#Cathedral Convict

[mitigatingchaos]

On Convictions

German poet Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)  was once asked why men no longer build great cathedrals. He replied: “People in those old times had convictions; we moderns only have opinions. And it needs more than a mere opinion to erect a Gothic cathedral.” *** In the century and a half since, it has only gotten worse. We are a society of opinions, without the convictions to take any action.   Quote…

[sunandflame]

Hiii, as a super fan of Mihawk thank you for your blog, I can't get enough of his content from you

I was listening to "hoist the colours" and it popped in my mind a scenario with Mihawk so I thought I could ask you for a request:

Mihawk with a reader who comes from high born family and who is forced into an engagement for an arranged marriage, but before the wedding they manage to run away with Mihawk beacuse he kinda interrupt the wedding

Sorry if it's weird ask😅

Hoist the Colours

Word Count: 722

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk x Reader

crossposted on AO3

The chapel was heavy with silence, the kind that pressed against your ribs. You barely felt the velvet gown clinging to your skin. The officiant’s voice was a muffled echo in your ears—because your mind was somewhere else. Or rather, with someone else.

You had spent months suffocating in lace and diplomacy, nodding politely, playing the role of the obedient daughter of nobility. But in secret… your heart had already sworn itself to another. A swordsman who once stopped to rest near your family estate. A man who looked at you as though you were not porcelain, but flame.

And you—burned for him in return.

The priest’s voice droned, "…do you take this man—"

Then the great cathedral doors slammed open.

A gust of sea wind cut through the aisle. Gasps rang out. Your groom turned in anger—but you didn’t. You knew that presence.

There he stood.

Dracule Mihawk.

His coat whipped around him like wings. Yellow eyes locked onto yours, sharp and searing with intent. A sword at his back, boots echoing against the marble floor as he walked forward with no urgency—just certainty.

The guards moved.

They never reached him.

A single flick of his wrist sent them scattering. The ceremony descended into chaos, but you? You could breathe again.

He reached the altar and offered you his gloved hand, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re not marrying him.” His voice was calm, deep as thunder.

Your heart pounded like cannon fire. You looked at your family—your groom—but none of them mattered anymore. Not when freedom stood right in front of you, cloaked in black and lined with danger.

You placed your hand in his.

And you ran.

The ocean stretched out like a sheet of silver beneath the moonlight, silent except for the gentle lapping of waves against the hull. You stood at the railing of the small ship Mihawk had prepared—anchored far beyond the reach of the city lights that once defined your life.

The wind tugged at your hair, salt stung your lips, but all of it tasted like freedom. And yet, now that the chaos had passed, your heart trembled—not with fear, but with the weight of what you'd done.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him. Always calm, always quiet. Mihawk emerged from below deck, his long coat catching the breeze as he approached. His gaze found you immediately.

“You’re cold.”

He didn’t ask. He just knew. You barely managed a nod before he unclasped his coat and wrapped it around your shoulders. It smelled like wind, steel, and the faintest hint of crushed grapes—wine and earth.

You clutched it tighter around yourself, not daring to meet his eyes.

“I left everything behind.” Your voice was soft, raw. “My title, my family... my name, maybe.”

A silence stretched between you. The kind he was always comfortable in. But then—

“None of that was ever yours to begin with.”

You looked up at him.

Mihawk’s gaze was steady, the candle of conviction behind his yellow eyes unwavering. “You were never meant to be theirs. Not caged. Not silenced.” A pause. Then softer, “I knew it the moment I saw you, trying to smile through a dinner party that bored you to death.”

That earned a shaky laugh from you. “You were watching me?”

He didn’t smile—but something flickered behind his expression. Amusement, maybe. Or fondness.

“You looked like a wild thing forced into silk.”

Your laugh faded into silence, and then you whispered, “So what now?”

Another wind passed. Mihawk leaned his back against the rail beside you, gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Now, you decide who you are. No more masquerades. No more crowns. You live on your terms.”

A long breath left you, carried out to sea. The stars reflected in the water, and for the first time, you weren’t looking toward a future dictated by others. You were looking at your horizon.

“And you?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He turned his head slowly, golden eyes meeting yours with quiet fire.

“I took you from that altar. I’m not giving you back.”

The coat slipped from your shoulders as you leaned in, heart full to bursting with everything you’d kept buried for too long. And when his gloved hand lifted to cup your cheek, you realized—

The ocean wasn’t freedom.

He was.

[cera-writes]

Remy and reader on their wedding day and night. Fluff and smut please? 😗😗😗😗😗😗

A/N: I like the way you think 🥰🥰🥰 Pairing: F!Reader x Remy "Gambit" LeBeau Tags: fluff, nfsw, sweet sweet smut

"I Do."

The air crackled with nervous anticipation, a fizzing current that danced along your spine. Sunlight streamed through the ornate French doors, casting a warm glow across the sprawling gardens of the St Louis Cathedral. It was the day. You were marrying Remy LeBeau.

A shiver, not entirely from the air-conditioned coolness of the room, rippled through you. You glanced at yourself in the antique mirror, the handcrafted lace of your wedding dress whispering against your skin. It was a vision of elegance, a stark contrast to the life you once knew. But then, so was everything about Remy.

A soft rap at the door startled you. "Come in," you called, your voice barely above a whisper.

The door creaked open, revealing Remy. He looked impossibly handsome in his tailored black suit, a crimson rosebud pinned to his lapel. His eyes, red as garnet and black as night, held a familiar warmth that sent a familiar flutter to your heart.

For a moment, you could only stare at him, speechless. He took a hesitant step forward, a sheepish grin breaking across his face. "Well, mon cheri," he drawled, his voice a barely above a caress, "you look like you swallowed a canary."

You swatted him playfully on the arm, a laugh bubbling up from your chest. "That's the most eloquent compliment I've ever gotten from a thief."

Remy chuckled, the sound rich and deep. "Only for you, cherie. Only for you." He reached out, his hand hovering over yours. "Are you ready?"

You squeezed his hand, the nervous energy dissipating into a calm certainty. "As I'll ever be."

Remy's smile softened. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Then let's go steal the show, shall we?"

The walk down the aisle was a blur. Arms linked with Remy's, you felt a thousand eyes on you, yet all that mattered was the man beside you. You glanced over at the X-Men, your friends over the years as they smiled at the two of you. Morph was bawling, tears streaming down their eyes. Even some of Remy's old Guild acquaintances had shown up and made an appearance. Remy squeezed your hand reassuringly as you reached the altar, a silent promise exchanged in a single touch.

The ceremony was beautiful, a tasteful blend of your traditions and Remy's heritage. When it came time for the vows, Remy's voice, usually smooth as butter, trembled slightly. His words, though, were heartfelt, a testament to the love that had bloomed from the most unexpected of places.

Yours were no less heartfelt, spoken with a conviction that surprised even yourself. You pledged your love, your loyalty, your entire chaotic, beautiful life to this charming thief who had stolen your heart.

You both said without a single doubt in your words, "I do," at last.

As your longtime friend Kurt Wagner declared you husband and wife, Remy took your face in his hands, his gaze intense. The kiss that followed was filled with a lifetime of unspoken emotions, a promise whispered on stolen breaths.

The reception was a whirlwind of laughter, music, and dancing. Remy, ever the charmer, regaled your friends and family with tales of your adventures, your first time ever have met each other, each embellished for maximum effect. You watched him, a smile permanently plastered on your face, your heart overflowing with a happiness you never thought possible.

Later that night, as you stood on the balcony overlooking the moonlit gardens, Remy wrapped his arms around you from behind. "So," he murmured, his voice husky, "Mrs. LeBeau. How does it feel?"

You leaned back against him, a contented sigh escaping your lips. "Like coming home, Remy. Like I finally belong."

He nuzzled your neck, his lips sending shivers down your spine. "Then welcome home, cherie. Welcome home."

As you gazed out at the star-dusted sky, hand in hand with the man you loved, you knew this was just the beginning of your grand adventure. A life together, filled with laughter, love, and perhaps the occasional heist, was a future you wouldn't trade for anything in the world.

But the night didn't stop there. Your Honeymoon awaited as Remy carried you bridal style back through the threshold.

Remy had managed to secure a beautiful hotel nestled in the heart of the French Quarter.

A slow smile spread across his face as he sat you down inside the French Chateau. He cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. "Let's get you out of this dress, shall we?"

His touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine. You nodded, a silent agreement hanging heavy in the air. He helped you remove the dress, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours.

When you stood before him in nothing but your lingerie, the air crackled with unspoken desire and undeniable lust. He took a step back, his eyes roaming over your body, a mixture of possessiveness and reverence in his gaze.

"Ma Belle, you are absolutely stunning," he breathed, his voice thick with desire, his accent thickening.

You stepped closer, bridging the gap between you. You reached out, your fingers tracing the planes of his chest. His muscles tensed beneath your touch, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it was replaced by a hungry glint in his eyes.

He captured your lips in a kiss, deep and demanding. It was a kiss that spoke of unspoken promises, of a lifetime of passion waiting to be explored. You surrendered to him completely, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the feel of his strong arms wrapped around you.

You then pushed Remy down onto the plush bed adorned with red rose petals. He smirked devilishly, eyes never leaving yours as he beckoned you closer.

The night stretched before you, filled with stolen moments and whispered endearments. Remy was everything you'd ever dreamt of and more - tender and passionate, playful and protective. He explored your body with a reverence that left you breathless, his touch igniting a fire within you.

"Oh gods, Remy! Don't stop, please..." you begged breathlessly as he took you inch by inch, rough and hard, needy and desperate. "F-fuck chere! T-tu te sens si b-bien," he stammered, breaths coming out in short pants. You were both reaching new heights of ecstasy with each other.

You'd made it a point early on in your relationship that if he wanted you, he'd have to bed you properly on your wedding night as traditional and outdated as that sounded. You were tired of having your heart played with in the past. But here he was now, worshipping your body like a long forgotten art. Funny how life turned out for the both of you.

As the night wore on, the initial urgency gave way to a slow, sensual exploration. Remy was thrusting into you in slow deliberate thrusts. Your body fit him like a glove. "Just like that baby, god I love you, Remy...my cajun man," you kissed his lips as he made love to you.

He smiled, half proud and half completely enamored with how you were making him feel.

You learned each other's bodies in a new way, the pleasure building with each touch, each kiss.

Finally, sated and breathless, you lay curled up in his arms, the moonlight painting silver streaks across your entwined forms.

"I love you, Remy," you whispered once more, as if never getting tired of those three words, your voice thick with sleep.

He nuzzled your hair, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Je t'aime, mon cœur," he murmured. "Plus que les mots ne peuvent le dire."

You drifted off to sleep, the feeling of his love a warm blanket wrapped around you, the promise of a lifetime together a sweet dream on your lips.

You were his and he was yours.

Pour Toujours.

[letterful]

Romanticism is the primitive, the untutored, it is youth, life, the exuberant sense of life of the natural man, but it is also pallor, fever, disease, decadence, the maladie de siècle, La Belle Dame Sans Merci, the Dance of Death, indeed Death itself. It is Shelley's dome of many-coloured glass, and it is also his white radiance of eternity. It is the confused teeming fullness and richness of life, Fülle des Lebens, inexhaustible multiplicity, turbulence, violence, conflict, chaos, but also it is peace, oneness with the great `I Am', harmony with the natural order, the music of the spheres, dissolution in the eternal all-containing spirit. It is the strange, the exotic, the grotesque, the mysterious, the supernatural, ruins, moonlight, enchanted castles, hunting horns, elves, giants, griffins, falling water, the old mill on the Floss, darkness and the powers of darkness, phantoms, vampires, nameless terror, the irrational, the unutterable.

Also it is the familiar, the sense of one's unique tradition, joy in the smiling aspect of everyday nature, and the accustomed sights and sounds of contented, simple, rural folk — the sane and happy wisdom of rosy-checked sons of the soil. It is the ancient, the historic, it is Gothic cathedrals, mists of antiquity, ancient roots and the old order with its unanalysable qualities, its profound but inexpressible loyalties, the impalpable, the imponderable.

Also it is the pursuit of novelty, revolutionary change, concern with the fleeting present, desire to live in the moment, rejection of knowledge, past and future, the pastoral idyll of happy innocence, joy in the passing instant, a sense of timelessness. It is nostalgia, it is reverie, it is intoxicating dreams, it is sweet melancholy and bitter melancholy, solitude, the sufferings of exile, the sense of alienation, roaming in remote places, especially the East, and in remote times, especially the Middle Ages.

But also it is happy co-operation in a common creative effort, the sense of forming part of a Church, a class, a party, a tradition, a great and all-containing symmetrical hierarchy, knights and retainers, the ranks of the Church, organic social ties, mystic unity, one faith, one land, one blood, `la terre et les morts', as Barrès said, the great society of the dead and the living and the yet unborn. It is the Toryism of Scott and Southey and Wordsworth, and it is the radicalism of Shelley, Büchner and Stendhal. It is Chateaubriand's aesthetic medievalism, and it is Michelet's loathing of the Middle Ages. It is Carlyle's worship of authority, and Hugo's hatred of authority. It is extreme nature mysticism, and extreme anti-naturalist aestheticism. It is energy, force, will, youth, life, étalage du moi; it is also self-torture, self-annihilation, suicide. It is the primitive, the unsophisticated, the bosom of nature, green fields, cow-bells, murmuring brooks, the infinite blue sky.

No less, however, it is also dandyism, the desire to dress up, red waistcoats, green wigs, blue hair, which the followers of people like Gérard de Nerval wore in Paris at a certain period. It is the lobster which Nerval led about on a string in the streets of Paris. It is wild exhibitionism, eccentricity, it is the battle of Ernani, it is ennui, it is taedium vitae, it is the death of Sardanopolis, whether painted by Delacroix, or written about by Berlioz or Byron. It is the convulsion of great empires, wars, slaughter and the crashing of worlds. It is the romantic hero — the rebel, l'homme fatale, the damned soul, the Corsairs, Manfreds, Giaours, Laras, Cains, all the population of Byron's heroic poems. It is Melmoth, it is Jean Sbogar, all the outcasts and Ishmaels as well as the golden-hearted courtesans and the noble-hearted convicts of nineteenth-century fiction. It is drinking out of the human skull, it is Berlioz who said he wanted to climb Vesuvius in order to commune with a kindred soul. It is Satanic revels, cynical irony, diabolical laughter, black heroes, but also Blake's vision of God and his angels, the great Christian society, the eternal order, and `the starry heavens which can scarce express the infinite and eternal of the Christian soul'.

It is, in short, unity and multiplicity. It is fidelity to the particular, in the paintings of nature for example, and also mysterious tantalising vagueness of outline. It is beauty and ugliness. It is art for art's sake, and art as an instrument of social salvation. It is strength and weakness, individualism and collectivism, purity and corruption, revolution and reaction, peace and war, love of life and love of death.

— from Isaiah Berlin's The Roots of Romanticism.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some French Loans in Middle English

Loan Word - vocabulary borrowings

Borrow - to introduce a word (or some other linguistic feature) from one language or dialect into another

Administration authority, bailiff, baron, chamberlain, chancellor, constable, coroner, council, court, crown, duke, empire, exchequer, government, liberty, majesty, manor, mayor, messenger, minister, noble, palace, parliament, peasant, prince, realm, reign, revenue, royal, servant, sir, sovereign, squire, statute, tax, traitor, treason, treasurer, treaty, tyrant, vassal, warden

Law accuse, adultery, advocate, arrest, arson, assault, assize, attorney, bail, bar, blame, chattels, convict, crime, decree, depose, estate, evidence, executor, felon, fine, fraud, heir, indictment, inquest, jail, judge, jury, justice, larceny, legacy, libel, pardon, perjury, plaintiff, plea, prison, punishment, sue, summons, trespass, verdict, warrant

Religion abbey, anoint, baptism, cardinal, cathedral, chant, chaplain, charity, clergy, communion, confess, convent, creator, crucifix, divine, faith, friar, heresy, homily, immortality, incense, mercy, miracle, novice, ordain, parson, penance, prayer, prelate, priory, religion, repent, sacrament, sacrilege, saint, salvation, saviour, schism, sermon, solemn, temptation, theology, trinity, vicar, virgin, virtue

Military ambush, archer, army, barbican, battle, besiege, captain, combat, defend, enemy, garrison, guard, hauberk, lance, lieutenant, moat, navy, peace, portcullis, retreat, sergeant, siege, soldier, spy, vanquish

Food and drink appetite, bacon, beef, biscuit, clove, confection, cream, cruet, date, dinner, feast, fig, fruit, fry, grape, gravy, gruel, herb, jelly, lemon, lettuce, mackerel, mince, mustard, mutton, olive, orange, oyster, pigeon, plate, pork, poultry, raisin, repast, roast, salad, salmon, sardine, saucer, sausage, sole, spice, stew, sturgeon, sugar, supper, tart, taste, toast, treacle, tripe, veal, venison, vinegar

Fashion apparel, attire, boots, brooch, buckle, button, cape, chemise, cloak, collar, diamond, dress, embroidery, emerald, ermine, fashion, frock, fur, garment, garter, gown, jewel, lace, mitten, ornament, pearl, petticoat, pleat, robe, satin, taffeta, tassel, train, veil, wardrobe

part 1/2 ⚜ Source ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Notes & References

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 3: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~The First Comfort~

The hot flush of mortification was instantaneous. The full, unnerving weight of his ancient, starlit gaze was on her, and she felt like a child caught screaming obscenities in a cathedral.

“Oh,” she stammered, the sound loud in the enclosed space. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, god. I… I’m so sorry. About all that. The language, I just…”

She trailed off as the second, deeper wave of shame washed over her. It wasn’t just the swearing. It was the sheer audacity of her complaining at all.

“I mean,” she continued, her voice dropping, thick with genuine remorse, “I’ve been in here for less than an hour, and I’m already falling apart, just… ranting. And you…” She looked at his still form, at the pale skin and the gaunt set of his shoulders, and the true scale of his suffering hit her with the force of a physical blow. “You’ve been in here for a decade.”

Her gaze met his, and this time, her apology was not for her language but for her profound lack of perspective. “That was incredibly insensitive of me. I am so, so sorry.”

She shook her head, her own predicament momentarily forgotten in the face of his. “This is inhumane,” she whispered, her voice gaining a quiet strength born of pure conviction. “I can’t understand how someone could trap… anyone. A human, a being, it doesn’t matter. To do this to another living thing…”

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, not of fear, but of a profound empathy. “To be caged, to be silenced, to be stared at… I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.” Her voice dropped even lower, filled with a horror that came from the deepest part of her. “I wouldn’t wish this on my worst nightmare.”

As the final word left her lips, a minuscule, almost imperceptible change occurred. A single muscle in his brow, just above his right eye, twitched. It was a fleeting, involuntary spasm, so subtle that had she blinked, she would have missed it. But she didn’t. She saw it.

It was a reaction not to a threat, or a demand, but to her interesting choice of words. For the first time since she had been thrown into the globe, the silence that followed felt less like an absence of sound and more like a shared space, filled with the weight of her declaration and his silent, telling acknowledgment.

The silence that followed her declaration was profound. Nora’s gaze, which had been locked on his face, now drifted downward, and for the first time, the full reality of his humiliation struck her with a fresh, jarring wave of shame—not for her, but for him. It was one thing to know he was unclothed, another to truly see the stark vulnerability of his form, displayed for a decade as a testament to his captor's cruelty.

The sight shocked her into movement.

“Oh,” she stammered, her cheeks flushing a deep red. “Oh my—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just… Here.” Her hands, clumsy with a sudden, flustered urgency, went to the edges of the thin, gray cardigan she wore over her dress. “Let me give you this. To… to help cover yourself. If you wish.”

She began to shrug the garment from her shoulders, but then she stopped. The cardigan hung half-off, caught on one elbow. He was a king. He was a being of immense power. He was not a stray to be draped in her cast-off clothing without his consent. She held her breath, waiting, watching his face for any sign, any flicker of emotion that would tell her if he agreed or if he wanted nothing from her.

The moments stretched, thick and silent. Then, with an almost imperceptible slowness, he lowered his chin and lifted it once more. It was the barest hint of a nod, a gesture so slight it was more a feeling than a movement, but it was there. It was permission.

Nora gave a small, understanding nod in return and finished shrugging off her sweater. She folded it once, her hands trembling slightly, and leaned forward as far as she dared. She didn’t try to touch him, but held the soft fabric out in the space between them.

For another long pause, he simply watched it, as if it were a strange and foreign artifact. Then, with a slow, deliberate grace that seemed to defy his years of stillness, he moved. His hand, pale and elegant, lifted from his knee and reached for the sweater. His long fingers hesitated for a split second just before making contact, as if unsure of touching something so warm, so human, after a decade of isolation with nothing but cold glass for company.

His fingers finally closed around the soft wool. He took the cardigan from her, his touch feather-light. Slowly, with a quiet dignity that felt vast and unshakable, he unfolded the fabric and gently draped it over his lap. The simple gray cardigan looked impossibly small and mundane covering the King of Dreams, but in the sterile globe, it was a profound act of decency, a small warmth against an eternity of cold.

But Morpheus did not sleep. He remained seated, as still as he had been for a decade, the soft gray cardigan a small, warm weight upon his lap. His physical world was a ten-foot globe of glass and steel, but in his mind, he traversed the chaotic landscape of the last few hours.

For ten years, time had been a flat, stagnant ocean. Then, tonight, a stone was cast. Alex, the boy grown into a man defined by fear, had brought a newcomer, a variable his father had not accounted for. Morpheus had watched, unsurprised by the son’s weakness; it was a familiar vintage.

It was the girl, Nora, who had truly broken the stillness. He replayed her fury in his mind. It was not the simpering pity he had occasionally seen in Alex’s eyes. It was indignation. A white-hot, righteous anger on his behalf. ‘Stripped bare and displayed for your father’s sick amusement?’ she had cried. ‘This isn’t a secret, Alex, it’s a desecration!’ She had seen the violation of his dignity, an insult he himself had felt with the cold fury of a dying star. And her final, whispered declaration… I wouldn’t wish this on my worst nightmare. The irony was not lost on him. For the first time in a decade, a mortal had spoken to him not as a creature or a prize, but as a being worthy of respect.

He had believed he understood the depths of Roderick Burgess’s malice. He had seen it as a specific poison, directed at him—an otherworldly being, a king, a power to be broken and tamed. He had thought, with the arrogance of an immortal, that the Magus’s particular brand of viciousness was reserved for a standard far above that of mortals.

He had been wrong.

Morpheus looked at her sleeping form, at the way her brow occasionally furrowed with the phantoms of her waking fear. In this state, her mind would be taking flight into the realms he once commanded. It was an instinct older than humanity for him to reach out. Perhaps, he considered, he could offer some small comfort there, a moment of peace in her sleeping mind as repayment for her compassion.

He allowed his consciousness to shift, turning his focus inward and reaching for the unique signature of her dreaming mind.

He found nothing.

Where there should have been the vibrant tapestry of a human subconscious, there was only a smooth, impenetrable void. He pushed against it, but it was like pushing against a wall of polished obsidian. A cold, grim understanding settled upon him. The circle on the floor, the runes etched into the glass—they did not merely hold his physical form. They severed his connection to The Dreaming. As Nora was now within the circle’s confines, she too was subject to its laws. The binding had blinded him to her, locking her mind away from his sight.

And now, she was his problem. A lever. A sacrifice laid at the foot of his pride. Morpheus considered the grim reality of their shared fate. His own resolve was absolute, as fixed and unchanging as the orbits of planets. He would never give Roderick Burgess what he wanted. He would sit here for another decade, another century, another eon if he must, until his cage rusted and his captor’s bones were dust. He would endure.

But that endurance now had a price beyond his own suffering. By refusing to yield, he was almost certainly condemning the one mortal who had shown him an ounce of kindness to a slow, agonizing death. He would be forced to watch her fade, her vibrant anger and empathy extinguished by starvation and despair, all because of his unbending will. The weight of that grim, inevitable future settled upon him, as tangible and present as the soft, warm fabric resting across his lap. 

Next Chapter

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated! 🩷

[exquisink]

Beneath You - Geto Suguru X Fem!Reader

CW // manipulation, coercion, geto is a pining mess, reader's not a jujutsu sorcerer, cunnilingus, face sitting, body worship, geto is a walking red flag but the reader has no idea for a long time, geto's got a big dick, lactation kink, reader is inexperienced

Word Count: ~10K

Summary: There’s a twist of disgust inside of him as he to compare himself to a human, but he doesn’t consider you so low. Not at all. Far from it. If anything, he may go as far as to declare with full conviction that he’s the one beneath you. Yet here you are, blessing him with that ‘common decency’ he doesn’t deserve, even still. Because that’s the kind of person you are. People like you are rare finds, and he is sworn to protect rare breeds of human like you who belong to his new world order.

AO3

Another mission takes Geto to a remote village where grade 1 curses have wreaked havoc amongst its residents. He doesn’t intend to stay for long—grade 1s are not too much of an issue for someone like him—but upon arriving, he’s stunned to already see some locals hard at work given what little tools they have to survive. While true, the existence of curses isn’t completely a secret to the general public, he’s still shocked to find a select few of these villagers have begun to fight back.

Those non-sorcerers are not as primitive as he has been led to believe…

One particular villager leaves an impression on him. You are that villager. You’re not even a sorcerer, yet you attend to those afflicted or attacked by curses at a moment’s notice.

You’re the first person he meets, on the train ride there. He’s glancing at his ticket lost in thought over everything that’s transpired since the incident with Riko, and notices you peering at the thin slip of paper, before you lock gazes with his.

“What’re you going to my next stop for?” you inquire with a smile. “It’s probably not a good idea right now. There’s been reports of mass murders by an unknown cause and I’ve been called to treat any surviving victims.”

Geto hums, a flash of irritation in his eyes because he’s not one for small talk—especially given what he’s witnessed in the past few months.

“I’m there to stop the problem myself,” he responds, his tone a bit short but you don’t seem bothered by it. “Worry not, I’m sure it’ll be over after I take care of everything.”

“Wow, you sure got it all figured out, eh?” you remark, tone laden with curiosity for him, your grin widening. Geto stares at you for a moment. Why do you remind him of someone…? “That’s good to know. It’s nice that there’s still people like that out there. I’m glad you’re here to help out that village. We can always use true heroes like you.”

Geto perks an eyebrow at that last statement, averting his gaze to the nearly empty train. The train is about to slow, meaning they are close to their stop.

 “…You call me a hero and yet you’ve just met me,” he murmurs, more to himself.

Ah. He’s beginning to see who you remind him of now.

“Aw, well, let’s just say I have a knack for understanding someone’s real character,” you answer with a wink. “Since we’re going to be working together for a while, what’s your name?”

“Suguru Geto,” he answers, a bit too quickly for his own liking. Why’s that? Why is he suddenly so intrigued by you…? Why can’t he just ignore this sort of thing like he always does? He does sense something a bit unique about you, though. Perhaps it’s to sate his curiosity. Nothing more. He can forget about this mission and you by extension when this is over.

“Nice to meet you,” and you respond with your name. It rolls off his tongue nicely when he addresses it, and when you giggle, it’s the most pleasant of sounds to him. Unlike with most humans, who sound discordant and annoying, yours is light, beautiful, ringing like cathedral bells…

…Why is he pulling the cart before the horse here?

The train slows even more. Then comes to a complete stop. You both leave the train side by side, but you appear to be in a rush. He doesn’t mind. He’s probably going to run into again sooner than he wants to…

…And lo and behold, he’s correct to make that assumption as by the next morning, he’s found you at the front lines, securing any remaining victims and keeping them secured in a safe house protected by a veil a weaker sorcerer from the village has managed to cast themselves with the aide of a cursed scroll. That’s what you explain to him. So now he discovers you’re aware of sorcerers and what people like him do. He finds himself impressed by the effort from these villagers—they do seem to be a little more progressive here—but he learns that he’s called to this village because there are no sorcerers here who can compete with grade 1 curses. All of those who have tried, have died in combat, as you explain to him between treating victims.

And these villagers…don’t look opposed to the existence of sorcerers or curses. Or at least, it doesn’t seem so. Not necessarily. They don’t appear alarmed by them…as if this is a normal occurrence.

So much unlike the ones he’s encountered in the past.

He observes you like a deer caught in headlights, dumbfounded, as he scans rows upon rows of wounded villagers on the floor. Some are unconscious, some are barely breathing. Some are cut up terribly, blood seeping through their bandages. The stench of bitter metal, vomit, and shit hits his nose and his lips curl as he grimaces; it’s so foul he can’t breathe, fearing he may vomit himself…

And yet her you are, undeterred by the horrors which have befallen this village, the only one saving them all. As if they’re worth something more than a scrape of metal or a speck of dirt.

It’s awe-inspiring…yet confounding all the same.

He almost wants to scoff at how futile your efforts are, to save such scummy people who may sooner feed you to the wolves than thank you, but he finds himself drawn to how focused you are on healing them. You have no reverse cursed technique, only relying on traditional medications and the few incantations the living weaker sorcerers have learned. Humans, in general, can’t use reverse cursed techniques, so there’s no other option for them. This all likely won’t be enough, he figures, and it’s not like he can contact Shoko because she’s not meant to be fighting.

But maybe he doesn’t need to call Shoko because you’re already making a huge difference by actively trying to make changes. That’s so much unlike the behavior he’s seen in humans before.

What a conundrum he’s faced with now… he must accept that his own feelings aren’t all that pure. His morals aren’t as unshakable as he once believed.

He’s so trapped in his own inner conflicts that he doesn’t realize you approach him to dispose of the blood and vomit soiled gloves protecting your hands and retrieving new ones after disinfecting your hands. While you adjust them, he catches your eye.

“Geto, can we rely on you to exorcise those damned curse spirits? We can’t afford anymore casualties. The population of this village is already next to null, and we’re going to lose all of our villagers at this rate. It’s good you came to help us when you did.”

He nods, expression grim as he makes his way to the exit of the safe house, but not before turning back to announce: “I’ll make sure the barrier technique remains intact as well. You’ll be safe in here.”

“Thank you, Geto—you really are a hero,” you praise him before you run to your nearest victim who’s moaning in agony from a broken arm and a leg that’s been sliced cleanly off. He watches you, immobilized by how intrigued he is of you and the few residents in this village before he takes action to completely eradicate the cause.

The curse spirits are more than even he bargains for, but he manages to eradicate a few that night. Preventing further casualties or more injured villagers.

When he returns, some victims have been nursed back to adequate health in a rapid amount of time. He’s impressed by your efforts. Just watching you as you give them their herbal treatments and clean up their wounds. He does get injured a few times himself while he’s out there exorcising the spirits, and as you stop once you completed cleaning up another victim’s wounds, you signal him to come over.

“Let’s take care of you, Geto. You’re a godsend,” you praise him yet again with so much genuineness and a strong hint of reverence, that your words catch Geto a bit off-guard. He’s staring again, immobilized for a few moments once more before he ambles to your side and settles in the cushion before you. You pick up a fresh damp cloth with some medication to help disinfect the wounds. His body is scratched, slice and diced, and bruised all over, and you shake your head at the condition of his body. Nothing you haven’t seen before, at least he thinks, and yet…

“This might sting,” you warn him while he removes his top, and as you rest the damp cloth on a particularly large gash on his shoulder, he flinches and grunts out loud. “Man, you sorcerers…you really are full of heart. All of you. Sticking your neck outs for people like us who can’t do much for ourselves due to our lack of cursed energy. Many of these villagers can’t even perceive what attacked them.”

Geto hums absently. “It’s no glamorous lifestyle—that much I can assure you.”

You let out a dry laugh at that, while apologizing to him under your breath when you go over some tender parts of his skin from his many wounds and gashes.

“I’m a medicine woman, a healer, yet I’m sure I haven’t seen stuff more gruesome than you must’ve,” you comment, working to stitch the gash up after you clean and disinfect the area. He probably doesn’t know that you’ve noticed how frail he looks, like he’s neglected his own health in favor of his role as a sorcerer.

He manages a wry grin at that. “You have no idea.”

He freezes when he realizes how close your face is to his, and his cheeks burn as he flits his gaze elsewhere, to the door, to the sealed windows, to the moaning and groaning victims. Anything to avoid getting lost in those eyes that are so full of kindness that he doesn’t deserve, not with the sort of thoughts that have plagued his mind for months now since Riko’s death.

Once you’re done stitching up that large gash, you move to clean up the smaller cuts and bruises around his body. You sponge him gently with a fresh cloth, and he’s caught in another daze again as he observes you.

“You’re not scared of me,” he realizes out loud. “Or the curses.”

“Of course not,” you almost snicker at the absurdity of his statement, which has him furrow his brows at your behavior. Are you not aware of how rare sorcerers are in this world? “We have had a few sorcerers in this village who have since perished when these attacks began, protecting villagers who don’t understand what attacked them in the first place. I’ve had sorcerers in my family, but they’re all gone, fighting these curses that are too powerful for them.”

Ah. So she’s got a fair idea of the world for sorcerers, then.

“I’m sorry,” he replies, tone solemn. He knows too well losing those close to him to things like this. You manage a smile.

“We all have to go one day,” you reply with a deep sigh, moving to sponge his lower back. “I just wish I had more time with them. We’ll be together in the next life.”

“You believe in the afterlife?” he mutters, as you move to continue to clean the dirt and grime off of him.

“We have to believe in something to keep going,” you counter with a curt nod. “And for me, it’s to be with my family again. That’s enough for me.”

“I see,” he states. Once you’re done patching him up, you pat his unwounded shoulder.

“There you go! All fixed up…mostly.” You throw him a thumbs up while using a fresh cloth to wipe your neck glistening with sweat down. “You have to give your shoulder some time to heal, obviously.”

“We have a doctor back at the organization I work for who can help me with that,” he replies with a smile. “Thank you. Your kindness is most appreciated.”

“I like to think of it as common decency!” you retort under your breath with a playful wink. “Just doing what’s right.”

“Most people don’t think that way,” he points out, and his eyes catch you rubbing your arms and shivering a bit. It is a bit chilly tonight, he remembers, and the thermostat in this safe house doesn’t work.

Quirking an eyebrow, he picks up a nearby blanket in a basket by your tool kit that appears freshly washed, wrapping it around you in a gentle motion. He catches himself in the act, warring with himself over why he’s suddenly concerned for you. He usually does not allow himself to get too close anymore—especially after Riko.

“You should rest. The barrier won’t break, so nothing will get to you and the other villagers, for now. Don’t you have others working with you?”

“Thank you, Geto. You’ve got an eye for practicality,” you reply with a winning grin in spite of how exhausted you appear to him. His brows furrow—why do you risk your life for these people who don’t matter? “But unfortunately, no. This is my post—there’s only one person and they’re out of commission themselves.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” He doesn’t understand why he’s asking, but given there are more curses that aren’t showing themselves at the moment that he still has yet to exorcise…he’s going to be here with you for longer than he initially expected.

“Well, uh, I guess you could, with giving them their nightly medicine,” you murmur through a yawn. Geto looks at you with concern etched across his face, resting his hands on your shoulders.

“Rest,” he insists, frowning. “I can keep watch, and I can give the medicine. It’s this one, right?”

He gestures to the vials by your feet in a basket.

“Yeah,” you answer through another yawn, covering your mouth. “They need to be given the entire vial…taken orally, obviously, and the taste isn’t great so…give them some water if they ask for it. If they’re strong enough to ask for it. Let me watch you take care of one villager before I really pass out.”

“Sure,” he replies, and he does as you instruct him. Feeding a villager the entire vial and offering water, which the villager thanks him for profusely before desperately gulping it down to wash away the taste. As he turns around to seek your approval, you flash him a quick, tired grin before you settle into your chair and attempt to rest.

He’s never seen anyone like you…and all he can do is try his best to return your efforts.

The next morning, he’s waiting for you when you wake up. You complain of a dull throbbing in your head, clutching the side of it as you reorient yourself.

“The rest of the curse spirits have been exorcised,” he explains to you. Before you open your mouth to speak, he continues to clarify for you: “You were knocked out cold for a while. You’ve been neglecting yourself to help the villagers. Everyone is safe now. The problem is gone. My work here is finished, but I wish to stay to help you nurse the villagers back to perfect health.”

It’s against his character, and frankly, he still doesn’t understand why he’s offering to help out when he does have the freedom to return to Jujutsu Tech.

Something about you compels him to stay. His lips press into a grim line as he wars himself over his own aged inner conflict.

Why help those pathetic monkeys who can’t even fend for themselves?

It’s because of you, and he loathes this fact. He loathes that you stain him with your futile ideals. How you can still see humanity as worth protecting when they have taken your sorcerer family members away.

Everything about you—everything about you shatters his conviction about non-sorcerers. This whole conundrum…perhaps he must accept that there shall always be a gray area no matter how much he wishes to adhere to the belief that people like you are the reason he suffers, are the reason his comrades die.

But now he’s come to view you as a comrade. Someone to protect from harm’s way.

“I can’t ask that of you,” you finally answer him after a period of reflection. “You have your duties, and I have mine here, and mine don’t stop at this village. You must have more waiting for you, do you not?”

“You’re not asking this of me. I’m offering you,” he retaliates as he rests his hands on your knees, squeezing them gently. “Let me stay and help. The people I work for already know I’ve been gone longer than anticipated, so what’s another day or so?”

You snort at that. “You sorcerers really stick your neck outs for us, huh, Geto? Alright. I’ll let you help—for one more day. But then you have your own life to return to, alright?”

His heart skips a beat at that. “Of course.”

And he does stay and help as much as he can for that one more day. Once the remaining villagers can more or less leave the safe house, you offer him your place to stay for the night and offer to cook him some things to regain his strength before he leaves.

You prepare him a hearty stew along with other family favorites, splayed out all over a low wooden table.

“It’s the least I can do for you,” you announce after setting up the table and offering him some piping hot jasmine tea to accompany his meal. “Please, eat. I’ll prepare you some more meals for you to take back with you too.”

“That’s kind of you,” he mumbles as his eyes scan the colorful array of food. He’s moved by your kindness—more than he cares to admit to himself as he brings the bowl of stew to his lips, blowing on it gently before taking a sip and humming at how delicious it tastes. Rosemary, basil, and thyme hit his nostrils, and the soft potatoes are so chockful of flavor. 

“It’s a gift,” you tease with a little smirk playing on your lips. “I may not be a fancy shmancy sorcerer like you, but I can cook a mean meal that can win anyone’s heart!”

“I believe it,” he admits openly, downing the rest of that stew with a bit of gusto before attacking some of the finger sandwiches you prepared. You grin at him with a little twinkle in your eyes.

“Now you just eat up, relax, and you can stay the night,” you reply, “This is the bare minimum of what I can do for you after you protected this village. This is what’s left of my home. But, ah, it’s not like I get to stay here as long as I want to anymore. I tend to hop from village to village taking care of people.”

“So, you’re a nomadic medicine woman?” he inquires, mid-sipping on the stew.

“Something like that,” you declare as you rest your clenched fists on your hips. “I try to stay within the more remote villages since they don’t have as much access to modern medication. They don’t care enough to upgrade or fund these areas, so us countryfolk are left to fend for ourselves a lot of the time.”

Fucking monkeys, he finds himself thinking, but more about those who don’t want to progress than those who wish to help themselves, like you do, and by extension, clearly your family.

“Eh, it is what it is, I guess!” you go on as you whip around to return to the kitchen. “Now I have a big ole’ mess to clean up so you just sit back and relax, okay?”

“Are you sure you don’t need any—” he starts, but you interject before he can finish.

“—no, finish your meal and then rest up! You’ve helped me more than enough!” you call back to him with a dismissive wave over your shoulder as you disappear into the kitchen.

You don’t get to see it, but he’s smiling more genuinely than he has in the last few months, digging into the rest of the dishes you prepared for him. He might have some disdain toward non-sorcerers as a general rule, but he supposes there are some outliers, like you, who happen to come from a family with sorcerers and non-sorcerers. Someone like you, who can understand the horrors of the world yet still wear a smile through it.

It’s refreshing, indeed.

When he leaves the village the next day, you follow through on your promise and offer him some extra meals for him to take back with him. A little something to remember you by, you joke, to which he responds saying he can’t forget a kind soul like you. You remind him that there is still true good in this world, and you only shrug it off, calling him an idiot in jest.

“I’m just doing what’s right,” you remind him as you wave him goodbye. “Now go on before you miss your train ride back home! You stay strong now, ya hear?”

He doesn’t miss his train back to Jujutsu Tech. And then not too long after he returns, he learns of Haibara’s death through Nanami and Gojo has taken up the mission. He’s then sent on another mission shortly thereafter, in a village not too far away from the village you resided in, and maybe he should have expected to, but he doesn’t at the time this happens.

He finds two helpless twin girls caged by the villagers, threatening to execute them due to their ability to use cursed energy and see spirits. Even with your words echoing in his head—‘I’m just doing what’s right’—‘I think of it as common decency’—he’s scoffing at those notions. A deep scowl on his face as he scrutinizes the village for damning two innocent little girls.

Even now. These monkeys have none. No decency whatsoever. Not like you. They’re not understanding like you. They’re not full of heart like you. You’re not blind like these monkeys are to the true, unshakable reality that they are nothing but scum for putting these girls in danger over something they can’t help or change about themselves. They’re not like you, who understand the horrors sorcerers face trying to protect scum like these…filthy fucking monkeys who refuse to understand something bigger than them exists.

These people are beneath him, beneath you. They don’t deserve mercy.

“Excuse me, why don’t we all step outside for a moment?” he finds himself suggesting, and securing the girls, he goes out somewhere he can’t be witnessed committing the atrocity he’s about to do.

That village burns to the ground at his hand. Cursing them all to Hell like they all fucking deserve, these fucking monkeys who don’t understand the burdens sorcerers bear swearing to protect their weak asses. None of them deserve respite. None of them deserve safety. They have proven to him time and time again that they don’t understand the suffering, the struggling he endures again and again and again at their hands. Unknowingly or not, such monkeys are a plague to society and are best wiped from existence.

Even with your influence, he can’t wholly change his mind, and maybe he’s still plagued by the guilt of not telling you the whole truth of the matter, by that but not by very much. He hopes you’ll understand him one day. That you’ll see him beyond his actions and for his own truth—that these people, these monkeys, don’t deserve to live for the horrors they impose on sorcerers like him.

Smirking in triumph, his eyes scan the area, smirk widening with pleasure from the growing number of dead corpses of non-sorcerer scum before he ventures into the buildings. The stench of rotting corpses fills the air.

As he searches through the village for any survivors, he freezes when he finds you amid the rubble and cobblestone, unconscious, arm splayed over your heart cradling medication and herbal remedies, and he pales upon recognizing your face.

He doesn’t expect you to be here, but he should have considered the possibility before burning it all and calling it quits on the stupid rules the world of jujutsu imposed on him. He’s done playing games with the higher-ups and jujutsu society.

Thinking nothing of it—what you don’t know won’t kill you, and he’ll nurse you back to health—he scoops your body into his arms and tosses you over his shoulder, taking you along with the girls away from that wretched village.

There are no remaining survivors aside from you and the girls, and you are not a local. You don’t count in this equation. You just happen to be in a place where shouldn’t have, but you have your own duties to fulfill, he reminds himself as a disgusted frown graces his features, gaze flitting down at your unconscious, battered form in pity, don’t you?

He returns you to the cult he’s now taken over after he expelled himself from Jujutsu Tech. Like he’s reminded himself, what you don’t know won’t hurt you. He doubts you’ll have the means of discovering what he’s done to that village any time soon, anyway.

You’re slowly recovering from the incident. The guilt does gnaw at his stone cold heart, seeing you being thrown in the crossfire when someone like you doesn’t deserve it. Someone so kind, so genuine. So true to your character. Unshakable.

You may be the only one who almost made him change his mind about stupid, simple humans, but not quite. Not everyone deserves to be saved.

Frankly, not even he deserves to be saved. He’s told Satoru himself: if Satoru’s going to kill him, then he should be the one to kill him. There’s a point to it, at least.

There is a point in keeping you safe, though. He believes in that. Wholeheartedly.

He’s drawing idle patterns along your collarbone as your eyes flutter open, taking in the surroundings that you’re still adjusting to since he brought you here. You are barely conscious through most of your time here, but you’ve already been in the temple for quite some time now.

He calls your name, and you stare at him, a bit out of it. You don’t remember where you are, naturally, since you’ve been constantly drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Geto?” you murmur upon recognizing his face as a dull pounding comes on in your head, clutching it tight as you sit up against the headboard of the bed.

“Hey,” he greets with a little smile, happy to see you’re fully conscious this time. The most you have done since he’s brought you here is drift in and out. You seem more alert this time.

“I had a mission…” you trail off, then your eyes widen, and you gasp upon realization. “Geto, how did you find me? What happened to that village? And where am I?”

“Everything’s fine,” he lies through his teeth through that plastic smile of his. “The problem there has been exorcised. I found you there unconscious, so I took you here to heal you. I’m afraid it might be wise not to leave just yet, because you’ve taken quite a blow. What were you doing there?”

“I told you—I had a job there too!” you counter, “The girls…the ones who are sorcerers from that village, are they alright?”

“Yes,” he assures you as his smile brightens his entire face. Of course, he can rely on you to worry about what truly matters in the long run—the safety of those two innocent girls.  “They’re here, safe and sound. You need to focus on your recovery. At least this way, I can repay you for the kindness you’ve given me. Though I doubt there’s much I can do in comparison.”

“You’ve done more than you could possibly imagine for me,” you breathe, reaching to rest your hand on his cheek. He leans into your touch, before resting his hand over yours. “You look…strong. Healthy. Since I saw you.”

“Do I?” he chuckles as he intertwines his fingers with yours; when you don’t seem taken aback by the gesture, he relaxes his body a bit more from its more rigid posture. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been feeling much better. And it’s in part because of you, you know. I’ve come to realize that you and I, we’re not so different, right?”

There’s a twist of disgust inside of him as he to compare himself to a human, but he doesn’t consider you so low. Not at all. Far from it. If anything, he may go as far as to declare with full conviction that he’s the one beneath you.

Yet here you are, blessing him with that ‘common decency’ he doesn’t deserve, even still. Because that’s the kind of person you are. People like you are rare finds, and he is sworn to protect rare breeds of human like you who belong to his new world order.

You grin wide, and his breath catches in his throat; how are you so effortlessly beautiful? Yet you aren’t aware of your own. How…perplexing.

“Of course. Like I said, I may not be a fancy pants like you, Mr. Sorcerer, but I can help where applicable—I call myself a medicine woman since I use some tricks my sorcerer mom taught me!”

“Do you feel good enough to get out of bed?” Geto asks, “If you’d like, I’d love to give you the tour of my temple.”

You blink at him owlishly, eyes flitting to every area of the room, awed by how huge and spacious it all is. “Wait…this is yours? I knew you were fancy! I could tell by those pretty bangs of yours, but not this fancy!”

He chuckles, his tone bright and rich, at your remark about his bangs—he usually gets the opposite reaction—and smiles as you take in your new home, if he can help it. You look more than thrilled for him, and he can’t help his heart swelling with pride from earning yet another pat on the back from you. It just reminds him of how good-natured of a person you are.

“So how’s that huge gash on your shoulder? Did that doctor friend of yours help?” you find yourself asking as your gaze lands back on him. He freezes for a moment at the mention of Shoko before grunting.

“Yes, it’s much better now,” he replies, smiling. “Thank you. For everything back there. You really are an extraordinary girl, you know that?”

You rub the back of your head, wincing a bit from the mild throbbing still. “Aw, shucks, it’s like I tell ya, I’m just doing what’s right.”

He hums, and while a bold move, he moves to press a soft kiss to your forehead. You freeze, gazing up at him with those shimmering, timid eyes as you realize what he’s just done.

“What’s that for?”  you whisper, eyes flitting down to his lips in spite of yourself. His lips curve into a smirk when he catches that little action of yours and merely shrugs.

“You’ve done a lot for me,” he answers in a smooth tone. “It’s just a little token of appreciation. And I find you’re a wonderful girl.”

Your cheeks burn from the flattery, and you laugh nervously. “That’s awfully nice of you to say, Geto! But I’m nothing special.”

“Don’t be silly,” he insists, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “I won’t rush you, of course. You’re still recovering. But I’d like to know you better.”

Now it’s your breath that catches in your throat when he says that, and you’re smiling even bigger, before wincing again as the dull throbbing in your head makes another wave. “I’d love that more than you know, Geto.”

“Suguru,” he corrects, still smiling. This time it reaches his brilliant sparkling purple eyes. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

You beam at him, your gorgeous eyes twinkling. “Uh-huh, we sure are—owww!”

You clutch your head again, wincing, another wave of throbbing pain...

“You should take it easy,” he reprimands you with a frown. “Treat my home as yours. You can stay for as long as you need.”

“You’re far too kind, Suguru,” you reply, still beaming through the pain. “But hey, I can power through it! Just might need to be knocked out cold for another week or something though…”

Geto can’t help chuckling at that. “I’ll have some of our servants bring you food and medication. You can just relax as long as you need to, and I’m here for you.”

“Mr. Geto!!!!” A loud voice calls before a young blonde girl runs up to him. “We’re hungry!!!! Is she awake and is she okay???”

“Keep your voice down, Nanako,” he chides, before flashing you an apologetic smile. “She’s fine, but you need to use your inside voice around her.”

“Inside voice,” Nanako replies, lowering her tone to a low whisper. “Okay! But we’re huuuuuungry! Does she want to join us for lunch?”

“It’s noon?” you groan at him with an exasperated look. He stares back at you, apologetic.

“Well, would you like to? None of us would be opposed to lunch in bed,” he teases.

Nanako pumps her fists in the air.

“Yeah!!! And we can play Pokemon!”

“Nanako,” he chides again. “Inside voice! And she’ll need her space.”

You grin at Nanako’s antics, not minding in the slightest. “I’m really glad the twins are alright. Those people treated them so harshly.”

“They are,” he promises, then turns back to Nanako while scratching her head affectionately. “Order some food and bring Mimiko here. We’ll have lunch together, alright?”

Nanako nods and runs off.

“If I wasn’t feeling like shit, I’d cook for you again,” you offer, “It clearly looks like I’ll be out of commission for a bit longer than I want to, but if it means I get to spend more time with you, then I’m not complainin’!”

“There’s no need for that,” he replies, flattered by your comment as his heart swells with more pride. Your approval is all he cares about right now—because you don’t yet know the truth of the situation you have found yourself in; the guilt from lying to you is still weighing heavy on his heart. But you understand the real priorities—those humans are scum, which reassures him to a certain extent. “We’re happy with the pleasure of your company.”

“Man, stop buttering me up!” you whack him on the chest playfully. “I’m just little old me, not a big shot like you, Suguru.”

“Nonsense,” he retorts, “You’re plenty special.”

“And you’re still smooth talking!” you huff, before spluttering with laughter. “But alright! I’m seriously down for lots of rest and lots of food!”

“I’ll let Nanako know what to order for you. What would you like?”

You list out your typical go-tos, and he takes it all into account. He’s putting in his very best efforts to bring you the utmost comfort, and you don’t have to tell him you’re grateful for his hospitality. It’s safe to say he’s obviously not the type to offer something like this so openly.

Once you fully recover, he lets you go so you can fulfill your duties—much to his own reluctance. He’s become too attached to you—far more than he wants to admit to himself or to you.

Keeping you from doing what you believe is right is selfish of him, though he fears that you may not cross paths with him for a while.

“Aw, don’t fret, Suguru! I can come back, you know!” you assure him with an actual pat on his back.

“I’d love for you to,” Geto replies, his stare bordering on longing and tender. But of course, you don’t take it that way. You’re already turning your back, waving over your shoulder. “Take care.”

It’s at that moment he realizes he should have told you more, that he should have told you what happened, but he doesn’t want you to be afraid of him.

You do follow through on your promise, like you always do. Your character always proves to be unshakable. You’re a woman of your word, and he takes great pleasure in the fact.

For the last four or so years, you have returned in between your duties to spend time with him and the twins, who are more than thrilled to have you spend more time with them. They remember your kindness even before he burned it all to the ground.

Though you still have yet to learn the truth of what happened, he wants to maintain the illusion that everything’s still fine between you.

You make Geto more alive than he’s had since that dreaded day. Since he’s made that decision to stray from the conservative ways of jujutsu society. Full of fools who don’t understand the burdens they’ve forced upon people like him.

He strives for progress; he strives for harmony; he strives for peace. The only way to get that peace is to eliminate the cause of everyone’s suffering.

Geto just knows he’s clinging onto something from you he knows won’t last, but damn it, he can’t change what his heart wants. And it’s you. By his side. Through Hell or high water. There’s a point in protecting you, even if you aren’t traditionally what he accepts. He can’t bring himself to allow a good person like you die—there’s already so few of you out there.

He does wonder if you’ve caught onto the subtle changes in him. Well, it’s not too subtle to those close to him, or who have once been close to him—to them, it’s like he’s made a complete 180—but he wishes for things to reman more or less the same with you. You still view him through rose-colored lenses, and he would hate to shatter your perspective with the crushing reality that he’s not the hero you praise him to be, that he’s a monster.

Even if he kills that village for the safety of those girls, it doesn’t change that he doesn’t regret what he did, that he prefers that non-sorcerers be evicted from society…permanently.

“Are you going to keep staring into space, Suguru? Because those veggies ain’t gonna chop themselves,” you call out to him as you read along in your family recipe book while working with multiple pans and pots. Your culinary genius never fails to impress him, but that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate a helping hand every now and then and he’s offered to numerous times.

He pulls himself out of his thoughts, picking up the large, sharpened premium chef’s knife and deftly chops the cucumbers, dices the onions, shallots, and bell peppers…

“You guys are so lucky I don’t charge you for all of this cookin’ I do for your conferences,” you snort, switching off some areas of the stove once those dishes are complete. “So how many members are we even feeding? This could feed entire villages, you know!”

“We have accumulated a staggering number of devotees and members,” Geto chuckles as he tosses the variety of veggies into a large ceramic bowl before handing it to you. He tries to ignore the softness of your skin as your fingers brush against his. He can’t lose sight of the reality—he’s a liar, and he has yet to come clean about his actions. He can’t entertain his feelings right now.

Maybe he shouldn’t bring it up while you’re in an environment with knives present.

“I really do appreciate everything you do here. The girls have really come to love you. Even some other members of the family have praised you, and that’s a rare thing, given how guarded all of them are,” Geto tells you with a winning smile on his face.

He doesn’t appear as worn and torn as he had all those years ago—well, four years is not that long but it’s enough to drastically change a person—and he can tell you’ve noticed. He may have found comfort in troubling ideals, but there’s a part of him that believes that you still see goodness in him, that he’s striving for the greater good, ultimately.

“Here you go again buttering me up like I’m about to these veggies,” you snicker as you toss them into the pot before twisting around to face him. “I think we’re all good to go here. Thanks for your help, Suguru! These dishes should be done right on time.”

Geto flashes you a smile before taking one of your free hands into his, kissing gently along your knuckles.

“Thank you,” he praises, violet eyes flitting upward to meet yours. “You have no idea how grateful we are for you.”

You roll your eyes as you retract your hand. “Alright, you. Enough of that. Leave me to the kitchen now. Actually, wait—!” you start while scooping a bit of stew from a large ceramic pot with a ladle, before presenting the piping hot sample to his lips. “—Taste test?”

You tip the ladle into his mouth, and he hums, smacking his lips as he judges the flavors. He then makes a pleased sound, sipping the rest of the sample with gusto, a little bit of the stew spraying on your hand.

Ah. An open opportunity. He lowers his lips to the area of your hand that still had some leftover stew, pressing his lips to the inflicted area and lightly slurping the leftovers up before pulling away with a little grin.

You make a mock displeased face before wiping your hand clean. “Ya nasty. Okay, now you can leave me to my devices.”

He does just that—frankly because he doesn’t want to test your patience while you’re in the cooking zone—and retires to the common area where Nanako and Mimiko are playing some dumb mobile game that’s completely taken up their free time between training sessions. Geto isn’t going to be one to rob them of their youth like those villagers were going to, so he tries his best not to be too strict with his rules about particularly electronics.

Especially considering Nanako’s cursed technique…

The meeting runs smoothly. You do stay behind to greet some of the members of the family you have met in the past. Even Miguel seems pleased to see you, which is a rarity for him, but it’s likely because they both share a love for the culinary arts. Regardless of the reasons, Geto is just happy to see you finding a place here—a home away from your home, where you had everything from you taken away just like he did.

Once the meeting concludes, Geto insists you stay over for a few nights. You at first try to decline, reminding him that you can’t exactly leave people in the more rural areas of Japan unattended, but he swears to make it worth your while.

An offer you can’t refuse, mainly because you’ve grown attached to him too.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been fully honest with you,” he brings up one evening, as you’re assisting him with some household work in his temple. You offer to in spite of the numerous times he refuses. You just like to be of service where you can. “About what happened in that village.”

“Why bring that up now? It’s been years,” you answer as you wipe off a bead of sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist.

“Because what I’m going to tell you might change everything between us. I’ve been selfish.”

“Suguru, you’re scaring me,” you remark, “What happened out there? I was out cold for most of it.”

“I know,” he replies, expression grim as he wipes his hands with a cloth. “I think it’s best if you take a seat for this.”

He leads you to the common area and sits you down on one of the couches there. He begins telling you that the villagers aren’t as open to the existence of sorcerers as your village was, that they threatened to execute the girls believing that they were the cause of their misfortune. He braces himself for the icy cold sting of rejection as he admits that because of that, he massacred the entire village and took you, and the girls, with him out of there to safety.

But instead of a backhanded slap across the face, or a lot of shouting or yelling, he meets your gaze to find your expression blank. Like you’re grappling with everything he’s just spilled to you—something he’s kept from you for all these years because he’s selfish and he can’t help that side to himself.

“I don’t blame you if this means you don’t want to see me again. I’ve done terrible things, and I will continue to do terrible things…” Geto can’t bear to look at your blank expression anymore and he flits his gaze elsewhere, resting his hands on your knees. “Sometimes we must do the things we mustn’t…for the greater good. For the protection of those who deserve protection. F….for those who truly matter in this world. You deserve protection. The girls deserve protection. But that village…they’re nothing but scum better off erased. I don’t regret a single thing I’ve done.”

Deciding it best to face the music, he meets your eyes again. Blank. Expressionless. Void.

Like him.

“But I don’t regret meeting you,” he goes on, eyes softening as he feels his heart drop to his stomach when you’re unresponsive, likely from shock. He squeezes your knees gently. “I don’t regret saving you, protecting you. I know I should have told you the truth sooner, but I didn’t want things between us to change.” He rests his head on your lap, voice strained. “I didn’t want to lose what we had. I didn’t want to lose you.”

The silence hangs in the air between them, constricting him like invisible chains around his neck and torso. He buries his face into his lap, awaiting your ultimate judgment—because he’s accepted a long time ago that he is indeed beneath someone as pure and as kind as you are. He’s not once deserved your kindness or this ‘common decency’ you so often preached because that’s the kind of person you are. He’s admired you for your character. He hasn’t stopped admiring you for your character.

His lips begin to quiver, and he feels a wetness down his cheeks, and, stunned, he raises his hand to find they’ve been stained with tears. You haven’t said a word since he confessed his sins. He doesn’t regret those sins.

“They were people too,” you mumble, digging your fingers into the fabric of your pants. “You…you really killed them? All of them? I-I know I’ve heard reports of a natural disaster taking the village, but all this time…that was to cover up your crime?”

“Yes,” he confirms, bloodshot eyes meeting your dead ones. “As you know, the existence of sorcerers is rare, and thus when such occurrences happen, and they do—perhaps not to such a degree like my own crimes—they have to cover it up to the general public. So they declared the village was overtaken by an earthquake. But the reality is I cursed them all to death.”

“You…” You hug your knees to your chest, shivering. “You—you…why?”

“Not everyone is like you. Not everyone is understanding and kind like you. They were going to kill two innocent girls!” He wants you to understand that particular detail—if he plays a bit more on your empathetic nature, does that mean he has a shot at keeping you in spite of the sins he’s committed? “You do understand where I’m coming from, don’t you? Those villagers you tried to protect in your village, your family died protecting them!”

“Yes,” you breathe, remembering your lost loved ones, your eyes now shimmering from sadness at their memories. “They were heroes. They did what they believed was right.”

“And I did what I believed was right,” he insists, desperation evident in his tone as he squeezes your knees too tight, to the point his veins begin to pop. “I saved you and the girls from those wretched, vile people.”

“You did save us,” you mumble, “That’s true. But the villagers, they didn’t all deserve to die…”

“I know you must be conflicted, but please understand where I’m coming from,” he bites back a whimper. “I don’t want to lose you. You’ve become dear to me and to the girls.”

“Suguru…” you trail off, but then you’re taken aback as his hands move up to cup your cheeks, wiping away the tears pricking at the corners of your stunning eyes.

“A man does what he mustn’t to protect those who matter to him most,” he whispers as he draws his face closer to yours, until his lips are barely against yours. “For her. To be worthy of her. Do you believe me?”

“I want to,” you whisper back, your eyes dropping to his lips then back to meet his eyes. Your breath hitches as you force down a sob. “I want to, but this is—Suguru, this is…a lot…”

“Then try to believe me. Try to trust me. That’s all I ask of you. I know I don’t deserve it,” he says, his lips teasing yours, hovering so close yet not quite meeting. His warm breath fans over your lips.

“But I am nothing without you,” he finishes, his words coming out in a low, raw whisper—he sounds so jaded from the horrors he’s witnessed all of his life. His eyes unravels so much to you, a man who has known too much violence and too much tragedy, and in this moment, a need for you to accept him as he is—hero or not, criminal or not.

Finally, his lips meet yours. His softness takes you aback, no urgency in the kiss just yet. His moves move languidly against your own, coaxing soft sounds out of you. He can tell you’re hesitating, frozen by the action, but his persistence encourages you; he’s frightened, that this is the only chance he might ever have with you. You shyly return the kiss, uncertain. You’re breathless when he pulls back, his entire expression softening.

“Wh-what was that for?” you murmur, your fingers brushing absently over your lips, still tingling from the kiss.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he confesses, his voice lowering an octave as he reaches out, brushing his fingers through your bangs. “I love you.”

“Suguru, I…” you stammer, your body still trembling, a war of unfamiliar emotions rushing through your mind.

“Shh,” he whispers, drawing his lips closer to yours once more. “There’s so much I want to try with you. Can you try to trust me?”

You gulp, averting your gaze as your heart races. You find it difficult to breathe. “I…”

“Do speak up,” he purrs, as a teasing smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“I don’t know if I can wait.” The playful edge to his tone catches him off-guard, but he frames his words to make it seem like you don’t have a real choice on the matter. Trust is no longer something you can withhold from him, even if you want to, and maybe that’s selfish of him, but he’s come to accept that he’s no virtuous hero a long time ago.

“O-okay,” you squeak, the sound of your (reluctant) submission charges something within him. An all too eager Geto scoops you up effortlessly into his arms, carrying you princess style as his lips trail kisses all over your face and forehead. The tension in his body melts off of him as he whisks you away to his bedroom.

“I’ll prove to you that I’m still the man you know,” he murmurs into your skin as he rests you on the feathery mattress. “I’m not a hero, I’m afraid,” he adds softly, speaking to himself more than to you. “No, not a hero…I’m far too selfish for that.”

He rests a hand on your cheek, a calloused thumb brushing along your soft skin with a reverence that catches you off-guard. He leans in, his hovering over yours, your breaths mixing.

“But I can still be the man for you,” he murmurs between heated kisses along your jaw. “The man you deserve.” His voice dips in a rawer way.

“Suguru…” Your hands instinctively reach up to grip his shoulders.

“I’ve…never done this before…” you confess, your voice barely a whisper, laden with nerves.

He pauses, a low hum vibrating in his throat as he kisses you once more, dragging his lips along the edge of your mouth before pulling back with a low, fervent growl. The intensity in his gaze is far too much.

“Then I’ll be gentle, my dear,” he vows, his voice a low rasp as he presses his forehead against yours. I’m yours to use as much as you like.”

He moves to unbutton your top, revealing your delicious figure. There’s a tremble in his hands as he explores your body. He traces the swells of your breasts before pulling them out from your bra, grinding his teeth against a nipple before sucking it into his mouth with a loud slurp.

You gasp, another flush blooming across your features. “Wait, Suguru—!”

He ignores you as he suckles a bit on the nipple, eyebrows furrowing as some milk splatters on his tongue. He hums at the exquisite taste before jis bewildered eyes meet yours, removing your nipple from his mouth with a pop to speak.

“How are you lactating?” he asks, not doing much to hide how giddy he is from this new discovery. He definitely plans on taking advantage of this for more than one occasion.

“Um…partially diet and uh…herbal medicine stuff…” you flush, covering your face from embarrassment. “S-some new mothers face difficulties with nursing so some remedies I created help with that…and I have to test them on myself, so…”

“I see,” he groans as he laves his tongue around your nipple, flicking off leftover droplets of milk. “Fascinating.”

He closes his mouth over your perky nipple and suctions hard, groaning at the taste. More flavorful than any meal you have ever cooked for him, and he can’t get enough of the pitchy moans you’re working so hard to bite down.

One of his hands fondles your unattended breasts, and he coos at how soft your mounds are, flicking his finger over your nipple as he greedily drinks from the other one.

“Fuck,” he moans into your skin. “Don’t hold back on those beautiful noises. You should enjoy it.”

“Suguru…it’s just…embarrassing…” you admit through a pitched voice. He laughs a bit at that, not to mock you (shockingly), but because he wants to ravish you.

He parts the nipple he assaulted with a kiss before switching, suckling on one nipple while a finger toys with the opposite. He prays that he will be the only one who gets to have you like this, and he intends to see that through. He doesn’t like the idea of you being with anyone else. The thought makes his blood burble beneath his skin.

He shifts gears, flipping you over so that now you’re on top of him. You yelp from shock, but it’s muffled as his lips plunge against yours, his tongue invading your mouth and gliding along the edges of your teeth. His hands snake down your waist and hips, stopping at the hem of your pants where he tucks his fingers inside and pulls them off along with your panties (which he definitely plans to keep to himself).

He purrs your name, and you let out a low whimper.

“I meant what I said before,” he murmurs against your lips before pulling away, sliding you up until your cunt is hovering over his face. “I’m yours to use.”

“I-I don’t know what to, um, exactly do…Suguru…” Your face is beet red.

He chuckles at that, sliding his tongue up your folds. “In that case, I’ll guide you. Worry not.”

He shoves your cunt into his tongue, twisting it between your folds and a shaky gasp leaves your lips. He digs his fingers into your ass cheeks, close to your crack as his tongue laves over your sensitive skin, your own slick already building from the slightest treatment. He hums, tongue flicking over your clit as his eyes never leave yours, admiring your flushed face, your rosy, parted lips as more breathy moans escape them.

From his focal point, you truly are a goddess, a true beauty—further proof that he’s truly beneath you in every conceivable way.

“Suguru…” Oh, his name rolling off your lips sounds so good, so sweet.

“Don’t be shy,” he purrs, his breath fanning over your folds before plunging the wet muscle into your fluttering entrance, making you choke on another gasp as you grasp for something—you reach for the top of the headboard to maintain a semblance of balance as his tongue fucks repeatedly into your spongy walls.

His grip on your ass cheeks tighten as his tongue ravishes you, and he growls when he feels your gummy walls clenching around him. You’re coming, and you throw your head back as you do, shouting as you’re unfamiliar with the sensation.

“Thank you for blessing me with such a beautiful sight,” he praises, tone full of reverence as he pinches one of your ass cheeks, making you squeak again. “My mouth isn’t the only thing free for your use, my love.”

He guides you back down to his lap, where his growing erection through his robe is evident. He grinds up into your pussy, still drenched from your arousal. “My cock, my fingers, anything. They’re all yours.”

He grabs one of your hands and rests it on his clothed erection. He groans your name. “Do you feel what you do to me? What more can I do to show you—that I am the man for you?”

“I…I don’t know,” you admit, tone wistful. “Suguru, I told you. I’ve…never done this before.”

He adjusts your positions, taking a moment to completely disrobe and reveal his bare body to you. He moves to cup your face, brushing his thumb along your lips.

“I’ll make this worth it for you,” he purrs, as he grinds the tip of his cock against your pussy. You bite back a moan in spite of yourself. “Can you trust me? I understand it’s too much to ask—”

“—Yes,” you murmur, and as he presses a kiss to your lips, he pushes the tip of his cock inside, experimentally. Sensing any discomfort from you before he rests his back against the headboard, guiding you up and down his girthy cock. His lips trail down your jaw and neck, growling into your skin as he keeps a gentle, but far from slow pace. Trying to get you used to the sensation, to the feeling of being filled to the hilt by his impressive size. He doesn’t want to hurt you. His fingers sink into your waist, as he purrs your name over and over.

“I’m yours,” he vows as his intense gaze never leaves yours. “I’m yours, my love. That much is true.”

He shouts as he comes, and you soon follow after and he’s moaning throughout as your walls clench around his girth. You slowly come down from the hot flash in ragged breaths, yours syncing with his.

“I’m yours,” he repeats, nuzzling his nose against yours. You glance down at him, chest still heaving as you catch your breath.

“I know,” you say, as his hands intertwine with yours. “I’m yours too.”

[masha-nikita]

I finally, finally did something I wasn't capable of before-- nail down RH's eyes (sort of?). I wrote in here how I lack understanding about this white snake demon, hence I've been lacking ability in depicting his eyes.

I want to sieze this opportunity to expand upon that post, to iterate the perceived problem of reichblr artists; but first, plz take a look at this sculpture of Lucifer. In the 1840s, The Catholic Church commissioned sculptor Guillaume Geefs to make Lucifer. When the piece was completed, the Church became furious towards the artist-- Lucifer is too beautiful. Church took it down St. Paul's Cathedral, for the clergy found it very unacceptable.

The Geefs brothers were ordered to make the sculpture again. They reflected on the subject matter a long time, and tried very hard, then made a second rendition. Still too beautiful for the Church's liking.

This is the behavior of true artists. They didn't necessarily defy their employer just for the sake of being artists, they tried to understand what this subject matter is at its heart- the origin of Lucifer's pride, his greatest evil, in order to convey the concept in sculpture with artistic honesty and integrity: namely, the ultimate beauty, then the pride therein, then its natural temptation, and finally, the deepest theological foundation of the Church-- the Original sin.

This is the mythical dillemma how what was once closest to God could possibly be the most evil. Lucifer is supposed to be beautiful, and this beauty is supposed to be uncomfortable and unsettling, as if something very dark is about to burst through. I couldn't really draw RH, but there's a lot of meaning in drawing RH with white snakes, mythical, unsettling, supernaturally evil snakes.

By repudiating the artist- LUCIFER IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE BEAUTIFUL!! YOU ARE WASTING YOUR TALENT!! YOU ARE LITERALLY MAKING LUCIFER FANART!! The Catholic Church revealed its moral weakness and intellectual dishonesty. You don't need to look far from this religion to find brain-dead parents who want governments to ban video games.

Some of you have noticed, I like to draw Werhmacht generals with flowers, and it is for a reason-- I never bothered to explain those reasons, because I draw stuff for my own self. I don't really have a purpose drawing, political or otherwise (I couldn't care less), nor ideologies that I want to spread.

I drew Paulus with Lilly in the Valley, for a friend historian explained to me why it is fitting- Lilly in the Valley traditionally symbolizes purity in a toxic environment, but its flowers are very poisonous themselves. Paulus denounced Nazism on the Nuremburg trials, and helped convicted his former murderous colleagues, but it was very hard to tell where his true moral resided; was it in exchange for Soviet leniency, or to cut all ties from his former roots the quiet and brutal way, because he was betrayed in Stalingrad?

Walter Model always appears with red Poppy. In my eyes, he was intoxicated with the Nazi ideology. Unlike the political ass-kissers who grabbed the Nazi power but did not want to bleed the blood, he wasn't out for his own benefits-- he plunged himself into the worst battlefields. Once Model became "sober from the opioids", he got so horridly disillusioned that he killed himself.

Black lilly Erich von Manstein criticized Hitler whenever and wherever he wanted, but did absolutely nothing to undermine Hitler's power. Lilly flower only in name, but blatantly impure, Manstein was intelligent in his total inaction. He managed to get a lighter punishment in Nuremburg by positing "Wehrmacht did nothing right, but did nothing wrong, technically speaking". Perhaps not so paradoxically, von Manstein helped created NATO that protects Europe to this day.

If I really want to look at myself to see something wrong, I think the issue is that I am a bad artist. I used a lot of words above to "explain" the symbolic and metaphorical aspects of my own work, as if they are Dante's Inferno or Hiëronymus Bosch's panels. Come on, they are NOT THAT GOOD, it is so absurd, I am just an idiot on the internet. I think I will go back to my hole, be comfortable, and draw stuff. I'll draw brainrots. I love brainrots.

Maybe we should go simpler- nobody accused Dante of depicting the 14 century Florentine scoundrels with masterful Renaissance verses "because Dante Aghilieri of the Divine Comedy is glorifying bad people (somehow)". Or maybe even simpler, to quote Ecku indirectly from an internet friend- "I draw Rommel, he's a soldier, a tragic soldier happened to be embroiled in a complicated era, nothing but a soldier yet that is exactly everything. For me, it is very strange of internet people to dote on mass murderers in video games, that actually require you to suspend fictional disbelief in order to enjoy killing, but have very little sensitivity for a simple German soldier, whose only Original Sin is that he is German and that is WWII."

Do bear in mind, the history books were written not by Truth, but by the victors of wars, who got to pick and choose the definition of all sorts of value judgment in the latter half of 20th century in order to justify the current societal institutions (for example, representational democracy, solipsistic corporatism replacing feudalism)-- much the same way the Lucifer problem was a big deal for the Church in the 1800s, the arbitor of religious morals and patriarchal orders. Retconning historical facts into narratives to fit mainstream world view the victors constructed is simply common practice.

Indeed, Lucifer is inherently evil, and bad things are objectively bad, still, it is an excercize in futility to pick out the absolutely immaculately virtuous side in the history just to occupy a moral high ground, and in such futility, a new Utopian totalitarianism of self-censorship would be upon us, wherein neither good people nor bad ones harbour any self-awareness— everything, including art, is hijacked by hyper-moralization, self-flagellatory empathy, and vain competition in victimhood.

Just let reichblr artists do their thing, they won’t be the culprit of wwiii, don’t you worry. As to if and how I condemn the neo N@zis, the distinction, practical criteria, and potential actions, please refer back to this post.

epilogue-

I spent all these times writing this for people whom I respect-- namely, people who hate reichblr with vengeance, with sincerity. If what drives you to our opposition is not hatred, but laziness and greed, because hating reichblr is literally the easiest way to score some "look I'm such a good person" points, I am very disappointed in you, and you're not worth the electricity for my computer.

[memories-of-ancients]

I finished reading the biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

I will say upfront this can be a really tough read. Bonhoeffer was a Lutheran minister in Germany during Nazi Germany and much of the book details his explorations of Christian Theology and in particular Lutheran Theology. AND I mean hardcore theology. Being someone who is not religious those parts of the book could be hard to get through and at points I did a lot of skimming. Regardless I enjoyed this read because Bonhoeffer was an amazing man. He was a staunch anti-Hilterian and anti-Nazi from the beginning and never wavered from his convictions. He rescued Jews from the Holocaust and rescued others. Believe it or not he became an Abwehr agent (military intelligence) and used his position to try to undermine the Third Reich from the inside out. He was also involved in the July 20th plot to assassinate Hitler (Operation Valkyrie) which failed, resulting in his execution. He really believed that he was on a divine mission from God to rid the world of Hitler and Nazism, that that was his ultimate purpose, his reason for being put on this earth.

Another interesting thing I learned about was how in the 1930's the Nazi's attempted to co-opt Lutheranism and other Christian sects into Nazi ideology by creating a "Reichschurch". Basically a German Christian church that would be driven by Nazi ideology. They even created a Nazi bible, which was heavily edited with entire books missing.

Also, despite knowing a lot about World War II I never really learned much about Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, who was head of the Abwehr. He too was anti-Hitler and anti-Nazi and used his position to sabotage the Reich from within, which is something I didn't know about. No wonder British Intelligence was so good, the head of German military intelligence was one of their double agents! He too would be hanged side by side with Bonhoeffer.

I don't know if God exists, but if He does I know he made Bonhoeffer a saint. I think it's quite fitting that his statue stands beside that of Martin Luther King Jr in Westminster Cathedral.

My next read...

Harald Sigurdsson burst into history as a teenaged youth in a Viking battle from which he escaped with little more than his life and a thirst for vengeance. But from these humble origins, he became one of Norway's most legendary kings. The Last Viking is a fast-moving narrative account of the life of King Harald Hardrada, as he journeyed across the medieval world, from the frozen wastelands of the North to the glittering towers of Byzantium and the passions of the Holy Land, until his warrior death on the battlefield in England.

[desertfangs]

Is Mael alive? Sources say yes.

This is just something I think is sort of funny so I wanted to make a quick post about it. Because The Vampire Chronicles are told largely in first person by various characters, what they know and believe can vary.

We know that Mael did go into the sun in Memnoch the Devil, much like Armand. (Discussions of why a druid would do this are fun and interesting but not why we're here today.) Armand obviously survived that and he's much younger, so it stands to reason that Mael should have (or at least, could have) survived it, as well.

Mael only appears in future books in flashback and does not join the others at Court. But in Blood and Gold, Marius does say he survived his attempted suicide by sun:

It was a Druid priest who brought me to this peculiar death, a creature named Mael, mortal when he wronged me, but a blood drinker soon after, and one who still lives though he tried not long ago to sacrifice his life in a new religious fervor. What a fool.

(BTW, I love Marius' judgemental editorializing of this, and it's extra funny because if I recall correctly, he does not comment on Armand doing the same thing in the same way, and is in fact very worried for him in TVA. The first person narration is gold sometimes.)

However, in Prince Lestat, Lestat believes Mael is dead, though not with any conviction, even commenting that he doesn't think such an act should have killed him:

Mael, I knew, had perished in New York, though precisely how I wasn’t certain. He’d gone into the sun on the steps of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, but surely that had not been enough to destroy him.

So Lestat thinks he's dead but isn't like, sure sure and Marius says otherwise.

I'm inclined to believe Marius has kept better tabs on this and Mael is, in fact, alive. He's just not interested in participating in Court, and probably a little embarrassed about the whole business.

(I personally believe Jesse also knows he's alive and that he has no interest in joining the others at Trinity Gate, but that is pure headcanon.)

[societyfolklore]

Carve Me Clean – Prologue

Title: Carve Me Clean – Prologue

Pairing: Cult Leader! Nick Fowler x Chief! Female Reader

Fic Summary: You found salvation in a cult that recognized your talents, in the kitchen, with a knife, and in silence. Brought in by love, kept by purpose, you now serve the congregation from a space considered holy: the kitchen. You don’t know where the meat comes from. You haven’t asked. But the blessings are whispered each time you cook, and Nick Fowler watches you like a man starving. Chapter Summary: A sacrifice is made. A congregation rejoices. And deep beneath the hymnals and heat, something in you begins to stir.

Word Count:  1.3k

Fic Warnings: // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI, Religious Overtones // Cult Activity,  Cannibalism,  Human Sacrifice,  Blood and Ritual Violence,  Grief and Psychological Manipulation, Smut.  Chapter Warnings:  Graphic Depiction of Death,  Blood , Religious Imagery,  Implied Cannibalism, Willing Sacrifice,  Ritual Dismemberment (Implied) Cult  Indoctrination,  Loss of Autonomy,  Delusional Mindset

A/N: Ok! Starting something new after @artficlly AU spinny wheel… This wont be for everyone! Thank you @navybrat817 for workshopping this idea and @buckybarnesfic for listening to be flip flop on ideas..

The warehouse smelled of iron and incense. Concrete under your feet, steel above your head. The air held weight, smoke,  breath and something holy. Pale blue shrouded your shoulders, pooling like a river around your feet. The cold from the stone floor bled upward into your soles, anchoring you in place. A thousand flickering candles cast long shadows against the walls, turning the warehouse into a trembling cathedral of heat and silence. You stood among the congregation, but already you were set apart. Already his.

You thought you'd be afraid. You had expected to tremble.

But instead, euphoria sang through your veins like static under the skin. A low, humming joy. Not giddy. Divine. Your breath felt heavier with every inhale, thick with devotion. The air around you vibrated, full of unseen hands urging you forward. It felt like standing on the edge of something sacred, toes curled over the cliff of surrender. Time folded in on itself. You could feel every heartbeat, every drop of sweat, every breath as if it were your first and your last.

Nick Fowler stood on a raised platform made from stacked wood pallets, its centre topped with a thick butcher’s block, the grain darkened by old stains. He was bare-chested beneath a butcher’s apron, hands stained with old blood and new promise. In one of them, he gripped a butcher’s knife; long and gleaming, its edge catching candlelight with every subtle motion. He gestured with it as he preached, slow arcs of the blade carving invisible symbols in the air.

His skin gleamed faintly with sweat, the dim candlelight dancing across the planes of muscle and conviction. His voice bounced off the metal walls in rich, rolling cadence. His sermon didn’t shout. It commanded. Velvet and razors. There was no fire-and-brimstone, no flailing. Just certainty. Steady. Unshakable. True.

He didn’t need theatrics. He was the altar and the god. The knife and the prayer.

His hand extended toward you, fingers blood-slick and beckoning, as if offering you not salvation, but truth wrapped in flesh.

“We are gifted tonight,” he intoned, “one who has felt their sin, and wishes to be delivered.”

Your breath caught as his gaze pinned you in place, ice-blue eyes like a blade laid flat against your skin.

“Come.”

The word was simple. Irrefutable.

Your feet moved on instinct, the soft rustle of your robes swallowed by the sound of scraping chairs as the congregation rose as one. A collective inhale echoed like a wave, but it never reached you. You didn’t hear them. Not truly. The others blurred into silence, their presence melting away until only one thing remained: the echo of his voice and the drumming of your heart.

The air between you and the altar felt charged, thick with purpose, with ritual. You walked through it like water, each step pulling you closer to something final. Something eternal.

He watched you approach with something too tender to be hunger. Blue eyes locked to yours, impossibly calm. A gaze that knew you, undressed you, sanctified you. You felt it then, that fluttering inside you, small wings of something more than fear. More than worship. Something ancient. A calling.

Your breath hitched as you reached the butcher’s block. The congregation had vanished entirely from your senses now. There was only him. Only Nick.

He pushed back your hood with reverent fingers, exposing your throat to the dim amber light. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long, as though memorizing the shape of your jaw.

You shivered.

Then came the cloth—warm and damp—pressed gently to your neck, wiping in slow circles. He cleaned the place where the blade would kiss you. It smelled faintly of clove oil and ash, a scent that sent a strange comfort curling into your spine. The cloth dropped away, and the rough pad of his thumb replaced it, tracing your pulse with maddening care. His hand tilted your chin upward, firm but gentle.

He leaned in close, his breath brushing your ear like a secret only you were allowed to hear.

“Pain cleanses,” he murmured.

You swallowed, and felt yourself smile.

“Sacrifice nourishes.” The words coming like the psalm it was.  

You stood taller. Your chest expanded. You didn’t tremble. You were firm in your task, 

“Be ready, lamb,” he whispered, wrapping himself around you like shadow and promise. “I will find you in the fields.”

He guided you down to your knees, and you obeyed, silk pooling beneath you. The crowd shifted, murmuring with breathless anticipation.

You closed your eyes.

And pictured it.

The fields he had promised. Endless rows of wheat kissed golden by morning sun. Wind brushing tall stalks into song. A place beyond sin. A place where you could be new. You felt the soil beneath your feet, rich and cool. The air carried no weight, no guilt. Your fingers grazed the swaying grain as you walked toward the light, slow and unburdened. You were no longer just flesh, you were ritual. Washed clean by blood and grace, you no longer imagined freedom. You lived it, in those final moments between heartbeat and surrender. You were being cleansed, not taken, not ended, but exalted. One of the willing. A vessel now for the salvation of this church—your church. Your family.

Through your sacrifice, they would be fed. Through your offering, they would be saved in divinity. This was your chance to purify not only yourself, but those who had embraced you in your darkest moment. Your death was not an end, it was a rising. A baptism in red.

The blade whispered across your throat.

A kiss. A promise. A gift.

The warmth came quickly—hot and spreading—trickling over your collarbones, blooming across your chest in dark, crimson trails. Your breath caught in your throat, then vanished altogether. The first gurgle bubbled up, wet and desperate, as the air refused to come.

Nick held you firmly against him as your body faltered, arms cradling you with reverence. His mouth brushed your temple as he began to hush you, low and steady, like a lullaby meant for a frightened child.

"Shhh… there now," he murmured, voice honey-thick and close. "Let it happen. Let it go."

One hand stroked through your hair, slow and tender. Blood smeared between his fingers as he combed it back from your brow. You felt it all, the sticky warmth sliding across your chest, the sickly chill blooming in your fingertips, the way your heart kept trying to pump even though there was nothing left to give.

The world tilted.

The world darkened.

You were still upright, but the sky had folded inward. Your vessel surrendered. Nick caught you, held you tighter.

"You'll feed us all, my lamb," he whispered again. 

The cold settled in your limbs, numb and heavy. Your final thought wasn’t fear. It was the fields, those golden, waving fields, and the warmth of his breath in your hair. You were going home. To brothers and sister who had taken this journey before you.  

Nick raised your limp form to the waiting faithful.

"She is the body," he declared. "We devour—and she is freed."

Blood soaked your robes as your head lolled, staining blue silk in crimson arcs. You had slipped from consciousness, but not into silence. His voice still reached you, soft and low, threaded with reverence as if whispered through the veil between worlds.

And the light was there, calling. Warm and golden. You could feel it, wheat brushing against your fingertips, the sun on your cheeks, grass beneath your bare feet. The fields he had promised. The fields you had seen.

All around you, the world thundered.

You could hear the congregation cheering, their voices crashing through your fading awareness in waves, answering your devoted butcher in rapture. High and giddy, consumed by ecstasy. 

Fingers reached out toward your robes as if touching bloodied silk might bless them too. Someone screamed your name. Someone else began to sing.

"Freed. Freed. Freed. Freed."

Their hymn followed you, echoing as the darkness finally took you.

[kroashent]

Research Deep Dive: Crossing the Elorn

One thing I love about doing research for my fantasy series, Kroashent, is coming across fascinating snippets of primary sources describing very specific historical events, often ignored by broad strokes history. A recent deep dive on a small region of France called "Plougastel" led to a series of 19th century descriptions of crossing the Elorn River. Located on a peninsula between the river and a larger body of water, the only "reliable" way to enter the region was across the river. (The following are translated from French):

"The very green shore of Elorn is full of bizarre rocks that affect the shape of ruins. The path rises in the middle of orchards and fields with fairly rich vegetation: it is here that the most fruits are harvested in the whole surrounding countryside, the cultivation of the strawberry above all is done on a large scale and nothing, it seems, is more curious, at the time of the season, than the long lines of [train] cars aligned along the road, waiting for their turn to pass. ”

Paul de Jaeghere (1886)

Kerhouan Train Station

“As the river is oriented to the west, in the direction of the gull [A passage leading to the Atlantic Ocean], when the sea is stormy to the west and southwest, the passage of the ferry is often impossible: the high easterly winds also produce a sufficiently violent surf to sometimes prevent docking and compromise the safety of the boats in the creek, which is 100 m long and 50 m wide. This creek serves as a shelter for the so-called Plougastel boats which exclusively provide a transport to the Harbor of Brest.”

Benjamin Girard (1889)

La barque de Plougastel (Ferdinand Perrot, 1808-1841)

In 1890, a bridge over the Elorn collapsed during the Pardon (A Breton Cultural procession and a whole other topic) of St. John. A hundred people fell into the water and 7 drowned. The June 27th edition of La Presse blames the disaster on poor organization, and praises the heroes who saved the majority of the victims. There's also something about a shark, but the newspaper clipping I found is hard to read.

"Left Kerhuon station, we arrive the banks of the Elorn and go into a tub to cross it. Women returning from the market, strong, flourishing, laughing, grab gigantic oars and have fun rowing by singing a song, while the boatmen, happy with this momentary rest, laugh at the provocative poses they take pulling back with the effort. They wear coiffes with curved wings, floating ribbons, colored belts and some short hoods. The sailors are capped with a red wool cap, similar to that of the convicts, strapped with a wide belt of the same tinted and dressed in a white or blue jacket lined with bone buttons"

Albert Clouard (1892)

(The Coiffe, traditional headdress of Plougastel)

Now, this is very interesting to me for a few reasons, because it really captures a moment in time, but also because of an interesting detail of the "red cap", which has an incredibly complex role in French culture and history. Tangent incoming.

In 1675, Western Brittany erupted in rebellion over a Stamp Tax, in an uprising called the "Red Cap Revolt", due to the red caps worn by the rebels. This iconic aesthetic became a symbol of French revolutionary zeal, especially during the 1790 Revolution (The Big One), where it became a symbol of working class revolution and to mock the wigs of the nobility and fancy hats of the clergy. (Brittany at the time had a reputation of being full of impoverished, working class peasants and was a major hotbed of the Revolution and Reign of Terror). The red cap was adopted as a symbol of citizenship and revolution. It appeared in protests, political cartoons and in the mass executions by guillotine. Interestingly, in 1792, Convicts were forbidden from wearing the hat. A red cap was even placed atop the spire of Strasbourg Cathedral to prevent its destruction in 1794!

Following the restoration of the French Monarchy in 1815, but remained an indelible part of French culture, even appearing as the symbol of the 2024 Paris Olympics!

(Image is from a Bande-Dessinee, but I can't seem to find which one to source...)

So I find it very interesting that in 1892, Mssr. Clouard associates the cap with "forçats" (Forced labour convicts). Its a fascinating bit of history nestled into a tiny snapshot of a guy crossing a river to a remote peninsula. Back to the river.

"The ferryman is there, who is waiting for me. A figure of old fisherman, twist and cooked under the beret. … By the modest sum of two sous, I embark, the old man lights his pipe and sails, and three minutes later, I am in front of the tiny port of Passage [de Saint-Jean], a real toy port with a miniature quay, terminal circled with iron, customs hut and, swinging on the waves, three or four fishermen's boats"

Tancrède Martel (1897)

I love some of the term "port-joujou" (Toy Port). Mssr. Martel is from Marseille, so I feel he is allowed to have a somewhat judgy, but cute take on this little river landing with 5 boats in it.

In 1907, a steam ferry came to town, to the dismay of the locals. The ferry was expensive and inconveniently timed, and drove all the local ferrymen out of business. When it wasn't in operation, people had to drive all the way up to a different crossing upriver, as they had to do in the middle ages!!! Its a great example of the conflict between the industrial age and traditional local customs, as the "progress" of industrialization actually inconvenienced everyone!

in 1930, a bridge was built, but the ferries returned during WWII when the fleeing German army blew up the bridge.

I hope you enjoyed this little deep dive into history with me. I find it fascinating that so much history can come out of a little crossing over a small river in a remote part of the world. The crossing at Plougastel offers us a glimpse of a community grappling with national identity and the march of industry. But it also shows us something special. Laughing women playing and singing on a river, writers from far off cities and locals on their daily commute sharing a brief moment of connection, and the men and women who connected these tiny points on the map.

[f4iryt3a]

Antiva's Night - Rookanis (Lucanis*Rook) +18

Back with a Rookanis OS! This the the winner of my GA : @/drdevoraak (on twt!) btw Kat is a really good author! don't hesitate to read her work!

--

The Antivan Palace sparkled with a thousand lights, a cathedral dedicated to extravagance and the art of concealing truths. Every detail seemed crafted to dazzle: from the golden and mother-of-pearl arches sculpted with an almost otherworldly precision, to the vast mirrors adorning the walls, reflecting the brilliance of monumental chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Crystals, cut to capture and scatter light, sent kaleidoscopic bursts across the sumptuous gowns and intriguing masks of the guests.

The evening was steeped in an intoxicating fragrance, a blend of exotic spices, rare flowers, and spiced wine. The heady notes seemed perfectly matched to the music resonating through the hall: a sensual melody played by violins and lutes. The smooth rhythms guided the movements of the dancers, their masks concealing expressions behind faces of silver, feathers, and gemstones.

Each guest was a mystery wrapped in dark or shimmering fabrics, with delicate embroidery trailing along the cloth like whispers from another world. The voices, hushed and velvety, added to the air of enigma, muted laughter and murmurs gliding from one corner of the room to the next.

Lucanis, on the fringes of this opulent display, observed it all with a keen eye. His imposing figure, draped in a black velvet cloak trimmed with silver, seemed made to draw attention—even in a crowd this extravagant. But the mask he wore—a masterpiece of ebony adorned with crimson patterns—emanated an aura that discouraged onlookers from lingering too long.

He stood apart, positioned to take in the entire room. His sharp eyes, shadowed beneath the mask, tracked the movements of the crowd with calculated precision. Every step, every gesture, was a potential clue for his mission. Yet, behind that cold and professional vigilance, another fire burned—wilder and harder to tame.

His thoughts, despite himself, drifted to Rook. She was supposed to join him tonight, her presence vital to maintaining their cover and advancing their objective. But it wasn’t merely strategic necessity that made him restless. An indefinable tension stirred within him every time he thought of her—a strain he fought to suppress, yet which refused to fade.

And yet, she had not arrived. An hour had passed, and though he knew she would come, the waiting had begun to wear down his composure. His hand brushed firmly over his mask, as though grounding himself, his gaze lingering on the grand entrance where each new arrival brought a flicker of hope… only to extinguish it moments later.

"Pathetic."

The voice, sly and mocking, echoed in his mind. Spite, the shadow that had plagued him for far too long, could not resist commenting on such a display of weakness.

"Here you are, a Dellamorte, scanning the crowd like a lovesick adolescent searching for a dance. Is this really why we’re here, Lucanis? Or have you forgotten the purpose of that mask you wear ?"

He clenched his jaw, his fist tightening involuntarily. Spite always knew where to strike, each word carefully chosen to press on raw wounds. But this wasn’t the time or place to let that voice win. Not tonight. Not here.

"She’ll come" he replied mentally, his conviction teetering on the edge of desperation.

"Oh, I don’t doubt it" Spite shot back with venomous amusement "But when she does, will you still be focused ? Or will you already be lost in your little illusions ?"

Lucanis lifted his chin, forcing his attention back to the crowd. He couldn’t afford to waste time on internal quarrels. Yet with every beat of his heart, the weight of waiting grew heavier, and the thought of seeing her finally step through those doors became more urgent.

The game had only just begun, but he knew the real dance would start with her.

She appeared in the doorway of the grand hall like an apparition, her sculpted silhouette bathed in the warm glow of the chandeliers. Everything about her exuded an intoxicating blend of mystery and confidence. Her mask, a masterpiece of black and gold filigree, clung to the delicate curves of her face without revealing her features, framing eyes that glittered with mischievous intensity.

Rook wore a gown of deep midnight blue, embroidered with silver threads that caught the light with every movement. The daring cut of her attire, revealing just enough to intrigue, contrasted with the elegant flow of the fabric that brushed against the floor. A delicate belt adorned with sapphires accentuated her slender waist, and her lips, painted a vivid red, completed the picture of calculated seduction.

But it was the details that captured Lucanis. The fine line of golden eyeliner accentuating her lids reminded him of sunlight glinting through a dusty window during a mission they had once shared. The way she moved, each step precise and gracefully measured, was a dance he had seen countless times yet never without fascination.

No one in the crowd seemed to recognise her. To them, she was just another enigma, an elegant and masked woman detached from any identity. But to Lucanis, there was no mistaking her. It was Rook.

She crossed the room with a disarming confidence, her eyes sweeping over the crowd as if searching for something—or someone. Lucanis felt his heart quicken slightly as she approached, her heels clicking softly against the marble. When she finally stopped before him, she tilted her head slightly, her mask rendering her smile unreadable.

“You look rather lonely, sir…?” she said, her voice light and tinged with feigned curiosity.

Lucanis arched a brow behind his mask. She was playing, as always, and he wasn’t sure he had the patience for her theatrics tonight. Yet, despite himself, he felt a flicker of amusement.

“Just another guest” he replied evenly “Though it seems you intend to change that.”

She let out a soft laugh, a sound both gentle and sharp “Perhaps. You seem intriguing… but I’ve learned to be wary of black masks.”

Before he could respond, a sarcastic voice slithered into his mind “She’s good. Look at you, Talon, already melting. You’ll be on your knees before she even lays a hand on you.”

Lucanis clenched his jaw, his gaze hardening for a moment " Not now"  he replied silently to Spite. Rook noticed. She tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering in her expression.

“You seem tense. Something on your mind ?” she asked with a falsely innocent tone “Nothing you could solve” he replied, his words sliding out with measured smoothness.

She laughed again, mischief glinting in her eyes “Then let’s dance. Perhaps it will ease your troubles.”

Rook extended her hand, her fingers delicate but assured, inviting him to join her on the floor. Lucanis hesitated briefly—not out of reluctance but caution. Yet, at last, he placed his hand in hers, the warmth of her touch awakening something he strove to keep in check.

They moved to the centre of the room, where couples were already swaying, the music wrapping around them like an intimate whisper. Rook slid a hand to his shoulder while his own found its place at the small of her back. Though their bodies maintained a respectable distance, it felt as though an invisible force pulled them closer.

The melody rose, slow and sensual, guiding their steps. Rook led subtly, her hidden smile evident in the curve of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes. Lucanis, so accustomed to commanding every situation, felt his control falter slightly. Each step, each turn, seemed to amplify the tension between them.

The glances they exchanged became their own language. His dark eyes followed every movement of hers, catching the chandelier’s light that danced on her skin. She, in turn, seemed to delight in testing his composure, her hand brushing his elbow or arm with a softness that was almost imperceptible but wholly deliberate.

Spite’s voice slithered back, mocking yet oddly admiring. " She’s got you. Like a puppet on strings."

Lucanis ignored the voice, focusing instead on the sensation of Rook in his arms, the faint, intoxicating scent of her, and the peculiar blend of control and surrender that seeped into him. For that moment, the mission was miles from his mind.

When the music stopped, it felt as though the world around them had vanished. All that remained was the fragile tension between them, an equilibrium neither seemed willing to break. Rook offered him one last smile—enigmatic and full of promise—before stepping back, leaving the void of her absence to strike him with unexpected intensity.

The evening still buzzed with the revelry of the grand celebration, yet for them, the world had narrowed to a murmur. Rook, with a gesture both subtle and commanding, caught Lucanis’s hand and led him away from the dance floor. He followed without a word, drawn by the mischievous gleam in her eyes. She navigated the crowd with calculated ease, the masks and opulent gowns fading into insignificance around them.

They finally stopped in a hidden alcove, concealed behind a curtain of deep purple velvet. Beyond an archway, a balcony offered an unobstructed view of the gardens, glowing softly under golden lanterns. The music, now distant, was little more than an echo, replaced by the gentle rustling of the wind through the leaves and the quiet murmur of a fountain below.

Rook turned towards him, her mask glinting in the pale light of the moon. She hesitated for a moment, but the mischievous curve of her lips did not waver. Lucanis, ever on guard, felt his heart quicken slightly. This isolation, this unexpected closeness, stirred something within him that he had carefully buried.

With deliberate slowness, he raised a hand and brushed the edge of Rook’s mask. "May I ?" he asked, his deep voice barely audible.

She didn’t respond with words but inclined her head slightly, a gesture so subtle it was almost imperceptible—yet it was all the consent he needed. Lucanis removed the mask with care, his fingers grazing her skin as if he feared shattering the moment. As her face was revealed, his breath caught.

Rook was stunning. Not merely in the obvious sense, but in the way she looked at the world—with defiance and amusement, a spark in her eyes that always seemed poised to disarm him. Yet tonight, there was something more. A rare, almost imperceptible vulnerability that made this moment all the more precious.

Their eyes met, and the silence between them grew almost tangible. The mask he still wore suddenly felt oppressive, like a barrier he longed to break. But before he could dwell on it further, Rook lifted a hand to touch his jaw, her touch light yet electrifying.

Their breaths quickened, and the space between them narrowed ever so slightly. He could smell her subtle perfume, a blend of flowers and spices, intoxicating and familiar. Lucanis was tempted to give in, to close the infinitesimal distance between them, yet something in his stance still held him back.

As their faces hovered mere centimetres apart, a mocking voice echoed in his mind “Well, Talon, are you planning to undress her here, or will you find a bed? Because, frankly, this hesitation is becoming embarrassing.”

Lucanis closed his eyes, fighting to shut out the remark. He drew in a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but Spite, as ever, persisted “Look at you, like an overexcited pup. It’s almost pathetic. Perhaps I should intervene ? Or are you planning to drown yourself in these pointless emotions a while longer ?”

A flicker of frustration passed through Lucanis’s eyes, and Rook, ever observant, caught it. She stepped back slightly, studying him with a hint of curiosity “Something bothering you ?” she asked, an impish smile tugging at the corner of her lips, as though she already knew.

Lucanis shook his head slightly, but before he could answer, Spite chimed in with one last jab. “Go on, tell her you want her.”

He mentally rolled his eyes, suppressing the urge to sigh. Rook, however, seemed entertained by his silence. Tilting her head, she let her fingers briefly graze his hand “You seem... tense again” she said softly, though her tone carried a playful edge.

Lucanis straightened, summoning his usual composure “Nothing I can’t handle” he replied, his voice low and steady. She smiled then, more genuinely this time “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on letting you escape that easily.”

The air between them grew charged once more. Despite Spite’s intrusive presence, Lucanis felt a wave of warmth and desire wash over him. Rook, in a subtle yet loaded gesture, let her hand brush against his again, a silent invitation to pick up where they had left off.

The quiet of the balcony was broken only by the uneven breaths of the two would-be lovers, their hearts beating in unison. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, caught in a shared contemplation that seemed to stretch beyond time itself. But the tension, too powerful to remain contained, finally broke.

Lucanis was the first to give in, leaning towards Rook, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that began soft and searching but quickly grew fervent, almost desperate. Their masks fell to the ground with a dull thud, forgotten, as they moved closer still. Their bodies, drawn together by an irresistible force, pressed tightly against one another, hands exploring every curve, every contour, with an intensity that silenced all hesitation.

Lucanis’s hands slid down Rook’s waist, caressing the curve of her hips with palpable desire. He grew bolder, his fingers trailing lower, lingering on her forms. She let out a small whimper into the kiss, a sound that sent a shiver through Lucanis from head to toe.

Rook was not holding back either. Her hands gripped his back, her nails tracing invisible lines through the fabric of his suit. She pressed herself against him, surrendering to the all-consuming pleasure that overtook her with every touch.

The kiss deepened, their tongues intertwining in a carefree and passionate dance, as if the world around them had ceased to exist. Rook’s dress, so elegant just moments before, split slightly as she moved, revealing one of her thighs. Lucanis, unable to resist, allowed one of his hands to glide down the soft, warm skin.

His fingers gripped her thigh with controlled firmness, making her shiver at the touch. Rook, electrified by the gesture, pressed herself even closer to him, craving more of the contact that drove her nearly mad.

Despite the fever of the moment, Lucanis’s mind remained alert. He glanced around them. The balcony seemed calm, almost deserted, shielded from prying eyes. However, he knew they had to be cautious. In a swift decision, he gently took Rook by the hand and led her to a discreet corner, a ledge where the balustrade offered them a little more privacy.

There, sheltered by the shadows and the height, he pressed her against the balustrade, his burning gaze locked on hers. His hands returned to her waist, this time more insistent, exploring with growing boldness.

His mouth left hers, slowly descending along her jaw, tracing a heated path on the tender skin of her neck. Each kiss was a tribute, a silent promise. Rook let out a trembling sigh, her hands shaking slightly as they caressed the still-clad chest of Lucanis.

Her fingers brushed over the folds of fabric, almost frustrated by her inability to reach the skin she desired. She bit her lip slightly, half-drunk on her own thoughts. Lucanis’s hand, however, continued its exploration, sliding up her thigh until it rested just below her bottom.

Rook, feeling the bold caress, arched her back slightly, her hands gripping his shoulders as if to anchor herself in reality. Lucanis, still methodical but driven by an uncontrollable desire, lowered further, his lips brushing the hollows and curves of her throat.

Each movement, each touch, was a crescendo, a rising tension that consumed them both. Trembling yet eager, Rook gave herself fully to the wave of emotions. She knew they had to stay discreet, but the burn of his caresses and the heat of his kisses melted all her inhibitions.

On his side, Lucanis barely controlled the fire burning within him. Every sigh, every shiver he drew from Rook was a victory, a reason to push even further. Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice reminded him that they had to remain cautious. But for now, this hidden balcony was their entire world, and nothing else mattered.

Rook, her cheeks already flushed with desire, felt an irresistible urge take over. One of her hands, trembling but determined, slid down Lucanis's chest, her fingers gliding over the fabric like a silent promise. The heat beneath her palms seemed to consume her, every muscle she touched vibrating under her caress. When she reached the prominent bulge marking Lucanis's erection, a shiver ran through her.

The contact of that hardness, so evident, so hot, made her gasp lightly. She dared to place her fingers more confidently, savoring the contrast between the softness of the fabric and the firmness of what it hid. With her other hand, as their lips met again in a kiss full of passion, she began to undo the buttons and fly of Lucanis's pants. Every movement, though precise, was slow, as if she wanted to prolong this moment.

With exquisite delicacy, she slid one hand into Lucanis’s underwear, her fingers finding their way to the object of her desire. When she gently wrapped her fingers around his erection, a hoarse groan escaped Lucanis’s lips, making the air around them vibrate.

Encouraged by his reaction, Rook began to move her hand with deliberate slowness, alternating light caresses and subtle pressures. Lucanis's breathing became erratic, his usual control faltering. Spite, in a corner of his mind, stirred violently "Let me take over, Talon." The voice, mocking but urgent, wormed its way into his mind. But Lucanis, though tortured, resisted, clenching his jaw to avoid giving in.

To respond to the rising, unbearable pleasure, one of Lucanis’s hands moved up to the generous curve of Rook’s backside. His fingers, firm but respectful, gripped it, expressing with this gesture all the burning desire consuming him. The sigh she let out at this contact only fueled his inner fire further.

Rook, feeling that he was about to lose control, couldn’t help but laugh softly. "You can barely hold on, Lucanis," she murmured, her voice laced with teasing.

Lucanis responded by diving into her neck, planting a series of hot, devouring kisses that made Rook tremble. He didn’t stop there, his lips moving with calculated slowness over the skin of her neck to slide down along her chest.

As Rook shuddered under his kisses, she placed a trembling hand on Lucanis’ head, her fingers sliding through his hair to encourage him to continue. Her breath quickened, her gaze following his every movement with an almost unbearable anticipation.

Lucanis, determined and precise, slowly knelt before her, his hands sliding beneath Rook’s dress. He found the delicate fabric of her lacy panties and, maintaining intense eye contact with her, slid them slowly down her legs. Rook gasped, her eyes betraying the intensity of her desire, her chest rising and falling in rapid rhythm.

Every second of this undressing was a ritual, a silent homage to the woman before him. When he let the final piece of fabric drop, he wasted no time. His lips moved closer, pressing a tender, reverent kiss to her vulva.

Rook, unable to stifle a muffled moan, gripped Lucanis’ hair with one hand while the other steadied herself on the balcony railing. She parted her legs slightly, offering him the space he needed to continue.

Lucanis didn’t hesitate for a moment. His tongue traced exquisite circles around her clitoris before descending to savour every inch of her. He alternated between gentle kisses and firmer strokes of his tongue, exploring every reaction he drew from her.

She, in turn, struggled to contain her moans. The nearness of the balcony and the risk of being overheard made every sound feel all the more forbidden, heightening their excitement. Her legs trembled slightly, and she knew she was already on the brink of surrendering to this wave of sensations.

Lucanis, feeling his own desire reaching its peak, continued his worship with an almost agonising precision, determined to make her unravel. Rook, clutching his hair more tightly, felt a warmth rising within her, a tide threatening to sweep her away entirely.

Rook, feeling the wave of pleasure swelling within her, placed a trembling hand on Lucanis’ head, silently asking him to stop. “Not yet,” she murmured breathlessly, her cheeks flushed with the effort of restraining her desire.

Lucanis obeyed, pulling back with a smile laced with satisfaction. He slowly licked his lips, savouring the lingering taste of his lover, before sliding back up her body. Once level with her face, he pressed a tender, deep kiss to her lips, their breaths mingling, hearts pounding in unison.

Foreheads touching, he murmured in a voice husky yet uncharacteristically soft “Are you sure ?”

Rook nodded, her eyes gleaming with trust and desire. Without another word, she slid one leg along Lucanis’ hip, anchoring him firmly against her and granting him access to her intimacy.

Lucanis, trembling with palpable anticipation, let his hand trail down to grasp his erection. With an almost teasing slowness, he began rubbing it against Rook’s vulva, tracing lazy circles that coaxed a series of delightful little squeaks from her lips.

Spite, unable to remain silent, stirred in his mind: “Are you playing games, Talon? Strike where it hurts, or let me take over.”

Lucanis ignored him, focusing entirely on the pleasure he was giving Rook. He let the tip of his erection glide down to her entrance, their breaths mingling in a crescendo of anticipation. Without further delay, he pushed gently into her, the tight, searing heat of his lover enveloping him completely.

Rook, wrapping her arms and legs tightly around him, clung to him like a lifeline, her body trembling under the avalanche of sensations. Stifled whimpers escaped her lips, which she bit to stifle louder moans.

Lucanis, now fully buried inside her, paused to allow her time to adjust. His gaze scanned her face, watching for any signs of discomfort or pain. But Rook quickly adapted, her hands gripping his back for support. She gave a small roll of her hips, a silent signal that she was ready.

With care, Lucanis grasped her hips and began moving, slow and measured. Each thrust drew soft groans from him, his pleasure mingling with intense focus.

Rook, her head tilting back slightly, was consumed by pure, rippling pleasure. Her fingers dug lightly into the fabric of Lucanis’ coat, seeking release from the overwhelming sensations. Her moans remained soft, but her expression betrayed the ecstasy building within her.

Lucanis couldn’t stop himself from murmuring compliments between his growls, his deep voice vibrating with passion: “You’re perfect… So beautiful…” These words, whispered into her ear, made Rook blush even more, etching this moment permanently into her memory.

After a few minutes of this almost unbearable tenderness, Lucanis felt a more primal urge rising within him. His grip on Rook’s hips tightened, and his movements became faster and deeper.

Rook, swept away by this newfound intensity, finally let out more audible moans, her body arching beneath Lucanis’ powerful thrusts. She bit lightly into his shoulder to stifle a cry, her pleasure soaring to heights she had never experienced before.

In a surge of raw passion, Lucanis let out more unfiltered, yet genuine, words that deepened the trust and surrender between them. Every movement seemed to seal their connection, the chemistry between them tangible in the air thick with desire.

The rhythm quickened further, their bodies perfectly in sync in a passionate dance. Rook, feeling an irresistible warmth building within her, couldn’t hold back her climax any longer. With a broken gasp, she murmured Lucanis’ name, her body tightening around him.

Lucanis, spurred on by the sight and sensation of his lover, let out a final guttural growl as he reached his own release, trembling with the force of it. Rook, clutching at the back of his neck, let out one last squeak as they both nearly collapsed against each other, their bodies still quivering.

They stayed still for a moment, their breaths short and their hearts beating in unison. Lucanis, eyes closed, pressed a kiss to Rook’s forehead, murmuring in a husky voice “You’re incredible…”

Rook, still trembling, replied in a soft, playful but sincere whisper “It’s you who make me like this…”

They savored the stolen moment, their bodies still entwined, fully aware that the outside world would eventually catch up with them but determined to relish this pause in time.

As the atmosphere between them softened, their breaths still uneven and their bodies gradually relaxing, hurried footsteps echoed nearby. Before they could react, a hesitant voice shattered their bubble.. “Lucanis ? Rook ? Are you there ?”

It was Viago, clearly uncomfortable, his silhouette emerging from the shadows of the balcony. Behind him stood Teia, arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between irritation and amusement.

Lucanis and Rook exchanged a panicked glance before quickly composing themselves. Rook, still slightly disheveled with her dress slightly wrinkled, straightened up, hastily adjusting her clothing. Lucanis ran a hand through his hair to smooth the disorder and swiftly fastened the buttons of his trousers. “We’re here” he called out, his voice still hoarse, attempting to mask his embarrassment.

Viago, despite his evident discomfort, couldn’t help but notice the tension in the air. He quickly averted his eyes and said, perhaps too fast “Sorry to, uh… interrupt, but there’s a problem. Someone inside is asking questions about you, and it might compromise the mission.”

Teia, raising an eyebrow, added dryly “I assume you’ll have plenty of time to… talk later. For now, you’d better get back inside.”

Rook, struggling to suppress a laugh, cast an amused glance at Lucanis. He sighed deeply, his face a mixture of exasperation and embarrassment. Extending a hand to help her up, his fingers pressed lightly against hers in a silent, tender acknowledgment of their bond. “We’re coming” he replied simply, his tone professional once more, though a faint flush lingered on his cheeks.

As they made their way inside, Spite seized the opportunity to make one last comment, his mocking tone echoing in Lucanis’s mind “What a shame. I bet she would’ve screamed your name one more time if they’d given you another two minutes. Maybe you should ask them for an extension ?”

Lucanis closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly to keep his composure. Rook, noticing the fleeting tension in his expression, teased him with a soft whisper “What did he say this time ?” Lucanis shook his head, exasperated yet unable to hide a small smile “Nothing important. As always.”

Rook chuckled lightly, squeezing his hand briefly before letting go to assume a more composed posture. Together, they reentered the room, their faces flawlessly concealing what had just transpired, though the lingering warmth between them remained palpable.

--

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[vanam0nde]

Cathedrals (and goths) everywhere

Two artworks in two days. I am unstoppable. I cannot be stopped. Except by the Clip Studio Program which kindly informed me that this piece was A Bit Heavy On the Computer.

So it's done. A non-smiling Dante, which is quite rare from me! I really ought to write his story. My beta reader demands it.

I went to the nearest cathedral (15 minutes away) for reference and came up with a few ugly sketches and the firm conviction that I could never draw that well. Still tried.

And since I like doing it, the very first sketch:

[haematicartwork]

npc idea i had. no idea where i‘m gonna use them yet, but we will see.

note that this person is from a fictional setting of mine, Furroe, so the outfit draws from several sources and isn’t specifically based on one singular human culture, hence the „inaccuracies“ when comparing it to various human irl cultural outfits

If you wanna know what this persons deal is, ramble below the cut. PLAYERS OF MINE, DO NOT READ MORE. YOU‘RE WARNED o^

This is Yahuí dé yán sè, a priestess from my fictional setting, Furroe, specifically from the country of Xin. She‘s a kind, intelligent daughter of a noble family and showed great enthusiasm for her clergical duties, and was excited to take over her position as an ambassador for her nations religion, which is based heavily around dreams, sleep, and the restful oblivion of death. She comforts the grieving, visits communities of expatriates and performs ceremonies.

Secretly, however, Yahui knows something is off. In the world of furroe, the inner desires and convictions of people manifest physically in their body, whether they want to or not, and she has long since begun to transform into a centimanes, a mutated form of human that grow extra limbs, tongues, fingers and organs due to supressing a strong physical desire. Yahuis best kept secret is one she has tried to hide even from herself: He isn’t a daughter, but a man. Unwilling to let go of his duties, family and kind demeanor in order to pursue life as a man with differing societal expectations, Yahui attempts to supress the desire, and has his bodyguards amputate any extremities out of place, at great cost to his personal health.

Whether or not he ever comes to prioritize his own happiness is up to the players and how they interact and encourage him. I had this character idea after realising how much i miss certain kinds of transmasc representation in my life, and wanting to express a lot of my own feelings about being transmasc in my games, and art. I will probably make and post art of Yahui in masculine garbs and presentation. He‘s the kind of person who would stay with his old name, which is a notion i care about a lot as a transmasc with a stereotypically feminine name that i have to constantly defend. Similarly, Yahui struggles with the fact that he feels that no pursuit of his true gender would ever be worth it, due to his facial features and beauty, and i want to make art that keeps him recognisable, while also reframing his features as more masculine. he‘s kinda wish fulfillment, and definitely kinda projection, but i care him a lot. the idea of looking at this art and seeing a matronly princess, and then looking again and learning to see/looking for the young man within is something that fascinates me endlessly. There are cathedrals for those with eyes to see, and there are men within women and women within men for those with the heart to understand them,

[elvensemi]

Which of these stories sounds most interesting?

I'm getting so little traction polling my patrons that I figured I'd run some polls over here. Tumblr bitches love polls. So here's 4 synopsis, tell me which one you'd most want to read.

Sanctuary [Urban Fantasy] [Monster Smoochin'] Ren finds herself stranded in an unfamiliar city after escaping from human traffickers. In dire straights and still on the run, she finds shelter in an old, abandoned cathedral... only to find that it is very much inhabited, by an ancient gargoyle that hasn't been awoken in hundreds of years.

Beg [Fantasy] [More Monster Smoochin'] After being convicted of numerous crimes, including but not limited to arson and terrorism, Ren [work with me here] finds herself enrolled in a criminal rehabilitation program that operates directly under the authority of the king (who is a dragon). She maintains her innocence, but no one, including her manager, a half-demon with a perpetual headache thanks to her antics, is interested in listening.

your favorite sidekick [Post-Apocalyptic] [Superhero] [Corruption Arc] In a world--and a country--struggling to rebuild after the appearance of superpowered people ravaged the world order for decades, Seiji, much more widely known as Panacea, is one of the most shining examples of heroism. His ability to heal all ailments and injuries instantly rocketed him into stardom from a battered and grateful population. He, however, has a secret: his power is tied to his cousin, supervillain Super Cancer, who can unleash all the injuries and ailments he cures onto whoever she touches. He has another secret: he likes her a lot more than the other heroes.

The Rebel and the Poet [High Fantasy] [Dark Fantasy] In a world where magic serves as the ultimate form of dominance, and little matters as much as how much power one wields, one man is uninterested in either. A poet and professional layabout, Sorin is doing his best to avoid responsibility... that is, until he meets and immediately falls in love with Artemos, a local noble's slave. In Sorin's quest to win his heart, both of them soon learn that there is nothing a lazy man won't do once given real motivation for the first time.