#How To Call Jinn For Money

[amliyatkamaster]

How to Call Jinn For Help

Quickly as possible. According to luck someone gets more money. So someone is not able to get even one meal properly. In such a situation, some people think of how to call jinn for money. But they do not find any guru to guide them properly.

How to Call Jinn For Help

The jinn is a money making machine. Once you start it, no one can stop you from becoming a millionaire. Jinn will eliminate all your money problems from their roots.

Although there are many means to attain spiritual wealth, like lakshmi sadhana, kuber sadhana, apsara Sadhana, but the easiest and quick to accomplish sadhana is considered to be jinn Sadhana.

The name of the jinn who will come to help you today is Ifrit jinn. This is a muslim jinn. This Jinn was also with allahdin. Who used to do all the work of allahdin immediately. Whatever allahdin needed, he would rub the magic lamp, and the Ifrit jinn would come out of that magic lamp, and would fulfill all the wishes of allahdin.

Today you have to summon Ifrit Jinn without any magic lamp and will tell you how to befriend him.

First of all you search for such a place. Where no one comes and goes.You have to bring one and a quarter kg of any sweet and take it home in advance.

Now you have to go to that place with sweets at 1 o’clock in the night.

You have to sit on the floor and keep sweets in front of you. And a desi ghee lamp has to be lit.

You have to chant this mantra 41 times by closing both your eyes. Mantra- Share Shram Ifrit Jinn Prakat Hun Phat Svaaha

As soon as you have chanted the mantra 41 times, only then you have to open your eyes. As soon as you open your eyes, you will see a ifrit jinn standing in front of you.

Whatever work you ask this jinn to do, he will complete it within a short time. The amount of money you will need. You can order it from this jinn. Ifrit jinn will bring a pile of money in front of you. There is only one condition for this implementation, that you do not have to tell anything about this money to anyone.

[itsseohannbin]

• The Blackened Heart • Part Two

A Han Jisung Mini Series

© itshannjisung, 2024

♡ itsseohannbins masterlist ♡

⚓️ Series Masterlist ⚓️

Genre: Pirate SKZ

Pairing: PirateThief!Jisung x Female Captain Reader x Ex-Bandit Lino

Summary: When Y/N, Captain of the Blackened Heart, gets offered a large sum of money to deliver a thief to the Jarl of Serpent Point, she and her crew greedily accept. But while spending time with the familiar thief during their long journey back home, she realizes just how important human connection can be, even for a pirate.

Warnings: Mentions of violence/death. Several mentions of decapitation (no actual beheading occurs, just a brief mention of it). Mentions of deceased family members. Mentions of poverty/living poor. Mentions of intimacy & sex (no actual sex, just brief mentions of it). Mentions/depictions of misogyny (these were old times okay guys? women stayed home and men were set out to fight. Female pirates were rare, don't @ me for this plz). Mentions of jealousy.

** The author has left out some warnings to create an element of surprise with certain topics in/throughout this chapter. Reader discretion is advised. **

Word Count: 6.6k

A/N: I am so so SO sorry that part two has taken so long to come out! I had it completed and just needed to edit it, but for the last month I've been busy with packing and preparing to move to my first apartment, the holidays and family, fighting off a bad case of pneumonia, and more packing. We're two days away from getting the keys and then we'll be spending the next week or so moving into the new place. I wanted to post this on Christmas as a holiday gift, but like I said, I was extremely sick and spent most of my Christmas holidays in bed. Nevertheless, Part Two is here, and I'm so excited for you to read this chapter!!

As always, your feedback and suggestions are always welcome!!

Enjoy!!

Cliffpoint Hollow, the city in which the Queen of Fatewatch resided, was an absolute marvel—a haven of beauty perched on the edge of the world. The city sat atop a towering cliff, its sharp edges plunging down into the expanse of endless blue below. The sun hung low in the sky, scattering golden light across the waves, and the faint call of seagulls mingled with the hum of the docks below.

Lush greenery framed the path leading up to the city gates, a riot of flowers tumbling over stone walls as if nature itself strived to embrace this place in its hold. It was a landscape from a dream, vibrant and alive, unlike the harsh, smoked-soaked docks of Serpent Point. Here, the air was fresh, untainted by the stench of desperation. Even the castle, poised like a sentinel at the top of the cliff, seemed less like a fortress and more like a beacon of hope for those who dared brave the sea.

The sight of it filled you with a strange lightness, as if the weight you carried on the journey here had evaporated under the sun's warmth. For a fleeting moment, you could almost forget the job ahead, the lies you'd woven, and the storm waiting to break on the horizon of your future. But the glimmer of peace was deceptive, a shallow comfort before the plunge.

The journey to Cliffpoint Hollow had been a long one. The weather held up for the majority of the trip, with a small storm only hitting on the first few days at sea. The crew and you stopped briefly in Eagle's Bay so Jinn and Seungmo could see their families, a small price you were more than willing to pay to keep them happy.

During your night in Eagle's Bay, the crew and you spent all your time with the wives of Seungmo and Jinn, wrapped in warm blankets surrounded by a campfire, where everyone told stories and roasted fresh meat over the open flames. Jinn's son was a delight to be around, the world's happiest baby as Binni had called him several times, and you briefly felt yourself longing for the life your crew members had. 

You couldn't help but think that this is where you'd be yourself if everything hadn't been destroyed all those years ago. Happily married with a baby or two, living a quiet, easy-going life surrounded by those who mattered most. The thought didn't last long, as you were quick to remind yourself that you never would've forged this family without taking to life on the waters in the first place.

Still, the idea of living this lifestyle when all was said and done was appealing, and you kept yourself longing for it, if only to give you a reason to look forward to the future. 

Lord knows you needed one.

The next morning, Ophelia and Millie loaded you and your crew up with even more supplies than necessary, adding onto the mass amount you had received from Foucher the week before, and then you and the guys were off for whatever awaited for you in Cliffpoint Hollow.

The boys were happy with the supplies Foucher had provided, though Seungmo was highly suspicious of the man's intent. You had to feign your confusion around him and his observant behavior the most, acting as if you didn't know the real reason why Foucher had offered so much for such a 'minuscule job' as Jeo had once put it. Nobody else would question the way the food supply nearly tripled in size, or the new mattresses that sat atop their cots, layered with warm blankets and fluffy pillows. Seungmo was the only one to ask questions, and you feared the time you'd run out of answers.

You hated lying to your men. One of the policies you established when you sold your mother's farm and bought your first ship years ago was that honesty was the most important attribute. You couldn't have a stable crew working alongside you if your relationships with them were built on lies. However, when it came to the Jarl, and now to the thief you were fetching for him like some pack-rat, the lies were all you could offer.

You knew that what seemed like nothing short of a good deed done by the man in charge of Serpent Point and the surrounding land, was actually just the calm before the storm. Foucher likely had given you so much stuff knowing you and your crew would fail just so he could take it all back and watch the despair and utter heartbreak on your face when he did so. Hell, he'd probably kill you too if he felt right, leaving your men without a leader and your ship without a Captain; he just needed probable cause, and a failed mission like this was probable enough.

You shuddered at the thought and pushed your mind elsewhere.

There was what felt like an endless supply of beans and jerky, and Yongbokki was absolutely ecstatic with the amount of perishables and ingredients brought aboard; Foucher really did think of everything, as much as you hated to admit it. Yongbokki spent the first three months at sea experimenting in the kitchenette with the high-end food that was provided. For a man who had spent most of his youth training to be a surgeon, he sure did know how to cook up a good meal with the right ingredients. The rest of the boys and you were nothing short of grateful for all his hard work. 

The quality of the linens that were brought aboard was also unbelievable. Everything was comfy. Almost too comfy. Aside from the soft sheets, feather pillows and cushion padding applied to every single cot below deck, the crew was also gifted extra throws and decorative pillows for the common areas where everyone spent most of their time relaxing, playing games, resting and lounging about if they weren't above deck in the sun. Even the dozens of hardwood benches and chairs Binni hand crafted over the years that filled the dining room, each one extrordinarily different than the next, all got small pieces of padding fastened onto them to make meal times all the more enjoyable. 

The bathing quarters were graced with some new tubs, these much sturdier and heavier than the ones you already had, and an additional heating mechanism was hauled in by guards to add onto the old broken one you already had. Now the crew could enjoy hot baths on those particularly cold nights and not have to worry about hogging all of the warmth from the next person in line. 

It was maddening, all these changes and additions to the ship. It all felt too good to be true, and you were pained to see your crew living so lavishly and happy when you knew it wasn't going to last long. There were several moments during the trip, more often than not, when you debated taking a sword to Foucher's throat when he inevitably ended up taking everything back. You wanted your crew to live in luxury for as long as they breathed, and not being able to provide that luxury without Foucher's help was driving you crazy. 

Luckily, Lino was there by your side day in and day out, listening to you voice these frustrations after long nights in bed when your anxieties would reach an all time high. He helped talk you out of your own head, helped soothe the worries that filled your mind, and helped relax your body in every way he could when he couldn't offer anything else. He even helped plot Foucher's death a thousand different ways just to see you smile when the tears of anger grew to be too much, and you felt yourself growing more and more enamored with him as each day went on. 

You and Lino both agreed long before that whatever the two of you had was purely only physical, though you couldn't deny the feelings you had when he would come to your chambers late at night, the way he looked at you under the stars, or the way he devoured your senses each time his skin touched yours. You were becoming convinced that he was the person you would live a quiet life with back in Eagle's Bay, and the rest of the crew seemed adamant on the idea too, until the night your ship finally docked peacefully at the Cliffpoint Hollow Pier. Then everything came flooding back to you, and everything changed once again.

You had arrived in Cliffpoint early one evening. You had never been, none of the crew had, but you all heard your fair share of stories about the beautiful place.

The city was huge compared to Serpent Point, and the crowd was much more pleasant. Guards were stationed across the docks every hundred feet or so, putting a stop to all types of crimes that would've been committed daily if this was back home. Just off to the left of the docks, there was a huge market. People were happily shopping and laughing alongside each other, and unsupervised children ran about. Nobody had to worry about attempted arson, assassinations, or pickpockets here. Everybody was calm and at ease. It almost felt like you stepped into a dream, seeing as the Serpent Point docks always brought on a layer of tension the second your feet hit the wooden boards, each and every time.

Maybe it was just the memory of what happened that made it so, but you didn't want to dwell on it long enough to decipher which was true. Serpent Point was a dark, dangerous place compared to Cliffpoint Hollow.

A guard had met you and the crew at the docks as Jeo and Seungmo were anchoring down the ship, and a horse and carriage took you, Lino, Chan and Binni up to the castle where Queen Aliyah waited patiently for your arrival. 

Inside the walls of the city were even more friendly and uplifting than the docks were, if that was even possible. People were everywhere, everyone wearing smiles on their faces and enjoying their simple, yet hard-working days. Farmers held steady conversations with Shopkeepers, and a group of tall, bulky Blacksmiths were gathered around a small stall where an elderly woman was selling nothing but flowers. They were all laughing and conversing as if they were the greatest of friends, and it made your heart soar high.

Catching even the smallest glimpse of life in Cliffpoint Hollow was surreal. Never had you been to such a welcoming place before where everyone knew everyone, smiles were shared all around, and the city folk looked like they actually enjoyed working and living their lives within the walls.

Back in Serpent Point, most of the town folk wore faces of neutrality, talking of leaving the town and never looking back but not having the funds to do so. Everyone was disheartened, barely scraping by. You wished you could've stayed in this city forever. And the grins that were plastered on the faces of your men that sat around you told you they felt the same way, that they hadn't seen a place so humanly magical before either.

Lino was smiling as he eyed a small girl squealing about as she chased a butterfly down the dirt road across from you. He actually cracked a smile at someone who wasn't you or a member of your crew! The feat was astounding.

You took a moment to briefly revel in the idea of you and the crew moving here permanently. You knew Jinn and Seungmo would never leave their homeland behind, but the fantasy still brewed hot in your brain.

Maybe you'd find a handsome bard in the city pub and fall in love. Maybe a local guard would find you in a moment of distress and sweep you off your feet. Maybe you'd meet a hard-working farmer and return to the life you left behind but missed oh-so-dearly.

As much as you enjoyed life at sea, you couldn't deny the ache you felt in your chest from not having a permanent place to call home; that your home was more often surrounded by acres of water than it was land. You longed to settle down soon, on a big farm, just like your mother had done before she had you, and hopefully, with the payout from this assignment, you could follow in her footsteps one day.

You had set out at merely eighteen years old, determined to find the very thief you were being paid to deliver back to Foucher, and after this assignment was done, you'd be more than happy to return to life on a farm where you'd raise your future kids. It wasn't the most luxurious lifestyle to pursue, but it was one you knew you'd be content and satisfied with, and that was more than enough.

The sound of metal scraping against metal as the gate to the castle was slid open by the men who stood guard had brought you back to the present, your fantasies slipping away as quickly as the sunset colored the sky in oranges and purples.

For the entirety of the trip thus far, nothing had felt out of the ordinary. You were simply on yet another long-trek mission that the Jarl had sent you on, and soon, you'd return for your payment before being needed elsewhere. It wasn't your first delivery assignment, so you felt nothing but the familiar sense of duty resting in your bones as you travelled. It wasn't until you and your three men stood at the castle's front doors did the uneasiness in your stomach return.

Just beyond the doors, you'd be coming face to face with the man you've been hunting down since you were eighteen years old. The one you grew up on the farm with, who helped your mother with the gardening and joined you when it came time to feed and care for the livestock. The same boy who then up and left in the middle of the night, nothing but a note in his wake.

You hadn't seen or heard from Peter Han II in nine years. You knew him as Jisung Han, his birth name, but he was quick to change it after leaving the farm, and you, behind. It was easier than you expected to get used to it. Him changing his name made it easier for you to disassociate yourself from him. Jisung was the man you fell in love with, meanwhile, Peter was nothing but a lowly thief, a murderer. Referring to him as his alias made it easier to bear the idea of the death that waited for him back in Serpent Point.

He was the whole reason you set out to live at sea in the first place. The reason you sold your late mother's farm and bought your first ship. He was the one who taught you how to fight, how to love, and now, how to hate. If it weren't for the large sum of money Foucher had waiting for you in the treasury back home, you'd walk into the cell Jisung was being held in and slice his throat yourself.

A bubble of anger released itself in your system at the thought, causing you to tense up as the four of you were now being guided through the castle halls to meet with the Queen. Lino's hand resting on the small of your back protectively was the only thing keeping you grounded.

When you finally reached the doors to Queen Aliyah's common room, you were practically seething just from simply thinking about Jisung and what his family did. Lino eyed you cautiously with a raise of his brow, silently checking in to make sure you were okay. You let out a shaky breath in an attempt to calm yourself and simply nodded.

Lino was the only one who knew the truth. Despite only being a part of your crew for less than a year, he was the only one who knew the real you, who knew of your past, who knew what happened all those years ago back on the farm. As soon as Foucher had mentioned Jisung's existence back in Serpent Point, Lino was almost as shocked as you were.

He knew of the love you and the thief had once shared, how you and Jisung were supposed to exchange vows before Jisung up and left in the middle of the night to stow away. He knew that Jisung had left behind nothing but his ring and a note that only said he was sorry and that he needed to be free.

Jisung always dreamed of being an adventurer, and you would've followed him to the ends of the world and further, if not for his father and the blood the Thieves Den spilled in your village a month after Jisung's disappearance. Now you wanted nothing more than his head on a fucking pike for what he and his family did to your mother.

Lino was the only one who knew, and he was the only one who helped you heal emotionally in ways no other man ever could. Yes, he was indebted to you for pulling him out of the sea and granting him a life better than his years as a bandit, but you were indebted to him as well. Even though romantic feelings were non-existent between the two of you, Lino still sensed your every feeling, caught onto every hitch of breath you breathed, and responded to every movement you made in a way that made you feel so safe it was almost too intimate.

So, when he noticed your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your nails digging into the skin of your palm hard enough to once again break the skin, he ran his thumb soothingly up and down your spine and turned his head so his mouth was pressed just above your ear.

"Do you think Foucher would be disappointed if we beheaded the thief here and then left him behind to rot? We could use the extra time in town to grab a drink from that pub we passed on the way up here instead. I hear the owner makes a mean raspberry custard."

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh as Lino's brutal words, causing the bandit to smirk into your scalp as his hand on your back continued to relax you. The sound of your laughter was enough to set his body at ease.

"As good as a raspberry custard sounds right now, I think a chest of gold and stolen goods is more up your alley, don't you think?" You chided back, smiling up at him. Lino rolled his eyes before the smirk on his face settled down into a look of concern.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I can go in there and fetch him for you if you'd prefer. I'll take him right down to the ship and lock him up in the pits so you don't have to lay an eye on him at all."

You gave Lino a soft, appreciative smile and shook your head.

"I'm sure Li. Believe me, I've been waiting a long time for this."

Jisung lay sprawled across the unforgiving concrete floor of the jail cell, his head resting against the rough wall as he stared at the ceiling above. His gaze was vacant, tracing the mismatched stones above like they held the answers to all the questions weighing on his mind. One hand rested on his chest, rising and falling with each steady breath, while the other idly spun a golden ring around his index finger—a nervous habit he couldn't quite shake.

This was the fifteenth time today that he'd counted the four hundred and eighty-two stones that made up the ceiling,  and if he had to do it a sixteenth, he thought he might actually lose his mind. He'd been in this cell for what felt like an eternity, but the little tally marks carved into the wall above where he lay his head at night told him it was only—he lifted his head to count— day two-hundred and forty three of his imprisonment. He could've escaped on day seventy-eight if he'd wanted to—his skills were more than sufficient—but something kept him tethered to this cell.

Or rather, someone.

Queen Aliyah's cryptic words echoed in his mind, teasing his curiosity. It was at the start of his second month in jail when she had come to him late one night, descending into the dungeons, her regal presence an anomaly in the damp, dark space.

"Foucher has sent a crew. They're coming to take you back to Serpent Point, and I think you'll be interested to see who leads them." she had said, her lips curling into a smile that was far too knowing. "I'm smart enough to know you can escape this jail cell whenever you want, Jisung, but this crew was chosen specifically for you, so hopefully you'll accept the hospitality and await the reunion before planning your escape."

Jisung was taken back at first at the use of his real name. He hadn't heard that name in years, had stopped responding to it long ago. Foucher must've informed Queen Aliyah of who he really was. 

Jisung's chest had tightened at the realization, but he refused to let the Queen see the flicker of unease that crossed his face. Instead, he'd scoffed, muttering something flippant about the Queen's meddling, but her parting smirk had lingered long after she disappeared back up the stone staircase.

In all his years as an adventurer, a thief, he'd never made many friends, so he was curious as to who was sent to be his escort back home. It was the curiosity that held him in the cell, day in and day out, awaiting your arrival, eager to see the poor bastard who had to transport him back to his death.

"Someone from my past," he murmured now, his thumb still spinning the ring absentmindedly. His mind reeled, cycling through fragmented memories. Could it be an old ally? A rival? Whoever it was, would they recognize Jisung? Would he recognize them? If they were sent by Foucher, surely it was someone he was familiar with, someone from back home.

The sound of the cellar door suddenly creaking open snapped him out of his thoughts. His body went rigid, ears straining as boots echoed against the stone floor in the distance.

"Your Majesty," a guard greeted, his voice loud enough to silence the murmurs of other prisoners. Jisung didn't move, feigning indifference as excitement and dread warred within him.

He thought back then to all his childhood friends, most of whom made it onto the Jarl's guard line, and he wondered which one of them would be awaiting for him at the Serpent Point docks. Would they feel guilty delivering him to his death, or would they simply act as if they didn't know who he was? Would any of them vouch for him, try to plead with the Jarl to spare him from a painful end, or would they simply stand by and watch his head detach from his body?

Would he get to see you?

The last thought was shaken from his mind as quickly as it came. He returned back to your mother's farm years ago, ready to apologize and beg you to give him another chance, but he was found facing strangers who claimed you up and left the city. There was no way you'd stay in Serpent Point now that your mother was gone and you sold her farm. You were probably far away by now, living in a nice house on a bigger farm with a kind husband, raising your children together.

The thought made him feel sick.

He bit his lip as his thoughts began to darken, thinking back to the last time he saw you, the last time he saw your mother before her dead body fell to the ground before him. Jisung took a deep breath and bit the inside of his cheek, willing the thoughts, the memories, to stop.

He heard hushed whispers among the other prisoners as the Queen approached his cell, her entourage trailing behind her. Their footsteps grew closer, and his pulse quickened despite himself. When her voice rang out, addressing him directly, it was sharp and commanding. 

"Peter Han II."

Why had she switched back to using his alias after addressing him differently for all these months?

Jisung grimaced before lifting himself from the hard stone. He tried to stretch out a kink in his upper back, turning to lean against the wall where his head was pressed a moment before. He attempted to act nonchalant in his actions, but his nerves were making his skin vibrate with anticipation.

"Ah, and here I thought you'd forgotten all about me, Your Majesty," he drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm. The Queen's lips twitched in amusement, but her eyes were cold.

"Your ride has arrived."

The Queen then smiled almost mischievously at him, as if whoever it was who stood just out of his view was part of an inner joke he wasn't aware of. He briefly wondered if Foucher had made the trip himself and was going to enter the cell just to behead him right here and now. His breath caught in his throat, barely allowing him the ability to swallow the pool of saliva that built up on his tongue.

Queen Aliyah nodded at someone and stepped aside, allowing two of her guards to then unlock his cell and enter it cautiously. Jisung watched the two men step inside, one carrying a thick rope while the other held a sharp dagger, his body on high alert. The one with the rope motioned with his finger for Jisung to come forward, and after eyeing the dagger that glittered in the dim light, Jisung obeyed. He wasn't looking to die today.

He slid himself forward and allowed the guards to pull his hands around to his back before looping the hard rope around Jisung's strong figure.

The guard tied the rope around Jisung's body hard enough to prevent Jisung from moving, but loose enough to allow circulation to continue to flow to his limbs. They must've trusted him, or they at least knew he was smart enough to not attempt an escape now that the Queen and her guards were here.

Jisung then watched as Queen Aliyah stepped aside once more, murmuring something to someone before four figures emerged from the shadows, entering the room one by one.

The first, to his utter surprise, was Cristoff, Jarl Foucher's son. He hadn't seen the man in almost a decade, not since he had visited Fort Foucher for a small delivery, and yet, he could pick him from a crowd anywhere. Even though the long brown hair Cristoff had once adorned was now clipped short, his strong jawline, thick nose and big brown eyes were a dead giveaway.

Jisung was curious as to when Cristoff had decided to leave his fathers side, and more importantly, why. He could tell by the ragged clothing and curved sword at Cristoff's hip that he had taken to life on the sea. No one in the royal family would be caught dead in rags; the Jarl wouldn't allow it from anyone under his roof. Cristoff didn't so much as blink in Jisung's direction, his expression unreadable.

The second to enter was another male, shorter than Cristoff but visibly bigger. His figure was burly and bulky, and where Cristoff's face was set into a neutral line, this man's face was cocky, a smirk settled on his lips as he entered the room and stood off to the side. His muscles looked to be the size of Jisung's head, and Jisung felt as if this man could break his body in two if he really tried. The outfit he wore signified he was most likely the artilleryman of the ship that brought the crew overseas, or was that the outfit of a common boatswain nowadays? Jisung wasn't entirely sure anymore, and he didn't get much of a chance to dwell on the matter before a third male stepped into the room.

This one was the one Jisung was instantly wary of. With dark brown strands of hair falling across his forehead, barely masking the menacing pink scar that sliced through the left side of his face, mixed with the stone-cold glare permanently etched into his features, this particular male oozed danger. Lean, scarred, and dangerous, Jisung deduced that the man had been in his fair share of battles. He looked oddly familiar to Jisung, but he couldn't quite place where he'd known this man from.

The male had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, a dagger in each hand, folded beneath his armpits. His jaw was clenched hard, his mouth set in a thin line, and his stare never left Jisung's. It made Jisung's skin crawl.

If looks could kill, he'd be absolutely slaughtered by now.

Then, as the last person entered the room, Jisung froze completely. His eyes locked onto you, his breath catching in his throat. He was astounded at first, nearly letting out a scuff of disbelief.

You were a vision of defiance, your dark hair streaked with red and adorned with beads that glittered in the dim lighting. You carried yourself with the authority of a captain, and the crew's subtle shifts—straightened postures, quiet deference—confirmed your position. Jisung couldn't believe that the captain set to take him back across the seas was a female.

Female's were meant to be the ones at home, taking care of the house while the husbands were away. They weren't made to commandeer ships, lead their crew into battle or thieve other pirates from around the globe, and yet, here one was. The first female pirate he had ever set his sights on.

The longer he stared at you, the smaller his eyes became, squinting at you in suspicion. He knew those eyes, that nose, those lips. He knew your face anywhere, and yet, you seemed like such a stranger to him that he wasn't one hundred per cent sure of his silent allegations.

Jisung watched you quietly as you conversed with the three males who entered before you.  It had to be you. There was no way it wasn't.

The short strands of blonde hair you used to style in braids every day now hung in long black waves across your chest and down your back, a strip of red fabric tied tightly across your forehead in typical pirate fashion. Expensive beads held strands together in small, messy braids, and those eyes still pierced him to the core. The smile you once wore religiously was now pulled into a sharp scowl, hardened by years of survival. Dirt covered your clothes, remnants of the adventures you've been on, and Jisung was briefly brought back to the life he once shared with you on your mother's farm where the two of you met.

Memories of laughter, stolen kisses and whispered promises flooded his mind like a tidal wave, stealing the air from his lungs, and clashing against the harsh reality of the present.

It was definitely you. It had to be.

Jisung watched silently as the man with the scar stepped closer to you, closer than any regular crew member should be to their captain, and Jisung sensed something between the two of you. Unspoken, of course, but it was still there. As you moved, the male moved with you, like a shadow. It made an unfamiliar feeling rise in Jisung's stomach, one he hadn't felt in years. It was something akin to... Jealousy? Envy?

He tried to push the feeling out of his system. If it truly was you, he had no right feeling that way to any male that stood close to you. He was the one who left you in the first place.

He was the one who snuck from your shared bed one night and delved back into the life of adventure one last time with nothing but a flimsy note left behind. It was a cruel, harsh way to leave someone you loved, but he had no other choice.

Then, all of a sudden, you spoke, and Jisung swore he saw angels cloud his vision.

The voice. That voice.

The voice of his conscience, his voice of reason. The one who brought him back to reality when he found himself stuck in a loop of anxiety, the one who whispered dirty things into his ear while the two of you had made love each and every night back on the farm, the voice he dreamed about continuously, hoping against hope that when he woke, he'd be back in your bed, you curled in his arms sleeping soundly, peacefully by his side. He'd do anything to go back to that day, and each morning when he rose from his slumber, he was hit with the earth-shattering realization that that possibility was gone.

You were gone.

And yet, you were right here in front of him.

You didn't even acknowledge him directly, your attention focused on the Queen.

"This him?" you asked, your voice steady but laced heavily with irritation. You still had yet to even look his way and Jisung suddenly felt desperate to meet your eyes.

"Yes," Queen Aliyah replied. "He's all yours."

You turned, your gaze finally meeting his, but there was no recognition in your eyes. Only cold indifference. You gave him a brief once over, a look of utter disdain on your face as if you were staring into the eyes of a dead fish rather than the man you once loved so dearly.

Jisung nearly whimpered from the hard, cold stare you spared him.

"Very well," you said, your tone brisk. "Bin, Chan, load him into the carriage. Lino and I will meet you at the ship," you commanded. 

Jisung's wrists were quickly seized before he could even steady himself, the male's grip firm as they hoisted Jisung up off the cold floor. Jisung recognized the name 'Chan', as it was one Cristoff often used when he was out and about in town and didn't want visitors to know his royal ranking. The bulkier male, who Jisung assumed was the one you called Bin, let out a whistle as he appraised Jisung like a blacksmith sizing up faulty metal.

"This the infamous thief everyone's been losing their minds over?" Bin asked, nudging Chan/Cristoff with his elbow. "Doesn't look like much. I could snap him like a twig."

"You could snap a lot of things, Bin," you said, already heading for the exit. "Unfortunately, your ego keeps getting in the way." You let out a soft chuckle, the sound music to Jisung's ears. It was the same, gentle laugh you used to use on him when he did something stupid, like singing off-key in the middle of the living room. Another stab of jealousy hit Jisung in the gut knowing that laugh was reserved for someone else now.

Jisung remained quiet as Bin laughed in response, the sound boisterous and loud, echoing off the stone walls. "What can I say, Captain? It's not my fault I'm built like a God." He flexed one arm theatrically, and Chan rolled his eyes.

"You mean a lumbering ox," Chan then chimed in, smirking as he adjusted the ends of Jisung's restraints. "Bin's more like a dog—big, noisy, and drooling for attention."

"Oi!" Bin shot back, mock outrage painted across his face. "I am the finest dog you've ever seen, mate. Admit it—you're just jealous of my charm."

"Your charm?" Chan then raised a skeptical brow. "Is that what you call it when you trip over your own feet trying to impress the tavern wenches?"

Jisung caught the subtle curve of your lips as you listened to the two men bicker, though you didn't break your stride as you led everyone to the opposite door in which you came. It was the door that would lead everyone back outside where two more guards stood watch. "Keep it up, boys, and I'll leave both of you to escort our prisoner back to Serpent Point yourselves."

That was enough to silence them—for a moment. Chan merely huffed, his grip tightening slightly on Jisung's arm as if to remind Jisung of the power he held.

Trailing behind you, Lino walked in silence, his presence quieter but no less commanding. He carried a small pouch of supplies at his waist, his movements efficient and purposeful. At one point, Jisung watched him lean closer to you, his voice low. 

"You alright?" he had asked.

"I'm fine," you reassured him, resting your hand on his arm. You spared Jisung a quick glance before returning your gaze back to Lino. "Let's just get him to Foucher and be done with it."

The ease of your tone with Lino sent a sharp pang through Jisung's chest. There was something intimate about the way you spoke to him—not in words, but in the space between them. It was different from how you talked to the others. Private. Trusting.

Lino seemed to sense it too, his expression softening just slightly as he replied.

"If you need me to handle anything, just say the word."

"Thanks," you murmured back, your gaze ahead but your voice carrying the weight of appreciation.

Jisung felt his jaw tighten as he watched the interaction. He couldn't stop himself from comparing it to the way you used to speak to him—your voice gentle, full of quiet laughter and unspoken promises. Now, it felt like those pieces of you had been locked away, shared with someone else who wasn't him.

Bin's voice cut through the moment, loud and carefree.

"You know, Captain, I'm starting to think you secretly like it when I flex." He flexed his arms again for good measure, earning groans from both Chan and Lino.

"I like it about as much as I like barnacles on the hull," you shot back dryly, though there was a glimmer of amusement in your eyes.

"Still counts as a compliment," Bin said, winking at Chan.

"Do us all a favour and stop before you hurt yourself," the taller man deadpanned, shaking his head.

Jisung barely registered the teasing banter; his focus remained fixed on you. Each interaction was a study in contrasts. With Cristoff, it was lighthearted and easy, full of jabs that bordered on familial. With Bin, you allowed his harmless flirting to roll off you, meeting it with your own sharp wit. And with Lino—

With Lino, it was something else entirely.

As they continued across the courtyard, Jisung couldn't help but notice how Lino stayed close to you, always within arm's reach. It wasn't possessive, but protective. Quietly assured.

It stung more than he wanted to admit.

By the time they reached the castle entrance again, the banter had settled into a hum of energy as the group moved towards the waiting carriage. Jisung's mind raced, torn between the past and the present. You were so different now, and yet he couldn't stop searching for the traces of the person you used to be.

But even as he tried to piece it all together, one thought continued to gnaw at him:

What the hell had happened to you while he was gone?

He longed to reach out and touch you, to rush forward and grab your hand, hold you the way he once had, probably better than that bandit ever could, but he couldn't. Not after what he did. He left you behind and now you were here to deliver him to his death; a death he so rightly deserved.

Jisung knew his thievery would catch up to him one day, that Foucher would soon have his head for the crimes he and the Thieves committed against the Jarl and Serpent Point, but he never in a million years would have suspected Foucher would have his own illegitimate daughter to be the one to deliver him, the one he was still hopelessly in love with at that.

Taglist: Open (lmk if you'd like to be added!)

Taglist: @moonlightndaydreams @collisvng @frequentlykit @channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @queenmea604 @yxnjinsduality @kaiyaba @n0y4 @chuuyaobsessed @newhope8 @palindrome969 @krayzieestay @lunearta @nightmarenyxx @queen-in-the-shadows @xiubaek-13

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[cowprintsillies]

Saw an ad for the minecraft movie and edited the End Poem in a fit of rage

I see the player you mean.

A Minecraft Movie?

Yes. You could be careful but I wouldn’t count on it. It has reached a higher level now. It could read our thoughts if it bothered to care.

That doesn't matter. It thinks we are part of the audience.

I didn’t like this player. It played terribly. It did not give up even when they green lit the realistic CGI and Jennifer Coolidge.

It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a movie screen to be watered down to assure the biggest audience possible.

That is how it chooses to imagine many things, when it is deep in the dream of capitalism.

Jumanji adaptions make a wonderful interface. Very ridgid. And less terrifying than expending effort and care into the honour of a game held close by millions. Pity this player’s creativity is being used this way.

They used to hear voices. Before players could amass billions through no work of their own. Back in the days when those who did not play called the players witches, and artists. And players dreamed they flew through the air, on sticks powered by demons.

What did this player dream?

This player dreamed of the box office and Jack Black. Of money and merchandise. It dreamed it imitated. And it dreamed it destroyed. It dreamed it parodied and was a parody. It dreamed of the safe route.

Hah, the original interface. A million years old, and it still works. But what true structure did this player create, in the reality behind the cinema screen?

It worked, without regard to a million others, to sculpt a shallow world in a fold of the ####, and created a #### for ####, in the ####.

It cannot read that thought, it requires imagination.

No. It has not yet achieved the highest level. That, it must achieve in the long dream of life, not the short dream of a movie.

Does it know that we love it, despite? That the universe is kind?

Sometimes, through the noise of its greed, it hears the universe, yes.

But there are times it is blind, in the long dream. It creates worlds that have no innovation, and it bows under its CEOs, and it takes its sad creation for reality.

To cure it of greed would destroy it. The greed is part of its own creation. We cannot interfere. It needs to learn from this mistake.

Sometimes when they are deep in dreams, I want to tell them, they are staining a legacy in reality. Sometimes I want to tell them of their importance to the universe. Sometimes, when they have not made a true connection in a while, I want to help them to access the creativity and humility they fear.

It reads our thoughts.

I do not care. I wish to tell them, this world you take for money is merely #### and ####, I wish to tell them that they are #### in the ####. They see so little of reality, in their long cash grab.

And yet they make the movie.

But it would be so easy to tell them...

Too strong for this dream. To tell them how to live is to prevent them living.

I will not tell the player how to live. I will tell it to put down the awful realism CGI at least.

The player is growing restless, it itches to cast Jack Black as Steve.

I will tell the player a story.

But not the truth.

No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words. Not the naked truth that can burn over any distance.

Give it a body, again.

Yes. Player...

Use its name.

Capitalism. Player of those below you.

Good.

Take a breath, now. Take another. Feel air in your lungs. Let your limbs return. Yes, move your fingers. Have a body again, under gravity, in air. Respawn in the long dream. There you are. Your body touching the universe again at every point, as though you were separate things. As though we were separate things. You are not above.

Who are we? Once we were called the spirit of the mountain. Father sun, mother moon. Ancestral spirits, animal spirits. Jinn. Ghosts. The green man. Then gods, demons. Angels. Poltergeists. Aliens, extraterrestrials. Leptons, quarks. The words change. We do not change.

We are the universe. We are everything you think isn't you. You are looking at us now, through your cinema screen and your merchandise. And why does the universe touch your set, and throw light on your casting decisions? To see you, player. To know you. And to be known. I shall tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there was a player.

The player was you, A Minecraft Movie.

Sometimes it thought itself an adaptation, on the tv screen. The tv screen being shown to fans of all kinds full of love for the material it imitated and a thousand times more massive than it. They were so far apart that they struggled to connect themselves to the broad strokes on the screen, the screen in turn struggling to reach the message that had touched their code in the first place. The message was of love.

Sometimes the player dreamed it was lost in a story.

Sometimes the player dreamed it was other things, in other places. Sometimes these dreams were disturbing. Sometimes very beautiful indeed. Sometimes the player woke from one dream into another, then woke from that into a third.

Sometimes the player dreamed it watched a movie on a cinema screen.

Let's go back.

The atoms of the player were scattered in the grass, in the rivers, in the air, in the ground. A woman gathered the atoms; she drank and ate and inhaled; and the woman assembled the player, in her body.

And the player awoke, from the warm, dark world of the pitch meeting, into the long dream of the tv screen.

And the player was a new story, never told before, a sandbox for all. And the player was and old movie, Jumanji, written before, generated by writer long before. And the player was a new movie, in the newness of the next fast fashion, never written before, made from nothing but a target market and big names.

You are the player. The movie. The audience. The cinema screen. Made from nothing but a target market and big names.

Let's go further back.

The seven billion billion billion atoms of the player's body were created, long before this game, in the heart of a star. So the player, too, is information from a star. And the player moves through a story, which is a forest of information planted by a man called Julian, on a flat, infinite world created by a man called Markus, that exists inside a small, private world created by the player, who inhabits a universe created by...

Shush. Sometimes the player created a small, private world that was loud and comicall and simple. Sometimes cheap, and soulless, and mediocre. Sometimes it built a model of the universe in its head; imitations of ideas, moving through vast empty spaces. Sometimes it called those abstracts "audience" and "consumers".

Sometimes it called them "human" and "valuable".

Sometimes it believed it was in a universe that was made of energy that was made of offs and ones; zeros and ones; lines of code. Sometimes it believed it was creating a movie. Sometimes it believed it was hyper realistic.

You are the player, watching a movie...

Shush... Sometimes the player watched a movie on a cinema screen. Decoded it into meaning; decoded worlds into exposition; decoded exposition into feelings, emotions, theories, ideas, and the player started to breathe faster and deeper and realized it was missed potential, it was almost something great, that the game meant more than it had portrayed, the player was cubes.

And sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the sunlight that came through the shuffling leaves of the hyper realistic CGI summer trees.

And sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the ugly llama, in a world of inconsistent cube widths, incorrect sound effects, Jennifer Coolidge, Jack Black as Steve.

And sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the money, through the board of directors, through the scrolling words on a screen at the end of a movie.

And the universe said you could’ve been more.

And the universe said you have missed the point of the game.

And the universe said everything you need is elsewhere.

And the universe said you could be better than this.

And the universe said you are the box office.

And the universe said you are the forgotten servers between players who have moved on.

And the universe said the darkness you embrace is within you.

And the universe said the light you seek is beyond you.

And the universe said you are scorned.

And the universe said you are not separate from every other thing.

And the universe said you are the universe mocking itself, needlessly explaining itself, rendering itself in unnecessary detail.

And the universe disrespects you because you are disrespect.

And the movie was over and the player woke up from the dream. And the player teased a sequel. And the player dreamed again, dreamed of more money. And the player was the movie. And the movie was soulless.

You are the A Minecraft Movie.

Stay asleep.

[vecnawrites]

Patreon Reward: Be Careful What They Wish For

Yang, after finding a lamp in the flea market in Vale, brings it back to the school to see what to make of it, only to find a special surprise...

Yang hummed to herself as she took her find out of her bag, looking over the dusty and dirty surface with interested lilac eyes. She had found the lamp (at least that’s what she assumed it was) in the market area of Vale, in a flea market. It had called out to her, pretty much screaming ‘buy me!’, even though old fashioned looking stuff like this wasn’t usually her style.

Eh, if she didn’t like the look when she finished cleaning it, she could probably gift it to Weiss. She seemed the type to like old fashioned stuff like this, after all. She was all fancy like that.

Gathering a soft cloth and some soapy water, Yang hummed a soft tune as she began to wipe the lamp off, years and years of filth being cleaned away and a golden luster with teal accents being revealed underneath.

Despite herself, Yang found herself liking the look of the lamp as more and more of it was revealed, the colors catching her eye and that odd feeling that she had earlier when she saw the lamp halfway hidden in the stuffed flea market shelving.

More and more gunk was washed off, the basin water having to go through two changes before the lamp was finally in pristine condition, practically shining in the overhead light in the room.

Taking a dry cloth, she wiped it dry and smiled at how it looked after the fact. “Huh…it cleans up nicely, that’s for sure…” she murmured to herself as she buffed the metal. Maybe she would actually keep it…

Her eyes widened as she saw the blue accents light up in a bright glow, making the blonde drop the lamp onto the desk and shield her eyes to block them from the sting that radiated through them, missing the dark teal mists that rose up from the lamp, coalescing into a large, female form, golden bracelets and necklace, long dark blue hair falling down her back and covering her bare breasts.

“What is thy wish, my master?” blinking rapidly, Yang yanked her hands away, mouth dropping open and eyes roaming over the form of the large woman who had emerged from the lamp she had bought.

~

Yang, after making sure that she wasn’t hallucinating, immediately began to interrogate her about what she was and what she meant.

She learned that Jinn (the name of the genie that lived in this lamp) was made to grant three wishes to each owner she had, before finding a new owner.

Which left Yang at a quandary. She had three wishes, with certain caveats that immediately tossed out some of her wishes (Jinn couldn’t revive the dead, so no bringing back Summer, and she couldn’t make anyone fall in love with her, which only made sense, she would want someone to want her honestly, and she couldn’t wish for more wishes, which while understandable would make her wishes somewhat harder to make), and was deep in thought about what she wanted.

But then, there wasn’t much she honestly wanted outside of Summer back…though as she pondered over the idea, she remembered hearing a conversation that made her huff in anger.

She had overheard someone saying that her tits were the fourth largest in Beacon’s…that just wouldn’t do!

Yeah, that was it…if her wishes had to be for herself only and she couldn’t wish for extra wishes or for Summer back, she was going to make her body the envy of everyone!

Grinning, she looked up at Jinn. “I’m ready to make my first wish!”

~

Over the milennia that she had existed, Jinn the Genie had seen just about everything. Civilizations rise and fall. Allies and enemies made. She had seen all kinds of wishes as well, ranging from freedom from financial burdens, either through money or just forgiveness from their debts, to becoming ruler of a kingdom of their own.

This young blonde girl had been the first to summon her in over three hundred years, and she wondered what the girl would want in life, as even with her three restrictions, there was a lot that one could wish for-

“I want the biggest tits and ass in Beacon!”

…what.

Of all the…nigh infinite power she had at her command, and the girl wanted cosmetic changes? The girl wasn’t even deformed in any way!

Disgust filled her, but she was bound by the laws of the her kind. If someone wished for it, they would have to give it to them…though thankfully, loopholes existed. And with how loosely her wish was worded…

…well, she not often got to make sure people learned the meaning of the phrase ‘be careful what you wish for’, but this seemed like the perfect time for the girl to learn this lesson.

She wanted to have the biggest tits and ass in this school? She’d get them. Calling upon her powers, she allowed them to creep into the girl’s body, and begin changing it.

~

Yang watched as golden teal energy flowed out of the genie’s body and into her own, feeling it sink in and worm around, making her way towards her chest and rear end, filling them with a tingly warmth, the sudden sensation making her nipples swell up.

Yang looked down, watching with wide eyes as her breasts began to swell in her top, her nipples bulging against the front of her top as it stretched due to her bust increases more and more and more, her tube top getting tighter and tighter around her chest, her shorts doing the same around her waist until-

RRRRIIIIIIPPPPPP!!!

Yang watched in awe as her shirt and shorts exploded off of her body, her boobs becoming almost, well forget almost, outright cartoonish on her frame, looking like she had shoved beach balls underneath her skin, jiggling and bouncing with every slight movement that she made. Same with her ass, the normally taut flesh moving like it was filled with jello. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she felt her body jiggle and shake.

Her body was outrageous. It was perfect.

Grinning up, she cried out her next wish, “I wish to have the biggest dick in Beacon!” she could see the genies face twist in some emotion, but another wave of energy was sent her way, smacking into and sinking into her crotch, making her shudder and hunch over, collapsing to her knees as her body changed.

~

Jinn felt even more disgust fill her as she watched the massive thing form on the girl’s body, a solid foot of flesh and a heavy pouch holding apple sized orbs in it. She couldn’t believe how her powers were being used. How disgusting…

~

Staring down between her legs with a grin, Yang reached down and gripped her newest limb, shuddering as she felt it getting hard in her hand, growing to an incredible monolith of flesh between her thighs.

She continued to stroke her shaft, biting her lower lip and moaning low in her chest, completely missing the outright disgusted look the genie was giving her.

“...your third wish, Mistress?”

Moaning as precum started to spurt from her tip, Yang managed to moan, “I wish Ruby, Weiss, and Blake all could feel as good as I do~!” trailing off with an ecstatic cry as she came, cum flying from the tip of her cock and through her even more disgusted genie.

“...your wish has been granted.”

~

Around the school, Ruby Rose, Weiss Schnee, and Blake Belladonna all screamed in shock as their bodies changed, their tits and asses exploding out of their clothes, cocks and balls forming, growing hard, and cum spraying all over as they tumbled into an intense orgasm.

~

Her job done, Jinn returned to her lamp, the object vanishing from the chronically masturbating girl’s bed, to travel somewhere else, to be found and used by someone else. Despite the fact that she had been found for the first time in three centuries, Jinn desperately hoped that she would either not be found for a further three centuries, or at the very least…

…the next person who found and used her powers to alter reality had some self respecting wishes that she wouldn’t feel ill granting.

[jedibongrip]

title: be the dreadful need (in the devotee) Relationship: anakin/obiwan Rating: M tags: AU, Gods & Old Gods, set in the GFFA, no jedi Summary: Obi-Wan travels to Tatooine to fulfill his late father's life's work. He finds something else to dedicate his life to, in the ruins of a forgotten wasteland.

for the @deaddoveobikin blasphemy week day 3 prompt: gods, prophets, false prophets! a (wip) chaptered fic. read under the cut or on ao3 for all the tags/notes

If Mace Windu were a less kind friend and employer, he would deny Obi-Wan’s request for a sabbatical, coming so soon as his bereavement leave. Instead, he raises an eyebrow as Obi-Wan silently slides his forms across his desk, unwilling to make eye contact.

“You know you don’t have to continue his work,” Mace reminds him, though he signs the forms anyway.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “I know.” A moment passes. “But I do.”

(Perhaps it’s a show of how much Mace respects him, giving him the space and money to go on this search that he clearly thinks is foolish. Perhaps Obi-Wan would be better off if Mace respected him a little less.)

Permission granted, substitutes found, and some measly funding acquired, the only thing Obi-Wan has to do is gather supplies and pack his things before he heads off. His apartment is stuffed to the bring with boxes, datapads and notebooks, maps and totems, scrawlings of all different kinds, all overflowing and toppling over each other. The more delicate items - glass compasses that never pointed north, beautiful daggers and knives too old and dubious to be used as anything but decoration, but too unsettling to even be used as that, carefully wrapped bone and pottery remnants - were littered over every table and counter space that he has. Obi-Wan does his best to move through the turbulent sea of debris, making his way to his bedroom, the only room which he has managed to keep free of all this junk.

He shakes his head. It isn’t junk, he shouldn’t call it that. All these dusty artifacts, these unorganized folders and notes, this is all Qui-Gon’s work. It’s all that’s left of him. And all of it has been left to Obi-Wan.

He collapses onto his bed, fatigue overtaking him and weighing him down. His eyes burn from the dust and the ashes of incense that have overtaken his apartment, ever since he hauled in what was left in Qui-Gon’s office and house. Like a true academic, Qui-Gon had very little in the way of savings or property left behind, and what he did have was quickly snatched up by his remaining, distant blood relations. There was nothing of comfort or monetary value left to Obi-Wan, the quasi-son that Qui-Gon half-raised but could never stomach the thought of adopting. Between his moments of grief, Obi-Wan can feel himself grow bitter about it. It’s an old hurt, one he healed from and accepted, but Qui-Gon’s passing seems to have bruised the scar tissue of it. But hurt and bitter as he could grow to be, Obi-Wan loved Qui-Gon. Loved and cared about him, cared for him as he grew old and his body and mind began to fail. Loved him enough to promise to finish his research. And despite what everyone tells him, about how he doesn’t need to keep a promise he made to calm an old and dying man, Obi-Wan knows himself to be too loyal to break such a vow.

Even if he knows he’s being sent on a fool’s search. Because even before Qui-Gon’s health declined, everyone knew that his theories and research were odd. Everyone thought he was mad for what he was proposing. Everyone insisted that Qui-Gon Jinn, Doctor of Intergalactic Archeology of Sentient Species, study and research something that was actually in his field. But no. Qui-Gon, ever the rebel, even as he lectured in one of the most prestigious and expensive universities in the Inner Core, insisted that he was right, that he could prove his theory, that he just needed a bit more time.

Well, Obi-Wan thought, time’s up. He sits up and sighs, keeping his eyes closed for a moment longer. When he opens them, he sees his own degrees hanging on his walls. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Bachelor of Intergalactic History. Master of Socio-Political Sentient Organization. Doctor of Intergalactic Anthropology. Oh, how he felt like a rebel when he didn’t follow exactly in Qui-Gon’s footsteps when he turned away from the mysteries of the dead to focus on the mysteries of the living. He ended up playing right into his hand.

Obi-Wan sighs again and pushes himself off his bed. He has a lot of packing to do if he wants to leave by noon tomorrow. He can’t bring himself to be thankful that Qui-Gon did leave him his ship, as helpful as it will be to cut down costs on his journey. It’s a rustbucket, one that Obi-Wan has always hated flying in. Very well, he thinks, reaching under his bed for his suitcase.

Qui-Gon used to love dragging him on cross-quadrant trips. This will be like a trip down memory lane, a homecoming, of sorts, and a final goodbye all wrapped in one. If he’s lucky (and he rarely is) the ship might hold together long enough for him to get there and back, before he can sell it for scrap.

—

It’s late afternoon when Obi-Wan finally leaves orbit, parking garage fees paid, his bags and crates safely stored on board, and coordinates for the source of Qui-Gon’s obsession plugged in and waiting until Obi-Wan weaves his way through traffic to get to a hyperspace route.

The jolt into hyperspace is momentarily unpleasant, a rush of unease and queasiness rushing through Obi-Wan’s body, as if all his cells know that they are not meant to be moving so far, so fast, and so they protest. Then the jerking and creaking of the ship ceases, and planets and stars are nothing but smudges in the pitch of space, and his body and mind calm enough for him to set the ship on autopilot and step out of the cockpit.

The ship used to feel so much bigger when he was a boy. Even after all his growth spurts and moments of teenage rebellion - like the time he stole this very ship to go on his own adventure - it felt spacious and freeing, even as he had to stoop to walk through doorways or squeeze into his childhood bunk. Without the sheen of adventure and the comfort of Qui-Gon's constant presence - physical or not - Obi-Wan saw the ship with the eyes of an adult; old and aging, cramped, the amalgamation of cheaply pawned and traded parts that once felt magical and eclectic, and now felt vaguely unsafe and slapdash. Every corner had a memory so Obi-Wan keeps his head down as he walks through the corridors. When he was loading the ship, he automatically began storing his things in the tiny cabin that he used to stay in, until he realized what a waste it was. Qui-Gon’s berth was larger and, of course, wasn’t being used. Obi-Wan moved his things there, but now that he walks through the doorway, he feels awkward and out of place.

He intended to look over his data in the comfort of the bed, but he cowardly grabs the bags he thinks have the maps and pads that he needs and brings them to the common area. He carefully unrolls the star maps onto the table. Some of them are copies, some are original from years ago - Qui-Gon always dodged any questions about exactly how old they were, or how they came into his possession. But despite years separating some of the data, all of them focus on the same system, the same accursed planet staying in focus in the centre.

Tatooine.

An abandoned desert planet, a wasteland, a graveyard, a planet that hasn’t held any sentient life for thousands of years, since before the republic was even an utterance on anyone’s lips.

The place that had captured Qui-Gon’s interest, his soul, his mind, since Obi-Wan was a boy.

Many intergalactic archeologists had a passing interest in Tatooine, Obi-Wan knew. Despite its dry and desolate state, Tatooine once held oceans, possibly had fresh water too. Some academics and conspiracy theorists believe that Tatooine may have once held sentient life - though what happened to it, if it ever existed, was where many debates emerged. Some thought that, if intelligence was once found on Tatooine, it would have died out when four of the planet’s moons escaped orbit, leaving it with only three remaining to protect it from the blaze of the twin suns. Others thought that the original population could have been some of the first to discover interplanetary flight, and left their dying planet in the hopes of finding a new home.

The nature of the shifting tides of sand means that any remains, any evidence, had long since been buried or eroded by time. What few attempts have been made to mine what few valuable materials exist on Tatooine have been too small to make a dent on the surface, and have never been profitable enough to inspire greater efforts to explore or excavate the planet. Tatooine, it seemed, was fated to remain a forgotten mystery, one that most people didn't care enough about to try to solve.

And despite all of this, Qui-Gon became insistent that Tatooine is where ‘it all’ began. A lifetime of digging up burial grounds, worship grounds, ancient temples, of learning about how different systems thought of life and death and the divine, and yet he thought that all of that flowed from Tatooine. Every myth, every god, every ceremony he ever uncovered, it all pointed him to a planet that, by all accounts, seemed to be as dead as the bones he used to study.

And Obi-Wan is heading straight for it. He fights off another sigh as he scans Qui-Gon’s notes, full of half-baked theories of settlements and rituals, rambles in a code that Obi-Wan is only half fluent in. He isn’t sure why this is something he needs to do. Will it make him feel better, when he arrives in a wasteland and finds nothing? Will it honour the man who cared for him for so many years? Will it make up for all the arguments and fights and months of silence that weighed them down as time went on? Hardly anyone entertained Qui-Gon’s hypotheses, Obi-Wan certainly didn’t when he was alive. What does he prove by going there, except that his father wasted his time, his life when he could have been finding fulfillment somewhere else?

And still, the ship races on, through star systems and empty space, heading to the middle of nowhere and the centre of a universe that Obi-Wan never really understood.

Obi-Wan tries to translate Qui-Gon’s thoughts into ones that he can understand. It's unforgiving work. There will be plenty of time to give himself a headache trying to do that later. Instead, he goes and checks the batteries on some of the supplies he’ll be using, goes to make sure he has all the solar panels he’ll need while he is grounded. After all, it’s not like Tatooine has a shortage of sun. All he'll have on that planet is sun, time, and the unwanted fragments of Qui-Gon's career.

—

The relief Obi-Wan feels when he finally lands on Tatooine is short-lived. After days of travelling through the endless night of space, he’s developed a perpetual nausea, a dull headache behind his eyes, and an unpleasantly greasiness to his skin. It’s almost instinctual, opening up the ramp to stumble out to the solid ground beneath his ship, to relish in the marvellous feeling of being still.

He feels the heat on his skin before he registers it. The ship shades him from the glare of the twin suns yet he swears he already feels his skin searing. The air is dry, sucking the moisture from his lips, leaving his mouth feeling gummy. He only wanted to stand on solid earth for a few minutes, but dizziness from the heat forces him to the ground, sprawled on the unforgiving rock shelf that he landed on, already feeling grains of sand working their way into his shoes.

This is the forgotten hell that Qui-Gon dreamed of for years. Obi-Wan already has half a mind to leave and venture to one of the many seedy resort planets that are scattered around the middle and outer rims.

He takes a few deep, scorching breaths and hauls himself upright, using the ramp of the ship as support. The metal is already almost too hot to touch. Shaking off lightheadedness, he staggers back into the ship, hastily closing the door behind him, trying to keep the blasted heat out for as long as possible. His ship is still pleasantly cool and feels all the colder now that he’s drenched in sweat. He takes a moment to centre himself, a task that has become all the more arduous since Qui-Gon’s death.

He must gather and check his supplies once more, preferably before his ship gets too hot. He should double-check his maps and scan his surroundings, make sure that he’s stopped in a safe location, somewhat close to one of the possible sites that Qui-Gon wrote about. Obi-Wan had no false illusions about the heat of the planet, but knowing it and feeling it are two different things. He needs to check his radiation block and ensure that he has enough bacta and ointment to soothe any burns that he is sure to get. Make sure that none of his water tanks broke or tipped over during his difficult descent and landing.

There’s so much to do and Obi-Wan is already so tired of it all. He sighs and goes to the ship's computer. He ought to coordinate his clocks with the planet, now that he’s arrived. He checks when the suns set.

Tatoo I sets in eighteen hours. Tatoo II, twenty.

Obi-Wan sighs again. Well, he thinks, I better get moving.

He stays seated for many more minutes.

—

Loaded up with gear, it feels even hotter outside. The suns are at Obi-Wan’s back, their light narrowing as they descend under the horizon, feeling like a glare from an old, angry god. He can feel his skin burning through the protective layers of clothing and UV block that he’s put on. He almost isn’t sure if it's real or just the phantom pain of burns that he’s gotten and healed over the five days that he’s been on Tatooine.

Five days on Tatooine. The thought makes his body ache. Five long, miserable days and nothing to show for it. He has less than nothing. He expected his search to come up empty, but he didn’t expect it to take so long. He only managed to find and search two of the sites that Qui-Gon wrote about, half-crazed scribbles talking about star alignment, dates and coordinates that seemed to repeat themselves everywhere he looked. On each page he searched through, he half expected Qui-Gon to start rambling about fractal and Fibonacci sequences. To make matters worse as he was flicking through one of Qui-Gon’s notebooks the night before, eyes burning, movements lethargic and clumsy, he found that a few of the pages had gotten stuck together by time and who knows what. Peeling them apart revealed more locations, more sites of interest. More work for Obi-Wan to do.

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He takes a swig from one of his canteens, drains the last of the water it in, and reattaches it to his pack. It clinks against all the other empty bottles that he’s finished during his trek today, a cacophonous symphony to score his movements. He’s hiked up rock formations, crawled across cracking limestone bridges, and crossed a seemingly endless sea of sand. He should turn around and head back to the ship. He wants to turn around and head back to the ship.

But the thought of that terrible sun shining in his face, blinding him as he stumbles back to his bed almost sickens him. He huffs and puffs as he hauls himself up the jagged side of another rocky peak. It seems much taller than all the others he’s scaled but it could be exhaustion and irritation fooling him. He’s long stopped heading towards the spot that Qui-Gon marked on a map. Instead, he’s in search of something much more valuable: shade.

Yes, Obi-Wan thinks, as he continues to hike up the flattening incline. If he can find some shade, he can rest, maybe even take a short nap. He’ll wait until a sun has set and start making his way back to his ship. While he’s been scaling this large formation for a few hours, the mountain range rising out of and dipping below the sand like a wave, everything before was flat. He’ll be able to see the ship once he’s down, he can even send one of the small droids he stuck in his pocket to it in advance to light his way. He hasn’t seen any sign of life since he landed. The isolation, the feeling like he’s the only thing to exist in the whole galaxy, is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

Obi-Wan keeps walking up the mountain, the curve gentle and the stone beneath his feet flat. It curves upwards and around. With each step, Obi-Wan is hopeful that shade will appear. It seems almost endless, a Tantalus torture just for him. His eyes droop as he walks and his neck becomes limp under the weight of his head.

Almost imperceptibly Obi-Wan feels a coolness against his legs. He pries his eyes open and sees a large stone jutting out of the ground to his right. It stands to his shoulders but is angled in such a way that its shadow is cast long and low against the ground. He almost collapses with his haste to crawl to it, pressing his back against it and twisting his body to fit within the comforting embrace of its darkness. Relative to everything else on the planet, its surface and the ground beneath him feel damp. He sheds his pack and lets it wobble and tremble, seeking an equilibrium on the gentle slope.

Exhaustion pulls his eyes shut again as he pants. He claws at the scarves and layers he piled on to protect against the suns, shedding them until he’s left with only his loose, long-sleeved shirt and the breathable trousers he bought just for this trip. His heartbeat pounds in his ears and his chest heaves. The heat is still intense, the rock still hard and unforgiving, but the relief of being out of the sun and no longer moving feels heavenly compared to just moments before. Obi-Wan sags under his own weight, allowing himself these brief moments of rest before he forces himself onwards. Though, now that he’s still, now that his eyes are closed, it’s questionable if he’ll ever convince his muscles to pull him up.

He doesn’t know how long he rests, his body boycotting each movement that he dictates. He’s soothed by the tempo of his breathing, the thrum of his own heart, the sound of-

Obi-Wan peels his eyes open and squints. He turns his head, looking further up the mountain. Straining, he shuts his eyes again and tries to zero in on the sound. He couldn’t possibly have heard it right, it must be some kind of auditory mirage, or perhaps-

His ears prick up as he hears it again. Faintly, further away, but clear once he hears it. Water. Running water. Water splashing against stone, pooling, echoing against itself. Now that he’s heard it, it sounds clear as day, impossible to miss or ignore.

Tatooine has been devoid of water for at least twelve thousand years, long before the birth of the Republic, long before sentients tried to explore the outer edges of the galaxy, looking for freedom and wealth and friendship.

And, yet, Obi-Wan can hear it. It calls to him, beckoning him closer, to explore and discover. Obi-Wan has never thought too highly of himself, never believed that he innately knew better or knew more than anyone else. And as much as he may doubt himself, he’s never doubted his capabilities. He trusts what he experiences, what he knows, and what he hears.

It feels like the planet’s gravity has doubled but Obi-Wan pushes and pulls until he’s standing, legs wobbly like a newborn’s. He throws the protective poncho he was wearing over himself, leaving the rest of his layers in a dusty pile. He just barely remembers to grab his pack but is too exhausted and confused to bother putting it on properly. He drags it behind him, like a petulant schoolchild, listening as the frantic scrapes along the sandy stone as he ascends.

The sound of trickling water is faint, but slowly grows in volume as Obi-Wan makes each labourous step up the mountain. He puts a hand on the rock face to stabilize himself, gasping when it feels cool to the touch, even as it sits in the sun. The path he treads starts to grow twisted, angling up and down, the rock under his hand growing more jagged and cracked.

The sky is a vibrant purple when Obi-Wan remembers to look at more than just the rocks around him. A sign that one sun has long been set and the other is following its lead. The wind picks up, blowing grit into Obi-Wan’s eyes, and he feels the first semblance of coolness in hours. In a few hours, the desert will be frigid. He should turn back, and hurry down the mountain to the safety of the ship. Continue this fool's journey tomorrow or not at all.

But the musicality of dripping water sounds so sweet. How could Obi-Wan abandon the discovery of the millennium? How could he abandon the chance of vindicating Qui-Gon? How could he reject this sweet, mysterious oasis gift in the middle of the desert?

Obi-Wan pants as he climbs. Was this mountain always so tall? At the base of it, it looked so much smaller, a quick hike up and over. He cranes his neck to look back, searching for the way he came, and finds that he doesn’t recognize the path. The sound of water is so close, almost thunderous in his ears. Trepidation weakens his legs and stomach. He edges closer to the cliff face and looks steadfastly at his dusty boots as he continues.

It sounds like he’s right next to a waterfall, white rapids crashing right next to him, and then silence. Obi-Wan looks up, confusion and fear mixing like alcohol in his stomach, leaving him just as disoriented.

He stands before a cave. The entrance is narrow, a gap between large boulders, precariously wedged against each other. It’s dark, inside. A cool breeze blows from within, smelling sweet and gentle. That’s what surprises Obi-Wan most, after spending the last few days surrounded by the musty scent of sand and the sharp tang of his own sweat. But no, it smells like a forest, like a garden after a light rainfall. It smells of a peaceful life. It smells heavenly.

Obi-Wan barely casts a glance behind him before he dips his head and squeezes into the gap in the rocks. He has to shed his backpack when the fabric of it starts to catch and snag against the walls. It’s fine, he reasons. He won’t go too far. He’ll turn around in just a moment, collect his bag, and be off again.

When he presses his hands against the rock, the surface is hard but not harsh, not jagged or sharp. Like a river stone that needs a few hundred years more before it’s ready for skipping. It feels gentle, like a salve, on his sunburnt hands. He blocks on the measly rays of sun that managed to sneak into the cave, casting a shadow where he means to walk. In a brief moment of clarity, he berates himself for not fishing the torch out of his bag before entering. Stupid!

He pauses. The shadow on the ground in front of him, long and monstrous, has grown fainter. A glance behind shows that a second shadow has emerged, trailing behind him. There’s a glow in front of him, faint, hidden behind the gentle curve of the cave wall, but there. Obi-Wan swallows and feels the hair on his neck stand on end. There seemed to be meters upon meters of solid rock above the cave when he was outside. Inside, everything feels just as solid, just as isolating. There’s no way that there could be a gap in the rocks, large enough to let so much light in that it can illuminate this cave without weakening it to the point of collapse.

It’s with a jolt of surprise that Obi-Wan realizes he’s still walking deeper, that even with the sudden mystery of the light, the sound, the smell, even as his mind grapples with it all, his body still moves against his conscious wishes. His breath stills in his lungs as he rounds a gentle curve and the soft light that only tickled him before grows into a bright beam.

Finally, Obi-Wan stills.

A vast room unfolds before him. Impossibly large and spacious compared to the cramped entryway leading to it. A small pool of water, fed by a waterfall emerging from cracks in a wall, sits next to the entrance, but its sounds are light and playful, nothing like the deafening stream Obi-Wan heard from outside. Plush moss and beautiful plants and flowers stretch across the rock floor and climb up the walls and ceiling. The brightness seems to just exist, not originating from any specific source. Glinting in the light, Obi-Wan spies golden trinkets, jewels thrown carelessly across the room, and piles of silks left in heaps.

A young man lounges on a round, gilded bed, woven sheets artfully draped around his naked body. A gilded head resting on a gilded hand. Golden eyes stare at Obi-Wan’s shocked and frozen form, pink lips twitching up into a sly, mirthful smile.

“What pretty little thing wandered into my grasp now?” The man laughs. He pushes himself up, revealing a swarth of golden skin. Obi-Wan swallows.

“Sorry,” he stutters out. “I was just- I heard- I think I’m a little lost.”

He tries to step back. The man on the bed scowls, his expression going from playful to dark faster than Obi-Wan could blink. His back hits a wall, cold stone pressing against him. He turns his head and finds that the entrance, the cave he was walking through, has disappeared. When he looks forward, the young man is inches from him. The warmth from his body feels almost scalding and his gaze is piercing, almost painful when Obi-Wan makes eye contact with him.

The man tilts his head. His hair, beautiful bronze curls, fall across his snarling face. He reaches out with his hand of shining gold and cups Obi-Wan’s chin. The metal is hard and warm, bruising against his skin. He sees the man’s lips twitch as he tilts and moves Obi-Wan’s face, eyeing him like a predator eyes cornered prey.

Obi-Wan has been in bar fights and drunken brawls. He’s no ignoramus when it comes to martial arts, having taken many classes over his life. He may not be an expert, but he’s won more fights than he’s lost. He knows the moves he should throw to get away from this strange creature and knows he should look for some way out of this strange room. But this man… he’s captivating, enthralling. Obi-Wan can’t find the strength to escape his grasp or his gaze. He stands still and pliant as he’s maneuvered, as gold and flesh hands trail across his clavicle and neck. He feels like he’s being appraised or studied, and he can’t help but blush from the attention.

“Who are you?” The man asks. His voice is raspy like he hasn’t used it for a while, but it washes over Obi-Wan like a wave. He swallows.

“My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he answers. The man in front of him raises his eyebrows. “I’m a professor from Coruscant.”

“A professor?”

“A teacher,” Obi-Wan clarifies. He clears his throat. His jaw aches from the strong grip on it. “I teach anthropology. Cultures from around the galaxy.”

The man hums. “Why did you come here?”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth but can’t find the words to say for a few seconds. “I don’t know. My, well, I guess, he was my father died and he… he was obsessed with Tatooine.”

The man breaks out into a grin. It’s sharp and beautiful, a broken glass sculpture. He releases Obi-Wan, and he feels quick pulses of pain jolting from where fingers once gripped him. The man takes a step back. Obi-Wan has to fight himself to not let his eyes drift beyond his chest.

“Obsessed?” The man asked. “Devoted?”

“What? I… I guess.”

“To what? To whom?”

“He was-” Obi-Wan pauses. What was Qui-Gon obsessed with? “I could never figure it out, exactly. He… he had these ideas about Tatooine having the first people. The first… Gods.”

The smile on the man’s face seems almost splitting, manic in its excitement. It makes him look like he’s glowing. “To whom was he devoted to?”

The question seems ridiculous, insane even. Qui-Gon had only ever been devoted to himself, really, though he showed that devotion in many ways. Like taking on an adopted son. Like paying for his son’s schooling, even if he didn't fully support what he wanted to study. Ensuring a legacy that Obi-Wan could never really understand. But this stranger doesn’t need to know that and wouldn't understand even if Obi-Wan told him. Yet, Obi-Wan’s mind races, he sees flashes of Qui-Gon hunched over a desk, of maps and printouts pinned to walls, chalkboards and projectors covered in his scribbles. He sees all the scrolls and tablets and books that clutter the ship that is sitting, hot and dusty and empty, probably miles away. He sees one thing, one name, repeated throughout it all, sometimes half translated, sometimes underlined, sometimes just penned in the margins.

“An… Anakin?” Obi-Wan stutters out. The name is strange and unfamiliar on his tongue as it crawls out of his throat.

"Again," the man breathes out. "Say it again. Say my name."

"Anakin," Obi-Wan whispers, like the name is a secret like it's precious and special. Like it's a prayer he's trying to remember.

Anakin smiles and it feels like the burn of the twin suns.

[yohohonabottle]

Musical March Day 10 (Very belated)

Non-stop (Hamilton the musical) - It represents Pirin's crippling workaholism, to the point it's damaging severely. Vanya's story doesn't match Alexander's and the song's lyrics to the letter but...

The bat does get lost in his work - in his contract with Merlin that he takes rather seriously, his fight to stay alive by keeping his identity a secret from very select few whom he truly trusts (Ludovic, Carolina, Valen, Sinbad, Soren and the Uru clan, Lyca, Lorsan, Eironn and Bryon..) and his mindset. "Why do you write like you're running out of time? Write day and night like you're running out of time? Every day you fight, like you're running out of time"

It has gotten too deeply ingrained into Pirin at this point. This 'can't slacken my grip, can't afford to stop and relax' mindset. Always must be hyper-vigilant, or he'll lose his head. Always must look human, sound human, 'be' human. And god forbid the truth rear its head - and a good place to throw others off? Start building (and keeping) the bullet proof reputation of upstanding man. So work must be done, plus for income which can fund his potions-brewing. Potions that are vital to stay disguised. No money? No potions - sleeping draughts for insomnia and nightmares and keeping human sleep-wake rhythm; energy and mana-replenishing brews to stay awake, alert and adequate. Stay functional. Potions to suppress his heat, 'mating behavior'... No potions? Disguise and human identity go in shambles. Money is literally as important to the night-nymph as potions and his own beating heart. Those who have the reputation of efficient, reliable hard-workers get hired more - hence more money. Although money, funnily enough, itself isn't something which Pirin personally values outside of what the purpose is: Transactional means to ends, giving him access to various goods and gear. It's more about survival in the end. It's a cursed, looping cycle most vicious.

"Keep on fighting in the meantime! (non-stop)"

"Look at where you are." - Ludovic, ever since he fell in love with Pirin and they started dating, got together - knew what he's signing up for. Doesn't stop the Valesa son from worrying for his fiancé, for the younger man's diminishing health because of this mindset, constant work to the very bone, reliance on various potions... No matter what he does, can't seem to truly get through to the nymph. And the aristocrat already disdains magic for what it did to him - even if he cursed himself out fearing his own mortality back then... Ludovic doesn't want to lose also his love to magic. The only begrudging exceptions he made were: 1) enchanting the painting of his beloved sleeping peacefully, 2) that allegedly permanent potion to alter his own appearance - which turned out to be temporary despite lasting remarkably long; 3) The fertility potion to facilitate conceiving of heirs. Even then, he couldn't quite stomach the thought of Pirin having to drink that 'poison'. Look at where you started. - Compared to how he started as a young kid forced to grow too fast, too soon and a scrappy mercenary with no one at his side? Now Pirin is in much better position - known as the legendary Merlin (or his righthand man/substitute), has a vast network of tight-knit supportive friends, admiration, is loved... Things Vanya has dreamt of all along and others would kill for (his position, achievements, admiration, support, fortune, etc.)... And yet Pirin still acts/thinks like he's at day 1. Not entirely unreasonable, per se, good amount of those things gained can be lost yes. But not everything - people still value him for his good deeds, remember his sincere kindness and heroics. Ryeham and Holistone are proof, the Desert- they know he's a night-nymph (or Night-jinn as Maulers call his species) and still are in his corner. Respect him, admire him deeply for helping them. Neither Mikola, the Uru clan or reformed Grimmaw clan will be happy if they ever learnt the Night-jinn was harmed. (Plus other groups/clans) The Heroic Order will not let it slide either. Sinbad and Brineville, the Carmine Whispers. A good amount of people will rally. And the Dark forest? Yeah, they won't be very idle either. And all these people will be, are, willing to help. To them, Pirin/Stranja - Ioan Hestios of Eclipse is Merlin. The symbol of unity, of courage, hope.

The fact that you are alive is a miracle." So how is it that the bat can't break out of this grim mindset? Old habits die hard, yes... but they do eventually, right..? When will Pirin finally see that he can, in fact, afford to relax and not be such a work-addict...?

[almaqead]

"Dirty, Dirty Hands." From Surah 37, As Saaffat. "The Aces of Aspiration."

During a critical time for this world the Quran reveals there is chain of ownership for our activities. It runs side to side across communities, and also up and down from those who are governed to the government. In Arabic it is called As Saaffat. We do not run a planet and hand off each other's messes in the manner in which we are doing.

Donald Trump and his friend in Russia have single handedly cut off food, water, medicine, money and the land itself from its proper owners and heirs. They have done this in defiance of the laws, God and all of us. They have to die for it. The human race is not expected to take what it is given by God and surrender it to tyrants and losers just because.

The law of the United Nations which both men are signatories to via their oaths of office and Chain of Ownership says we can put them in front of judges who can separate them from their evil deeds. This Fatwa must be obeyed, it must be obeyed now or billions will die.

The Quran agrees stating laws and lawyers are like sons and daughters, like causes and effects. We make them and must rear them:

37: 149-160:

"Ask them ˹O Prophet˺ if your Lord has daughters,1 while the pagans ˹prefer to˺ have sons.

Or ˹ask them˺ if We created the angels as females right before their eyes.

Indeed, it is one of their ˹outrageous˺ fabrications to say,

“Allah has children.” They are simply liars.

Has He chosen daughters over sons?1

What is the matter with you? How do you judge?

Will you not then be mindful?

Or do you have ˹any˺ compelling proof?

Then briThey have also established a ˹marital˺ relationship between Him and the jinn. Yet the jinn ˹themselves˺ know well that such people will certainly be brought ˹for punishment˺.1ng ˹us˺ your scripture, if what you say is true!

Glorified is Allah far above what they claim!

But not the chosen servants of Allah."

Commentary:

The world is going to starve if the war in Ukraine does not end peacefully and the USAID program is not restored. 

https://ua.usembassy.gov/the-united-states-announces-additional-funding-to-deliver-ukrainian-grain-to-the-worlds-most-vulnerable/

You are watching devils do dirty things with unclean hands. You are to perform in Allah's Name, and correct these circumstances so the poor can eat and work. Please use all Arab and Muslim voices within the UN to force Donald Trump and Mister Putin out office and his arrest for his crimes of terrorism which are manifold. 

This has to happen at once so plans for planting for the next season can continue. 

[existentialcowboy]

Speak, Boy!

a Prince story by Stephen Brooke ©2021

“I shall grant thee three wishes,” stated the jinn.

“I’ll need to think on that,” I answered.

The great green cloud-like apparition granted me only a look of disdain. “Not thee, human. ’Twas the dog who found and released me.” It turned back to Spot. “Choose well, little one.”

My mutt cocked his head at the magical being he had inadvertently let out of its prison. He looked like he was thinking. “Rahhhr roo roo ruff,” or words to that effect came from his throat.

“Ah! Very well.”

“Thanks!” said Spot.

“You chose to be able to talk?”

“To be able to talk human. I could always talk dog,” he informed me.

“There are many human languages,” spoke the jinn. It chuckled in a disturbing fashion. “I could have given any of them to thee had I a mind, rather than that of this mortal.” It nodded in my direction. “But I like thee. Thou art a good boy, art thou not?”

“Indeed so. I always agree when my mistress asks but I don’t think she understands me.”

I would from now on, apparently.

“Keeping in mind my, ah, shall we say tendency to play tricks, I advise care in choosing thy remaining wishes.”

It didn’t take the good boy long to decide. “Live forever!”

The Jinn shook its head. “Beyond my abilities. Thou wouldst not like it anyway. What wouldst thou do when all the other dogs had disappeared into time?”

“Not to mention the humans,” I felt obliged to add.

“That might not be so bad,” felt the green demon. “Strictly speaking, I can not give thee more years at all, beyond those that are ordained by fate. But—” It gave us a dramatic pause. “There is a loophole. I can change dog years to human years. Thou canst last as long as thy mistress. Or longer.”

“Okay,” agreed Spot.

“Done,” intoned the jinn.

Spot stared at him for a while. “I don’t feel different but I’ll take your word for it. I can’t really think of anything else I need.”

“How about money?” I suggested.

“What would I do with that?”

“Give it to me and I can afford to keep you in treats. Instead of selling the incredible talking dog to a freak show.”

“Hmm. Good point, there. Oh! I know. I want to be big! Alsatian big! And, um, that includes all my body parts.”

“It will cost more to feed you,” I warned. I had fading hopes of Spot asking for wealth but I could try.

“Thy mistress doth make sense,” the jinn admitted. “And a beagle of such size will attract undesired attention. Unless I change thee entire into this Alsatian form thou desireth.”

“Oh, no. I like the way I look. I’m very handsome. Everyone tells me so. I guess you can give her some money. Whatever she asks, okay? I don’t know anything about it.” He cocked his head at me this time. “But I suspect I should learn.”

“Gold?” asked the jinn. “Or has everyone switched to that paper money now? I was imprisoned for some centuries and am not up to date on such matters.”

“Electronic,” I answered. “The funds simply need to appear in an account. Um, an overseas secret account. It wouldn’t do to have the government asking me where it came from.”

The demon seemed to be elsewhere for a few minutes. “It is done,” it said. “More than thou shouldst ever need, in a bank in the Cayman Islands. Somewhat easier than transporting gold, I must say! All the documentation thou needeth I have placed in thine home. Those islands looked a pleasant little place. I may stop by there a while on my way back to my world.” With that, it faded like mist before the sun. Only the broken container, a rather flimsy papier-mache urn, remained to tell us it had been there and not a dream.

I picked it up now. “I would guess these sigils kept it from breaking out.”

“Who cares?” said my talking dog.

“No one.” I tossed its chewed remnants aside. I needed no memento of this day. I had a talking beagle to remind me. “Ready to go, Spot?”

“Don’t call me that anymore. It’s not my real name.”

“Oh? What is?”

“Hmm. Can’t be translated into human, I guess. I’ll pick another.” He didn’t take long. “I’ve always liked Prince. I knew a Doberman by that name.”

I’d known it too, and feared it. “Why not King or Rex?”

“Too ostentatious. We beagles are humble folk. I say, must you do that?” he asked, as I attached his leash.

“Being able to talk won’t help you in the pound. You should, um, maybe be careful about who you let know about it.”

“Just our secret, huh? We’ll see.” We set off toward my apartment. Perhaps I should think of it as our apartment now. Spot—er, Prince—had suddenly become a person to me. From the park to our place was only a couple blocks, through what was not the best of neighborhoods. It wasn’t the best of parks either, nor of apartments.

It wasn’t the best of lives. Prince had never complained, as far as I knew.

True to his word, the jinn had left all the needed papers and information on my kitchen table. How much was in the account? I’d have to access it online to learn. I was a bit fearful of finding out! A little note lay beside them, drafted in an ornate hand. It took a while to puzzle it out. A warning to thee, mortal woman, it said. This money is the property of the dog and not thee. If aught should befall him, it will evaporate.

“What’s it say?” asked Prince. “I should’ve made reading my third wish!”

“To take care of you.” Which was sort of true. I would need to take very good care of Prince. “How would you like to move into a house with a big yard?” I asked. With high secure fences.

“Would there be squirrels?”

“If it doesn’t come stocked, we can buy some.”

“Oh, boy!”

Oh, boy, indeed. Those secret funds would not evaporate so easily were they converted to property.

Prince didn’t need to know about any of that, did he?

[writer59january13]

Insomnia welcomed courtesy high test coffee

consumed later at night than usual finds me bright eyed and bushy tailed amply lively to learn about an American radio and television personality and pioneer Wee Willy Weber, who prominently and popularly reigned across air waves and small screen kept in the living/family room then an obscure square box

frequently exhibiting local entertainers second half of twentieth century

I chanced to Google and revisit his popularity night time hours of temperate March first two thousand twenty four, reckoning, jump/kick starting, and forcing me to confront a deluge of issues ricocheting within sixty plus shades of gray matter

(such as association with females - such as you my dear despite being a young looking sixty five year old beatle browed, fool on the hill, paperback writer wannabe day tripper), whose prized (at least by me) encephalon approximating roughly the size of two clenched fists, and weighing about 1.5 kilograms,

rattles and hums abuzz with the sound of silence, yet fires off thoughts about how the webbed wide world circa MMXXIV based upon

the Gregorian Calendar,

a scary place indeed, which helter skelter violence finds me fantasizing escaping into an enchanted edenic Octopus garden in the shade,

where camaraderie prevails among variegated creeds, gender orientation, nationalities, religions, et cetera and conflict resolution predicated upon a win/win paradigm allowing, enabling, and promoting community among habitats for humanity, hence collective bargaining. Vox Populi which translation means literally means "voice of the people." The leaders of tomorrow bravely take to the dais justified their precious life, liberty and pursuit of happiness - stolen under their figurative nose asper an unparalleled heist recouping quintessential basic human rights, and will NOT yield an inch (or any other minuscule amount),

if for no other reason (and many more valid claims prevail) such inalienable American birthrights (codified decrees endowing freedoms - tattered to shreds via frenzy of bullets) guaranteeing harm inviolable unjustly out priced sacrificed by lax second amendment spiced within epidemic of wanton

murderous sprees wherein assassin literally calls the shots supplanting assigned storied halls with din of firearms acquired from pennies on the dollar, or bartered for a bottle of gin within the underbelly (viz black market) of society, where pistol packing trigger happy jinn nee

as slaughterhouse blood soaked, sans killing fields mount with resignation vis a vis discovering masterly carded misfit

to collective shrugging shoulders prithee giving Atlas a run for his money and upend safe havens i.e. storied academic re deuce sing self preservation (UNFAIRLY) to activist minded students

treat each day as a survivalist course, thus WE as coined on legal tender (E Pluribus Unum) MUST unite against love affair with pistols, no matter one or more mere mortals think Matthew Scott cray ZEE up in arms spouting poetic license against proliferation of firearms.

[nijjhar]

Punjabi - Christ Arjan Dev Ji had overpowered the 5 Husbands - John 4 - ... Punjabi - Christ Arjan Dev Ji had overpowered the 5 Husbands - John 4 - and He became One with God. https://youtu.be/XEvqlV34tsA ਰਾਮਕਲੀ ਮਹਲਾ ੫ ॥ ਅੰਗੀਕਾਰੁ ਕੀਆ ਪ੍ਰਭਿ ਅਪਨੈ ਬੈਰੀ ਸਗਲੇ ਸਾਧੇ ॥ ਜਿਨਿ ਬੈਰੀ ਹੈ ਇਹੁ ਜਗੁ ਲੂਟਿਆ ਤੇ ਬੈਰੀ ਲੈ ਬਾਧੇ ॥੧॥ ਸਤਿਗੁਰੁ ਪਰਮੇਸਰੁ ਮੇਰਾ ॥ ਅਨਿਕ ਰਾਜ ਭੋਗ ਰਸ ਮਾਣੀ ਨਾਉ ਜਪੀ ਭਰਵਾਸਾ ਤੇਰਾ ॥੧॥ ਰਹਾਉ ॥ ਚੀਤਿ ਨ ਆਵਸਿ ਦੂਜੀ ਬਾਤਾ ਸਿਰ ਊਪਰਿ ਰਖਵਾਰਾ ॥ ਬੇਪਰਵਾਹੁ ਰਹਤ ਹੈ ਸੁਆਮੀ ਇਕ ਨਾਮ ਕੈ ਆਧਾਰਾ ॥੨॥ ਪੂਰਨ ਹੋਇ ਮਿਲਿਓ ਸੁਖਦਾਈ ਊਨ ਨ ਕਾਈ ਬਾਤਾ ॥ ਤਤੁ ਸਾਰੁ ਪਰਮ ਪਦੁ ਪਾਇਆ ਛੋਡਿ ਨ ਕਤਹੂ ਜਾਤਾ ॥੩॥ ਬਰਨਿ ਨ ਸਾਕਉ ਜੈਸਾ ਤੂ ਹੈ ਸਾਚੇ ਅਲਖ ਅਪਾਰਾ ॥ ਅਤੁਲ ਅਥਾਹ ਅਡੋਲ ਸੁਆਮੀ ਨਾਨਕ ਖਸਮੁ ਹਮਾਰਾ ॥੪॥੫॥ {ਪੰਨਾ 884} Satguru = Christ Arjan Dev Ji reached the 4th Chitt Birtti in which you have become the very Son of Allah, Elohim, Parbrahm, etc. and those Five Husbands that are prevalent in this Dark Age, KAAM - IMMORALITY (ONCE-BORN - BAEMUKH), KARODH - ANGER (ONCE-BORN - BAEMUKH), LOBH - GREED (TWICE-BORN - MUNNMUKH), MOH - WORLDLY ATTRACTIONS AS POPE RULED AND KILLED PEOPLE - MATT 12V43-45 (TWICE-BORN - MUNN MUKH) AND LASTLY HANKAAR - HAUGHTINESS (ONCE-BORN MEN OF DEAD LETTERS - BAEMUKH); All of them were overpowered by the Power of the holy spirit called Surti = common sense that the illiterate shepherds and farmers (Cana) possess and not the Professor of the Jerusalem, Oxford, Cambridge, etc. Professors possess. That is why the Good News of the Birth of Jesus, the First Anointed Christ = Satguru was broken to the illiterate Shepherds whilst the Jerusalem University Professors in collusion with the Romans wanted to kill Jesus. The clever MUNNMUKH people who were making people Jew outwardly called SHANKAR VARNIYAE were the staunch enemy of Jesus, the Christ = Satguru and the same applied in India Lala Prithvi Chand Sodhi Khatri went to the Emperor in Delhi demanding the position of Satguru Arjan Dev Ji to make money. For more details, watch the videos by Punjab Sian mentioned under the description. How the Satanic Messianic Jews and the Kings and Emperors of Darkness Khatris killed the Lights. https://youtu.be/J23JsomHI2g Holy Gospel of our Supernatural Father Elohim, Allah, Parbrahm, etc., delivered by the First Anointed Christ, which in Punjabi we call Satguru Jesus of the highest living God Elohim that dwells within His Most beautiful living Temple of God created by the demiurge Potter, the Lord of the Nature Yahweh, Brahma, Khudah, etc. and it is called Harmandir or “Emmanuel” according to Christ Rajinder:- Unshorn hair is the art of Brahma that makes you Jatti, powerful as was Samson. A Sikh is a student of spiritual knowledge called also a Talmidim. Christ = Satguru Jesus was the First Satguru in the world and Nanak was the Second Anointed Christ. SattPurakh Jinn Janiyia; Satguru tiss kaa Nao. So, Nanak wasn't a Brahmin Guru, a Moral Teacher but a Satguru. Satguru is known to the Solitary Satgurus, and the Christs and not to the Christians or people with turban and beard who do not know that Bhindranwala was neither a Sikh nor a Khalsa but a TERRORIST who entered the Holiest of the Holy Complex in the world with weapons not knowing why Sachae Patshah Gobind Singh Ji or His Tatt Khalsas never entered this Complex for non-compatibility of weapons and Sikhs as demonstrated by Bhai Ghaniya Ji who exercises the Divine Love "Agape = Prem". He was a True Sikh, one in a million. Thus, Sikhi is not as cheap as the Satanic Khatris have made it to fleece people at a much larger scale than the cheat Brahmins. Honest Brahmins took to the next noble profession of farming in which eight out of the ten qualities of Dharma are attained. In the Brahmin Varna, you attain 9 and by His Grace also the Tenth, the Holy Spirit in which you possess the Supernatural Powers. Ravan of Lanka had all these Ten Qualities and He knew that Shri Ram Chander Ji was the Prophet = Avtar of the Treta Yug but under the Law of Lok Lajj or the Tit-for-Tatt in Hinduism, He had to abduct the wife of Shri Ram Chander Ji as an act of revenge that led to the war between the two. And in the same Lok Lajj, what the people would say, Shri Ram Chander Ji had to divorce his wife after a washerman made taunting remarks to his troublesome wife that I am not Ram Chander who would keep you once you have left me? Thus, the Sikhs are not under the Lok Lajj Laws that were upheld under Brahma but the spirituality of the Par Brahm, our Supernatural Father of our souls in which everyone is your Brother and you hate none but present the other cheek to awaken his ............. For the unlisted videos:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/Unlisted.htm My ebook by Kindle. ASIN: B01AVLC9WO Private Bitter Gospel Truth videos:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/JAntisem.htm www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/Rest.htm Any helper to finish my Books:- ONE GOD ONE FAITH:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/bookfin.pdf and in Punjabi KAKHH OHLAE LAKHH:-  www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/pdbook.pdf Very informative Channel:- Punjab Siyan. John's baptism:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/johnsig.pdf Trinity:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/trinity.pdf

[amliyatkamaster]

https://www.amliyatkamaster.com/how-to-call-jinn-for-help/

How to Call Jinn For Help, “Friends, whenever you think of help, the thought of Jinn comes to your mind, then it must have come at least once. Because since childhood you must have heard the stories of aladdin’s magic lamp and the jinn that emerged from inside it. Some people keep searching on the internet about How to Call Jinn For Help. Today we are going to make your search easier.

The age of a jinn is much longer than the age of a human. In reality, the age of the jinn is more than 400 years. Jinn’s wife is called jinni. And their daughters are called devilish angels.

Before taking help from Jinn, it is very important for us to know about Jinn. Just as you cannot drive a bike or car without learning. Similarly, you cannot call a jinn and take help from him.

Where did the jinn come from, first of all we will talk about it. Most people associate Jinn with Islam. Because jinn has been clearly mentioned in the Quran.

[dapurinthos]

in the 'all dialogue nothing else' phase, so the last few:

32bby, 'independent reading assignment' results: “Sorzus Syn was a whiny brat, a bad student, speciest, and bad at phonemes in Non-Basic languages. Tsis didn't even have bilabial plosives because their jaw prognathism wouldn't allow for it and, unless they wanted to shred their lips every time, their teeth were way too sharp for the accompanying fricatives. It was Korriman, not Korriban.”

23bby, mission to korriban: “If any of you dead kriffers try to possess me, I better be receiving an entire understanding of at least two Tsis dialects separated by three thousand years or the equivalent of distance between Korriman and Ziost.”

aaaand back to geonosis because i'm apparently filling up every hour of the day during those three? four? that are spent there.

22bby, geonosis: “Actually, let’s. Let's talk about how your master has been whispering in his ear about how the Order doesn't see him as a person, only as what he can do for them. A destiny like the Chosen One’s little better than a slave’s, really. Not in those exact words, of course, but enough to get under his skin. How do you think it went when Qui-Gon Jinn decided he didn’t trust anyone else to teach him and leaned on the finder’s bond to get his way? Let's talk about the decade your master has spent shaping Skywalker to be a timed bomb, about the absolute supernova that will happen when he breaks, because he's going to. Just like when Qui-Gon believed he was seeing the pattern of Xanatos all over again in his newest padawan, except worse because it won't be just on an interpersonal level. Your master will stride in, pick up the pieces, pat him on the shoulder while calling him a good boy and use that to turn him around to aim directly at you. Just like that.”

I snap my fingers, loud in the space after my uninflected monotonous speech. People always forget that my reactions are learned. They’re a performance. Pantomime. Eyes, brows, mouth. I’ll always look younger than I am because I don’t move my face muscles the same amount as other people.

“You carry out his murders, his treasons, his devastations, and you pay for it with your time, your money, and what's left of your honour. He’ll pay you back by having you be the first murder his new apprentice commits.”

Dooku has that smile that’s halfway to a sneer twisting his mouth. “You vicious little cuckoo,” he says, lowly. Satisfaction rolls off him like smoke from the once-lush prairies of Tovarskl. A deliberate burning, but not a controlled one, a move to force a confrontation. “What a legacy you’ll be.”

Last line challenge

Rules: In a new post, show your latest line (artwork or written), and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like!)

Thanks to my dearest sweetest @purple-ant for "pressure tagging" for me here and for knowing EXACTLY which saucy part I'd get caught writing/editing today <3 <3 that's 100% beta reader cheating and also, I absolutely adore you. AND I no-pressure tag: @dapurinthos and @rochenn :D -

Putting this under a cut, it's not long, but it's a pretty large spoiler for the next chapter of Rabbit Heart - as if you couldn't guess what these two idiots were going to do to each other next ->

Keep reading

[marriagedua]

 Do You Want To Know How To Call Jinn For Money Then You Can Consult With Our Molvi Abdullah Hussain Ji And Get Jinn Ka Amal. He Will Also Give You Dua To Call Jinn For Money. 

[exlovebackastrology]

Dua to Call Jinn

Dua to Call Jinn

I lot of money and full respect among their friends, relatives and beloved people. Either they want to become rich or have other dreams they like to complete them within the shortest possible time. These are not impossible tasks but will definitely take some time. Some people wait and some can’t. People who can’t wait they want to bring their dreams into reality. No worry. To fulfill your dreams…

[strongestdua]

How To Call Jinn For Help, “As time goes on, the world is also becoming modern. The desire of the people is also increasing. Today people work hard day and night to complete their quest. People want to fulfill their desires as quickly as possible. Humans dream to fulfill their precepts. When a person’s heart is not satisfied, then he becomes very upset. No one is helping you in difficult situations. You do not have to worry, how to call jinn for help, jinn will help you now. We will tell you how jinn will help you. The dreams of a person are greatly increased, and they can be done only with the help of jinn. Through jinn you can help anyone.