#barefoot oracle | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nizhspo · 4 days ago

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pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader x sukuna ryomen

synopsis: you were just a village girl, stealing glances at your childhood friend by the nile, when the priests came. they said ra had chosen you—that you would speak for the sun god. now, you’re bound in gold and blood, cut open in the name of divinity, and praying to a god who never answers. until one does, and he looks like yuji. he calls himself apophis.

content: ancient egypt au, oracle!reader, apophis!sukuna, ra!gojo, smut, childhood crush on yuji itadori, hints at satosugu, divine possession, religious rituals, ambiguous morality, false comfort, god x mortal dynamics, non-explicit but heavy implications of grooming/manipulation

notes: i am a pjo fan. not a big fan of egyptian mythology but writing this taught me a lot! it’s very long, enjoy!

your village sat quiet along the nile’s shoulder—mud-brick homes crumbling soft at the corners, palm-frond mats curling in the sun, smoke curling thin from clay ovens as the day leaned into late afternoon. the river lapped gently against the bank, thick with reeds and fish and a few empty palm-woven baskets half-submerged at the edge.

yuji was beside you, splashing water onto his neck, shirt stuck damp to his back. his hair, soft and pink like sun-bleached hibiscus, clung in wet curls to his forehead. he had that kind of face that was always open, warm eyes, soft lips, a little scar on his cheek from when he fell trying to impress you with a flip last summer.

he smelled like salt and sunlight and river mud, and even though he was more annoying than helpful, he was the only reason you hadn’t lost your mind already, elbow-deep in fish, swatting flies and muttering to yourself.

“you’re seriously useless,” you muttered without looking up. “you begged to come with me and haven’t touched a single fish.”

“i’m providing moral support,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “besides, i’m pretty sure i dropped the knife back by the docks earlier. i’m gonna go check before some kid steps on it.”

you rolled your eyes as he jogged up the bank, barefoot, humming under his breath. always like this—warm, helpful in theory, more trouble than he was worth in practice. and still, he was your favorite person. always had been. you couldn’t remember a single summer where he hadn’t made you laugh, where you hadn’t fought and made up three times in one afternoon.

and lately, maybe it was more. maybe it wasn’t. you hadn’t figured it out yet, but you liked having him nearby. especially today, when the heat had been unbearable, the fish were slippery and sour-smelling, and the flies wouldn’t leave you alone.

you went back to gutting fish. the basket was nearly full. the sun pressed heavy against your back, and for a second, everything felt still.

then you heard the wheels.

you looked up just in time to see dust curling into the air at the edge of the road. a chariot, gleaming gold, polished so bright it nearly blinded you. the wheels spun slow, deliberate, sun catching on every curve of its carved panels. the sides were etched with symbols you didn’t recognize, winged things, celestial spirals, a burning eye at the center like it was watching you.

two horses pulled it, sleek and massive, coats the color of sand after rain, their manes braided with gold thread that shimmered every time they moved. their hooves barely made a sound against the earth.

your stomach twisted.

who brings a chariot to the edge of a fishing village? to the riverbanks where kids ran barefoot and women scrubbed laundry against smooth stones?

it slowed, stopped, and the horses didn’t snort or shake their heads like normal animals. they just stood, still and silent, as if they’d been carved from marble.

and from it, only one woman stepped down.

she was old. tall, slow-moving, dressed in linen and gold, with a veil wrapped tight around her head and her face mostly shadowed. she said nothing as she approached. just walked through the sand like she was floating.

you froze, hand hovering above the fish basket. she didn’t look dangerous. just strange. like someone important who had gotten lost.

she knelt beside you, movements slow, deliberate, and the smell of her hit you first—frankincense, sweat, and something metallic.

you stared at her, and she looked out toward the river.

“do you think the sun ever gets tired?” she asked suddenly.

you blinked. “uh… what?”

“all that rising. all that heat. day after day. no rest.”

you hesitated. “i mean, i guess i never thought about it.”

“but you believe in the gods, don’t you?” she asked. “you know their names?”

you shifted where you sat. her tone was calm, but her eyes were locked on you.

“i mean… yeah. i guess. i don’t really think about it much. i know what i’m supposed to. you know. offerings. prayers. but i’m not like—super religious.”

you tried to laugh, unsure. something about her made your skin crawl, but you didn’t want to be rude. she could be someone’s grandmother. someone important. a temple woman. a wandering preacher. some weird cult thing. you didn’t know. you just wanted her to finish whatever she was going to say and leave.

she didn’t. instead, she looked at you for a long time, then said, “what is your name?”

you blinked again. “me?”

she nodded.

“uh…” you hesitated, unsure why the question felt so loaded. it was just your name, but something about the way she looked at you made your chest tighten. still, it’s not like you’d ever have to see her again.

“y/n,” you said, cautiously.

the moment your name left your mouth, something shifted, and her entire expression changed. she stood. turned to the road behind her and called, loud and clear, “she’s the one.”

you froze. “what?”

you scrambled backward as her hands reached for you. she grabbed your wrist like it belonged to her.

you recoiled instinctively, heartbeat thudding. “don’t touch me.”

she ignored you. her fingers brushed your skin and her grip tightened. you twisted away, stumbling into the reeds. two more women came out of the chariot. one held something beneath her robes, something angular, rigid, gleaming faintly in the sun.

“get your fucking hands off me.” you yanked your hand back and your pulse shot to your throat. her grip was like iron. she didn’t say anything, just looked down at you, face calm and distant, like she already knew how this ended.

“you are the one,” the first one said, low, certain. “the voice of the sun god. he has spoken.”

you blinked at her like she’d spoken a foreign language.

“what?” your voice came out breathy. disbelieving. “what are you even talking about? ra? are you—what does that have to do with me?”

the other two moved towards you, closer, steady, too calm for how fast your heart was racing.

your stomach dropped. you thought for a brief second—oh my god, these people are going to kill me.

you twisted, screamed.

“yuji!”

your voice cracked.

“yuji!”

you heard footsteps pounding down the path, and he appeared at the top of the bank, wild-eyed, breathless, and shirtless, his chest rising fast with every gasp of air. his skin was flushed and sun-warmed, the tan glow of it made deeper by the heat and sweat clinging to his collarbones. his muscles were lean, carved in a way that looked accidental, like he got them from running too much and working too hard. his shendyt—a faded linen kilt, tied loose at his hips, clung to him damp with river water, twisted from the sprint, the hem stained slightly with mud.

a panicked fire in his eyes. he looked like he’d been ready to fight even before he knew what for. “what the hell is going on?”

you used the distraction from yuji to yank yourself free, stumbling back from the woman’s grip and scrambling behind him, clutching the back of his shoulder like it was the only solid thing in the world.

“they grabbed me,” you sobbed. “i don’t know, they just started saying weird things—”

one of the other women stepped forward, face calm, expression unreadable. “has she bled yet?”

yuji blinked, arm already out in front of you, body angled to shield yours. “what?”

“has she begun the red season?” the woman asked. “passed through the gate of womanhood?”

you froze. the words landed in your chest like a rock. your face flushed hot, a wave of something like shame or horror crawling up the back of your neck. yuji did not need to know that. not like this.

he turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at you, but you didn’t meet his eyes.

then he looked back at them, and his gaze dropped—just for a second, to the glint of metal beneath the older woman’s robes.

his jaw clenched. “why the hell do you need to know that?” he said, voice low. cold. unfamiliar.

he shifted his stance, shoulder squared, foot braced in the sand. a shield now. something immovable.

the women didn’t answer, they only stepped closer, and yuji moved fully in front of you.

“y/n,” he said, his voice sharper this time. “run.”

you hesitated, just for a breath. and then you ran. your feet tore across the sand, breath catching, dress flying. behind you, the fish basket flipped, splashing its contents into the dirt.

you didn’t look back. you ran until your house appeared through the heat-haze, knees buckling as you hit the threshold.

your father looked up from the floor, startled.

“dad—” you gasped. “dad, there’s people—there’s women—i don’t know what’s happening, they grabbed me, and yuji told me to run—dad, i think they have weapons—”

your words tumbled too fast. you couldn’t catch your breath. your heart wouldn’t slow down.

he crossed the room in two steps and caught you in his arms.

“please,” you begged, clutching your father’s tunic, fists trembling in the fabric. “please don’t let them take me.”

his arms tightened around you. he didn’t speak, just held you, like he could hold the world back if he tried hard enough.

and then the light shifted.

the sun, already high, suddenly felt unbearable, gleaming brighter than ever through the slats in the window, cutting across the floor in hot, blinding streaks. it made the dust glow. it made your skin burn. it felt like a spotlight aimed straight at your body, like even the heavens were pointing you out.

you barely had time to breathe before the door crashed open, and hooves thundered outside. shouting erupted like fire. the heat rushed in first, followed by the heavy rhythm of boots on clay.

they stormed in without hesitation—guards, real guards this time. cloaked in gold and thick leather armor, their faces set, eyes forward. they carried scrolls stamped with wax, blades strapped across their backs, and emblems of the gods hanging from their belts like pendants of judgment.

your father tried to block the doorway. shouted something you couldn’t hear, and they shoved past him like he was nothing. they grabbed your arms and you screamed. thrashed, kicked.

“she is the girl,” one of them said. “the one the god has whispered of.”

your father’s voice broke behind you, and then they took you.

they dragged you down the narrow road, barefoot and sobbing. past the neighbors who stood frozen in doorways. past children clutching baskets. past the dock where yuji once tried to teach you to swim and nearly drowned instead.

and from that day on, the world knew your name.

but it was no longer yours.

you were carried to the capital in a litter draped with white linen and perfumed wood, the scent of crushed myrrh suffocating you the whole way. they called you pure. unblemished. a vessel of still water. they said ra had whispered your name into the ears of his priests—that he had seen you. chosen you. that your body was no longer yours. that it was his.

you remember crying your way through it.

the whole ride your eyes were puffy and red, vision blurred with tears that wouldn’t stop no matter how tightly you squeezed them shut. you kept sniffling, chest hitching with every breath, throat raw from sobbing their names.

yuji. your father.

the chariot rattled along the road like it didn’t hear your grief at all, and when the city gates swallowed you whole, the sun blazing down on stone walls too high to see over, it felt like the last part of your life had been scraped clean away.

you remember your arrival only in flashes.

hands scrubbing your limbs with milk and salt. girls in gold veils and hushed voices, pouring warm oil through your tangled hair. your fingers dipped in resin until they stiffened. your lips painted in crushed carmine, staining your mouth like you’d eaten something sacred.

they dressed you in white linen so sheer it felt like mist. layered you in necklaces too heavy for your collarbones. you were draped in gauze-fine linen the color of morning sun, eyes rimmed in kohl and turquoise. a collar of lapis hung heavy on your neck. ringed your arms in copper and gold. they called you chosen. divine. they said the god had waited centuries for an oracle like you.

but all you could think was how small your father had looked when they tore you from his arms. how fast yuji had run to save you.

how you hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

you remember pacing the temple for hours, its sandstone courtyards bright and humming, full of open doors and soft music, and yet you felt like an animal in a cage too pretty to complain about.

“when will the god speak to me?” you’d asked once, voice barely above a whisper, eyes darting to the guards posted outside your chamber. “what if he never does?”

your handmaiden had only smiled, tucking a loose braid behind your ear, fingers still slick with scented oil.

“he will,” she said gently, like it was fact. like it was promise.

but no one ever told you when, or how. or what it would cost.

…

your first vision happened on the sixth night, and it didn’t feel like prophecy—it felt like possession.

you’d been walking toward the temple, the heat baked into the stone beneath your bare feet, the towering statues of falcons and gods casting long, warped shadows over your path. the sky above was a dull, unblinking gold. incense curled from bronze dishes in the corners. your handmaiden was a few steps behind you, humming something low.

and then something shifted. cracked. split you open like a tomb.

your body went hot all at once, then cold, then numb. your fingers seized. your breath caught in your throat. your knees nearly buckled. your handmaiden called out, said something sharp to one of the guards, but it was already too late.

your eyes rolled back so far all you saw was black, thick, and endless. the inside of your skull stretching far too wide.

you smelled incense and myrrh. and then—

he was there.

ra.

he stood in the center of your mind like it was a throne room. everything around him shimmered, shifting with heat. the sky above was blinding gold, cracked like stained glass. beneath your feet, the ground pulsed with slow, molten light. it felt like standing on the crust of the sun.

and behind him, above him, watching you, were eyes, real, golden, and unblinking. they hovered in the air like stars that had forgotten to burn. some were huge, wide as gates, irises ringed in sunfire. others blinked into view and disappeared, slow and reptilian. they followed you wherever you moved, even if you didn’t move at all. even if you couldn’t.

“you noticed them,” he said, smiling.

his hair was white-gold and wind-blown, too soft to make sense of, like strands of moonlight layered over flame. his skin glowed the way polished stone does when it’s been held too long in the sun, bronze, radiant, alive. his robe shimmered with woven gold thread, sleeveless and split at the sides, falling off his shoulders like light couldn’t quite cling to him.

his mouth curved upward, amused. following your gaze to the eyes hanging in the gold-lit air.

“don’t worry about the eyes,” he said. “they help me… discern,” he said lightly, like it wasn’t meant to sound ominous.

then he smiled.

“truth tends to hide, you know.”

he took a single step forward and the floor cracked. “you’ll speak for me now,” he said, voice smooth and bright like sunlight off water. “lucky you.”

he tilted his head, grinning. “i don’t let just anyone talk on my behalf.”

his smile turned just a little wider. “and please,” he said. “call me satoru.”

he was beautiful in a way that hurt to process. hair white as salt, soft and glowing like silk dipped in moonlight. skin bronzed and radiant, every inch of it gleaming like he’d been carved from sunlight and polished with gold leaf. his lashes were thick and pale, his jaw sharp and regal, his smile lazy but knowing. and his eyes—

his eyes were impossible.

icy blue, bright like the sky over the desert at noon. but they weren’t soft. they were focused, like flames trapped in frozen glass, like lightning waiting to strike.

and just before everything went white—

he winked. casual. playful. like this was all just a little inside joke between you and god.

you gasped awake with a sharp jolt, body drenched in sweat, the smell of frankincense thick in your lungs. the chamber spun around you. the stone was cool beneath your back. your hands were trembling.

the others had already gathered. they wept, clapped and shouted, fell to their knees.

“the oracle has spoken!” they cried.

you were pulled upright, praised, paraded through the outer halls like something sacred. someone pressed a diadem into your hair of rubies, sunstone, plumes of red and white. they placed rings on your fingers, painted your lips again, called you chosen.

you didn’t remember what you’d said. you weren’t even sure you had spoken at all.

and then the silence settled, and life for them just went on.

you were the oracle now. not a girl. not a person. just another vessel carved out for a god to pour himself into. they called you chosen, divine, blessed.

but no one listened when you tried to talk about your dad, or yuji, or home. no one asked if you missed the sound of frogs chirping in the shallows at dusk. no one noticed the way your voice shook during prayers, or how your fingers twitched when the guards walked too close. no one cared that you woke up crying most nights, gasping like you’d surfaced from drowning.

that sometimes, after visions, you sat for hours in the far corner of the temple, staring at the way the candles flickered shadows onto the wall, hoping they’d dance into something familiar.

no one cared, except for your handmaiden, shoko.

she was older. sharp-eyed, quiet, always pulling you gently away when the priests grew too eager or when your legs buckled after a long vision. she smelled like cloves and always snuck you dates from the kitchens when she thought you needed something sweet. she never bowed to you like the others. never gasped when your eyes lit gold.

“does it hurt?” she asked once, brushing the hair from your cheek.

you hadn’t answered, but she still stayed.

and when ra came for the first time—or satoru, as he’d told you to call him, when his white-haired form stepped radiant and smiling into your chamber, all gleaming gold and easy charm, calling you his beloved mouthpiece, reaching out to cradle your cheek with hands you’d never invited—

shoko was the only one who saw you flinch.

the priests bowed. the guards dropped their gazes. the other girls pressed their foreheads to the stone.

but shoko didn’t move or kneel, she just watched. watched the way your shoulders tensed. watched the way you forced a smile. watched the way his thumb brushed beneath your eye—how your whole body resisted the urge to lean away.

and when satoru turned toward her, white brow raised, your breath hitched. he stepped forward, easy and amused, stopping just short of where she stood.

the room went still. the air grew warm as his eyes flicked over her, measured, curious, and then he chuckled.

“ah,” he said softly.

“you’ve already got a lioness whispering in your ear.” he smiled. “no wonder you don’t flinch.”

shoko didn’t answer, nor blink. just inclined her head the slightest bit. not in deference, just acknowledgment.

your heart pounded. lioness?

you glanced at her wrist. at the thin bronze cuff she always wore just beneath her palm, etched with what you’d always thought were decorative flames. but now, looking closer, you saw it: the carving of a lion’s eye.

piercing. watchful. burning.

you remembered the nights she sat beside your bed, palm warm against your spine as your fevers broke. how you never heard her footsteps, but she was always there when you needed her most.

a chill ran through you.

she’s protected by sekhmet, you thought. not like you. not owned. not caged. but chosen.

…

ra never aged. not the way humans did.

his body stayed frozen in perfection, skin bronzed like sun-baked clay, white lashes dusting the edges of eyes too bright to look at for long. his hair, white as moonlight, always fell just right across his brow. his smiles came easy. his laugh was like water hitting hot stone, quick, sharp, disappearing too fast. he carried light in his palms. wore it on his shoulders. sometimes, when he passed, the very air shimmered in his wake, and he knew it.

he was the god of the sun—of creation, kingship, order, rebirth. his eye burned away chaos. his name lit the sky each morning. whole cities were built in his honor, obelisks and temples rising from the sand like gold teeth in the earth. every harvest, every law, every heartbeat was offered up to him.

he visited you often.

sometimes in dreams. sometimes in person. sometimes just as a voice in your head, a rush of heat behind your eyes.

he liked to sit near the window where the sunlight pooled the brightest. he liked when you smiled. he liked to tease.

“so serious,” he’d say, crouching down beside you, tucking a finger beneath your chin to tilt your gaze up. “you’ll wrinkle before you’re twenty if you keep frowning like that.”

you always blushed when he said things like that. always looked down, hiding the way your lips curled despite yourself.

you’d never had a boyfriend before. never been kissed. never had someone press their mouth to yours like you mattered.

yuji was the closest thing—just a friend you liked a little too much, whose shoulder you’d sometimes lean against when you were tired, whose laughter made your heart jump funny in your chest. but this was different. ra said things no one else ever had. brought gifts no one else ever could. golden bangles that sparkled like stars. oils that smelled like citrus and sun. once, he’d floated a ball of light in his palm just to hear you laugh.

and the first time he kissed you—it wasn’t hurried. his hand slid around your jaw, warm and firm. his mouth brushed yours like a blessing, soft and sure, as if he were pressing light into your skin. he kissed you like you were precious. like you were his. like the whole world had been waiting for this.

and the first time ra touched you like that, it was quiet.

the temple was heavy with dusk, warm with amber light and the scent of myrrh. outside, the river moved slow and silver. inside, it felt like the world was holding its breath. he looked at you like he always did—like you were something sacred. something his.

his hair was white as always, soft like moonlight, tousled like he hadn’t bothered to be perfect. but his burned blue, blinding, endless, holy.

he touched your face like it was breakable. thumb at your cheek, fingers along your jaw when he kissed you. it was warm, soft, too gentle for what he was, but his presence was still overwhelming. he was tall, broad, built like someone who had never once been powerless—and now, that power was all focused on you.

“you’re ready,” he said quietly, voice like honey warmed on the fire. “you trust me, don’t you?”

you nodded, breath caught behind your ribs.

his hand slid down, steady. across your stomach, then lower. his fingers parted you gently, testing how soft you were, how much you could take. your thighs trembled, shame crawling up your spine—because it was new, and you were nervous, and he was a god.

and when he finally pressed into you, your breath hitched.

it hurt. not sharp, but deep, aching, a stretch your body didn’t know how to handle. your eyes stung, and your hands clenched the linen beneath you.

“shhh,” he murmured, mouth at your ear. “i know. i know it hurts. just breathe, little sun. you’re doing so well.”

he didn’t move right away. just held you, his hips flush against yours, his hand stroking your side.

“you’re so tight,” he whispered. “so warm. it’s perfect. you’re perfect.”

you tried to relax. you tried to stop shaking. he kissed your shoulder. your neck. whispered that you were beautiful, that he’d wait as long as you needed.

and when he moved, it hurt again, but there was something else, too. heat blooming behind the pain. your body opening for him, inch by inch, breath by trembling breath. he praised every sound you made.

“just like that,” he said, voice low and full of worship. “gods, you’re perfect. my beautiful girl. look at how well you take me.”

his body glowed where it touched yours. like fire under skin. like divinity poured into flesh. he touched you like you were his light. he moved like he never wanted to leave your body again.

and when you finally gasped his name, nails digging into his shoulders, tears in your eyes, he kissed you again. soft, and endless, like sunrise.

“mine,” he whispered. “my oracle. my light. no one else gets to see you like this.”

and when he held you after, hands still warm, breath steady, you realized you’d never really belonged to yourself.

not since he first looked at you like that. not since he first called you his.

but you’d grown to love him.

not in the way a lover loves, not at first. but in the way captives love the hand that feeds them. the way girls love gods when gods are the only things that see them.

he was the one who visited when you cried. the one who spoke in your mind when no one else listened. the one who made your heart flutter and your voice stammer when he called you things like his little sunbeam, his favorite voice, the only mortal worth hearing.

and when you asked if you’d ever go home—if you’d ever see your father or yuji again, he just looked at you, head tilted, lashes glowing white against the dusk.

“what more could you possibly need than me?”

and it was terrifying how much you started to believe him.

he brought you gifts—jeweled anklets from across the sea, papyrus scrolls written in sacred script, dried figs packed in silver tins. once he even brought you a falcon, sleek and sharp-eyed, trained to sit on your arm. you named it zehuti, and it slept at the edge of your bed for months.

you began to thank him in ways you never meant to. you smiled more. laughed when he joked. leaned toward his warmth instead of away.

he made you feel full. chosen. cherished.

…

the sky was just beginning to bleed, and you sat beside the water garden, ankles tucked beneath your skirts, brushing lotus petals from the surface of the pool. the scent of milk and sunlight drifted through the temple’s outer court. frogs murmured softly in the reeds.

for once, it was quiet. no priests. no chanting. no guards watching from the colonnade. just stillness. and the fading hum of the day.

you didn’t hear them at first.

just the faint crunch of sandals against gravel, and when you looked up, three men stood a few steps away—two attendants flanking the high priest. the same one who’d crowned you with rubies on the sixth night. the same one who always called you child of the flame.

he bowed.

your brows knit. you didn’t rise.

“what’s going on?” you asked, brushing a damp petal from your wrist.

he smiled, faintly. “the sun god has made a request.”

you blinked. “what kind of request?”

he nodded to the men beside him. one stepped forward, holding a shallow bronze bowl. inside it sat folded linen, a vial of oil, and something that glinted.

“we must prepare your body,” the priest said.

your stomach tightened. “prepare it for what?”

his voice didn’t change. it was gentle. too gentle. “to strengthen the boundary. to protect the throne. to keep the great serpent asleep.”

you stared, and for a moment, your mind scrambled to make sense of it. maybe it was another ritual. another prayer. maybe—

“no,” you said slowly. “no, he wouldn’t need that. not from me.”

the priest’s gaze softened. he stepped closer. “you were chosen, oracle,” he said. “this is the role the sun god bestowed.”

“then let me speak to him.” you stood abruptly. your voice was too loud in the quiet. “he always speaks to me. let me ask him myself.”

you reached for the connection. tried to drop into that inner space, the pool in your mind where his voice used to surface—

nothing. not a flicker in your chest. not a whisper in your mind.

you tried again.

satoru?

still nothing.

…ra?

silence. the kind that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed.

“no,” you said, stepping back now, heart pounding. “this—this isn’t right. something’s wrong. i—he would never ask for this. he wouldn’t—”

you didn’t finish. the second attendant reached out, and took your wrist.

your body went cold. “don’t touch me,” you snapped, voice cracking. “what are you doing?”

“the oils will numb the skin,” one said. “you will be honored, praised—”

“stop!” you screamed, wrenching away. “you’re lying. he didn’t ask for this—he loves me, he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t!” your lips trembled.

“he would never hurt me. he would never—”

please, you whispered, silently, desperately. please just talk to me. say something. please.

and yet, the silence held, and ra did not come.

you struggled. your body fought on instinct, wild, ungraceful, furious. arms swinging, legs kicking, breath coming fast and shallow. you screamed until your throat burned, tears streaking down your face as two guards seized you by the arms. you twisted, thrashed, dragged your feet across the floor. they didn’t care. they bound your wrists in silk—fine, ceremonial, fragrant with rose oil, and hauled you like you weighed nothing at all.

your voice echoed through the temple like a broken thing, unheard, unreturned, and in the silence, all you could hear was your own ragged breath—and the sound of their sandals against the stone.

they brought you to the altar.

white limestone, sun-bleached and smooth. flower petals scattered in rings around it. bowls of sacred oil warmed at its base, thick with myrrh and lotus, their scent cloying in your nose.

they laid you down.

not gently, either. your body hit the altar hard, wrists tugged taut above your head. silk looped again and again. a priest leaned over you with solemn hands, dipping his fingers into the oil, pressing it to your chest, your shoulders, your temples.

a prayer was spoken, one you barely heard. your ears rang. your stomach turned. the gold-threaded cloth beneath your back soaked up the sweat clinging to your skin.

and then you saw the blade, small, obsidian, and curved like the moon.

you stopped breathing. you flinched before it even touched you. your eyes squeezed shut, your head turned away, a cry catching in your throat—

and then came the sting, sharp, sudden, shallow, but real. blood welled up instantly along your thigh, hot, and slow.

“satoru,” you sobbed. “ra, please, it hurts, please, i’ll do anything, just tell them to stop—”

your blood ran hot. thick. wet down your leg and warm against the sandstone. you thought they were going to kill you, you truly did.

you gasped, not just from pain, but from the shock of it. the reality that they were doing this. he had ordered this. but the pain was so sharp it turned bright, and your vision narrowed, then eventually the world blinked out.

“satoru,” you whispered. the word cracked in your throat, and he still didn’t come.

when you came back to yourself, you were lying on a golden mat. someone was pressing cloth into the wound. your skin stung with crushed herbs and salt. the smell of resin and bitter fig choked you. your body was shaking, and you couldn’t stop crying. your fingers clenched in the fabric of your robe, soaked red. your voice broke on every prayer.

“please,” you whispered again. “just… please come back. please talk to me.”

and still, he said nothing. not a flicker of light. not a breath in your mind. not even warmth.

only cold. only pain. only the echo of your own sobbing in a chamber too golden to hold grief.

you drifted in and out of sleep. shoko came in quiet intervals to check your bandages, brushing a cool cloth over your forehead, replacing the linens beneath your thigh. others whispered prayers you couldn’t hear. their words washed over you like warm water, but never reached your skin.

by nightfall, the chamber of offerings was silent again. you sat alone, legs tucked beneath you, linen robe soaked with dried blood. the scent of copper clung to the air, and the floor beneath you felt too large, too hard, too still. your arms ached from fighting. your thigh throbbed beneath the salves. the flesh around your wrists pulsed, tight, swollen, raw where silk had once bound you.

the world felt tilted. wrong. your body knew it before your mind did. you shivered beneath the gauzy robe. your breath hitched. and then—

light.

soft at first. like dawn peeking through the temple’s slotted ceiling. a golden hum. a warmth that touched the inside of your eyelids before your skin. it pulsed gently. then brightened.

“my little sunbeam.”

your eyes fluttered open.

he was already kneeling beside you, crouched low, the folds of his radiant robes spilling across the stone like sunlight made fabric. the glow of him was almost too much to look at, white lashes catching the gleam, hair lit from within like alabaster glass. he smelled like warmth and myrrh and memory.

ra.

his hands were soft when they found your face. too soft. they cupped your cheeks like something cherished. his thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t realized was there. his eyes, icy blue, searing bright, searched yours with a careful stillness.

“why are you crying?” he asked, quiet. too quiet.

you didn’t answer. you only let yourself lean forward, into the hands that hadn’t come for you. into the comfort of the one who had let them take you.

he held you, and you hated how warm it felt.

“you’re so brave,” he murmured. “i’m so proud of you.”

you choked on a sob.

his voice was like honey poured over open wounds. it stuck to the raw parts of you. thick. sweet. suffocating.

“why didn’t you come?” you asked, voice shaking. “i screamed for you.”

he sighed gently. tilted your chin up, his touch unbearably light.

“i heard you,” he said, soft as sunbeams. “but you had to be strong.”

you stared at him. the shine of his hair. the lines of his face. perfect. timeless. unknowable.

“i don’t want to do this anymore,” you whispered. “it hurts, ra— satoru. it hurts so much.”

his expression shifted, briefly. something flickered behind his eyes. but it was gone in a blink, replaced with that same impossible smile.

“i know,” he said. “but you were chosen, my love. and chosen ones must carry the weight.”

he smooths your hair back from your face, presses his forehead gently to yours. “this pain… it’s the price of peace. your blood holds back the serpent. every drop keeps the sun rising. your people breathing. your father and yuji safe.”

his thumb moved over your cheek again.

“you’re not just anyone. you are my voice. my light. your blood, your pain—it fuels the sun. without you, it dims. don’t you see? the world needs you.”

you shake your head. your lips tremble.

“i didn’t ask for this,” you say, almost childishly. “i never—i never asked to be chosen.”

his arms wrap around you.

“and yet you were,” he murmurs. “you were always mine. and i’ve loved you, haven’t i?”

and you nod. because you have no other choice. because it’s true, you did love him. because you still do, somewhere. even now. even broken.

“you’ll get used to the pain,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “it’s a small thing… to help me save the world.”

and you try. you try so hard to be good.

you bite down on leather when they cut into your shoulder. you squeeze your eyes shut when the blade slips against your stomach. you let them drain you slowly, gently, like you’re something sacred being carved from the inside out.

but it never stops hurting, and satoru stops visiting so often.

he still smiles when he does. still calls you radiant. still places a glowing hand on your brow. but his gaze slides toward the horizon more often now. he speaks of apophis more than he speaks of you. his light feels thinner. colder.

and when you whisper for him now? he doesn’t always answer.

…

the voice begins as a hush.

not during sleep, not in dreams, but during the bloodletting.

you’re lying flat, breath shallow, thighs bound, arms trembling as another shallow cut opens along your side, when suddenly, it’s there.

a voice, coiling warm against the inside of your skull. smooth, deep, slow, like honey sliding along a blade. it curved around your thoughts, soft and deliberate, brushing the most vulnerable parts of your mind like it already knew them.

“you don’t have to let them do this,” the voice hissed. “you are not a well to be drained.”

your eyes flew open.

the ceiling above you swam in and out of focus, candles flickering high in their sconces, shadows curling like snakes across the sandstone. your wrists throbbed. your thigh ached. you could still feel the blade, even though the blood had dried.

but that voice—it wasn’t ra’s.

ra’s voice was golden, deafening, and euphoric. it rushed through your head like sunlight. this was different.

cooler, older, and quieter. obviously not human.

and you knew you should tell someone.

so you waited until that night, when the others had gone. when the guards changed. when shoko returned to your chamber with fresh linen and oil for your skin. you were sitting on the edge of the basin, water at your ankles, when you whispered her name.

she glanced at you once. “you’re bleeding again?”

“no,” you said. “i… i heard something.”

her hands slowed.

you hesitated. “it wasn’t ra.”

her face gave nothing away, but she stopped altogether, towel half-folded in her hands.

you told her about the voice. about the warmth. about the words whispered just before you lost consciousness. and the way it had curled inside you. not threatening. not painful. just… there.

she didn’t interrupt. only after a long silence did she finally speak. “there was another oracle before you,” she said, quiet. “a boy. he was younger than you, when he was chosen.”

“what happened to him?”

shoko’s eyes dropped to the basin. “his name was suguru. he served for seven years. he was… bright. clever. soft-spoken.” her voice turned faintly bitter. “like all good tragedies.”

you swallowed.

“he started dreaming of the serpent,” she said. “the same way you have.”

your mouth went dry.

“he thought he could control it. thought he could use it. thought he could take ra’s power and reshape it—reshape everything. but the thing about gods,” she said flatly, “is they don’t share.”

you stared at her.

“ra killed him,” she said. “on the altar. burned his name from the scrolls. they say the serpent grows stronger every time he claims a vessel meant for the sun.” her voice sharpened.

“so you do not speak of this again.”

you opened your mouth. “but if ra—”

“don’t be stupid,” she cut in. “you’re not protected like i am.”

you blinked. “protected?”

shoko raised her arm, tugged back her sleeve to the show the cuff you’d forgotten about, lion’s eye shining in the dimly lit room.

“i was born under sekhmet’s watch,” she said. “he can’t touch me without her knowing. but you?” she reached out and touched your cheek, gentle.

“you’re only his to use.”

she stood.

“so unless you want to end up like suguru,” she said, voice clipped, “do not mention the serpent again. not to anyone.”

and then she left you there, alone, ankles in water. hands trembling. head full of a voice you weren’t allowed to speak of.

…

every time they came to cut you, the voice returned.

it stirred in the silence before the blade touched your skin, warm and coiled at the base of your spine. it slipped beneath your thoughts like water through stone, slow and soothing.

sometimes it laughed. a low, curling sound, like silk sliding across wet clay.

other times, it stayed quiet—just lingered, brushing behind your ears, humming with a patience that scared you more than anything else.

and then the dreams began.

you didn’t notice it at first. they felt like static. heat. too many flickering candles.

but the third one, you remembered.

you were standing barefoot in an endless hall, black stone walls stretching up forever, carved with twisting shapes you couldn’t decipher. torches lined the sides but cast no warmth. the shadows didn’t move.

a boy stood at the end of the corridor, soft pink hair. honey-bronze skin. the curve of his jaw familiar.

“yuji?” you breathed, instinctive.

he looked up, and you stopped.

his eyes weren’t yuji’s. they held none of his softness—none of that open, earnest light that made you trust him even when you shouldn’t. no, these eyes were red. deep red. like crushed carnelian, like the sun caught in blood. they were sharp, slanted, knowing. they looked through you the way a knife studied skin before it split it open.

he had all of yuji’s beauty, but in a cruel, cut-glass way, like someone had taken something pure and carved it into something dangerous.

his body was bare from the waist up, skin bronzed and gleaming like polished amber. black markings coiled along his torso, tattoos like serpents and hieroglyphs, ancient spells inked in symbols you couldn’t read. a collar of gold wrapped his throat, shaped like a rearing cobra with ruby eyes. thick bands of obsidian and lapis circled his biceps, carved with scenes of chaos and fire, divine plagues, serpents devouring suns, figures kneeling before a great coiled beast.

and despite all that, the way he looked at you still mirrored yuji’s in one way:

like he already knew the softest parts of you.

but unlike yuji, it wasn’t kindness that stirred in his gaze—it was hunger.

something slithered behind you in the dark, and you turned just in time to hear it whisper—

apophis.

you looked back at the boy. “you— you’re—”

“yes,” he said easily. “but i think you already knew that.”

you backed away. “what do you want from me?”

his head tilted. “nothing.”

your breath hitched. “then why—”

“but i can help you,” he said, stepping closer. “that pain you carry… the part of you that trembles every time they bind your wrists. the ache in your bones. the fear you swallow for your god.”

you said nothing.

he smiled again. “i can take it. all of it. every last drop. you only have to ask.”

his voice was silk wrapped around a blade. slow, sweet, promising.

but he still looked like yuji, the boy who’d probably laid down his life to protect you.

that same curve to his jaw. that same messy, windswept hair, only pinker now, wild and tousled like he’d run through a sandstorm. the tilt of his head, the slight part to his lips, the familiar shape of his nose. it was him, and it wasn’t. he was carved crueler. he was heavier with meaning.

and when you stared at his torso, your gaze dropping to the gilded serpent bands coiled around his arms, the glinting stones and the black-inked sigils burned into his chest—you couldn’t look back up.

your body trembled, unable to meet those red, god-marked eyes.

he leaned in, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, close enough to smell the faint curl of smoke and myrrh on his breath. his voice curled low against your ear.

“it’s okay,” he murmured, almost gentle. “you can look at me.”

and then you woke up.

your mouth was dry. your chest was tight. there was a weight in the air, a thick, invisible coil that made the hairs rise on your arms. you couldn’t move at first, breath lodged in your throat. the room was wrong. too still. too dark. only one candle remained, its flame flickering low. the rest were blown out completely, wax still soft from the heat.

you sat up slowly. the sheets clung to your skin, damp with sweat. the wind outside had stilled. the air was silent.

and then you saw it.

curled beside the woven perch near your window—your falcon, zehuti.

still, and limp, throat mangled, neck bent. something had coiled around him. crushed him. his wings were sprawled awkwardly, his beak tilted open, eyes clouded. a thin trail of blood darkened the floor beneath his feathers, and coiled at his neck, was the unmistakable mark of something long and scaled.

you covered your mouth. a sob caught in your chest.

and behind you came quiet footsteps. shoko. she saw it and moved fast. pulled the drape closed. wrapped him in linen. wiped the blood before anyone else could see.

she didn’t say a word, but the look in her eyes said everything.

and when ra came the next day, all sunlight and honeyed lies, smiling, radiant, fingers warm beneath your chin—his smile faltered for the briefest moment.

“what happened to zehuti?” he asked, gaze flicking to the corner where the perch stood empty.

you swallowed, heart hammering at the memory of what shoko had told you about suguru geto and his fate.

“old age,” you said, voice trembling. “i think. i just found him lying there.”

satoru’s bright blue eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, as if testing your answer. then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and offered a gentle, practiced smile.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured, voice soft as sunlight. “zehuti was a fine bird.”

you thought he was going to turn and leave. his robes had already begun to sway with the motion, his fingers lifting from your doorframe, his steps carrying that same glow they always did—but then, he hesitated.

just for a breath.

his head tilted, and his brows pulled together ever so slightly. a flicker of suspicion passed through those blinding blue eyes.

“but ah,” he said softly, almost idly, “has anything changed?”

your mouth dried. your fingers curled into the fabric of your robe.

he was still smiling, casual, disarming, but you felt it in your gut. the question wasn’t casual. it wasn’t soft. it wasn’t innocent.

you bowed your head quickly. “no.”

and then, like warmth curling into your ear, “good girl,” the voice whispered. “you’re learning.”

…

you try to shut the voice out, you really do.

but you’re so tired.

your legs barely carry you from chamber to chamber now. your hands tremble when you pour the sacred water, your knees buckle during prayer. light stings your eyes like knives. you hear the priests whisper more openly now—about the color in your cheeks, or the lack of it. the way your steps falter. the way your breath sounds too thin for someone so young.

you haven’t seen shoko in days.

you wake to bleeding—your thighs, your palms, your arms, and you don’t know if it was a vision or a sacrifice. you don’t know what part of you is your own anymore. you lose time like it’s sand through a sieve. one minute you’re walking the outer corridor of the temple, and the next you’re kneeling at the basin, blood dried on your robe, hands shaking.

and satoru—he’s watching you.

he’s all smiles, still. all brightness and blue sky. but you feel it in the way he speaks to you now, lighter, but sharper. too knowing. like he sees something leaking from the corners of your spirit and is waiting for you to admit it. sometimes his eyes linger too long. sometimes he says nothing at all.

and you remember what he told you when you first met—about the eyes. how they help him discern truth.

you’ve been trying to hide yours ever since.

but one night, you can’t help it. you just can’t shut him out.

…

that night, the moon hung low and orange behind the clouds, veiled like an omen. the chamber was quiet. too quiet. the kind of silence that didn’t comfort—it smothered. no guards murmuring in the halls. no footsteps. not even the wind against the stone walls.

you sat alone on the woven mat that barely softened the cold beneath you. your knees were tucked to your chest, robe clinging to the dried blood on your thighs. your wrists still ached beneath the thin linen wrappings. everything hurt. but nothing more than your chest.

your heart was racing. too fast. thudding like it was trying to get out.

all you could see when you closed your eyes was satoru.

not the light of his smile, but the weight behind it. not the way he tilted your chin like he adored you, but the pressure in his fingers, the command in the gesture, like you were a puppet on gold-thread strings. you kept seeing his hands, yes. but not how they cupped your cheeks or caught the sunlight when he played with it for your amusement. no, now you were thinking about what they could do. what they were made to do. what power burned in his palms when he wasn’t playing at gentleness.

he hadn’t raised his voice at you. he hadn’t looked at you with hate. but the thought still throbbed behind your eyes—what if he did? what would it look like if that smile dropped? if the kindness curdled?

he was the sun. if he turned on you, there would be no shelter.

you pictured it—the fury behind his eyes, the rage he hadn’t shown. imagined your body burning to ash under his gaze. the temple collapsing. the sand turning to glass. it wasn’t a memory. it wasn’t a threat. but you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

and maybe that was the scariest part.

he hadn’t done it, but you believed he could.

you drew in a breath, quiet and sharp, pressing your forehead to your knees.

“are you listening?” you whispered into the dark, unsure if you were whispering for ra or apophis—maybe not even for a god at all. maybe just for someone. anyone. someone to answer. someone to care.

“can you hear me?”

your lips parted again. your voice trembled.

“please.”

your fingers curled in the linen beneath you, knuckles pale. the shadows didn’t move. the candles didn’t flicker. the stars outside stayed still and cold. you shut your eyes.

“i’m scared,” you admitted. barely a breath.

and then a rustle, like silk over stone. like something shifting closer. then—

“of course i can hear you.” the voice slid into your mind, low and rich and warm as molasses. not ra’s light, but something older, heavier, something that wrapped around your thoughts like water around a throat. “i’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

“apophis,” you said. the name tasted strange in your mouth.

you didn’t know what would happen. you’d never said his name before, never quite called to him either. he always came on his own—slithering through dreams and whispers, curling inside your head like incense smoke.

the air shifted. thickened. your skin tingled like the hairs on your arms were lifting, like something enormous had just turned its gaze toward you from the shadows.

“yes?” came the voice, not spoken, not heard, but felt. it coiled through your ribs like heat. it slithered up the back of your spine. it smiled when it said your name, like it really had been waiting for you.

“is ra going to kill me?” your voice shook. “am i going to end up like suguru?”

silence. then—

laughter. not kind, but not cruel, either. something darker. amused. indulgent. like watching a storm from the safety of a throne.

“suguru,” the voice breathed. “was a brilliant mind, with a soft heart, and a foolish end.”

the shadows in the room thickened around you. you felt your mat tilt slightly under your body, like the world had gone uneven.

“he was a miscalculation,” the voice continued. “a lesson.”

you swallowed, fingers digging into your legs. your body was trembling now, but you couldn’t stop listening. you didn’t want to.

“you,” it said, slower now. lower. “you are the real thing.”

you closed your eyes tighter. pressed your palm against your chest, right over your heart. it was still beating. still trying.

“why me?” you whispered. “i didn’t ask for this. i didn’t even believe in any of this—why me?”

“because you are a fracture in the sun,” apophis said, voice curling sweet and venomous. “a crack in his golden mask. you were meant to fall through.”

you didn’t know what that meant, and you didn’t want to ask, and the voice hummed again, pleased. like it had burrowed deeper into your ribs and found something soft.

“you called for me,” it said. “even with his light still clinging to your skin.”

and you had. you had.

you don’t know when your allegiance blurred. when fear gave way to hunger. when the god who whispered to you in the dark started feeling more real than the one who bathed you in light.

you only knew that he came when you needed him, and that ra hadn’t.

…

it had been three days of silence. not just from ra, but from apophis, too.

the air itself felt different. too still. too thick. the temple halls echoed louder. your steps dragged heavier. the light didn’t warm you anymore. it only stung.

and then there was the eclipse. they cut you deeper than they ever had—so deep, you were sure they’d nicked something vital. you’d laid on the altar, gasping, blood soaking the linens beneath you, certain you would die right there.

but you didn’t. not yet.

you were curled on your cot now, alone in the dark. the stone was cold beneath your spine. the linen stuck to your thighs, stiff with dried blood. your fingers trembled as you pulled the blanket tighter, but it didn’t help. nothing helped.

and then came his voice. sharper than before, closer. no longer content to whisper from the edge of your mind. it curled into you like smoke, like silk, like something sliding between the folds of your brain.

“they’re going to kill you.”

you froze. your breath hitched. your eyes fluttered open.

“tomorrow.”

your pulse kicked hard beneath your skin.

“they’ve seen the signs,” it continued, soft and slow. “the blood in your urine. the bruises that don’t fade. your body is failing, y/n.”

you tried to speak, tried to argue, but your voice cracked on the inhale. “they wouldn’t—”

“they will.” the voice was cold now. final. “you’ve served your purpose. you are no longer a vessel. they’ll call it mercy.”

you curled tighter on the cot, pressing your knees to your chest. your hip throbbed, deep purple, fever-warm. your hands shook as you clutched your stomach. every breath felt like a needle in your ribs. your vision swam with black spots.

“but i care,” the voice said again. lower now. warmer. “and i see you.”

tears slipped down your cheeks before you knew you were crying. they slid down your temples, pooling in your hairline.

“what do i do?” you whispered. it came out hoarse. fragile.

and he answered.

“give me what they take.” his tone was low, velvety, almost tender, like a secret passed between lovers in the dark. there was no urgency. no command. just quiet temptation. “offer it willingly. to me.”

you blinked once, and then you were moving. your body moved before your mind caught up. you pushed yourself upright. the world tilted. your legs gave a little beneath you, but your palms caught the floor.

you crawled.

the chamber was lit by one flickering oil lamp. the silver basin gleamed on the altar’s edge. the obsidian blade beside it seemed to pulse with shadow.

your fingers wrapped around the hilt. it was cool, heavier than you remembered, but you’d also been the one being cut and not the one doing the cutting. your robe slid from your wrist as you knelt.

“don’t be afraid,” the voice hummed, coiling warm and slow around your spine. “i’ll show you how.”

your breath caught as you lifted the blade and pressed it to your skin.

the first cut was shallow. slow. a line of warmth bloomed instantly, sliding down your forearm like a ribbon.

the voice purred.

“yes. just like that.”

you bit the inside of your cheek and did it again. and again.

three perfect lines. blood gathering in soft pools between your knees. your body swayed gently with the pain, head bowed, vision blurry with exhaustion and something else—something dense, something deep.

the chamber breathed. the lamp flame steadied. the air grew warmer. heavier. you felt it: the shift.

not divine, not celestial. this wasn’t holy. this was ancient. forgotten. hungry.

it coiled up your spine. licked at the edges of your mind. the scent of copper and resin swirled in the air. the shadows stretched too far, too long.

you weren’t alone anymore.

a figure unfolded from the darkness, towering, coiled, humming with pressure.

not monstrous, but beautiful.

apophis.

you’d only ever seen him in dreams—never like this. never in person. never standing before you, real as breath and fire.

your mind screamed yuji. pink hair. soft eyes. the curve of his mouth, the shape of his jaw. but your body knew better. this wasn’t yuji. his hair shimmered loose, pink and gleaming even in shadow. his eyes burned red, slit and glowing, framed by thick lashes and set in a face too ancient to be young. too cruel to be kind. carved from stone and myth, sharp with something unnamable. beautiful the way a blade is beautiful. his mouth was wide, smirking, cut like a wound made to kiss.

his body moved like something serpentine, loose, fluid, deadly. shirtless, tattooed in gold and onyx. his hands gleam with rings, nails clawed, stained with something black and dry.

he stepped into the space beside you, barefoot, slow, and the temperature dropped.

your breath hitched as he crouched down in front of you. he didn’t speak at first, just looked at you.

at your thighs. at your wrists. at the blood pooling at your knees. at your hands still holding the blade. his gaze dragged up to your face, unreadable, then he reached out. fingers beneath your chin.

he tilted your face toward his.

“what have they done to you?” he murmured. his voice was soft, slow, slicing. it slithered through your chest and wrapped around your ribs, slow and certain.

“so much beauty,” he said. “ruined. cracked open like an offering bowl.”

your mouth trembled. “are you going to hurt me?” you whispered.

he smiled. not wide. not threatening. just soft, almost tender.

“no,” he said, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “not unless you beg me to.”

then he touched you, not roughly, not like a man claiming or owning or taking. just gentle touches. his fingers slid to your side, to the welt blooming purple and red beneath your ribs. warm fingers pressed to scars and bruises littering your body, and suddenly, the pain there would disappear. the ache in your thighs vanished. your and arms went light, weightless.

your wounds closed beneath his palms. your skin knit clean.

your body stilled, and when when you looked up at him—this impossible god, this beast, this thing of terror and promise, this thing the world called chaos—for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel whole.

his thumb lingered just beneath your collarbone, tracing the curve where blood had dried and cracked. his red eyes flicked upward, meeting yours—not sharp this time, but patient. waiting.

“you’re still shaking,” he murmured.

you tried to speak. couldn’t. your throat was tight. your chest too full.

his hand moved higher, settled lightly at your throat. not pressing. just resting. “you don’t have to thank me,” he said, voice lower now, almost amused. “he breaks things, and i fix them. it’s a cycle.”

“why?” your voice was hoarse. you hadn’t used it in hours. “why do you keep helping me?”

he smiled. not wide. not cruel. a different kind of smile that you couldn’t quite discern.

“because you asked,” he said simply. “because when you were alone, and afraid, and crying on the cold floor of your god’s temple, you called for me instead of him.”

your eyes burned again. “i didn’t mean to.”

“but you did.”

his hand slipped from your throat, down to your wrist. he turned it over, ran a finger along the place where the blood had been, now smooth. “they would’ve left you to rot.”

“he wouldn’t—” you stopped. bit your lip.

he didn’t press. just watched you. let you say it yourself.

“…he wouldn’t have let me die,” you whispered, more to convince yourself than him.

“you really believe that?” his voice was so soft it hurt.

your lip quivered. your eyes dropped, and a silence stretched between you.

he reached for your chin again. tilted it up, slower this time. gentler.

“look at me.”

you did. slowly. breath caught in your chest. his face was too close now. eyes searching. mouth parted just slightly. he smelled like smoke and night and the faintest trace of honey.

“i could hurt you if i wanted to,” he murmured. “you know that.”

you nodded.

“but i won’t.”

your breath hitched as his hand slid up to your cheek. brushed a tear away with the back of his knuckle. “i know how to destroy,” he said. “but with you… i’d rather do something else.”

you blinked.

“can i?” he whispered, eyes dropping to your lips.

he didn’t lean in yet. didn’t press. just waited.

and maybe that’s why you kissed him, soft and slow and trembling. because for one impossible second, it felt like you were talking to yuji.

like you hadn’t been dragged from your home, like there weren’t bruises blooming along your hips and ancient symbols carved into your skin. like your name hadn’t been stolen and rewritten in a language only gods could read.

it was just him. just you. just this.

your eyes fluttered shut, lips brushing his with the same reverence you used to fold into prayers. hesitant. aching. your fingers curled lightly at his shoulders.

his mouth was warm, there, present. answering you with a slowness that startled you.

and for a moment, you let yourself pretend.

pretend that maybe yuji had died trying to protect you, and this—this creature of dark and chaos, this impossible god with eyes like fire and hands like silk, had been sent in his place. sent to ease your pain. to honor the hurt that no one else saw. maybe a piece of yuji lived inside him. maybe that’s why he looked the way he did. why his voice never scared you.

his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there as he kissed you deeper. still slow. still gentle. like he understood something about you no one else had bothered to learn.

his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips. his thumb still cradled your jaw, gentle in a way that made your chest ache. you thought he might say something soft. something about you.

because his expression looked like awe.

because his red eyes burned like embers, staring at you like you were the only thing that ever mattered.

but that wasn’t what the fire was for.

“you don’t even know what you’ve given me,” he whispered, voice low, nearly trembling with restrained joy.

and when he touched you—hand rising to your throat, you tilted your head back. your body didn’t pull away.

“yu—” you stopped yourself before it left your lips.

but you knew he heard it. knew who you were thinking of. you were thinking of your best friend. of safety, of home, of sunlight skipping across the river. of the boy who laughed with fish guts on his hands and hid your letters beneath woven mats. the boy you might never see again.

and now here was this creature. this god. this echo of everything you’d lost, pressed against you with heat and stillness and a patience that was starting to feel unbearable.

you didn’t want love. you didn’t want light. you wanted release.

so you kissed him again, not soft, not shy, and your mouth pressed to his like you were trying to climb inside him, like you were asking him to ruin you from the inside out. his grip on your throat tightened just enough to drag a breathy moan out of you, soft and raw against his lips.

he made a sound low in his chest, dark, hungry, and before you could breathe again, he lifted you, effortless. he carried you to the low cot tucked in the corner of the chamber, and when your back hit the thin mattress, the shadows moved.

they rose from the stone like smoke made solid. cool and smooth. they slithered up the sides of the bed, curling around your wrists were snakes made of shadow, of him. they didn’t bind you harshly, just pinned you there like you were being presented. like this was ceremony.

“i’ve been waiting for you,” he said, voice low, glowing eyes soft like eclipse rings in the dark. “for centuries.”

your breath stuttered as he leaned down, pressed a kiss to your chest, just above your heart. he didn’t tear your robes off. he unwrapped you, like a gift, like something he really had waited centuries to touch.

your breath caught again when he kissed lower—your stomach, your hip, the curve of your thigh. his fingers brushed the raw mark you carved into your arm hours earlier, and when he pushed your legs apart, you didn’t resist.

his fingers moved with purpose. slow, deliberate circles. just enough to tease. to open. to make your spine arch and your voice catch. the snakes coiled tighter around your wrists as the pleasure in your stomach twisted sharper, tighter, hotter.

and when he slid inside you, your whole body seized.

he fit in a way nothing ever had. too deep. too much. too intimate.

your back arched. your wrists pulled. a whimper cracked from your throat, eyes fluttering closed. you were shaking, everywhere, but you still didn’t say no.

his hand smoothed over your stomach, grounding you. “you can take it,” he murmured.

and you tried. gods, you tried. but your breath was already stuttering, your body trembling beneath him. your lips parted, searching for something—anything, that would make this moment make sense.

“i wanna—” your voice caught on a whine as his hips rolled deeper, slower, more deliberate than before.

he filled you, thick, deep, a stretch that stole your breath and curled your toes and made your wrists pull helplessly at the snakes. it was like he was pushing darkness into you with every thrust. like he was rewriting you from the inside out.

ra had made you feel wanted, like a jewel on a pedestal, a thing to keep precious and controlled.

but apophis? apophis moved like he wanted to ruin you, and then rebuild you in his image. not just to claim, but to change.

you were gasping now, eyes fluttering, body arching off the cot like it might split open under the weight of it all. “i wanna forget,” you breathed.

you didn’t say what. you didn’t have to.

he knew. he knew it was satoru. he knew it was your name, your temple, your stolen life. he knew it was the girl you used to be—golden, obedient, aching for something no one could give her. he knew you wanted to forget that this wasn’t yuji. that this wasn’t a soft boy with a gentle laugh and sun-warm hands.

this was chaos. this was the serpent god who curled around your dreams and whispered that he could give you everything.

and still, you let him in.

because every inch felt like surrender. every thrust felt like a severing of light, like he was reaching places ra had never touched—not even in dreams. not even with all his glowing words and honeyed kisses.

apophis didn’t just want your body. he wanted your soul. to fill it, to flood it, to leave you so full of him that the sun no longer called to you.

and gods—you were already slipping.

his thrusts stayed slow, controlled, and cruel in how good they felt. he moved like he was rewriting you. like he could fuck every ounce of gold out of your skin, every holy word off your tongue.

you tried to be quiet. but you were spread out. bound, shaking. you didn’t notice you were crying until you felt the tears slip down your temples into your hair. your voice choked on every gasp, your body twitching beneath the weight of him, beneath the shadows holding you still.

you begged with how your hips lifted, how your thighs trembled. how your mouth fell open with no sound. and when he finally lost control, when his pace broke and his voice dropped ragged into your ear—you weren’t a priestess anymore. you weren’t even a girl.

you were his.

just like you’d been ra’s: a vessel, a voice, a body for the gods to move through. a tool dressed in gold or shadow, depending on who stood at the altar.

the illusion of choice had always been a kindness, and now it was gone.

you knew it the moment the candles went out. when the light outside the chamber flickered once… then died. when your body clenched, cried, and finally shattered beneath him.

because this, too, was a sacrifice.

not the kind they wrote on temple walls. not the kind sung over in hymns.

this was older, quieter. like the tales the scribes whispered but never inked—the ones about how sometimes, a thing too beautiful to be real would descend from the sky, soft-eyed and glowing, and call itself a god. a messenger. a savior.

and humans would kneel, and humans would offer themselves, and when they rose, they were never the same.

you wondered if that’s what you’d done. if, chasing release, chasing yuji, chasing the ache to feel normal again, you’d let something ancient slip inside your soul.

not because you wanted darkness, but because you were tired of bleeding in the light.

he kissed your shoulder. your throat. your lips again—softer now. slower. like he hadn’t just unmake you, body and breath and belief.

“mine,” he whispered. “mine, mine, mine.”

and when you came undone, mind blank, body burning, breath breaking, he followed.

a groan like thunder cracked through the chamber, the air vibrated, the snakes around your wrists loosened—but not fully. they didn’t vanish. they didn’t slither away. they just rested there, cool and curled like bracelets around your skin.

and in the silence that followed, apophis laid over you. his breath was cool at your throat. his forehead pressed to yours.

“he’ll never take you from me,” he said, voice like dusk folding over the river.

you nodded, too dazed to argue. but somewhere, in the hollow of your ribs, you tried to ignore how the snakes still held you. not like ties, but like cuffs.

…

you wake in the cot the next morning.

the room smells like cedar and blood. your robes have been changed. your body is whole. your wrists are wrapped in silk, now—not bandages, nor the snakes that bound you last night, but a gift. something ceremonial. something claiming.

you remember his voice. his hands. the darkness curling around you like water. apophis.

but now its morning, and for the first time in your life—there is no sunlight. not a glow. not a flicker. not a dawn. just… silence.

and then came the screaming.

the temple is chaos. acolytes running. guards shouting. offerings burning with no answer.

you stumble into the courtyard barefoot, wind whipping your robe around your legs.

and then—you hear him, and ra’s voice cracks like lightning overhead.

“what have you done?”

he doesn’t arrive in gold—not this time. he rips the sky apart. a burst of light explodes overhead, shattering the clouds, turning day into something that feels like judgment. the earth trembles beneath your feet. your hands rise instinctively, shielding your eyes.

and then he descends.

satoru, to you. ra, to most. the ancient, all-powerful deity of the sun, to his followers.

but not the one you knew—not the one who kissed your forehead and brought you peaches, not the god who laughed when you pouted or teased when you worried. no.

this is ra, in all his fury.

his robes blaze like wildfire. his hair whips on a wind that doesn’t exist. his eyes—icy blue, glow with something ancient and livid. power radiates off him in pulses, warping the space around his form. when his feet touch the ground, the stone beneath him fractures.

he steps forward.

“you were mine,” he says. his voice is thunder. “you were my chosen one—my mouth, my voice—”

he stops just short of you, and stares. sees the blood. sees the bruises. sees the mark of something older etched behind your eyes.

“and you gave yourself to my enemy? to him?”

your lips part, but no sound comes out. your knees buckle, fear coiling deep in your belly and rising, choking, unfamiliar. it isn’t sharp. it’s slow, creeping, like heat in a sealed chamber.

you’d seen this once before. in flashes. visions you thought were dreams—satoru’s smile splitting into something less kind, his light turning harsh, blinding. hands that once touched your face like you were precious curling instead into fists.

you thought they were warnings. you hoped they were lies. now, you wonder if they were prophecy.

because this isn’t the god who kissed your temple after the first vision left you sobbing. this isn’t the man who conjured sunlight between his palms and lit it across your skin like warmth.

this isn’t a god scorned. this is a god betrayed. and you wonder, in the static silence that follows, if this is your punishment for asking too many questions. for doubting. for choosing a voice that sounded like comfort instead of fire.

and then, behind you—

the shadows shift.

and apophis doesn’t walk. he doesn’t arrive the way ra does, either. instead, he unfurls from the darkness surrounding, he’s laughter in the bones of your spine, the prickle of a sixth sense, the ripple of wrong that feels more familiar than holy now.

he steps into place beside you, tall and fluid, shirtless and glinting in the moonlight, tattoos etched in onyx and gold.

satoru’s expression twists.

“seriously?” he snaps, voice bitter, the sky behind him still split in light. “you showed up as her dead best friend?”

and it hits you all at once, like some kind of cruel prank you’d been the butt of this whole time but never privy too. yuji was gone. and apophis—he’d worn his face like a cloak, because he knew you’d trust it. because he knew you’d follow it.

you were never a chosen one. you were never special. you were bait. a vessel. a crack in the light made just wide enough for darkness to crawl through.

apophis chuckles—low, indulgent. cruel in how calm it sounds.

“you’re just upset you didn’t think of it first. he steps forward slightly, gaze flicking to you, lingering, then back to ra.

“you always put too much trust in your mortal oracles,” he says, voice smooth and dark. “pretending they were more than tools. playing god and lover at the same time, like either role would ever suit you.”

his mouth curves, something like mockery blooming slow.

“and satoru, really?” a snort. “you even gave yourself a human name. the greatest and the oldest god, but always the most foolish, apparently.” his tongue clicks, like a disappointed parent.

“maybe next time,” he drawled, stepping closer, grin curling wider across his face, “take better care of your lovers, sun god.” he let the silence stretch, just for a moment. just long enough to twist the knife.

then, with a little hum, almost fond— “i mean, you did learn your lesson with suguru, didn’t you?”

something shifts in satoru’s expression. he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak at first, but the air around him tightens. sharpens. and behind his bright blue, searing eyes, something cracks—deeper, older, a wound never sealed.

“don’t talk about suguru.” the words are low, bitten off, and the light bleeding from his skin is no longer warm, but instead a raging fire blinding, blue, and alive with fury. the wind around him rises though nothing moves. sand lifts from the stone in waves. your breath catches.

this is ra. this is the god from the old stories, the one they said could flatten kingdoms with a blink, drown armies in sunlight. the one whose name made rivers change course and whose fury boiled the nile. the one who held apophis at bay for centuries with sheer power.

and now you see it. he could burn the world if he wanted to. burn you. and you believe he just might.

apophis smiles.

“why not?” he says, voice softer now, but still laced with mockery. “it’s the same thing every time, isn’t it? ra finds an oracle—some sweet little thing with a bleeding heart, and suddenly the oldest god in existence thinks he can play househusband with a teenager. like sunshine and figs and soft hands are gonna fix anything.”

he exhales a laugh, low and amused. “and then, oh no—here i come. the big bad serpent, right on schedule, ruining the dream.” he shrugs. “been like this for centuries.”

his gaze lands on you again.

“mortals are easy like that. so eager to be chosen. so easy to influence.”

you tremble beneath his gaze, the truth sinking in like cold water. you were never chosen—not in the way you thought. not for your worth. not for your faith. you were claimed, used. a vessel shaped by their power, not your own.

satoru’s fists clenched at his sides, light blooming in his palms like something divine and barely contained. your breath caught as you stood between them, caught in the rift of what they were, what you had become, and what the world would soon be. your hands trembled at your sides, useless, shaking.

apophis only looked at you, his expression calm, a little smug, but not entirely unkind. his voice was low when he finally spoke again, softer than before, smooth as polished obsidian.

“she was never yours,” he said, turning his gaze to ra. “you just got to her first.”

ra lunged, and light cracked the sky in half.

but apophis caught it in one hand, twisted it like it was nothing, and snapped it clean. his tattoos flared across his body like firelit scars. his form shifted and pulsed, serpent scales flickering along his skin like armor, his mouth curling as he stared down the sun god.

“you’d kill her too, wouldn’t you?” he murmured lazily. “you always knew she’d break. you just prayed it would be for you.”

ra roared, and the desert floor turned to molten glass. temples crumbled. the air stank of smoke and gods and the end of all things. apophis only laughed.

and you—you stood there. a girl emptied of purpose. a body with no god left to follow. a mouth that once carried prophecy, now shaped only silence. there was blood on your hands—your blood, their blood, the blood of a world slipping into ruin, and you didn’t know who you were anymore.

the battle that followed shook the desert down to its bones. light and shadow collided until neither resembled what it once was. ra’s fire fell from the sky like dying stars, brilliant and blinding, but apophis swallowed each burst whole, reshaping them into tendrils of darkness and teeth and rage. the temple collapsed behind you in slabs of stone and smoke. priests screamed. handmaidens wept. the river boiled. the sky cracked.

and still, you didn’t run.

you stood in the center of it all, watching as the god who had once kissed your forehead and tucked figs into your hands flickered and dimmed before your eyes. ra stumbled to one knee. his light faltered. his radiance, once eternal, faded into something thin, something small.

he looked at you, one last time, only sorrow in his gaze.

“why?” he asked, barely more than a breath.

and maybe, if you’d answered, if your voice hadn’t caught in your throat, if your heart hadn’t clenched so tightly in your chest—you would have said i was afraid. or i was tired. or maybe nothing at all.

but you didn’t get the chance. because that’s when apophis struck.

his shadow rose like a storm, towering, coiled, divine, and came down with all the weight of centuries behind it. it hit the earth with a soundless crack, and just like that—

the sun went out for good. not dimmed, not hidden, but gone completely.

light vanished from the sky, and heat drained from the air. the wind stilled. the rivers slowed. the temple collapsed behind you in a cloud of dust and grief. and when the silence settled, it stayed.

no flame could spark. no prayer could rise. no god could answer. and that was the end of it—or so they said.

because afterward, your story fractured. what little was left of it was passed from mouth to mouth, scroll to scroll. a hundred different versions told by people who had never seen you, who would never know the sound of your voice or the cut of your pain.

some called you a traitor. some called you the last oracle. others just called you the girl who let the dark in.

they said the serpent wore your blood like a crown. that your final breath was an offering, not a death. that you smiled when the sun died—whether out of love, madness, or relief, no one could agree, but what many said was that the world staggered in darkness for weeks, months, maybe longer. some said crops withered overnight. others claimed they saw fire fall from the heavens. no two stories agreed.

but this part remained the same:

the sun died, and the serpent won.

at least, for a time. because gods don’t die like mortals do. they fracture. they flicker. they fade—but only for a while. and when the world forgot how bright it once was, when its people no longer whispered ra’s name with hope but with desperation—he returned. as he always does.

and so did apophis, as he always does.

this was never about love. never about you. you were a vessel, a thread pulled tight across centuries, strung between gods older than war itself. your blood bought them a moment. a single turn of the cycle.

but it keeps turning.

temples were rebuilt. dynasties rose. crops grew again, eventually. but some say the sky was never quite as blue. the warmth never lasted. every eclipse sent people into fits of panic. every generation told the same tale again—

of ra, the sun god who gave too much of himself to mortal love.

of apophis, the serpent who devoured light not out of hunger, but out of vengeance.

ra rises. apophis swallows him. and somewhere in between, mortals worship, betray, die, and are forgotten.

they’ll forget you too.

not today. not tomorrow. but eventually. because you were human, and they are not.

but when the eclipse returns, and the stars vanish from the sky again, and the wind tastes like ash—they’ll remember the shape of this story.

the sun god, the serpent, and the girl who chose one over the other and learned too late that gods don’t love the way humans do. they only need. they only want.

they only endure.

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airosuiren · 2 months ago

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𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℭ𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔫 ℜ𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡

𝔓𝔄ℜ𝔗 𝔒𝔑𝔈: Bat family x Neglected illegitimate reincarnated reader x Oc. {Royal historical au.}

A/N: EEEEEE I’ve been waiting to drop this!!! This is the origin story of [Y/N], Queen of Virelya (aka pre-Gotham), her rise, her fall, and her rebirth. You’ll meet her soul-bound companions, her past-life husband (hello, Evander Thorne 😍), and see how she goes from unloved Wayne kid to the returned monarch of a world long-forgotten. Buckle up. This one gets mythic. This is not the usual style cuz I'm experimenting to find MY style. lmk if you liked it

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 2

The world knew her first as a slave.

In the blood-soaked mines beneath the Hollow Mountains, [Y/N] had no name, no rights, and no future. But even in chains, she dreamed. She dreamed of a land where justice ruled, where no child slept in fear, where power served peace. And when the gods answered her dreams, they didn’t send salvation.

They sent companions.

Alarion Vael'Thyr was the first. A former prince turned exile, Alarion found [Y/N] when she escaped the mines and collapsed at the edge of a ruined forge. His hair glowed like firelight; his eyes held centuries of sorrow. He gave her warmth, food, and the strength to keep going. He taught her how to fight. And when her fury over injustice ignited, he taught her how to forge it into flame.

Next came Lysandra Solenhart, a noble-born oracle who had ripped out her own eyes to stop seeing the lies of kings. She had been wandering, blind and brilliant, until she heard [Y/N]'s voice in a vision. She found [Y/N] and Alarion on the edge of a battlefield, and said, simply, "You shine with the light of truth. I will follow it."

Kaelen Rhyzar joined them in the city of broken statues. A former paladin-turned-renegade, he had become a weapon without a master. When [Y/N] called out to the people during a rebellion, he watched her bleed for strangers and knew his new god had arrived. From that day, he swore himself to her cause.

With each companion came a gift.

Lysandra's Moonvein Sight allowed her to read shadow-script—the secrets etched in time, objects, and people.

Alarion's Heart of the Wyrmforge allowed him to forge weapons from pure emotion, flame and steel made one.

Kaelen's Living Armory let him summon divine weapons and battle auras from a celestial vault known only to him.

And then there was [Y/N].

When she saved a dying child in a storm, reality buckled. The world paused. She cried a single tear—the Tear of Elyndor, the divine essence of lost time and life. That tear resurrected the child and awakened her power. She could now bend time, shift fate, glimpse truths, and touch emotion like threads in a loom.

She did not want a throne. But people demanded one.

They called him the Winter Wolf.

Evander Thorne, warden of the north, warlord of the frozen wilds. He led armies through storms without saying a word. Men followed him blindly, out of fear or faith.

He met [Y/N] during a siege. Her army was losing, magic dwindling, hope flickering. And then the snow parted. He rode through the mist like a god of war, his blade slicing silence into the air.

She stood in the wreckage, bloodied and defiant. He dismounted without speaking.

"You're late," she said, panting, sword raised.

He didn’t answer. He only looked at her, eyes like ice, and knelt.

"My Fire," he murmured.

She blinked, startled. "You remember."

He took her hand and kissed it, reverent. "In every life. I would find you in every life."

She laughed through blood and tears. "I needed you."

"And now you have me," he said. "Forever."

Evander never left her side again. He stood behind her throne, silent and still. He held her when her nightmares returned. He whispered ancient poems in her ear when she couldn’t sleep.

In public, he was the sword of the queen. In private, he was hers entirely.

They trained together. They sparred until bruised and breathless. They argued in old tongues, kissed in empty war rooms, danced barefoot on frozen battlements.

"You trust too easily," he growled one night.

"And you not enough," she replied, tilting her head.

He pulled her into his chest. "I trust you. That is enough."

She laid her head against him. "Then build with me. A kingdom where no child fears."

He tightened his arms. "I would burn the world for it."

Virelya rose. A kingdom of magic, fire, frost, and dream. Her companions ruled distant realms, but returned often. Their children were legendary, half-divine.

[Y/N] and Evander ruled with fierce grace. They fought side by side. He watched her light grow brighter with every battle, every speech, every child she saved.

And she—she loved him not for his blade, but for the way he stayed. Always, he stayed.

They died as they lived—together. Peace achieved. Their work done. The world mourned.

Centuries passed.

[Y/N] awoke in Gotham.

No crown. No court. No Evander.

Only cold silence. And the bitter taste of being forgotten.

She was the twin who didn’t matter. But her magic whispered beneath her skin. Her past clawed at her in dreams.

Then came the child.

"Live as me," she said, and handed over a golden coin.

Everything returned.

[Y/N] fled Gotham and found war in the north.

She fought. Rose. Became myth again.

And then she saw him.

Evander.

Standing at the edge of the battlefield, cloak of wolf fur, sword already bloody.

He saw her and dropped to his knees. "My Fire."

She ran to him, armor clanging, tears spilling.

"You always find me."

"And I always will," he whispered.

He cupped her face, kissed her forehead. "No one will take you from me again."

"I won’t let them."

They stood like that, gods reborn.

Lysandra, Alarion, Kaelen returned.

The court rebuilt.

And [Y/N] sat the throne once more.

Evander stood beside her.

And the world would learn:

She had not been lost. She had only been waiting.

A/N: WHEW my soul is in this one. I wanted more Evander/[Y/N] moments and I hope you felt every stare, every touch, every whispered vow. Let me know if you want a bonus chapter with their private moments or flashbacks from their past life!! Long live the Queen 🖤👑

(Also lmk if you want suggestive chapter between [Y/N] and Evander 😉)

Taglist: @trashlanternfish360, @nixxiev, @eclipse-msoul, @plsfckmedxddy, @viilan, @kittzu, @bunniotomia, @bunniotomia, @rattyrattyratty, @texas-fox, @1abi, @niamcarlin,@tomoyaki, @silken-moons, @kittzu

#𝔖𝔲𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔰 #batman #neglected reader #x reader #fanfic #batfamily #batfam #batkids #batfam x neglected reader #xoc #x oc #royal au #fantasy au #queen #yandere batfam #yandere male #yandere #soft yandere

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formulafanfics13 · 7 days ago

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The Secret Girlfriend - Chapter 1

Masterlist

Disclaimer:

This fanfic will contain mature themes and topics (smut, abuse, power imbalance, drug use, alcohol dependency, control, and eating disorders). There will not be warnings throughout, so if you proceed with this fic, please bear this in mind!

The girl the world thinks they know

It always starts with the shoes. The paparazzi photos never catch her walking, only arriving. Louboutin heels like blades. Sometimes barefoot. Sometimes still wearing the silver anklet she never takes off, like some quiet fuck-you to symmetry. In a world where women are taught to be nice and tidy and quiet, Lily James bleeds beautifully into the chaos. She is all hips and contradiction, all silk and sin. And everyone wants a piece.

By twenty-one, she's already more myth than model. A household name on a first-name basis, like Madonna or Cher or that bitch you can't stop hate-stalking at 3am.

Lily.

Just Lily.

Vogue calls her "a generation-defining supermodel." Rolling Stone once referred to her as "the most dangerously intoxicating thing to happen to fashion since Kate Moss kissed a crack pipe." Someone printed that on a T-shirt. She wore it to a Marc Jacobs afterparty and smiled for the cameras.

She's everywhere and nowhere. The press call her "The Crown Jewel of Monaco" but she doesn't even show up to her own brand launches half the time. She doesn't need to. Just the rumour that she might be attending triples the value of whatever event it is. Her face is on every magazine. Her body is on every billboard. And yet... nobody really knows who the fuck Lily James is.

But the world pretends it does. And the world is obsessed.

It started when she was six. Her parents, colder than a Versace warehouse in February, stuck her in ballet classes, pageants, and perfectly posed childhood campaigns. She smiled because she was told to. It stuck. By twelve, she'd walked her first editorial. At sixteen, she signed a contract with Victoria's Secret that changed her life and burned her relationship with her parents to the ground. They never forgave her for showing skin. She never forgave them for trying to control it.

By seventeen, she had her own apartment in London. By eighteen, she was on her sixth Vogue cover. By nineteen, she was being called a fashion oracle — everything she wore sold out in three hours or less. Her lips, her voice, her waist, her Instagram captions — all studied, copied, dissected. No matter what she did, people couldn't look away.

And she knew it.

The first time she trended worldwide, it wasn't for a campaign. It was for bleeding down the Victoria's Secret runway. She had caught her heel on the top step of the stage, tumbled, and split both knees open. Blood ran down her legs as she finished the walk. She smiled. Blew a kiss. Took her wings off backstage and lit a cigarette before the medic even touched her. That photo, the cigarette, the blood, the glassy-eyed grin, became a tattoo on a fan's thigh in Australia. Lily reposted it with the caption: "bitch fell but didn't break."

That was the moment the world fell in love.

Her daily routine is religious.

No matter what city she's in, Milan, Paris, Tokyo, LA, Lily James wakes up before 7am, even if she went to sleep two hours earlier. Her alarm is the sound of a camera shutter. No joke. She thinks it's funny. She makes herself a bowl of strawberries and an espresso before moving through her tiny rituals: Roll her neck. Light a blunt. Swipe through her calendar. Smear gloss on her lips. Sip. Pose. Stretch. Exist.

She runs when the air still feels like night. Pilates if her knees are bruised from a shoot. She is disciplined to the point of delusion, but in a way that looks angelic from the outside. Her skin always glows. She eats constantly. Shovels fries into her mouth at shoots between outfit changes. Once ordered three cheeseburgers during Paris Fashion Week and posted the receipt online with the caption "leave my metabolism alone xoxo". People called her unfiltered. Lily called it Tuesday.

She vapes like it's oxygen, cherry ice, the metallic click of it is the backing track to her every move. She vapes before makeup. During fittings. On yachts. On red carpets, if no one's looking. She posts thirst traps in couture and captions them "fucked your dad last night" with no emojis. The world laughs. Screenshots. Reposts.

But underneath it? There's a calm to Lily James that nobody ever talks about. Like she's the eye of the storm and she knows it.

She rarely speaks in interviews unless it's live. She's polite but distant, soft-voiced, impossibly gracious. When asked about her success, she shrugs and thanks her team. When asked about her scandals, she bites her lip and says, "I think people confuse honesty with recklessness. I'm just not pretending."

People say she's calm. She is. They say she's soft. She is. But they forget that soft doesn't mean weak.

Lily James has survived cities. She's walked for brands that destroyed other girls. She's slept four hours in four days across five countries and still made it to the front row of the Dior show with eyelashes perfectly curled. Her nose is pierced. Her nipples are too. You can see them in her editorials, tasteful, shocking, iconic. She once posted a mirror selfie in nothing but an oversized jacket and wrote "modesty is a social construct". Anna Wintour laughed. Vogue reposted it.

She's adored in fashion. Protected like royalty. Domenico and Stefano send her gifts "just because." Kate Moss calls her "my chaos daughter." Marc Jacobs once cried backstage watching her walk. Anna Wintour has publicly said that Lily James is the only model who "knows exactly when to cause a scene, and when to sit down and drink her tea."

And yet... despite all that noise, no one knows where she sleeps at night. They don't know who she shares her life with. No one's ever seen her in the same frame as a man for longer than 0.3 seconds, unless it's Jude Bellingham, and everyone knows they broke up forever ago.

She posts pictures of sunsets. Countertops. Her perfectly manicured hands holding strawberries. Her hip bones in white lace. A glass of champagne in a blurry hotel hallway. Her ankle hanging over a balcony ledge. The edge of someone's arm. But never more than that.

They say she's a party girl. They say she's a muse. They say she's reckless, holy, iconic, spoiled, hardworking, wild, calm, vapid, brilliant, stunning, fake, and real.

They say she's everywhere. But she's not. She's just Lily James. And she's exactly where she wants to be.

The first time Lily James ever saw Lando Norris, he had whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

It was some rainy Thursday in London. She was seventeen, running late for a casting, ducking into a coffee shop with her hoodie pulled low and her heels slung over one shoulder like a weapon. The place was packed, buzzing with laptop people and oat milk warriors and someone loudly arguing over a screenplay in the corner. Not a single free table in sight. Except there was a boy. Curled into a chair by the window. Black hoodie, curls tucked under a cap, head down in a laptop. Quiet. Alone.

She walked right up and said, "You look like you hate people. Mind if I join?"

He didn't even glance up. Just gestured to the seat across from him and said, "Can't hate you more than I hate the rain."

And that was that.

They didn't speak much at first. She ordered an espresso and a croissant. He had a hot chocolate the size of a soup bowl and three screens open. She asked if he was a gamer. He said no. Just busy. Then they sat there, in mutual silence, occasionally glancing at each other between sips. When she left, she said, "See you never, mystery boy."

He smiled, barely but cheekily, and replied, "Hope not."

They didn't exchange names. Not that day.

They ran into each other again three weeks later in the same café. She slid into the seat opposite without asking. He looked up and said, "You're late."

She grinned. He blushed. It was over before it started.

For a whole year, they were just friends. The kind of friends who know too much. Who spend weekends on her couch eating takeout and watching horror movies even though she hates them. Who leave each other voice notes that start with "don't panic but I did something stupid". Who sleep in the same bed on nights when the world feels too loud.

He never flirted. Never touched her in the wrong way. Never looked at her like the rest of the world did. He just saw her. All of her. The messy parts. The tired parts. The versions she didn't post.

And she trusted him. Instantly. More than she'd trusted anyone in her entire fucking life.

At eighteen, she'd been dating Jude Bellingham, sweet, grounded, golden retriever energy and a perfect first boyfriend. They were good together. Safe. Lily loved him in the way you love sunshine, warm, uncomplicated, always welcome. But as her world got louder, the covers, the travel, the backstage breakdowns, something shifted. Not in a cruel way. Not in a messy way.

Just... quietly.

One night, they sat side-by-side at a party in Ibiza, and Lily looked at Jude and realized she didn't feel anything in her chest anymore. Just gratitude. Familiarity. Friendship.

So she told him. And he smiled and nodded. Said he felt the same. They hugged for too long. Kissed one last time. And just let go. No drama. No tears. No Instagram story with a cryptic caption.

They were friends the next day. They still are. Jude likes Lando. Thinks he's weird, in a good way. Soft and solid. Just what she needs.

The apartment in London was another story. Lando was never home. The racing schedule was insane. He said his flat felt like a hotel room he never checked into. She said, "Why not just move in with me?" Casual. Like it was nothing.

He paused. Blinked. And said, "Okay."

Three weeks later, his things were in her guest room. Except he never really used it. Somehow he always ended up in her bed. Platonic at first. Two friends curled under silk sheets, knees brushing, sleep softening the world outside.

But proximity does dangerous things. And one morning, he kissed her shoulder before getting out of bed. She didn't say anything. Just watched him walk to the kitchen, her heart clawing at her ribs.

They didn't talk about it for days. Just let the tension simmer. And then one night, after too much wine and a movie they didn't finish, he kissed her properly. Slow. Gentle. Like she was fragile glass. Like he already knew how easily she broke.

She moaned into his mouth and whispered, "I've been waiting for that."

They bought the Monaco penthouse on a joke. She'd said, "Let's run away." He'd said, "Only if it has a sea view."

The place was white and soft and full of light. Papaya-orange cushions for him. Baby blue walls for her. Two living rooms, one for her photo shoots, one for his content. A kitchen neither of them used but that he cooked in anyway. A balcony she loved to dance on barefoot. A bed they never made.

It was theirs.

Their friend group is chaos and perfection. A collection of the hottest, most unbothered people on the planet, each with their own brand of feral.

Barbara Palvin: runway angel, emotional support system, Lily's go-to for shots and secrets.

Lila Moss: younger but terrifying. Lily calls her "my little demon in Prada."

Jude Bellingham: ex turned best friend, emotionally fluent, always making sure Lily eats.

Pablo Gavi: the wildcard, younger than everyone but somehow always the loudest. He once dared Lily to jump off her yacht in couture. She did it.

Lando Norris: the anchor. The one who balances it all. Who watches the madness from the corner with a drink in hand, always tracking Lily with his eyes like she might disappear if he looks away too long.

They travel together. Celebrate together. Sleep in the same bed in different combinations. Nothing is off-limits. Nothing is weird. They just... exist. Loud and close and untouchable.

Lily is the sun of the group. Everyone orbits her. But she orbits Lando.

To the world, Lily James is the most famous girl on the planet. To her friends, she's just Lily. The one who drinks wine straight from the bottle. Who cries at Pixar movies. Who hogs the blanket and falls asleep with her cherry vape in hand.

And to Lando Norris? She's his. Entirely. The girl who kisses him on the forehead when she's hungover. Who hums Lana songs while brushing her teeth. Who texts "need head. bring nuggets" like it's a grocery list.

They don't need the world to know. Because what they have is private. Sacred. Real.

And she'd burn it all down for him. But only if he asked.

The Fashion World Knows. But They Don't Tell.

Lily James doesn't just walk fashion shows. She owns them. She floats through couture week like a cigarette ghost in heels, all slinky limbs and glossy lips, giving nothing, taking everything. Editors plan entire issues around her availability. Designers shift run orders because "Lily doesn't do third row."

But even in a world obsessed with what she's wearing, no one ever sees the most important detail. Who she walks for. Who she walks to.

Because Lando Norris is nearly always there. Not in the front row. Not beside Zendaya or Dua Lipa or whatever crypto heir's paying to sit next to Donatella. No, Lando is backstage, tucked into a quiet corner of organized chaos, shielded by fabric racks and temperamental stylists, where only the most trusted are allowed. Right where Anna Wintour puts him.

It started quiet. Everything with them does.

The first time he ever came to a show, it was Versace in Milan. He sat in the fifth row, hood up, pretending he was someone's assistant. Nobody noticed him, except Anna. Who clocked him immediately.

After the show, while Lily was still changing out of a beaded catsuit and trying to find her vape, Anna Wintour walked up to Lando, removed her sunglasses, and said, "You should've been closer."

He blinked, nervous. "I'm fine where I am."

She nodded once, then turned to her assistant and murmured, "Next time, backstage."

And from that point on, he was never not there, unless it clashed with a race, of course. Backstage at Chanel, Valentino, Jacquemus, YSL. Always somewhere near the garment racks, sipping a black coffee, watching her like the whole fucking show was just for him. The cameras could never find him. The designers always made sure of that.

Donatella Versace kisses both his cheeks every time she sees him. Marc Jacobs insists he tries on jackets while waiting for Lily to finish glam. Domenico and Stefano once paused a fitting so Lily could FaceTime Lando from Paris and ask his opinion on a hemline, he hated it, she agreed, they changed it.

He never complains. Never asks for a seat. Never tries to be part of it. He just watches.

Watches her get sewn into gowns by trembling assistants. Watches her blow kisses to the mirror before stepping onto the catwalk. Watches her strip out of tulle and velvet into a hoodie and cherry vape haze once the lights go down. He's her stillness in the storm. And everyone in fashion knows it. They just don't say it.

Because if there's one rule in Lily's world, it's that the love stays off-camera.

On the rare occasions Lando can't make it, whether he's trackside in Bahrain or locked in simulator hell, Jude or Pablo show up instead. No hesitation. No questions. Jude with a suit and a secret, Pablo with sunglasses and chaos. They sit backstage. They cheer. They carry her bags like it's holy ritual.

And the press?

They love it. Jude's name trends every time. "Are they back together?" "Why is he always there?" "What's their deal?" They eat it up. The internet assumes any man's hand in Lily's photos is Jude's, his rings, his wrists, the way he holds champagne.

Never once suspecting the boy who actually sleeps beside her. The boy who bought her those rings. The boy who's in the group shots, not the close-ups.

Lando likes it like this. He likes the blur. The anonymity. The way he can exist in her world without being swallowed by it.

In group photos, him, Lily, Jude, Barbara, Lila, Gavi, he blends in like wallpaper. He's the hoodie in the corner. The arm over Lily's chair. The grin behind someone's shoulder.

She's always touching him, but never obviously. A hand on his thigh. A leg across his lap. A whisper in his ear, disguised as laughter. He never corrects the headlines. Never flinches when people assume. Because there's something intoxicating about being the one thing the world doesn't know about her.

Everyone sees her lips. Her legs. Her lingerie campaigns and her tequila shots on yachts. But he sees the way she cries over music videos. The way she tucks her vape into her bra before shows. The way she hums under her breath while getting dressed. The way she texts "you breathing okay?" when he's stressed about a race. The world knows her face. He knows her silence.

The friend group is iron-clad. Tighter than secrets. Cleaner than NDAs. They're chaotic, sure, nights out that turn into airport mornings, brunches that end with someone in a cast, half-naked photos with captions like "accidents were had". But there's no jealousy. No gossip. No betrayal. Just trust.

Jude plays interference. Barbara runs PR. Lila handles the vibes. Gavi starts the drama, then forgets why.

And Lando? He's the soft-spoken shadow at Lily's side, always ready with a jacket, a joint holder, a way out.

No one in the group ever posts a picture without checking with Lily first. No one leaks. No one slips.

Because this is her safe space. And he's their golden boy. The sweet one. The calm one. The one who doesn't get involved unless someone hurts her, and then, only once.

There was one time. A stylist made a comment. Something about Lily's "runner's thighs" and whether she could "squeeze into a 0 if she stopped snacking."

Lando was there. Quiet in the corner. Watching her face freeze.

He didn't shout. Didn't confront. Just walked up to the stylist, leaned in, and whispered something. No one ever found out what it was. But the stylist didn't come back the next season.

The fashion world knows. They know whose eyes she scans for first after every finale walk. They know whose arms she melts into backstage once the chaos dies down. They know not to ask. Because Lily James gives the world everything but her heart.

And Lando Norris?

He has it, quietly. Always has.

The drivers talk about her constantly.

Not in press rooms or interviews, no, they know better than to give the media more than it already has. But in group chats, on long-haul flights, during late-night hotel poker games with whiskey bottles half-drained and race data glowing off their laptops, Lily James is their religion.

"Bro. That last post. You saw it, right?"

"The mirror one?"

"She's unreal. Like... I had a fucking dream."

"I literally woke up soaked in my own boxers."

"Shut the fuck up-"

"No seriously. I'm not even embarrassed."

Lando just smirks. Takes another sip of his drink. Doesn't say a word.

They send each other her posts like holy texts. A carousel of her in lingerie on a balcony in Cannes. A blurry shot from backstage at Fashion Week, her nipples clearly pierced under sheer fabric. A close-up of her mouth holding a vape between her teeth.

He always likes the message. Sometimes adds a fire emoji. Never more.

It's part of the bit now, "Lando's our honorary simp," George says. "Even Jude doesn't hold back." They all think she's just another one of Jude's lingering flings ,some impossibly hot ex that hangs around, maybe flirts with the group when she's in town, but isn't tied to anyone.

They think Lando and Lily James are adjacent, nothing more. He's close with Jude. Jude's close with her. Of course Lando knows her. They assume it's casual.

They have no idea

They don't know he's the one who unties her dresses at the end of the night. They don't know he's seen her naked with glitter in her hair and lipgloss on his abs. They don't know she texts him "can I use your face?" and he replies "I'm already on my way."

They don't know she moans when he calls her "good girl." They don't know she shakes when he holds her down and tells her "one more time, you can do it, baby." They don't know she once cried when he bought her a cherry ice vape after hers died, because he remembered without being asked

Lando thinks it's fucking hilarious.

The way they all joke around him. The way they say shit like:

"She's my Roman Empire."

"I'd let her ruin my career."

"Imagine her calling you baby? I'd fucking collapse."

Max once slapped him on the back and said, "You ever met her, mate? In real life? I'd combust."

Lando just shrugged, grinned, and said, "She seems intense."

Carlos laughed so hard he spilled his drink.

The truth is, Lando likes it like this. He likes that she's untouchable. That the world worships her from behind screens and velvet ropes and locked iPhone albums while he gets the real thing.

While she wakes up wrapped around his chest, lashes tangled, lips swollen. While she straddles him on the Monaco balcony and whispers, "Don't come until I say so." While he groans against her thigh and she tells him, "You make me feel like a slut and a princess all at once."

None of the drivers know that she whimpers when he praises her. That she cries when she comes too hard. That she clutches his hair and begs for more even when her legs are trembling. That he's the only man she's ever let control her completely.

And he's never going to tell them.

Her Instagram is a fucking playground.

They zoom in on her rings. Her tattoos. The little glint of nipple through satin. The stretch of her spine when she's arching in a mirror. They dissect every frame like it's sacred.

"I swear I saw her with Gavi last month. There was a photo-"

"Nah, probably just Jude. They're still close."

"Either way, lucky bastards."

Lando likes those messages too. He saves the screenshots. Shows them to Lily when she's curled on his lap post-runway, vaping and scrolling through memes. She always laughs. Blows cherry smoke in his face and says, "They're such whores."

Then she flips over and fucks him like she's trying to leave bruises where no one can see.

#f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 fluff #f1 smut #f1 grid x reader #f1 smau #f1 x reader #lando norris #lando x reader #lando fanfic

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girlkisser13 · 4 months ago

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nyx cabin headcanons

children of nyx

• most them prefer solitude or small, close-knit groups. they’re the type of people who linger on the edge of the crowd, watching rather than participating— until they choose to speak, and then everyone listens.

• the children of the night aren’t loud— but their silence is never empty. they carry themselves like they know something no one else does, and half the time, they actually do.

• they speak softly and rarely— but when they do, people listen. even the loudest hermes or apollo kids will go still if a child of the night decides to finally offer their opinion.

• they have this unsettling way of making eye contact that feels like they’re looking straight through you— like they know every secret you’ve ever tried to bury.

• most people assume they’re all aloof or unfriendly, but in reality, they’re just careful with their words. they don’t waste breath on things that don’t matter.

• they are always watching— not in a creepy way, but in that unnerving, casual way where you don’t realize they’ve been paying attention to you for weeks until they mention something you only did once.

• they remember everything— what time you usually wake up, the book you were reading three summers ago, the way your voice cracks when you’re trying not to cry.

• if you’re up late at the campfire or sneaking out after curfew, there’s probably a child of the night sitting in the shadows pretending not to notice— but they see everything.

• they’ll never tell anyone your secrets— but they keep them like pressed flowers between pages of forgotten books.

• they might seem emotionally distant, but underneath all that shadow and deadpan sarcasm, they’re some of the most empathetic campers at camp half-blood.

• they don’t ask if you’re okay— they just know.

• the kind of friend who will quietly leave a cup of tea or a folded blanket on your bunk after a hard day without saying a word.

• they aren’t the type to comfort you with flowery words or hugs— but they’ll sit with you in silence for hours until you’re ready to talk.

• half the time, they never need to be asked— they just show up.

• they have the most morbid sense of humor out of any cabin— and they make no apologies for it.

• "oh, you’re afraid of the dark? that’s cute."

• when someone says, "what’s the worst that could happen?" they will immediately list five horrifyingly specific possibilities without blinking.

• their sarcasm is so dry it’s hard to tell if they’re joking or serious half the time. they specialize in gallows humor— the type of jokes that make people laugh and then immediately feel guilty for laughing.

• they tell ghost stories at the campfire that no one can ever quite prove aren’t real.

• they’ll threaten to curse someone who messes with their friends, but they’ll also sneak into the infirmary at 3 am to leave an extra blanket for a camper who’s been having nightmares.

• they hate seeing people cry— they just panic and shove a warm cup of tea at you before awkwardly disappearing into the shadows.

• they carry a certain stillness about them, like they’ve seen things others haven’t. they give advice that sounds too wise for their age, dropping cryptic one-liners like they’re ancient oracles.

• most of them feel more alive at night. they’re the ones you’ll catch sneaking out to the campfire at 2 am with a book or walking barefoot along the lake under the stars.

• they don’t do campfire singalongs— but if you ask nicely, they’ll tell you old myths in the dark, their voices low and steady like they’re weaving spells into the air.

• some children of them can slip into the dreams of others without meaning to. they often wake up with memories of conversations that never really happened— or prophecies hidden in nightmares.

• some are born with silver-flecked irises that shimmer faintly under moonlight. it’s said those children can see glimpses of what hides behind the veil— ghosts, forgotten gods, or shadows that never left.

• they’re the ones who leave offerings at the edges of the woods for gods most campers have forgotten.

• they despise apollo cabin on principle— too bright, too loud— but they’ll begrudgingly ask them for healing salves when no one’s looking.

• they’re the ones who remind you that the dark isn’t something to fear— it’s something to trust.

cabin exterior

• the cabin’s structure is built of stygian iron, but the surface constantly shifts, like the cabin is wrapped in shadows that are alive. there’s an eerie sense of movement, like the walls are breathing or undulating, especially at night.

• at the entrance, there is a thin veil of mist that surrounds the doorway, almost like a curtain of night. when you step through it, the temperature drops slightly, as if you’ve crossed into a different realm where time feels a little more… fluid.

• around the cabin, they have a garden that consists of thorny, black roses that bloom only at night. the vines twist and curl up the sides of the cabin in a creeping, almost hypnotic way. these would be the kind of flowers that only bloom under moonlight or during the hours between dusk and dawn.

• the roof is made of some dark, glass-like material that, when you look up, seems to reflect the night sky. the stars would always look a little different, almost like they’re shifting or flickering, never exactly the same from one moment to the next.

• there's a strange silence around the nyx cabin— like the night itself has muted the sound. even with the rest of camp bustling with activity, the area around the nyx cabin is strangely quiet, except for the faint rustling of leaves or the occasional whisper of wind that sounds almost like voices.

cabin interior

• the interior is dim, lit only by a soft, silvery glow that feels like it's coming from nowhere in particular. there are no actual lights; it’s as if the cabin is always bathed in the soft, gentle light of the moon, regardless of the time of day. the effect would feel almost dreamlike, as if the entire cabin exists in a perpetual state of twilight.

• the walls are draped in thick, velvet-like fabric, in deep midnight blues, purples, and blacks. the fabric shimmers slightly as if it’s woven from the very fabric of night itself, and every now and then, you can see the faintest flicker of starlight along the seams.

• furniture in the cabin float and hover slightly off the ground, giving the whole space an ethereal, otherworldly feel. chairs, tables, and even books gently levitate, swirling around in a slow, calming rotation like they're part of the night’s rhythm. the sense of weightlessness adds to the feeling that the cabin is detached from reality.

• the furniture itself is dark and sleek, crafted from materials like obsidian or black marble, but there is an otherworldly shimmer to them.

• the edges of tables and chairs look as though they’ve been etched with starlight or have faint lunar patterns carved into them. soft, plush cushions or throws are in shades of silvery-gray, moonlight blue, and shadowy black.

• instead of a traditional fireplace, the nyx cabin have a blackstone firepit. the flames are an eerie, pale blue or violet, and instead of the usual warmth, they’d have a cool, calming effect. sometimes, the fire seems to flicker with dark images— visions of the night sky, ancient battles, or even distant memories.

• instead of regular beds, the nyx cabin have sleep pods— dark, semi-enclosed spaces where campers can curl up in the softest, cloud-like bedding that seems to sink into the ground.

• these sleep pods feel more like personal sanctuaries, where campers are embraced by darkness in the most comforting way, almost like entering a dream. each pod has its own subtle charm: a cool breeze of night air, the sound of distant wolves howling, or the sensation of weightlessness.

cabin traditions

• new campers are welcomed with a special ceremony on their first night. they’re led to the cabin’s small courtyard where the older campers create a circle of greek fire— blue and purple flames flickering in the shadows.

• the new camper is asked to share their greatest fear or secret under the cover of night, then watch as it’s symbolically burned in the flames.

• on nights of the new moon, the cabin organizes stealth-based games in the woods— a mix between capture the flag and hide-and-seek— where the goal is to outlast the others in the dark. the children of the night are nearly impossible to spot, making this tradition almost always rigged in their favor.

• every year on the winter solstice, the entire cabin hikes out to the highest hill at camp half-blood. they lie on their backs in the freezing grass and name constellations until dawn.

• but the thing is… they don’t name the constellations you can find in books. they name the ones that don’t have names. the ones that only appear to those who know where to look.

divider by @tsunami-of-tears

#percy jackson and the olympians #heroes of olympus #pjo #hoo #pjo hoo toa #pjo fandom #hoo fandom #pjo series #hoo series #pjo tv show #pjo disney+#pjo cabins #nyx #nox #cabin twenty-seven #cabin 27 #children of nyx

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g3tinl0ser · 11 days ago

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Batfam Masterlist

The sunlight that usually poured in warm through the kitchen windows felt sterile now. Cold. Almost cruel. You had been up since the wee hours, Dick and Tim had been in a late night fight. Coming home at almost three am, bleeding and bruised.

Both finally tucked in bed just as the sun rose.

Your nerves were already frayed.

You stood barefoot in front of the marble island, wearing one of Bruce’s soft black T-shirts, your phone in hand, your thumb hovering over the screen.

Every notification buzzed like a wasp sting.

Hundreds of messages.

Dozens of missed calls.

Your group chats.

Your friends.

Work associates.

The League.

The Avengers.

Everyone.

Jason stormed in first, phone pressed to his ear. “I’m calling Oracle, no, she’s already on it, she’s pulling down what she can.”

“WHAT. HAPPENED.” Stephanie burst into the kitchen next, barefoot and wild-eyed in Bruce’s hoodie, holding her phone out. “It’s everywhere, like literally everywhere.”

Damian was the last, stormy-eyed and silent as he moved to stand near you, protective even though he wasn’t sure what was coming.

Bruce hadn’t come up yet. He was still in the cave.

Your phone buzzed again. Your thumb moved without thought, opening the social media app, and there it was.

"Exclusive footage reveals Billionaire Bruce Wayne’s perfect wife sneaking around with Gotham’s own vigilante. A betrayal not even Batman could prevent…"

The headline burned. But the video… the video was worse.

Someone had clipped it just right. Not the whole moment. Not your fear. Not Batman fighting off your attacker. Not your limp body as he held you safe. Just,

“To Bruce?”

Batman pausing. Nodding once.

The Batmobile’s door closing as he tucked you inside.

The comments were brutal.

“Y’all she said it like she had a man at home and one at work 😭”

“She’s got a whole ass billionaire and is out here in alleyways with a cape freak??”

“Gotham’s First Lady? More like Gotham’s Side Chick.”

You didn’t even realize your breath had hitched.

Not until your lungs refused to fill.

The phone slipped from your hands and hit the floor with a clatter, but no one heard it over the chaos. Over Jason yelling into his comms. Over Steph shouting into the void. Over Damian saying something, he was pulling at your wrist.

But all you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears.

Fast. Too fast.

Your chest tightened.

Your hands trembled.

The floor wasn’t flat anymore, it tilted like a sinking ship.

“I, ” you gasped. “I can’t, ”

Jason looked over first. His voice dropped. “Mom?”

Your knees buckled.

Damian caught you before you hit the floor, but your eyes were wide and glassy, your mouth working soundlessly.

“Move!” Jason barked, clearing the space. He lifted you up and set you on the stool, bracing your shoulders while Damian held your hand, grounding you. “Deep breaths, ma. In. Out. Look at me.”

Steph shoved open the fridge, frantically grabbing a cold bottle of water and wondering where Alfred was when she needed him,

“I can’t, ” you whispered, clutching your chest. “They think, they think I cheated on him.”

“They don’t matter, ” Damian growled, but his voice was thick, hurt layered beneath his fury.

The moment shattered with the sound of hard, clicking steps coming down the hall.

Bruce.

He was in his favorite all black suit.

And he looked like a storm bottled in flesh.

He said nothing at first, just strode over and dropped to his knees in front of you. Hands cupped your face gently, but his eyes were wild.

You barely choked out his name.

“I know, ” he whispered, voice rough. “I know, baby. Look at me.”

You did.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Behind him, the entire kitchen was frozen.

Jason was pale, shaking with rage.

Stephanie was furiously reporting comments.

Tim had come down, having woken from the yelling, and was reading everything.

Alfred appeared in the doorway, grim and tight-lipped.

And Damian stood tall, unreadable, but quietly moving closer to his mother as if to shield her with his whole body.

Bruce’s voice softened even more. “I’m going to fix this. I promise you.”

Your hands gripping the lapels of his jacket. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“You’re my wife, ” he said simply, eyes burning. “I will always defend you.”

The press room at Wayne Tower had never been this full. Reporters buzzed, cameras clicked, and every major outlet was livestreaming. Bruce Wayne hadn’t held a public conference in over a year, he preferred statements, carefully curated appearances. But today?

Today, he stepped up to the podium like a man ready to burn the world down.

He was dressed sharply, dark. No tie. No smile. Just cold fire in his eyes. Behind him, the towering Wayne Enterprises logo gleamed. And beside it, in red lettering on a black screen: "Enough."

The moment the room quieted, Bruce leaned forward into the microphone.

"You’ve all forgotten who I am."

He let the silence breathe, his voice quiet but electric. "Somewhere in the noise of headlines and clickbait, you forgot that the Wayne name built half of this city. You forgot that my family, my biological family, poured everything into Gotham long before any of you had a job or a platform."

He straightened. “And now, you think you can take someone I love, drag her through the mud, cut pieces of her life and broadcast them out of context, just to sell headlines and rack up views?”

The room shifted, uneasy.

Bruce’s jaw clenched, but he kept going. “Let me make something very, very clear. If any reputable media outlet, publication, or journalist prints another sentence, posts another clip, publishes another lie, half-truth, or insinuation about my wife, you will be buried under so many lawsuits your children will spend their entire lives paying off the legal debt."

Flashes from cameras flickered, but no one dared interrupt.

He leaned closer, voice lowering. “You forget that I am not just some random rich man. I'm Bruce Wayne. And Wayne Enterprises owns pieces of almost every major news pipeline on this continent. You run your mouth again? I’ll cut funding. I’ll shut down distribution. I will make it hurt.”

Reporters started murmuring, but it was when Bruce's tone turned deadly calm that the room collectively held its breath.

“And if it continues, ” he said, voice a quiet threat, “there will be no more Batman.”

Gasps. Audible now.

“Because this?” He gestured toward the media screens behind him. “This is why he stays hidden. Why he doesn’t do interviews. Why he works from the shadows. Because of vultures like you, who twist and devour until there’s nothing left. You abuse the very people trying to save you.”

He stepped back, gaze cutting.

“And since you’ve all seen part of a video… allow me to release the full one.”

The screens flickered to a new version of the video.

Footage began to roll: Batman arriving in the alley, taking out an armed man seconds before he reached a woman in evening wear, his wife. Her terrified gasp, the fall to her knees, the panic in her eyes. Batman dropping beside her, voice soft, gentle.

“You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“He had a gun…”

“He won’t hurt you. Not ever again.”

He helped her up, kept his arm around her. They walked in silence, and only then,

“I should take you home.”

“To Bruce?”

“Yes.”

The screen faded to black.

And when Bruce Wayne turned back to the press, his eyes were burning steel.

“This is over.”

And with that, he walked off the stage, unapologetic, undefeated, and very much still in control.

He didn’t wait for the crowd to disperse. Didn’t stop for cameras or questions. Bruce was already gone before the final frame of the video cut to black, already beneath Wayne Tower in the cave, already pulling on the suit with surgical precision.

The public could say what they wanted. The media could recover. None of it mattered.

You mattered.

And the look on your face this morning, the way your hands trembled when you read the comments, the way your voice cracked asking if people really believed it,

That look would never leave his mind.

His cowl locked into place with a final hiss, and he was in motion. Not Batman, not really. Not Bruce Wayne, either.

This was something in between. Something darker.

He hit the comms button on the main console, voice sharp as a blade.

“Watchtower. Full League and Avenger presence required. Stark especially. No excuses.”

The message went out. He didn’t repeat it. He didn’t have to.

Behind him, the elevator whirred open. He didn’t look, but he knew those footsteps.

Jason. Damian. Steph. And then, Dick. Tim.

All five of them stood at the base of the platform, dressed like soldiers who hadn’t been called, but came anyway.

“We’re coming with you, ” Jason said firmly.

“You’re not going alone, ” Steph added.

“Father, ” Damian said tightly, eyes burning. “This is our fight too.”

Bruce turned. Calm, but unreadable. “This isn’t a mission. This is political. And dangerous.”

“Then it’s family business, ” Dick said simply. No hesitation. Just truth.

Bruce let out a slow breath. He should have said no. He wanted to say no. But they were right. This was their family, their name, dragged through the dirt.

He walked past them toward the secondary armory. And with a flick of his wrist, the wall opened.

Damian blinked. Steph gasped.

Inside hung two pristine suits. One was sleek and agile, red and black with gold accents, not green like his older brother. The other was sharp-lined, reinforced purple and charcoal-gray. Modern, efficient, and ready.

Bruce didn’t even turn. “I built them. For when it was time. Stephanie, yours isn't as ready as it could be.”

Steph covered her mouth, overwhelmed.

Jason clapped a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “You earned it, little bird.”

Damian stepped forward, speechless as he stared at the suit meant for him. A new Robin, his legacy. Not just Bruce’s anymore. Theirs.

“And what about me?” Jason asked, only half-teasing.

Bruce finally turned. “You’ve already been building your own.”

Jason grinned. “Red Hood. It’s gonna stick.”

Tim walked up, arms crossed, but there was no animosity in his eyes. “If we’re doing this, we do it smart. I’ve got contingency plans. Tactical dispersal. Lockouts.”

Bruce gave him a nod. “You’ll run comms. Nightwing always did.”

Tim nodded and stepped back.

Bruce stared at each of them. His children. His legacy.

Then Batman turned back toward the launch pad. His voice dropped low and commanding again.

“Suit up. If you’re coming, you listen to me, and only me, once we’re up there.”

And when the jet roared to life, leaving the cave in a streak of fire, they knew this wasn’t just about fixing a lie anymore.

This was war.

And Bruce Wayne had drawn the line in stone.

The hush that fell over the Watchtower control deck was instant the moment the Zeta Beam lit up. A low whir echoed through the chamber as the familiar outline of Gotham’s most infamous family materialized.

Batman stepped forward first , not Bruce Wayne, not the polished billionaire or the charming husband , but the Dark Knight, fully suited, aura sharp and radiating cold fury. The cape billowed behind him like storm clouds, and his jaw was clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone.

Behind him came Dick, his Nightwing suit, his jaw equally tense. Tim followed in his own updated Robin suit, fitted and battle-worn, silent but laser-focused. Then came Jason, tall, armored, Red Hood helmet in one hand, his free hand clenched in a fist. Stephanie trailed just behind, masked, but her eyes held no doubt as to why they were here.

And then Damian stepped off the platform in his newly tailored suit , the new Robin. Smaller in stature but just as lethal in presence, his shoulders squared like he belonged there.

The room wasn’t ready.

Diana raised a brow. Arthur actually blinked. J’onn’s head tilted slightly in quiet recognition of the shift in tone.

But no one said anything.

Not because they weren’t curious , but because the rage radiating off Batman was palpable. It moved like smoke, cold and thick, curling through the room and pressing against skin. The kind of anger that wasn't loud. The kind that came just before a blade was drawn.

Clark was the only one who stepped forward. He clasped Bruce’s shoulder gently, but firmly, the two friends locking eyes in the middle of the room.

“Don’t do something you’ll regret, ” Clark said softly.

Bruce didn’t speak.

Clark’s grip tightened just a fraction. “I know you're furious. You should be. But if you’re going to handle this, handle it like him.” He nodded toward Damian. “Clear. Controlled.”

Bruce’s shoulders stayed stiff… then eased by a millimeter.

Clark gave a small nod and added with a smirk, “I’ve got your back. Just… don’t kill anyone. Or at least not in here.”

That got a few chuckles from the League, nervous and strained as they were.

Bruce’s voice was a low, guttural growl. “No promises.”

And then he moved toward the center of the Watchtower… where the Avengers were about to arrive.

The air shifted the second the Avengers materialized in the beam of golden light.

They expected Batman.

They did not expect all of him.

The sight before them was jarring. Batman stood in the center of the room, flanked by a collection of figures they'd only ever heard rumors about , the rest of the League watching with unreadable expressions. It wasn’t just Batman. It was his army.

Each figure bore a symbol of him. Echoes of the Bat in every line of their suits , armor designed for speed, for stealth, for devastation. From the tall, imposing figure in a red helmet to the sleek, blue-accented man at his right, red and green accented man at his left. A grey-and-purple clad girl with bright eyes and a firm stance. A younger teen in red and black armor, posture sharp and confident.

The Avengers had never seen them before, not really. Not like this.

And for once, Tony Stark was silent.

His jaw flexed slightly, eyes flicking between each person. He knew , God, he knew , this was his fault. Even if he hadn’t hit post, he might as well have.

He didn’t miss the way Batman’s cowl shifted slightly in his direction. Didn’t miss the heat behind it.

Steve stepped forward, hands raised gently, his voice even. “We didn’t know it was going to happen. We’re all… deeply sorry for how this has spiraled. We didn’t come to escalate things. We came to make it right.”

Batman raised one gloved hand.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

Steve froze mid-sentence, nodding slightly and taking a step back.

There was something terrifying in the stillness that followed.

Batman’s voice, when it came, was calm , but it rang through the Watchtower like thunder. Low. Controlled. Deadly.

“Let’s be clear.”

He took a step forward. None of the Batfamily moved , they didn’t need to. The silence and unity was threatening enough.

“You didn’t come to make it right, ” Bruce said. “You came because you know one of you is wrong. Because you saw what happened when your arrogance caught up with you. Because the moment someone I care about paid the price, you realized the leash had snapped.”

His head tilted, eyes locked on Tony. “Don’t try to apologize for him, Rogers. He made his choice.”

Tony opened his mouth, but Bruce’s voice rose just enough to cut across the space.

“Don’t. Speak.”

Another beat of silence. No one breathed.

And for the first time, the Avengers truly understood that Batman , the real one , wasn’t a myth or a lone figure in the shadows.

He was a legend with heirs.

And he was done playing nice.

Batman took another step forward, his presence consuming the space. The other Leaguers stayed quiet. Even Clark, who had always been the buffer, the voice of reason, knew this wasn’t his moment. This wasn’t about restraint. This was justice.

“For a man with so much power, ” Bruce said, voice razor-sharp, “you’ve always been dangerously careless with it. Money. Influence. Armor. Mouth.” His glare was pointed and unrelenting. “You built yourself a suit and decided it absolved you of consequences. Of accountability. But you’re not above it. You’re not untouchable. And you sure as hell aren’t innocent.”

Tony shifted but didn’t speak , not yet. He couldn’t. He knew better.

Bruce’s fists curled at his sides. “You’ve always called yourself a futurist. A man who sees the world ten steps ahead. But you didn’t see this coming, did you?” His tone dropped an octave. “You didn’t see the family you fractured. The lives you threatened. Or the reputation of a woman who never once asked anything of you , not your money, not your legacy, not even your name.”

Tony looked away, jaw clenched, annoyed that drama surrounding you has now gotten him lectured by both Bruce Wayne.. And Batman...

“And instead of owning that truth, instead of facing the mirror, you chose cowardice. You let it happen. You watched her get humiliated. You probably chuckled to yourself knowing this would happen. Because it was easier than looking in the mirror and admitting that your silence caused more damage than any enemy you’ve faced in that suit.”

“List- ” Steve tried again, but Redhood shot him a look that silenced him instantly.

Bruce’s voice quieted, but it was somehow even more chilling.

“I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours picking up the pieces of your mess. Like I always do. Because someone has to be the adult. The protector. The one who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly.”

Tony’s head finally came up to meet his in confusion, the same way the rest of the Avengers now did.

“I've fought gods, ” Bruce said, stepping closer, “I’ve held the line when the sky fell. But you? You're the one opponent I keep having to clean up after. You're chaos wrapped in privilege pretending it's heroism.”

The final words were like a sword through the air.

“So I’ll do what I always do. I’ll clean this up. Once. And. For. All.”

And with that, Bruce lifted his hands slowly and removed the cowl.

The gasp that echoed across the Watchtower was thunderous.

Because standing there, in the heart of the most secure place on Earth, was Bruce Wayne. Unmasked. Calm. Controlled. Unafraid.

The truth laid bare, for everyone.

He met Tony’s stunned gaze directly and added, voice flat:

“No more secrets. No more protection. You don’t get the benefit of my shadow anymore.”

@laetitia-prst @yunho-leeknow @g0thchick @cncpilled @justannie18

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne x you #batman x reader #batmom #bruce wayne x y/n #batman

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coven-of-genesis · 16 days ago

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Mindfulness & Presence: The Quiet Magic of Now 🌿

In witchcraft, we often seek signs — from the stars, the cards, the flame.

But some of the most powerful magic doesn’t come from tools.

It comes from being fully present in your body, in your breath, in this moment.

This is the essence of mindfulness: the sacred act of being here, now.

⸻

✧ What is Mindfulness?

Mindfulness is the practice of bringing your full attention to the present moment — without judgment. It originates from Buddhist teachings but has become a widely embraced tool for healing, focus, and emotional balance.

In magical practice, mindfulness allows you to:

• Notice subtle energies

• Stay grounded during rituals

• Connect deeper with your intuition

• Avoid casting or manifesting from a place of fear or distraction

Being mindful strengthens your personal power, because it reconnects you to your inner truth.

⸻

🕊 Why Presence is a Magical Act

So often, our minds spiral into the past or future:

regret, worry, comparison, overthinking.

This splits our energy and weakens our clarity.

Presence reclaims it.

Every time you stop, breathe, and notice, you’re calling your energy back to yourself.

You become more attuned. More intentional. More powerful.

“The more present you are, the more potent your magic becomes.”

⸻

🍃 Practical Mindfulness Magic (Witch-Friendly)

Here are ways to weave mindfulness into your daily spiritual practice:

1. Grounding Rituals

• Stand barefoot on soil or stone

• Visualize roots extending from your feet deep into the Earth

• Inhale deeply and say: I am grounded. I am held.

2. Intentional Actions

• Cleanse your altar in silence, focusing on each item’s energy

• Light candles slowly and with a purpose

• Stir your tea while focusing on the spiral

These aren’t chores — they’re mini-rituals of presence.

🌬 3. Breathwork Spell

Breath is life force — your most accessible tool.

Try box breathing:

Inhale for 4 → Hold for 4 → Exhale for 4 → Hold for 4 (repeat 3–4 times)

Do this before casting a spell, drawing a card, or journaling.

📿 4. Mindfulness in Divination

• Before pulling tarot or oracle cards, center yourself with a few deep breaths

• Speak your question aloud, slowly and clearly

• Observe how your body feels as you interpret the message

Your clarity increases when you’re present, not rushed.

⸻

🖋 Mindfulness Prompts (for Journaling or Meditation)

• What does my body need right now?

• What emotion am I resisting?

• What beauty can I notice in this exact moment?

• How does my breath feel?

• What part of me is asking to be heard today?

⸻

Mindfulness is not about perfection.

It’s not about clearing your mind or “doing it right.”

It’s about remembering:

You are not your to-do list.

You are not your anxiety.

You are not your past or your projections.

You are a soul in a body — and the present moment is your altar.

#mindfulness #witchblr #witchcore #witchcraft #witchlife #beginner witch #witch tips #white witch #grimoire #spirituality #book of shadows

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cosmic-ghost-hermit · 1 year ago

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What is the Best Way for YOU to Manifest?

I have been receiving so many notes from yall and there are so many new followers!!! thank you all so much for the love and the affirmation! I really enjoy doing this and it helps me stay in a healthy mindset so I'm glad I can assist others while assisting myself.

In today's reading I am using Ethereal Visions Illuminated Tarot, The Healing Waters Oracle, and The Starseed Oracle. Take what resonates and leave the rest behind but always be open to new perspectives!

Donate to my CashApp

_________________________________

PILE ONE

Astrology: Aries, Leo, Sagittarius

Vibes: Blue, navy, black, skulls, ice, Hermes, ocean, coast-line, shark teeth, crystal jewelry, castles, olive tree, music, cats, fish, soda, marine life in general, crying, spicy food, hot meal, alternative fashion

Song: Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Tears for Fears

Cards: The Artist, 7 of Cups, Page of Cups, The Ripple Effect, Perspective

Heyooo pile one! Welcome to your reading. The best way yall can manifest is by projecting it out of you. This can be through making art of some kind or just looking at art of what it is that you desire. Either way all you need is to see the desire outside of yourself and it will eventually find its way to you. I see you are quite protective of your desires and it is difficult for you to choose which one you want to manifest most because you want them all so much. You can have them all if you like. You need to admire what you want to manifest. Imagine how you would feel seeing whatever it is in your hands. If it is an object imagine what the texture of it would feel like. What does it look like? Imagine its color. If it is an experience that you wish to manifest imagine how it would feel to experience it. What would your senses take in when you experience it? You know intuitively what it is you want without having it. Doesn't it make sense you would intuitively know what it would be like? The clearer the vision you have, the quicker it will manifest into existence. Just remember anything you wish to manifest is already yours. It has your name written on its spiritual frequency. You just gotta match the frequency. Don't worry about how it will happen. Don't worry about the plan. The universe already knows how it will get to you. You don't have to worry about that part. The details are already taken care of, my dude. Trust the universe.

PILE TWO

Astrology: Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces

Vibes: Green, yellow, white, wild-flowers, children laughing, church bells, lions, eagles, bulls, peanut butter, being barefooted, 222, snakes, curry, ribbons

Song: What I've Got by Sublime

Cards: Wheel of Fortune, 6 of Cups, 2 of Swords, King Tide, Breath of the Cosmos

Hi, pile 2! The best way for you to manifest is through verbal expression. I see many entities watching over you. They wait patiently for you to ask for what you desire. They listen closely to what you truly want. When you ask it must be backed by the desire of your inner child. If it does not align with your inner child's desires the entities might not hear you. The universe wants to cradle your inner child. It coos at them waiting for them to speak. Let your inner baby ask for what it wants. Let them speak. It is common for inner children to be silenced by the world so this might take some convincing. Be patient with them and they will tell your guides everything you truly desire and I swear it'll be dropped in your lap or by your doorstep in no time at all. You must trust your younger self to know what is right. You must trust the universe to deliver it to you. Both of them want you to experience abundance and plenty. Both of them want you to receive the fullness of life. Speak aloud what your younger self wants. Speak it with confidence in the effect it will have on your experience. It must be genuine. Whatever you want is already yours once it is spoken.

PILE THREE

Astrology: Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn

Vibes: Purple, forest green, pink, dogs, umbrellas, door knocker, hibiscus, olives, grapes, plums, violets, pomegranate, venus, 2222, incense smoke, candles, amethyst, cannabis, kayaking, hiking, Saturn

Song: Amethyst by Janine the Machine

Cards: The Fool, The Empress, The Well, Ilse of Avalon, You're Not For Everyone

Pile three, welcome to your reading! The best way for you to manifest is through your actions. I feel how hard you work in my body through the cards. You are far too resilient cus gotdamn your back hurts. Hard work is a way to manifest yes but what might work better for you is to enjoy yourself. By working hard all the time you invite in more work to do. Your actions display your manifestations. If you desire rest and relaxation (which i think you do) then meditation might help you. Do what you enjoy doing. Your physical reality with mirror your mind. Allow your mind to take a break. Embrace what you have wanted to do for a while. I know you have been trying so hard to get the manifestations you desire so deeply. I know those 60 to 80 hour work weeks have been hard on your mind and body. Pamper yourself a little bit. Invite more softenest in. Be willing to receive. Leap into bed, turn on your favorite show, and indulge a little in your favorite snack. Heal your soul. The cards also tell me you are a bit weird and quirky but you hide that a lot. It will help your manifestations come faster if you just embrace your weirdness. Lean into your quirkiness. I feel you are already really connected to Source and Source is where all that we need/desire comes from. You just gotta tap back into that energy again. Wow, okay I think your guides have been telling you to rest for a while. I am hearing them LOUD and CLEAR. They are a little frustrated with you not listening to them. You are pretty stubborn huh? I see you might have hurt yourself at work recently. That was an invitation to rest. Take the invitation, please. I see that if you don't take the invitation now you might be forced to later.

PILE FOUR

Astrology: Gemini, Libra, Aquarius

Vibes: Orange, red, sky blue, lavender, holding hands, hand-shakes, raining when the sun is out, rainbows, martini, fajitas, goblets, queer pride, 1111, throat chakra, oroborous, lotus flower

Song: Dracula from Houston by Butthole Surfers

Cards: The Magician, The Lovers, Ace of Cups, Let It Rain, Water Your Garden

Hey there, pile 4! Welcome to your reading, my friend. The best way you manifest is through communication. It's a bit more specific than that. Specifically when you're communicating in ways that are also taking care of yourself. Some examples of this are journaling, venting to a friend, talking with your lover, setting a boundary or writing letters to a pen pal. When you are verbalizing your desires to your friends be sure you are communicating with those you trust. I also see saying daily affirmations in the mirror would work as well. Which sometimes looks very ritualistic and other times it's you singing a song that makes you feel really positive about yourself in the mirror. Hype yourself up and that is a way to manifest as well. Anything with language involved while you are nourishing your body. I do see it might be difficult for you to gather your thoughts on your own so I do think it would be a bit easier to speak to a trusted advisor. Your words have power. Your language has power. The things that slip from your mouth are magic. Be very intentional about what you say, my dear.

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lanafofana · 1 year ago

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The Faithwarden & The Archdruid

Day THREEEEEE of HalsinTavWeek is upon us, fam! Pairing: Halsin/Tav(F) Summary: When she is away, Tav wonders if Halsin misses her as much as she misses him. Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI Warnings/Tag: Voyeurism, Mutual Masturbation, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Post Epilogue No Beta We Die Like Yonas (RIP Yonas) And an AO3 link! For all who celebrate.

If Tav had had any idea of the kind of commitment involved with holding the title of Faithwarden, she might have just killed Khaga in cold blood where she stood. The woman had certainly made it tempting enough without the added threat of being named the equivalent of a druidic mediator, judge, and oracle.

When she said as much to Halsin the former archdruid had only given her the proudest, softest expression and assured her that she was the only druid he had ever met who was well suited to the task. Which might have just been, possibly, the least helpful thing he could have said.

The summons came from all over Faerûn and took her away from home from anywhere between a tenday to months on end. Settling disputes between groves, ousting unworthy leadership, and using her ironclad grasp of Silvanus’ teachings to guide, illuminate, and teach his servants.

Highest honor this. Under the eye of Silvanus himself that. It was godsdamned exhausting, is what it was.

Every time her duties kept her away from home for longer than a few days her skin itched to return. To ensconce herself in their house amongst the trees, rousing from her meditation and rolling on top of her lover, listening to the chatter of nature while she walked barefoot through the forest born anew. These were the things that tugged at her mind most when found herself many miles from home.

Frustratingly, Halsin did not seem to miss her quite as much as she did him. When she returned he greeted her warmly enough, an enthusiastic participant in their lovemaking always, but a part of Tav wondered if she was the only one left pining during their separations.

If she was gone longer than a ten day they would exchange letters or messages through nature, sometimes managing to speak through their meditations though that was rarer. He shared news of the happenings from home, asked after her welfare, and sometimes included messages from the children under their care. All very sweet but the few times she tried to broach the subject in her letters, how she missed him and yearned for his touch, he either said something clinically empathetic about duty or, worse, didn’t address it at all.

The lack of reciprocation of her desires began to chip away at her confidence in their bond. She began to wonder if maybe she was being selfish trying to bring it up all the time. Perhaps he considered the lust she felt in his absence a youthful fault of her own and nothing to do with him at all.

When she takes her leave one day she mentions while he walks with her to the boundary of their home, that if it looks like she may need to stay longer she will send a letter before the tenday is out. He smiles and nods but tells her she need not trouble herself on his account and kisses her softly on the forehead.

Walking away from him, her steps feel heavy, and the words chase themselves in circles in her mind. Hurt blooms like a wicked vine, crawling through her mind with cruel barbs that whisper silky lies that taste like truths. Keeping in contact over long distances is not necessary. If someone should miss her, they surely know how to reach her. He may as well have told her not to come home at all.

It all boiled down to the same thing. My love does not equal your love. Once she had the thought she found it had taken root and would not be burned away. She heard it as she walked, as she lay staring at the stars, and in her troubled meditations that shattered under the weight of it. It took very little imagination to begin to hear them repeat in her mind with his voice. The journey is long and difficult but with dark thoughts dogging her heels she pushes herself as far and as fast as she is able. The grove is surprised to see her arrive so early but readily enfold her to the circle and the reasons they called for assistance.

Two days, one set of bruised knuckles, and a sternly worded letter to an archdruid in Amn later Tav leaves the grove in an even fouler mood than she went in.

“Please, Faithwarden, at least stay another day. Your journey here was most perilous and long, you should take a day and refresh yourself.”

Tav tries to put her best face forward, she really does, but it is extremely difficult after her altercation with the grove’s resident healer left her in such a seething rage the First Druid had been forced to physically hold her back from beating the woman to death. When she whirls on the young novice he flinches back and Tav feels the sharp words turn to ash on her tongue.

She can’t do anything to rid her face of the stern expression that has decided to live there but she does try to curb her tone at the very least. She assures the poor man she was well rested enough thank you very much but must be on her way to her next destination.

The problem was, Tav had no idea where that destination was. Should she go home? Or would it be so terrible to wander for a bit, away from where she was clearly not as wanted as she supposed. Almost as soon as the thought occurs to her she decides no. She has a stack of letters to work through, almost half of them undoubtedly more summons for her aid.

Standing in the middle of a dusty, overgrown road she sighs. The tangle of hurt and anger giving way to sudden weariness. Was this to be her doom? Always wandering, always aiding, and never finding a notch to catch her heel and making her stop and rest. To sooth her loneliness with the fleeting, loveless passion between strangers who desire her body or her position. It turns her stomach. Inside her chest her heart feels splintered with cracks. One more blow and she will crumble.

When she is close to Thaniel’s realm she hesitates crossing the border right away. She decides that the temporary succor of reuniting with her lover, for once, does not outweigh the turmoil inflicted by the detachment of his farewell. It hasn’t even been a full ten-day anyway, so no one will be looking for her return. She can steal in through the window in her raven form, collect her stack of correspondence, and be gone again without anyone the wiser.

The sky is dark and silent when she begins her mission. A new moon offers plenty of cover to flit through the dark shadows on her way to the house nestled deep in the center of Thaniel’s realm. Spying an open window she flits though and perches on a chair, cocking her head and getting a read on her surroundings. The house is quiet though; the children are all nestled tight in their beds and the druid is nowhere to be seen.

She wonders at that for a moment, it’s unlike him to leave the children unattended overnight. Though, she concedes, he does like to wander the border in wildshape when he feels like thinking in solitude. She brushes the thought away and sheds her birdform to creep on soundless steps through the dark home.

The letters are not in the study where she expected them to be. The desk is tidy, just how Halsin prefers, but the slot where she usually keeps her stack is empty. She rifles through the drawers but they’re simply not there at all. Huffing an irritated sigh she spends a few extra moments poking around the rest of the room but there’s nothing.

He’s already preparing for you to leave permanently, whispers the acrid voice from before. That makes Tav stop her tracks, her heart and stomach and throat twisting so much she has to put her fist against her chest to assure herself she hasn’t been impaled by an arrow. The cracks within, quiver in expectation but she’s here on a mission, not to feel sorry for herself. She ruthlessly shoves the thought and the accompanying lance of pain from her mind.

The kitchen is likewise tidy, and the living area where Tav is most guilty of leaving her things strewn around, “like a magpie’s nest,” Halsin had oft remarked. The words had seemed teasingly affectionate then but now, wandering the spotless house, Tav isn’t sure.

There’s only one place left to check but at this point Tav wonders if she mightn’t just leave after all. It seems unlikely the druid would move her things there, where they had no proper place like the desk. But there is a dreadful anticipation buzzing under her skin and she realizes she can’t not look, can’t leave without seeing for herself if she has been erased from even that space. If he has packed away the odds and ends, removed the evidence of her existence. If he had truly cut her out of his life so thoroughly.

Her hand on the doorknob, heart in her throat, Tav braces herself. When the door swings open on silent hinges, revealing their bedroom just as she remembered it before she left she lets out a sigh that feels less like relief than she thought it would. Stepping in and shutting the door behind her, her keen eyes can see little that has moved or changed in the few days she’s been gone.

Her robe is missing from the place it usually hangs but that’s not unusual. The children were very fond of donning it for their make believe games of wizards and sorcerers. The little vanity table the druid had carved for her is littered with her trinkets and keepsakes, untouched. She spins slowly, correspondence forgotten for the moment while she looks for something. Anything to either untether the ache in her chest or banish it for good. But there’s nothing. The room is unremarkable, ordinary in every way.

She pokes around a bit and finds her stack of letters in the drawer of her vanity. She gives the room another cursory glance but pauses when she hears a gasp. She freezes, wondering if one of the kids had a nightmare and has found her in their search for comfort but the door is shut. The room still.

Curious, she moves as silent as a shadow towards the alcove where the bed is tucked away from sight by a large screen she brought with her from one of her travels. A very dim light comes into view, a guttering candle more ember than wick left. The view that unfolds beyond the screen however, steals her breath away.

Halsin is naked on their bed, eyes shut tight, with one hand holding her robe to his face while the other works a fierce pace along his erection. His hand rolls over the leaking head, once, twice, smearing the leaking precum from the tip before returning to pumping his thick length. His head drops back on the pillow, his mouth dropping open as he pants, his face a rictus in concentration. He breathes in sharply, another gasp he can’t hold back while he pleasures himself, lost in his fantasy, with her robe acting as the anchor.

She feels…giddy. The sight before her would in any other circumstance be enough to have her naked within moments and joining him but the evidence of his clear desire for her, his desperate gasps and near silent wails are the result of his desperate want of her and she…she can’t look away. Her blood runs hot but she’s frozen.

On the bed Halsin whines, teeth clenching, hips flexing as he tries to fuck his own hand. His heavy breathing is broken by a soft murmur, a whispered litany of words she can barely make out except for one.

“Tav.”

The hand holding her robe clenches and he takes a deep breath through his nose, taking in her scent from the fabric and when his eyes slit open Tav feels her own breath shudder out of her. It’s hot, suddenly too hot. His expression betrays surprise, confusion but when his hand stops moving on his cock Tav’s mouth is moving before her brain can catch up.

“Don’t stop,” she commands with a voice that sounds stronger than she feels. Inside she feels brittle and if he pushes the issue she would crumple immediately but he doesn’t. He nods, chest heaving, and his hand resumes its ministrations, his nearly black eyes on hers further driving her wild with desire.

Not even sure what she’s doing anymore Tav sheds her clothes and positions herself at the foot of the bed. A possession has come upon her, moving her limbs for her while her brain is far away. Abandoning his grip on her robe he uses his other hand to squeeze his balls, his breath hitching and in response she feels herself suck in a breath sharply. When he growls, stare heavy on her, she licks her lips and drags the hot skin of her palm across her nipples, her stomach, before finally dipping between the lips of her sex, seeking the bundle of nerves that throbs for attention.

“Tav,” he utters, breathing thready and she sways.

She drinks up the sight of him; squirming, needy, and skin flushed with arousal. The precum welling up from his tip looks like beads of pearls before he swipes it away to join the wet slick slide of his grip pumping his sex. When his hips start to jut into his hand again her hips jerk to echo it, her fingers swirling around her clit increasing their pace to keep rhythm with his movements.

The silent room has become a chorus of their echoing gasps, groans, and stilted breathing. The lewd wet sound as they masturbate to each other’s pleasure is obscene and Tav nearly comes apart with the force of how much she likes it. She watches with intense hunger, the flex of each muscle as he unravels under her gaze.

“I’m–! “ He breaks off, throwing his head back, the corded muscles of his neck taunt, the column of his throat damp with sweat.

“Y-yes!” It’s all she can manage to choke out before she’s lost to the sensation of her toes curling, jaw clenching.

They orgasm together, the sight of his seed spurting across his hand, his stomach, his chest has her moaning and grinding her finger into her clint until she exhales an aching, guttural sob, vision exploding with stars.

She crashes to her knees on the mattress, throwing out a hand to catch herself from falling face first into the blanket while she blinks away the haze of her orgasm. There’s movement and before she’s fully inhabiting her body again his mouth is on hers, his hands pulling her into his embrace. They’re both sticky and sweaty, but it feels like coming home after being away for a decade and she throws her arms around his neck and plunges her tongue into his mouth.

Breaking apart, still catching their breath they sit entwined, foreheads together while they come back to their senses.

When she finally meets his gaze it’s to find it already on her, soft and warm. The ache in her chest cracks wide open and she bursts into tears.

“My love?” Halsin’s voice is the comforting rumble of a summer thunderstorm and it only makes the tears flow more insistently.

“I–I thought...” The words die in her throat. It’s stupid, it’s ludicrous. How could she ever have even dreamed this sweet man would do the things she had supposed. What foolishness had bewitched her? How did she let her mind come to those awful conclusions? She doesn’t have an answer and speaking the words out loud feels fraught with peril.

Halsin doesn’t press her but cradles her head against his chest, running a hand down her back in a soothing gesture that only makes the tangled mess of her emotions a stronger torrent of tears. He rocks her, humming something slow and soft. He kisses the fevered skin of her forehead, clutching her body to his tightly, securely, until at last she feels her last sob give way to hitching sighs.

“I think…I think I’ve been incredibly foolish,” she admits, pulling away to look at him with bloodshot eyes and a snotty nose.

Halsin takes that in but instead of interrogating her, he thumbs away her tears gently before pressing featherlight kisses against the damp skin of her face.

She breathes in, sucking what courage she can from the air between them and haltingly begins to explain. Halsin’s face goes through several complicated emotions as she speaks before settling on sadness.

When she is done relaying the whole of it. How she thought he did not miss her and how it snowballed so horribly from there, he takes her face in both his hands and kisses her softly.

“I miss you,” he begins firmly, holding her gaze. “I miss you when you are not near, whether that means you have gone to answer a summons to a far away grove, or down to the river to collect the children, or even when you are laying in this bed in a trance close enough to touch. I miss you like the land misses the rain in a drought,” he takes her hands in his and presses them to his chest. “I miss you like the winter misses the sun; the dragon misses his flight; the Tears of Selûne miss the moon when its light is extinguished and they are left to trail along until she returns. Without you by my side I feel my days grow dark and grey and spend too often looking over my shoulder for the moment you might appear and bring the light to shine on me again.”

“But–”

“I miss you,” interrupts Halsin urgently. “With everything that I am. Foolishly I held myself aloof in your absence because I did not wish to burden you with my own selfish suffering. You already found the duty bestowed on you an oppressive one and I did not wish to add myself to your troubles. I see now that was a mistake. One I will not commit again.”

“I’m sorry,” says Tav, looking away. “I should have tried harder to explain what I…what I wanted, I suppose. What I needed from you.”

Halsin smiles and nuzzles her cheek. “We each of us have learned something here today and I think we are the better for it, no?”

“You’re very wise, archdruid,” says Tav with a small smile, the spark coming back into her eyes. “You wouldn’t be interested in becoming Faithwarden, would you?”

Halsin laughs and tugs her into his arm again, burying his face in her neck, and stroking her hair and the bare skin of her back. “I’m afraid I’ve quite retired from druidic duties, my heart.”

“Yeah yeah, rub it in.” She pulls back from his embrace when a thought occurs to her and she scans his wide chest in puzzlement before she spies her rolled up robe cast aside on the floor. “Halsin Silverbough did you use my robe to clean up your– “

He leans in close and snatches a kiss to cut her off. “I will wash it myself.”

“Yes you will, that was a gift I got in Waterdeep! Silvanus protect you if I have to go back to that fetid kingdom of money plagued rats to get another one.”

He grins and snatches another kiss before rolling away and snatching the robe off the floor, backing away to the door. “I’m glad you’re home, my heart.”

“You’re not going to be very glad if you don’t go put that in some water right now!”

“Yes, dear,” he calls, sauntering away

“Cold water, Halsin, I’m serious!” He doesn’t respond and she trails after him in alarm. “Halsin? Are you listening?”

“Always, my heart.”

The End

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