#a thief among the trees

[daniellesreadingnook]

I am back to podcasting!! I just needed a little break.

Today I talk about Sabaa Tahir's "An Ember In The Ashes" series! I highly recommend you listen to hear my thoughts!!

[cmrosens]

Interview with Suzan Palumbo ~ Skin Thief coming Oct 2023

Check out the amazing work of Suzan Palumbo, interviewed on my podcast this month! #darkfiction #longread #bodyhorror #folklore

Bio Suzan Palumbo is a Nebula finalist, active member of the HWA, Co Administrator of the Ignyte Awards and a member of the Hugo nominated FIYAHCON team. She is also a former Associate Editor of  “Shimmer” magazine. Her debut dark fantasy/horror short story collection “Skin Thief: Stories” will be published by Neon Hemlock in Fall 2023. Her novella “Countess” will be published by ECW Press in…

[dumbsoftheart]

threads of fate

pairing: peacekeeper!coriolanus snow x preachers daughter!reader

tags: 18+, mdni. dub-con, heavy and dark religious themes, dark themes, fingering, kissing, swearing, sliiight voyerism, corruption and innocence kink,

summary: after a chase in the woods, coriolanus becomes devoted to making you his one and only follower.

notes: i don't know what came over me.. enjoy!

word count: 7.2k

౨ׅৎ

the blood of the lamb, washed over the sins of those strayed away from god, atones those begging to be spared from destruction. the saccharine ichor was the ultimate gateway towards deliverance- and thus sought out by sinners and saints alike to be granted eternal redemption for the transgressions that permeated the sweats and tears of the individuals whose secrets would have them damned to the dreadful inferno beneath their feet. the sweet lamb; symbol of innocence and purity, and the wolf who hunted it, the face of deception and treachery, stood now in the heart of the woodlands, the sweet kill hidden shamefully in the asylum of the crowded aspen as it’s predator tauntingly whistled in pursuit of it’s coveted prize. 

tears fell in a waterfall down into the vessels of your collarbones, trailing down and staining the frail white fabric of your dress, unveiling the soft tanned skin of your chest in its wake. with one hand clasped tightly against your mouth, you tried to conceal your wails of fear and the threatening thumping of your heart so as not to draw attention to the towering figure looming dangerously close to you, chuckling lowly as he carefully made his way through the maze of trees and forestry. your other hand was clutched desperately on the golden cross that hung around your neck, thumb haphazardly caressing the delicate engravings and etchings of the cool metal. 

hail mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, jesus. holy mary, mother of god, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death.

shame washed over you as you thought of your mother and father- your dear father, and what they would make of your inevitable disappearance. you were taught the way of the lord since you emerged from your mothers womb; it followed you everywhere you went. by all means, you had lived your life for god himself. what would he think of you now? the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of god. and yet there you were, a thief, running from, no doubt, god’s punishment for your sins. 

despite your fathers widespread fame throughout the district, your family struggled to bring food and water to the table regularly. seeing the despair that clouded your mothers eyes as she failed to provide a dinner some nights for her family had driven you towards madness. you grew desperate- desperate to alleviate the stress that haunted her and satiate the hunger that settled in your stomach for the fifth day in a row. you rationalised, that with your undying devotion, god would find it in him to forgive you. with all the work your father put into his sermons and dedication to delivering god's word to the poverty stricken peoples of district 12, the divine being would be forgiving in his punishment in recognition of the loyalty you harboured. 

now, you knew you were wrong. 

you berate yourself for even entertaining the stupid idea of pilfering from the small bakery near the marketplace. in truth, it wasn’t even stealing. you had waited until dark threatened the sky, then snuck behind the establishment to snatch a few meagre, stale loaves that had been carelessly discarded in a small bin beside the refuse receptacles. combined with the butter you had been gifted earlier in the week, these provisions would barely suffice to stifle the persistent pangs in your stomach for a few days, at most. you naively assumed you were in solitude and hastily fled when you’d filled up your small leather bag with as many old rolls and loaves as possible. 

oh, how wrong could you have been? you never caught sight of the face of the man who now charged after you- only a faint glance at a familiar blue that weaved its way through the trees- but the adrenaline rushing through your veins urged you to run, and to never stop. and now, here you were, caught in the act, pathetically weeping as you waited for the repercussions of your actions to find you. 

you moved to press your back harder against the thin trunk of the tree, a twig snapping under the weight of your foot, and your eyes widened with fear as the sound reverberated against the still of the forest, the soft footsteps that trailed behind you coming to an abrupt stop. then, a voice. 

“my dear, it would make it so much easier for us if you just came out. i promise you, i don’t bite.” it purred. the way he spoke was low and unrecognisable, laced with an amusement that had you shiver with the depravity of it. your crying ceased at an attempt to remain as hidden as possible, nary a whimper escaping from behind the painful grip of your hand across your mouth. 

“i know you know what you did was wrong. i mean, stealing from a bakery? i wonder what your father would think of you now, his daughter a thief.”

you fought back tears at the mention of your father, shame once again weighing at your conscience, “come out, and i promise your punishment won't be as harsh as it should be.”

the proposition had you thinking for a bit, the truth behind the words appealing to you for a sliver of a moment. before you could consider your next step; find an out or comply to the omnipresent man’s offering, a gunshot pierces your ears, and you let out a shriek so loud you swore all of panem could hear you.

you begin to wail again then, uncontrollably, screaming and begging for respite as your body gave in under the weight of itself; your knees buckling and falling harshly against the ground. you shake with the ferocity of a small rodent before you’re pulled up by your shoulders and engulfed into a familiar, warm hug. your eyes wide with panic, you thrash your head back in forth in an attempt to find the man who was tormenting you, only to see that he was now gone, and in his place, a small search party lead by a peacekeeper cheered in glory at the sight of you. relief washed over you as you looked up to find your father, falling into the safety of his arms as he escorted you out of the forest, giving a curt thank you to the peacekeeper and another man you recognized to be one of your fathers students, before dragging you to the comfort of your home. 

౨ׅৎ

when your father found out the reason behind your being in the woods, you’d landed yourself a life of extra chores and punished to more frequent church visits until your father decided you had repent enough. your father, reassuring you of god's forgiveness as his child, warned that your actions wouldn't fade from memory. he emphasised the necessity of restoring your relationship with the lord and savior. you were under his constant watch, now. each morning, before dropping you off at school, he compelled you to pray fervently for protection over your family and yourself, urging you to plead for deliverance from the consequences of your actions.

with your increased presence in church taking up most of the time you had to yourself, you found yourself taking note of the other frequent church goers. your father, of course, and his dedicated student, were a constant in your peripheral vision. the old couple who lived only a few minutes away from you, mrs. harmon and her froofy, dirty church outfits, her boisterous children, and her grumbling husband. you noticed small things; like how the wife of the newly-wed couple in town had stopped wearing her wedding ring, and how her husband seemed to never give her a second look. how the twin boys in the grade below you suddenly surpassed you in height, and their younger sister now seemed to lack a certain innocence that was pertinent in her character before. you made a small promise to yourself to pray for her. 

there was one person, however, who you were not familiar with, yet you could feel it in the deep ends of your bones that you knew exactly who he was. he had begun to appear only once a week, his shiny buzzcut and blue peacekeeper uniform sticking out sorely from the rest of the crowd. then, twice a week- then three- and then suddenly you found you could not escape from him. everywhere you turned, he was there. when you walked home from school, you would catch him patrolling somewhere nearby, or laughing and chatting with his peacekeeper friends. when you opened the church doors for mass, he would be first to walk in, handing you a small smile before making his way to sit in the pew farthest away from you. he was there, everywhere you looked, and it unsettled you greatly. there was a lack of sincerity in his eyes when he smiled, and for a moment you thought that it had seemed like hunger, but you pushed the idea away before your brain could process it. one night, when closing the church doors and heading to your home, the small sound of rapid footsteps triggered your fight or flight response, the latter winning. when the man rested his hand on your shoulder politely, handing you a handkerchief you had dropped, you felt a strange sense of deja vu. the speed at which it sounded he had ran towards you didn’t match how he stood before you now; breathing even, chest pushed out pridefully, his dark sapphire eyes never leaving yours. but you were so sure that the man had been sprinting, just like the man who had sprinted after you a few weeks ago had. you gave him a small thank you before speed-walking your way to the front door, panting heavily as you locked it shut behind you and your hand made its way back to the pendant on your neck, grasping it so tightly it hurt, the stipe digging into the soft flesh of your palms as a way of grounding yourself back to your senses. 

that night, when you got on your knees to pray, you couldn’t shake the look on the mans face from your thoughts. his features themselves were even, lacking any sense of emotion, but his eyes troubled you the most. the way they bore into yours made you feel as if you would burst into flames right then. it made you feel as if there was something he wanted from you, but your poor innocent soul couldn’t figure out what. when you nestled yourself into your bed that same night, you vowed to stay as far away from him as possible. 

you hadn't realised how hard that would be. 

he approached you the next morning. it was saturday, and the usual gloomy weather of district 12 had been forced away and replaced with the harsh, bright sunlight. it shone spectacularly through the stained-glass windows, gracing the dark wood of each side aisle with vibrant reds and yellows and blues  and brightening the deep red carpet that lay evenly along the nave. you stood behind the pulpit, readying your fathers sermons and homilies for that week's sabbath. he had barged in unannounced, making his way towards you slowly as you pretended to ignore the tall figure making its way down the red path. 

“good morning, miss,” he spoke lowly towards you, peering upwards slightly as the pulpit was slightly taller than the rest of the church, and you pretended to read through the cards and flip through your bible as if it were you preparing to speak in a mere 15 minutes. he cleared his throat once, and you waved your hand nonchalantly towards the pews, “the preacher will be ready shortly. please, have a seat.” 

from behind your fathers flashcards, you could see a small tick of his jaw and he pressed his lips together tightly, nodding slowly before making his way to his usual seat, feigning interest in the architecture of the building. 

“its quite beautiful, no?”

you hummed. 

“i wonder how the district could afford to pay for it.”

the comment caught you off guard, causing you too look up at him with scrunched brows, your lips parted in confusion. surely, he knew the capitol had paid for it- and even then, what did it matter? a sanctuary for god deserved only the best of resources, you thought. the beauty of the church was a reflection of the beauty of your religion, the intricacies and meticulous carpentry of the building spoke to one of the three transcendentals that point to god. of course, it would be beautiful. 

before you could think of a response to the bizarre musing, your father burst in, pressing a light kiss to your cheek and thanking you kindly for preparing for him. the man stood up to make his way to greet the preacher, and you were out of sight as fast as lightning. 

that cycle continued for a while. he would sit in the pews, admiring the architecture (when really, he was admiring you), then stand to greet your father enthusiastically, frowning ever so slightly when you disappeared the moment he made any closer to your father. eventually, you had become quite good at avoiding him. you saw him less in the markets, saw less of him in church, and rarely caught sight of him anywhere else. that was, until you found him at your doorstep one hot summer day. 

you and your mother swore it was the hottest day to see district 12, and you sat on the porch in a small, lace trimmed top and cut-off jean shorts. your hair was carelessly tossed into an updo to relieve your neck of some heat, and you sat in your fathers old chair as you sipped on some juice your family had been given earlier that day. 

you weren’t expecting any visitors that day, so it was safe to say you nearly choked when the man appeared from behind the path of thrush that hid your small home from sight of the church, dressed only in the blue dress pants of his peacekeeper uniform and a thin white shirt, silver dog tag swinging like a pendulum across his chest as he made his way towards you. your father had emerged delighted, mr. snow!, he cheered, patting the man- snow, what a fitting name- on his back and urging him inside. you scrambled to the backdoor and into the kitchen where your mother rest, the door slamming behind you loudly as you entered, causing her to jump. 

“dear?”

“that man daddy’s talking to- who is he?”

she gave you a halfhearted shrug, “i wouldnt know, pumpkin, it’s probably business with your father. he goes to the church, no?” 

you nodded, pacing back and forth, ignoring the crazed look your mother threw at you as you processed the information. 

“do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” she reminded you, and your jaw dropped at the silent accusation she threw at you. 

“absolutely not, mother!” you stormed back out the door, drowning your mother’s laughter out with frustrated mumbles of has she lost her mind? and what a woman! how she could ever think something about snow was tempting you was beyond your understanding. however, when you made it back to your chair and your watered down glass of juice, the sight of a shirtless ‘mr. snow’ and your, otherwise fully dressed, father in the garden, dripping sweat shamelessly into your mothers vegetable patch, a snap thought breached your mind that perhaps there was something tempting about the mysterious man. 

that sent you into a frenzy. your knee bounced anxiously as you silently begged god to forgive you for the thought, and that it was simply intrusive, and not reflective of the morals and high grounds you held closely to your heart. nervously, you grabbed the book you had abandoned weeks ago and shoved your nose into the pages as if to distract yourself from your own brain and its wicked ministrations.  

you weren't sure of how much time had passed, yet it felt like the man's stay was suspiciously short as he and your father made their way inside. you gave him a curt nod, and your father gave you a small lecture about manners, insisting that the two of you become accustomed to one another. and there you were, legs drawn up to your chest as if to protect yourself from the sinful looking man before you. 

“my name is coriolanus snow,” he said. coriolanus. it was unlike any name you’d heard before. you returned the gesture softly, hoping that he would disappear behind your father into the house and you could breathe again, but he stayed and stared at you with that look, “your father tells me we’re the same age. he’s a nice man.”

you bit your lip at that. the same age? there was something about coriolanus that seemed older. it also begged the question: what was someone his age doing as a peacekeeper? you opened your mouth to pry at him, but he cut you off, stepping closer. 

“tell me, dear, what sins weigh in your heart?” 

you drew yourself back further into the safety of your chair, face laced with disgust as you tried as hard as possible to distance yourself from the imposing man now caging you into your confinement. his breath was heavy on your nose, and your heart pounded harshly- from what, you weren’t sure. fear? a sense of danger? temptation? his lips were so close to yours now, you could smell the faint scent of cologne that mingled with the saltiness of his sweat, and you tried your best to keep your breathing as even as possible, feigning indifference to his proximity to you poorly. 

“i dont know what you mean, mr. snow.”

he smiled at that, laughing lowly. he didn’t expect you to know what he meant, of course, but he had an inkling that if he played his cards just right, he’d have you right where he wanted. he leaned closer now, lips dodging yours, lightly brushing your nose as his head turned to whisper in your ear. 

“do you think of me at night? our little chase?”

“wh-what?”

“you’re smart, miss. think about it.”

he disappeared into the house, bidding goodbye to your mother and father and whisking himself away. your mouth remained parted, eyes wide with confusion as you tried to process what his words could have meant. 

surely, he couldn’t mean.. 

no. absolutely not, you decided. coriolanus may have unsettled you ungreatly, but he was a peacekeeper- and your father had always told you that they served to protect you, that they would never harm you purposely. you stood shakily and made your way quietly into the old house, reeking of old wood and boiled vegetables. you sat on the couch near your brother, holding his head to your chest as you stroked his hair comfortingly, still trying to process. from the kitchen, your father called, “he’s a nice boy, no? perhaps he could be of some influence to you, sweetheart.” 

you agreed meekly, despite disagreeing with your father completely. you werent entirely sure what he saw in the man at all, yet you were adamant that he was, in fact, not a good influence, but a parasite. you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. he made you feel unsafe- unsure of yourself, and for some reason, your faith. you decided he was no good; but yet you couldnt make any understanding of the bittersweet ache between your thighs. 

when coriolanus walked home that evening, he couldn’t fight his smile. he saw you, in all his glory, struggling pathetically under his gaze, squirming and fidgeting uncontrollably as he trapped you within the cage of his arms. 

the sacrificial lamb has been caught, he thought. 

what a stupid, stupid lamb. 

౨ׅৎ

you rushed into church near 5 am the next day, sleep deprived from the constant running of your mind and the damned words of coriolanus snow. 

“our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” you repeated to yourself, kneeled below the large wooden crucifixion of jesus, hands clasped tightly together, your head resting painfully against the white of your knuckles. 

what you were praying for, you didn’t know. you couldn't go to the confessional- heavens forbid, no. confessing secrets of your dreams of coriolanus’s hands, the outline of his jaw, the way he whispered his sinister words so sweetly into your ear- to your father? you would rather be hanged for the whole district to see. there was nothing sinful about your dreams, exactly, but it felt sinful, dirty, downright hellish. you thought of his lips, the soft and pink flesh of them, the stormy blue of his eyes- and, oh god, you couldn't stop replaying his words in your head. 

‘do you think of me at night?’ he had asked you so earnestly. as if he needed you to tell him yes, you did think of him, every night. it wasn't a lie, of course, only the way you had begun thinking about him had changed. but that wasn't your doing at all, was it? no, he was to blame, for speaking to you like that, for dangling his dog tag so close that it brushed your cross indecently, for showing up to your house and stripping himself half naked, sweating impurely over the soil you and your mother sowed and reaped with love, with innocence, purity. it was entirely his fault, from the way he seemed to be forcing himself into your life. the church door creaked open, and you continued to pray, “give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

your heart raced as footsteps neared closer, as if you knew exactly who they belonged to. 

“what troubles you, little lamb?” his voice took you with fear, the way it rumbled in his chest and reverberated on the walls confining the two of you, alone. you raised your head, refusing to look back at him, “i do believe that's none of your concern, mr. snow.”

you heard him chuckle lowly, repeating the words mr. snow to himself under his breath. it made you shiver, and you recited the bible verses your father drilled into your head from as young as you could remember: vindicate me, o god, and plead my cause against an ungodly nation; rescue me from deceitful and wicked men.

you could feel him now, knee pressed lightly against your back. you stood up and turned to face him, eyes wild and daring as they searched the azure maze of his own. his hand reached to stroke your hair, and you flinched. 

“why is it that you fear me so much, do you think?”

“i’m not afraid of you.”

he tsked, “‘fear’ is different than ‘being afraid’, darling. to be afraid is a fleeting moment. your brain's immediate response towards danger,” he moved to touch your hair again, now more forcefully, tucking the loose strands along your hairline behind your ear. 

keep back your servant also from willful sins.

he continued, “i asked, why do you fear me?”

you tried to search deeper into his eyes, trying to grasp any understanding at what he was trying to communicate to you. your mind ran amok, and it was no help that coriolanus's hand now snuck its way into your fingers, fidgeting with the soft digits mindlessly. 

“i don't.. i don't know-” he cut you off by stepping closer before you finished. you had wanted to tell him that you didn't know why he thought you feared him, that you didnt understand the question, and that you needed to get home soon, so to please excuse you. 

“i think you fear what i impose between you and your precious god.”

you let out an involuntary laugh, giggling childlishly at the accusation. you stopped, when his eyes darkened. 

“i’m sorry, mr. snow, but i really don’t know what you mean!” you were struggling to contain your girlish giggles. what he imposes between me and god? it was such a bizarre statement, so plainly laid out for you, that you couldn’t even comprehend it entirely. your laughing ceased, for good now, when his hand circled tightly around your wrist. 

let them not have dominion over me.

then i will be upright.

“i’m not stupid, love. i saw you, yesterday, practically drooling over me. i wonder what your father would have to say if he saw the sinful way you ogled at me,” he paused, and you swallowed painfully, “and dont tell me you’ve forgotten all about our little chase, hm? wasnt it exhilarating?” now, panic engulfed you. you tried to back away from him as the pieces etched themselves together in your brain, but his hold on your wrist was only getting tighter. 

“that was you?” your voice was impossibly small, weak from the alarm that blared in your head. your eyes darted back and forth desperately, searching for an out, hoping and praying that someone might burst in and see the scene before you, tear hades away from his persephone and save her from her impending doom. 

i will be blameless and innocent of great transgression.

he dipped his head to your neck, lips deliciously grazing over the supple skin of your collar bone, pressing kisses so light you could barely feel them as you tried to wriggle from his grasp. 

“of course it was me, darling,” the way you felt him smile against your skin was chilling, and you fought back tears as he moved impossibly closer to you, “isn’t that adrenaline rush just addicting? tell me, dove, what do you think about me when you lie in bed and replay our precious little moments together in that pretty head of yours?” 

your breathing quickened, and you winced as coriolanus gripped tighter at your wrist, his other hand painfully gripping the small of your waist, massaging the gentle muscle of it. you could feel his entire body pressed against yours, and a tear threatened to slip when you felt the hard pressing of his lower region on your stomach. you shook your head, refusing to give in to his line of questioning, but his grip on your waist tightened and you cried out in pain, “your hands!” you whined, relief slowly making its way to the sore area of your waist as he loosened his grip. he made to grasp your chin under his index, forcing you to keep eye contact with him and urged you silently to keep going. 

“your..” you let out a shaky sigh, “your h-ands, your voice, the words you speak to me. i don't understand why.” 

he cooed at you now, as if proud of you for speaking up. your eyes darted to his lips, and you saw something flash in his eyes, “anything else?”

let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight,

lord, my rock, and my redeemer. 

you tried to look down at your feet as if to run away from the question, but his hold on your chin was unrelenting. shamefully, you whispered, “your lips.” 

he let out a small ahhh, as if the admission shocked him. he knew, of course. of course he knew. you poor thing. sweet, little lamb, so innocent and pure. untouched by lust, blind to its deceptive allure. he knew from the moment he’d gone after you in those woods and failed to catch you, that he would do everything in his power to make sure you would never escape his grasp again. he knew when his frail attempts at getting closer to you failed, he had to resort to a harsher solution. he needed to infiltrate every space you breathed in, and break his was into your mind until he had you right where he needed you to be: malleable, so he could corrupt you just as easy. 

he knew your father protected you, the extent to which he went to protect you, as well. banning sex education in your school, ensuring your mind stays as pure as possible to the exploits of fickle men and their wants. you knew the basics, thanks to your mother and her worrisome self, but her teachings were meddled down into some confusing allegory that left your mind as clueless as before, so that you stayed intact, perfect and pristine in the lords eye as well as the rest of the district, in your white frilly dresses, light makeup, and perfectly crafted manners. 

he knew how easy it would be to get in your head. the human body is funny, like that, wherein it begs for things it doesn’t know of. he knew when he flexed his hands you caught sight of it, when he swallowed you intently watched the way his adams apple bobbed, he knew when he showed up to your home and stripped himself almost bare it would plague your mind with an unknowing want and desire, and soon enough, you’d have no choice but to give in to it, abandon your god and his lessons for coriolanus alone. 

he ran his tongue across his bottom lip, swiping his thumb across yours as if to mirror himself, and then ducked his head closer, “go on.”

you squeezed your eyes shut. everything felt so, so wrong, and you didn't know why, but you couldn't stop. when he continued to toy with your lip, slightly plunging the tip of his finger past them and into your mouth, you let out an involuntary, small moan, and your legs shook and quivered as the strange ache from yesterday returned. 

“wh-what?”

“kiss me.”

your eyes widened, and you shook your head. coriolanus thought it was adorable, how you struggled to piece together what was about to happen, how your brain tried desperately to fill in the blanks with information it didnt know. you heard coriolanus sigh disapprovingly at your protests and he shoved his thumb further into your mouth, causing you to choke. he removed it, then wiped the saliva that remained over your bottom lip before inserting the digit in his mouth, tasting you. 

“its okay, little one. you can kiss me. he wont mind,” you didnt realize your fingers lingered over the necklace nestled on your chest, and your gaze followed his finger as he gestured upwards. he wont mind. you racked your brain over the things coriolanus said to you from he entered the church.

“i think you fear what i impose between you and your precious god.”

now, you truly hoped someone would burst in, and you could scream and wail as you explained the horrors coriolanus was about to commit to you (even if those horrors were unclear). he was so close, and something still pressed hardly against your stomach, and suddenly you couldn't breathe, “he would mind. i promise to pray for you coriolanus, i don't know what troubles you, but the lord-” 

he cut you off by shoving his lips onto yours harshly, groaning at the contact. his hands made their way to rest on your clothed breasts, and you wriggled and struggled to try get away from him, but your efforts were fruitless. you were cornered, now. a lamb with nowhere to run or hide, forced to face its fate. he ravaged your lips, hands restless as they caressed all over your protesting body. the ache between your legs grew, and a small part of you realized that the last thing you wanted right now was for someone to walk in, and see the preacher's daughter being completely defaced by a peacekeeper. 

“your god cant give me what i need, angel. cant you see? you did this to me,” his hand grabbed yours as he pulled away to speak, trailing it down the hard muscle of his abdomen and palming the hardness that threatened to burst through the seam of his pants. your eyes were wide and doe-like, and coriolanus never needed to fuck you more. his lips met yours again, and his other hand fumbled to remove his pants, hissing when the air hit his straining cock, all while you tried your best to distance yourself from him as much as possible. your face was hot, and your hands remained in the air, unsure of where to rest them, as you slowly allowed coriolanus to slip his tongue into your mouth. 

“good girl,” he practically growled, and you let out a pathetic squeak when you felt your core tighten, pleasure washing over you at the small praise. coriolanus was turned on beyond conception, moaning disgracefully as he stroked himself through the fabric of his underwear. if you could see the spectacle the two of you were making, in the middle of church- no less, the thought alone had coriolanus close to the edge. you gasped when you saw him palm himself, and without thinking, your hand brushing his ever so slightly, lingering a second too long before his eyes snapped up at yours, pleading you to go ahead and touch him. 

when you finally pressed your hand to his clothed region, you swore the way coriolanus threw his head back with a small mewl and moan would land you an eternity in hell alone. 

“thats it, baby, jus’ like that.. keep going..” you gasped when his hand sneaked its way under your dress- your sunday best- your hand faltering a bit when his long middle finger lightly grazed your clothed cunt. the foreign feeling it elicited from you had you desperately searching coriolanus’s eyes for an answer, unable to speak as his fingers that toyed with the most intimate parts of you had you moaning softly and lowly, uncontrollably. you continued to palm him, and his hand slipped into the lacy cotton of your panties, cursing hotly under his breath when he feels you. 

“so wet for me. you dirty fucking girl, look at you: making a mess in church.” you didnt know what he meant, but shame burned through your skin. confusion grappled at you and you began to sob, not ignoring the way your tears seemed to make coriolanus throb beneath you, “please stop, coriolanus, this is immoral.”

“baby, if it feels good, then it cant be bad,” he stroked the tear stains on your cheek softly, cupping your face with false earnest as he pulled your head to lay on his chest, “does it feel good?”

coriolanus reveled in the way you looked up at him, like a devoted follower in the arms of their saviour. when you nodded slowly, he gently spun you around and shoved your face into the cool wood of the crucifixion behind you, his hand painfully pushing against your cheek enough so that you couldn't look anywhere but above you, into the sad eyes of jesus. 

your panties were ripped off with a shriek that was muffled by coriolanus’s hand around your mouth, and you sobbed as pain mixed with pleasure as he gave a few slaps to your dripping cunt, mumbling about how pretty it is. in a desperate attempt to wiggle out of your new position, you accidentally arched your back further, giving him more access. 

“let me show you how i can love you,” he whispered into your ear, before returning his fingers to the slick mess that coated your cunt, your body jolting when they occasionally brushed over your clit, the unfamiliar sensation already too overwhelming for you to handle. with a few more agonising strokes of his fingers, he prodded at your hole, teasing your entrance in a way that had your eyes roll to the back of your head. when he finally slipped them in, your hand pounded desperately against the cross you were pressed up on, pleads to stop falling pathetically into the hand of coriolanus and onto deaf ears. he was merciless with it, greedily pounding his fingers into you in a way that had your knees gravitating towards each other and animalistic grunts of pleasure vibrating through his hand. 

something in you burned, your body was pleading for more as an unfamiliar coil formed in the pit of your stomach. your hand continued to bang against the cross, tears falling as you forcibly peered into the eyes of your saviour while you got your cunt ravaged in the middle of his shrine. 

“oh god, oh god” you mumbled through his hand. you were unsure if it was shame, or the delicious way coryo pumped his fingers into you, but you grew lightheaded and dumb, eyes hazy as you grew closer to your release. 

“thats it, take it. you’re filthy, taking my fingers so well in the middle of church.” now, both hands scraped desperately against the cross, leaving marks in the wake of your fingernails digging into the hardwood. coriolanus tugged your head further up, forcing you to stare at him with tears streaming down your face and desperate pleas for him to stop going unheard. he smiled coyly when he felt your pussy clench around his fingers, and he withdrew them just before you reached your release, a loud, agonising whine of relief and desperation leaving your smushed lips. he was quick to replace his fingers with his cock, the slow intrusion of it making you let out a low, droned out groan as he stretched your virgin cunt past its limit.

he removed his hand from your mouth, and a string of prayers tumbled out of it, “o my god, i am heartily sorry for having offended thee,” and “and i detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend thee, my god, who art all good and deserving of all my love.” it earned you a slap to your ass, and you cried out loudly as coriolanus shoved your dress off of you, watching as it fell uselessly around your legs into a pool of white. he flipped you around, admiring your soft breasts and the way they spilled over in the hold of his fingers, and he traced the soft, plumpness of your belly as he chuckled lowly at your continuous prayer. with his cock still nestled into you, he leaned forward to whisper in your ear. 

“god loves you, but not as much as i do,” and then he thrust his cock into you with such force that you nearly tumbled to the floor. his hand rest on your lower back, forcing you to arch closer to him, your hips meeting his unwillingly at his fast pace. coriolanus’s cock grazed the inside of your gummy walls perfectly, and you found yourself slipping from reality as he continued to pound his dick into you, moaning when you contracted around him without rhythm, your inexperienced self almost overloaded with pleasure, unable to control your body. 

“you’re being such a good girl, taking my cock like this,” he weaved a hand through your hair, “‘n you’re gonna let me cum inside you, yeah? gonna make a woman out of you.” you couldnt focus on the words he was throwing at you, lost in pleasure as the tip of coryo’s dick hit that one spot over and over again. the way he spoke to you had you at a crossroads, and it didnt help that he was fucking you into oblivion, and now you understood what he had meant when he said he imposed between you and god, because you were becoming addicted to the push and pull of his cock inside of you. 

“thats right, take it. you look so pretty all dumb and fucked out on my cock,” you reached to grab his arm to steady yourself, your orgasm creeping in closely, “you gonna cum for me?” 

you didn't know what it meant, but you nodded anyways, completely lost in bliss, “coryo..” you moaned out, his brows raising slightly at the new nickname, a smirk settling on his face. moans and mewls lewdly left your mouth as he quickened his pace, his unused hand massaging at your tits, twisting and pinching softly at your nipples as you thrashed with pleasure under him. 

“gonna make you worship this fucking cock, baby” he was close himself now, his head falling and his voice itching up an octave, lewd moans clashing with yours as the rhythm and pace he set began to falter, and he fucked you as hard as he could as he chased your high and his own, “gonna make you devoted to me. you’re never gonna wanna be away from me again,” his face twisted with pleasure, and you circled your arms around his neck as you tried to ground yourself, the coil in your stomach slowly beginning to unravel and threatening to snap. a shadow passed, and your eyes widened with terror as you slapped coryo’s arm haphazardly, begs falling from your mouth to stop. he turned his head lazily to look at what you were whining about, but his thrusts didn't stop. 

“let them see what a dirty fucking girl you are.” 

your walls tightened and your eyes rolled so far back into your head you were scared they wouldn't come back up as your orgasm reached you. you covered your mouth, shrieking desperately as the shockwaves of pleasure rolled over you, the newfound feeling unrelenting as it took over every part of your body. coriolanus repeated words of encouragement and praise as he fucked you through your high, before bottoming out and releasing his load in you, christening your walls. you whined at the feeling, so full and drunk off of it that your concerns of the passerby faded. the both of you stood there, panting heavily, both groaning when coryo slid out of you. he slapped his tip on your puffy clit one, two, three times, before a loud knock rapped on the church door. 

you could feel coriolanus’s spill leaking out of you as you crouched on your knees, hidden, and you cried silently, the reality of what had just happened to you settling in. coriolanus snow had corrupted you, in the worst possible way, and now you could only feel yourself crave more of him. as he spoke to the intruder, egging them to run along, a thumb caressed your head gently, as if to tell you he had everything under control. the small southern drawl he’d begun to pick up was more prominent. when the intruder finally left, you were forced to your feet, and coriolanus grabbed your ruined panties, resting on his knees below you to shove them into your used cunt, before making his way back to his feet, towering over you. he spoke to you like he would if he were on duty:

“you go on home now, miss. and tell your father i say hello.” 

and you did. 

౨ׅৎ

@dumbsoftheart, 2023

[real-reulbbr-band]

Translating all the CATS Asia tour (2017) character descriptions!

Admetus, the Considerate cat is a kind cat who protects kittens. He is a thoughtful and easygoing cat.

Alonzo, the righteous cat. A proud and masculine cat. On the outside, he is lively and dynamic, but deep down, he is still uncertain about himself.

Bill Bailey the acrobatic cat is an adolescent cat who specializes in fluid dance moves and acrobatics, and is tough and confident.

Bombalurina, the sensual cat; she is extremely sensual and sexy, especially popular among the male cats. She shares a special bond of empathy with Demeter.

Bustopher Jones, the rich cat is not a Jellicle cat, but he is an aristocratic cat who is welcomed by all, enjoys golfing in his spare time and loves a big feast of delicious food.

Carbucketty, the reckless cat is a feisty cat that often gets into trouble.

Cassandra the Siamese Cat, she has a four-dimensional spiritual world with a mysterious beauty. As the only hairless Siamese cat, she is always confident and maintains an air of elegance and pride.

(4D is Korean slang for someone who has a weird, eccentric personality. They seem to live in their own strange world, often behaving unusually or unexpectedly. Though it may seem like an insult, calling someone 4D is actually considered a compliment, and 4D idols are loved for their weirdness.) 

Demeter, a sensitive cat, she is anxious and irritable about Macavity, always thinking that Macavity is nearby.

Electra, a busy cat, likes to intervene here and there, so she is always busy and distracted. She is an adorable, fluffy young kitten.

George, a braggart cat. is a spontaneous, stubborn and dignified cat always on the alert.

Tantomile & Coricopat, the twin cats. As feral cats they are wild, have excellent cognitive abilities, and have a sixth sense that other cats do not have.

Grizabella, the Mesmerizing cat, was once a beautiful cat and a member of the Jellicles, but she has gone to the world outside of the Jellicles and has gone through a painful and difficult time, and now she is old and shabby. She wants to come back, but is ostracized.

Gus, the theater cat. The second oldest cat after the prophet cat. He was a famous actor in his younger days, but now suffers from palsy.

Jemima, the curious cat, best friends with Victoria. She is a curious, intelligent, and innocent kitten.

Jennyanydots, the Gumbie cat; She always sits around during the day, seeming lazy, but at night she is busy educating the kittens. She is like a mother to the Jellicle cats.

Jellylorum, the kind cat; she always takes care of old Gus and looks after the young kittens. She is a warm-hearted cat.

Macavity, the villainous cat. The mafia of the cats; he is the center of evil, notorious for committing crimes and kidnapping other cats.

Mr. Mistoffelees, the magician cat; he can make objects disappear and reappear. He can perform various kinds of magic and is very competitive.

Mungojerrie & Rumpleteazer, the thief cat couple; a playful and resourceful burglar cat couple who are always together and get into trouble, but are also fun and lively.

Munkustrap, the Moderator cat. He protects and cares for the Jellicle members. He has a noble, royal-like dignity and serves as the guardian of all the cats.

Old Deuteronomy, the prophet cat. The leader and ancestor of the Jellicle cats. Wise and knowledgeable, he is respected by all. At the Jellicle ball, he chooses one cat to ascend to the Heaviside Layer and begin a new 'Jellicle' life.

Rum Tum Tugger, the rebellious cat. The most popular Jellicle cat. He has strong opinions and likes to be the center of attention. Like the tree-frog, he's opposed to everything, but his presence alone is very charismatic.

(“청개구리” is an idiomatic term which refers to the Korean folktale story of tree-frog / blue frog. In the story, the young frog causes trouble for his mother by always doing the opposite of what he’s told. If you ask him for sugar he’ll give you salt, if you tell him to quiet down for bed, he’ll make a fuss etc.)

Skimbleshanks, the railway cat. A conductor who lives at the train station. He is an organized cat responsible for everything related to the trains.

Victoria, the white cat. The purest and most innocent cat. She performs an enchanting dance for the first time at the Jellicle Ball.

[wondereads]

Sapphic Book Recs for Pride 2024

The Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon

Adult, high fantasy, 4.28 star average (my rating: 5 stars)

Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

Adult, sci-fantasy, 4.29 star average (my rating: 5 stars)

The Winter Duke by Claire Eliza Bartlett

Young Adult, high fantasy, 3.55 star average (my rating: 5 stars)

Ace of Spades by Faridah Abike-Iyimide

Young Adult, thriller, 4.27 star average (my rating: 5 stars)

Crier's War by Nina Varela

Young Adult, high fantasy, 4.11 star average (my rating: 4.5 stars)

Down Among the Sticks and Bones by Seanan McGuire

New Adult, low fantasy, 4.18 star average (my rating: 4.5 stars)

Seven Devils by L. R. Lam and Elizabeth May

Adult, space opera, 4.03 star average (my rating: 4.5 stars)

Malice by Heather Walter

Adult, fantasy romance, 3.97 star average (my rating: 4.5 stars)

Beguiled by Cyla Panin

Young Adult, high fantasy, 3.48 star average (my rating: 4 stars)

The Jasmine Throne by Tasha Suri

Adult, high fantasy, 4.21 star average (my rating: 3.5 stars)

Ash by Malinda Lo

Young Adult, fantasy romance, 3.57 star average (my rating: 3.5 stars)

We Ate the Dark by Mallory Pearson

New Adult, horror fantasy, 3.04 star average (my rating: 3 stars)

The Chosen and the Beautiful by Nghi Vo

Adult, historical fantasy, 3.66 star average

The Once and Future Witches by Alix E. Harrow

Adult, historical fantasy, 4.13 star average

Flip the Script by Lyla Lee

Young Adult, contemporary romance, 3.64 star average

The Bone Shard Daughter by Andrea Stewart

Adult, high fantasy, 4.07 star average

She Who Became the Sun by Shelley Parker-Chan

Adult, historical fantasy, 4 star average

This Poison Heart by Kalynn Bayron

Young Adult, contemporary fantasy, 4.17 star average

Tink and Wendy by Kelly Ann Jacobson

Young Adult, low fantasy, 3.4 star average

The Tiger's Daughter by K. Arsenault Rivera

Adult, high fantasy, 3.84 star average

Sorrowland by Rivers Solomon

Adult, horror sci-fi, 4.04 star average

Cinderella Is Dead by Kalynn Bayron

Young Adult, high fantasy, 3.65 star average

The Goddess of Nothing at All by Cat Rector

Adult, high fantasy, 4.23 star average

Last Night at the Telegraph Club by Malinda Lo

Young Adult, historical romance, 4.28 star average

Gearbreakers by Zoe Hana Mikuta

Young Adult, dystopian sci-fi, 3.92 star average

The City of Dusk by Tara Sim

Adult, high fantasy, 3.72 star average

Foolish Hearts by Emma Mills

Young Adult, contemporary fiction, 4.25 star average

The Last Tale of the Flower Bride by Roshani Chokshi

Adult, gothic fantasy, 3.83 star average

A Dowry of Blood by S. T. Gibson

Adult, gothic fantasy, 4.12 star average

Seven Faceless Saints by M. K. Lobb

Young Adult, high fantasy, 3.5 star average

Darker by Four by June CL Tan

Young Adult, contemporary fantasy, 4.11 star average

The Coldest Touch by Isabel Sterling

Young Adult, paranormal romance, 3.64 star average

Portrait of a Thief by Grace D. Lin

Adult, mystery thriller, 3.63 star average

Once & Future by Cory McCarthy and A. R. Capetta

Young Adult, sci-fantasy, 3.57 star average

The Traitor Baru Cormorant by Seth Dickinson

Adult, high fantasy, 4.1 star average

Wilder Girls by Rory Power

Young Adult, sci-fi horror, 3.48 star average

Afterworlds by Scott Westerfled

Young Adult, contemporary fiction/low fantasy, 3.69 star average

[helenofsparta2]

Headcannon: Percy is immensely popular among nature spirits and "minor" gods

Oceanids & Nereids

It starts small.

The Nereids and Oceanids are naturally curious about him when they find out about his existence, that’s already canon:

She (a nereid) nodded. “It has been many years since a child of the Sea God has been born. We have watched you with great interest.”

Suddenly, I remembered faces in the waves of Montauk Beach when I was a little boy, reflections of smiling women. (The Lightning Thief, chapter 17)

Later, at the latest by the time Titan’s curse happens, nereids and oceanids see him save ocean creatures from fishing gear, or whales stranded on beaches, or him helping mermaids with hanging nails. (Titan’s curse, chapter 7)  We see him be considerate and respectful to nereids through his interaction in the fourth book at the ranch.

She looked like she was ready for a fight. Her fists were balled, but I thought I heard a little quaver in her voice. Suddenly, I realized that, despite her angry attitude, she was afraid of me. She probably thought I was going to fight her for control of the river , and she was worried, she would lose.

The thought made me sad. I felt like a bully, a son of Poseidon throwing his weight around.

I sat down on a tree stump. “Okay, you win.”

The naiad looked surprised. (The Battle of the Labyrinth, chapter 9)

It’s pretty good established in the books, that smaller gods and spirits don’t get treated with respect most of the time, especially not from heroes of old like Herakles and the Olympian gods. The reaction of the naiad adds to this sentiment, so we can pretty easily conclude that the way Percy treats them, is relatively rare.

In-between the books, Rick often sprinkles in some interactions between Percy and naiads, which further underlines their positive opinion of him:

I looked over the edge of the boat and found a couple of naiads staring at me. They looked like regular teenage girls, the kind you’d see in any mall, except for the fact that they were underwater.

Hey, I said. They made a bubbling sound that may have been giggling. I wasn’t sure. I had a hard time understanding naiads.

We’re heading upstream, I told them. Do you think you could-

Before I could even finish, the naiads each chose a canoe and began pushing us up the river. (Titan’s curse, Chapter 14)

Satyrs & Dryads:

The satyrs know that he, Clarisse, Annabeth, Tyson and Grover were the ones, who returned the golden fleece to camp half-blood and so, have stopped satyrs from getting killed by Polyphemus. During the battle of the labyrinth, Percy is the one who extinguished the fire and stopped the trees and dryads from getting burnt to death. Not to mention that he is best friends with the guy, who discovered Pan and has the title of Lord of the Wild.

“Minor” Gods:

The non-Olympian gods, like Hecate, Nemesis, Eros, Hebe and Morpheus were probably curious about him, even wary, but nothing more at first, until Percy managed to stop the civil war between Zeus and Poseidon at the age of twelve.  

We know that canonically, this already earned him the respect of many different beings:

As I walked back through the city of the gods, conversations stopped. The muses paused their concert. People, and satyrs and naiads all turned towards me, their faces filled with respect and gratitude, and as I passed, they knelt, as if I were some kind of hero.” (The Lightning Thief, chapter 21)

By the time the war with Kronos further escalates and they join his side, this obviously changes again. From this moment on, Percy is their enemy, and probably nothing more for most of them.

But then, they lose, and probably expect the worst of consequences.

Gods who have crossed Zeus have suffered severe punishments before. Prometheus was bound to a rock, with an eagle eating his liver every day because he stole fire from the gods, gifted it to humanity and tricked Zeus, the titans were banished to Tartarus after the Titanomachy. After some of the gods rebelled and tried to overthrow Zeus, Hera got hung in the sky with golden chains, where she cried out all night in pain, while Apollo and Poseidon were forced to work as labourers for King Laomedon of Troy.

They probably expected to get thrown into Tartarus with the rest of the Titans, get stripped of their immortality, or worse. Instead, however, their children finally receive cabins at camp half-blood and they themselves receive full amnesty.

All because Percy Jackson, this 16-year-old teenager, decides to change the entire thousand year old status quo on Olympus.  

He could have wished for anything after their victory over Kronos and the titan army. The choice was not between the oath he made the gods swear and him becoming a god. He could have wished to be left alone, or to never have to do a quest again, or live a happy, and peaceful life away from the pain and wars until the end of his days, or literally anything else, but he didn’t. He made the active choice to make Olympus fairer, and to create equality among the demigods, without even thinking about it for too long.

No one can convince me that this, and his already mentioned other actions, didn’t earn him the respect of huge parts of the mythological world.

Not even Rick himself (no matter how much he may try in his new books)

[linneri]

navy blue

aged-up!neteyam x fem reader

no warnings; spoiler free

non-english speaker

His skin had a much cooler shade than yours; that was the first thing you noticed. Bright navy blue, deeper, heavier, almost impossible to get from marine nature. The pair of amber eyes were scanning the surroundings, checking for potential dangers, confirming if his family is safe here among strangers, and this gaze had you glued to the ground, feet grown in sand when these eyes accidentally went looking directly, straight into you. Tsireya was talking and smiling, and you wanted to scream at him, "Hey, look at her, she's the prettiest girl here," but he was still and almost hypnotized, ears trembling nervously. He's mesmerizing, you thought. He's so pretentious, it's almost scary. He must be brave enough for those kinds of stares, brave or frivolous—you couldn't decide.

Stranger from a land where trees touch the sky and levitating mountains have no ground beneath them, it was poetic; he must have seen the highest of altitudes. 

His father came from the star, as you'll be told later. It makes sense; he is a cosmic boy, the comeliest of the aliens, and you found it truly beautiful. You two didn't talk after; he melted from this frozen gaze and went with Tsireya, Ao'nung, and the whole group of his younger siblings with big eyes and thin tails, and they all were adorable, really, you could feel the strong, unbreakable connection in this family. It was a bit painful to look at them from the side, but you weren't the daughter of the Olo'eyktan, surely, you were just a part of the clan, just a watcher. That is what was most surprising to you this morning. You weren't in the first line; you never are. Looking at forest guests from someone's shoulders, hiding patiently just to watch from the side, and still being noticed like this—strongly, gripped with the gaze. He caught you like a hunter catching a thief. Overthinking these few minutes made you feel like you were the one who was either brave or frivolous. 

It's not like you two got closer over the weeks; you haven't even shared a word. You weren't ready to go talk to him; it was almost like a fantasy, but you were already too curious for him, almost glued to him, so you couldn't leave the beach while he was somewhere in the water. Call it embarrassing or romantic—it doesn't matter. He was still the son of Toruk Makto, and you were still just a weaver sitting on the sand. It was simple to bring all the materials onto the beach and hide the eyes behind the tapestry. He was learning how to ride an ilu once, which was pretty hilarious to be honest, but he knew you were there, and you knew that he knew, and this was calming. It's all about the looks: there were looks in the morning when you were arriving at your beach spot; there were looks in the evening when he was returning from his long distance swims; you two were always searching for each other's eyes, just to know, just to feel this kind of warmth and keep going. It was your little game in comfort, and it always ended with a win for both of you.

Soon or later, it started to hurt somewhere under the ribs, his apartness. You low-key felt like a traitor; your little staring game was unbreakable and already much more than you could ever dream of, but somehow it still wasn't enough, and you had no idea if this feeling was mutual. In this case, wouldn't he come? This silence started to get overwhelming; it was almost feral. You weren't the one; you never are. He might generously gift you these looks and still choose someone else—someone prettier and louder, someone with a brave and adventurous soul, someone who speaks instead of just looking.

But he saw you, you thought. Shouldn't it mean something?

You didn't come the next day. And the next too. It all felt too silly, and you decided that you had romanticized this whole experience much more than you should have. It's probably been a week or something; you just tried to come back to your life: quiet weaving at home, family dinners, learning, spending time alone with your thoughts. The tapestry was almost ready, though. You took it in your hands, finishing all the details, slowly sewing the ends, and adding the shells as buttons. It was wonderful, yet it still felt like a failure. You packed it under your pillow like the most hidden of secrets.

It was your birthday a few days later. Never a party, but rather a little celebration with the closest hearts around. You loved it quietly. You never expect a lot, just some little gifts, mother's meals, forehead kisses, and soft evenings inside the village. Nature greeted you as well. It was one of those sunsets in silence when everyone rested in their places and the island was a little liar for saying that it was all yours for tonight. Water greeted you respectfully, and air touched your face with the slightest kisses; you were a dreamer, and this planet loved you.

The village was turquoise, the warmest shade of the surrounding wet air. That's why this cold navy blue in front of your eyes almost got you tricked. Heart dropped immediately; for a second, you forgot you even had one. In the darkness, his skin was starting to glow a bit with these little sparking freckles, and you weren't just staring; you were stargazing him carefully. He was a cosmic boy, you remember. 

And somehow, he came. It was him just in front of you, on your little secret birthday. You found it surprisingly easy - to look at his amber eyes once again like your gaze never leaved his, not for a second. 

"You're here." You broke the silence. It was almost possible to hear the crack of the rules that were finally breaking.

"Let me know if coming here will ruin everything." He said. His voice was strong and yet trembling. "Let me know if it was already ruined."

Ruined? 

If you only had an answer. It was dreamy, but yet so impossibly real. The tension could be touched and grabbed in your fist if you ever raised your hand. He was here and close enough to radiate warmth from his cold-shaded skin. Ruined? It's a farce. You were the one who put an end to this game, overwhelming and terrified of fear, and he came here equally terrified as you but infinitely braver.

Lips opened for a word, but came with nothing. You prayed for your eyes to say it all.

"I should have come earlier." Shaking his head, he said."It hurts to lose this certainty that if I turn around, I will meet your eyes there."

It hurts. It feels then, you thought. It feels then, and not only you were the one to feel.

And it's all about the way this boy speaks: expectedly tenderly. You always wondered what his voice sounded like. 

"And yet it feels newly seeing you this close." You said, breaking for a little smile. It was boldly for you, but you felt happy to see him here, really did. It was a confirmation that he indeed felt the same way about you. 

The sunset tried its hardest to shine brightest this moment, but it was overshadowed by the smile growing in front of you.

You said your names to each other right after. The bond made in your heads got a little stronger with this smallest step, and you loved his name endlessly—Neteyam sounded perfect for his indomitable spirit and such soft, tender eyes, and it felt even softer to say it out loud.

"It's your birthday." He said, dropping his gaze away from your eyes, probably for the first time in these minutes. "It's not the best, but I took some clothes from my village before coming here and now unraveled one of my capes because I never saw such color in your tapestries and Tsireya said that--"

"We don't have this pigment on our land." You finished.

He was holding his hands in front of you, and there was a beautiful skein of cold blue thread in them, navy as his skin but brighter than you've ever seen. It was the color of their nights, you thought, the shade their forest generously provided only for its citizen. And now you're the one who can take it as if you were one of them. It was lovely. Neteyam felt you without asking any questions. It left you breathless.

"How could you know? It's so perfect." It was a childlike awe in your tone that made him smile and look into your eyes once again. "Thank you."

You were scared to even breathe because this little gift felt so personal and let you know that he really cared and noticed, and he really tried to know you as well as he could, from the side, just like a watcher, just like you. You raised your eyes, and you knew they were shining.

"I have something for you as well." You told him. Neteyam looked confused, ears straightened quickly. "Please, just stay here."

"Hey, why would I leave?" He smiled wildly after failing at fake pouting. You loved how his eyes were surrounded by a few wrinkles in this moment. It was torture to turn your head away and go fast to your place.

It was near; you weren't far away, and you knew that he was waiting for you. It made you feel something real. It excited you. There were minutes, probably, funny or not: a few words to your parents, a few steps to your bed, a few moves to your pillow, grabbing the tapestry, and almost running back to him.

When you arrived, breathing barely, you looked at him with the silliest smile. You held it proudly in your hands, your heart racing. You remember finishing it hopelessly and feeling like you were just a fool for him, and now the soft material warmed your hands.

You were weaving him a cape at the same time he was unraveling his own for you.

It was in light marine colors, with threads of silver and bronze, a pattern reminding you of water, and glowing shells as buttons—truly good work. You weaved it with all your feelings for him, and it actually turned out to be the best tapestry you've ever made.

And it was so intimate—changing the gifts that connected so strongly without even knowing. 

He went silent—not a silly joke, not a single laugh. Neteyam took it so carefully, like it was fragile. He didn't expect it, you could tell, and it was an intriguing show to watch, to notice all the changes in his mimicry and looks. So warmly. He looks at you so warmly all the time. He placed it on his shoulders slowly, putting the shell in the loop with one careful movement. Like a prince, you thought. His skin made the cape almost shine in the sunset lights.

"It's not my birthday today, you know?" He said. 

"I know, but it's mine. Keep it if you want to cheer me up a little more than you already did."

He looked up at the colorful sky and laughed loudly. "You're perfect. And it's the work of art that I didn't deserve but that I will definitely be carrying with me till the end. Thank you." He lowered his head back at you. "Thank you." 

Making him happy. That's all you wanted after this moment. 

You both sat on the sand, and the conversation finally felt natural and unhurried; he was the sweetest and shyest person you could ever imagine. 

You were the one to break this shy wall between you two and tell him honestly that you did, in fact, miss him and that you were, in fact, coming to the beach just to see him. He laughed softly and placed his hand on your head compulsively, probably because of the oldest brother's habit of messing up his siblings' hair, but took it off immediately. You wouldn't mind, though. His accidental touches were giving butterflies. 

He was honest as well; you believe that he was always honest, but it was still surprising to hear him tell you about all these feelings you two shared but both had no idea you did. You were a little poet with threads as words for him. He felt it somehow—maybe it was some kind of connection or just admiration—but watching you alone with something you love was beautiful. It was natural; you were on your own and never complained about it. That's why he never talked to you; he was afraid to ruin something in this idyll, break your comfort zone, and lose the opportunity to look at you every other day. But you were always looking back, and that gave him this blind courage to come here. He didn't know your name, he never asked. He could just go to Tsireya or anyone, but he liked to keep you as his little secret. Neteyam was not embarrassed to publicize his little addiction; he simply loved the intimacy of it all. And it was passionate; you felt the same kind of desire to keep this away from everyone in order to keep it as magical as it had always been. 

You couldn't dream of this answer. He gave you much more than you thought you ever deserved.

And he was perfect in the darkened skies; it felt like they were trying to make him glow as much as possible. It was a moment when you raised your hand carefully after your conversation stopped in the comfortable, soft silence, and it was almost possible to hear the sound of the air cutting under your palm; everything was slow.

You touched one of his sparkling freckles between his eyes, stopping their light. His skin was satin. It was as warm as his gaze, much warmer than how this cold-shaded skin was looking. He stared at you so intensely—nobody has looked at you like this.

Nobody has ever seen you like this.

Your fingers moved by themselves, braver than you ever were, going down, remembering all the caves on his face, the silhouette of his nose, the little pit above his trembling lips. They stopped there, covering his mouth with the slightest touch. Neteyam was watching your eyes following this way. You knew the night was hypnotized as well; the clouds were completely still in the skies, looking down at both of you.

You moved forward impulsively. It was a moment; you lost yourself, and your eyes closed without your permission. Blame the date; you had a few minutes before your birthday ends and it was the courage that fogged your mind. Or it's just him: beautiful, beautiful cosmic boy under your skin with an intense gaze and the warmest amber in his eyes.

And you kissed the tips of your fingers like there were just his lips uncovered for you. So close. So "almost". You didn't see it, but you felt it—he flinched, his hot breath burned your fingers, and he opened his mouth a little, instinctively.

The moment got stuck. Time could get faster or just stop; you wouldn't tell. It was just your noses touching, shared loud breathing, and trembling fingers between you two, like the strongest and largest barrier you've ever felt. You had no right for more, you wouldn't ask for it. It was the closest you could get, and you slowly tried to move back to face reality. But he caught you. He caught you, like he always does. His fingers wrapped around your wrist so fast and tightly, almost scared, that you couldn't help but open your eyes in a daze and meet this melting amber. 

You couldn't forget the way he looked at you—in awe. Conserved sparkles in this gaze because of fear of hurting you, grip relaxing around your wrist. He nearly told you with his eyes: "Let me." Fingers moved higher to meet yours, carefully fitting between, where your lips almost touched. 

He nearly asked you with his hand: "Please."

Was there any other answer you could give him instead of yes? You closed your eyes slowly, sipping down your entwined fingers, and it was louder than any of your possible words.

He kissed you. 

Blindly and passionately, as if nothing else mattered more than your lips on his, your holding hands under your chins, your little gasp after he finally touched you in ways you both couldn't even imagine. It was forbidden, and yet so freeing—a little secret that got you both breathless. He moved slowly, taking his time on you, and it was so intimate that you felt the goosebumps running down your back. His other hand covered the back of your neck, trying to be closer—the closest he could ever get. It's doubly that he could at this moment; you wanted him somewhere under your skin. Glued permanently like a tattoo. 

The seeingless line between, the little navy blue thread on your fingers, the gazes that could find each other even in the most crowded of streams—there was something so real tying you both together. Knotting like a weaved braid. 

It was something real and beautiful, the way your lips perfectly fitted, breaths combined, and skin smoothly touched each other. 

He torturously, unbearably moved away in an instant, breathing heavily on your lips, your foreheads touching. Leaving a little peck on the corner of your lips before talking: "You should teach me." He took your entwined hands on the material of his weaved cape. 

You laughed softly, making a little effort to bring his hand back to your face: "You would be much better in it with this extra finger your siblings have." You said, kissing his palm and hearing him chuck.

"Indeed. But I have much more motivation to learn than all of them."

"Yeah? Always wanted to weave?" Your lips were still on his fist, touching his skin anytime you talked or smiled through it.

"Always wanted to have a reason to be around you." He said unexpectedly seriously. You found it quite adorable; this boy was pure in his feelings for you, and this is all you ever desired. You put your lips back on his, kissing him softly instead of answering.

He's got all the reasons to be around now, and you both knew it. Before it got too dark and late, he was kissing your face everywhere, leaving some silly playful pecks on your forehead and cheeks through the smile, holding your face tightly with his palms.

The comeliest of aliens that came from the place with mountains that saw no ground, he was just about to show you all the altitudes, and you were ready to fly the highest with him if he ever asked you. You both were laughing and finally felt so free with all the unhidden feelings you both tried to hide. 

"Cosmic boy." You whispered between his little kisses, and you knew he adored it. 

And it felt lovely to let yourself be happy.

[i-llo]

The whole beeing soulmates thing

Beetlejuice × Fem O/C

Click here for more informations about this fic

Chapters here

Synopsis: Sophie lives a normal and happy life in the 80s, she never worries about things beyond her reality, until weird dreams started to haunt her – flashes of faces and places she didn't recognize, and a strange gothic girl shows up with even more disturbing informations. What she can't figure out is that she's trapped in an endless cycle of death and rebirth, always ate the age of 25, and that her destiny is undeniably connected to Beetlejuice in some way. Centuries before, they should have met, but a cruel tragedy separated them and now the Deetz and the Maitlands, headed by Lydia, are determined to give Beetlejuice a chance of redemption, finding out about Sophie's forgotten past. As they try to reunite these two destined souls, something is trying to prevent this from happening, at all costs. Between ancient secrets, an inexplicable connection and they running out of time, Sophie and Beetlejuice finally have a chance to undo the curse that keeps them separated and trapped in this world.

Notes: Beetlejuice's medias will be mixed up (these works do not belong to me and all rights are reserved), so we'll use a lot of information from the 1988 and 2024 movies, but using the personality of the characters from the Broadway musical. I'm looking for someone to help me with beta reading the English translation.

Act 1, prologue: A Promise in the Shadows

It was a particularly cold night, a deep darkness, as the moon struggled to reveal itself through the thick clouds. The holwing wind made the trees sway, groaning in the gloom. In the open-air cemetery, where the silent witnesses of old times layed, the unease sense was almost palpable, a desolation that seemed to envolve the place with every wind blow.

Sophia, with her heavy dress and silent steps, had just revealed herself in the light of a nearby lamp, leaving a narrow alley, accompanied by a strong and austere man. Sophia's father, Edmund, was influential and feared in the region and was returning home with her after a social event, however, he decided to slightly divert his path for a short round. His concern for his family's property and investments led him to inspect the cemetery, now neglected and disturbingly exposed, three years after the start of the Black Death.

Among the rotting bodies, Beetlejuice moved with disconcerting intensity, searching for anything valuable, as soon as a cart unloaded, he moved to this new location. His carefree and irreverent behavior was evident as he manipulated the corpses with an almost frenzied dexterity. His eyes, darkened like two black spots on his face due to the low light, were an almost savage sight, his actions did't went unnoticed by passersby.

Sophia's father advanced with firm and quick steps, approaching Beetlejuice with an expression of absolute disdain. “Even the lowest scum have learned to respect the dead, what do you think you're doing?” he shouted, his voice resonating with an authority that seemed to fill the cemetery.

The thief, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, slowly turned around, a disdainful smile on his lips. "Me? I like to think that I'm giving a better destination to things that they will certainly no longer use". His voice full of sarcasm, directly challenged the power that Edmund represented.

The tension was palpable. As he continued to make ,threats and try to intimidate Beetlejuice, Sophia, hidden in the shadows, felt a mixture of fear and inexplicable fascination. Despite her father being an imposing figure, the strange young man faced the situation with a confidence that delighted her. Sure, the desecration of the dead made her shudder and the smell was unbearable, but there was something morbidly magnetic about the situation. Beetlejuice showed no signs of submission, instead, he continued to work, completely disregarding the presence of the intruders. Sophia, despite her natural shyness and respect for her father's suffocating presence, couldn't take her eyes off him. The way he challenged the established order was fascinating.

---

In the upcoming weeks, Sophia's life became a silent search. Observing Beetlejuice from distance, through the windows of her residence or during discreet walks, she began to feel a deep curiosity, along with a new kind of anxiety. The way he defied norms and lived freely enchanted her. Every sight of him was a mixture of wonder and desire, a desire to escape the restrictive and controlling life she knew, and he was the representation her feelings, as if all her inappropriate thoughts formed a whole new person. Finally, after the torturous weeks that followed, Sophia decided to act, she could no longer return to the confines of her existense, not after that encounter in the graveyard. She would run away and find Beetlejuice, she intended to confess her feelings and then they could run away, with her dowry's money that she would bring hidden, they could start a new life, just the two of them.

However, what that young woman could never imagine, was that this was also the day of his honeymoon. After meeting and marrying Dolores, an enigmatic and seductive woman, in a matter of days, joining together in a profane celebration, just like them, the moment came for the consummation of the vows. Dolores, however, had planned something dark: poison him to take his soul and ensure her own immortality. Sophia ran hurriedly through the deserted streets, the cold wind hurted her face like small cuts, while the sound of her own footsteps echoed in her nervous mind. Every corner felt like a eternity and every noise from the street seemed amplified in her troubled head, but the confidence in her feelings and her perfectly put together plan drove her forward, with her heart fixed on one person.

When Sophia arrived, she found the most horrific scene, Beetlejuice was dead from poisoning and with an enraged expression due the betrayal. His body was already pale and cold. Rage that resulted in Dolores' brutal death by axe, the woman's body was completely dismembered, causing blood to spread everywhere, soaking all the floor. Sophia then walked over, heartbroken and with eyes full of tears, kneeling beside Beetlejuice and crying over his limp body, the feeling of despair and desolation growing every second, "I love you" she whispered, her voice weak and broken by pain, almost inaudible. “And I promise that I will love you in every other life, we will meet again, and no matter what happens, I will never forget you.” Sophia's lament seemed to echo through the village, the sound of crying and sharp sobs, her promises of love and devotion caught in the darkness of that night.

---

Sophia's father after finding out what had happened, warned by his employees, was furious and decided that the situation needed to be resolved quickly and effectively. To protect the family's honor and avoid any scandal, he arranged a marriage for Sophia with Anthony, a man who was as cruel as rich, known for his brutality and power. Sophia's marriage to Anthony was the realization of her nightmares, he was ruthless and treated her with scorn, isolating and keeping her locked up, away from any possibility of escape and under strong physical violence. Sophia's life alongside Anthony was full of suffering and fear. Anthony, interested only in her wealth, constantly mistreated her. A few months after their wedding, Sophia, now at the age of 25, was brutally murdered by Anthony, who had already completed his goal and no longer needed her. Her life was ended short and filled with abuse, a cruel act that sealed her fate.

After Sophia's death, a heavy air enveloped the room, as if the world was suspended in dark mourning. That seemed to announce the sadness of an unfulfilled promise, in the dim light, the cycle of life and death continued. Time advanced until a baby's cry broke the silence. Her new life began as a child again, eyes opening to a world that was at once so familiar and so new. As the seconds passed fast, memories of her past life began to emerge, like scattered fragments of a distant dream. The love and the promise made to Beetlejuice, the losses and the very curse that now followed her, became clear in her mind. She slowly understood that she was doomed to repeat her story, trapped in an endless cycle of reincarnation, always seeking to find the one to whom she had promised eternal love, and then she heard “Welcome to the world, Olivia”.

[somethingclevermahogony]

WIP Tour Tag!

Finally getting to this! Thank y'all for the tags @paeliae-occasionally, @illarian-rambling, @willtheweaver, and @topazadine!

For the sake of simplicity I'll be showing you around a single city, the Grand City by the Lake, Labisa.

(There is a 99.9999 chance that I missed at least one typo, please be forgiving haha)

Stop 1: The Serpent Road

You find yourself walking down a worn and dusty road, one which stretches far behind you, curling serpent-like through the forested hills, as well as farms and villages, eventually vanishing into the looming Red Cedar Mountains. At first glance you may believe it to be little more than a wide dirt path, but as you look closer you can see the faint outlines of cobblestones, laid in times long forgotten, their surfaces sanded down by centuries of feet, hooves, and wagon wheels. Other travellers surround you, many dressed in strange clothing, some are Kishite some come from far more distant lands. They have come to partake in the Festival of Humbalibal, Goddess of the Mountains. Performers draped in the skins of leopards and boars, dancers bedecked with bells and ribbons, and poets bearing harps and drums ply their trade. Over the excited chatter, they sing of great heroes and tragedies, of beautiful Hiru and sorrowful Lat. Through the people, on either side of you are steles, dozens of them, some as small as a child, others as large as a house, pillars of stone their surfaces carved and chiselled with decrees of kings and queens, living and dead. Gods and beasts glare down at you as you pass beneath their stony gaze. Woe the Thief, Woe the Murderer, Woe the Traitor they seem to whisper. Or perhaps the whispers come from the lips of the heads, their eyes plucked by birds, cheeks sunken, skewered upon the poles of pine wood which line the roadside, their crimes scrawled in black coal upon their foreheads. To your left glittering under the mid-day sun is Lake Shebali, its massive expanse seems to swallow the horizon. White-feathered shorebirds stalk black sand beaches and weave amongst reeds. Ships bob lazily at the docks, grandest among them is the royal barge, a floating palace, its two masts extend high into the air like two massive trees. Beyond the docks you can see the fishing village, humble buildings of mud and timber, racks where fish dry, and leather cures. Children run between the houses whooping and crying, waving sticks and dolls of hair and cloth above their heads. Neither you, nor your fellow travellers have the time to ponder as to their games.

Stop 2: The Outer Walls of Labisa: The Black Walls of Tamel and the Serpent Gate

This rural scene does not hold your attention for long, for now you have reached the walls of Labisa. They tower above you, their stony surface rising 70 ft, and almost as thick, each one of the tens of thousands of blocks is the size of a horse. The lowest stones are made from black basalt, dragged from the looming mountains. Above these are yellow limestone, the surface of the stones each lovingly carved with scenes of animals, forests, battles, gods, and spirits, most so worn by the ravages of time that are all but incomprehensible. One could spend a lifetime inspecting all the images. The upper most layer and the towers placed at regular intervals are made from snowy marble. Long ago these walls had been built by the demigods Tamel, Sadaric, and Mikrab alongside thousands of workers and artisans. These walls had been made to withstand all enemies from armies to dragons. No tree or shrub grows against the imposing stone, nature kept at bay by fire and bronze. Before you, rearing high above, are two gargantuan stone serpents, one is crooked, its snarling face cracked. Any of the excitable travellers will tell you that the story goes that it was Narul that cast down the serpent while fleeing from the city with the fugitive princess Ninma. How any one person could do this, you do not know. But now is not the time chat, you are approaching the gates. Doors of thick cedar, 30 ft tall, freshly painted, as blue as the sky, bolts, and rivets of bronze glimmering in the sun. Guards stand on either side, inspecting the wagons and carts as they pass through. They wear armor of bronze, scaled like dragonskin. Their tall helms are bedecked with red feathers. In their hands are gripped spears, shields of bronze and oak hang from their backs. They stand stern and proud, these are not the men of Hutbari, untrained and inattentive, these men serve Akard, King of Kings. As you reach the gates they look you over. After a thorough but quick glance, they beckon you inside.

Stop 3: The Grand Square and The Tomb of Tamel

You enter a grand square, larger than most villages. Tents and makeshift ovens have been placed around the square to feed the hungry people. Honey cakes, stretched flatbreads, snails, sausages, olives, wine, beer, fried fish, fruits, nuts, fried dough, cups of stewed beans, dozens of different choices, each with a hungry crowd jostling for the next spot in line. The smell of fried foods hangs heavy in the air. Surrounding the square are buildings, many are beer halls from which sounds of laughter and twangs of harps emanate. Still others are brothels, men and women hang from windows cooing and calling to passers-by.

Musicians blow on flutes and pound at drums, while men dressed in naught by ram's skin, their faces and bodies painted, dance their arms raised above their heads, their eyes rolling in their heads as if in a trance. Sages awe children and terrify adults with streams of fire and crackling electricity which arcs from their fingertips. Exotic animals pace in cages under the curious eyes of Kishite children. If you look closely among the crowd, you may notice hillfolk, short and broad, their thick fur and long arms easily distinguishing them from their human neighbors, or perhaps you might see the amethyst hair of an Ikopeshi, or rarer yet the great winged form of a kiriki, their feline bodies draped with beads of amber and bone.

Laborers are hard at work, constructing a massive stage at the center of the square, here is where priests from the Temple of Humbalibal will perform odes and songs in honor of the goddess. But it was what lies beyond that catches your attention. At first you assume you must be hallucinating, for it seems that somehow a mountain has sprung up here in the middle of a city, complete with lush forests and trilling birds. As you draw near, you can see marble steps among the greenery leading up to the summit, three hundred feet above you.

This is the Tomb of Tamel, built to house the bones of the founder of the city. What appears now as a massive mountain, is in actuality a tiered structure, composed of thousands of stones, concealing a burial chamber within. As is the tradition of the Kishites, the tomb has been covered by soil and planted with a lush garden, fed by manmade rivers, the water drawn up from underground sources. Entire orchards of fruit trees inhabit each rounded tier. Tamel alone has been given the honor of being buried in the city, the tombs of his successors dot a nearby mesa. While magnificent in their own right, none can match the grandeur of this tomb. Kishites pour bowls of crimson wine at the tomb's base, libations in dedication to the spirits said to guard the dead king's bones. A man approaches you, offering you a bowl for a small fee. However, as the crowd grows you are quickly forced to continue on with your exploration of the city.

Stop 4: The Temple of Humbalibal

The city is marked by three hills, aside from Tamel's Tomb. The first of these, which stands opposite to the square, is the Temple District. As you walk up with stone steps, statues of many armed gods and animalistic spirits dance on either side of you, freshly painted with vibrant shades of red, green, yellow, and blue. Dozens of temples flank the steps, some little more than huts, others grand structures of stone and wood. The smell of burning incense combines with the aroma of sacrificial fires and of the city below. The greatest temple lies before you, dedicated to the patron of the city, Humbalibal. The red doors are swung open to allow all entrance. Priests and priestesses, devotees of the Mountain Goddess, go about their work, some tending to the statues, others kneel, their heads bowed in reverence, hands raised with palms flat in silent prayer to the watching divinities. Their white robes swish as they walk, their horned headdresses click and rattle as they walk, adorned with pins in the shape of poppies. Also, among them are many of the city’s sages. They are recognizable by the ivory circlets rested upon their brows, traditionally sourced from the dwindling Kishite elephants of the southern cedar forests, though increasingly, the city’s ivory supply is reliant on the elephants of Namut.

The great statue of Humbalibal, sits within the eastern alcove. As with the other various statues and reliefs that fill the great altar room, Humbalibal is painted with garish colors, her skin the color of ice, her nude form draped in iridescent dragon skin. The muscles and veins in her four powerful arms have been carved with loving detail, as have been the curling ram horns which sprout from her jet hair. Her silvery eyes, creased with the cold fury of the avalanche, look down at the mortals milling around her feet. Opposite her in another alcove sits a simple wooden throne, it is from here that the king of the city listens to the concerns of his people. Between the throne and Humbalibal, sits the grand altar where sacrifices to the goddess are made. The flame there has burnt, uninterrupted since the days of Tamel. At that moment another one of the temple doors is opened and six cattle, five geese, four sheep, three pigs, two gazelles, and a lioness are guided into the temple, flanked by priestesses wielding knives of cruel obsidian. Rather than sticking around to see the sacrifices, you decide to travel on to the next part of the city.

Stop 5: The Markets

You descend one of the other staircases, winding back down into the city proper. You can see ships approaching on Lake Shebali, carrying yet more visitors to the already crowded city. To the north, hugging the Black Wall, you can see the so-called Lower City, named for its elevation rather than its position on the map. It is marked by many small, cramped hovels of mudbrick and straw, interconnected through various doors and halls to form a sort of hive. There is no such thing as a private home in the Lower City. A man could walk from one end of the district to the other without ever stepping onto the street. Peasants lie on their roofs, chatting, trading, and playing games of dice. There are fewer travellers there, for it is there the city's poorest live. There are no statues, the beer halls are puny, and the shops ill-supplied. Yet cramped and humbled as the lower city may be, you have heard stories of how it once looked under the reign of the previous king, Hutbari, crumbling and filthy. Under the reign of King Akard, no longer do children pick through piles of rubbish, no longer do disease and fleas run rampant, nowhere else in the city are the praises to Akard sang so loudly.

In front of you, to the south, can see the palatial hill, rearing high above the city, the Blue Walls, those that separate the hill and the palatial olive grove from the rest of the city. You decide to head in that direction to see the Palace for yourself, but first you must pass through the Market Districts. Called the 26 Streets, these form the economic and production backbone of the city. The streets are as follows: The Potter's Street, The Perfumer's Street, The Weaver's Street, The Butcher's Street, The Slaver's Street, The Bronzesmith's Street, The Coppersmith’s Street, The Carver's Street, the Brewer's Street, The Vintner's Street, The Jeweller's Street, The Plantbrew's Street, The Scribe's Street, the Ropemaker's Street, The Tanner's Street, The Spicer's Street, The Painter's Street, The Dyer's Street, The Stonemason's Street, The Fishmonger's Street, The Carpenter's Street, The Basket weaver’s Street, The Papermaker's Street, The Musicians’ Street, The Farmer’s Street, and the Candlemaker’s Street. Your path through towards the castle will take you through the first three: Potter's, Perfumer's, and Weaver's. You start with the Weaver's Street.

As with the Square, the market streets are bustling, crowds of people, mostly visitors, rush to gawk at and purchase bits and pieces of Labisian clothing. Garments of silk, linen, and wool of every color are waved by enthusiastic shop owners and hawkers seated in front of the flat-topped brick and wood buildings that function as store, workshop, and home. The shops are colourfully painted with blues, reds, and greens, in the hopes that their bright tones will draw in curious patrons. The pungent smell of dye lays over the distract like a blanket and the squeals and clicks of the looms and wheels fight to be heard over the many chattering voices.

You may have heard of the state of these streets thirteen years ago, when Hutbari and before him, his predecessors reigned. Then mounds of various kinds of filth had formed stinking barriers along the road. Human muck had clogged the streets, bodies of livestock, broken pottery, and every other imaginable pollutant rendering the market district and the surrounding city a stinking cesspit of disease. There were and are tunnels beneath the city, meant to carry waste out of the city. But these had been neglected for years, with monarch after monarch failing to delegate the duties of their upkeep. Upon taking the throne Akard and his new court had undergone a disgusting and arduous quest to see that the tunnels were returned to their former functionality, and the grime removed from the city. This was later derisively called, The Shit War. Methane gas, collapsed tunnels, and dark things living below the city made the endeavour a nightmare, one which claimed the lives of many guards and even a nobleman or two. And yet after 3 long years of constant work, the city was cleaner than it had been in the last 90 years.

This is not to say that the city is in anyway perfect. As you pass into the Perfumer's district The smell of dye is quickly overwhelmed by a headache-inducing melange of fragrances. Jugs and bottles of dozens of sizes, from the size of a child’s palm to the height of a grown man, line the street, images have been painted on their surface to advertise their contents. Perfume is of immense importance throughout the lands of the Green Sea, but especially in Kishetal. No person leaves their home without first scenting themselves, slaves are typically the only exception. Indeed, among some peoples like the Makurians and the Korithians, the Kishite people were thought of as feminine for their love of perfume, adornment, and their extravagant bathing practices, even the presence of public toilets was at times considered to be unduly opulent. As you look at the various decorated perfume bottles, a thought occurs to you. You recognize visitors from Korithia, Shabala, Makur, Ikopesh, Knosh, and beyond, but there is a group that is missing. Despite being one of the largest and most wealthy kingdoms you see no one from Apuna. Perhaps it’s not surprising, after all Labisa is currently war with Apuna.

At least that is what you think at first, until you look closer. There are Apunians here, slaves. They follow behind Kishite masters or else can be seen cleaning the streets and do other kinds of menial labor. Many are missing eyes, a hand, a thumb, or other parts. Kishite Palaces have a long and proud tradition of mutilation when it comes to their prisoners of war. You quickly avert your attention, but it lands on something else, the figure of a woman, sat in an alley, her knees tucked beneath her chin, her eyes hooded. At first you assume she is a beggar, though thus far they have been a rarity in this city, until you see the pustules. Her face and arms are covered in hundreds of angry red swellings, her teeth are chattering, her eyes vacant. Disease is an inescapable reality of living in a city, particularly one as massive as this. There are no hospitals or hospices, and in favor of the festival most of the temples have temporarily banished those being cared for there. And so, the ill gather here in the Perfume District, where the sweet smells may in some way cover the smell of pestilence.

In recent years Pyrian Fever become an increasingly dire problem throughout the domain of Akard. Though Kishites may not know what bacteria or viruses are, they have managed to identify where this particular outbreak originated from. As is often the case, war is a flashpoint for plague. Some of the same prisoner's war and slaves, you had previously noticed, brought the deadly disease with them. Now every slave is inspected for any signs of disease, but it is too late, they sickness is already here. You notice the plantbrews, medicine women, marching up and down the street, tending to the sick who huddle in alleys and under doorways. Some of the treatments seem to be working, certainly the disease seems less virulent than it has been in the past. Even still, you take note of the warnings scrawled on wooden boards. " Enun Nadolul Na Lumiga" "Do not touch the sick." You quickly decide to move on from the perfume district.

Soon enough the smell of rose and cinnamon declines, replaced by the earthy scent of clay and the sharp tang of kiln smoke. Potters line the streets, hawking their wares, hands stained with the rich red brown of freshly fired earth ang glaze. From tiny, ornate perfume bottles to massive pithoi, many of which you recognize from the previous district. The pots, jugs, and jars are adorned with intricate designs, some depicting scenes of daily life, others abstract patterns that seemed to dance around the curves of the vessels, still others are unglazed, fiery orange or ashy grey. A group of Korithians, immediately recognizable by their short colourful kilts and their long-braided hair, are gathered around one such shop, gawking at the erotic imagery that adorns those particular bowls and plates. You stop to look for yourself, though you quickly find that the going price is far too high for your tastes.

As you leave the Market Districts and approach the Palatial Hill, you enter the area where many of the richer families dwell, minor nobility, and wealthy merchants. Here too are the grand estates were visiting dignitaries stay. Buildings of stone and cedar wood, one, two or even three stories tall. Their surfaces painted and carved with stylized frescos of nature and festivity, curling palms, and leaping gazelles alongside bell-adorned dancers.

Kishite nobles, lounging in front of their homes, sipping wine, and eating dates and olives can be seen dressed in expensive clothing, their hair bedecked with many beads, ribbons, and rings, their necks and wrists choked with chains, collars, and baubles. Their robes are made from silk and soft linen, purple, red, and saffron yellow, their hair and beards are slicked with scented perfumes. Some wear capes and cloaks of lion and leopard fur.

The Kiriki Gates now stand before you.

Stop 6: The Palatial Hill

The Blue Wall separates the Palatial Hill from the rest of the city, while considerably smaller than the Black Wall, at only 32ft in height, it is no less magnificent. The wall itself is made from limestone. Unlike the carved surface of the Black Wall, the stones of the Blue Wall have been sanded and smoothed until it almost seems to sparkle in the afternoon sun. Even the cracks and gaps between the stones have been filled in to create a uniform surface. It is named for the upper most layer of stones, each one painted with a mixture of cobalt and copper to produce a vibrant blue. The only break is the Kiriki Gate, named for the two massive guardians which stand at either side, stone statues of Kiriki, each larger than an elephant. Kiriki are bull-horned and winged lions with the human-like faces. They are culture is secretive, their language indecipherable to most humans, yet they are seen on occasion, you had even seen earlier at this very festival.

While the statues are immobile, the same cannot be said of the guards, eight of the, standing on either side of the open cedar doors. They carry spears and axes, and massive shields in the shape of hourglasses. As you approach one of the guard's holds out his hand. You place a small tablet, no larger than a postage stamp in his palm. Carved on its surface in miniscule writing is a number of Kishite glyphs. This tablet acts as your permission to enter the palatial grounds. After a minute he nods and steps back. He does not return the tablet, this particular privilege is only being afforded, once.

You walk through the gates, head respectfully bowed. It is as if you had just been transported miles away to the countryside. An olive grove stands around you, gnarled trunks twisting and turning. Many of these trees have been here for hundreds of years since the time of Tamel and his children. Currently the workers and caretakers are lounging by ponds and pools, a handful are pruning and attending to the trees, but overall, with the harvest still being months away, the Palatial Olive Grove is tranquil. A few of the laborers wave as you pass by. Stags, gazelle, pheasants, and other peaceful creatures roam through the rows of trees, their presence meant to simulate a rural farm or hillside orchard. A gazelle approaches you, hoping for handouts, upon finding none it goes back to nibbling at the grass.

You spot a small stone shrine tucked among one particularly thick grouping of olive trees, you are not sure which god it is meant to honor, for there are no markings on the alter. Before the shrine is a ring of stones placed on the ground. You immediately recognize this structure as one of those in which Kishite dead are placed, allowing their flesh to be reclaimed by nature before their bones are buried or placed in tombs. However, this particular ring has never held a corpse, rather this ring is used as part of the naming ceremony performed on Noble Kishite children upon reaching the age of 4. The child is made to sleep here, and upon awakening, they symbolically rise up from their "old life".

Beyond the olive grove you enter an area filled with fig, pomegranate, regalu, and quince trees. You even spot a peach tree, still a rarity this far west. Myrtle and laurel trees also make an appearance, their trunks seemingly wrapped in grape vines. The fragrance of these trees mingles with the dry scent of earth and old wood. A few more workers, dressed in simple linen wraps, tend to the trees, and prune the vines, their movements slow and deliberate.

You spot a number of terraces built into the hill side; great blocks of limestone topped with soil. Here is where the king's plantbrews grow their stock, exotic berries, tubers, and flowers.

The ground is crisscrossed by stone pathways, like the one that you are walking on, however it seems that most of the laborers choose to ignore these, instead walking over grass and roots.

The White Wall waits before you.

Stop 7: The Palace

The last and smallest of Labisa's three great walls, at only 24ft is The White Wall, which separates the palatial complex from the rest of the hill. In similar fashion to the Black Wall, the White Wall is made from massive blocks of stone rather than many smaller bricks like the Blue Wall, the lintel above the king's gate is the single heaviest stone in all three of the walls, at nearly 20 tons. The White Wall is the only one with stones that were not quarried in Kishetal, rather its stones were sourced from the original homeland of Tamel and his followers, Shabala. Each massive stone was transported by ship, barge, and finally by rope and manpower over hundreds of miles to the top of the hill, thus while the wall itself may be the smallest, its construction was arguably the most expensive. At first glance you might be confused as to why it is called the White Wall, the stone used is a pale grey, distinctly not white. The name comes from a thin layer of marble tiles that once covered the entirety of the wall, placed there by Tamel the Second, the last monarch of his namesake's line and the last king of a united Kishite kingdom. The tiles cut from the ruins of Arkodian temples, their capture viewed as the symbolic end of the war that had ravaged both Kishetal and Arkodai for decades, the single most destructive war in the recorded history of the Green Sea.

The tiles were stuck to the walls, with the plans for the white marble to be painted not only with images of the valiant heroes of Kishetal, but also those of Arkodai, their faces meant to stand guard over the palace as a memorial of the terrible war. After the last of the tiles had been placed but before the first of the paint could be applied, Tamel the Second was assassinated by his own son, Kerim. United Kishetal died with Tamel. Kerim cancelled the plans to paint the walls.

After Kerim was himself, killed by his younger brother, Farut, the tiles were taken ripped down and instead used to decorate the tomb of Tamel the Second. If one were to venture to the mesa where the royal tombs sit, the tomb of Tamel the Second would be easily identifiable by the snowy white Arkodian marble which still peaks from under the greenery.

The King's Gate is surprisingly plain, there are no great guardians looking over you as you pass under the massive lintel. The eyes of the guards burn into you as you pass, though they do not stop you.

The main palace along with the other palatial buildings function as a miniature city of sorts. The royal residence, a temple, storage buildings, a smithy, a pottery workshop, several workshops reserved for the palace weavers, two different sets of kitchens (and several massive outdoor ovens), the slave quarters, the bathhouse, and the stables are all contained within the White Wall, forming a large palatial citadel dotted with oleander, chestnut, and beech trees. The nobility and their guests who visit palace bathed in the grand bathhouse which stands directly beside the palace, constructed from polished granite, built atop an ancient spring, its interior is decorated with exotic plants and birds, carvings of dancing gods and heroes adorn the walls, and steam curls constantly from its high-set windows. Three similar though decidedly less extravagant baths can be found in the lower city, open to the people of Labisa. The palatial slaves make do with a large pond which lay at the edge of the courtyard.

The palace stands like a fortress atop the rugged hill, its thick stone walls towering above, as imposing as the demigod Tamel the First, who both ordered and assisted in its construction. Built from massive limestone blocks and mudbrick, it seems to have risen from the earth itself, sturdy and timeless. At six stories tall, it is the highest structure in all Labisa, save for the Tomb of Tamel. The outer walls are fortified with battlements and defensive towers, making the palace not just a seat of power but a stronghold overseeing the sprawling city below. Black soot still scars the walls, a grim reminder of Barunaki's brutal raid during Akard’s coup, when soldiers snuck in, murdered Hutbari’s children, and accidentally set the ancient structure ablaze. Only heroic effort saved the palace from complete destruction.

As you pass through the massive stone gate, you enter beneath an arch adorned with reliefs of lions, leopards, and horned men. Inside, the vast central courtyard opens before you, its stone floors smooth from centuries of footsteps. This space, often the site of ceremonies and rituals, is now empty—the king is far to the south. Yet, the palace is far from abandoned; at least two hundred nobles, along with their servants and slaves, occupy its thousand rooms, overseeing its care and performing sacred rites.

The halls are vast and labyrinthine, easy to get lost in. The lofty ceilings are supported by cedar beams and painted columns, every surface intricately adorned. Walls, pillars, ceilings, and even floors are decorated with colorful cloth, carvings, and frescoes. The murals depict royal processions, epic battles, dragons, divine figures, and tales from the Age of Glass and Metal, drawn from "Ti Jali Chasma," the Great History. You pause to admire a fantastical depiction of an ancient city, its twisting, impossibly shaped buildings a testament to the imagination of the artisans. Peeking into some rooms, you find many to be storage spaces, filled with pithoi and vessels holding oil and grain. One door nearly costs you your head, as the Chief of Wine glares at you with a spear in hand, clearly protective of his charge. Hastily, you move on, climbing stone stairs worn smooth from use, the center dipped from countless feet. Banquet halls line the next level, each filled with ornately carved furniture inlaid with pearl and ivory. Large hearths and massive braziers warm the rooms, the scent of smoke and wood blending with resin, stale perfumes, and the earthy smell of stone. Light filters through narrow windows, casting sharp contrasts of shadow and brightness across the floors. As you ascend further, you pass thick wooden doors fitted with bronze, marking private chambers—most are closed, and you wisely choose not to linger. The throne room is at the heart of the palace, both intimate and imposing. A raised platform holds a richly adorned stone throne, carved from black rock streaked with gold. Frescoes and tapestries line the walls, depicting heroic figures battling savage beasts. High above, barely visible, are the words of long-dead kings carved into the ceiling, some written in dialects so ancient only a handful of scholars can decipher them. At the back of the room are doors leading to upper floors, reserved for the royal family and palace sages. As you approach, a guard blocks your path, his stern expression and sharp spear making it clear that your tour ends here. As you leave the palace, the painted eyes follow you. Descending the palatial hill along with stern guard, you are guided back towards the bustling city. Somehow in your brief time away, the streets have become even more hectic, alive with color and activity. With the festival’s opening drawing near, you ponder your options for the time being. You could choose to explore the vibrant market districts, engage with the locals, or simply enjoy the lively atmosphere, the city offers a myriad of experiences. Perhaps if you can find a good beerhall or city corner, you may just be able to hear one of the many tales of Princess Ninma and the giant Narul. Regardless, the festival promises to be a grand affair, the likes of which no other city in the region can match.

I hope that you enjoyed your tour!

Tagging @kaylinalexanderbooks, @melpomene-grey, @mk-writes-stuff, @elizaellwrites, @unrepentantcheeseaddict

Also gonna go ahead and leave this one open

@patternwelded-quill, @persnickety-peahen

@elsie-writes, @the-ellia-west, @the-octic-scribe, @the-golden-comet

@finickyfelix, @theprissythumbelina, @autism-purgatory, @diabolical-blue , @tildeathiwillwrite

@katenewmanwrites, @leahnardo-da-veggie

@drchenquill, @marlowethelibrarian, @phoenixradiant, @pluttskutt

@dyrewrites, @roach-pizza, @rivenantiqnerd, @pluppsauthor

@flaneurarbiter, @dezerex, @axl-ul, @surroundedbypearls

@treesandwords, @skyderman

[dxysxxk]

Request Rules

Dark Hallway: Arthur Morgan x f!reader | NSFW (Low Honor)

Short Description: Valentine Saloon Public Sex

Plaything: Arthur Morgan x f!reader | NSFW (Low Honor)

Short Description: Shady Bell Sex (In his room)

Thief's Touch: Arthur Morgan x f!reader | NSFW (Low Honor)

Short Description: Bedroom Sex (Your house)

Whispers of Lust Among the Trees (AO3): Arthur Morgan | NSFW

Short Description: Forest Masturbation

Hidden Show: Arthur Morgan x f!reader | NSFW

Short Description: Theatre Raleur & Bathroom Public Sex

Poker Face: Arthur Morgan x f!reader | NSFW

Short Description: Clemens Point Camp Public Sex

[goldenempyrean]

hii, for the drabbles, could you do sick kate x reader where they’re both on a mission, and kate is trying to pretend that she’s fine. using “I’m just a little under the weather that’s all.” and “You shouldn’t be walking around when you’re this sick.” 

Frozen Determination

〚 Notes - God I haven't posted in ages, I still have my other drabbles to post too so dw! :D 〛

〚 Pairing - Kate Bishop x Reader 〛

〚 Summary - When Kate seems to be pushing herself too hard so you take matters into your own hands. 〛

〚 Wordcount - 595 〛

〘 Check Out My Masterlist! 〙

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“Bless you.” You murmured softly as Kate turned away to sneeze into her scarf yet again.  

The two of you were on a pretty chilly mission out in the wintery woods of Finland and you’d had your suspicions all day of Kate not feeling her best. It was the small things that gave it away. Small coughs every so often, a few sneezes here and there but it was the constant sniffling that she couldn’t seem to quite shake that really solidified your suspicions. 

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the snowy landscape, you found yourselves in a dense forest. The dense trees shielded you from the wind, but the air was still frigid, causing each breath to feel like shards of ice in your lungs. You glanced over at Kate, her face flushed and her nose red from the constant sneezing and sniffling. 

"Are you sure you're up for this, hon?" you asked, concern lacing your voice. "We can always come back another day." 

Kate shook her head, determination gleaming in her eyes despite the fatigue. "No, we can't afford to wait. The longer we delay, the greater the risk of the thief escaping with those artifacts. I’m just a little under the weather that’s all, let's just keep going." 

You frowned, worried about Kate's stubbornness. You knew how important this mission was, but you also knew that pushing herself too hard could make things worse. Nevertheless, you respected her determination and decided to keep a close eye on her throughout the mission. 

As you continued through the forest, Kate's condition seemed to worsen. She started shivering, her teeth chattering, and her steps becoming unsteady. It was evident that her sickness was taking a toll on her, and you couldn't stand idly by any longer. 

"Katie, listen," you said firmly, placing a gentle hand on her arm to stop her. "You shouldn't be walking around when you're this sick. We need to find shelter and get you warmed up. The artifacts can wait." 

Kate's brows furrowed, her body swaying slightly from exhaustion. She opened her mouth to argue but was interrupted by a fit of coughing that racked her frail frame. You winced at the sound, and your worry intensified. 

"I can't risk slowing us down," Kate croaked out, her voice hoarse. "We've come too far." 

You sighed, understanding her determination but refusing to let her put herself in further danger. "Kate, we're a team. We look out for each other. Let me take care of you. We'll find a safe place to rest and recover. I promise we'll come back for the artifacts." 

Reluctantly, Kate nodded, her strength fading as her body grew weaker. You guided her through the forest, searching for a suitable shelter. Finally, you stumbled upon a small abandoned cabin hidden among the trees. It was rundown and dilapidated, but it offered some protection from the elements. 

Inside, you quickly lit a fire in the fireplace and wrapped Kate in a blanket, tucking her in tightly. You fetched a thermos of warm tea from your bag and handed it to her. She sipped it gratefully, the warmth soothing her sore throat. You sat beside her, keeping a watchful eye on her as the fire crackled and the cabin filled with a comforting heat. 

As the night wore on, Kate's fever broke, and her breathing eased. The warmth of the cabin worked its magic, providing her body with the rest it desperately needed. You stayed awake, vigilant, ensuring she was comfortable and safe throughout the night. 

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[maze-of-my-design]

persona fun facts :o? can be from any game!

totally not copy-pasted from dms FUN FACTS BRIGADE (also i cut it in half with a readmore bc its. a lot)

Ann is the tallest girl among the Phantom Thieves, santing at 5'5! (In my head she is taller than Ren but shh)

If you take the thieves to darts, the worst player in the gang is surprisingly not Morgana, but Sumire! Don't ask me how she's worse than a cat!

In P5 (including royal), Ann is the only romance option to directly say "I love you" to the protagonist without cutting herself off* (and, i'm half sure, she's one of the few direct kisses a protagonist receives in a persona game) and honestly? good for them ily ann im so gay for her *Sumire says it too, even before being romanced, but it's not a complete "i love you", per se. She stutters through her confession and Ren has to finish it for her because she's so flustered, which is pretty cute i'll be real but in terms of Saying it, it technically doesn't count.

Sho Minazuki (yknow, the guy from the arena games) was originally meant to be the protagonist for P5! This is massively implied in ending dialogue for the Arena games, as well as how similar the two look if you, like, dye his hair black. Also if you recall the original Femc for P5 with the neon red hair…

Sumire lives with her dad, that much is obvious, but the Royal artbook reveals she also lives with her grandma and her mother!

Among all the non-party-member confidants in P5 (including royal), only 5 find out Ren's identity as a Phantom Thief through something else other than a mementos request. These are Maruki, Yoshida, Sojiro, Mishima, and Sae

The Featherman series is a Power Rangers style anime that airs in the inner universe of the series. Contrary to what the Dancing games make us believe, There's always only 5 Feather soldiers that are part of the main crew: Pink Argus, Red Hawk, Black Condor, Yellow Owl, and Blue Swan. These names, however, are sometimes interchanged between "generations" of the show.

Actually lemme go on a tangent (you asked for fun facts you're GETTING fun facts) There are three generations of the Featherman show to date: OG Featherman (persona 2), Featherman R (Persona 3), and Featherman V (P4 and the Arena games). There's actually a change in the naming semantics every new generation of Featherman. For example, take this excerp from the wiki: "Red Eagle (from Featherman), Feather Hawk (from Featherman R and/or Neo Featherman), Feather Red (from Featherman V)" So in P2, the naming convention is "[Color] [Bird name]", in P3 it's "Feather [bird name]" and in P4 it's "Feather [color]"

Ok tangent over don't ask me how i know so much about a fictional series from a fictional game JSVGEFVR more fun facts

Sumire actually has the biggest amount of portrait sprite variations, since it includes her Kasumi and her Sumire sprites. She deserves it tbh, fashion icon

Another Sumire fact! Did you know Maruki "transformed" sumi into her sister on her birthday? I sure did! Fuck you Maruki!! Uninvited from MY birthday party for sure

Sumire, piror to the third semester, is only ever called by her last name, Yoshizawa, by everyone aside from Ren, Morgana and Futaba. This is a very a subtle way to show something's up with her and i gasped when i first found out about it.

Ok fine enough P5 facts have a P3 fact. It's kinda well known im pretty sure but Makoto Yuki's barrage of official names include, also, Sakuya Shiomi from the stageplay. Sakuya means "blossom" or "bloom". Hey do you recall that he dies in March 5th? yknow, when spring starts? Cherry trees. you get it

Back to P5, Tactica reveals that Haru used to indulge in chopping firewood when she was younger. Her dad didn't like that for her, but he never tried to stop her. This probably leads to her having an Axe as part of her Phantom Thief artillery.

Did you know Fuuka and Futaba actually become friends in the Dancing games? They sadly don't remain friends after losing their memories post-game but Fuuka knew her as Alibaba, and Futaba knew her as Lucia :) I hope they became friends online again

In the jazz jin in Royal, Futaba reveals that the retro console you use to play games was hers, and that she'd sold it to the shop in Yongen. Also apparently the busted laptop you buy there was Haru's! (fact also revealed in the Jazz Jin)

[timeboundterra-reblogs]

No no please write the essay I love to see people’s takes on Satanael

So it only took 14 months for me to get to this, but here we go.

Please take this with a grain of salt, I’m getting a lot of info from a Gnosticism explanation website which might not be all correct. And it’s also being written at midnight.

In the tags I left on your post, I mentioned that the biggest reason for Satanael being Joker’s ultimate persona is because Satanael is the child of Yaldaboath.

According to Gnosticism, Yaldaboath is the demiurge created by the heavenly being Sophia (which might be where Sophia, the AI from Strikers, got her name, but that’s another thought for another essay), who is basically the Gnostic equivalent of an angel (they’re refered to as aeons, divine entities descended from God the Father, and most were born from male-female pairs, along with the blessing of god). Yaldaboath was cast from the heavens into a realm below so early into his existence that he was convinced that he was the first “living” existence. It is explained that Sophia gave birth to a son that was the product of the rebellious and profane desire that had arisen within her, and due to being birthed only from Sophia and without the blessing of God, he was “a misshapen, belligerent creature that was utterly unlike the other heavenly beings.”

Because of this ignorance, foolishness, and malevolence, he created the material world, also trapping sparks of divinity in Adam and Eve. That last bit isn’t too important right now, but it’s clear that Yaldaboath didn’t make the world out of the good in him. There’s a lot of other stuff that happened that also proved that he’s not a good entity, such as creating the old ten commandments and then completely ignoring them, gaslighting those that he created into thinking that he was the one true god, and telling Adam and Eve that the fruit of the tree of knowledge would kill them if it was consumed, among other heinous acts.

As much as I’d like to back up my original claim, I can’t find anything that states similarly or differently, and whenever I do try to google it, lots of persona 5 and megaten (as well as other mythos based games and stories) come up and clutter the results, so there isn’t much. But if I’m understanding this correctly, Satanael was created by Yaldaboath to serve him, along with Yaldaboath’s other “higher” creations.

After some time, Satanael rebels against Yaldaboath, for some reason or another (again, can’t find reason, but one source did mention that Satanael rebelled with a heavenly light rivaling Yaldaboath’s). This leads me to believe that Satanael either found out about the true nature of Yaldaboath being an unjust demiurge, and that he was the bastard son of Sophia, one of the Aeons of Pleroma (greek for Fullness, literally the Gnostic name for Heaven) who atoned for her sin of rebellion and profane desire to conceive without the involvement of her own partner or the consent of God, OR he pitied humanity, OR he simply did not like Yaldaboath’s game of ruin.

In short, Satanael rebelled for the greater good of humanity, where Sophia’s rebellion caused grief and anguish, and Yaldaboath’s own rebellion from the true God put his creation of material on the path to ruin. In a way, Sophia’s rebellion created Yaldaboath, Yaldaboath’s rebellion created Satanael, who then rebelled against Yaldaboath (making Satanael basically a fallen angel), allowing for humanity to continue on in its own path of rebellion.

How does this relate to Joker? Well, we see that Joker’s story in P5 starts with him rebelling against who we think is the big bad – Shido. In most places, you wouldn’t directly rebel against an adult as a child/minor, as you’re unlikely to win. Joker’s rebellion in this part of the story is what kicks off his “fall” as a phantom thief. Shido is the one who created the phantom thieves, if you think about it, that rebel against him towards the end of the story (yes I know they fight Yaldy I’m getting there). While for a time, Yaldaboath is the player’s guide, eventually, Joker does rebel against him, in a direct parallel to Satanael. Yaldaboath created Satanael/chose Joker as the wildcard, and then Satanael/Joker saw the truth of Yaldaboath, and rebelled against him.

Personally, I would think that Satanael would be empathetic towards Joker, in that both were “created”” by Yaldaboath, and then both saw the truth of Yaldaboath, making both rebel against their creator. Kindness isn’t always a driving factor – Joker didn’t save the world for his love of the world, he saved the world because he didn’t want to live in a world where he would be punished for doing the right thing. It’s why he stood up to Shido both times, why he stood up against all of the phantom thief targets. All of them had an influential power that they used for their own gain/devices, just like Yaldaboath. And like Satanael, Joker couldn’t sit by idly. Sure, the way Joker went about his justice wasn’t correct, but correct isn’t always right, nor just.

Joker and Satanael both rebelled for what was right, even if it caused their downfalls, they were both held aloft in the end. In one text, it’s said that Satanael was brought up to Heaven, and Joker parallels this in the fact that he’s found innocent of his initial false crimes of assaulting Shido.

[raayllum]

MOONSHADOW ELVES:

Moonshadow elves believe in oath and duty above all else. Their bond with the Moon primal is exemplified through their elusive nature and profound connection with the concept of balance. Stealthy and speedy, they’re well-suited to the role of assassin or scout. Though many are peaceful guardians of the forests in southwestern Xadia, Moonshadow elves are among the most feared kinds of elves. Some human cultures consider them synonymous with death itself.

Moonshadow elves usually wear garments that allow them to move quickly, comfortably, and silently. They favor dark garments that evoke the colors of the night sky and the shadows below, such as deep green and violet. Horn rings and decoration are a traditional symbol of marriage. Elves express affection and intimacy by braiding each other’s hair.

In ancient times, before they assisted in the banishment of humans, there were Moonshadow druids in western Xadia. Conducting their studies around the Moon Nexus, they created the Moon Henge, which allowed them to open a portal to the strange and dreamlike realm between life and death. Unfortunately they were forced to destroy it when the world was divided, separating them from their most sacred place of power.

Moonshadow elves tend to live amongst the trees or near the mountains. Because they guard their emotions well and the more martial among them are trained to never show fear, they can appear rather rigid to outsiders. Yet they incorporate dancing into their rituals more than any other elves, from magical protection spells to marriage ceremonies.

The Silvergrove

Deep in the Moonshadow Forest lies a hidden community of Moonshadow elves. Home to the most feared assassins in all of Xadia, it’s also known for its weaponcraft. The village’s entrance is difficult to find without a Moonshadow guide, and the assassins there might not have a warm welcome for every party that manages to get past their entryway defense. Despite their hostile reputation, the elves here value tranquility.

Stories of Note:

Blood Moon

Long ago, a group of Moonshadow elves embraced a forbidden practice: they drank the blood of still-living beings to extend their lives and enhance their magical powers. Their fellow elves shunned them, and eventually the blood-drinkers were hunted down and killed by their own kind. Only one is known to have survived: their former leader, Kim’dael, or as most know her, the Bloodmoon Huntress.

Flowers of Elarion (note: Katolis has its own version of this tale known as Lasair the Insidious) 

When the world was divided in two, an unfortunate elf called Lasair was stranded in the west. Lasair lived in fear of human hunters and mages, tormented and lonely for years. While not a thief by nature, they began to take items left unattended out of necessity, but never without an exchange. Lasair left beautiful blooms called flowers of Elarion, rare and precious blossoms that glow with soft light and have a scent that can soothe the most ragged spirit. While Lasair hoped the trade would lay the grounds for friendship with humans—a fair exchange of beloved for beloved—they never saw the precious blossoms fade and turn to cold ashes when exposed to the dawn. They never learned their gift was perceived as a curse, not a trade, and never knew why their name drew ire and hatred across the Human Kingdoms.

[ritens]

A VERY DESCRIPTIVE PROFILE OF YOUR MUSE Arisen & Pawn Edition ↓

—

name: Raures

nicknames: Rau, Shark age: 123 race: elf gender: cis man orientation: homosexual zodiac: doesn’t even have a set birthday. capricorn probably moral alignment: lawful good class/subclass: archer, mage background: Comes from an elvish family who moved away from the embrace of the Arbor to pursue a more noncommital lifestyle. Lost parents to the dragon in Melve, became Arisen by attempting to protect them. Adopted a feral pawn. Got manipulated by said pawn and lost Arisen status as a result. Vibes in a forest shack and tries to bridge the gap in the relationship with this pawn now (who for some reason isn't leaving him despite having no obligations to him). interests/hobbies: fishing, basket weaving, hunting game, various household chores (gives a sense of belonging) spoken languages: elvish, common tongue among humans profession: hunter & handyman height: 190cm colors: lettuce green, beach sand yellow, ice blue fruits: pear, apricots drinks: birch tree juice alcoholic beverages: apple cider, raspberry wine smokes: no drugs: no drivers license: i don't think that’s a thing in this universe ever been arrested: no

—

name: Leander

nicknames: Lane, Laney, Shrimp age: 40+ race: pawn gender: cis man orientation: homoromantic asexual zodiac: his bday 10th of may, but he’s more of a pisces tbh moral alignment: true neutral class/subclass: thief background: Created by an Arisen in a different world and time. Killed this Arisen when bestowal of spirit poured negative personality traits onto him before any good ones. For decades he served many arisen as a support pawn without a home to return to. Clings to current Arisen Rau like his life depends on it because it does. Knows how things end for Rau and tries to prevent it because he’s seen it all before in another world under a different Rau. interests/hobbies: bread, art, studying wildlife, trying everything out at least once spoken languages: elvish, common tongue among humans profession: thief height: 157 cm colors: worn black,  fruits: balloon berry, blackberry drinks: water with fruit alcoholic beverages: no smokes: no drugs: no drivers license: could steal an oxcart ever been arrested: yes. for serial bread stealing. and murder.

Tagged by @sangre & @arisenreborn; thank you! tagging nobody. I’m sure most if not all have already been tagged-

[purplebass]

A soft name but she uses it like a knife: an analysis of Lila's identities

Because I think about Lila so much and because I like to analyze names and symbolism so much... I realized something about her given names. I could write an essay about her multiple identities and Kell's but maybe in the future. Tes says that names are a valuable thing and people used personal names to curse those they disliked. Her birth name is Delilah which means "delicate". When Kell first meets her, he thinks that she has a soft name but she uses it like a knife, which is an accurate description of her character.

Only the people closest to her call her Lila, which is more informal. Lila Bard is a double faced matryoshka, we could say. There is one side she shows the people closest to her, which are few, and another side she only shows Kell. He's the only one who sees the tiniest doll in the heart of it all, and even so, there are still sides to her that he doesn't know. He's also the only character she openly told that it was fine to call her Lila after their first meeting.

According to other sources, Delilah could also be the epithet for "traitor" because in the Bible, Delilah cuts Samson's hair and he loses his strength (interesting fact that when Holland and part of Kell's magic end up in the inheritor, their hair turned white - could be inspired by this? Bets are on).

Delilah is also pronounced De-lie-la and I believe she is one of the characters who lies the most in this series and her pov is not 100% trustworthy (which I see as an amusing thing bc she is harder to figure out and it's fun when her lies are unmasked!). She introduces herself with her full name to everyone, but only few people keep calling her Delilah instead of Lila (among them Holland, Nadiya, and Ren). They aren't close, hence they don't dare to use her shortened name, I guess. It's also a way to distance themselves from her or to treat her with respect.

Delilah Bard is one of the identities she has, one she couldn't choose (because her parents gave her this name). Delilah Bard is the exterior, the person on the outside. Even when the text describes her and uses Delilah and not Lila, it's to paint a picture of her from an external point of view. We can explain who she is by thinking about a matryoshka doll: Delilah Bard is the bigger doll, the one everyone sees. Inside there are different sides to her: the magician, the thief, the captain, which have different names as well (the Sarows, the Shadow Thief, casero Bard, even Stasion Elsor).

Lila is the name she seems to prefer for herself, and the name which connects her to her magical part because one of the meaning of this name also refers to the lilac tree. When Lila calls her magic, mostly fire magic, she uses a line from Blake's poem: "Tyger, tyger, burning bright,". The "tiger lily" is also a species of lily flower. Her name Lila then encompasses her magical connection to Red London because it is connected to a flower. But it's yet another interesting connection to Kell because well, the tiger lily is orange-red with black spots. The tiger lily flower is also toxic for cats and we know that Esa doesn't seem to like Lila that much and the feeling is mutual. lol

If you want me to write about more of this stuff send me asks please 🥺