bound below, “your humility is amusing, but your greed is what is costing you. She has shown you mercy, but I will not.”

The cut isn’t a clean slice, either. It takes several swings before the limb detaches, blood spurting out of the appendage as the man screams in pain, dragged helplessly toward the fire before they’re cauterizing the wound—your body unreactive as you watch but silently stewing with frustration.

He had spared the man, sure. But, making a show of it? A mockery?

“Commander, with me,” General Acacius demands, waiting for you to snap back into reality, your eyes meeting his face, blood covering his armor and hands, somehow avoidant of most of the mess.

When you are alone, you don’t hold back.

“I would have handled him,” You tell him, “killed him myself.”

“This is not the arena, we do not go around slaughtering our men without reason,” Acacius retorts, “he will be demoted and replaced and be a reminder to the others that you—��

“I do not need you defending my honor, General.”

“Men will not change, this—society, it does not cater to your safety. To them, women are nothing but vanity and pleasure—”

“And property,” You remark, “lest you forget how you obtained me, General.”

Acacius approaches you near the table at the center of his tent, only a foot away as he removes his armor plate, pulling it over his head, “Had I not, you would have paid for your own freedom eventually. I needed a leader—strong, smart, powerful.”

“By punishing that man, you are sending the message that I need my battles fought for me,” You argue, “and as if these men did not already think I was the General’s plaything, what will they think now?”

Acacius sighs through his nose, pulling at the fabric of his tunic that bares his chest, “I believe they will behave,” He tells you, “because you will not be as kind when you take their heads. He was an example and a pain in my ass for years, he deserved more than that.”

“And what will they think of me now? I am naked under this cloak, your cloak. I must walk the path back to my tent surrounded by men deprived of the things your bestial minds crave.”

Acacius chuckles to himself, “I have been thinking,” He begins, “that you deserve a new name. Something indicative of all that you are. Some of the men award each other with monikers of war. Medusa seems to have become more of a taunt, in light of recent events.”

He unties the leather bands at his wrist, eyeing you with a mischievous gaze as he keeps you waiting, “Have you heard the tale of Minerva, my lady?”

It isn’t a surprise, but you shake your head.

“A goddess of many things—strategy, warfare, victory, and justice…but mostly importantly, wisdom. I have seen the way you command the battlefield, it is not lost on me.”

“You have…many stories, General.”

“My mother told me one every night as she tucked me, it seems they have stuck with me.”

Tell me more, the words linger in the back of your throat.

“I am barely standing, General. I must retire for the night.”

“Indeed,” He agrees, shamelessly stripping down to his undergarments to walk toward the clean bowl of water and wash away the drying blood, “and Minerva,” the name is completely foreign, but you respond with a hum, “your position is yours alone. You have earned it. Do not let them tell you otherwise.”

Like Medusa, the name sticks.

And thankfully, you were a few weeks away from a much-earned break from war, returning to Rome as a free woman for the first time, having finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm with the rest of his personal guards—a mutual respect that had been missing, men waiting for your command.

Long nights of planning spent in Acacius tent, surrounded by the other guards until they filter out one by one, growing curiosity and questions lead to many hours of conversation that you, for many months, had been deprived of in the arena.

“You did promise my return,” You remind him, “they will be expecting you to keep that.”

“They are young, fickle men,” Acacius berates with amusement, “I am sure they have moved on.”

“Do you fear them? The emperors?”

“They are spoiled brats,” Acacius responds, an answer in itself.

“They would visit me often,” You admit, “Caracalla seemed to be—it seems the syphilis in his loins was truly affecting his brains, often he would not even make sense. Or he would come to me, complaining of his brother.”

“You had built quite the rapor,” Acacius notes with a smile, sipping at the broth from his stew as he invites you to sit on his fancy, expensive bed cot. Much nicer than your own, cushioned and wrapped in velvet, “What of Geta?”

“He liked my breasts,” You begin bluntly, “and my—”

“He forced himself upon you?”

“I was property of Rome, Acacius,” You didn’t often say his name in such a relaxed way, blaming it on the full belly and exhaustion, “therefore I was his. I have suffered much worse than a lonely man searching for comfort.”

Acacius seems thoughtful, pensive as he stirs at his quickly diminishing stew. He does catch your lingering gaze on his face after a while, mesmerized by the scar underneath his eye, he encourages you.

“Ask, if you are so curious, my lady,” He places his bowl to the side, empty.

“Your scar,” You nod, pressing your finger in a mirroring way under your eye, “is there a story?”

“Nothing to be told with boast,” He chuckles, “a wound of battle, is all. Like many of the scars on my body,” He tells you, raising his naked forearm to display the various scars, noting the few that paint his clavicle, “and you, Minerva?”

It seems to have become a particular quirk of his, a lilt to his voice as he calls you by your given name—the others have become accustomed to it, too. But, with Acacius, it felt special. Treasured.

You raise your eyebrows at his question, quietly unlacing your top to pull it down your shoulder, sliding a hand over your breast to respect the dynamic between you both—him being your general and you, his subordinate. His eyes squint as he examines the jagged and staggered scar on the side of your breasts—not quite faded, healed but relatively fresh.

“He is a biter,” You warn him with amusement, “Geta.”

Only one scar, given by one of the emperors, somehow untouched from real battle. It was miraculous. You readjust your top, feeling the heat from your neck rise to your face at what you had just willingly offered over to Acacius. Unfortunately, he had a way of lowering your guard.

With that talk, it seemed like a true breakthrough in your partnership with Acacius.

He always allowed you to speak for yourself, never overstepping the boundary you had argued with him over, leading the charge with an iron fist and handling the younger, fresh faced soldiers who just seemed…lost.

It was hard to ignore the lingering glances over time, often during meetings as you spoke, not a look of attention but rather…ravishing. Hungry, but in a subdued manner. You weren’t sure where the lines had blurred, but they had.

Possibly somewhere within the long nights of conversation or the lingering touches that shouldn’t have been as charged as they were, handing over a piece of armor or blade and his calloused fingertips would circle your wrist, pause, before his brain would catch up to his actions.

“Go on,” He encourages after a final night of victory and triumph, many of the men howling and singing tunes around the fire, drinking from their cups and enjoying the pleasures of alcohol and comradery, “you are missing the fun,” He was unnaturally quiet, subdued to his quarters, leaning against the outside of his tent as he watched with amusement but subtle dismay.

A younger man approaches with his hand extended, a gleeful expression on his face, “Minerva, please—come, you must enjoy the party, too.”

The general gives you an expectant look as you let the young man lead you away, curling his fingers around your own and pulling you with vigor, cheering loudly to blend in with the energy of the men despite how you worry about the man several feet away, your eyes tracking his disappearing figure as he slips into his tent, eventually pulled away by another man, one of the guardsmen who adored you, asking for a dance.

You agree hesitantly as the crowd roars louder, eyes searching for the exact reason as you see a few men leading a line of women into camp, little clothing to allow them modesty, a less than subtle shushing come from the men as they lead them deeper into camp, and the fear in you tells you to run to the General.

“It is not what you think,” The young man tells you, “they are dancers—no harm will—”

You bypass him, straight toward the men leading the path, stopping them cold.

“They are not here against their will, my lady.” He assures you, though, that could be argued.

“Minerva, Acacius has made it clear that harming women, you—is far worse a crime than anything else. Truly, it is not what you believe it to be.”

“I am telling the General, informing him of their presence,” You admit, “so I suggest you and the rest of the cattle be on your best behavior?”

They both give crisp, curt nods.

As you make the direct line for Acacius’ tent, you are ignorant to his silent plea for privacy at the tied rope, intertwined with gold fabric, pushing apart the fabric doors without much of a thought, reality hitting you as you catch a glimpse of his naked frame, patting down his body with a clean cloth as he washed himself, other hand curved around his cock as he stretched his neck up and back, the water splashing as he dipped the towel into the basin, only aware of your present when you make a small, unrecognizable sound as a result of your own stupidity.

“I—General,” Your eyes widen as they take on a mind of their own, straight down the valley of his chest as he turns to you, quickly spinning on your heels, “I should have—I apologize, uh, the men…they are—”

“I was informed,” He assures, “and they have been warned, I assure you.”

“Yes, hm—um,” It was the only time Acacius had seen you flustered

“I assumed the rope was a clear message,” Acacius teases, “but—it is not your fault. I should have informed you of their…antics.”

He pulls the tight, fabric shorts over his hips, clearing his throat, peering over your shoulder you breathe a sigh of relief, “General, I would like to apologize for—” You swallow, watching as he turned barefoot on his heels, the fabric of the immodest undergarments curving around the stretch of his cock, half-hard under the fabric and the outline of thick head pushing against the linen.

You don’t realize how long you’re staring until he’s approaching with a tap of his finger on the underside of your chin, “There is no need for that,” He assures you, your nose scrunching up in confusion at the sudden touch, feeling the subtle shift as he reaches behind you for the clothes folded on the table at your backside, “surely you must return to the party,” He encourages, “celebrate a well-earned victory.”

“Why?” You counter, “When you will not.”

“Minerva,” He warns.

“You are distracted,” You note, watching as Acacius now avoids your gaze, “it is worrying me.”

He cannot admit the reason why. That it may be you.

“Acacius,” You call his name, hoping that will break through to him.

“Leave me,” He asks, rather than demanding, “I need to rest.”

It was a lie, but you do not fight him on it.

–

Silence blankets the camp in the early morning hours—the witching hours, as you’ve come to know them. Sleeping securely in your tent, bedroll tucked under your head as you drift. Unaware of the creeping men planning your untimely demise, assuring that the entire camp was asleep before they strike, arms and legs rendered useless as the third shoves a piece of cloth into your mouth and ties it around the back of your head, screams muffled behind the fabric, stripped of your weapons. Helpless, they think.

During the struggle, one of them grows frustrated, banging the hard rock against your skull and plunging you back into darkness.

When you come to, you are unclear of where you are, but it was outside, arms above your head against the thick limb, feet bound tight as well, a sting and a string of wetness running down the side of your face as your blurry vision becomes clear.

“Little Minerva,” the voice begins mockingly, all too familiar to your ears, “he has named you—you must feel special, ay?”

He kneels in front of you, the one hand he has left curling around the forearm of what was left of his other appendage, “And you expect to return back to Rome as a free woman,” He laughs, snorts wetly through his nose, “I assure you that will not happen. Rather, you will be a dead one.”

The other two lingering figures join in on the laughter.

“How did you say it?” He taunts, “I will gut you where you stand?”

“It took three of you to capture me,” You retort, “your confidence is lacking sorely.”

He clears the back of his throat, rearing up a ball of saliva in his mouth before he’s spitting at you.

“I will slaughter all of you with my hands,” You promise, “untie me, unless you are fearful.”

Driven by ego, it doesn’t take much for him to agree.

But, as he had underestimated you the first time, and the second, he would regret the third.

The two men come at you first, enough tussling and your teeth ripping into the ear of one of them, searching blindly for a thick, heavy and sharp edge branch that would handle the weight of piercing through skin and muscle, finding the right weapon at the perfect moment—the attacker rearing back as the other approached, driving the make-shift stake through his chest as the other tackled you to the ground, a poor miscalculation on his part as you get your legs around his neck, arms pinned at an painful, awkward ankle until his neck snaps from the force, the ox-like man awaiting in the shadows like a coward, blood spilling from your mouth as you scream.

The heavy hooves approach like roaring thunder and the instant your attacker catches on, his attempts to flee are ruined by the barricade of men at all angles, General Acacius at the head of the charge, a rageful expression on his face. Feral unlike you have ever seen.

He jumps off of his horse, ordering the men to capture the surviving man once again, looking around at the lifeless bodies beside you, assuring his men he would handle you and the mess, demanding they return to camp at once.

You look around aimlessly, blood staining your face as Acacius struggles to capture your attention, eventually resorting to a strong, demanding hold on your face, cradling your head with his hands.

“Are you wounded?” He asks, then notices the trail of blood from your scalp, pushing away the hair to reveal with gash from the rock they had attacked you with, grimacing as he runs his finger over the wound in worry.

Suddenly, you are stricken with a need, “Give me your sword,” You tell him, eyes flicking up to meet his own, “I need your sword.” His movements are too slow, still concerned with you that you reach for the weapon yourself.

Pulling away, you approach one of the dead men with the sword, swinging it up over your head and down with force, beheading him in one go, before switching to the other man, less finesse as you swing—again and again, until there is nothing but a pool of blood, bone, and brain—Acacius steps in eventually, tossing the sword away as he holds you arms in his fierce grip, letting the screams rip from your chest as he sways with you, eventually falling to your knees in exhaustion. He uses his bare hands to wipe the blood away from your neck, your face, feeling the soft shake of your body as you sob in silence, overcome with an emotion you so rarely let surface.

–

The public execution follows the next morning, everyone rousing from their tents to the loud, blaring horn from the ship just off shore—Acacius had assisted you back to camp on his horse, slumped against his back as you rode until the trampling finally stopped, sliding off the horse and into Acacius’ arms as he led you inside his tent.

He didn’t sleep the entire night, watching over you instead—he rarely blinked, staring off into nothingness as he tried to keep the vicious rage at bay, by morning, he was itching.

“You may stay,” He tells you, “your head—I cleaned it while you slept.”

You shove his hand away as he attempts to help you sit, slowly dressing yourself, eventually putting together the fact that Acacius had undressed and bathed you at some point throughout the night, not a speck of blood or spit remaining.

“Are you ordering me to stay?”

Acacius shakes his head, his hand still hovering close by.

“Then I will attend.”

He doesn’t argue against it and there is, despite your weariness to admit, a relief of your chest as Acacius rears back his blade, silencing the final scream the man lets out, pleading for his life. The blood sprays over his face, a strong grimace at the sheer strength it takes to behead the man, but the general manages it with one strike of his blade.

His speech follows, a deep and unsettling warning to all of his men. A final one.

Men, wide-eyed with fear, agree without resistance before he sends them off to ready the ship for departure and a meal before they begin their long trek back to Rome—he is less than gentle as he grabs your wrist without warning and pulls you alongside him, back to his tent.

–

He ties the rope with a stiff tug, before turning to you, stumbling on your feet as pull off his cape, having offered it to you for a second time, assuring that dressing in your usually armor wasn’t needed today, not as you began your travels, a flowing dress tied at your shoulder and waist that you were used to wearing during the showings back in Rome, parading you around like a prize.

“Acacius, perhaps you should sit,” You suggest, watching his hands curl into fists at his sides before he’s spinning on his heels and toward you, cradling your face like he had the night prior, but even this close, it felt like he was trying to keep you at a distance, “—I am sorry, if I did something—”

“I crave you,” Acacius admits, “you must know.”

Your lips part, gearing up the courage to speak, but falling short.

“Nights I have spent,” He breathes, shaking his head, the curls tickling your forehead as they meet, “thinking—wondering—”

“Acacius, why now?” You question him, “As we are homebound, back to your wife. Surely, she would have my head.”

Acacius shakes his head with a soft, but fond laugh.

“Our marriage is complex,” He explains, “Something I do not care to explain in great detail at this moment, you see—,” His hand curves around the side of your neck, tilting your head up, lips grazing against his own as he speaks, “I had no such intention for things to get like this, but you have proven to make things…difficult, for me,” He breathes out through his mouth, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, “and I need you, should you have me.”

You could easily deny him, knowing he would back off in an instant. But, like this, clearly driven by adrenaline and instinct, riding the high of such a charged execution, he was craving something deeper than an outlet to release the built up tension.

He craved connection—through little moments of conversation and touches, someone at level-ground, an equal. You were his equal. He’d given you so much since, and you would be lying to yourself if you denied the thoughts that had riddled your mind too.

“I do not much prefer a soft touch,” You finally reply, “or gentle care.”

He silences you with a kiss, bruising and tense as he licks into your mouth, hungrily searching for more areas to taste and devour, licking along the column of your neck as the blood of another smeared into your skin, his fingers working quietly to undo your dress, in turn wrestling with his armor and clothes, nearly ripping the fabric of his shirt from his body as you claw at him.

Wet kisses and clashing tongues fill the silent room, a screeching sound as your back hits the roundtable before he’s lifting from the back of your thighs and scooting you onto the surface, naked and bare as he spreads your thighs apart to move between them, clearly restraining himself as he licks, teeth grazing carefully.

“I enjoy them,” You admit, “Do not hold back, Acacius. They are what I will keep with me, if this be the only time.”

Like a dog cut loose of his chain, his teeth sink into the breasts mirror the mark of the other, hissing as his teeth break through the skin just enough for the subtle trickling of blood to rise to the surface before he’s soothing the wound with his tongue, staring up at you through a half-lidded gaze, prowling for more. He dips lower, falling to his knees as he pulls you toward the end of the table, ass hanging near the edge as his teeth sink into your thigh, near the swell of your cunt as you moan, fingers digging into sweaty, matted curls.

“Acacius,” You plead breathily, “I want your mouth.”

Where—it did not matter. But, Acacius fulfills that need as he licks a broad strip through your cunt, nose buried in the coarse curls, still smelling of the fresh soap he had bathed you in, taking delicate care as he washed your body, letting you slump into him, soaking him in the process.

“Yes, that—” You respond airily, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue dips inside of you, swirling your slick around on his tongue and sucking harshly at your clit, staring up at you daringly from his position beneath you, unwavering, “oh, gods above…”

Acacius chuckles below you,the sound vibrating against your cunt as your moans increase rapidly, thick fingers dipping inside your pulsating core, “This high—it feels like—”

He rises to press a kiss against your stomach, climbing, tongue licking over your belly button and between your breasts, “—like…” He encourages, “come on, my lady, do not sell out on me now,”

“Like a battle high,” You admit with a faint laugh, “though, different, but….”

He understands, driven by unbridled need, uncapped adrenaline.

“Well, vae victis,” He taunts, “now—come here,” He squeezes at your hips and pulls you to him, his cock stiff, throbbing between your legs before he is twisting and spinning you around, feet planting against the ground as he bends you over, fisting himself tight as he rubs his thick cock head between your folds, watching as your wetness coats him, sinking into your fluttering hole with little resistance, a sweet cacophony of noises releasing from your throat as you grip onto nothing, hand curling into a fist as you moan, open-mouthed and shameless.

“Harder,” You beg, forcing the word out between thrusts, blunt fingernails clawing at your hips, attempting to pull you in closer despite your proximity, as if he could consume and even that wouldn’t be enough, “Acacius, please.”

It was like instinct, his hand sliding up the back of your thigh to lift your leg up, pinning it up—up, until you feel the ache in your sore muscles as he holds you in place with a fist between the bend of your knee, heaving breaths at your neck as he fucks you into the hard surface of the table.

It was a pain you would feel in your bones, that would carry with you into the morning, marks that would last for longer, a remnant of this moment, the mess of blood smearing on your own skin as he melts against you, forehead resting against your shoulder as his gaze follows the movement of his hips, slow but powered thrusts that drilled into you, clawing at his skin to leave your own bruises. The hand that brushes against your core is your ultimate demise, feeling breathless as your orgasm pulls you under, muffled sobs into your fist as you bite down, fearful that it might draw attention. Though, Acacius seems preoccupied, still.

His hand seeks your neck, digging in as he pulled you up, “To your knees,” He demands softly, your body moving out a memory, dropping to the floor—though, the sight is much more tantalizing, Acacius fisting his cock tight, feral as he teeth were bared, like a man fresh from the slaughter, he comes with a deep and guttural groan, your tongue sliding against the underside of his bulbous head, thick spurts coating your tongue, his body shaking as you pull away, swallowing all that he had offered with a steady, locked gaze. He assists you upright, steadying you.

“For a man who has such a distaste for unnecessary violence, you wear it well,” It wasn’t a compliment, rather an observation, his eyes tracking your naked frame, fingertips tracing the curves of your body in admiration.

“You are quite inspiring, Minerva,” He admits, gathering your thick dress and helping you redress in silence, tying the material around your body, “not everyone deserves mercy.”

Your smile is rare, but it is beautiful. And he wasn’t a man for such dramatics.

But, it could bring him to his knees, he thinks.

#general acacius #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x y/n #general acacius x reader #general acacius x you #gladiator ii #gladiator ii fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #my writing

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luimnigh · 7 months ago

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So I stumbled onto an interesting Wikipedia page today.

In the aftermath of 9/11, iHeartRadio (then Clear Channel Communications), circulated a list among it's radio stations of songs they were advised against playing.

And a lot of these do make sense. Songs about airplanes, explosions, violence, falling... yeah, no, I get that stuff. Completely understandable to avoid them.

However, there's also plenty of stuff on the list that's questionable.

For some, I just have no idea what the connection is. Green Day's Brain Stew (a song about insomnia), Metallica's Enter Sandman, The Hollies' He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother, Alanis Morrisette's Ironic... All of those seem like they shouldn't have anything objectionable.

There also seemed to be a ban on mentioning New York? Like, okay, AC/DC's Safe In New York City would be in poor taste, but Frank Sinatra's New York, New York is practically the city's anthem. Feels weird to ban that.

But there's also some stuff that, looking back, is absolutely a political choice.

To begin with, they banned the entire discography of Rage Against The Machine. Which, yeah, that's a choice.

They also banned The Bangles' Walk Like An Egyptian, and The Clash's Rock The Casbah, which appear to have been excluded purely based on their references to the Middle East. The banning of Neil Diamond's America (a pro-immigration song) also feels incredibly suspect.

But the reason I ended up on this Wikipedia page in the first place is that I was looking up a song, and it's page mentioned it was one of the banned songs:

War, by Edwin Starr.

You know the one:

youtube

War! Hoo! Yeah!

What is it good for?

Absolutely nothing!

Telling stations not to play one of the most famous anti-war songs at a time where America's leadership, and a large chunk of the American populace, was chomping at the bit to illegally invade multiple countries and destabilise the entire region based on flimsy evidence?

Absolutely a politically motivated choice. And an act of moral cowardice.

#us history #9/11 #Youtube

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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 2 years ago

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Prince Malleus Draconia vs Human Pettiness

So we’ve all heard about the trope of angry humans doing petty stuff to avoid their supernatural s/o’s. Like dating a werewolf and wearing silver, or dating a vampire and eating Italian (or entering a house that they haven’t been invited to) or dating a demon sitting in a salt circle or even dating a fairy and wearing iron.

So let’s say you’ve had an argument with your unfairly handsome fae boyfriend and later, being the stubborn-as-a-mule human you are, realise that even though you’ve somewhat calmed down, you’re still very cross with him so you decide to get back in your own way. You may have come into Twisted Wonderland with no magic but you did possess the stories and folklore of your non-magical world. You grew up with the tales of the men and women of yore that whispered horror stories of curses, kidnappings and enchantments, fairy rings and changeling children - and it’s time to put your childhood fascination of the once-fictional-but-now-part-of-your-reality to shine.

Of course, you started with the iron jewellery; any type of bijouterie in your possession that you could possibly wear, you did. Rings, necklaces, bangles, anklets, earrings, chains, studs on your clothing, the prong of your belt, even the clips in your hair - all made out of pure iron (most of them a gift from Leona for reasons you weren’t too sure you wanted to know). You even managed to replace the buttons of your school blazer for shiny new metallic ones.

Next, you fortified your stronghold to ensure that any pesky fairies wouldn’t be able to enter. You hung up an iron horseshoe onto the door of Ramshackle and sprinkled salt all around its perimeter. You found some of your old clothes that were no longer in use and turned them inside out before placing them both inside Ramshackle and outside. Next you hung up bells and deep-toned wind chimes on as many places on Ramshackle’s exterior you could find. Then, after marvelling at your handiwork, you went to your bedroom and relaxed.

*Insert a pouting Malleus sulking ten feet away from you, physically unable to come closer, mentally debating whether or not he should be impressed by your commitment*

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #malleus draconia x reader

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sir-teatei-moonlight · 6 months ago

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Xenoblade reference: Substances hidden in inventory descriptions

Been a while since I made one of these. Got inspired by noticing that hoverstone, thought to be a new invention for XC1DE, was actually mentioned in the description for a base XC1 piece of equipment. So I decided to go through and pick out more of these cases where an item says what fantastical material it's made of, as long as it's more interesting than e.g. "a glowing rock".

It is possible I missed something. There's a lot of this stuff after all.

Weapons

The core of the Acid Staff is a "highly acidic rock".

The Acrylic Driver is actually made from acrylic resin. This is interesting because it implies Homs have the ability to create plastic, which I would say is not expected.

The core of the Cloud Staff is a "cloud stone".

The core of the Comet Rod is a meteor (well, "a rock that fell from the sky"), as is the Cosmic Nibbler. Usually the game implies that meteors/shooting stars are purely etheral, and usually these are found in regions where there's nothing any higher for rocks to fall from, so this is odd.

The core of the Dragon Rod Alcar is said to be "the talon of a dragon king".

The core of the Mirage Staff is "a core of condensed illusions".

The core of the Sun Staff is a "sun stone".

The core of the Will-o'-Wisp Staff is a "ghostly flame".

Armour

Some pearls from the "ocean depths" are blue (Abyss Earrings).

The Amethyst set all say they're made of "nocturnal iron ore" from Valak Mountain.

The Beech Bangle is made of "shadow tree wood".

The Brandle set all say they're made from "a metal only malleable in icy regions".

The Brave set are all made from "a newly developed anti-ether fabric".

The Glory set are all made from "fate stone".

The Grace set are all supposedly made from an ether-based cloth as opposed to a matter-based cloth.

The Gravity Stone Band is, well, made of Gravity Stone, "the hardest substance in Eryth Sea".

The Hover Shoes contain Hover Stone, "from the core of a Hovering Reef".

The Mithril set are all, well, made of mithril. It comes from the Hovering Reefs.

Pine Headgear is made from "sunshine tree wood", which glows.

The Princess Dress is supposedly made of Machina "illusionary materials".

The Ruby Glasses are said to have lenses made of jewels.

Some of the Snow set are made from "fire-snow", which "releases heat on contact with snow".

The Snow Glasses have lenses of unmeltable ice.

Collectables

The Gypsum Branch is of "the ice tree". Since it's described as shooting light at night, probably related to all the glowng stuff in Valak Mountain, where it's found.

Materials

The Andos Alloy Plate says it's specifically nickel alloy.

Black Fog Deposits are supposedly made of "condensed lumps of [black] fog". No, this is not a DE addition.

#Xenoblade #Xenoblade spoilers #Xenoblade reference

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samaya11 · 2 years ago

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The Godess Awakens

In my room

For my Grandmother Deviben born 1923-2001

As Amba Patel in Limbe, Malawi

4 am - London

In my room

The Goddess awakens

me with Her singing

I have been holding her hand as I sleep

Her thin long bony fingers

The only protection I need from

the shifting shadows on the wall

The monsters under the bed

At 6am

The six year old me watches

from under thick tartan blankets

as she performs her holy ablutions

After her own morning rituals

Combing silver strands into

Thin tight helix braid

Fraying at the ends

Mimicking the DNA strands

That bind us

Decontaminating

Is her holy ritual

She is elbows

She is force

Carving at the decay

And grime the world brings

Shakti

There is Dettol and Vicks and incense

To cleanse the body and the spirit according to her methods

Dressed in white head to toe

Mostly white hair in a bun

Pure sari on an impossibly long thin frame whit

Thick white wooly socks that once wore toe rings

She is not delicate

Never that

She is firm and flattens us all smooth like a hot iron with nothing but her sharp tongue

And expectations

Pressing out all the creases

I inherited from my mother

with their unforgiving steam

She is brittle and hard like iron

Yet even kyphosis is elegant on her

If you can make her laugh and smile

You can rewind the years to see

Her warm joy before it was stolen

By customs, tragedy, migration

She is a misplaced bird

With wings she can never use

locked away in this cage of duty

Within invisible parameters

Society calls love

From under the bed covers I watch

as she bathes her murtis by dawn light

Then proceeds to greet them and divide the entire universe evenly into 18 sacred sections

Gita Ganga Gayatri

Sita Satya Sarasvati

Brahmavidya …

20 years later

Long after the clearest memories of her gold bangles are gone

The sweet fragrance of Vibhuti, Bhasma, Chandan and kumkum fade

I search for the Hindu Gods In the periodic table

Particularly Shani

Nilanjan Samabhasam

Ravi Putra Yama Ganjam…

As my way of communion with her spirit of intellectual curiosity mixed with childlike wonder and faith. My attempt of reaching back through time to bridge the ionic bonds

That tore her family apart

If she had been born in any other era she would have manifested her true power

And ruled the world firmly but compassionately and changed it for the better.

Now

As I study my microbiology notes and antiseptic techniques

There She is again

Her teachings her blessings

Acting as the phospholipids

In my spiritual membrane

Her Hygiene OCDs justified

Open tap

Wash hands

Wash taps

Wash hands again

In scalding soapy water

Open cabinet door

Wash hands

Her methodology

For reverence

Godliness next to

Cleanliness

If only if I could have told her about Lister & Louis Pasteur

I’m sure she would have smiled and agreed

They were worthy of Murtis too

But I am done collecting old Gods & New

Decades later I realise

While I was searching for the wrong God in all the cliched places

All I need to remember

Is DeviMa of my youth

X /18= 108

4am - Houston

In My room

The Goddess awakens

Within Me.

Priya Ramesh Desai, 2023 @Samaya11

#desipoets #granny #Devi #herstory #hinduism #nostalgia #time travel #in memory of

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culturalcrafts · 8 days ago

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Discover the Timeless Elegance of Chanderi Kurtas

Chanderi is a small town in the state of Madhya Pradesh in India. Its culture and handicraft is very rich, with very fine craftsmanship. Amongst all its products, there is one particular Kurta which stands as an epitome of grace and heritage and as an amalgamation of traditionalism and modernity as it is not only of time but also modern in itself.

The Historical Past of Chanderi Weaving

Chanderi has been a hub of handloom weaving since the 13th century. Weaving Chanderi fabric is an art that has been passed from generation to generation, with each weaver giving his or her special touch to this age-old technique. Originally, the weavers used hand-spun cotton to create the fabric, but over time, silk was added to produce the luxurious Chanderi Silk that we see nowadays.

What Makes Chanderi Kurtas Unique?

1. Delicate Fabric

Chanderi kurtas are light and sheer in texture, which is achieved through a very meticulous weaving process. The fabric is a blend of silk and cotton, making it comfortable and elegant. The addition of zari work – intricate designs woven with gold or silver threads – adds a touch of opulence to the kurta.

2. Intricate Designs

The designs on Chanderi kurtas are inspired by nature and traditional motifs. You will find the patterns of flowers, peacocks, and geometrical shapes intricately woven into the fabric. Not only do these designs look nice but also have cultural values and are symbolic of good things.

3. Versatile Style

Chanderi kurtas are highly versatile and come in a wide range. Whether it is a festive event, wedding, or an official function, a Chanderi kurta will make you look great without even trying. Its elegance with intricate designs would make sure that you make a great impression in a crowd.

How a Chanderi Kurta is Made

The process of making a chanderi kurta involves labor and several steps; each step requires a higher level of skill and accuracy.

1. Yarn preparation

Preparation of yarn

Threads made from pure silk and cotton are chosen, processed carefully in a manner that fine yarn is produced. Strong in texture yet delicate in look, the yarn is treated with bright colors using natural dyes so that these colours survive for a pretty long period and don't fade fast.

2. Warping

Weaving refers to the process that involves making ready yarn arrangements on the loom. The thread has to be stretched and arranged very cautiously so as not to experience uneven fabrics or wrinkles. This step must require so much detail because one misplaced arrangement would ruin the texture of the fabric.

3. Weaving

Magic happens in weaving. Here, handlooms are employed to weave the yarn into fabric. It is during this stage that zari threads are introduced and woven in such a way to create the intricate designs of Chanderi kurtas. These weavers work day and night for days or even weeks to complete a piece.

4. Finishing

After weaving, it is then given a finishing process that enhances the texture and shine of the fabric. The starched and ironed look of the fabric gives it a smooth polished appearance. Then it gets cut and stitched into the final kurta.

Style Your Chanderi Kurta

Chanderi kurtas are versatile and can be worn on any occasion. Chanderi kurtas can be styled in numerous ways.

1. Festive Look

Pair the kurta with a matching dupatta of Chanderi, along with heavy traditional jewelry for a festive look. Go for bright colors such as red, orange, or green and complete the look with a pair of embellished juttis.

2. Wedding Attire

For weddings, choose a rich zari work Chanderi kurta with intricate embroidery. Team it with contrasting silk churidar or palazzo pants. Accessorize with statement jewelry pieces like a maang tikka, chandelier earrings, and bangles.

3. Casual Chic

For a more casual look, style your Chanderi kurta with denim jeans or leggings. Choose pastel shades or muted tones for a subtle yet elegant look. Complete the outfit with minimal jewelry and comfortable flats.

4. Office Wear

You can even wear Chanderi Kurtas to the office. Opt for simple designs that have minimal embroidery work. Pair the kurta with tailored pants or pencil skirts. Structured handbags and closed-toe shoes should do the trick in making the look professional.

How to Care for Your Chanderi Kurta

Chanderi fabric is a bit delicate and requires special care if it has to stay in the best of its condition for years to come.

1. Washing

Always hand wash your Chanderi kurta with mild detergent in cold running water. Never wrong the fabric as it damages the delicate threads. Should you have to machine wash, gentle cycle and put the garment in a laundry bag to protect it.

2. Drying

Avoid placing direct sunlight on your Chanderi kurta because it tends to fade the colors. Instead, let it dry in the shade or indoors. Lay the kurta flat when drying so that it doesn't stretch.

3. Ironing

Iron the Chanderi kurta at low heat. Ensure to put a cotton cloth on the kurta. Steaming it may cause watermarks, and the delicate fabric of Chanderi is highly sensitive.

4. Storage

Store the Chanderi kurta in a cool, dry place. Wrap the kurta with a muslin cloth and keep it away from direct sunlight and humidity. Never hang the kurta for a long time as this can stretch the fabric.

Conclusion

Chanderi kurtas are the epitome of blending tradition and modernity. Their elegance cuts across time, making the style an absolute must-have for any wardrobe. To grasp the depth of the heritage, intricate craftsmanship, and proper care of Chanderi fabric is the essence of beauty and value embedded in these exquisite garments. Whether it is a fancy dress occasion or you seek stylish yet comfortable casual wear, a Chanderi kurta will meet your expectations.

#ChanderiKurta #TraditionalWear #culturalheritage #ethnicwear #ChanderiFabric #HandwovenTextiles #AuthenticChanderi #kurta for men

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virasatpatolasaree · 2 months ago

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Essential Care Tips for Your Patola Saree - a masterpiece of your ward – Virasat Patola

A patola silk saree is a lightweight, soft fabric that is primarily crafted from silk with a weaving technique. Having a symbol of cultural traditions in your wardrobe is not just a piece of clothing; it's about carrying a piece of the royal image. Ensuring your Rajkoti Patola saree remains a bright masterpiece in your wardrobe for years to come requires understanding the nature of the fabric. Are you worried about how to care for such an elegant piece? Here is a guide for you to use.

Basics of Patola Silk Saree Cleaning

However, no matter how wide your collection of Patola sarees is, taking care of them is important to preserve the beauty and longevity of your Patola saree. Thus, we are here to help you with a few essential Patola saree care tips.

Understand the nature of the fabric

Patola sarees are generally made from silk with the double and single Ikat technique, a detailed and luxurious weaving material. When you understand the nature of silk, it becomes easier to take care of your lustrous charm.

Avoid machine-washing silk fabric; it may lose its shine.

Take care not to expose the Patola saree to direct sunlight. Direct sunlight can cause the Patola silk saree to fade and become discolored over time.

Precautions before wearing

When wearing your silk saree, always clean your hands with hand wash and avoid using any lotions or oils that could damage the blend of the material.

Do not wear heavy jewelry and bangles that can snag or tear the delicate double Ikat threads.

Store them well

It is important to store your Patola ethnic saree properly if you want to enjoy the chicness and shine of this fabric for a long period.

Hanging the Rajkoti Patola silk will increase the chances of wrinkling; instead, you can keep the saree wrapped in soft muslin cloth.

You can layer newspaper between the folds of your saree to reduce wrinkling.

Cleaning technique

Stop cleaning stains immediately using washing soaps or harsh detergent powder; instead, use soft detergent powder. Avoid rubbing with a brush, as this can damage the hand-weaving of the material.

For more extensive cleaning, it's recommended to hand wash with shampoo your Patola saree to ensure the softness of the silk material.

Air-drying

Ensure to avoid drying perils by hanging or laying the Patola saree out to air dry it.

Furthermore, you should avoid hanging your favorite Patola saree in direct sunlight. Dry your patola in a shared area and place it on a flat surface. Since the Ikat material is lightweight and extremely delicate, hanging it can cause permanent creases.

Iron carefully

Ironing requires special attention and care, damaging the delicate Patola threads.

Select a special mode for silk in iron while ironing the Patola silk saree.

Do not press too much when ironing; this can damage the intricate patterns of this luxurious ethnic wear.

Handling with care

Avoid excessive pins to settle down your saree; it can damage the borders.

Avoid spraying perfumes, deodorants, or any other fragrances directly on your royal ethnic elegance; it can leave stains on the contact surface.

How do you restore the lost shine of the Patola Silk Saree?

Whether you wash the Patola saree at home or wash it outside, after a while, its luster diminishes a little. Sometimes there are chances of a complete loss of shine. You can maintain the shine of this heritage saree with small household efforts.

Pour some vinegar into a bucket of lukewarm water and soak your pure silk for 2 or 3 minutes. With the liquid made this way, you can maintain the luster of the Patola silk saree. Instead of this, you can also use ready-made dilute solutions available on the market.

Take care enough to dry this wet saree without exposing it to direct sunlight. Hang your elegant ethnic piece in a shady place to dry. Avoid using a machine dryer to dry your Patola silk saree. The excess heat can damage weaving threads.

How do you remove food stains from your silk saree?

There is nothing more elegant than wearing a cultural and traditional saree to a ceremony or function. Apart from all of this, we sometimes become careless. What should we do if someone calls us while eating at a wedding and spoils the saree due to neglecting our attention, paying attention to someone, or any other reason? Can this saree never be worn again? But pause; there is a solution for you.

Wet the stained part of the Patola saree slightly and apply a thick layer of toothpaste to it. Allow to dry the toothpaste area. After drying that part, wash it off with simple, plain water and see the magic happen. If, after this process, the stain is still visible, then repeat the process.

How do you remove lipstick stains from your Patola silk saree?

Which woman likes to wear a saree without makeup? Makeup gives confidence to a woman, so it is impossible to see any woman in ethnic clothes without makeup. But what if this same makeup causes your expensive Patola saree to deteriorate? What should you do if your hands get stuck while applying lipstick by mistake? Here is a handy tip to revive your Rajkoti Patola saree from lipstick stains.

Place the stain area on a flat surface and use wet tissue paper. Try to press the wet tissue paper on the stained area.

If pressing the paper does not transfer the lipstick from the saree to the paper, rub the paper gently. Take special care that the paper stays on the affected part only.

Conclusion

So, these are a few tips to help you take care of your Patola silk saree without any worry. However, check the label of the silk saree when you unbox your Rajkoti Patola saree for the first time and remember the instructions, then go for it. With these essential care tips, you can ensure that your masterpiece stays just as beautiful for generations to come.

#virasatpatolaemporium #virasatpatola #patolasilk #EssentinalCareTipsForYourPatola #patolasareeonline #buyonlinePatolasaree

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bcklink · 1 year ago

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Satran Women's Embroidery Work Poly Silk Saree with Unstitched Blouse Piece

Draping Styles: Saris are traditionally draped in different styles based on regional and cultural preferences in India. Satriani's rinted poly silk sarees for women can be draped in many ways, including her Nivi style, which is the most common and popular drape style. Other regional styles include Bengali style, Gujarati style, and Maharashtrian style. Each style of drape creates its own look and enhances the overall look of the saree.

Fringe and Palu: A saree usually has a decorative fringe along its entire length and a contrasting or complementary Pallu, which is the loose end of the saree that is worn over the shoulder. Fringes and pals feature intricate patterns, embellishments, or contrasting colors that add visual interest and elegance to the saree.

ACCESSORIES: When wearing a Satran print Poly silk saree for women, you can accessorize it to enhance the overall look. Traditional accessories such as bangles, earrings, necklaces and anklets are often paired with the saree. Additionally, you can choose a matching or contrasting blouse design, style your hair in a traditional or modern way, and wear matching shoes to complete the ensemble.

Opportunity and Cultural Significance: Saris have significant cultural and traditional value in India. It is often worn during festive occasions such as Diwali, Durga Puja, weddings, religious ceremonies and cultural events. Considered an elegant and graceful garment, the saree represents the rich traditions and diversity of Indian culture.

Saree Care and Maintenance: To ensure the longevity of Satran women's printed Poly silk sarees, it is important to follow proper care instructions. It is usually recommended to dry clean these sarees to preserve the color and quality of the fabric. If you prefer to hand wash, use a mild detergent to gently wash the saree. Avoid squeezing or twisting, and let it dry naturally in the shade. Iron on low or fabric-friendly setting.

Availability: Satran printed Poly silk sarees for women without sewn blouse portion are available through various channels including online retail platforms, traditional saree shops and authorized Satran retailers. Online platforms often offer a wide range of colors, designs and sizes.

Polysilk, rayon, chiffon, georgette, and other fabrics that are smooth, light, highly absorbent, and beautifully designed are ideal. But the main reason is that they don't stay the same all day long like cotton sarees.

Cotton is the most preferred fabric, but it is also very difficult to care for. It looks clean and fresh, but wrinkles quickly. You can always prefer to wear soft cotton sarees, guncotton sarees for regular office use. The advantage of wearing soft or mulled cotton is that it does not wrinkle as easily as pure cotton. Pure cotton should always be washed. But with soft cotton and mulberry cotton, it's easy to wear all day, even when traveling, and you don't even have to start.

Cotton is always preferred for formal wear. The reason is that cotton can work wonders in business meetings, but it doesn't. please visit here https://amzn.to/3Qyli8Q for more details.

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edenspetals · 2 years ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ꒰🥀꒱ rhyraël ៸៸

ଓ.° “ oh aren't you just the sweetest little dream. . . ’

·⊰ species: mana spirit

·⊰ sex: male

·⊰ age: unknown

·⊰ hair colour: black

·⊰ eye colour: deep purple

·⊰ mbti: ENTJ

·⊰ about: the literal boogeyman but with a twist, rhyraël is the creature that many will tell their children of. however, his main target is in fact adults as their fear grants him far more power. at a staggering height of 7’5’’ and a pale skin tone, he maintains this in both his human form and ‘nightmarish form’. in his nightmarish form, he has a head of long, ebony black hair which extends past his waist and dark purple eyes with the whites of his eyes being black while his irises are slitted. sharp canines with generally sharp teeth which are paired with his elongated tongue that bears a simple piercing at the middle. at the centre of his forehead a small red gem forms some sort of vermilion mark and is encrusted in. from his temples extend two sets of black horns which he often adorns in jewellery, typically gold or silver chains with amethyst gems dangling from them. his ears are long and pointed and he wears a variety of piercings, typically hoops along his helixes. however, he also has chain earrings which connect to the hoops and join at a stud on his lobe which then extends a smaller chain with a gem attached to it. his fingers extend long, sharp, claw-like nails that are often black. this dark colour also bleeds onto the tips of his fingers. his lips often bear black lipstick, solely on his top lip while he also wears eyeliner around his lids but also extends them into wings on his lids. in his human form his horns are hidden and his ears are that of a human along with all his other monster features. his hair remains the same and his eyes mimic human eyes with his same eye colour. his outfits range from robes such as this to more modernised black suits, dress-shirts and suit pants — this goes for both of his forms. He also wears dark bangles around his wrists along with dark rings on his fingers.

as stated earlier. rhyraël is, quite literally, the boogeyman. he’s been around for an indefinite amount of time but his story isn't exactly what humans have adapted it out to be. known as a 'mana spirit', his very being centres around the universe and it's life essence. as such it's only natural that he draws his energy from the world's creatures, particularly — fear. while he also draws energy from sin ( greed, lust, deceit, violence ) and corruption, fear is what strengthens him the most. he is a rather cunning individual with a great amount of pride but an equal deal of witt. he takes his reputation with pride although ironically has some distaste towards 'the boogeyman' name and leans more towards 'the shadowman' if not his actual name. while he does have quite a short fuse this isn't particularly evident as he masks this anger with sadistic slyness and feigned amusement. on the topic of his humour he tends to have a rather ( pun intended ) dark humour. he's smug, sarcastic and overall ruthless, especially when it comes to his line of work. he's also considered to have quite the charm and charisma towards other people — not to mention, he is a bit of a flirt.

at the onset of his creation, rhyraël was born alongside a twin brother whom he loved deeply. the two were promised greatness and were tasked with the duty of maintaining order in the physical world and protecting its inhabitants. however, he found it difficult in using the pure tactics and powers that were said to be the 'only way' and often fell short of his brother. as they grew older, rhyraël discovers that he was in fact never destined to rise to greatness and was in fact, determined to fall into corruption so that "balance" could be maintained with his brother being the "inherently good force" whilst rhyraël was meant to be the "inherently evil force." in a fit of rage, he commits patricide ( as it is his father who determined his downfall and ultimately picked his brother over him ) and engages in a horrendous duel with his brother as a result. in the end, neither of them win and rhyraël flees. it is now that he learns he is far more talented in the darkness and discovers his true powers. from that day forth, he vows to end his brother and take back his birthright.

he is a businessman by trade, a leader by right and a mercenary by skill. seeing as though he quite literally gains strength through the corruption, sins and fear of others, what better occupation in the modern world than that of the leader to one of the most renowned underground crime guilds? this guild, known as talon, has their hands in both mercenary work and mob networks in both the mortal and supernatural world. a wide array of dark creatures operate in this guild, some of which are his own creations whilst others are not. rhyraël states, "the fear in someone's eyes just before they pass on tastes almost as divine as one's fear of the unknown. with that being said, he also enjoys the traditional approach of spooking someone with paranormal occurrences as it is the way in which he first started off after his turn to the darker side. he frequently has run-ins with his brother who leads an intelligence and national security agency in the modern world ( it also doubles over to handle supernatural issues ) that directly opposes talon. he and his brother are in competition now.

with a lover, rhyraël is still quite cunning although it is watered down to a playful sort of malice as he enjoys eliciting reactions out of you. especially that of embarrassment and fluster. he's quite the shameless individual who says what's on his mind especially when it comes to you ( most of which serve to fluster you. ) as stated earlier he can be a bit of a flirt which is only amplified around you — he especially adores teasing you. with all that being said rhyraël is also quite protective and might be borderline possessive over you. he's had what was supposed to be his taken before and he refuses to let it happen again. while you might not be aware, he almost always has one of his henchman giving him full reports regarding you when he isn't around for the sake of your safety. he is very aware that he's made a lot of enemies and thus cannot bear the thought of you being hurt as a result. he is also a very passionate lover and extends his affection in both physical and verbal methods. sometimes he'll spin you around whilst you're busy with who knows what and kiss you until your breathless. other times he'll wrap his arms around you — maybe while you're waiting in line for a coffee and simply hold you in his embrace or press kisses down your neck. apart from all of this, rhyraël would need someone to break through the barriers he's set up for himself. he may not be entirely good at this love thing but damn will he try for you.

·⊰ strengths:

ଓ.° fear detection and manipulation — the ability to sense one's fears. he can see all their fears and depending on how weak a person is mentally, he can induce terror into them. fear is his ultimate source of power. this includes nightmares, he can both induce and manipulate them

ଓ.° dark mana — he has control over dark mana and can create, shape and manipulate it into physical projections. he draws this mana from living beings and thus actively harms them in the process

ଓ.° shadow teleportation — the ability to travel and teleport through shadows

ଓ.° shadow animation — be it temporary or actual living beings, he can draw dark mana and negative energy to create aparations of creatures. this is also how his makes his underlings

ଓ.° shapeshifting — the ability to change his appearance

·⊰ weaknesses:

ଓ.° white mana — the complete opposite to his dark mana which prides itself on positive and pure energy. this can harm and weaken him. if the is user his on his level ( his brother ) it can be fatal

ଓ.°courage inducement — a trait of his brother's side. depending on the strength of the wielder with this ability it can counter his fear inducement

ଓ.°daytime — while he is not affected too harshly he does become only a tad bit weaker in daytime. nothing too extreme but it does limit his shadow teleportation

ଓ.°light-based powers — any of these abilities outright counter his and weaken him. they can cause injury

#— ꒰🥀꒱ 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐬 ៸៸ rhyraël ଓ.°#monster x reader #terato #terato x reader #monster boyfriend #demon x reader #oc x reader #demon oc #monster oc #writing

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spell-cleaver · 2 years ago

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Whumptober No. 10 POOR UNFORTUNATE SOULS Taser | Whipping | Waterboarding

Read it on AO3 or on FFN instead!

“You must be kidding me.”

The Twi’lek woman offering her the costume apparently didn’t speak Basic. She just tilted her head and gave Leia an unimpressed look. The sequined headdress she wore around her lekku and her ear cones had bells dangling around her forehead, into her eyes, which jangled with the motion. The heaps of bangles at her wrists clinked together musically as well, a thousand shades of gold and silver and every gem known to the galaxy set into them. Leia wondered how much only one of those was worth, and if it would be enough to buy this slave woman’s freedom.

Wondered what the punishment for theft was, if she hadn’t already tried that.

Clearly thinking her look had been enough to cow Princess Leia Organa, she held out the costume again. Another slave—a Rodian man, this time—stepped forwards and unzipped her bounty hunter disguise, tearing it off her shoulder without bothering to be gentle; Leia whirled around and smacked him, hard.

“I can undress myself,” she bit out.

He just gave her that look as well. “Can you?” he asked in heavily accented Basic. He muttered in Huttese, “Arrogant princess.”

“I am a princess. And I am arrogant. And I will not stand for this.” But she gasped with pain when the Twi’lek woman closed her hand around Leia’s now-exposed shoulder. With how tightly she clutched it, her long, painted nails were sharp enough to almost draw blood.

Almost.

“Are you going to put this on or not?” she murmured in Leia’s ear in Huttese. Leia’s blood boiled.

She glanced back at the costume. It was gold. Likely not pure gold—that was a cruel, tasteless extravagance even in the household of a cruel, tasteless Hutt. But it was all metal, in the anticipation that whatever slave girl forced into it would have to make her skeleton fit its contours, not the other way around. When she touched it, it seemed cold as ice despite the sweltering heat.

The Twi’lek woman was wearing a bikini of precisely the same make, though it had some more embellishments, and actually looked made to fit her body. More bells dangled from that, and she seemed to have earned some fabric or padding on the inside to make it comfier. She tilted her head again at Leia’s silence.

“You don’t have many choices, princess,” she said again in Huttese.

“I won’t be here long,” Leia assured her, though she tried to keep the bite out of her voice. The woman wasn’t cruel. She was just pragmatic, she could tell. Pragmatic and scared—even a little bit scared for her.

“I was in the throne room. If your Jedi friend is real, he can’t help you. Even if he does, you’re still stuck here until then. Do not make this more difficult for yourself,” her face softened, “and you will make it bearable.”

“That’s the last thing I want to do,” Leia informed her.

The Rodian man scoffed. “Stop coddling her!” he snapped. “Bring the whip. She doesn’t have a choice—”

The Twi’lek’s hand, still on Leia’s shoulder, tightened painfully. “If you whip her,” she said delicately, “the injuries will show. You know you do not whip the dancing girls.”

“You won’t get me to dance for him,” Leia bit out.

“There are plenty of ways to dance, princess. Your job covers several.”

“She can start work tomorrow,” he said irritably. “But if she does not obey—”

“Whip that man she loves instead, then,” the Twi’lek woman said, bored. “She brought him off the wall. You have access to the cells.”

Leia started forwards, but the Twi’lek’s grip was like iron. “Leave him out of this—”

The man’s grin was more like a sneer. “You do have some good ideas, then, Irdina.”

Irdina said nothing. Even when he left, and Leia yanked herself around to glare, she said nothing.

“You bastard. Why have you—”

“Jabba doesn’t like his girls injured in places he can see,” she said simply. “If you’ll cooperate no other way…”

“Leave him alone!”

“He may not be allowed access to the cells.” She shrugged. “And Karrd may not even do it. He’s bloodthirsty, but—”

“But what?”

Irdina gestured to the bikini again. “You can stop resisting.”

Leia was proud, but she was still sensible. She put on the bikini, watching anxiously for Karrd’s return. It took long enough that he was starting to hope it would not come, until—

Grunting. Swearing. And, into this cellar where pleasure slaves dolled themselves up, Karrd dragged Han through.

Leia schooled her expression like she was back in the Senate and watched. Han was still blind from the carbonite, she could tell; he stared wildly around, spitting on Karrd where he could and getting cuffed across the face for his troubles. She swallowed at the sight of it.

Karrd, his hand fisted in the back of Han’s shirt, looked up and smirked at Leia. “Good. She put it on. The hair?”

“About to do that,” Irdina said, then reached for the clasp in her bun. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, long and sticky with sweat. Irdina didn’t hesitate to reach for it, but Leia backed away.

“Not my hair,” she insisted. Her hair was sacred. It was far too intimate, far too much of a violation, to let someone else touch it. She wouldn’t put it into a style for someone else.

Karrd rolled his eyes and reached for a whip. “Alright, then.”

“Leia?” Han rasped. “Is that you? Don’t give them anything—”

The whip cracked. In a flash, it had left a long line of blood down Han’s back, splitting his shirt and skin alike. He screamed. Leia screamed too.

“Han! Stop! I’ll let you do my hair!”

“Good,” Irdina said, grimacing as she turned away from the horrid display and taking Leia’s hair in her hands. “Quickly, now—”

But Karrd didn’t move to put down the whip. “Han?” he asked. “I didn’t know that. You’re Han Solo?”

Han spat, “What’s it to you?”

He leaned in close, his needle-like teeth bared. “Greedo was my brother,” he said, and cracked the whip again. Han shouted, his back bucking, head wrenching back.

“Stop! Stop it, I’ll cooperate!”

“It’s not about you anymore, princess.”

Leia pulled forwards, but Irdina didn’t let go of her hair. She was still plaiting it, her strong hands slowly but methodically weaving the strands together. When Leia pulled, it just pulled the line taut.

“Stop this,” Leia begged. “Get him to—”

“I can’t,” Irdina said, and the genuine pain in her voice made Leia hate her all the more.

“Leia,” Han got out in thumping, stinging breaths, spitting blood onto the ground. “Are you—alright?” Every word seemed to enrage Karrd more: the whip strokes were faster, weaker, messier now, splattering Han’s back like shrapnel.

“I’m fine, Han, you—”

The whip caught around Han’s throat and bit in deep. Han choked and clawed at it, but the recoil nearly took his fingers off. When he fell to his knees, Karrd did not stop: he kept beating, and beating, and beating…

Blood dripped into the sand at their feet. It drained into them, absorbed, like Han had never been there at all. He was losing far too much of it.

“Stop,” Leia whispered. She stared at the whip, glaring, wishing—

It did not stop moving, but it missed. Karrd cursed, reoriented himself. Struck again. Missed.

Even if he kept missing—and he did—Han was on the ground, half-conscious. His back was a waterfall of blood. He needed it to heal. Stitches—they were outdated, but surely…

“You must have stitches,” she murmured to Irdina. “Can you save him?”

Irdina shook her head.

That wouldn’t do. Leia pulled away again, but Irdina did not let go. She stared at Han’s back, feeling her fury build inside her, staring at Karrd with enough hatred to put out the suns.

Han jerked back, crying. She gasped, but Karrd was just as confused. He cracked the whip again, but aborted the motion halfway when Han flopped onto his front, exposing his red, raw back for them all to see.

It was… bumpy.

She peered at it in the dim light of the underground hall. The violent red marks were still there, but they were subsumed by flesh—pieces of skin, tissue, cells that had twisted into ropes and bridged the gaps where the skin had split over muscle. She reached out a hand, though he wasn’t near enough to touch. His back was an unnatural tapestry of flesh, blood, and bone. Veins were used in the thread of those stitches as well: she could see them pulsing, where the flesh was thin and spindly, betraying his racing heart. Sweat bled from his pores to slowly cut through the drying blood, beading on his macabre embroidery.

Stitches.

Something dark awoke inside her as she stared at that mess of flesh. It was absurd, but the truth was clear. She had done that.

What else could she do?

Karrd snarled and threw all his strength into one last stroke. It cleaved through her handiwork. Leia watched them break apart, as fragile as chains of mountain daisies, and then, when she willed it so hard that her teeth hurt from clenching, she watched them wriggle in mid-air like bisected worms, reach across the fresh canyon of flesh and blood, and reconnect with their other half.

“What the hell is this?” Karrd demanded.

Han laughed. He couldn’t see his back. He had no idea how kriffed this was. “What’s the matter? Can’t even see straight enough to hit me?”

Karrd lashed out, seizing Han’s hair. “There are other ways to kill you,” he swore, and dragged Han back.

She hadn’t bothered noticing it before. In the corner of the cellar that they were in were stacked barrels, three high and many deep. Karrd dragged Han to the nearest column, tipped one over, and sent them crashing to the sand. Then, with one foot on Han’s back to keep him down, he unscrewed the lid.

Water. Fresh water. A luxury.

Irdina realised what Karrd was about to do before Leia did. “Karrd! Stop! We’ll all get in trouble!”

“Worth it, for this bastard.”

“That’s such a waste—”

“Han, hold your breath!” Leia shrieked.

Han didn’t question her, thank the stars. He sucked in a breath half a second before Karrd seized his hair, dragged him upright, and shoved his head into the water.

Leia’s mouth dropped open. He held Han under there for seconds, long seconds, minutes—she found herself holding her breath alongside him. Her pulse thundered in her head. Her chest swelled and burned from strain.

Karrd yanked him back out.

Han gasped for air; Karrd spat in his face. Leia gasped for air. Irdina kept plaiting Leia’s hair.

While Han was still gasping, Karrd shoved him back under. Leia bucked in Irdina’s grip, feeling the cold, stagnant water flood her mouth like she was there too. Still, she held her breath alongside him.

What was this? She stared at him and shook, his pain as acute to her as if it were her own. Like Luke had described the Force felt like. She couldn’t stitch this up. She couldn’t save him here. Humans could heal wounds, but humans couldn’t breathe underwater—

He dragged Han back up. Han breathed. Leia breathed. And the oxygen seemed to light a fire in her brain pathways, raging all the way to her heart. Han went under again, but not before the white skin of his neck grew very, very red.

Humans couldn’t breathe underwater. Han was human—so painfully, thoroughly human that it made her smile. But he didn’t have to be.

Something—that assurance deep inside her—told Leia that she wasn’t exactly fully human, either.

She reached out in her mind’s eye, seized Han’s fragile neck in her tiny hands, and cut. Blood seeped into the clear water, permanently corrupting that source of life Irdina wanted to leave untouched, but it vanished soon after. She wrung his neck, changing, changing…

Karrd kept him underwater for a long, long time. Leia held her breath for the first half of it. But when Han started breathing, she did too.

Ripples touched the surface of the water. Han was very still. Very calm. She could feel their breaths synchronising: she ordered him to breathe with her, despite the novelty of it.

When Karrd grinned in her and Irdina’s direction, she kept her face blank. But when he turned back, dragged Han out of the water, and gaped at him, she smirked.

Han’s neck had unfolded into gleaming slits. They fluttered awkwardly in the air after he was dragged out, before he got his mouth open and sucked in a breath through there. The slits in his neck—his gills—folded closed again, only thin lines of skin indicating they were still there at all.

“Is that your best shot, pal?” he gasped out. The gills twitched with every exhale. “Didn’t your brother tell you I’m hard to kill?”

“What is wrong with you?” Karrd spat, shaking him.

Han shrugged his lazy shrug and—like the brief connection she’d forged between them meant he could seek her unerringly, blind or incapacitated—he turned towards her. And winked. “I dunno. I’ve got people who love me anyway.”

“So did my brother,” Karrd choked out around a sob that wrenched his shoulders back. He grabbed a knife from his belt and drove it through Han’s torso.

Irdina let go of Leia’s hair. It was in a neat, perfect plait that hung down her back, pinned up with a golden clasp that matched her bikini. Leia stood up, stepped forwards, reached out her hands, and pushed them apart gently.

Han’s flesh was like clay in her hands. It gathered up into two rolls and let her peel it back as the knife drove through, to the broad daylight on the other side. His internal organs jostled for space, but with a flick of her hand she rearranged them until they were comfortable. The knife and the hand that held it drove straight through Han’s belly, meeting no resistance, doing no damage.

When it pulled back, she closed the hole anew.

Irdina was staring at her in terror. Karrd turned to look at her too, her still-outstretched hands. She schooled her expression into one of dead-eyed, unflinching determination.

“Step away from him,” she ordered. “Before I open a hole in your head.”

He stepped away from him.

“Drop the knife.”

He dropped it.

She nodded, baring her teeth. “Good.”

Han was feeling around his stomach, where the hole had been. It was gone—almost. A narrow tunnel remained, right the way from his belly button through to his spine, light peeking through. He found it by touch, then flickered up to touch his gills, their fragile flapping out of water. The artistic bumps on his back, a composition of love and hate.

She had saved him. She had redesigned him in order to do it.

It was too much to bear. She stepped forwards; his gaze followed her motions. Even blind, even if he never got his vision back again, she knew he would always be able to see her. But when she reached for his hands, he grasped them strongly, and pulled her against his chest, holding her tight.

She ran her hands down his back. She felt proud of it—of him. Her masterpiece.

“Glad he didn’t shoot me in the head,” he quipped in her ear. There didn’t seem to be any question in his mind how she had done it. She wondered if she had always been magical to him. “Wouldn’t want you digging around in there. A lot of stuff in my brain you shouldn’t have to see.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered,” she muttered back. “You’re brainless anyway.”

He kissed her, the briefest and most chaste kiss they’d had so far, in response.

She stepped back, still holding his hands, and glared at Karrd. Did not spare a look for Irdina that wasn’t one of pity.

“My Jedi friend is real,” she told her instead, who did not seem to doubt her anymore. “And he has training.”

Irdina swallowed. Karrd backed away.

“You’d better run while you can,” Leia told Irdina. But to Karrd, she said: “Not you. There will be no escape for you.”

The stench of urine emanated from him. She just kept smiling, showing all her teeth.

She glanced at Han. Her Han. Human or not. He was still with her; she could do anything.

Once all of them were here, she would bring about a reckoning.

#body horror #horror #my writing #random words on a page #leia organa #han solo #whumptober 2022 #whumptober #no.10

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onlinesikhstore · 8 months ago

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Sikh Sarbloh Kara Smooth Design Singh Kaur Khalsa Kada Bangle Kakaar 5Ks New DD3 Sikh Sarbloh CHAKRI Kara Smooth Design Singh Kaur Khalsa Kada Bangle Kakaar 5Ks New. Kara Ref: DD3 Width is approx 8.3mm Thickness from inner side of Chakri to the edge of Chakri is approx. 12.3mm Weight Approx 110-155g (Variable due to size) Handmade design - therefore each kara is a Unique design Please note these Pure Sarbloh Kara are very hard to find and is a customised design exclusive to OnlineKaraStore These karas are from the Holy City of Amritsar (Golden Temple/Darbar Sahib). KARA Size is the internal diameter of Karas measured in CMs. There may be little bit rust present which is seen commonly in all SARBLOH KARAS due to purity of the metal/wrought iron. Cuts, dings and scruff Mark's may present as these kara are hand made and transported in Jumble in Jute bags. However, our kara will be near to perfection as we get these manufactured on demand and use bubble wraps to transport these. Please read below more Information about Sikh Kara: A kara (Punjabi: ਕੜਾ (Gurmukhi), کڑا (Shahmukhi) कड़ा (Devanagari)), is a steel or iron (sarb loh) bracelet, worn by all initiated Sikhs. It is one of the five kakars or 5Ks — external articles of faith — that identify a Sikh as dedicated to their religious order. The kara was instituted by the tenth Sikh guru Gobind Singh at the Baisakhi Amrit Sanskar in 1699. Guru Gobind Singh Ji explained: He does not recognise anyone else except me, not even the bestowal of charities, performance of merciful acts, austerities and restraint on pilgrim-stations; the perfect light of the Lord illuminates his heart, then consider him as the immaculate Khalsa. The kara is to constantly remind the Sikh disciple to do God's work, a constant reminder of the Sikh's mission on this earth and that he or she must carry out righteous and true deeds and actions, keeping with the advice given by the Guru. The Kara is a symbol of unbreakable attachment and commitment to God. It is in the shape of a circle which has no beginning and no end, like the eternal nature of God. It is also a symbol of the Sikh brotherhood. As the Sikhs' holy text the Guru Granth Sahib says "In the tenth month, you were made into a human being, O my merchant friend, and you were given your allotted time to perform good deeds." Similarly, Bhagat Kabir reminds the Sikh to always keep one's consciousness with God: "With your hands and feet, do all your work, but let your consciousness remain with the Immaculate Lord." The basic kara is a simple unadorned steel bracelet, but other forms exist. It was historically used like a knuckle-dusterfor hand-to-hand combat. Battlefield variations include kara with spikes or sharp edges. Sikh soldiers of the British Indian army would settle disputes by competing in a form of boxing known as loh-musti (lit. iron fist) with a kara on one hand. PLEASE NOTE: Please measure/check size of your kara/bracelet first while ordering to avoid any hassle or posting it back to us and paying extra for p&p for exchange and swap of karas with other desired sizes. There will be charge of £5 p&p towards exchange/swap of Kara for any size issues for UK buyers and £12 p&p for international buyers that needs to be paid by PayPal in advance or interested buyer can send us pa repaid self addressed envelope for any exchange/swap along with the original item in its original packaging and buyer should also return us the gift item/bags sent along with the item for appreciation of purchase. We may post back gift items/bags along with the swapped item. P.S. Colour of item may slightly vary due to camera flash and light conditions. Some Karas may have negligible small black grinding mark on the kara joint. This is always seen on all karas as most of the Kara making/shaping work is done by hands. However, this do not affect the quality/look of Kara. #Kara #KaraforLife #SikhKara #SarblohKara #Sarbloh #5Ks #SinghKara #SikhBracelet #KhalsaKada #Kada #SinghisKing Brilliant finish and very decorative. Ideal gift item for loved ones on any Occasion. Please follow us on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter @OnlineSikhStore #OnlineSikhStore Free Royal Mail Postage in UK. Postage discounts will be given to International buyers for multi-buys. Any questions please do not hesitate to contact us. P.S. Colour of item may slightly vary due to camera flash and light conditions. Size is approximate it and may differ by few mm from Kara to Kara or because of Digital Vernier Calliper errors. There may be rust present or marks of rust present as rust is natural characteristic of pure iron/sarbloh. These kara do require cleaning with Sharp Sand or Brasso Polish. These are usually treated with coconut oil to maintain shine after cleaning.

#round chakri kada #Sarbloh bangle #sikh sikhi sikhism #punjabi steel bangle #panjabi karra kaday #singh kaur khalsa #pure iron loha kada #stainless steel kara #silver bangle #gatka martial arts #smooth chakri chakra #warrior odha yudh #brave soldier saint

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whimsicalworldofme · 2 years ago

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Saving Grace: Chapter Nineteen

Some father-daughter bonding time leaves Grace feeling a little guilty about keeping secrets.

“Oh good, you’re home.”

Tony only glanced up long enough to register that it was his daughter who had walked through the door to the workshop. They had been settled back in New York for months now and though her dad had begun going to therapy, he still spent excessive amounts of time working on Iron Man tech. Granted, with Pepper running all day-to-day operations at Stark Industries, he really didn’t have much else to do. S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to tap him for Avengers projects now and again, and he did go on some, but others he declined.

“Come here and try these on,” he waved her over to the workbench he was currently stationed at, not taking his eyes off the blue projection of the schematic for whatever it was he was building.

“Hello to you too, Dad,” she laughed as she headed his way, an overnight bag slung over one shoulder since she had just gotten in from an overnight trip to D.C.

A project S.H.I.E.L.D. had her working on required frequent in-person troubleshooting sessions, so whenever necessary she booked a quick flight or a train and headed down there, fixed whatever had gone wrong in about five minutes, then got to spend the rest of her time with Steve, provided he was in town and not running missions. Even if he was out of town, she stayed at his apartment. He made sure that her favorite snacks were always tucked away on a cabinet shelf she could reach and had begun making cold brew coffee that tasted every bit as good as the stuff from the stovetop, so there was always a jug in the fridge. This time he had been home though and she was still in a blissful haze.

“Have you moved since yesterday when I said goodbye?” She realized her father was still in the same clothes from the previous morning and it was now about seven at night the next day.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed and waved for her to come closer. “I’ve made several trips to the bathroom.”

Grace grabbed her usual stool and carried it over, setting it next to him, and plopped to a seat, her bag sliding off her shoulder and onto the floor.

“Have you eaten anything other than chocolate covered almonds, blueberries, and canned coffee?”

“What are you, my mom?” He said with a sarcastic, scoffing laugh as he raised a brow and looked at her. “Put these on.”

He handed her a pair of metal bangle style bracelets, the kind on a hinge that snapped shut. They were simple and unadorned so Grace had a feeling they weren’t just jewelry he’d picked up for her, but some sort of new tech. She placed one on each wrist and realized he had designed them specifically to fit her. They felt heavier than they looked, but not like weights, just more substantial than expected.

“Ok,” Tony turned them on her wrists and adjusted them so they were in the same spot on each arm and made sure they were securely in place. “Perfect fit,” he looked up at her with a grin. “Stay here.”

He hopped up from his seat and hurried across the room, setting a stool about fifteen feet away from her and constructing a pyramid of his empty coffee cans on top of it.

Good lord he’s running off pure caffeine right now, isn’t he? Grace shook her head.

Hurrying back over to Grace, he checked the bracelets one more time before shifting back over to the blue schematic and swiping through a few diagrams and pulling up a keyboard to type in some notes.

“Jarvis, start recording,” he commanded.

“Of course, sir,” the British voice answered.

“All right, this is the first practical test of the Grace project, mark one, recording for future reference and development,” he stated as typed in another note. Turning to his daughter, he rubbed his hands together, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “Ok, Gracie, I want you to tap those bracelets together twice, it doesn’t have to be hard just—”

Grace did what he said, the metal clinking together pleasantly before humming to life, a band of blue light illuminating down the middle, the exact same light that emanated from an arc reactor.

“Whoa, hey,” Tony grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her away from him to face the pyramid of cans on the stool across the room. “Watch where you’re pointing those things.”

“These are so cool,” she examined the glowing band in each bracelet, lifting her wrists to eye level. There were wires and tubes running through each one, the components of an arc reactor, shaped into a band that could fit on her wrists.

“I’m glad you think so but they are dangerous, so be careful,” he stated.

“Got it,” Grace nodded.

“I’m going to give you instructions, listen to the end before you start doing anything, ok?”

“Yep,” she grinned, bouncing a little in her seat and Tony lit up, seeing her so delighted by his work.

“So, you’re going to tap them together one more time and then hold your wrists about an inch apart. A ball of energy will start building, like when I fire a blast from my repulsors in my suit.”

“Uh huh,” Grace didn’t know if she liked the sound of that.

“You should only hold it a few seconds, pulling your wrists slowly apart as it builds. But don’t let it get bigger than a basketball,” he cautioned. “At least not in the house. I don’t want to put holes in the wall that we’ll have to explain to Pepper. I don’t know what will happen if it gets bigger than that so let’s not find out, ok?”

“Ok, so grow the energy ball then what?”

“Then you push it out, like a tai chi sort of thrusting motion,” he mimicked what he wanted her to do. “It’ll go out, just like the shots from the gauntlets in my suits. You ready to try it?”

“I think so?” Grace thought it sounded really cool but despite playing around with her dad’s gauntlets, she wasn’t keen on weaponry, didn’t like the idea that she could accidently hurt anyone, let alone intentionally do so.

“Do you think your old man would let you do something dangerous? Uh, well, deadly dangerous?” He noted her hesitation and leaned all his weight to one side, his palm flat against his work bench, the other hand on his hip. “You’ll be fine, you’re my kid, it’ll come naturally. I’ve got a first aid kit around here somewhere,” he glanced around, half-heartedly looking for it. “And just in case, I’ve got Dum-E on standby.”

He nodded over to the arm robot he and her mom and constructed, the only tech that he’d managed to pull out of the wreckage of their home in California. The bot had a fire extinguisher attached to it.

“Ok, well,” she sucked in a deep breath. “Here goes nothing,” she followed his instructions, tapping her wrists together. A ball of white radiant light sprung to life, hovering between the bracelets, at first no bigger than a pea, then growing to the size of a quarter. She waited, watching intently until it got close to the size of a tennis ball before pushing it out with a little exclamation of “ha!” in the direction of the coffee cans. The ball of energy blew a hole through the center, scattering what remained of the metal in twisted, smoldering scraps.

“Yes!” Tony clapped his hands together forcefully as he admired his handiwork. “Perfect shot. Perfect test.” In his enthusiasm he grabbed Grace and kissed the top of her head. “But I shouldn’t expect anything less from my perfect daughter.”

“I’m not perfect, Dad,” she laughed to cover the gnawing guilt she felt over hiding her relationship with Steve. “But I appreciate the sentiment.” She glanced down at her wrists again. “How do I turn these off? Tap twice?”

“Yep,” he nodded. “They worked exactly as they should. I’ve been developing these for weeks, but that’s just one feature, the rest are still in progress. I want you to have something to keep yourself safe since you’re in D.C. all the time.”

“They’re great,” Grace nodded, more guilt eating at her. She turned the bracelets off and focused on taking them off.

“What’s the matter, kid?” Tony asked, taking the bracelets from her once she got them off. “You’re usually a lot more excited about blowing stuff up. And you’re usually happy when you’ve had time with your bestie,” he tried not to put mocking derision on the word, but didn’t succeed. Not entirely.

“I…” she looked at her father, contemplating telling him the truth. She had straight up lied to him about whether or not she’d been sleeping with Steve and he’d believed her. He took her at her word and while she was an adult who could make her own decisions about her romantic life, he was still her dad and she didn’t like keeping secrets from him. “I just worry when you call me perfect that eventually I’m going to let you down,” she offered a half truth. “Like, catastrophically. It’s a lot of pressure.”

“Oh,” he frowned, his eyes falling to his hands as he tinkered with the bracelets. “I know you’re not perfect,” he said off-handedly, glancing up at her with a soft smile. “You’re half me, so I’m aware there are issues that come with that. I see the best of me and the best of your mom in you, you’re better than either of us alone, so to me, you’re as close to perfect as it gets. I never thought any of my genes could make a kid that would turn out so well,” he shrugged. “In fact, I was pretty convinced of the opposite. And of course, I credit the Turners for the amazing job they did raising, you, I would’ve just mucked it all up. You would’ve turned into a raging narcissist left in my care as a baby. But you’re amazing, you’re intelligent, driven, compassionate, and kind. I’m constantly in awe that you’re my kid. And even if you do eventually do something that lets me down catastrophically, I’m still going to love you more than anything in this world.”

Grace got up from her stool and wrapped her arms around her dad’s waist in a hug, resting her head on his chest and shutting her eyes. She felt him wrap his arms around her and squeeze her snugly to him, kissing the top of her head.

“Thanks, Dad,” she sighed contently. “I love you more than anything in the world too.” She meant it.

“Good,” he said. “All right, kid, enough sentimental stuff. I need actual food. What do you say we go out for dinner somewhere?”

“I want Italian,” she agreed. “There is a void in my soul that can only be filled by garlic bread.”

Chapter Eighteen

Masterlist

Chapter Twenty

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lightdancer1 · 3 years ago

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An excerpt from the upcoming chapter of A Far Green Country:

Azula mused on the things Hoelun had told her last night and this morning as she walked to talk with Kiyi. This time she not so quietly ensured that Hoelun would be hanging out with Toph Beifong, who greeted her with an enthusiastic shout and the two did that weird punching thing Toph did for bonding. Azula returned it herself more half-heartedly than anything else.

Kiyi idolized her, Hoelun said. In Hoelun's view maybe too much. She couldn't disagree with that, her sister might look like her, they might share the same unfortunate coincidence of bloodline descent, though Ikem at least was one of the few people in the Palace she didn't feel entirely wary around. And she was raised by *Ursa.* The same Ursa who thought she was a monter.

None of this made sense, at no point could Azula even begin to formulate the many, many questions she wanted to ask. So she didn't even try.

Instead she sat, not at the turtleduck pond as her mother might have done (after all, the usual wisdom she'd followed was that if her parents did it it probably wasn't the wisest idea as a general rule). She sat near the training room, in the meditation room Uncle Iroh had used so much.

Kiyi met her there and Azula saw a mirror of herself at sixteen, though the smile was something she had never worn and there was a sense of a deep inner awareness that she had love and was valued by people. There was none of the iron wall around herself that hid insecurities, none of the furtive looking. A part of Azula felt a blend of relief and further bemusement at this recognition. Kiyi was loved by someone, but.....

"So, what did you want to talk about?' Her sister's voice was warm, in a way hers had not been at that age, even in Karakorum, even with her healing.

"Why do you..." she pointed to her own bangs.

"It's a long story," Kiyi said with a wry grin.

"But before I get there, do you know anything at all about just what our mother did when she fled the whole Azulon thing?"

Azula blinked.

"No, and I can't really say after meeting Berke and Borte that I give a shit, either."

Kiyi giggled at that.

"You love them, don't you?"

Azula nodded.

"Good. I'm glad."

"Well, you see, I want to explain that as it'll make a lot of..." she tapped her own bangles "this make sense, hopefully."

And then Kiyi began to tell Azula a tale that had her leaning forward and then staring wide eyed. She paused her at a moment.

"Wait, you mean to tell me after all of that, after the whole thing where she went to talk to Zuko on that last day and gave him that wonderful syrupy speech she went and forgot both of us?" Her voice was a marvel of incomprehension.

Kiyi nodded, as Azula made a low whistle.

"If that was a twist in a story it'd seem remarkably ham-handed and like a convenient excuse for a writer to throw out any established characterization of a person purely to get them out of the way and not justify their absence."

Kiyi's nose twitched. "Yeah...." her laugh was awkward.

#atla aus #a far green country #getting *urp* meta up in here *urp* morty #obligatory piss taking at the comics #now in the story itself #azula and kiyi

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mr-kiwi-the-wizard · 3 years ago

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Today I learnt a little about the sikhi religion.

Sikhi's in my country wear bangles on their wrists made from precious metals as apposed to the traditional pure iron spiked crowns that is normally worn on their turbans.

Sikhism has nothing to do with Islam or Hinduism and is from the Punjab part of India, modern day Pakistan.

I am welcome meet a traditional Sikhi holyman complete with iron crown at their temple nearby if I want.

#til #sikism

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jasthelazyelf · 4 years ago

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Everything is fine

I think we can all agree that the angelic event made everyone uncomfortable. But weirdly it gave me inspiration to try and write something, making a little twist to the whole event. I am a beginner writer, so please keep that in mind. ^^;

GN MC Word count: 2800-ish Angst-y with a good ending WARNINGS: none that I know of outside of somewhat following the angelic event. Let me know if I should state something.

At first it felt like it was supposed to be like any other student council meeting. No one knew what it was about, the notification having been sent only a few minutes sooner. But Solomon has also been called over. That was rather unusual. After a bit of usual bickering among all the brothers, the door into the room opened and Diavolo entered the room alongside the two angel students.

'Huh, I wonder what this is all about, this doesn’t happen often…‘ MC thought to themself.

„I’m happy that you all could join me here,“ greeted Diavolo everyone in his cheery voice as he always did.

Diavolo took his usual seat above everyone else, looked at Simeon and gave him a little nod. The angel explained the situation with audible excitement in his voice. The angels wanted to host a party for the exchange students and the brothers. They felt like everyone deserved a celebration after their hard work.

The reactions… varied, to say the least. Mammon already had his doubts, but Beel was obviously happy to have the opportunity to eat Celestial food again. MC was looking forward to getting to know the angels better.

Belphie groaned. „What a pain… We don’t have to dress formally, do we?“

Asmo, on the other hand, was extremely excited about this. „I’ve got an idea! While we’re at it, why don’t we all dress up like angels?“

„Asmo, I am not really sure that is a good idea,“ complained MC.

„And that’s precisely why I’m rejecting that idea now,“ agreed Lucifer with MC immediately.

„Aw, come on, it doesn’t have to be anything complex! A pair of cute angel wings would do!“ exclaimed Asmo.

„No,“ entered Diavolo the conversation. „If you’re dressing up, you’re going all out.“

Before anyone could further complain, Diavolo quickly cast a spell and all the brothers’ clothes transformed into magnificent Celestial clothes. MC was shocked how fast everything happened and didn’t really know how to react. Diavolo was obviously in awe, he hasn’t seen the brothers in these clothes for such a long time.

„Wow! You all still look as beautiful as ever! Seeing you all like this sure brings back memories… What do you think of their angel forms, MC?“ Simeon turned to MC with an expectant look in his eyes.

„This… this doesn’t seem right…“ they answered, worried.

„That’s because there’s nothing right about this… I never imagined myself living another day in this form…“ added Lucifer. The only one who didn’t really seem to care was obviously Asmodeus.

„Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot. Michael sent you all presents as thanks for taking such good care of us angels,“ remembered Simeon. For some reason, MC started to feel extremely anxious. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, why would they be forced into opening old wounds? Was there a way to stop this mess? They didn’t want to be seen as rude, though, so they kept quiet.

The presents happened to be small nicely ornamented bangles. Even with their simple design they looked quite fancy.

„Whoa, this is pure gold!“

„And they’re so pretty!“

One by one, each brother put on one of the bangles. Once everyone got theirs on, the air around started to feel a little different and the bangles shone brightly. A cracking sound was heard, and the light of the bangles went out again.

„What just happened?“ wondered MC loudly.

„Well, this is a rare occurrence. It seems that whatever spell Michael put on the bangles reacted to my magic, meaning the spells combined into something new!“ exclaimed Diavolo. If nothing else, he seemed rather excited about how things were unfolding.

„… Meaning?“

„It has some sort of effect now, but we still don’t know what it is.“

Since no one knew what they were dealing with, all the brothers collectively decided to get out of these clothes once and for all. They all found they were unable to. MC furrowed their brows. This situation was getting weirder by the minute.

„Oh, I forgot to mention that the bangles have a special spell cast on them,“ said Simeon somewhat guilty. „The bangle makes the wearer behave in a more… righteous manner, if you will… Your hearts will be overflowing with kindness and purity!“

Lucifer got visibly uneasy by the words of his former brother.

„Why would he do such a thing?“ asked he.

„It’s so our party will be full of elegance and grace!“ cheered Simeon, guilt suddenly completely gone out of his voice. This wasn’t very typical of the angel. This wasn’t the angel MC knew.

„We will need some time to find a way to get rid of the spell, until then, you will have to stay like this,“ explained Diavolo quickly and that seemed to be the end of that conversation. So, MC went home to the House of Lamentation with their new angelic demons squad.

They decided to help the brothers however they could. After processing what just happened, they made the plan to check on Lucifer first. He seemed to be… not that much different at first. He let MC know he didn’t have many happy memories from when he was an angel. And how he felt so much better as a demon. MC could understand him, even if maybe a bit distantly.

Lucifer suddenly grabbed MC by their waist and pulled them harshly to the mattress of his bed. In that same moment something seemed to click in him. As fast as he surprised them by his action, he got slowly up and apologised profusely for what he just did.

‚Okay, that is different, he wouldn’t suddenly pull back like that. Maybe the bangle finally had an effect on him?‘ thought MC. Lucifer advised them to leave the room, he wanted to find a way to break that spell as fast as he could.

As they stepped out, they immediately ran into Satan. He invited them to the library and MC decided to follow him there.

As they made themselves comfortable, Satan described his unease with this situation. The one thing that gave the initial spark to his very being was now… gone. All that wrath he felt all the time has vanished. He was left only with peace. An inner peace, that was so foreign to him, he didn’t know at all how to react now. MC tried to calm him down. And he just stood up, apologized himself and left to his room in embarrassment.

At that same moment MC got a text from Levi to meet him in his room. Already feeling sick but wondering how he was doing, they cautiously opened the door to his room. As soon as they did so, they had him around their neck.

He was so energetic. And his room was completely spotless. MC gulped. This wasn’t their Levi. This wasn’t the adorable otaku who was slowly coming out of his shell. This wasn’t the sweet Levi who always invited them to play games together or binge watch a new anime.

„Levi, this isn’t like you at all! What happened to our resident otaku?“ cried MC out as he handed them one of his most precious Ruri-chan figurines.

„What? Did my whole personality resolve solely on being a shut in otaku? There’s no need for that now! I don’t have to endlessly hide anymore. I can finally properly express my feelings towards you, MC! I love you so much, MC, you’re the best thing I stumbled upon in my entire life!“

MC stared at him, shocked. Tears made their way into his eyes. As much as they wanted him to admit his true feelings toward them, this was not the way they wanted it to happen. This was all too sudden, and Levi wasn’t his true self. They clutched the figurine tightly yet carefully to their chest and ran out of his room to their own as fast as they could. They made sure to place it somewhere safe so that she could return the figurine to him once he was back to his old self.

Their D.D.D. pinged again. They were all supposed to meet in the dining room.

Once they got there, they were met with quite few dishes that looked delicious. Simeon, who was there among the brothers with Solomon and Luke, announced that these were dishes to be given at the party and if it was okay to leave it like that or if there were things to be changed. As Solomon saw MC, he discretely made his way towards them.

„Hey Sol,“ they greeted sorrowfully.

„My, my, this doesn’t feel right, does it? This isn’t the true House of Lamentation without all the bickering…“ Solomon sighed. This conversation made MC ironically feel a little better. At least someone had all their senses together.

„They don’t even realize it…“

„They sure don’t and it’s making me uneasy.“ At the same time, Mammon appeared before the two of them with an excited expectant smile. „Oh, that’s right, Mammon, we’re supposed to go shopping for the party now, aren’t we?“ asked Solomon and already started to make his way towards the door, giving MC one last worried look once Mammon got in front of him.

Everyone went to do their own thing and MC visited Beel in the kitchen. He was happy MC was there with him.

„I’ve got something for you,“ he said as he showed them a plate of what he cooked.

„For me? Let’s share it together!“ they were touched by this gesture. And they wanted to share with him like they always did. Maybe the bangle didn’t have an effect on him after all? It would make sense; he has always been so nice to them.

„No, I want you to have all of this. I realized it’s much better to make stuff for others than just eating everything myself. When I’m hungry, I want to think of other people and make them happy with my food!“ He smiled with that big puppy smile of his.

MC dropped their fork. It affected him after all. And it was clearly making him suffer, making him not eat.

They ran out of the kitchen and went for the attic immediately. They hoped they could hide there until this nightmare of a day was finally over. Only they found Belphie there. Surprisingly awake. And surprisingly active. It looked like he was cleaning the attic on his own.

„Oh, hey MC! Look, doesn’t it look so much better now?“ he asked excitedly. MC stopped in their tracks right by the door to the room and couldn’t believe their eyes. „I am not going to waste another eternity sleeping. There’re so many things to see, so many people to meet, I don’t even know how I could just sleep all of the time! But I finally found my motivation. And I will start by properly spending time with my family.“ He smiled brightly.

MC quickly apologized to him and ran away again. It almost looked like they couldn’t hide anywhere. But they knew who was always good when they were feeling stressed. Yes, Asmo was always willing to spend time with them and making them relaxed by a spa day.

As they entered his room, they saw him standing by the table with all his different beauty products on it. As he heard his door opened, he turned around. Seeing MC, his eyes sparkled up as he sat them on the chair by his table.

„There you are, sweetie! I’ve been waiting for you! Here, this is for you!“ he said as he shoved almost everything into their hands.

„Asmo, what are you doing?“ they could barely fight the tears falling down, but somehow they still managed. Asmodeus didn’t seem to notice the state they were in at all.

„I have no need for these products anymore! I realized that it doesn’t really matter how I look like on the outside!“ explained Asmo.

„… Because it’s what’s on the inside that truly counts,“ added MC. This was Asmodeus, though. The demon who always took extremely good care of himself. Even though it was sometimes hard to see through it, MC knew there was so much more to him than just his looks. Under that seemingly confident face was a fragile soul that needed someone to love him for who he truly was.

And MC loved him for everything he came with. This was unnecessary.

„Exactly. Oh dear, look at your hands! They’re so dry! Wait a moment, I have a cream that will work wonders on your skin type.“ He found the cream and they let him massage it into their hands.

MC couldn’t respond anymore. To not upset Asmodeus, they quickly took all his things, thanked him and hurriedly exited the room. Once they took his stuff to their room, they had one more brother to check up on.

They entered Mammon’s room and saw a lot of boxes full of expensive and valuable things on the floor. They looked up and saw Mammon going down the stairs with another box.

„What is this all about?“ MC asked, practically emotionless by now. The light has gone out of their eyes by now, depression setting deep in their heart. Mammon didn’t seem to notice, though.

„I don’t really need all of this stuff. There are people way less fortunate than us and I want to help them. So, I decided to sell my stuff and donate to the people in the human realm to help those less unfortunate ones. I can’t live anymore knowing I do nothing for them.“

This was finally their breaking point. MC turned on their heels and headed towards their room, head low, tears falling freely before they could hide in their last only place of peace. They decided to wait there until it was time for the party. They decided to take a nap for now, hoping it’d make them feel a bit better.

It did not, but they decided to attend the party anyway. They decided to stick with Solomon and Luke who were standing more on the side of this whole event.

„They’re so nice to each other, it’s making me uncomfortable,“ Luke broke the silence first.

„Yes, it is making me physically sick to look at them like this,“ added Solomon. You were glad there were at least two other people who stayed sane.

Diavolo soon joined them and enthusiastically watched the six demon brothers feast, as Lucifer joined Diavolo a few seconds later.

„It is quite a sight, isn’t it?“ said Lucifer, with a rather sad look on his face.

„Oh, Lucifer? You’re not with them? I take it you managed to break the spell?“ asked Diavolo curiously.

The demon, still stuck in his angel costume, sighed. „Yes, but I still can’t take off these clothes on my own.“ He suddenly smiled sadistically. „Let’s bring them to their old selves, but let’s first watch them for a little bit more.“

Their vision suddenly went blank and they jolted awake. They gasped for air, panicking about what just happened. As they realized where they were, they eventually managed to calm down, realizing it was all just a bad dream. But what a dream it was.

It felt both so real and unreal at the same time, as dreams often do. They looked at their D.D.D. to see what time it was and saw that it was time for breakfast already. Even though it was Saturday, they learned very soon during their stay that even on weekends it was a tradition to eat breakfast together.

MC slipped slowly out of their bed and headed towards the bathroom. They were pleased that the breakfast already smelled in the hallway. Once they splashed some cold water on their face to properly wake up, changed their clothes into something comfortable and brushed their hair, they headed downstairs to eat.

As they entered the room, they saw that the usual chaos ruled the whole room. Mammon and Levi were arguing over Mammon owing him yet more money, Satan was giggling with Belphie while provocatively eyeing Lucifer, Asmodeus was trying to take a selfie with his breakfast and yelling at Beel, who just stole the very good-looking sandwich right out of his plate and Lucifer was just trying to enjoy his morning coffee and newspaper, while his usual headache was slowly settling in.

They couldn’t help but smile as they entered the room and took their usual seat by the table. They sighed in relief. Everything was fine.

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