#pyrite press

[pricetagged]

fool's gold (pyrite)

Got inspired by gougie's executioner asks and cloth's egging hehe 💖 have some pirate au simon breeding kink~

Content: 18+; breeding kink; dubious consent*; mean Simon; pirates; captured-by-the-crown reader; barest implication of potential soap/reader and future ghoap/reader; POV shift

*in a 'get out of jail' way, so take that how you will.

---------------------------------

It fluttered in your stomach. A nebulous, squirming little thing.

Not the baby, no. The lie.

You felt it, restless and hot. Kicking your ribs from the inside. It made you flushed, it made you sick-

It bought you at least another few weeks to slip the noose, to slide away in borrowed shoes meant to dance a gallows' jig. Maybe it would buy you more, if the stress held back your monthly the way it often did on the ship. Great, long stretches of time with too much work and not enough food.

You wore the lie like you wore your borrowed clothes, a too-tight bodice and heavy skirts. Impractical, sweet. Modest. A poor little dear caught up and brought low. Fallen woman, sunken to the depths before the law fished her out. 

Your thighs stuck together, warm and bare under the skirts. It was sweltering, damp. Clammy in the cell with its stagnant air and earthy, unfinished floors. The wood of your bench –and bedcot–was warped with age, woodlouse burrowed deep into the pulpy grooves. It was enough to make you shudder, sweat dripping down your spine until it soaked into the cotton of your shift.

It did little to cool you.

Nine months aboard The Watcher had spoiled you, coarse rope and sharp, sea air warping you into something new. Something wilder. It was hardtack and hard work, yes. But it was freedom. To toil under a flag of your choosing, to trust the waves and the Captain to take you to new ports and newer treasures–

You'd left your papa's place with little more than ill-fitting breeches and a pocketed purse. You'd passed the scars on your hands and the patches on your shirt as evidence of experience – hardy little stowaway, aren't ye–. The morals didn't bother you the way stolen scraps didn't bother a dog. Street rat or ship rat; at least this way you could put miles between you and your father. Nautical miles, bobbing away with the wood of the ship's log. You watched it often, knots of rope and grains of sand. Hourglass and paper in hand while you stood on the stern.

It was you who first spotted the English Man O'War, sluicing through waves with colours hoisted high. Three gun-decks, at least, and coming into port.

"–plead the belly–it'll spare ye the choppin' block. Might even get lucky and be sent t' the reformatory– ah heard they do that f'r expectant mothers–" you couldn't quite hear him over the ringing of the cannons and the ringing in your ears.  "–plead the belly, and I'll try tae come back for y–"

They echoed now in your sweltering cell, suspended in the humidity. The boatswain's last words before he was violently wrestled away.

You remembered him as you counted the bars of your cage. Iron-wrought and cruel. As cruel as the chain tethering you to the wall, cold metal biting into your bare ankle.

'–I've got the keys, girlie, if you want freein' from it. Don' have to sit against that wall, all shy. C'mere an' I'll make you a deal–'

You stayed silent, stone-faced. Weathered the taunts and jeers of your gaolers like a battered old rock. The guards took it as arrogance, the other prisoners took it as invite.

The priest took it as shame.

You let them all believe it, lips pressed tight lest you let loose sobs–giggles–something– as days passed and your sentencing drew closer.

You'd heard about him before you saw him. The Ghost. The last face you'd see before facing the faceless. The pitch-black eyes that would watch as you jigged to the jeers of the crowd.

It was the last face you'd see and it was only a mask. More macabre than the usual executioner's hood– a skull motif, bleach-white bones and empty sockets. A nasty minikin mockery of the reaper. It was gristly; it was sick.

But so was he.

A butcher, some said. Fingers caked in blood no matter to which job he attended. A pirate, according to others. One pressed into service, earning his freedom by sending others to the pits. 

And now you heard him for real.

The low, resonant whistle. The heavy tread of his boots.

It had you curling your fingers into your palms, nautical superstitions and fishwives' tales nipping at you like fleas.

–quit yer whistlin', you'll anger the winds and summon a storm–

                                                 –it's good luck, don't worry. It'll make the winds blow strong and steady, you'll see–

–I wouldn't do that if I were you. Cap'n'll think it's code between mutineers–

                                                                                                                                    –taboo–

The whistling stopped, a cheery solitary note wavering in the air before silence. Even the gaoler's dog had scarpered off, keys jingling around its neck until you couldn't even hear the echo.

A gravel-rough voice cut through the swirling tempest of your mind.

"Was told 'got a pregnant little birdie caught in the cage."

That pulled you from your reverie, neck-stiff as you turned towards the voice. It was more of a twitch than a conscious motion, a sudden flaring of deadened synapses as his voice rasped over them. Still, you didn't speak. Didn't even look at him fully, the hulking thing in your peripheral.

It was silent, now. Eerily so, like all the air had been sucked from the prison. Sitting in the eye of the storm, too calm and too quiet. You could hear the drag of his boots as he shifted closer. The rolling clank of iron scraping against itself, your cage creaking open.

The shadow in your peripheral became mass, then man as he stepped closer.

You risked a glance up.

He'd still be large, sturdy, even without you curled up on your dank, spongy bedcot. Tall enough to duck as he sauntered into the cell. Broad enough to block out the flickering oil lamps by the warden's desk. In the lambent glow of dusk it was already dim, hazy with sea-spray and the oppressive heat of wet season. But with him in front of you it was pitch-dark. A pall cast by his sheer size, all light swallowed up until you could just about make out his blurry edges.

The ghostly white of the bones bleached onto his mask moved and his voice rumbled out.

"Well, g'nna show me?"

You stretched out weakened muscles, unfurling as slow as a wind-battered sail. Joints creaked alongside the iron of your shackle, tight from where you'd clenched hard. Dug your blunt little fingernails into the pulpy, malleable fibers of the aged ironwood below you.

Standing was like finding yourself unmoored, sliding off the buoyant driftwood keeping you afloat. Your legs got tangled up in your borrowed clothes, damp petticoats and overskirts clinging as your feet finally touched the straw-strewn earth of the cell floor. It was cumbersome, made more difficult by the sliding of the heavy chain against the bench. You felt the weight around your ankle, anchoring you down.

Though you could barely see it, you felt as he studied you from top-to-toe. Flat, dead eyes followed every curve and dip of your body as you stood before him, your traitorous chest rising and falling in a way that made you grit your teeth. You used that force to steel your jaw, to look straight ahead and keep your arms lax and loose by your side.

Let him look his fill. Let him– your judge, jury and executioner.

He hummed. Circled you like a shark in a balmy waters. It was funny– you'd never felt more exposed than now in all your layers. Not even under the punishing sun in your loose, men's clothes. No, his eyes stripped you bare. More than cotton and linens, he peeled the flesh from bone. Flayed you open, eyes slicing through your skittish guise. Through your rabbity gaze hopping around the walls, the way you tried to arch your back and poke out more of your soft belly.

"You a liar, then?" You could hear the low, mocking note in his voice. "Or got a case of wishful thinkin'?"

That had you looking up, meeting him dead in the eye. Your hands hovered above the slight swell of your stomach, fingers twitching in an abortive gesture–

–you wanted to cradle it, the fluttering in your empty belly. Push down the sick, swirling terror and face the ghost you'd summoned, because you had summoned it–

He grabbed by your wrist, meaty paw pulling you close enough to brush against his expansive chest.

–Hadn't you? Bad luck. Malefic omen, having you on the ship. No prophets, no redheads–

There, in the cradle of his arms, you were frozen. Your wrist felt fragile, bird-like under the firm grip of his thick-knuckled fingers. You weren't weak, you'd rigged topsails in tempest winds with those wrists. But that was then. That was weeks ago, when you were part of a crew on the open seas. Here, it was just you and the beast that had sent stronger than you to their graves. The warnings from persnickety old seadogs tolled death knolls in your mind–

–no women. And now the sea had swallowed you up. Sent you down to the belly of the beast. A Jonah, locked behind something stronger than whalebone. Trapped. Unless–

Wishful thinking.

He chucked at your chin, calloused fingertips arching your head further back until your neck strained. Your heartbeat rushed past your ears, sending your head spinning. Dizzy, docile. An artificial calm; buoyant lifeline in the raging currents. He turned you slightly, left then right. Like he was measuring you up, the line of your throat. The fluttering of your pulse. That treacherous throbbing, sending oxygen to your brain that you were too erethic to feel.

He spoke again, rough and coruscating. You noticed that he didn't blink, just stared down at you. Dead-eyed as a fish, blond lashes spiked around dark irises. He kept you arched, unable to escape as every syllable struck you like a storm. You balanced on bare tip-toes, butterfly-soft fingers spread across his hairy forearm.

"The Beak's happy to let ya swing if it means 'e can catch the rest of y'r crewmates. And, 'round here, the only good pirate is a dead pirate," he must have felt how your fingers tightened, a futile brace against his butal strength and harsh words. "So, I tell him y'r a liar, get paid to do my job, and keep the governor happy."

He shrugged, bulky shoulders popping as he rolled them back. He shrugged like it meant nothing to him, just a matter of fact. The fisherman, fingers deep in guts and gristle. The butcher, hands stained copper and hardened on cannon bone. The executioner, calloused from rope neckties and the deadweight of the condemned–

But you catch the way his eyes follow your flinch. The way his lips move under his mask too as your mouth opens and closes. Hesitant. Dry.

You could only look up at him with wide, naïve eyes, dilating in the dark. The jejune jailbird. Doe-eyed. Caught.

The jig was up.

"Please," the words stuck in your throat, cracking and broken. "Please don't–"

He lets you go. Not a gentle action, no. No careful caress; he lowers you abruptly, chuckles as you scramble to face him. Stunned, you rub at your throat. Still there, still unadorned with the necklace of rope you swear he wants to place there. Coarse twine and hessian brown, constricting tighter until– no. You can't think on it, anathema to the lie you've worked hard to maintain. If he doesn't believe the plea of the belly, you'll– you'll–

You'll make it so.

As he settles his massive frame on the thin, wooden slat against the wall you wonder. Why did he come here in cover of night. Why did he need to see for himself what the priest confirmed as a priori truth? The seal of confession melts away, your moribund admittance flakes and crumbles under his heavy hand. He knows.

Solid legs spread wide, he makes himself comfortable. You follow the bulge of his thighs, easily as thick as your skull–more–, as the bench groans and creaks worse than the brig in a storm.

You worry that it can't handle the weight.

Even sitting, he dwarfs you. Stepping up between his thighs is like willingly stepping off the stern into still waters. It's terrifying, thrilling– your belly swoops and head feels light. You know there must be something lurking in the depths, some undulating hydra ready to slide its malignant limbs around your ankle and wrench you down–

He clamps a filthy boot down over the length of chain across the floor. Keeps you tethered to him, unable to pull back even if you wanted to.

"Clever enough t'come up with the scheme, clever enough t'get out of it." It's an offering, albeit a twisted one. Alms tainted by the greedy slap of his palms against his thighs. Rough, scarred hands frame the growing bulge between his legs.

Even in the dark, you see it. Heavy, perverse, Fattening enough to strain against the seam of his trousers. You can't look away, can't escape the muggy heat in the air and the scorching burn of his eyes on you. Incendiary, it sends heat pooling to your own belly. The damp, stickiness between your thighs seems cool now, sweat superseded by the slick gathering in your core. It's filthy, it's wrong–

It's blazing hot, shame seared away by a want that is not entirely born of desperation.

At first you think it's a tit-for-tat, your mouth stuffed full in exchange for his staying closed. Kneeling before him, you're suddenly grateful for your skirts. Matchsticks of dried straw and dusty smithereens dig into your knees, legs bent awkwardly as he keeps his boot on your chain. He's content to let you paw at him, to tug at the drawstrings and fumble with his waistband as he offers no help.

Eventually, he must grow bored.

"Don' need me to tell ya that's not how it works."

"What–?" He has you frozen, tableau vivant of a wanton grisette. Pupils-blown and lips-parted, you tremble up at him. Try to read the desire that he hides beneath harsh words and heavy breaths.

"Tryin' t'make me a liar, too?" He grunts, brushing aside your confused, hurried protestations. "Gonna make me a liar when I go out'nd tell them there really is a pregnant little birdie caught in the cage?"

He pats at his lap, palming at himself and hissing through his teeth. Sound is muffled by that grotesque mask, but you catch it all the same. Every flash of the man beneath– of the desire wrought by your artless, ingenue fumblings– sends you reeling. You are not a creature of flesh and blood, not when both are fever-hot and itching. You can't breathe in your body under sweltering layers and sultry air. And he can sense it, too. The beast you let into your cage, bars bending as easily as your will to his.

And, through messily-tugged drawstrings, you see it. Tugged through the opening you'd hastily torn open. The thick, ruddy head of his cock is already leaking.

And as you slide into his lap, it all slides into place.

You think of– no, not now. You can't think of him now. When he comes back for you, if it takes, you could pass the baby off as his. He was sweet on you, you know it. A breezy, comfortable kind of affection. Small, just barely burgeoning but still there. He's a good man– You'll claim that you were telling the truth at your capture– that you and he already– He's a decent man– maybe you wouldn't even have to lie. He'd take you in, little stray and the seed that kept her off the scaffold–

Thoughts slip away, sea spray in the wind, as you work yourself open in his lap. You're drenched beneath your skirts, slick running down your thighs and into his. You're spread so wide across him that it burns, pinned open by his bulk. You can feel the power of his frame, coiled muscle holding you up from the worn wooden bench. The soft pudge of his belly presses into yours as you lean forward, shakily lining up with the swollen head of his cock.

It's already weeping, thick globs of his slick mingle with yours as he slides between your folds. Like he can't wait to be inside you, leaking his spend at the barest touch of your cunt. Like he can't wait to put it inside you, to make good on his word and yours and put a baby there.

You shiver, biting back a gasp as he nudges the aching pearl at the apex of your thighs. His chuckle rumbles through his hulking chest into yours. It jostles you, hitching you just right over his length until it notches against you. You press down, hole clenching against the initial pain, until you feel the throb of his slit inside. It's deep, sending your back arching as you grip his shoulders with white knuckles. And there's still more–

"Tha's it, tha's it, birdie," his voice is impossibly thicker, desire dragging it down until he growls at you. "Gonna have t'take more, gotta make it all fit if you want this baby–"

"Yes, yes, please," you babble at him. Voice high, whines catching on every breath you work yourself lower. You can feel him in your stomach, every inch sending sparks dancing along your spine until they're all you can see when you close your eyes. The sparks, and the spectral imprint of his ghostly mask.

He grunts below you, swallowing back groans behind a jaw that you know is clenched tight. Avaricious brute, he needs you closer. Hands that were meant to measure you for the drop dig into your hips, working you lower and lower. He forces you down to the root, bare thighs on hessian cloth, until you cry out. Shaking at the spread– the stretch– you pant in his ear. Hot little breaths, heady against the crook of his neck.

You can hear it, the obscene squelch of your greedy cunt. The creaking of the bench beneath you as you ride him with shaking legs, chasing pleasure that's already beginning to pool in your belly. You feel heavy with it, moaning behind your clenched fist. Through bleary eyes you catch his, cimmerian and heavy-lidded. His head is thrown back against the wall, guttural filth spilling as he waits for you to come undone.

"Want it, don't ya? Want my baby so fuckin' bad, just look at ya," he growls it, frothing with a hunger so biting it reads as rage. "I'll put one in ya, keep you stuffed full. Keep this chain around y'r ankle, too, keep you shackled to me–"

Eyes-watering as you lose yourself in it. In the sounds that that send blood rushing to your head, the deep ache in your core, the desperation– make him come, make him come, want to come, need to come–

---------

At first, he was happy to watch you. To sit back and watch you work yourself up, to perform for him until he sees you drop the mask. You wear the mantle of captive soubrette so well, sweat-damp petticoats clinging to curves that he wants to trace with his tongue. With his teeth. He saw the craft in your sweet, open face. You're a flighty thing, aren't you? Trying to slip the noose and slip past him. Luckily his grasp is strong.

He saw the scheme slip away as he got you speared open on his length. He can see it in your eyes, feels the way you suck him in–. You're dripping down into his breeches, sloppy and squeezing him so tight. Desperate, wanton little naiad. Riding hard like your life depends on it. He huffs out a laugh as he squeezes you tight, rough fingers digging into peach-soft flesh.

He doesn't tell you that you're already free, that the Royal Navy is already in hot pursuit of The Watcher and the pregnant, little skivvy is of as much importance to them as the ship's rats. No, you're a nuisance they're willing to hand off to him. Too big, too blunt, too bloody to find a respectable wife.

(There was a time, once, when he had no need of such comforts. Lieutenant aboard The Larimar's Revenge, he'd docked in many-a-port. But he'd always come back to those blue eyes. The haircut that had even the natives of Port Royal looking twice– Cheeky, cocksure pirate.

He'd thought about him, sometimes. On that godforsaken island with just a pistol and one shot for company. 'Mutineer', he was branded. Traitor to King and Crown. Lower than scum, not worth even a keelhaul. But not even grapeshot can kill a ghost–) 

He feels you reaching your end, thighs trembling from more than just exertion. His mask is damp, sultry air mixing with your musk into something that scatters his desultory thoughts. His belly tightens as he feels you clamping down, whining behind the knuckles you’ve got stuffed between your teeth.

When you're home, together in his bed, he'll bite down on those knuckles. Show you what real toothprints look like. Or maybe he'll let you slip his hand into your mouth instead. Let you whet your blunt little teeth on something with more gristle. His appetite for you cannot be satiated on mere flesh. He's got to pierce you, taste you, feel you from the inside and leave a part of himself there–

For now, he holds you down. Forces you to ride out the wave of pleasure-pain as he sets his own pace. Your thighs tremble, whole body seizing around him. He can feel the fluttering in your cunt, the way you shudder and drip until his cock is soaked and his coarse hair turns sticky with your release.

He ignores your whisper of another man's name– John, or Johnny, it's hard to catch with the way you swallow your whimper–it doesn’t matter. Not when he's the one pumping you full of his spend. His belly clenches hard, balls tight and heavy with the come he's going to give you. Going to force it in, plant his baby in you and still leave thick, white, globs leaking out of your poor, abused hole.

He's filled you up, is going to fill you up again. He'll take you back to his house and do it as many times as he wants. Make you grateful for it, for saving your life and giving you the baby you’ve been begging for. Keep you stuffed so full of him that the only name he'll hear from you is 'Simon'.

(And if you help lure Johnny back, well. It's been a long time, but good dogs come home when called.)

---------------

Well, there is it. Shoutout to my beloved stelle and woolie for listening to me whine about pirate ship names 💖💖💖

[madameisaacpereire]

any less sensational

❝Your breath comes out in agonal gasps, as though he has sent you into cardiac arrest; as though you’re hypoxic from his touch alone. ❞

He used you, now you use him.

this has plagued me for a month minimum atp like i’ve been thinking about this since before i made this blog and finally gave in, here it is in ficlet form so now it can plague alllll of you instead! barely proofread & incredibly self indulgent but it’s literally 1:20am cut me some slack im half asleep rn 🤍 critics say this will leave you “horny and mad” so you’re welcome nsfw, minors dni

the sparrow collection

The piano cover is closed and you’re planted atop it in an instant, slacks tugged down to your knees. Henry isn’t apologetic about his leaving you high and dry in the bathtub this-morning in the least, which tugs at your chest some when you think about it, but it’s relieved when his fingers push your underwear to the side all the same.

He sinks into you with purpose. Each movement is well thought out, designed to bring you to the edge as quickly and concisely as possible. He wants you done, wants to move on to something else, and you know that should bother you more. You should let it. But your hands find his forearm and wrist like he holds his own gravitational pull, gripping until your knuckles blanch to bone. Your breath comes out in agonal gasps, as though he has sent you into cardiac arrest; as though you’re hypoxic from his touch alone.

He crooks his fingers just so, brushing the spot that always fills your vision with flecks of white, and your head tips forward to rest against his shoulder. Still it isn’t enough. Not yet. You use your grip on his arm to rub yourself against his palm, desperate for more.

“Relax.” He murmurs, disinterested but not unkind.

He moves to use his thumb against you, wielding your own pleasure like it’s the loaded gun a few rooms away. You struggle for control over your own faculties. You fight to stay quiet so as not to attract the attention of the others. But he’s scholarly in everything he does and sex is no different. He clears you of any thoughts aside from his touch, from the woody sweet smoke that clings to his suit jacket, and he does so with grace.

It’s ecstatic, this locking and unlocking of your being, the ache he creates and soothes in the same breath. And you’re tucked far away, consciousness residing only in the darkest recesses of your mind as he drags you towards completion. All that matters is his hand. Your gasps turn into whines, muffled poorly against him.

He brings a hand up to cup the back of your head, pressing your face further into his shoulder, just enough to muffle you better, and shushes you. It’s gentle and understanding, yes, but it is not tender. He cannot help who he loves, after all, and it is not you. It never will be, a fact you willfully ignore. Your hands shake, grasp tightening and loosening but never once letting go of him.

You’re close, brought closer by the dim reality of your position hanging in the back of your throat; anyone could walk in at any moment. Anyone could see the way he touches you, no longer shielded by the dark. It’s a bit depraved to want, and you know that, yet still you’d like to stake a claim you have no right to— as a man in 1850s California may have mistaken pyrite for something far more precious and named his backyard a mining site, so do you hold onto the prospect of marking Henry as your own. It’s foolish and naive. But so are you.

He leans down as your whines become pitchier, just enough so his mouth hovers above your ear. You’re biting into his shoulder, limbs unknotting as you boil beneath his fingers. His breath shows no signs of arousal, none comparable to your own, and still you don’t mind. It feels too good to care about anything else.

“I know.” He sounds sympathetic, at least in your interpretation of his tone, and at this you surrender completely.

You allow your orgasm to crash over you like a Jackson Pollock painting, wild and colorful, senseless and wonderful. He works you through it like he’s performing a duty. This does not make it any less sensational.

When you’re dropped back into your body, shame floods in. It was only a few hours ago that he used and discarded you, much the way you’re doing to him now, and you intended to withhold your body from him for the remainder of this trip. But you allowed yourself to be overpowered by a want so deep, so treacherous, that as an alcoholic might seize against the floor, foam rushing from their mouth while their blood alcohol levels dip lower and lower, so did you plead with everything holy for one more taste. Now you must reckon with it.

He takes his hand from you and wipes it on the untucked edges of your blouse as though your things are unimportant; as though he has every right to soil them. You’ve never been any good at being upset with yourself or him, however, so you slip off the piano as soon as your bones lock back into place and put yourself back together without a word. And he watches, as if to make sure you haven’t taken anything else from him.

When you’re finished he offers you a cigarette. Your throat is still raw from the ones you had last night, your senses too delicate for something so heavy. Still, you nod in acceptance anyway and allow the smoke to gum your throat together and harden between your teeth.

It doesn’t even feel good, not particularly: it upsets your stomach, smarts beneath your skull like waves, and twists tense weight into your chest. But it smells like him and reminds you of the innocence you find yourself parting with this summer; the naïveté you don’t want to let go of completely. Not yet.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Did you write about the Dark Mark already? I have to think how it actually works, and why no one knows about it if they can just like search the bodies of dead Death Eaters

Anonymous asked:

why didn't dumbledore tell ministry about dark mark as a tattoo? bc he not want to send snape to azkaban of it? i guess dark mark is a very big secter and only for small inner circle, the best of the best, 'friends', and when snape tells minister about it they don't understand neither sirius when harry tells him about karkaroff and how many people have dark mark? is regulus have it or not? (i rereading the cemetery scene in 4th book and can't normally count the de's, or maybe it is a plot hole by jkr) peter probably get it after 3rd book, after he's proof self 🤔

Okay, so I haven't really written anything detailed. I just mentioned here and there some elements of my thoughts here and there sprinkled throughout other theories.

So, let's talk about the dark mark and how/why it was such a secret

First, as always, we start from what we know:

1. The dark mark is shaped like a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth. It is placed on the left forearm of a Death Eater.

Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail’s left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail’s robes up past his elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin there, something like a vivid red tattoo — a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth — the image that had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Wormtail’s uncontrollable weeping.

(GoF, 645)

2. The mark isn't for everyone and is considered a great sign of honor. Most Death Eaters and their affiliates aren't marked.

“No,” snarled Greyback, “I haven’t got—they say he’s using the Malfoy’s place as a base. We’ll take the boy there.” Harry thought he knew why Greyback was not calling Voldemort. The werewolf might be allowed to wear Death Eater robes when they wanted to use him, but only Voldemort’s inner circle were branded with the Dark Mark: Greyback had not been granted this highest honor.

(DH, 389)

As for how many are marked, Harry counts them for us:

and what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one?

(GoF, 660)

So we have about 30 Death Eaters in the graveyard + Baty Jr + Snape + Karkaroff + 10 more in Azkaban (Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rabastan, Rookwood, Dolohov, Traverse, Gibbon, Jugson & another unnamed one I like to call Pyrites) + the dead ones from the first war (Regulus, Evan Rosier & Wilkes). This lands us at approximately 46 marked Death Eaters. So, while it is somewhat of a secret club, it's not that exclusive if you have about 50 members in a society of about 6,200 wizards as a whole.

3. The Dark Mark was kept incredibly secret during the first war and most of the Order (if not all of them) didn't know about it until the second war.

Even Sirius who was in Azkaban with almost exclusively marked Death Eaters, didn't know about the mark.

“He showed Snape something on his arm?” said Sirius, looking frankly bewildered. He ran his fingers distractedly through his filthy hair, then shrugged again. “Well, I’ve no idea what that’s about . . . but if Karkaroff’s genuinely worried, and he’s going to Snape for answers . . .”

(GoF, 532)

4. The Dark Mark allows Voldemort to know where his Death Eaters are and they can "call him" via the mark.

“And now,” she said in a voice that burst with triumph, “we call the Dark Lord!” And she pushed back her sleeve and touched her forefinger to the Dark Mark. At once, Harry’s scar felt as though it had split open again.

(DH, 404)

5. The mark allows Voldemort to call his Death Eaters to him.

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Wormtail’s arm. The scar on Harry’s forehead seared with a sharp pain again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl; Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark, and Harry saw that it had turned jet black. A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around at the dark graveyard. “How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. “And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?”

(GoF, 645)

6. It likely is able to inform him when a Death Eater is dead. I mentioned in my post about Regulus how odd it is that the Death Eaters seem to know he died when really, he could've run away. But they all knew Voldemort killed him for being a traitor, meaning, Voldemort is the one who told them he died. How did he know? The Dark Mark.

7. And the mark clearly knows when Voldemort is dead.

It appears red when he's in weakened wraith/homunculus form, and then when he lives and activates it it becomes black:

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Wormtail’s arm. The scar on Harry’s forehead seared with a sharp pain again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl; Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark, and Harry saw that it had turned jet black.

(GoF, 645)

Becomes clearer when he's getting stronger:

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Karkaroff’s voice sounded anxious and hushed, as though keen not to be overheard. “It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it —” “Then flee,” said Snape’s voice curtly. “Flee — I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.”

(GoF, 426)

And a faded scar once Voldemort was dead for good.

8. The Dark Mark can be used for the Death Eaters to communicate with each other:

“Really?” said Professor McGonagall. “And what gave you that impression?” Snape made a slight flexing movement of his left arm, where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin. “Oh, but naturally,” said Professor McGonagall. “You Death Eaters have you own private means of communication, I forgot.”

(DH, 506)

How the Dark Mark Works Magically

So, I mentioned it in the past, but I think there is some soul magic involved in the Dark Mark. Considering it is aware of whether its host (the Death Eater) is alive or dead and how they all connect to Voldemort, I feel it's pretty safe to say soul magic is part of it.

The fact Harry feels his scar whenever the mark is used to call Voldemort or used by Voldemort to call his Death Eaters (as illustrated in the above quotes) just strengthens the soul connection since Harry is, as we know, a Horcrux.

I don't think the Dark Mark uses a Protean Charm like the DA coins, but a different method. Mostly since a Protean Charm charm isn't needed. It's what caused the numbers on the coin to change, not what caused them to burn up.

A spell I do want to bring up is the one used to paint the Dark Mark in the sky: "Morsmordre"

(As an aside, that's like, the most evil-sounding spell in how it's pronounced in my opinion. It's all these 'R's)

The spell is most likely comprised of the Latin "mors" meaning "death" and "mordere" meaning "to bite". Literally translates to "To bite death" AKA Death Eater. And I think this spell is the same one used to make someone a Death Eater, or at least to mark them as one.

I also headcanon that only marked Death Eaters (+ Voldemort) could cast Morsmordre on the sky. Like, if some random cast the spell it wouldn't do shit. It makes the whole situation with Winky in GoF more heartbreaking. But also, I don't think anyone there really knew that the spell was limited use, as no one tried to cast it after the first war, probably. But I don't really have evidence for this.

Back to the Dark Mark brand:

The dark mark is mentioned to be burned on one's skin, beside creating a burning sensation when Voldemort calls:

“There,” said Snape harshly. “There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord.

(GoF, 709)

This makes me think the mark looks burned. Like if you used a hot piece of iron to burn the mark on someone's skin, like a brand.

Now, fire is an interesting element, and, alchemically, one of the elements that corresponds to the soul along with air. Air, though, is also part of the spirit, the fire is only part of the soul as the soul is the one carrying the spark, so to speak.

And I think the idea of them looking like a branding is accurate — because that is exactly what the dark mark is. It's a brand. It's a sign of possession. In various cultures in the past, slaves were branded in a similar way. A sign of ownership that you and your soul, in this case, aren't your own.

So, I think, to mark someone, Voldemort would cast Morsmordre on their arm. This will burn the mark on them, which I assume would feel like a brand being burned on (which is also how it looks, it does not look like a tattoo).

But what does this have to do with the name "Death Eater"?

Well, both the organization and the spell share this language. both meaning to eat death, and I wondered why. So, I looked up various folklore/myths that could refer to a "Death Eater" and I found some interesting ones.

In Ancient Greece and Rome, for example, apparently, Fava Beans were often treated as symbols of death and decay. Some even said the beans contained souls and that eating them was akin to cannibalism. I don't think it has anything to do with the Dark Mark, but I found it interesting.

Of course, there is the Greek myth of Persephone, who is trapped in the underworld by eating pomegranate seeds.

I also considered a connection to sin-eaters. Who were usually poor people invited to funerals and paid to ritualistically eat the sins of the deceased so they could move on to heaven in Ireland and Wales.

However, my favorite theory is one I'm not the first to pose. I don't remember where I read it, but I read a post from someone who mentioned the name 'Death Eaters' reminded them of 'beefeaters'. The term refers to the Yeomen Warders who guard the tower of London. Some etymologists believe the term 'beefeaters' originates from the old English: 'hláf-æta', literally meaning 'bread-eater' but was a word used to refer to a servant, while others argue it could originate from an old French term: 'buffetier' which also means servant.

That, to me, sounded perfect. It fits naturally in with everything.

'Death Eaters' then is then a play on an old English term meaning 'servent', except, the 'bread' from that word was replaced with death, both for Voldemrot's obsession with death and the connection to the life and soul I mentioned earlier.

I also would like to mention that the change of 'bread' to 'death' makes the term sound more permanent. Like they are to remain Voldemrot's servants until they eat death (until they die). It basically marks their soul forever. It brands them.

So, magically, the dark mark makes someone Voldemot's servant for life. It binds their soul to the network of marks that are all tied to Voldemrot's own soul.

This is where that sin-eater connection I mentioned earlier might be relevant. A sin-eater ritualistically eats a person's sins, a part of them in a way. So, I think, with the dark mark, it's something similar. Magically/symbolically, they eat Voldemrot's sins — a part of him.

So, to summarise this section:

The spell Morsmordre is likely used to mark a death eater. The mark is burned and acts as a weak soul tether between Voldemort and all his Death Eaters like a weird network. The mark is a branding, it looks burned and it brands them as Voldemort's servants. The spell 'Morsmordre' literally means to bite death or eat death and refers to the Death Eaters' name. A name that practically calls them Voldemort's servants until their death.

Why the Secrecy

Well, I think this one is pretty obvious. You'd rather the mark that basically broadcasts who's a trusted follower to the world not be common knowledge. Not only that but it's stated by many characters that during the first war, Death Eaters didn't really know who the other Death Eaters were. Everyone knew Voldemort, and only knew each other or about plans on a need-to-know basis.

At least, that's how they operated in the first wat. Death Eaters in the first war are closer to a cult than in the second one.

They operate in secrecy.

All the following and operations revolve around a single leader everyone knows and worships.

Most don't even know each other from how secret they are.

Their clothes — masks, robes, and hooded cloaks all fit in with this cult-like imagery.

In the second war, it was different though. I spoke in the past about how the second war is very different from the first one. How it ran, the number of casualties, the approach of Death Eaters towards the ministry, and vice versa.

In the first war, Voldemort was around, hushing up a lot of their involvement and creating this air of fear and mystery around his cult. In book 5, the DE are just as secretive and hushed up in their operations at the beginning of the first war, but during book 6 and into book 7, Voldemort isn't as present. So, they allow themselves more. They stop hiding because no one is telling them to.

So, in the second war, we see society as a whole is much more aware of the dark mark and the Death Eaters.

How Come No One Tells Fudge

First I want to talk about how they didn't see it on dead bodies of Death Eaters or on imprisoned ones, and, well, I have a guess.

Karkaroff and Snape mention how the dark mark darkened throughout year 4, becoming more and more red. It's possible, that right after Voldemort was defeated, when most Death Eaters were arrested and killed, the mark likely was incredibly faded and barely visible. It looked like an old scar and probably didn't garner much attention and was easy enough to conceal with magic for people like Lucius Malfoy.

As for why Dumbledore didn't tell Fudge in the second war, I think he did tell Fudge. Fudge likely knew about the dark mark and it didn't matter. The whole point of book 5 is that the ministry is corrupt. Fudge knows Voldemort is back, he believes it, he just doesn't want everyone else to think is. He is desperate to show competence and get reelected, Voldemort returning in his time is not a good look.

Basically, I don't think Fudge was ever a convincing problem, he knew Dumbledore and Harry were telling the truth — and he didn't care.

[a-drifting-mannequin]

I need to apologize in advance if I get their lore, characteristics and literally everything wrong. I haven't finished watching the whole series yet but I'm desperate to write something.

Inspired by @opheliajupiter99 on my main blog abt Kremy

Motivated by @pyrit on one particular ask I sent a while ago

Magic out of hand

Fandom: Once Upon a Witchlight (Legends of Avantris)

Pairing: Gideon Coal/Kremy Lecroux; side Grimmorning that could be perceive as platonic

Warning: Slight body horror, badly written due to not having a good grip on the lore (blame the author)

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

A daring escape, one might say. The krew had barely got out of trouble with their hides intact, but they were lucky that they did. Thank the Baron, Kremy did not have the energy to put up with more trouble today.

He wouldn't blame everything on anyone in the group, not tonight, not now. It was their night out, similar to the guy's night they once had when Frost was absent. This night, however, wouldn't be described as fun to Kremy's standard. Gideon had his fun, picking up girls with relative ease while he offered to pay for their drinks in hopes of getting someone home with him. Gricko drank his senses away while rambling about something that Frost seemed to find interesting.

Those specifics weren't the reason they got in trouble. Maybe. They all went about their usual business, drinking and laughing. Kremy had been dealing cards with a few good looking folks who looked like they had their pockets lined with money. Kremy needed that, the krew needed that. What with four extra mouths to feed, not counting Gideon and himself, Kremy had to do what he was best at if no one was going to step up.

The actual reason why they got in trouble in the first place was entirely Kremy's fault, but also partly Gideon's fault. He had way too much to drink that night, the rum tasted better than he initially thought after one sip. His tricks and hands were slower, the alcohol running his system made him sloppy, and one of the guys sitting there with him managed to catch a glimpse of him slipping to exchange the cards.

The next showdown between them weren't pretty.

The enormous man had pressed Kremy up against the wall with one hand, having him dangle his feet in air before placing them on the wall he was pressed up against. The tavern had gone quiet at the display, some still chattering but all eyes were trained on him. Gideon had been a fool not to hear the telltale noises of Kremy being in trouble before it was too late. Frost didn't drink anything the whole night, yet he still had trouble helping Kremy in the first place.

When Gideon finally realized, the man had already threw a punch to Kremy's face, kicking more than a breath out of him. Soon, he met solid ground in a bad way, with a foot on his chest, a knife at his throat with silent threats being thrown his way. Frost managed to keep the rest of his goons away from Kremy, but Gideon was late to start throwing punches at the man towering over the gator. By the time they left the tavern, Kremy was in pretty rough shape.

Gricko and Frost walked ahead, muttered apologize being tossed between them, Gricko occasionally looked up at Frost with guilty eyes. Gideon insisted on staying behind to help Kremy, though the gator doesn't feel like he should be grateful. Gideon was so busy with some floozy that somehow, he forgot that his job was to protect Kremy.

Even if Gricko didn't have much involvement with the situation, he still look pretty banged up with Gricko holding his bruised up arm, taking a sharp breath in every now and then.

"Don't worry, I'm sure we still got some bananyas back at camp." Gricko reassured everyone eventually, earning a small hum from Frost and silent nods from the rest.

Kremy had his arm around Gideon's shoulder, practically being manhandled by the genasi. Gideon had a few cuts here and there, but not as roughed up as Kremy at that moment. His suit was dirty too. Damnit.

Their camp soon came into sight and they all sighed in relief. The fire had died down to flickering embers, but it didn't take long for Gideon to start it back up. Kremy settled down with a painful grunt, holding his arm while mentally questioning if there was a cut on his neck. He definitely felt blood trickling there, but was still not sure.

Torbek sat in one of the many tents they had set up, with Hootsie snuggled up against him, half asleep. Kremy assumed the reason why the fire died is because Torbek was stuck with Hootsie on him so he just refused to move. Gricko came over and smiled down at the groggy Torbek, waving a hand over his face and offering to take Hootsie from him.

"Hold still Kremy." Frost said in that monotone of his that always made Kremy want to snap at him with how calm he sounded.

Frost barely shows emotions from time to time, but today he looked more worried. He made no movements to touch Kremy, his eyes scanning over his form in a way that made Kremy uncomfortable, like someone checking you out in public. The tabaxi hummed quietly and moved to the fire without another word.

Gricko fished out a few bananyas and tossed them at Gideon, who catched them clumsily. Torbek was offered one first by Gricko himself.

If he dies one day and it was Gideon's fault, may the Baron be good to him. Of course, he knew Gideon likes to run off a whole lot of times, but today was not acceptable. He straight up left him to die, one way or another, with some pretty girls buying him drinks for the night. Kremy didn't get the attraction that Gideon felt towards girls, he never did. And with their revealing clothes and breast, Gideon acts like he's tied to a string of one sided love.

"Kremy?" Gricko asked, shaking Kremy's arm gently as to not cause more damage. "You haven't taken a bananya yet." In Gricko's palm was the bananya that he didn't took. Maybe the last one even.

Kremy sighed and mutter a thank before taking it. Peeling it wasn't a problem, but his whole body ached and protested against any movements. Nevertheless, the rest already looked healed up besides him, so with some reluctance, he peeled it and took a slow, small bite.

Gideon was already helping Frost cook something even if he knew the big genasi couldn't cook very well. Gricko gone to tending Hootsie's feathers, comforting her since he was away for a while. Torbek stay silently in the tent, eyes casting around the area like paranoia was crawling on his back. Kremy pointedly ignored any glances or questions that might come from Gideon, giving only wordless nods when Gricko asked if he was alright.

Of course he wasn't alright, anyone with eyes would see that, even the ones who weren't trying. His suit is ruined, with dirty shoe prints on the fabric. His bowtie was in tatters, torn here and there for whatever reason he didn't bothered wondering. Gideon, of course it had to be Gideon's fault that he ended up like this. But, then again, he can't say it wasn't his fault as well, he had lots to drink so he has to be the one to blame as well.

His thoughts were cut short when he took another bite, not feeling healed up but rather more pained. His muscles still ached, his heart was still pounding in his ears, his scars and bruises didn't look any better. Another thought hit him, blaming Gricko for giving him a bananya that wasn't having the effects it usually does.

Another ache, then a sharp, stinging pain like a bullet being shot through his temple made Kremy groaned in agony.

This immediately attracted the group's attention, with Gideon being the first one to come to Kremy, reaching out and cradling him in his arms. Worry painted his face, his eyes searching but nothing came up. Gricko was half way off the ground, kneeling with one knee propped up, a hand suspended in the air that seemingly tried to reach out for the gator.

"Kremy, hey man, you alright?" Gideon asked, genuinely worried for him.

Kremy was just about to brush Gideon's worries off until another sharp pain presented itself near his ribcage, making him choked out a quiet groan.

Frost checked in with Gricko, cataloging everything that Gricko told him that he had given Kremy. Frost brows knitted together at the mention of the bananya, a hand coming up to hold his chin in a way that detectives usually do.

"Gricko, did you put the same amount in like you usually do?"

[thesagedahlia]

♈️ Solar Return Pick-A-Card ♈️

*DISCLAIMER: this channeling is meant to read the current energy of Aries ~personal~ placements. this is for entertainment purposes only, + energy is fluid not linear, roles are interchangeable, + this reading can be timeless. if you’re drawn to more than one crystal/stone, go with it. take what resonates, leave the rest (which means don't try to make a message meant for someone else fit for you)*

🧲 GROUP 1: PYRITE – CALL ON YOUR CORE POWER 🧲

You have likely been feeling stagnant in your season, but there may have been an emphasis on you gaining clarity on what your next actions are. There is a new beginning that is opening for you, but it is going to call for you to release emotional baggage or tension within you. You were being prompted to dig deeper within yourself during your season, because there is something that may have been holding back and stunting your full potential. You may express disappointment or lack of faith due to what you’ve experienced in the past, but you are prepared to break through the stagnation by facing what you suffered through, as it shows up in the present. For someone, you may be going on an important trip that is going to awaken this breakthrough for you, and others may be taking on an inner journey that is going to bring clarity moving forward. This is a situation where the answers will be found within, so any continued amount of suffering to yourself will not help you now. Sometimes it is important to be still when situations are (or aren’t) working out, so it is never any need to rush an outcome or lack faith that it is happening. You may have been lacking self confidence because of situations/baggage from the past that you’re still holding on to, but you are being asked to move on from the past and call your power from it back. There will be a chance to redeem and redirect yourself out of self-doubt, and as Mars finally ingresses into Leo you will have more of a boost of energy when facing things head-on. You may not be fully clear on where you’re going at this time, but movement is imminent. Things are shifting in your favor for now, so you need to make sure you’re ready to strike once the iron is hot.

CONFIRMATION ✨🔮 1010, THE VOID, 111, ENTREPRENEUR, READY FOR THE RISK, 1111, SOMETHING’S ‘UP’ WITH THEM, ‘FRIENEMIES’, THROAT CHAKRA, TAKE TIME TO REST, SOMEBODY IS PRESSED/JEALOUS, ‘WATERFALL’, DIVINE INTERVENTION, WOUNDED FEMININE, INDECISION, ADDICTION, COMING IN HOT!, HIDDEN ENEMIES, OVERTHINKING

🚀 GROUP 2: JET – CLAIM YOUR SPACE 🚀

There may be something that you’re missing or refusing to see for what it is. Whether you’re aware of it or not, you’re being guided to take some time to search deep within yourself or regarding a situation and understand the lessons you’re being shown and taught. Someone may be coming out of a healing cycle that brought on some pain and heartbreak that needs to be worked through, but the best way to start is to identify what is keeping you in your head about it. Someone may feel like their personal fulfillment was compromised after dealing with a conflicting situation, but to move on from the loss is to move forward toward a new storyline. Someone may be feeling like a situation can’t be successful without your input, but you may not be seeing that reflected through those you’ve collaborated with; in fact, you may have noticed that you aren’t considered too much of an asset. When something like this happens, you either could ignore it and work through the obvious tension, or you could acknowledge it and act accordingly. You are being reminded that you are protected from people and situations that mean you harm, so it is up to you to move away from what is blocking your potential. This has been either stemming from outdated belief systems, or one’s own struggling faith in themselves and what can be accomplished. The coming months with note the pursuit of your own success through hard work and dedication. You may have been around those who easily talked you out of taking big steps toward your own personal achievement, but your advice is to no longer conform to that. Your independence will be your biggest accomplishment, and as you start to develop the fruits of your labor, your determination will inspire the recognition you’ve been hoping for. Those who have expected you to conform and never find your willpower are in for a rude awakening.

CONFIRMATION ✨🔮 HEART + THRID EYE + CROWN CHAKRA, EARTH ENERGY (TAURUS*, VIRGO*, CAPRICORN), 888, MASCULINE ENERGY, CLOSING A DOOR, FOR AN OPEN ONE, ‘ASCENDING’, ISOLATION, ARIES ENERGY, JEALOUSY, HERMIT (VIRGO ENERGY), DANGER, DIVINE FEMININE, $ABUNDANCE$, ‘PRIDE’, 999, ‘THE SIGNS’; SPIRIT IS SPEAKING, HERE TODAY, GONE TOMORROW, NEW BEGINNINGS, ‘GLUTTONY’, SPACE, ‘CREEP’; SNEAKING AROUND, SOMEBODY IS PRESSED/JEALOUS, SOULMATE

🧠 GROUP 3: LEMURIAN QUARTZ – ESCAPE YOUR MIND 🧠

Your stamina is picking up as your season ends, you’re meant to see the way forward after some time of feeling unproductive or weakened. You may feel as though the work you’ve been putting in hasn’t seen much results, or you may feel as though your efforts are in vain. You may need to let go of the expectations you’ve had in the past, or you should brace yourself for some hards truths that have been harder to reconcile before. You may have dealt with your vulnerability differently by lashing out in defensive to people and situations that shrank your ego. Understand that there were people and situations that were meant to keep you feeling stuck, and for a long time it worked to their advantage. Now that you see the play for what it is, you may be willing to shed the skin of the past to make space for something new and in alignment with who you’re becoming. For some of you there have been people who were dishonest about your impact and misled you into believing that there is nothing for you in certain situations, but these people are afraid of what you can discover about yourself. You’re realizing that the power you hold can’t be suppressed so you’re willing to face whatever challenges head on. The pace you were moving was only beneficial to those who aren’t meant for the blessings that were made for you, because they figured all they had to do was catch up to you. This couldn’t be farther from the truth because now you’re gearing up to surpass whoever tried to instill doubt within you. With these people out of your way, you can now reevaluate the actions you’re meant to take moving forward. You should no longer have a desire to collaborate with people who don’t see it for you, and come together with those who have the same drive, courage, and determination as you. Spirit is reminding you that you don’t need anyone’s input to push your own visions forward.

CONFIRMATION ✨🔮 *PAST* LOVE COMING IN/GHOSTED, ‘HATE’, DANGER, $ABUNDANCE$, NEW BEGINNINGS, ‘LUST’, CYCLES, SOMEBODY IS PRESSED/JEALOUS, GOSSIP/DRAMA, LIBRA ENERGY, ‘GREED’, ADDICTION, DIVINE INTERVENTION, PASSION/RAW ENERGY, KARMIC, FRIENDS BECOME STRANGERS, 1111, (DIVINE) MASCULINE ENERGY, STUCK ON SOMEONE, FAMILY ISSUES, PROCEED WITH CAUTION, HERE TODAY, GONE TOMORROW, REJECTION, GROUNDING, ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT, 333, SACRAL CHAKRA, ISOLATION, HERMIT

Happy Solar Return to all Aries placements ♈️✨

[thehistorynut19]

Jo's worn wedding rings before, fake little things upon his finger - pyrite being his truth.

But he never has he worn one like this before...

This is a ring that he wants to keep.

Close to his heart, hidden and tucked away so no one could dare wrench it away from him. Steal it at the stroke of midnight and shatter it like glass.

He'll craft this out of crystal, this gem that is oh so close to his heart.

To think this came out of a conversation about muffins.

For Mua, a historian and folklorist by trade, lets her mind waltz over books and she looked up at him one day: "Did you know, in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in the west, muffins were called gems? This was because of a pan used to make them and graham gems." "Oh? How cute..." a purr he couldn't help but usher, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Would that make it that you are my gem?" A scoff, a wave of the book in his direction as a ward; a laugh shared between silver and gold. "Shut up. I'm no such thing." But that morning, after she had left for work, what greeted him in the middle of the table was a set of muffins. A bit cold since it had been some time since she had left but...

May these gems fit within your palm, like how you hold my heart; the gem of my love.

Yours, Mua

Jo seemed to be far more elated that day, and when she had returned home, he had bought her some muffins, the best he could find that fit her palate.

"Gems for my gem," came his purr, a greeted kiss within this cabin of confection.

It became a routine, really. Giving each other muffins as a pick-me-up, with a note attached.

If their love cannot be transferred over wires and data, then flowers, pressed by amour would be enough...

For now at least. Marriage, was not a thing that passes his mind, not since those days and all but...

He has to do it. Not because of duty, or whatnot but because she is love for him.

He hopes for the true love of all women, and loves them in return. But this is a love, pure as spring mist and bright as a diamond, that he must not taint with these bloodied hands.

Even if they don't do it now, he wants to make a promise.

His hand is already stained, marred by sin but already holds the place of his Chaos Ring, a kiss blessed upon it each time he transforms. But why must her hand be so lonely whenever he cannot hold it within his own?

A muffin shaped box, uncovering a satin with pure snow and a crystal in the shape of a heart.

"A gem, for my gem. The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. It doesn't have to be now, but I want this to be a promise between us." A truth he never dares to lie about.

How her tears turn to pearls and she dashes off, a brief murmur of, "Wait, w-wait here-!"

She, too, sports a little box in her smaller hands. A crystal produced in his image, a heart meant for them both to hold.

A surprise that he somewhat expected, but....

"...you've learned how to keep secrets better." but her energy is infectious, as he wraps his arms around her. A pair of rings slipped on to their hands, but Jo keeps his upon a chain.

A necklace, a pendant so close to his heart...closed off, so no one else could see but her.

Yes, he doesn't wear it during work hours, and sometimes he wears it upon his hand but...

The ring she gave him is warming his cold chest, where his heart once - no - now lives. Because she lives within it, encased in seven layers of crystal and love. His precious, little gem.

[raccoonfallsharder]

a brief birdie excerpt~

[anticipated june 2025] NSFW below the cut.

18+ only MDNI | f!reader x rocket | ~ 16 parts | word count: pending.

WARNINGS for this excerpt: minimal description of reader; has hair that can be grabbed. angst. dom/sub vibes. brief impact play/pussy-slapping, rough sex, hair-pulling, mirror-sex (?). mention of nipple-play and clamps, collaring/choking. description of raccoon dick, obligatory mention of raccoon sensory perception/memory. use of "pretty girl," "sweetheart, "whore" (affectionate...?). aka "rocket fucks you against the flight controls," from a future chapter (11? 12?) dedicated to & inspired by @shylyobscene. full summary + general warnings below.

Rocket slants  one firm, stinging slap against you — slicking the skin of his palm, embossing the pretty shape of your cunt on his sensory memory forever. It’s warm and wet and silky, and he’s gonna pull up the feeling of it on his hand every time he fucks his fist once you’re gone. 

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop himself if he tries. 

You yelp at the contact, hips bouncing against the edge of the console. Your nerves are fried, he thinks — how impossibly worked-up had you gotten since he’d ordered you to the floor? The leggings hold your thighs captive, pressed tightly together, and he flutters his fingers between them: finding the soft pearl of your clit, puffy and swollen with need. He pinches gently with the sides of his first two fingers, then scrapes his calloused thumb against it leisurely. Your hips hitch and you let out a sob before bowing into the most ridiculous arch he’s ever seen: a pure, pathetic crescent moon of distress and desire, practically incandescent with starlight thanks to his eyeshine. 

“All right, sweetheart,” he murmurs. You let out another ragged sound when he releases your clit, and he notches the weeping tip of his cock against your slit as quickly as he can. “It’s okay, baby,” he consoles. “M’gonna take care of you.”

He sinks in as slowly as he can bear to: jaw clenched and a muscle ticcing under his whiskers. You keen as he does, and it might be the prettiest damn song he’s ever heard. He withdraws — slides back home, and can’t keep the groan bitten between his teeth this time. You whine, and he shifts his angle: glancing off that spongy spot inside you. For fuck’s sake, you’re so scaldingly-hot and tight around him — certainly better than anything he’s ever had before, and infinitely better than he’s ever deserved. 

The thought twinges something in his breastbone and he grinds his hips against the plush curve of your ass, trying to hook into you as deeply as he can — the curve of his cock instinctively searching for something to notch against. When he can’t find it, he pulls back and slams into you again: punishing that bundle of nerves on the front wall of your soft little pussy. You stifle a whine, burying your face in your folded-up arms, and he picks up his speed: tattooing that spot in your cunt with the rigid, unforgiving scrape of his baculum bone. Wet, sweet sounds echo through the cockpit, punctuated by the slap of drenched fur against your puffy, abused folds. His hips piston harder, faster, until you’re bouncing between him and the edge of the console with little hiccuping breaths. Your thighs will be bruised in the morning, your belly littered with dark blooms where the dials and switches must be digging into all your softness. Your flanks, your spine — the jiggling fat of your ass — all of it shimmers and twirls with flakes of starlight and galaxy-dust, and he makes the mistake of hazarding a glance up at the glass.

But his eyes don’t take in the swirling, sparkling pyrite megaliths, as big or bigger than the Cherry Bomb, glittering in the starshield. He might’ve chosen this spot in a baffling and uncharacteristic display of whimsy — for you, some evil little part of him pipes up; because he’d thought you’d find it pretty — but his gaze catches instead on his own reflection.

Ears flattened into blades. Teeth bared and knifelike; eyes glowing like a predator’s. Some unidentifiable, alien concoction of parts, bitter and broken-edged and mean.

I don’t want to fight. I want good things to happen for you. 

Impulsively, he snatches one hand forward. His fingers manage to catch a fistful of hair — like plucking a handful of butterflies from the sky. He hauls your head back and upward, pulling your spine into that pretty crescent moon he’d admired before: hiding his own wrecked and ruined body behind all your softness.

“Watch yourself get fucked, pretty girl,” he snarls into the lunar curve of your back. His eyes hunt yours in the starshield-reflection. You’re a gorgeous fuckin’ mess. Face gleaming with tears, skin gleaming with sweat. Eyes wide and shimmery and dazed, mouth still swollen and slick. One beautiful tit bounces jubilantly with every cruel snap of his hips, while the other tries desperately to escape its wistful, dreamy little shred of lace. He wishes he had the armspan to bully your silly little nipples while he fucked you.  Next time, he promises himself. Next time he’ll grab two of the tiny clamps he uses for more delicate wires in his workshop: use them to pinch your bouncing tits while he fucks into you. 

You’ll fuckin’ love it — he just knows it.

“D’you see, sweetheart?” Each word is punched into you with the force of his hips. “What a perfect fuckin’ whore you are for me?”

You whine wordlessly, eyes wide and glassy, and he tugs sharply in your hair. 

“D’you see it, birdie?” He curses under his breath. “You better fuckin’ answer, or next time I’ll bring out one of my toolbelts and wrap it around your throat like a leash.”

birdie. (an evasive maneuvers expansion)

18+ only MDNI | f!reader x rocket | ~16 chapters | word count: pending.

xandar is saved. the power stone rests safely in the hands of the nova corps, and our favorite heroes-for-hire get their records expunged before going their separate ways.

unfortunately, one furry little motherfucker just can't seem to keep his claws out of trouble. in a rare gesture of good will, the nova corp give him a get-outta-jail-free card (not that he needs one)~ all he has to do is escort a bratty little princess safely and discreetly to her new home, halfway across the universe.

should be a piece of cake. what's the difference between a bodyguard and a bounty-hunter, anyway?

CONTEXT/WARNINGS: mcu-based canon-divergent post-vol1. grief, angst, betrayal, and the agony of falling in love. slightly darker than my usual fare - true enemies-to-lovers (still a happy ending, though!). slower-burn than i had originally thought (assuming you don't count a lot of explicit fantasies). forced proximity. pining. bondage (duh), lots of dirty talk and dom/sub fixations, probably some gunplay, electricity-play, and use of toys. entirely from rocket's perspective so far. reader has hair long enough to get in her eyes/be pulled. more detailed warnings listed in each chapter.

silver stardust and silver bar dividers by @/bernardsbendystrawsblack | black rose divider by @/firefly-graphics | heart-handcuff & ivy dividers by @/strangergraphics | support/mdni banners by @/saradika-graphics | moodboard by me!

[chubbybitts]

Lil thing for bunny day. Cause I'm a degenerate. BulkBee under the cut cause they are cute. May or maynot be connecting to my other fics but I'm thinking it's stand alone

It took some doing, but after Sari told him about the holiday, Bumblebee wanted to spoil his big bot.

It started when he got the little human to explain to him what this 'chocolate' tasted like, realizing it was comparable to gold in a cybertronian taste receptors; realizing that humans are really attached to gold thus making it hard to get. He had been happy to learn there was pyrite on the planet at least, fool's gold. Fitting nickname since cybertronians called it poor bots gold back home. Bee had grown up with the cheap but oh so sweet pyrite, and he was sure Bulkhead did as well, so making them into dozens of eggs was easy.

Bumblebee didn't understand why this holiday was about rabbits and eggs, unable to find any connections between the two, but the treats were cute. Bulkhead giggled as he carefully picked up a pyrite egg in his servos and popped it into his mouth.

"Hmmm! I haven't had pyrite treats in ages! You're the best, lil buddy!" Bumblebee grins as he makes himself comfortable on Bulkhead's belly, kneading it playfully. "It's fun to have an excuse to treat my chunky bot-friend! Plus, we're just getting started, big guy."

Bulkhead's faceplate flushes as Bumblebee grabs the next pyrite egg and presses it to the green bots' mouth. Soon, the pair fell into their usual feeding groove; Bumblebee mumbling to the other as he doesn't let Bulkhead get a word in as he keeps the other's mouth full.

Bulkhead just goes along for the ride as his little partner feeds him the sweet, nostalgic pyrite treats that coat the inside of his mouth. He soon realizes some of them have different bits of quartz inside, breaking up the monotonous taste. Treat after treat fills the large bots tank, his eyes hazy and distant as he starts to feel full.

With his servos bracing on either side, Bulkhead finds himself starting to groan as his tank starts to struggle, trying to digest the rich sweets within it. Bumblebee doesn't slow, still feeding egg after egg, eyes bright. "Getting full, big bot? You have so many treats left~ You don't want to waste any, do ya?" With another low groan, Bulkhead shook his head and opened his mouth for the next bite.

Once all the eggs are gone, Bulkhead feels like a pyrite filled treat himself. His tank rumbles and grinds as Bumblebee wanders off. The bigger bot attempts to lift his helm to see where the yellow bot is going but gives up to just lay back and rub his belly.

"I got one more surprise for ya, Bulkie..." Burping softly with a groan Bulkhead glances up as Bumblebee snuggles up to him. Bumblebee pulls out a large bunny, but at first look, Bulkhead's optics widen as he realizes right away it's not pyrite but gold. "Bee, how did you...?"

"Sari's dad. I kinda explained to him how gold is a rich bot treat back home he was able to get me some so we can have a real treat." Bumblebee giggles before taking a good bite of the ears before offering it to Bulkhead. Both of them rumbled softly, unused to the smoothness of the gold. The pair share bites between them, Bumblebee taking much smaller bites but giving Bulkhead's small kisses after each bit, playfully licking into the others mouth to chase the taste.

All too soon, the bunny is gone, and Bulkhead groans as he rubs his belly, face flushed and at that state of just too full. Bumblebee grinning away, smaller engine rumbling as he kisses his partner's face. "Happy Easter Bunny day." He giggles. "Or whatever Sari said it was. Bulkhead just weakly chuckles.

While the pair snuggled, Prowl looked at the small gold egg left in his room. Ratchet and Optimus had also found one each with a little note with a 'Enjoy! Love Bee' on it. They motorcycle shook his head, but he still popped the candy into his mouth before settling down to meditate.

[whitherwanderer]

4 // reticent

Accessing Everkeep Data Terminal Network . . . Please remain still for regulator scan or insert identification tag. Verifying user registration . . . User PYR-0562 registration verified. Access granted. Welcome back, Pyrite. Memory storage shard detected in port A. Displaying memories. IMG_1051 IMG_1052 IMG_1053 IMG_1054 IMG_1055 IMG_1056 > IMG_1055 Loading IMG_1055 . . . Loading failed. Memory corruption detected.

Blue light from the terminal screen cast a sickly glow across the room, making a sleepless Pyrite look all the more weary as her eyes strained against the blocky remnants of a corrupt image. Despite the distortion of the image turning the figures pictured into little more of a hint at a person, she could recognize herself in one of them; the suggestion of a smile on her face, her arm slung around a brunet man that could be none other than Galena, though she had no recollection of this moment preserved in light.

He had long since awoke and found her there, alert but not wholly present, as she delved into their personal records. She could still feel the press of his lips on her cheek before he left their darkened apartment to begin the long trek out to the driftdowns. She only opened the image back up when she was sure he was long gone.

Between them in this disembodied memory, observed secondhand through a broken lens, was a third figure.

Younger. Much younger. Not more than ten years old. Held in their arms with a certain pride she could almost remember feeling once. Blonde, like her, but otherwise featureless. The conclusion was as obvious as it was maddening. But when? How?

The longer she stared, the more it ate at her how much was missing. A name she wanted to call out in a long-learned habit, though her tongue could never quite form the syllables. A face she could almost see in the white, flickering moment as her eyes closed, but something always pulled her away from recognition of a face. Everyone was aware of the cloud. Everyone had these holes in their memory. So why did this eat at her so?

The blinking prompt beneath the image tempted her sorely. She had already found the futility in taking up its offer, however…

Repair IMG_1055? [Y/N] >  Y Repairing IMG_1055 . . .

What is it they say about the definition of insanity?

She watched the loading bar fill, tick by painful tick, until there came a chime at the door that, for all its intended pleasantness, nearly sent her to the floor with a jolt. “Who’s there?” she calls.

“Pyrite? It’s me,” a young woman called over the comms unit just outside, “Sphene.” Pyrite froze in her seat, her blood set to ice. She clapped the terminal closed and kept her hand atop it as if it might shout her secrets if she didn’t, then looked down to examine herself.

“I apologize for calling upon you at this hour. I haven’t woken you, have I?”

“No,” Pyrite calls back urgently. “No, I was already awake. Just- just give me a moment to get myself decent, your Majesty.”

“Oh! By all means.”

Fully clothed, but caught obviously unprepared for any guest, let alone the bloody Queen of Reason herself. Not that Sphene was known to judge, but the impropriety of greeting her barefoot did cross Pyrite’s mind. So too did the thought of keeping her waiting at the door.

Pyrite hurried to the entrance, pressing her hand to the pad beside it that saw the shades open and the lights of Solution Nine to fill the room before another press lifted the door, revealing the young queen’s expectant, spring green stare and warm smile. Coiffed, crowned, and poised, wide eyes and the wringing of the young queen’s hands indicated something was troubling her, but she brightened the moment Pyrite smiled back at her, however wearily.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, your Majesty,” she Pyrite offers, harried though it is, and the queen’s eyes close with a gentle shake of her head.

“Don’t be, my dear Pyrite. It’s still quite early,” the regent assured. She paused, looking back over Pyrite’s shoulder for a moment before smiling to politely inquire. “May I come in?”

Pyrite was keenly aware she’d been sorting through the records and attempting repairs for hours now. The Everkeep administrative systems would have caught it, wouldn’t they? The visit from the queen couldn’t be a coincidence.

Her smile widened from ear to ear. Why did this feel like a guilty conscience on display? “‘Course. Please, come in.”

As Pyrite stood aside to let the young queen enter with polite thanks, her hands were kept folded neatly at her middle. Her scintillant dress cast prisms of light about the floor, turning as she did once she reached the middle of the room. Pyrite touched the pad against the wall once more and the door slid closed, quieting the distant sound of Sphene’s name called down the hallway.

The resulting beat of silence frayed Pyrite’s already buzzing nerves.

“Restless morning?” she asked the queen. An attempt at smalltalk to soothe the nerves. It was not so long ago that they gossiped like schoolgirls after all.

“Restless is… one way of putting it,” the queen tone nearly touches upon sardonic humor. This does little to put Pyrite’s nerves at ease.

“...How have you been, Pyrite?” Sphene asks tentatively, turning to look upon Pyrite with a smile that spoke of genuine concern. Like a check-in after an illness. Why did the queen’s once-comforting visits now feel like interrogation? “You look well, and that is heartening enough. I hope the same goes for dear Galena?”

“I am, and so is he,” Pyrite said cooly, motioning towards the sofa. She didn’t take a seat until the queen accepted the offer, happily perching on the edge of the cushion and smoothing her dress over her lap.

“But somehow I get the feelin’ you didn’t come by just to tell me I looked well,” Pyrite remarks lightly, and Sphene’s eyes glint with delight.

“Ah… subtlety has never been my strong suit, has it?” the queen admits, casting her gaze to her knees. Her smile remains warm. “In truth, I was rather worried about you and Galena.”

Play dumb, instict told her. “Worried? Why for?” Pyrite asks, sitting back. Was this too casual? Did it read as too confident?

“I heard a spot of troubling news from the hunters afield in the Thunderyards. That one of our valiant huntresses had suddenly handed in her notice of resignation…” Her Majesty hints, jeweled gaze lifting to the fool’s gold of her host’s.

Pyrite clicks her tongue. “Loudmouths, the lot of ‘em,” she jokes, and Sphene lifts her fingers to her lips to giggle. The apparent ex-huntress sighs, her head tilting to one side. “They speak true, I’m ‘fraid. I’m lookin’ fer new work. Somethin’ to keep my edge honed. And the change is… welcome, I suppose.”

Not a complete lie. Not the whole truth, either.

“Ah, so that’s the way of it. New employment,” the queen surmises with approval in her tone. “Blessed are we to have ambitious people like you seeking new challenges and finding more ways they might serve our fellow Alexandrians. I do not doubt your skills can be put to good use elsewhere, within the keep or without.”

She pauses, her hands folding on her lap again to wring gently. Here it comes, Pyrite tells herself with an inhale. Surely this wasn’t honest trouble, was it? It was only their personal records, their rightful property, And she can’t have been the first to go digging through the past. She certainly wouldn’t be the last. Could it really be so dangerous to go fishing for memories lost in the cloud?

“...I gather Galena also seeks such new challenges?” comes a tentative worry, and the young queen’s smile is one of honest apprehension. “I spied him at Mosaic this morning and I couldn’t help but notice that he had forgone the use of a regulator.”

Pyrite’s lip is pinched between her teeth, but she manages to finally exhale. So that’s what drew the queen’s attention to them. Washed over with the relief that her prying into the past would have consequences for herself and her husband, she could speak to the Queen of Reason with some degree of candor. Sphene, for her part, did seem honest in her concern. Her delicate hand pressed to her chest as she made plain her case.

“Just this month we’ve seen a one hundred and sixty-eight percent increase in soul use among the reforgers. Of course we cannot accurately capture full scope of the risk with so many who don’t wear regulators, but we’re still seeing a rate of nearly ten accidental deaths per year on average, seven of which are caused by aggressive wildlife and the other three—”

She stopped herself short, and Pyrite realized how deeply furrowed her brow must have been as Sphene began to cite statistics they were both fully, painfully aware of. Galena wasn’t just taking a risk in choosing not to wear the regulator and continuing to operate in the field; it was downright recklessness. But it was still his choice, and Sphene knew this.

Both took a beat to release their tension, the queen adjusting herself to face her host fully, her smile apologetic. Pyrite obliged her with a tired smile of her own.

“I’m sorry,” Sphene laughs, pained but earnest.

Pyrite forgives her with a shake of her head. “You care for him. Couldn’t possibly be cross with Her Majesty for worrying over her subjects’ well being.”

“I do care for him, just as I care for you, Pyrite,” the queen agrees quietly. “Queen or not, you are dear friends to me, and I would do anything within my power to make your lives as happy and fulfilling as I can, even if that means merely providing a listening ear. So please, know that if there is anything you would like to talk about—anything at all—you may confide in me as you would any other.”

Her plea is honest, heartfelt. Pyrite knows well that the queen’s word is her bond, even as she smiles cooly. “I appreciate it, Queen Sphene. Truly, I do,” Pyrite tells her. A part of her doesn’t lie. “Might be I’ll take you up on that someday.” Both know, of course, that the offer would remain on the table. Untouched.

Sphene’s smile wanes, gladdened, but plainly disappointed. She seemed to recognize the appropriate time to leave her host to her thoughts, and rises to her feet. Pyrite follows suit.

“I shan’t press. Ever have you kept your counsel, and to ask it of you now may well be brazen indulgence, I fear. I ask no more of you except that you forgive me if I’ve overstepped.” Sphene’s expression wanes pleasantly apologetic before she takes a determined step towards the door with Pyrite close behind.

With the press of the door panel and the hiss of hidden hydraulics, the sound of conversation down the hallway fills the silence once again. Pyrite soaks in the relief of nearly having her privacy once again, until Sphene’s hand catches the door.

She turns, her voice lowering. “If I may be brazen once more, might I prevail upon you to ask Galena if he would reconsider the use of a regulator? I wouldn’t presume to disrespect his choice but…” It’s she that bites her lip this time. “It would break my heart to learn that tragedy had struck and I was powerless to keep his memory safe.”

Pyrite blinks, unmoving. It takes a moment for her to remember to offer some sort of condolence in the form of a nod and a smile. “I’ll talk to him, Queen Sphene,” she promised. She did not promise the content of that conversation, but Sphene smiled gratefully nonetheless.

“That is all I ask. Thank you, Pyrite. Be well.”

Pyrite watches her depart, motes of refracted light following her across the floor as she is excitedly flagged down by the small group conversing down the hallway, eager to catch up with the young queen. She pushes off the door and closes it, breathing in the silence.

But a few steps to her terminal to check on the progress of the repairs, and she is unsurprised to see it report failure to repair yet again. The error code is frustratingly familiar. 

Unable to repair. Error code: ORIG-0053

But perhaps it wasn’t a dead end. She taps at the display, punching the code into the database for a workaround or some other solution—bootleg or otherwise. She couldn’t have been the first to attempt this.

Instead of solutions, however, she is greeted by a message.

Please, do not despair. Your precious memories are held in the Cloud for safekeeping until such time as you are ready to reunite with them. Until then, I ask only for your patience. All will be well.

The terminal is slapped closed again, and Pyrite silently seethes for reasons she doesn’t quite understand. There must be others who went looking and shook with silent rage for all the answers that seemed to slip through their fingers. There must be.

She just had to find them.

[homoeroticjunoincident]

I didn't even think about the 'he's a bird' thing I just thought it was funny 😭 /silly

I like to think the others know damn well he's not a bird and still treats him like it. Does hearty want a cracker. Say "sock"

yeah pyrite this idea is so cool and funny and it has no bad implications whatsoever especially whenever you think about how i characterize hms [gets on the floor and begins screaming at the top of my lungs]

(they already dehumanize heart enough as it is. that's so evil. that's dehumanizing him and infantilizing him at the same time and also they're acting like it's a joke so if he ever does ANYTHING about it they can paint him as unreasonable. well honestly i presume only mind would do it because for some reason this doesn't read as soul's type of shit. i don't think soul would get enrichment from this. he has no reason to silently irritate heart, there is nothing he gains from heart's anger, it isn't his goal. if he wants to make heart feel bad he'll do it in a way he enjoys not by being ridiculous. so like. this is the type of thing mind would do to purposely provoke heart so he looks like the victim in the situation. idk if soul would take the bait or realize but it's sucks either way. like the exact mix of horrid feelings heart would get the moment he heard that and the way mind would cover his hand so heart doesn't see his mocking smile. also how long would it take for heart to give into the provocation. how long would it take to give up. i have this specific picture of mind pressing a cracker into heart's mouth and heart wondering if the only way mind wants to interact with him is if it's at his expense. if it's a game that he cannot win.)

[ladyiristheenchantress]

Crystals and Salt

Hello! I have recently had a lot of people ask me about salt, crystals, cleansing, and damage, so I wanted to quickly make a post about it! I felt like this information could be helpful for my crystal friends!

First: What is salt cleansing? Where does it come from?

Salt cleansing is the process of using salt too energetically remove negativity or spiritual damage from a crystal while also boosting its own natural energy. Often times this process is simple, lay your crystal in a bed of salt and let it rest and recharge for 15-30 minutes. This historically comes from Mesopotamia when people would dress food products or clean themselves they used salt because of its anti-bacterial properties and it was said to protect from negative spirits. We also know that every culture on the planet had spiritual interactions with salt, like the Kalahari salt ritual where salt is considered sacred because it dries and stores food in travel. Salt rituals can be found in native folklore as well as in new age spaces for its protective and purifying abilities. Scientifically salt has been used to cure, dry, and preserve food and items like flowers for millennia, it also has been used as a saline solution when people are injured because of its antimicrobial properties, hence its associations through time!

What crystals cant go in salt?

While yes, I could start with crystals that are salt safe HOWEVER I feel like we are oversaturated with that information as most crystals are salt safe, I wanted to really explain what crystals cant go into salt, why, and what exactly happens. This is the pressing question that inspired this post, while a lot of crystals can go in salt, there are plenty that cannot! This is because salt is not only abrasive and can damage some soft crystals, but it also can lead to chemical reactions on some of them, so below is a list of guidelines and basic crystals that do not belong in salt.

Any crystal under 7 on the Mohs Hardness scale do not belong in salt beds or salt water. This is because it not only can scratch these stones, however you have a higher chance for reactivity in some of these raw crystals.

Example stones:

Jasper (cracks and breaks)

Fluorite (scratches, cracks, and disintegrates)

Rhodonite (Scratches, chemically reacts)

Bloodstone (Disintegrates)

Malachite (Breaks apart)

Sodalite (Discolors, cracks)

Moonstone (Debatable, experts are torn, better not to risk it)

Calcite (Scratches, some possibly react)

Selenite (Scratches, Disintegrates)

Kyanite (Disintegrates)

Apatite (Disintegrates)

Celestite (Breaks, Disintegrates)

Alabaster (Disintegrates, breaks)

Amber (Deforms, breaks)

Angelite (Disintegrates)

Azurite (Disfigures, Disintegrates)

Hematite (Discolors, possible reactions)

Jet (Disintegrates)

There are many others ranging from opal to pyrite, so here are some general rules of thumb to follow

If it end in -ite chances are it is not salt safe

If its under 7 in hardness its best to triple check if its safe

if it is raw triple check it wont react with salt

If its glittery (example: amazonite) it looses luster in salt

If its reactive to water, salt attracts moisture in the air, you need to triple-check (ex: angelite)

anything reactive to basic solutions (salt water has a PH of 8.1 which is quite basic)

I hope this helps! I know this is not a perfect list, or even a perfect post, but I hope this helps some people along on their researching journey!

Resources:

https://www.rockcollage.com/single-post/crystals-that-get-damaged-by-salt https://www.allcrystal.com/articles/list-of-crystals-that-can-go-in-salt/ https://moonsoulmagic.com/crystals/are-my-crystals-safe-in-water-or-salt/ https://writeralpha.com/gemstone/salt-safe-crystals

Tip Jar

[lordofmelancholy]

Arcane: Silent Frontiers: Golden Zaun Cogs

Golden Zaun Cogs or simply either Golden Cogs Zaun Cogs or Cog Coins are specific valuable items that can be used to purchase unique or special ingredients or incredibly difficult to obtain items. They are very rare and as such many vendors who use them as currency often sell rare/special items.

Lore wise, Golden Zaun Cogs are a series of incredibly rare antique "coins" originally used by Miners back in the day as a way to alleviate financial burdens brought on by poverty and economic instability by creating an alternative to cash. While not a true replacement for money, these coins became very popular. They were almost exclusively made of Pyrite or pieces of silver or any other form of soft metal often deemed "undesirable" for sale, and were then pressed into a roundish shape, then stamped with certain marks.

Many of these forms of currency are called "Cogs" because much like a cog, these coins were designed to have raised "gear" designs on both of its faces, a hole in the center, and cuts that divide the coin in quadrants, similar to that of a machine cog. 

Finding this currency is not easy and sometimes it will come down simply to pure luck, but there ways to attempt to Farm for these Cogs.  Finding cogs in game is hard-work and relies entirely on RNG. Becoming the equivalent of treasure hunting and archeology, Cogs can be found in dig-sites located in caves on rare-occasions. Certain mutant attacks that involve hitting the ground may also have a chance of digging up some Cog Coins. This method, however, is extremely RNG-dependent and can take a while before you get a hefty amount of the currency. 

Two specific mutants may also have the chance to drop cogs upon death. Gorgers and Glutton's are ravenous eaters who can often be found scavenging for food on a near constant basis. However their habit of eating anything also tends to make them reliable farming candidates, as they will often drop additional items outside of their normal inventory upon death, such as rope, bombs, fuel, raw materials, weapons, armors, 

And can often include Cogs which they might have eaten. However, it is more reliable to farm Gluttons rather then Gorgers, as their immense size comes in handy. Gluttons are slower, though they are tanky. But their size allows them a larger inventory pool. Meaning if there is a chance for them to drop an item, Gluttons may drop more the Gorgers. A typical Gorger may drop 1-3 items for every one killed, but Gluttons may drop 4-8 allowing them a much larger chance pool to drop coins, despite how much harder they are to kill. 

On EXTREMELY rare occasions, you may also have the chance to buy Cog Coins from certain traders. This however is also RNG-based as shop items rotate often, so make sure to check in with all the traders to see if they have any in their stock. Fair noting however this method is also a bank-drainer, as traders selling them will not give them up so easily and as a result may charge a hefty sum for them. Once found however, they can be traded with two specific vendors who will allow the player to enhance their armor and weapons with Legendary Attachments.

Legendary Attachments are effects that enhance the abilities provided by weapons and armor by providing stat bonuses or special effects that trigger during combat not found on non-Legendary weapons and armor. These weapons and armor can prove to be very strong. So as a result, you will generally need Cog Coins during the later harder sections of the game, mainly to trade for certain coveted items that you might need. In fact certain weapons might also not be obtainable until you unlock the ability to use the coin's, which can only happen if you find the Vendors. Once you have enough of the Coins, you can bring them to traders and trade them for rare items.

Keep in mind however that the resources on offer are on a rotation. As a result, you might not always find what you need. Nevertheless, keep revisiting them to refresh the list of items. Make sure however to bring enough as the rarer the time, the more a vendor will charge you and some can be a hefty price. Only buy the ones that you deem necessary and are otherwise hard to obtain.

[askthehiddencaste]

==> Sallom:Hatch

its finally time!! Avonis belongs to @memurfevur and I thank him so so so much for allowing me to write a drabble with such a wonderful character!!

too tight.....want to stretch The room was dark in the corner Shuska had left her grubs cocoon. The darkness compounded inside the silken cage that housed the pyrite blood. Little arms pressed against the silk he had spun so carefully to keep himself warm. need space! Need air! With every bit of energy he could muster, Sallom managed to tear a crack in his coon. Fresh air came trickling into the darkness and causing him to gasp thankfully for the cold that evaded his warm space. A thought dawned on his sleepy little mind. Cold....Mama....cold * * * * *

"Shuska darling~ I'm home! You wont believe the specimen I found for our collection!" Avonis stepped into the apartment he shared with his matesprit and family, a bright smile on his lips as he sat his prize on the dining room table. "Shuska? Are you in here?" the jade searched their apartment, finding that everyone was out doing their own things. "Guess I'll have to show her later" he sighed to himself, wandering back towards the living room. papa? hear papa? Sallom whined, unsure on how to use the new form of his mouth quite yet. The sound was quiet, muffled, but keen senses were a gift that a jade would have even without turning like he did. With a quick little chirp of his ears, Avonis stared at the closed door he had stopped near. Was it finally time? "Sallom, are you awake?" he crooned in a soft tone. The answering cry was almost instantaneous. It had been a while since he had done hatch duty in his old caverns, but the familiar knowledge was there when he called for it. "It's alright, I'm right here little one" he crooned, stepping into the room and quickly gathering what he needed and making his way to where the cocoon was settled. "Come on, I can see those little fingers, you can do it." Sallom heard his voice, louder now, and was filled with determination to be freed from his self imposed prison. A pitiful cry escaped his little form. This was more effort than he thought he would need, but his papa was right there! It felt like hours to him as the little troll fought his way from his coon, though through it all, Avonis kept up his patient encouragement. "You're almost there little one, come on just a little more!" So....tired.... Sallom had split the coon enough to reach his little arm out and groped for something, anything that could help. Avonis gave a proud little smile when the finger he had offered had a little hand wrapped around it and holding tight. Through the cracked cocoon he could see a bright grey eye and his heart gave a pained squeeze. The last time he had seen such a fresh little face it had been his own. Another pang, this one of guilt for the past, was coupled with a new wave of pride and hope. He had another chance to help them grow up. To help a troll he considered his own to grow and learn even if they didn't have his blood running through their veins. Sallom fought against the coon and finally managed to pull himself free, taking his first deep breath as not a grub, but a troll born anew upon the planet that he would learn to fear and fight. He let out a wail, a natural response to the sudden rush and shock of cold after the warmth he had kept himself at for so long. "Shhh, It's alright" Avonis couldn't help but smile as he bundled him in a towel, wiping stray bits of hair and silk from the pyrites face. "Welcome to the world Sallom" he hummed, holding the babe close. "Welcome home my sweet boy"

[polyhexian]

eventually au - idea of a soft moment that's been rotating in my head all day:

Hunter wakes up in his room at Jasper's place at like 4AM from a bad dream - not the wake-up-screaming kind, just the familiar-but-upsetting, relieved-when-you-realize-it-was-just-a-dream kind that leaves you feeling crappy cuz this isn't how you wanted to start your day but you know you aren't gonna be able to go back to sleep after that. So he gets up and heads to the kitchen where Jasper is already up earlier than he should be for probably the same reason, making tea or coffee or something.

And like, they don't even have to say anything, cuz they just Get It. And sure, it sucks, but they're both so used to it sucking that they don't even need to think about how much it sucks, they can just enjoy the fact that it's nice that the other one's there and they don't have to Talk About It. Jasper just pulls out another mug and after the drinks are ready they go sit outside - I imagine Jasper's cave would not have had an obvious entrance or anything while he was still playing dead, but maybe by this point it does, maybe they spent a weekend building a patio together for fun, and there's flowerpots full of plants that Willow's left around.

So they sit outside together. Flapjack's with them, and maybe Pyrite too by now. And maybe Hunter leans into Jasper's side, and maybe Jasper puts an arm around Hunter (but not on his shoulders, not like Belos would), and maybe Hunter feels his dad press a kiss to the crown of his head. And they just sit there together in silence and sip their drinks and watch the stars turn to sunrise.

Op I'm going to throw up I love this so much. Soft................

[fake-guns-blazing]

reasonable: i didn’t like this album. it feels overproduced and sort of sterile, like it’s missing the grit that i’m used to hearing from this artist. the lyrics were lacking in complexity, and as someone who likes to analyze the meaning of songs, that was disappointing to me

batshit insane: hi, i’m joey bastardino, the united states east coast’s premier self-declared authority on what constitutes real music. while i could very well have exercised my sardonic wit and affinity for simile and metaphor to produce the next catch-22, i realized last night as i flagged down the baby-faced bartender at a dingy dive that reeked of pitch and unrealized aspirations and pressed him to prepare me a drink with a story behind it that what the world really needed was another contentious critique of a recent musical effort that placated the parochial palate, but could only ever fail to satisfy me.

to press "play" on [x artist's] latest LP is to strike fool's gold. drawn in by its metallic luster, the listener's sensibilities are roused by the album's opening track, a softly glittering glimpse of what promises to be an extraordinary discovery. even i, ever the cynic, was initally deceived—but the shimmering façade quickly begins to collapse, and any momentum generated by [x artist's] desperate cry for attention disguised as music is lost as the third track grinds to a screeching halt. while the average listener mindlessly folds his hands and waits in hopes that the train will start again, the conscious thinker starts searching for a way out of the tunnel.

[x artist's] frontman posted on social media on the eve of the album's release, waxing poetic about the process of creating this dreadful disasterpiece and puzzlingly professing himself to be proud of it. "please, show us some love," he implored anyone who might listen, and his brainwashed mob of snot-nosed brats delivered in astounding volume. within the first week of its release, the album sold nearly two million copies around the globe and climbed to the top of numerous charts, infiltrating the musical ecosystem like an invasive species and choking out the native flora and fauna. is this what we, as a culture, have come to celebrate? have millions of people come to accept these "gifts" of flaking, tarnished pyrite passed off as real gold, nose-blind to the stench of sulfur? as i peruse the photos from my weekend sailing excursion, searching for the perfect few to post on facebook, i realize i may never understand these brutish modern minds: i can only endeavor to remind them, perhaps in vain, that not all that glitters is gold.

Next up | 10 min read A Look at the Charts: Whose Top 40 Is This?!

[solsearchingnights]

5 or 8

-Pyrite

Py, my beloved, have some Scausage from a pirates thing that is permanently growing like mold in my walls!

Rule #27 - Drunk on Pride (Fish in a Birdcage, Philip Bowen)

Number 8

Sausage kissed the skin beneath him reverently, moving down soft curves and whispering praises over old scars. Tension from his lover hummed through taut muscles and forcibly evened breaths. Sausage hummed and traced his tongue over a rough line, a memory of a tiger’s ferocity. “Trust me, cosa preciosa. I have you.”

“I do. I trust you.” The Heron’s voice was even, composed.

Sausage couldn’t have that. “Turn over. Show me your back.” He sat up and offered supporting hands to roll Scott onto his stomach. “There we go.”

Scott shuddered under fingers trailing down his spine.

“Pretty thing, look at those bruises.” Heat built in his core as Sausage danced his touch over black and blue piebald marks. “Been playing around with your food? Letting the monsters get a few hits in before you run them through?” He pressed down, so lightly it was more of a suggestion of pressure. “Or are these just for me?”

The breath pacing from Scott’s lungs was suddenly much less steady. “Fell off a boulder. The gators cushioned the fall.” He hissed as Sausage pressed harder into the tender flesh before pulling away. “But I’m glad you appreciate the toys.”

A rumbling chuckle accompanied Sausage’s jingling buckles and clasps as he undressed. “And to think, I went through all the trouble of bringing my own.” He glanced at the side table, knowing Scott’s eyes would be on the inks as well. “I suppose we don’t need to–”

“Please!” Scott pushed up, turning with wide eyes to beg at Sausage. “You promised.”

“I did.” His pants remained, but otherwise, Sausage towered bare over his lover. “And I always keep my promises, don’t I?” He reached a hand out, gently but firmly gripping red hair and smirking at the small gasp that earned from Scott. “What are your words?”

Slowly, Scott eased himself back down, crossing his arms under his head. “Roses to slow down. Ruby to stop.”

“Good.” He scratched at the Heron’s scalp. “And if you can’t talk?” They’d gone through a lot to get Scott to agree to safewords. Sausage was going to make sure they could be used.

The mattress bounced as Scott kicked his feet; three rapid thumps against the sheets.

“Very good.” He tugged red hair, just enough to draw a groan from Scott and pull his head up for a stolen kiss. “May I begin?” He whispered against soft lips.

“Please.” Scott let his head go heavy, pulling himself free of Sausage’s hand. 

Sausage traced the lines across his Heron’s back, the ones he and Scar had laid down weeks ago. A sketch of grey ink and lines drawn of red and brown. “Our treasure. Everyone will know you’re ours.” He dragged a nail through the image, teasing a bruise with his other hand to begin the process of drowning Scott in sensation.

Scott hummed, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good boy. Let’s begin.”