#but its useless and accomplishes nothing

[holysaintscathedral]

Not to be a pick me on main but constantly berating your attraction to men and saying it's a curse to be attracted to men and "ew who would ever choose a man" doesn't seem all that healthy for your mental well being and your relationship with your own sexuality.

[popop-maru]

.

[the-kipsabian]

i doubt that eating another bowl of cherry tomatoes will fix me but im still gonna give it a go idk

[fictionadventurer]

Pop culture reduces It's a Wonderful Life to that last half hour, and thinks the whole thing is about this guy traveling to an alternate universe where he doesn't exist and a little girl saying, "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings." A hokey, sugary fantasy. A light and fluffy story fit for Hallmark movies.

But this reading completely glosses over the fact that George Bailey is actively suicidal. He's not just standing there moping about, "My friends don't like me," like some characters do in shows that try to adapt this conceit to other settings. George's life has been destroyed. He's bankrupt and facing prison. The lifetime of struggle we've been watching for the last two hours has accomplished nothing but this crushing defeat, and he honestly believes that the best thing he can do is kill himself because he's worth more dead than alive. He would have thrown himself from a bridge had an actual angel from heaven not intervened at the last possible moment.

That's dark. The banker villain that pop culture reduces to a cartoon purposely drove a man to the brink of suicide, which only a miracle pulled him back from. And then George Bailey goes even deeper into despair. He not only believes that his future's not worth living, but that his past wasn't worth living. He thinks that every suffering he endured, every piece of good that he tried to do was not only pointless, but actively harmful, and he and the world would be better off if he had never existed at all.

This is the context that leads to the famed alternate universe of a million pastiches, and it's absolutely vital to understanding the world that George finds. It's there to specifically show him that his despondent views about his effect on the universe are wrong. His bum ear kept him from serving his country in the war--but the act that gave him that injury was what allowed his brother to grow up to become a war hero. His fight against Potter's domination of the town felt like useless tiny battles in a war that could never be won--but it turns out that even the act of fighting was enough to save the town from falling into hopeless slavery. He thought that if it weren't for him, his wife would have married Sam Wainwright and had a life of ease and luxury as a millionaire's wife, instead of suffering a painful life of penny-pinching with him. Finding out that she'd have been a spinster isn't, "Ha ha, she'd have been pathetic without you." It's showing him that she never loved Wainwright enough to marry him, and that George's existence didn't stop her from having a happier life, but saved her from having a sadder one. Everywhere he turns, he finds out that his existence wasn't a mistake, that his struggles and sufferings did accomplish something, that his painful existence wasn't a tragedy but a gift to the people around him.

Only when he realizes this does he get to come back home in wild joy over the gift of his existence. The scenes of hope and joy and love only exist because of the two hours of struggle and despair that came before. Even Zuzu's saccharine line about bells and angel wings exists, not as a sugary proverb, but as a climax to Clarence's story--showing that even George's despair had good effect, and that his newfound thankfulness for life causes not only earthly, but heavenly joy.

If this movie has light and hope, it's not because it exists in some fantasy world where everything is sunshine and rainbows, but because it fights tooth and nail to scrape every bit of hope it can from our all too dark and painful world. The light here exists, not because it ignores the dark, but because the dark makes light more precious and meaningful. The light exists in defiance of the dark, the hope in defiance of despair, and there is nothing saccharine about that. It's just about as realistic as it gets.

[angry-geese]

The Weight - Sukuna x Reader

Warnings: smut//not osha compliant. arranged marriage au. blood/cannibalism mention. biting/size kink. unprotected sex, creampies. afab reader

synopsis: an arranged marriage au where the reader chooses sukuna instead of one of the men from her village

word count: 10.3k

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts since probably last february and I finally got around to finishing it lol

jjk masterlist

As mid-afternoon turns to dusk, you realize you have nothing to show for your hours in these woods. You know, reasonably, you should cut your losses for the day, and return home. In a little over an hour, it’ll be dark, and navigating these woods will become a challenge. But winter has come and gone with a vengeance, leaving food stores low. The thought of fresh meat is too much for you to quit now.

Fresh tracks mark the once-smooth creek bed. Deer. At least three. They’ve bedded down here, as evident by the smell, and flattened patches of grass. For several meters, the tracks nearly overlap themselves, before heading off in separate directions. It's been years since you’ve traveled this deep into the woods, and those few times were accompanied by your father, or uncle. Your solitude has you jumping at every rustle of a leaf, and snapped twig. It's when the woods fall silent that you need to worry. That means a predator is near. As long as you can hear bugs, or birds, you'll be okay.

Further ahead—maybe twenty yards—is a buck that stopped to drink from the creek. 

You knock an arrow, lining the broadhead up with your target. Something feels wrong. The string feels too taut. It slips from your fingers prematurely. The arrow hits just behind the front shoulder, and—in theory—should puncture the heart. A shot like that—in theory—should drop an animal like this where it stands. Today it doesn't. The buck takes off running.

Between the footprints, and little droplets of blood, a clear trail is left behind. When you do finally come upon your prey, the crickets have fallen silent. The buck lays on its side in the grass, chest heaving. You ready your knife to put the poor thing out of its misery when something—someone—emerges from the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing. 

Your body is moving before you can fully process the situation. You flatten yourself out on the ground, hiding under the cover of some bushes. If the man does see you, then he makes no note of it. He draws closer, stopping to kneel beside the buck. It’s too dark to make out his face. Something about him has the hair on the back of your neck on end. He hauls the carcass up onto his shoulder, turning to return in the direction in which he came. 

The absurdness of it all has you frozen. You blink several times as if to make sure this isn't your mind playing tricks on you. Once reality sets in, you’re back on your feet, chasing after him.

“That's mine!” You say, hoping the volume of your voice is enough to scare off the thief. It isn't.

What you first assume to be another trick of the lighting becomes a horrifying reality as you notice the true size of the man. The man—being, or whatever he is—towers over you, completely dwarfing you in size. Mild annoyance is all that is visible on his face as he turns to you. From the deer, he rips out your arrow, tossing it at your feet. The broadhead has snapped off, as well as the shaft is bent. If you so desire, you suppose you could repair it. Not that you have any wish to. Sometimes it is simply better to cut your losses.

But you have more pressing things to deal with right now.

“And just what do you plan to accomplish, little lamb?” He asks. “A deer like this can weigh as much as a grown man. Do you plan to carry this back all by yourself?”

It’ll be tiring, but not impossible. Gutting and dressing it here would remove a lot of unnecessary weight, but would render plenty of valuable meat and organs useless. All that extra meat and skin could be used better elsewhere…

You are overcome with the urge to run, yet his gaze has your feet firmly planted on the ground. Your eyes fall to a small red splotch on his kimono—a blood stain. It can't be from the deer, it's far too old. It’s not until your knees knock together that you realize you’re trembling.

The action of him moving closer causes a cry of panic to leave you, unintentionally calling out for your father. 

“What—who are you?!” You ask as you scramble backwards. 

“I am Ryoumen Sukuna, the King of Curses, my dear,” he says. “Now, shall we get this back to your home?”

Fear threatens to overcome you. Even if you could draw an arrow in time, you doubt it would truly hurt him. Yet, in spite of your fear, you know he has no plans to harm you. Once you’re in sight of the village, he sets the deer down, and gestures for you to take the lead.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask. You’re certain the look on your face suggests you still expect him to eat you. 

“Why do you ask?” He says. “Maybe I wanted the location of your home. It seems there are plenty of sacrifices here for me.”

“Wait a minute!” You say, eyes widening with fear. A mix of panic and guilt consumes you. “You can't-”

A look resembling amusement crosses his face. “I mean no harm to your village,” Sukuna says, “but in five years, I will return to claim what is mine.”

The strange man would vanish upon reaching the outskirts of your village, and in the nearly five years that follow, you would not once traverse so deep into the woods. On several occasions, you would try to retrace your steps, but would never once come across that clearing. When you would bring it up to your father, or any of the other village elders, your concerns would be brushed off, or outright ignored. Years would pass and slowly, achingly slowly, you would forget about the man in the woods entirely.

The coming spring brings your twenty-eighth birthday, and the looming threat of being an “older” unmarried woman.

If you had any say in the matter, you wouldn't get married at all. Plenty of older women exist, happily unmarried, yet your mother insists that you must find a husband. Any attempts to convince her that you’re fine with the way things are, fail. Once it became clear you weren't going to seek a husband on your own, your mother took upon the task of finding a suitor for you. Over the course of several months, meetings were arranged with various men, and with each rejected one, your mother grew more desperate to find the perfect match. 

Your mother insists you're cursed. Your father thinks you’re simply unlucky. When you asked how marriage was supposed to fix that curse, she had no answer for you.

In the months prior to your birthday, your mother proposed a deal to you: meet with another man—the son of a wealthy merchant. That if this meeting went well, even if you didn't marry him, she would stop pestering you about getting married. Tired of her pestering, you relented, and agreed to meet him. And as the days draw closer, you only feel dread towards him. 

The outcome of tonight has already been decided by you: failure. Whether your mother knows this or not is hard to tell. Judging her tense nature, you suspect she knows your plans.

“I was already married at your age,” she says, tightening your obi, “I used to have a dress just like this.”

“The difference is, you knew him already,” you say, “and I am meeting a stranger.”

“I am simply doing what I think is best for you,” she says. “This is your chance to get out of this village—to live a better life! Don't you want that?”

Her eyes meet yours in one last pleading glance. It makes you wonder; did she have such a conversation with her mother? Did your grandmother go through such trouble to match her to your father? Or did this come easier to her, than it did to you?

You suppose he’s handsome. The silks he wears are clearly expensive, with threads like woven gold. His features are sharp—what one could describe as noble, but you find him truly dull. But he is scrawny—squishy, with hands that show he has never worked a day in his life. The little conversation he makes is dreadfully boring. His father is an older man, with a graying beard, and sagging eyes. His mother is considerably younger, dressed in blue, with a small scar on her chin. Her silky black hair falls down her back. The little conversation you do have is short, but polite. The typical small talk you would have with a stranger.

Your mother does her best to talk you up. She’s gotten pretty good at that over the past few years. Your father interjects here and there, but it's your mother that does the majority of the talking. 

“She’s strong. A talented hunter. Good with a knife.” Your father says. This time, you’re paying attention when he speaks.

Your potential father-in-law seems unimpressed with your father’s attempts to talk you up. Perhaps if you were a son, this conversation would go differently. If you were a son, your mother wouldn't be so stressed about you being married before 30. Your growing irritation mounts when you set down your cutlery, turning to look the old man in his eyes.

“And what about him?” You ask, motioning to his son. “Look at him—how is he supposed to give me a strong child?”

The energy in the room seems to shift entirely. Your father nearly chokes on his wine, but his eyes are firmly trained on your mother. She glares daggers at you, gripping her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“What?” You ask. “I am the one getting married. Don't I get a say in this?”

Are you trying to screw this up? Your mother’s face seems to ask.

“A good father controls his daughter,” the man says, “especially one with such a sharp tongue.”

“I can serve this village, or I can control my daughter, but I cannot do both,” your father says, “she’s not a child anymore, she can make her own choices.”

That earns a small smirk from you. Leave it to him to stand up for you.

“That is exactly why this is so grievous,” the man says, “my son will not marry an old maid with an attitude problem!”

“And I will not have in-laws as insufferable as you!” You bring your knife down on the table, narrowly missing his fingers. This little outburst of yours at dinner will certainly have consequences. Your mother’s wrath is only the beginning.

They don't leave in nearly as big of a hurry as you’d expect from a man who was just threatened with a knife, but they do hurry out, making certain not to look back.

“Maybe we should have offered to let them stay,” says your father, “it’s not safe to be out on the road after dark.”

“We’re lucky to not have them send guards after us for that,” your mother says, and for once, you agree with her. “Threatening a man like that is a new low, even for you.”

After such a disastrous dinner, you’re not particularly eager to go find your parents. You linger towards the outskirts of your village for as long as daylight allows you to. Once it grows too dark to stay out, you begin the trek back to your home, praying your parents—or at least your mother—have simply gone to bed. Maybe your father will forgive such a night, but your mother certainly won't. Over the past year you’ve done enough to earn her ire, this will not help your case.

Sitting outside is your mother, her eyes trained on a dying fire. Although she doesn't acknowledge you, you know she’s noticed you. Part of you wonders if you should speak first. Would that even improve your situation, or simply make it worse?

“You win.” She says. 

“What?” You ask.

“You win. I told you I’d stop after this, remember?” She asks. “Besides, I stopped liking him after that comment he made about your father.”

You still don't believe it's over. No tone of accusation clings to her voice, yet you can't help being suspicious.

“I don't get it.” You say.

“I just want what's best for you.” She says. “I want you to live a long and happy life. Are you really content to spend the rest of your life in this village? Stuck taking care of your brother and father?”

“That sounds like the preferable outcome,” you say, “compared to having in-laws I can't stand.”

“Where does he get off calling you an old maid anyway?” She says.

A small smile crosses your lips. This is about the best she'll get, and she knows this, a grin crossing her own face. A moment that should be one of triumph—at least for you—seems to be more sorrowful. The older you grow, the further apart you drift from her, and with that comes a strange, aching loneliness. You long for a time in your youth; the days when she would play dolls with you in-between house chores. You miss the tiny clothes she’d sew for them. The furniture made of timber scraps she’d hand paint. Oh how long has it been since she last braided your hair? Or brushed it? Or helped you wash it? 

Did she have these same feelings about her own mother? Or was it easy for her? Does she too mourn those moments you used to share?

You don't remember her always looking this old. That’s not to say she isn't beautiful still—age does not nullify beauty. But she looks tired now. The dark circles under her eyes are more prominent than ever. The skin around her eyes crinkles when she laughs, or smiles. Her hair is littered with grays—like little silver threads. She looks like you.

From within the nearly pitch-black woods comes a scream; not that of an animal, but of man. When the scream rings out again, it’s much easier to understand. It’s a cry for help.

Emerging out of the treeline, and following the main road is a man, half hunched over and clutching his stomach. He makes it several yards into the village before collapsing. Enough blood pours from the wound on his side that you can smell it. A metallic taste lingers in the air, stuck to the back of your throat. Blood. 

You’re the first to run over, followed shortly behind by your mother. The injured, shambling figure collapses upon the road. It’s only as you draw closer that you recognize him, albeit barely: the man from dinner. His clothes at one point in time were yellow in color, but are now stained a deep brown in color from a mix of dirt and blood.

“We need a doctor over here!” Mother cries out, her voice echoing against the wall of trees.

Someone must hear, because eventually a group of men burst out of a nearby house. They make quick work of rolling him onto his back, granting you a better look at his wounds. Three long slashes across his stomach. From your mother comes a gasp, followed by her clamping her hand over her mouth. The young man succumbs to his wounds before anyone is able to help him. He’s lost too much blood. People don't come back from that.

“Was he stabbed?” One man asks.

“Looks like knife marks,” comments another.

“Not a knife,” the oldest of the three says, “claws.”

“Do you think a mountain lion got to him?” You ask.

The oldest of the men shakes his head. “Cats like that don't get this close to towns. They avoid people if they can. A bear, maybe; if he got in between a mother and cub. But even that seems unlikely…”

This is why you don't go into the woods after dark. This is why you lock your doors and close your shutters tight when the sun sets. Bad things lurk out there, but they are not bears, nor are they mountain lions.

Something about the height of a person bursts from the treeline. Atop the legs of a chicken is a head only humanesque in the way corpses are. Sunken eyes sit atop a shriveled nose, and cracked lips. Its skin seems to be hanging off bone. Still, it takes you a moment to register that it’s fear you feel. Your palms prickle with sweat, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The urge to flee is nearly unbearable.

More of these creatures emerge from the direction of the nearly-set sun. They appear to come in all sorts of horrid shapes, and sizes, the smallest being no larger than a bird, and the largest about the size of a cow. Fear threatens to overcome you entirely. At least twenty of the creatures leave the treeline, although you suspect more remain hidden within it. The temperature must drop by ten degrees. It’s as if all the moisture has been sucked from the air. Those who dared leave their homes to look at the source of the commotion have now retreated, locking their doors behind them. 

The collar of your dress jerks backwards as your mother struggles to drag you back towards the house. “Get your father!” She says. “Hurry!” 

“What about you?!” You ask.

“Just get your father,” she says.

And you do so, running as fast as your feet will take you. The chilly night air renders your fingertips numb, and your face burning. He’s asleep in his chair, and wakes with a gasp as you shake him, motioning frantically to the door. The words that leave you are incoherent, but he must understand your panic. He retrieves his sword, telling you to lock the door behind him. You don't listen. You never listen, you can hear your mother say now. A sudden burst of light draws your attention—a nearby house has caught fire. Those strange, horrid creatures swarm around it like flies. Several neighbors have exited their houses, and begun throwing buckets of water upon the blaze, but the fire is too strong.

And from the treeline emerges that man from the woods all those years ago. 

In five years time, he has not aged a day. His cruelly sharp features appear the same within the flicker of the firelight. They fall before him on their hands and knees, heads bowed in fear. You only realize you’re shaking when you move closer to the window, peeking out through the crack in the shutters. 

The King of Curses, he called himself, all those years ago.

His mouth moves as if he's speaking, but you can only make out about half of what he says. The ringing in your ears is too loud to make sense of much.

“My offerings lessen, my shrine lies defiled,” he says, “and you humans sit here complacent. I gave you five years to make amends and this is what you do with it?”

You know, logically, that your father is going to die. He is no match for the creatures, let alone that strange man. You must do something. Even if it is beyond logic, or reason, you would not forgive yourself if you did not act.

“Then what is it you require of us?” Asks father, his hands trembling slightly. You can tell it’s more than just the dancing light of the fire. He is truly frightened.

“An offering,” says the King of Curses. “A sacrifice.”

“We have nothing to offer,” says father, “the river has run dry of fish—our crops have withered! We have nothing to offer, we’re starving regardless!”

The King of Curses eyes drift to your hiding place, before landing back on your father. “You said it yourself.” He says. “You’ll starve regardless. What difference does it make that you should give up one of your own? Won't there only be less mouths to feed?”

Your arrows rattle loudly as you pull one from your quiver, knocking it. From this angle, and sitting half crouched on the ground, you can't bring it to a full draw. Not only does that mess with your aim, but alter the power of the shot too. That can be accounted for. You adjust your angle to be a little higher—right above his head. When you release the string, the arrow gives way with a thunk! The shot is dead on; your arrow whistling towards the demon king’s head. He brings his spear up, knocking it aside. Several heads whip back towards you, their faces contorted in a mix of anger, and fear. 

You’re not quite sure who grabs you first—it must be more than one person. Several sets of hands are upon you, dragging you from the house. Any attempts to fight it fail on your part, there are simply too many people to kick off. They drop you in the dirt beside your father. You don't dare look at him. You know his eyes are filled with fear. 

“We’ll—we’ll put it to a vote,” says one of the elders. “All those in favor of sending this woman as an offering…”

Two other elders raise their hands. Then several of the men. Then, reluctantly, the mother of a neighboring family. Even more hands pop up after that. Although maybe a minute passes, it feels like hours. At least a dozen sets of eyes are on you.

“Out of all of you,” the demon king says, eyes following across the crowd that’s now gathered, “she was the only one of you to fight back, yet you punish such an action?”

Silence is the only response the crowd can conjure up. A groan so loud that the ground rumbles beneath it rings out as the house gives way, collapsing in on itself in a rain of ash and embers.

“Wait!” Your father cries out, “let me go in her place!”

Several more incomprehensible sentence fragments leave him. He pleads and pleads to no avail. The last view you get of your village is of the spirits retreating back into the woods.

It must be hours before your state of shock wears off. Dawn breaks bleak and gray over the horizon. The temple he brings you lies in ruin. You must be one of the first people to set foot in here in years. A cracked foundation gives way to walls overtaken by vines. Dust and ash layers the ground, and every surface imaginable.

Sukuna must not expect you to try to run. Nothing is done to prevent you from escaping. There are no doors to lock. No ropes or cages. The only real barrier of escape is the trek home through miles of woods. Should you wait until sunrise, the trip won't be impossible. It is the fear of what remains for you that prevents you from returning.

Would there even be anything to go back to? Is it even worth it after what they did? They did not hesitate as they offered you as a sacrifice. Whatever happens to them… they have it coming.

Such thoughts do little to comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse. What little strength you have left goes into stopping the tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. You manage. Barely.

Unable to find it within you to do anything else, you sit. Only a thin, woven mat separates you and the hard floor. Footsteps draw closer down the hall, the noise only amplified by the high ceilings of the temple.

Uraume. That’s what Sukuna called them. A strange being that looks human, but appears to be more than such. They enter the room, a shock a white hair visible before the rest of them is. They wear the kimono of an unmarried woman, in vibrant shades of orange, blues, and pinks woven in the pattern of flowers. Hooked around one arm is a pail of water. Under the other arm is a roll of cloth. Contained within the cloth is a mix of hygiene supplies; a sponge, comb, various vials of oils and creams. 

Uraume treats you like one would treat a frightened animal. They kneel on the ground before you, leaving about the distance of a foot. When you don't flinch, or shy away, they move closer.

“You’re covered in ash,” they say, “let me help.”

With the sponge, they dab away the bits of dirt and ash that have caked to your skin. Human contact like this should, in theory, be intimate, but in this situation it feels like anything but that. Uraume’s touch feels cold, and clinical. With them comes a strange, uncanny feeling, like you are not looking into the eyes of a human, but of a corpse. The reason behind their kindness is a mystery to you. It feels wrong to question them, but you can't help but think there is something sinister behind their actions. Their casualness suggests this isn't the first time they’ve done this. That thought does nothing to comfort you, so you quickly push it aside.

Next, they move on to your neck, then down to the exposed bits of your chest, and shoulders. 

“Such a beautiful dress,” they comment. You reply weakly, saying it belonged to your mother. Their response to that is little more than a hum.

They take your hands, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails with a small brush. After that, a comb is worked through your hair, taking great care to not pull on any knots that have formed. Once they can work their hands through your hair with no resistance, they stop.

Uraume leans back to examine their work, deeming you presentable. Gathering what they brought with them, they make their way towards the door, turning back once to say: “I’ll bring something to eat.”

The events of the night have left you without an appetite. You probably should eat something. It’ll be important to keep your energy up. The little adrenaline left within you has you jumping at any small noise, or shadow. Sleep feels like an impossibility right now.

About ten minutes pass before Uraume returns carrying a platter. Tea, pickled vegetables, a hunk of bread, a bowl of some kind of stew. It smells quite good, but you merely pick at it. Like your hesitation to sleep, you can hardly eat. Uraume sits with you, picking at their own food, but never finishing it. A million questions race through your mind, although you can barely bring yourself to ask them.

Would they even answer you? Or does this have a more sinister plan behind it?

Finally, you find enough of your voice to ask: “Where is…?”

“I’ve prepared a bath for master Sukuna,” they say, “he’ll be joining us shortly.”

Your attention turns back to the bowl in your hands, which soon slips through your fingers, breaking upon the floor. What little appetite you had is soured entirely. This is it. You’re nearly certain you’re going to die here.

Your attempt to clean up the mess is stopped by Uraume. They insist upon cleaning it themselves, taking great care not to cut their hands on the shards.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, shocked at how small your voice sounds.

“Master Sukuna likes to play with his food before he eats it,” they say.

Uraume leaves shortly after, taking the leftover dishes with them. You remain seated, eyes moving between the two exits of the room. One takes you to the entrance of the temple; you’re not certain where the other leads. The first is almost guaranteed to be guarded, though. Trying to run now is a bad idea. But when will you get another chance?

You will not sit idly by as death draws closer. Like the previous night, you feel as if you must do something. It was your own foolish actions that got you into this mess, says a small voice in the back of your head.

Trapped under your heel is a small pottery shard, left over from the shattered bowl. It’s small enough to conceal in your palm. Sharp. Better for stabbing than it is slashing, but it will be good enough at either. Once Sukuna returns, you’ll get your chance.

The rush of adrenaline has started to wear off now, rendering your arms weak, and your legs shaky. If you were to sit down now, you’re certain it would be a while before you get back up. It is the body fighting itself; fight or flight mode mixing with exhaustion. If you do not stop and rest, your body will give out on you eventually.

So you stand there and pace, clutching your shard of pottery close. Maybe thirty minutes pass in the time it takes Sukuna to enter, but it feels like hours. Adrenaline turns into fatigue.

Tears burn at your eyes again, but you’re able to blink them back. A mix of shock and betrayal has left you nothing short of exhausted. Sukuna’s towering stature only helps to make you feel like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf.

“I trust Uraume has been of assistance,” Sukuna says. 

Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod.

“What now?” You ask. “Is this the part where you’re supposed to eat me?”

That earns a laugh from him, although it’s strange sounding, as if the very action is foreign to him.

“Many decades ago, the people of your village—among others—would hold a festival during harvest season,” he says, “it was meant as a sign of peace. An offering in return to not raze their homes,

“The people of your village have grown laze, and complacent. They have forgotten their place as humans, and needed to be reminded of it. You are simply another offering. Something to tide me over.”

Sukuna draws close enough for you to feel his breath across the back of your neck. You shudder. Adrenaline courses through you once again.

This is it, you think, you are going to die. 

In one last attempt to preserve your dignity, you aim for his jugular, and swing the shard of pottery towards it. A hand wraps around your wrist before it can make contact. A second set of arms are trapping you against his body before you can even register it. His breath is warm against your cheek, teeth inhumanly sharp in the dim light.

“You are entertainment.” He says. 

That same set of sharp teeth drag up your neck. Some sick sense of pleasure runs up your spine at the feeling: being a little lamb in the jaws of a predator. It would take so little effort from him to render you lifeless that it’s almost comical. Adrenaline turns to delirium in your mind. 

What happens if he finally grows bored of you? It’s not a matter of “if” in this case, it’s a matter of “when”. You have an idea of what will happen once he does.

You don't hear him leave, so much as you notice his lack of presence.

Sukuna is gone for most of the following day. In that time, you explore much of the temple in an attempt to gain your bearings. It’s sparsely furnished, and dilapidated for the most part, but there are some signs of life. On a lower level of the temple is a bedroom, where the bed alone is as big as a room in your home. Must be Sukuna’s. Another, smaller room appears to be Uraume’s quarters. A small kitchen branches off the hallway not far from this. 

The later half of the day is spent trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Thick woods surround the structure, spreading out for what must be miles. To the North is a creek. If you followed it, you might possibly meet up with the river by your village. Whether you could do so before nightfall is another question entirely. Finding yourself stuck in unfamiliar woods past dark may prove to be a death sentence.

Even if you could go back, would you want to? Their lack of hesitation towards sacrificing you still rings clear in your mind.

Sleep seems to be the best way to pass the time. There isn't much else to do around here. In the hours before dusk, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, and into the woods that surround the temple. You justify it by saying that fresh air will do you good, not that anyone asks you. The only person around to do so would be Uraume, though you don't see much of them.

Heavy fog settles upon the trees, causing the day to take on a quiet, sleepy nature. Little cream-colored mushrooms pop up through the layer of moss and dead leaves that blanket the forest floor. Carved out over years of use is a dirt path, barely wide enough for a person to walk through. Following it for about ten minutes brings you to a pond. At one end, the start of a small creek leads downhill. Little fish are visible just under the surface. Leaving your socks and shoes at the shore, you wade out into the water. It’s cool, but not chilly. The mud feels soft underneath your feet. Being outside helps settle your nerves a bit. Outright terror is replaced with uneasiness now. While not entirely better, it’s an improvement to your previous mood.

From the treeline opposite of the path you took, a figure enters the clearing. Sukuna. Adrenaline spikes through your body at the sight of him. Your pulse quickens, and fear prickles in your palms. Every cell of your being is telling you to run.

Sukuna motions with his hand for you to follow him. It is not an offer, so much as it’s a command. Following a short walk on a stoney path, you find yourself overlooking a rock cliff-face, and a small wood hut. Scattered about are several steaming pools, which bubble up from the ground, layering upon the cliff-face like stairs.

Sukuna undressed at the wood hut, leaving his clothes hanging upon the rafters. Your gaze remains firmly on the ground. You should not be seeing him like this. This feels far too intimate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long, but can't help it. The sight of his back alone is hard to tear your eyes away from; the muscles, the tattoos, the curve of his spine. There is a strange, supernatural beauty to him. You eye him with caution, yet curiosity. 

Why has he brought you here? What does he want? Is this simply a ritual before he eats you?

Certainly, if you were to scream, no one would be nearby to hear you. 

It strikes you just how easily his teeth could tear through your jugular. How his sharp nails could shred your flesh to ribbons. Sukuna is far faster and stronger than you, outrunning him is not an option.

Following his lead, you undress, and leave your clothes folded neatly upon a rock. Next comes the task of taking down your hair, and combing through it with your fingers, finding it still knot-free from the events of the previous night. Only then do you approach the largest of the three pools, and wade into it. At its deepest, it's a little above your waist. You could walk all the way across and never once have your feet leave the ground.

You settle upon a rock towards the edge, half submerged in the pool. The hot water feels nice upon your sore muscles. Your eyes trail ribbons of steam as they curl off the water. A wave of self consciousness rolls over you. You sink further into the water, crossing your arms in front of your chest. It’s up to your chin now. Sometime during this, it starts raining. The droplets leave little ripples across the surface of the water. Fall brings the smell of damp earth, and decaying leaves with it. Something that should be comforting only makes your stomach turn.

“You look frightened, little lamb,” Sukuna says.

Is it so obvious? 

“I still don't believe this isn't some attempt to eat me.” You ask, though you’re not certain you want the answer.

“Had I wanted to eat you, I would have had Uraume make preparations.” He says.

You still don't believe him. How many people met their fate at his hands before you? There is no reason why you would be lucky—why you would escape your fate.

“Then what is it you want from me?” You ask.

His expression softens, shoulders lowering with a sigh. The space between his eyebrows is not so harshly creased anymore. 

“I am not like the typical curses you have met,” Sukuna says, “I require your permission.” 

“Permission for what?” You shrink back as he draws closer, stopping mere inches from you. He’d tower over the tallest man, let alone someone like you.

A kiss. Hungry, and overbearing, but a kiss nonetheless. Sukuna has to lean down, and you have to crane your neck up to complete the action. His movements feel stiff, clinical, as if he hasn't done this many times before. The action causes warmth to bloom in your chest, and spread out to your limbs. The hands that cup your face are nearly large enough to encompass it entirely. He tastes like wine, and something vaguely metallic. The thought that it might be blood crosses your mind for only a moment. You’d much rather think about other things. 

“Will you devote yourself to me, completely and entirely?” He asks.

Funny, you think, had a human man asked you the same thing, you would have laughed in his face. Yet you find yourself bewitched by the King of Curses. Curious, and cautious all the same. This is not a feeling of love. It is something else entirely. You are a sacrifice, you remind yourself, this is the fate of a sacrifice.

“I devote myself to no man,” you say, “I don't see how you'd be any different.”

He hums in amusement, circling around you in the water. He stops behind you, slightly to your right. Sharp teeth graze across your shoulder. Large hands trace their way up your hips, then your body, coming to rest just below your breasts. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the strange pressure that has built up. Your heart rate picks up in pace. Sukuna must be able to sense this. A low laugh leaves him as he pulls away.

“Well then,” he says, “do I have your permission to continue?”

Continue what? You wish to ask. As if against your mind’s wishes, your head moves in a nod. “Yes,” you say.

You can only imagine the look on his face as you have your back to him. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth radiate off his body. Is he pleased? Amused? Smug that all it took was a kiss to make you let your guard down? 

Hands that should be calloused and rough are quite gentle with their touch. One comes to rest upon your hip, before trailing down to the space between your thighs. Seconds in and your knees seem to give out, your body supported only by him. One finger presses into you, then a second. You sigh at the intrusion. There’s little resistance as he presses into you. You’re too wet. Sukuna’s fingers are much larger than your own, though the stretch you feel is pleasant, not painful. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, drawing a low laugh from him. You can feel it rumble within his chest, which your back is pressed flush to.

Being so close to another being feels odd. The only intimacy you know is a platonic one. A familial one. This is different. Stronger. More intense. He finds the spot that makes you squirm and abuses it, toying with you like prey. It must be a game to him, you think, like cat and mouse. With one of your hands over your mouth, you try to muffle the lewd noises that spill from you. It’s a losing battle. All sorts of pleased sounding noises—from both you and him—echo through the clearing. Secretly, you’re glad this place is so remote. Should someone hear the lewd noises you’re making, you wouldn't recover from the embarrassment. He brings you just to the edge, but refuses to let you cross over. Frustration turns to desperation as you grind against him, chasing your own release. Sukuna doesn't appear opposed to your actions. He lets you work yourself up to—and through—your own release, the noises you make growing gradually more obscene until they come to a head in the form of an orgasm.

You remain in the water for a while afterwards. The layer of fog overhead makes the day take on a lazy, sleepy nature. His hands comb through your hair as you lay against his chest. Such a moment feels uncharacteristically tender for him. While you expect them to be sharp, his nails feel nice against your skin. The mouth on his stomach resembles a smirk, although the expression on his face is flat. Unreadable. A slight pang of disappointment shoots through you. You know it’s unreasonable of you to expect humanity from someone inherently inhuman. He does not—he can not—process things the way you do. Humans must appear so small and fragile to him.

You’re uncertain of how much time passes as you lay there, your limbs tangled with his. It doesn't feel like long enough. No time would feel long enough. You crave the touch of another being whether you want to admit that or not.

“It’s getting late,” he comments. Without another word, you watch as Sukuna dresses himself, and leaves.

You follow him as quickly as you can. You’re not quite fast enough, arriving back at the temple long after him. Dusk follows soon after. 

You find no sign of the King of Curses upon your return. Finding yourself with not much of an appetite, you head straight to bed. Uraume stops by once to offer tea, but you decline, insisting you’re tired, and just wish to sleep. Whether or not they believe you, you can't tell. That’s about the extent of every conversation you have; polite, but short.

Sukuna must not need to sleep. Not in the same way you do. You dress down into your underclothes, leaving the rest folded neatly upon a chair. They’re not dirty, just slightly wrinkled from the events of today. You crawl into the bed much larger than you, and attempt to sleep. When he crawls into the bed beside you, you do nothing to protest.

As time passes, you grow used to his presence. Falling into a routine takes mere days. In that time, you don't see much of Sukuna, or Uraume. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re not certain what you’d say to either of them. You figure it best not to question what Sukuna gets up to in his free time. If the events at your village are anything similar, you figure it best to pay them no mind.

The longer you spend here, the more curious you find yourself. At least twice you find your way back to the hot springs. Familiarizing yourself with the surrounding woods has you growing more confident when navigating it. Animal tracks and trails reveal themselves, bringing more life to the woods. 

Fall turns to winter. Rain gives way to snow, bringing in a bitter stormfront. It’s hard to tell how many days pass as the storm hits, rendering the three of you confined to the temple. Sukuna doesn't appear bothered at all by the cold, but you spend many bleak nights huddled by a fire. Sukuna approaches you on one of these nights; perhaps the bleakest and darkest one before the storm finally breaks. Your inability to leave the temple has you ready to claw out of your own skin. Never were you one to stay in one place very long. 

Days have passed and you haven't spoken much to one another. Not since the day at the hot springs. You find yourself especially longing for them on a day like this, where the cold makes your joints ache, and your lips cracked. Winter is among your least favorite of the seasons. A hot and sticky summer day was always preferred over a day like this. Sukuna must sense it. He finds you curled by the fire, wrapped in an assortment of quilts and fabrics. You can't tell if it’s morning, or evening. Snow has rendered midday as dark as dusk. 

You know you should get up, and toss more wood onto the fire. Should you let it die any further, it’s unlikely you’ll get it started again. Sukuna joins you in the room, sitting on the mat to your left. Finding yourself searching for warmth, you move closer to him. It’s an unconscious action at first. Once you recognize it, you can't find the willpower within you to stop.

You offer the edge of the blanket to him, basking in his warmth as the quilt is wrapped around both of you. One of his hands comes to rest upon your knee. Your gaze is trained on his face, while his remains on the dying fire. 

“I don't suppose you do this to every sacrifice you get,” you say, not expecting an answer.

The corners of his lips twitch into something that resembles a smile. Much life his laugh, his smile is stiff, and rather foreign feeling. Like he hasn't done such a thing in centuries.

“You are different from the sacrifices I have received in the past.” He says. 

You get the impression he is still figuring out what to do with you. Such a thought doesn't inspire confidence on your part, though you assume your situation could be worse. 

You're nearly in his lap now. The hand on your knee soon moves upwards onto your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he palms himself through his clothes. Some sick part of you wishes to taunt him. To tease him in the same way he has done to you. You part your legs just enough to encourage him. There must be something wrong with you, you think, no normal woman would enjoy the company of the King of Curses.

This is not your typical virgin sacrifice. It is little more than that. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure. To fuck without the intent to procreate.

“I always assumed you wouldn’t have these… urges.” You say.

“Many things lost their potency,” he says. “Food was never enough to satiate, drink was never enough to quench thirst. Sex has remained the same. Primal pleasure never loses its potency.”

So he was human. At least at one point in time…

“Like I said,” he hums, “I am not like the typical curses you have met. I require your permission.”

“You have it,” you say. 

Oh how dearly you wish to recreate the event at the hot springs. To feel the same build-up of emotions, and the following release. Such mindless pleasure has remained in your head, unable to be stifled by your own hands.

Off comes your kimono, guided down your shoulders by his hand. Your nipples stiffen when exposed to the open air. It is not the cold that has you shivering, but the expectation of what’s to come. His size, and calloused hands suggest his touch would be harsh, but you find to be the opposite. Sharp nails graze down your sides as he moves to kneel before you. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him.

His own clothes are left among the growing pile on the floor. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand, the head of which weeps across his palm. A different kind of heat blooms in your stomach.

 Sharp teeth graze across your jaw, down your neck, before eventually nipping at your shoulder. A sting both painful and pleasurable radiates from the bite. Blood beads from the two points where he managed to break the skin, quickly lapped away by him. Part of your brain is telling you to push him away. The other part is telling you to expose your neck further. You’re not certain which to listen to as you lay under him, caged within his arms. Your breaths grow ragged, turning into quiet moans as his knee nudges your legs apart. This is different from the day at the hot springs. Sukuna is seeking something more—he is seeking his own pleasure this time.

A hand finds its way into your hair, gently tugging at it. Guided by his hand, you expose your neck further to him. He laps at the droplets of blood that form, sucking dark marks into the skin of your neck. Pain and pleasure overlap in your mind. Your thighs are a mess of your own slick, and the precum that leaks from the heads of his two cocks. It’s almost comical how you work yourself up in knots at only the slightest provocation by him.

You taste yourself on him as he kisses you. The bleeding from your neck has mostly stopped now. What remains will barely leave a scar. His lips trail down your neck, through the valley between your breasts, and down your stomach, before eventually stopping just shy of your cunt. The look of him alone has you growing as wet as a virgin; his hair disheveled from your hands running through it, the muscles in his shoulders appear more prominent now. His arms hook around your thighs, although he doesn't need to bother holding your legs open. You’d do it without prompt by him. Eager for your own release, and worked up into a soaked mess, you’d do anything to please him.

You shouldn't be enjoying it as much as you are. You know you should be afraid. It would take no effort from him at all to tear through your femoral artery, and let you bleed out. You would be helpless in the matter anyway; you’re nothing more than a little lamb trapped under a big bad wolf.

The feeling of his tongue is strange. With him on his knees, bowed in what resembles worship, has your stomach in knots. The lewdness of it all has you more worked up than anything else. A strange, pleasurable tension builds within you. He is not toying with you this time, but working you over. When you do finally cum, you cum hard, riding out your high on his face. The noises he’s making suggest he’s enjoying this almost more than you do.

He must be painfully hard now. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, and leaking precum. Using his hand to guide him, the head of his cock presses into you. You’re too wet from his previous actions to notice much of a stretch. What little pain there is crosses over with pleasure in your mind. He groans as he sheathes himself within you fully. His expression softens just enough for you to take in the features of his face. He’s quite handsome now that you’re close enough to appreciate his looks. It makes you wonder what his life as a human was like. Was he royalty, or a commoner? What was his job? Did he ever have family?

You won't get an answer out of him no matter how hard you try. This is the most human the king of curses will ever appear. 

His thrusts are slow at first. Lazy. More like grinding, not proper fucking. With as sensitive as you still are, this doesn't make much of a difference. You’re still a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. Judging by the noises he’s making, he’s not far from cumming himself. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and that seems to only encourage him. The muscles in his arms and shoulders gradually grow more tense before he shudders, then visibly relaxes. A warm sensation in your cunt follows soon after; he’s cum inside of you.

You lay like that for a while: limbs entwined, bodies curled around each other. He lets himself soften inside of you until the desire to pull out hits. You can tell your hips will be sore in the morning—whenever it decides to come. What little of his seed spills out of you is forced back in by his fingers. You assume it ties into his possessive nature. It must be a way of marking you as his. The fire has long since died out, though you find the warmth from his body adequate enough. 

“I don't think I can walk,” you lie, “carry me?”

Sukuna feigns annoyance, but relents, carrying you to the bed too large for any human. You quickly find your way under the covers. He finds himself in the space beside you. Fatigue hits you soon after, yet you find yourself unable to sleep.

“You were human once?” You ask.

The mood in the room seems to shift entirely. Sukuna is not one for conversation. You expected no different from a man like him. He looks at you with mild annoyance, as if deciding on his answer.

“I was. Once.” He says.

Your fingers trace across the tattoos on his wrist. “Do you miss it?” You ask. “Being human, I mean.”

“I am far stronger now than I was when I was a human.” He says. “I no longer need to eat, nor drink. I have the gift of eternal life so long as I am smart with my actions. I do not miss the fragility that comes with humanity.”

His words almost irritate you. So much more exists to humanity than what he says, from little things like sharing a summer even with a friend, tearing into ripe persimmons. Spending an evening hunched over a stew pot helping your mother. Kisses shared between a lover in the woods, or out in the fields. Stories exchanged by firelight. Intricately woven fabrics and paintings that might as well be indistinguishable from real life. So many beautiful things exist within humanity. Maybe he’s been away from it so long he’s forgotten the extent of it.

Would the King of Curses even admit he’s lonely? Or would he be too prideful to admit such a thing?

“You're sad. Why?” He questions.

“Was just thinking about my mother. That's all.” You say. “She wanted me to get married before I…”

You’re mad at her. More mad than you’ve been at anyone in your life. Yet you wish for nothing more than her comfort in this moment. A wound exists that time won't heal. Anger is not productive in fixing it. Anger only makes it worse.

This time, you are the one to initiate the kiss. You wish for it to distract you, but it only amplifies the ache in your chest.

“If you were to lose what little fight you had left in you, then this would no longer be fun,” he says.

You grow used to the ever-present shadow that is Sukuna, talking to the space beside you as if he is there because hell, sometimes he is. He is more than a mere man. He exists on a level different from you or anyone else. Your existence at this temple feels less like confinement and more like living. 

“Will you join me?” He asks one day by the river. 

The two of you sit upon the riverbank, watching as the water swirls below you. Spring snowmelt, combined with a recent storm, has stirred up the river bottom, turning the water murky. What was meant to be a fishing trip has proved unsuccessful.

“I would be lying if I said I haven't grown used to your presence.” He says.

“Don't be getting soft on me,” you say, half joking.

The most emotion you get out of him is an amused sounding huff. 

“I want you to join me,” he says, “not in life as human, but in eternity as a curse.”

“I will,” you say. 

No thought is needed for your answer, nor is there any hesitation on your part. Sukuna simply nods. That is what love is to him. Devotion. Worship. Throwing away your humanity means nothing if humanity is so quick to reject you. 

Gifts begin appearing around the temple after that. Priceless jewelry, and expensive dresses. Hair pins and cosmetics. Seasons pass in what feels like no time at all. Before you know it, your third fall here is quickly approaching. Winter comes and goes—uncharacteristically bitter this year. Spring brings a sense of rebirth. The ground thaws slowly, and plant life is in full bloom. Animal life returns to the surrounding woods, showing signs in every trail around the temple.

A hunting trip brings you further out into the woods than you’ve traveled before. You don't realize you’re nearing a human settlement until you’ve stumbled upon it.

The village has changed drastically in the time you were gone, so much so that you almost don't recognize it. A full blown mill has sprouted up along the river. At least twice as many houses stand now. Years ago this street was little more than a dirt path. Sometime over the years it has been paved over with river stones. Children play in the streets. Men walk home with pails of fish slung over their shoulders. These strangers notice you and pause, returning to their homes quickly. 

Your house remains mostly the same. Age has not been kind to it. One corner of the roof sags, and the wood trim has grown bleached with time. The path up to the front steps is overgrown. Sitting outside, hunched over a wash bin, is your mother.

Her hair is mostly gray now. Wrinkles mark her skin, and her joints are knobby, but you would still consider her beautiful. The face of the woman she once was is still there. The clothes she wears are of rich fabrics, suggesting your family has not hurt for money. Her sturdy figure suggests they never lacked food either.

When she sees you, her eyes grow wet with tears. And it’s as if the weight of the world has lifted off your shoulders. You want to be angry at her. You want to unload years of anger upon her. You want her to feel just a fraction of the fear you've felt. But you can't bring yourself to do it. The look in her eyes tells you she’s felt all the emotions you have.

Her movements are laced with hesitation, as if she’s deciding whether or not you're real. One of her wrinkled hands takes yours. 

“I love you,” she says, “and I am so sorry.”

“I know,” you say.

She invites you in for tea, setting the table up with the nice dishware—the kind she only uses for guests. The interior of the house hasn't changed much. Your room is eerily the same, as if it hasn't been touched since the day you left. Your father’s boots, and hunting coat remain by the door, although they look as if they haven't been moved in years. Makes sense, you think, hunting is a task that grows difficult as you get older. There comes a time in every hunter’s life where they grow old, and it becomes their turn to stay home and tend the fire.

“Where's…?” You never get the chance to finish your question, the solemn look on your mother’s face is enough of an answer.

“He passed,” she says, pausing to think, “two springs ago now? Maybe three.”

Believing you would never see them again, you grieved your parents long ago.This particular grief is like an old wound to you.

“The village looks prosperous,” you comment. A bitter tone clings to your voice.

“Yes,” she says, “the past years have been kind to us. I suppose we have you to thank for that?”

She sits across from you, her eyes still wet with tears. It feels like you are holding a conversation with a stranger. Your mother regards you with a certain weariness she only reserves for strangers. Maybe it would hurt more if you had more room within you for grief.

“He never stopped looking for you, you know,” she says, setting a cup of tea in front of you. “Even after the village held a funeral for you. He never wanted to believe it. Until the day he died, he was out in the woods thinking he could bring you home.”

“I was under the impression I wasn't wanted here.” You say.

“You know that’s not true,” she says. “What happened that night was a result of fear. The elders did what they thought would preserve the safety of everyone.”

“Except for me.” You say.

Fear. Right. To them, you were simply a sacrifice. You drain the last of your tea, standing from the table. Your mother stands as if to stop you, but freezes before she can.

“Does he treat you well?” She asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Better than any human man?”

“Yes,” you answer, although you can tell she doesn't believe it. 

“Do you love him?” She asks. “Does he love you?”

“I suppose so.” You say. “As much as he is capable of loving something.”

“But do you love him?” She asks again.

“As much as I am capable of doing so, yes.” You answer.

It is not the answer she wants, but the one that is the truth. With her hands folded in her lap, she nods solemnly.

That following night you leave your village not as a human, but as a curse. 

Enough time would pass that the story of a young sacrifice would be forgotten by its people; what would remain, is a tale of a love so infamous that it survived centuries.

[quimichi]

'*•.¸♡ SAMPO BF HEADCANONS ♡¸.•*'

A/n: the Sampo hcs that have been sitting in my notes for way to long now, unfinished, not proof read, enjoy the crap ♡

Sampo x Reader

¡! ❞ the fact that you rizzed up the rizzlord is already a big accomplishment by itself

¡! ❞ but that he also never lied one bit to you and is fairly reliable, is an even bigger one, for him that is

¡! ❞ he gets you lots and lots of presents. Are they stolen? Are they bought? Are they pulled out of the trash and cleaned? Who knows...

¡! ❞ its a mystery, the whole relationship is a mystery in itself. People really thought this was not gonna work out, you heard the comments and honestly, it didnt only upest you. It also upsets Sampo

¡! ❞ he never showed it to you, how it affected him and his confidence that poeple truly think hes incapable of workinh this relationship out. But for you he always put on a brave face, "Sampo Koski always takes care of his friends and love!"

¡! ❞ but the truth is, he crumbles inside. You did saw the true Sampo, who can listen to you for hours without saying a word, who comforts you at your lowest and pulls you up again, who stays by your side and never leaves, who never lied to you

¡! ❞ very affectionate and touchy. Has his arm around either your shoulder or hips while walking. Even is the type of guy to put his hands in your back pockets, sometimes even pinching you to tease

¡! ❞ sometimes, he just like, is gone. Not after important things tho but you could be out for a walk and boom hes gone like??? And comes back with something for you, as an apology yk. He mostly just disappeared because yk hes on the run anyway, the moment he could get arrested anywhere hes gone

¡! ❞ also for your sake, if they see you together then...he would never forgive himself if they'd use you or treat you bad, maybe even arrest you too!!! Its one of his nightmares tbh, the kinds where he wakes up all sweaty and out of breath

¡! ❞ Sampo is Sampo after all, and Sampo kiiiinda needs care too. Especially yours. If youre a natrually caring and affectionate person, it would help so much. But just your presence at all puts him both at ease and not. Like I said, hes scared for your safety even tho he will give his everything to protect you

¡! ❞ He changed to good? Kind of, like he is more reliable, trustworthy and all that. Only around you that is but he will be more honest with other's too. Although he still has his flight instinct by any danger or problems with others. You kind of taught him confrontation ig?

¡! ❞ but now to more cute stuff!!!! Like i said, loooads and loooads of presents. They range from cute to absolutely creepy, usefull and useless, expensive and for free. There's everything. But the best is when he comes home, all wet and soaked clutching the chocolate he got for you with his dear life against his chest to protect them and the box

¡! ❞ "Don't worry! I had everything under control!...Kind off" --- Sampo, having nothing in control besides you in bed----

¡! ❞ oop no jkjk---unless you're into that :)

¡! ❞ hes such a tease too! Like have you seen his outfit, Sir, this is my blog pls put your FUCKING V-LINE AWAY

[comfortless]

syl you can not casually mention blacksmith König and leave it at that!

sighing… ok, yes, i will talk about blacksmith! König more..! ^^

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. violence, physical/emotional abuse, descriptions of injury, death, angst, marriage on the gallows au.

Before König, there was his father, his father’s father and so on. Hardened men who were left to rot on the outskirts of the little village: sharpen blades, birth something from slabs of iron and silver. The work was tedious, but never dull. Scrape, burn, turn and roll- over and over until the smoke rose from the pit to sting at his eyes. Birth by fire wasn’t only in myths of dragons and phoenixes; he witnessed it each time he held pure malice in his hands as his hammer struck. Nothing became something, deadly and cruel. Day and night his life and lungs were filled to brimming with hellfire.

Accidents happen, naturally. No matter how careful he’s been, there’s nothing to keep the flame from entirely taking back after giving so much.

König’s father lost a finger while mentoring him.

His blue eyes were fixed on the man’s callused hand as the freshly smithed blade sliced through the digit like it was little more than a dollop of honey, no blood. There had been nothing but the crack of bone carved cleanly through, then the wet sizzle of meat cooking as it fell into the pit.

His father had screeched like a starved demon then, a barrage of insults tossed his son’s way like little more than passing pleasantries: oaf, useless cur, bitch.

König hadn’t been concerned, he sat on the stone bench looking up at his father and told him so, that he was fine: it had been cauterized, cleansed by the fire.

König lost the same finger that day.

His mother had fallen ill sometime last winter. The last memory he had of her was the look of frailty on her face, how her skin felt so cold and yet she lie dampened with sweat.

The dogs and buzzards had gotten to her grave, but it wasn’t them he felt any of the fire’s malice for.

Just his father.

The villagers didn’t know what became of the blacksmith, but König could recall it every night; how even with his dying breath he had only thought to curse his only son.

So, he wears the hood of the last executioner now, and the people shy away. They don’t like the look of death unless they can participate in it as a divined audience.

The dogs are never hungry, there’s illness all throughout the valley, and sometimes it only shines through in shimmering eyes while the villagers stare and giggle at the next withering soul led to the gallows.

König knows he should be there; like mother and father, his bones should be shared between panting mouths and blood-stained beaks. Sometimes the boars come sniffing too, and he’s always hated them, maybe even more than the birds. They’re ugly and sturdy, squealing and snarling like his father.

The villagers looked at the boars, though, because they were useful. Their eyes were hungry and happy each night the men set out on a hunt, unaware that their sons and daughters lurked in the bellies of the very beasts they starved for.

It’s cold even during the summer months in his shack.

There are blankets, a kitchen, a hearth, but it’s empty. The winter makes its wastelands each coming year, envious of how he can accomplish such with fire instead of ice. He doesn’t need to clean. The ash blackens the wood, cleanses all. One day, maybe, it would scrub him too.

The fire is a womb, but it’s never birthed anything truly alive. Not until her. A wildfire swept the field where travelers had gathered. With their supplies reduced to the very cinders König had come to adore, the surviving members sweep right into this cursed place like it’s a holy temple.

And the fire gave her to him.

König doesn’t know where this woman came to settle from; she isn’t like the other villagers, not even the travelers with their items and skills for selling. There’s still life in her eyes. He watches her as she wanders down the street with a smile on her face, one that speaks of a kindness that not a single one of these people deserves.

She introduces herself to them too, without a title to her name, and all at once any interest fades as the ghosts wander away from her.

His mother used to force him into the church when she was still alive.

She would take him by the hand as he lumbered after her, sticking out amongst the crowd of parishioners who would sing their hymns and stare at him with contempt behind their eyes. He hated going, but he did it for his mother; father was much too busy to spend his time with her and her fantasies. But König learned of angels there, fragile feathered things, all eyes and wings that wouldn’t stand a chance against a blade.

He didn’t think delicate things could be holy until her sweet, gentle smile is cast upon him.

This lady walks right up to him, doesn’t bat an eye at his hood when her lips curl up as she introduces herself. She doesn’t mind the sack of weapons thrown over his shoulder to take to the marketplace— the swords, the daggers, none of it. Her eyes don’t even glance their way; she looks only to him.

Women like this don’t want their homes and beds covered in ash, cinder in place of incense, fire instead of honey. But still she smiles while he says nothing.

König isn’t the only man who’s heart she steals, either.

The village is all gray, smoke and rot except where she walks. Flowers spring up for the coming spring, the deer and foxes are calling out for mates, and it’s all because of her— everyone must know it.

The farmer’s son brings her fresh fruit and whispers into her ear while they pass by his shack on a stroll. The man’s arm curls around her waist so naturally that König can only be reminded of the way that dagger sank between his fathers fingers, tore off a bit of him to feed back to hungry flame. If there were any god above he knew right then that it wouldn’t want him to allow that to happen to her. Not to an angel.

When the rest of the men, dogs and seraphim sleep, König tears the farmer’s boy in two— split down chest to abdomen and left as food for the pigs, right there in the middle of the field.

He doesn’t pray, he hasn’t since the last time he knelt by his mother’s sickbed, but he closes his eyes and breathes out a wish when he leaves that bloodied dagger at her doorstep.

He doesn’t pray, but he weeps when he rallies the villagers to apprehend her. She cries and fusses, face puffy from sleep and hair a mess. There isn’t a speck of blood on her, but the vultures take her anyway. König didn’t want to see her hurt; when her eyes find his, he turns away.

The day of her execution arrives like a festival ceremony. It’s been some time since the last, the scavengers are hungry, so famished he thinks he can almost hear them lick their teeth. There would be no death today, it’s already been decided. In distant places, a single act of devotion is all it takes to save a life, one that the beasts didn’t have the right to take.

The hunger wasn’t always just for death, but for something… a turn and change like steel in fire.

When the angel is taken to her death, rope dangling from her neck like a lead meant for cattle, he steps forward, parting the crowd with an ease. He’s practiced this a time or two in the smoke already, a lonesome and loathing god in the fog. The others scurry from him, looking up at him with pinched brows and bared teeth as if to goad he take her life instead.

Instead, he only catches her eye, smiles and lowers himself on one knee.

[romione-trope-fest]

Can't Do This Without You

Title: Can’t Do This Without You

Author: adenei

Trope: Cockblocker Harry

Summary: DH Missing Moment after Harry’s retrieval/Seven Potters. More angsty than anticipated.

WC: 1,790

Rating: M

TW: Implications of death/dying

**************

Hermione would have thought she’d have a good night’s sleep now that Harry was here—now that they’d successfully completed their retrieval mission—and everyone was once again safe under the Burrow’s roof, but that wasn’t the case at all. She’d tossed and turned all night. 

  Dreams turned into nightmares where Ron was the one who was hit with the killing curse, falling off his broom and tumbling hundreds of feet to the ground. She’d woken up in a cold sweat, praying she hadn’t screamed or woken Ginny. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get the image of Ron’s lifeless eyes staring into nothing. It was the worst thought imaginable—even more so than wiping her parents’ memories and sending them halfway across the world.

  Because what would be left to fight for if he was gone? The fear she’d grappled with in those never-ending moments before he and Tonks appeared in the field just beyond the Burrow’s garden had been excruciating. She couldn’t lose him—her lifeline to everything. If something happened to him, she’d be useless to Harry, better off as dead too.

  She tries to shake the dramatics from her mind, but it’s no good. She knows she’s overreacting herself into an unnecessary spiral, yet she can’t help it. Ever since she finally admitted to herself that she was in love with him—back when he’d been poisoned—the need and want and desperation to repair their mangled relationship had occupied the forefront of her mind.

  It really shouldn’t. Not when there’s a war on and she needs to put all of her focus into helping Harry find Horcruxes to destroy them and defeat Voldemort. 

  Right. The mission.

 Hermione blinks her tired eyes and refocuses on her porridge. Now that Harry’s here, they have to talk, plan, have things ready to go at a moment’s notice—all while Mrs. Weasley is trying to keep them apart.

  She glances down at the list she’s been given, chores she’s meant to accomplish today before the arrival of Fleur’s parents. Ron and Harry have lists too, no doubt not aligning with her own. A sigh escapes her lips and her gaze drifts to Ron, who happens to be watching her with a concerned look in his eye. She offers a feeble smile, but it’s obvious he sees right through it when his brow furrows even deeper.

  As much as she’d been looking forward to the relief of finally having Harry with them, she misses the two weeks they had together—alone. It didn’t matter how much she tried to prepare herself for it, how realistic she’d been about its expiration date, she’s still mourning the loss of the time they’ll no longer get together. And now she’s left questioning her decision to let him that far in to begin with, knowing that it can’t continue with Harry here. Maybe it would have been better to keep him at a distance—to protect her heart. 

  Ha, her heart. That’s the whole reason she’s in this mess to begin with. She forces herself to finish her breakfast with minimal lamentation in her mind, but it’s no use. Her brain won’t let up. So, she magics away her dish and gets up, hoping the tasks she’s been assigned will be a better distraction.

  But as she’s halfway to the door to go collect and fold the laundry that’s been hanging out to dry, Ron also moves around the table, headed for the stairs, but passes her a little too closely. His hand slides into hers for a brief moment, leaving a ripped piece of parchment in her grip. Then, he continues on his way as if nothing happened.

  She waits until she gets to the clothesline before unfolding the wrinkled paper and reads his note.

  Meet me in the broomshed in 10 minutes.

  Folding it hastily, Hermione shoves it in her pocket, worried that Mrs. Weasley might round a corner or open a window and become suspicious. She sets about to take the clothes off the line, then uses the table outside after Scourgifying it to fold everything. It’s only been eight minutes when she’s finished, but she doesn’t care. It’ll be less noticeable if one of them sneaks in there first. Looking around, she takes the basket with her to the shed under the guise of dropping off a freshly-cleaned pair of knee and elbow pads. 

  Ron joins her soon after, though it feels like she’s been waiting a lifetime when he finally opens the door and shuts it quietly behind him. “No one saw you, right?” he asks.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “You?”

  “Nope.”

  Hermione waits, expecting him to ask her what’s wrong—he clearly knows something’s bothering her—but when he turns to face her, his eyes darken as they search her face. She knows that look, knows it so well, but the relief she feels upon seeing it is nothing compared to the way it finally feels to have his mouth on hers again.

  The way Ron kisses her now is different from every other time. She thought she’d experienced every possible kiss he has to offer by this point, but the desperation as his lips hungrily capture hers is brand new. With the looming threat of death and scarce opportunities to continue activities such as this coming soon, she wonders if this might become the norm.

  Instinctively, her hands tug at his shirt as his fingers claw up her sides, his thumbs teasing her as they brush the underside of her breasts. Even through her bra, it sends shivers throughout her body, and she arches her back in a request for more. He removes his hands long enough to let Hermione take his shirt off, then splays them on her back and presses her against his body. 

  In between the shower of little pecks along her jaw, he asks, “What’s wrong?

  Her eyes flutter shut as she focuses on the sensation of his hot breath on her skin. She wants to lie and tell him nothing so they can continue doing this, but she knows better. They promised—no more lies, no more hiding things. They have to be honest with each other.

  “I can’t stop thinking about—if it’d been—when you didn’t come back on time, I—” The tears begin to slip out of her eyes.

  He wipes them away with his thumbs and cups her face. “I didn’t. I’m right here.”

  “I know, but what if—” a sob escapes her mouth. “Ron, I can’t do this without you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. Right here.” He solidifies the fact by guiding one of her hands to his chest, placing it over his steadily beating heart.

  It’s funny how he always knows what she needs. The gesture does wonders to calm her. “I know, I know, I—we shouldn’t be doing this.”

  He smiles against her cheek. “Probably not, no. Want to stop?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” His lips return to her neck, kissing down to her clavicle as his hands find their way back up under the thin cotton of her shirt. “Missed you last night.”

  “Me too,” she breathes as he kisses the swell of her cleavage. Her hips dig into his, grinding against him. “More. Please.”

  Ron groans, the vibrations sending shockwaves to her center. Her fingers find the button of his jeans and begin to fumble when there’s a crack, then a commotion outside the door. The handle jiggles, but thank Merlin Ron locked it. Her eyes widen as she looks at Ron, her hands still frozen at his jeans.

  “Guys, are you in there?” Harry calls.“I could have sworn I saw—maybe not. Damn. Then where…”

  His voice trails off and they both exhale in relief. “That was close,” Ron mutters.

  “Yes, it was. Maybe we should…” she looks down at his bare torso and her hands halfway down his pants.

  Ron kisses her cheek. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “We knew this was going to happen,” she commiserates, immediately missing the contact as he bends down to pick up his shirt.

  “I know. I just—maybe we can find a way…at night? After everyone’s asleep?” She contemplates his suggestion, weighing the plausibility of getting away with a late-night escape out here. But when she takes too long to respond, he follows with “Not that we have to do this—I mean, that’s not all—we could just—”

  She places her pointer finger over his lips. “Stop. I’d like that. As long as we can get away with it.”

  “Oh. Right. Brilliant.” His cheeks flush scarlet, ears turning pink.

  Despite having expressed themselves in more ways than just words over the past few weeks, Hermione’s heart still melts over the awkwardness. It’s these moments that remind her how real this is—how genuine his feelings are too—and how sometimes he has a hard time believing they’re here right now as well.

  She leans forward and presses her lips to his, kissing away any of his lingering doubt. For a moment, she wonders if they should just tell Harry, but then she remembers he broke up with Ginny because of the mission, and she knows it’d hardly be fair for her and Ron to be together while he can’t be with her.

  Sneaking around it is, then.

  But then another thought occurs to her. “Ron?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If Harry was looking for us and thought he saw us go in here…but the door was locked…did he not realize—does he know?”

  Ron shakes his head. “No! No, I swear I didn’t—I don’t know why he didn’t try to—oh bugger—”

  “But why else would he just—”

  “I don’t know. Maybe—er, maybe he thought Mum put a charm on it so we can’t get our quidditch stuff until chores are done or something? She used to do that when we were younger…”

  Hermione bites her lip. “Maybe. So then how do we—”

  “Give me a minute.” He furrows his brow and thinks. Hermione watches him carefully, seeing the crinkle of the corners of his eyes and the curl of his lips when the plan formulates in his head. “I’ve got it. I’ll Apparate back to my room from here, and you leave the same way you came. If Harry’s lingering, just pretend you were crying or something. He asked if you were okay at breakfast, so he knows something’s bothering you.”

  “Oh, that’s brilliant. That could explain the locked door too!”

  “Exactly.”

  Hermione throws her arms around him and allows herself to get lost in another deep kiss until he’s the one who pulls away this time. “If we don’t stop now…”

  “I know, I know.”

  But they both stay there, neither attempting to move first. Then Ron squeezes her hand and smiles. “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight.”

  And hopefully, there won’t be any more interruptions.

[definegodliness]

Feed

I do attest, I have Outlived the child at arms, Tearing itself apart; Throwing limbs Like shedding skin; piling flesh As monuments To the stages of grief, And all but one of them, for its Rage, I decided: Meaningless. And, so, I stand. Verily, it would have been Meaningless To make the Ouroboros murderous; To set loose the beast And let it eat What is no other than the You In me. The victim remains Unchanged; it is all the same Meat. Had I Despised you; Reviled you; Demonised you, Would I have been better off? The same light would shine Through the frames, whether or not I would have smashed the windows, And I never felt relief, or accomplishment At the sound of breaking Porcelain. It is not me, and so it is nothing I aspire to be. Still, When I gaze at All water under the bridge I could not burn, I cannot help but concur With those who'd favour a purging Outpour of animosity; in its reflection I see Some Promethean Eagle Still feasting On me. And I think Such ill-fated Malady, self-inflicted, Must be the reason Why there are separate words For that which is meaningless And that which is Useless. The water under the bridge Is as crystal clear as the answer To my child at arms heart's final inquest: Had I loved you with a Vengeful heart, Would I have loved you Any less?

--- 30-40-2024, M.A. Tempels ©

[sweetainwen]

ᴍᴀʟᴇᴅɪᴄᴛᴜᴍ [JJK]

Summary: trying to break free from a witch's curse was daunting, especially if it was a charade that would last until he had her to himself, but nothing was left unpunished by the rampage of a true walking curse, for every sin had to be atoned for.

Pairings: yandere duke witch hunter!Jungkook x fem!witch hunter?OC (you can think of her as Y/N)

Genre: made up world!au, supernatural!au, witch!au, yandere!au, smut

Disclaimer: this story is fictional, so each character is not as described in it.

Warnings: slight age gap (Jungkook 22 OC 26), obsession, manipulation, violence, blood, supernatural themes, burning at stake, major character death, murders, unprotected sex, fingering

Word count: 7.2+k

A/N: happy Halloween!

Tragic was life, bringing with it unexpected events that no one could prevent. The injustice of this filled hearts with sadness and helplessness, eyes that wanted to express them with tears but it was now useless.

Like her now gazing at the coffin of her third and brave husband being buried, passed away shortly after their wedding. People around her paying their condolences for the ill-fated event.

But she knew, knew how fear and judgments were hidden beneath them. She knew of the derogatory epithet that had been hung on her.

Their voices were loud, their looks piercing, their gestures blatant.

“She doesn't even shed a tear.”

“I wonder how it happened this time.”

“What a curse.”

The abyss dragged her down, shrouding her with its darkness.

However, his gentle hands brought her back up, firm and decisive, cutting that black thread that twisted overbearingly and undisturbed around her body.

As soon as she looked up, Jungkook’s tender smile calmed the turmoil that was taking over her, a hand squeezing her shoulder in comfort while the other was outstretched towards her.

“Let's get going, Minji. The air is getting very cold.”

She returned his smile with a more faint one and a slight nod of her head, resting her hand on his and letting him guide her out of the graveyard and to their carriage.

Her desire was only to marry and live happily, an accomplishment of almost every woman. She coveted that love as special as it was magical, for she had been deprived of it from an early age.

However, something prevented her from doing so.

The death of her first husband had been considered an accident, but that of her second husband a suspicion, and that of her third a confirmation.

Harbinger of misfortune, one glance was enough to cloud the poor unfortunate man's rationality, who acted rashly with a marriage proposal.

Whereupon those who fell victim to her beauty were cursed and perished.

The cursed woman.

That was what she was called by the townspeople, for there was a witch's hand in all these nefarious events.

A certainty due to the trails of magic found at the murder scene of her third husband.

“I am truly dismayed that you have been involved in this reprisal, my dear. We should have foreseen such an action.” The middle-aged man's sad voice reached her ears after they entered their mansion, being helped by the maids in freeing themselves of their coats.

“Do not blame yourself for this, my dear cousin,” she reassured, her palm brushing against his arm. “We are aware of who is really guilty. And I am confident that we will be able to find them, given our hunting abilities. The witches will not be able to escape for long.” Her hand rested gently on the cheek of the younger man beside her, whose doe-like eyes looked at her with concern and affection, before a sigh escaped her lips, “Now if you will excuse me, I shall retire to my chamber. I... need to be alone for a moment.”

The two men watched her as she made her way to the stairs, lifting her dress with her hands to prevent it from getting in the way of her steps, until she disappeared from their sight and they heard the door open and close.

The oldest cursed in a low voice, gritting his teeth, “Damn witches! If I could I would kill them all in one shot!” His gaze fell upon Jungkook, whose lips were pressed together. “Do everything to track down who it is.”

“Yes, father.”

“Just focus on hunting down these bastards, I will take care of the other family business.”

Jungkook nodded and before he began his task, his eyes drifted to the spot where his cousin had disappeared, and a sigh came out, his heart tightened with anguish at the memory of her worn-out appearance.

The fierce fury against her was personal, dictated by revenge in wanting to afflict of the same pain of losing comrades to the witch hunters.

What better way than to have a member of the Jeon, main duchy of the witch hunters' organization, as a victim?

And they had achieved their goal, with Minji pressing her lips together and tightening her grip on the reins of her horse at yet another shake of the head by one of their best hunters, Jin.

She could well hear the taunting giggles of those beings echoing through the forest even though they were concealed from their eyes, driving her frustration and anger almost to the edge. She was getting weary of the whole situation. And if she had to resort to different help, she would, even though she was reluctant.

She exhaled, "We will continue tomorrow. Going any further now will not yield any success. We will try another method."

Jungkook had not looked away from her for a second until he saw her pull the reins to turn around, followed by their second-best hunter, Namjoon.

"I knew they would curse us someday, but not that they would only come after one person,” Taehyung’s voice, another hunter, and the sound of the hooves of his horse on the ground to his left caught his attention, “They seem quite interested in your father’s cousin.”

Jungkook's gaze ended on her again, a knowing smile on his face, “They should never play with fire. It will burn them to death.”

Despite saying those words, hoping they would be heard by the tormentors, they were not getting their way, for the following days were a continuous search for them without success. And the one who suffered the most was Minji.

The frustration that was being shown on her face was not at all concealed, even if she tried to not let it get under her skin.

Her eyes that were slowly losing their vitality worried the most, for it was they that most captured people, that captured him as the first time he had seen her.

“This is Jeon Minji, a distant cousin of mine. She will stay here with us from now on. This is my son, Jeon Jungkook.”

He saw her get up from the sofa in their drawing room, walking in front of him.

The meeting was unexpected, since he had never heard of this cousin.

She curtsied, a smile tugging at her lips before stretching out her gloved hand, "Pleased to meet you, Lord Jungkook."

His hand moved on its own, taking hers and lightly placing his lips on her knuckles, “The pleasure is mine, Lady Minji.”

And the never-breaking eye contact allowed him to notice a gleam in her eyes that dazzled him.

That feeling had grown over time and did not appear to fade. It was as if he was enchanted and subjugated.

Like now as she watched the moon and stars, standing in the garden, the moonbeams over her figure making her ethereal and almost mystical.

“Can’t seem to sleep?” he asked, pulling a blanket over her shoulders to protect her from the chilling night.

She sighed, “Who would?”

“Would you like me to sing you a lullaby and stroke your hair?” he joked, a half-smile making its appearance.

She pressed her lips together to keep herself from laughing, the back of her hand lightly smacking his clothed chest.

He feigned hurt, pouty lips and knitted eyebrows, clutching the injured part.

“You big jester! It’s too late for that. I am no longer a child, but you have my gratitude.”

“Honored to be your jester, my lady.” A slight bow followed the last words, taking a small chuckle out of her.

A pleasant silence greeted them.

After the death of her first husband, their meetings had increased to be as close to her as possible and offer her all his support.

The more time they spent together, the more curiosity, affection, and attraction worked its way into him.

Her trust in him had improved so much that she was even able to tell him how her family had been exterminated by witches in an ambush.

She was the only survivor of part of his father's family.

There were many members of the Jeon family, but she had never been heard of except before that misfortune happened, in which news of an illegitimate daughter spread fast and unstoppable.

She was still a Jeon, it was a duty and right to help her.

“Worry moves your actions,” she spoke. Now face to face, Minji moved as many steps as it took to have their chests brushing against each other, “but you need not worry.” A tender smile graced her lips, her fingers caressing his cheek. “Despair will never cling to me, because I have you.”

A flutter came at those words and a pleasant warmth embraced his heart.

And he wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling her body heat through their fabrics of clothing.

"After losing everything, you and your father are really the only people I have left. My family."

He sighed, a glint of sadness in his gaze, “However, we are not enough for you.” Her features softened more, her heart throbbing restlessly at his reaction. “I am aware of the difference, yet you acted hastily. I know you want to get married, how you would like to create that family you could not have, but you did not even know them.”

“I would have as time went on.”

“It doesn't imply loving them.”

She did not argue back, mindful of the truthfulness of his words. Not all marriages had that happy ending. There were many different endings that could be reached. She knew that, but if she was held back by all these ifs and buts, she would only live in fear and paranoia.

The loss of that comforting warmth on one of her hips awakened her from her thoughts, finding it now on her cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin of it.

“For that reason, you should look closer to you. And your eyes will see that the right person is precisely the one on whom expectations were nil.“

Silence fell. His eyes wanting to convey without more words what he wanted to say, and when they reached their destination, Minji almost lost her breath.

“I love you.”

She was completely taken aback, so much so that she could not find the right words.

Heart racing, thoughts jumbling together. She was happy.

She beamed and covered her mouth with one hand to hide it from the eyes of the young man, who, however, noticed it immediately.

And she decided to answer his silent question.

“This is outrageously embarrassing,” a little ashamed chuckle left her lips, “I… had a desire to get married so that I could forget what I felt, since… I believed that you could never reciprocate my feelings.” She began to speak swiftly, “I am aware that throwing myself into the arms of those men without having any knowledge of them was wrong, but I was sure it was the best solution to avoid a possible unintended consequence of my unrequited lo-“

Voraciously her lips were assailed by his, moving them gently and slowly, savoring and devouring with ardor that first impulsive kiss of theirs.

His fingers brushing her cheeks, her hands on his hips for support.

Pulling a short distance away, their eyes met, chests going up and down.

“You were totally in the wrong. Because I love you and long for you as if you are my breath. Marry me.”

“Your father-“

“Oh, my father would gladly approve of our union,” he chuckled. “His confession about me being the best husband for a woman like you was quite telling.”

She blinked in surprise, “Did he really say such a thing?”

“He says many things that are to your advantage, my dear.” He pecked her lips, making her smile. “We will find that witch and get married. I promise you.”

She nodded, her arms circling his waist and her head resting on his chest. He pulled her close to him, his chin on her head and a victorious, sly smile adorning his face.

Happiness was overtaking him.

Who would have expected such a turn of events? It was an opportunity he would not waste.

However, if he had realized it earlier, she would have been his before those bastards interfered with marriage proposals.

Resorting to this charade had been worth it anyway; he had been wanting to get rid of the worthless scums who had immediately ogled her shortly after her arrival for too long.

Witches were the enemy of humans. Evil beings who deceived you with their human guise. For that reason, the Jeon household became witch hunters for the salvation of humanity.

Making use of the grimoires taken from those beings, they succeeded in creating tools that allowed protection against them, to trap and execute them.

Even if they still existed after centuries, the Jeons would still fight. And Jungkook, now, was the successor to that duchy.

So, no one would notice that a human was to blame for those incidents if you tainted the crime scene with evidence against witches. Least of all Jeon Jungkook himself, the witch hunter.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” the young man on the ground shrieked in a strangled voice, the rope net that had opened from the ball attached to an arrow shot from a crossbow blocking his movements with electric shocks.

They had invaded his house, turning it upside down in search of something he didn’t know about.

His own friends were treaking him like a criminal, like a witch.

“They are here!” a hunter notified from one of the rooms.

Quick steps on the wooden floor before his gaze ended on Jungkook and Minji, the latter holding a grimoire and a voodoo doll, features distorted by betrayal and disappointment like the rest of those present there.

With glassy eyes and his heart pounding, he began to shake his head, “They're not mine! I could never!” Minji’s lips were quivering. “Lady Minji, believe me! I’m not a witch! Please!”

“Take him.”

It was the last thing he heard from Jungkook before he was dragged ruthlessly out of his own house toward his last breath, screaming and trying to wriggle out even against that net-like trap that thwarted him with pain.

His pleas would go unheard and the answer to his question about the reason for this dogged and unfair framing against him never given.

Loss of sanity and restraint was there when it concerned witches, and the Jeon's young successor was aware of this.

Finding someone as a scapegoat was not difficult either, finding someone else who had allowed himself to look at her more than he could as the culprit of the curse, fitting in manufactured evidence, had been easy.

If he had known his place, he would not have ended up at the stake, undergoing pain and pleading he was not a witch.

The shock the townsfolk had experienced in knowing that Jung Hoseok, such a kind and shy young man who had just moved from afar, had actually turned out to be one of those monsters had been severe.

For Minji, who had welcomed him gently to put him at ease and had even grown attached to him like a sister, it had been another loss.

She still recalled how he lowered his timid gaze and played with his fingers while talking, the selflessness he showed if someone needed some help, and the small smile of when he was asked or considered in conversations and jokes.

And as she and the others watched the flames that had now devoured him and left only a burned body, she wondered who she might or might not trust around her.

“My love…” his soft, gentle voice and his fingers intertwining with hers as a sign of comfort led her to look at Jungkook, “This view destroys our hearts, but you’re free now.” She flashed him a half-smile and was immediately engulfed in a hug. “I’m here. All is well. You’re safe.”

She held him close, the feeling of safety and warmth embracing her once again, “You are right. I have you. My soon-to-be husband.”

Ah, how he loved those words.

He was at the mercy of this victorious enthusiasm.

It seemed to him to be an illusion well devised by a witch for how much he still could not believe that he would finally make her his for eternity.

The fear of losing her had been swept away by the knowledge that he had her in his grasp.

She could not escape; he would not allow it.

She would have no reason to, either, for nothing connected the situation they had gone through with him.

Their lives would run smoothly. They would have children, see them grow up, and would tell them and their grandchildren about how magnificent their wedding day had been.

That white dress had made her look like a goddess come down to earth to tempt a man and enchant him for life with sweet words, gentle caresses and breathtaking smiles.

He had not resisted and with vows of love and a kiss, they had sealed that long-awaited union.

Her gasp of surprise and giggle when he had taken her in his arms had stirred his heartstrings into more chords of love and devotion.

And it shone through his eyes that did not leave Minji's for a moment as he removed the veil from her hair and then caressed one of her cheek.

“I still cannot believe that you are here, as my wife.”

She leaned her face into his hand, on which she placed her own, “Believe it. For I will be here with you until death do us part.”

Without another word, Jungkook pressed his mouth to hers harshly.

Her hand gripped the back of his neck, pulling him closer towards her. His hands quickly made their way around her waist and she could feel her breasts brush tightly against his chest as he continued to deepen their kiss and led her back towards the bed.

Both crawling up onto the middle, her back resting now on the mattress, Jungkook’s mouth continued to work against her own, his kisses becoming desperate, her fingers running through his dark locks. He groaned against her, lips finding the skin of her neck and trailing kisses up and down slowly.

She arched her back and spread her legs, his hips now comfortably against hers and the feeling of his hard bulge in his pants against her obvious. His hands lifted the skirts of her dress, fingers trailing on her skin light enough to send sparks and goosebumps down her body.

But a sense of stiffening was detected by Jungkook, leading him to break their lips apart to give her a questioning gaze.

“What is it, my dearest?”

A tint of red colored her cheeks in embarrassment and shyness, head lowering and hands tightening around the fabric of his clothing.

She was so adorable that he wanted to tease her.

“I… It won’t hurt again, will it? My former husbands had not been very… gentle. I’m afraid I…”

Silence fell in the room, but the rage lurking in Jungkook did not stop growing after those words.

They had been fortunate enough to have such a delicate and special flower in their arms and had instead decided to fill with pain and sadness that important bond between spouses.

Ungrateful pieces of shit.

A soft smile tugged at his lips, “Look at me.” She did. “I would never hurt you, in any way. I love you too much to commit such obnoxious actions.”

A slight nod of approval from her was all he needed to kiss her again, his hands shoving her dress up to expose her bare skin before trailing his fingers over her thighs and rubbing against her sensitive spot over her undergarments. She let out a soft gasp, goosebumps all over her body.

Taking advantage of this, his tongue swept in between her lips, playing with her own.

She gripped his hair as he tore her undergarments off, helping him kicking them off with her legs and hands. Pulling away again, her dress was next, pulling it up and leaving her completely bare under his gaze.

Lust filling their eyes and patience vanishing, he undressed himself quickly of his wedding suit, leaving his hardened dick on display.

Minji couldn’t help but look at him, almost losing her breath at how handsome he was. That hungry, dazed gaze made Jungkook completely insane.

She was looking at him.

Loving him.

A surprise gasp left her lips as one of his fingers slipped inside of her slowly, body hot and labored breaths.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered breathlessly, drinking in her beautiful face contorted with pleasure.

Leaning over, he bit down on her shoulder as he worked his finger inside of her, a moaning escaping from her.

“I’m gonna make you feel good,” he said in a dark voice, another finger starting to slowly push inside of her. “Make you feel how much I yearn to make you mine.”

She shut her eyes, his hot breath fanning over her neck, overwhelmed by his movements and hot body against hers.

His thumb pressed against her clit, sending more shivers down her spine as her hands gripped his hair and her back arched, hips rocking up toward his fingers.

“Jungkook-“

A breathless chuckle was his reply, “You’re so wet. You’re clenching so much.”

“Please- I’m-“

“Want to come right now? Or you want my cock to fuck your pussy? Mmh? Would you like that? Look at you, so ready to get fucked up.”

His vulgar words made her whimper more, his fingers bringing her close to her own release.

“Please, fuck me up, fuck me-“

The loss of his fingers made her grunt in disappointment, but a gasp of surprise left her lips as soon as she felt his cock pushing into her slowly.

He grabbed her wrists and brought them over the sheets, near her face, intertwining her fingers with his shortly after and kept rolling his hips back and forth as he was now buried deep inside her.

She looked at him, eyes half-lidded and everything around her disappeared.

She could only hear his fast breaths and see drops of sweat falling undisturbed along his temples, neck, chest.

His arms muscles flexing as they supported the weight of his body, eyes watching her with a glint of pure and primitive ecstasy

He was shuddering above her, showing how much she was making him feel fucking good. Bare. Hers.

A shift in his movements caused something inside of her to sent shots of electricity through her limbs and whimper in pleasure.

“You’re so good. Taking me so well.”

Pulling back from her body and then slamming into her roughly, it almost made her cry out in bliss.

Her legs hugged his hips, pulling him deeper inside her.

Clenching around his cock, she flashed him a lustful smile and his quiet grunts turned into moans as his thrusts became more erratic.

Dizziness invaded their senses and spasms ran through their bodies as Jungkook filled her with his seed, reaching their release.

Trying to catch their breath, he collapsed onto her, his face in the crook of her neck and her hand now stroking his hair.

He held her close, rubbing his nose against her neck, which made her giggle as she reciprocated the squeeze with a happy sigh.

The night was quiet while they enjoyed their proximity, but a sudden muffled noise caught Minji’s attention, her gaze ending on a black cat on the window sill glaring at her.

She reciprocated with a curious glance, but did not give it much thought.

The next few days she began to see him more often; he followed her wherever she went as if he were her shadow. So she decided to take care of him, eventually waiting for his arrival so she could cuddle and play with him. He was very affectionate for a stray cat.

Her heart melted like snow when the cat snuggled up on her thighs for a nap or just to be close to her, as he was doing now. The trust he placed in her filled her with joy. Getting it from an animal was not always easy, hence she was proud of it.

If she spoke to him, he understood. If her mood changed, he sensed it. A little moral support.

Her fingers passed gently through his fur, his purr widening her smile.

“You love that cat very much.”

Her cousin's voice rendered to a whisper brought her back to reality, the cup of tea between the fingers of her other hand now cold, sitting on a chair next to his bed.

Her gaze landed on him, seeing his softened features as he sipped his tea with his back resting on the back of his bed, the pillow making the resting comfortable.

“I do.”

She placed the cup on the undercup placed on the small nightstand to her right before reaching out her hands toward the cup and undercup he was holding out to her, the black cat coming down from her legs to wonder around the room.

"And Jungkook is still displeased."

She let a small chuckle escape her lips, "He is not some witch's familiar, the sphere would have reacted otherwise. Besides, Jungkook is displeased by anything that takes my attention away from him," she reminded him amusedly, setting the undercup and cup down next to hers.

“Oh! That young man is beyond smitten with you that he even wants to get rid of a cat! I wouldn't be surprised if one day he made all the animals around disappear.”

The man laughed wholeheartedly, enjoying the way his son was behaving out of his usual character. But coughing fits interrupped him, his hand over his mouth now smeared with his own blood.

Minji widened her eyes, concern again evident on her face as she knelt at the edge of the bed and handed him a handkerchief, wiping his hand with another.

He looked at her, a soft smile adorning his face, “You are such a kind soul, my lovely little cousin. I don’t see myself worried about leaving my son in bad hands. I’m glad you accepted to be his wife. It’s the best gift I could ever receive.”

She stood still, pain and sadness piercing her heart yet a sense of pride and gratitude followed those emotions at his words.

“Thank you, father-in-law.”

He caressed her cheek, tenderness and affection guiding his gesture, “Take good care of each other, all right?”

“Of course. Always.” She gave him a weak smile, “It’s better if I let you rest, I think I have stayed too long. I will visit again tomorrow.”

“I will wait for you, my precious daughter.”

And off she went, taking with her the tea cart carefully prepared by herself after placing the cups on it, the cat following suit.

After closing the door, she let out a sigh.

A few weeks after their wedding, as Minji and he were having their usual tea hour together, he had brought a hand to his chest before passing out.

Panic had risen, and when they had called the doctor, it was discovered that an illness had struck him.

It was incurable and nameless.

The despair and destruction she had seen pass across Jungkook's face had broken her heart more than the news had already done.

His complexion was pale, dark circles under his eyes, strength weakening, and some of his nights were sleepless.

Her cousin was dying and nothing could be done. Their helplessness was unbearable, but other than spending time with him, they could do nothing else.

He had taken care of her when she was left alone, welcoming her and engaging her immediately as if she was not a mistake of her father's with another woman. He had showered her with love, becoming a father and a brother.

She almost lost her mind.

But the appearance of that cat – which she had named Sese – had been a distraction. Jungkook was busy with family business in his father's stead, so he spent a lot of time in his office room. Caring for an animal helped keep her mind off that unforeseen tragedy, ignoring Jungkook’s disapproval.

The black cat was the witches' familiar. Deception and malice were part of them. Having one in the house brought bad luck, he had even come to believe that he was to blame for his father's illness.

This, however, was not possible, since if he had really been the bearer of misfortune, the protective sphere of the house placed on a pedestal in the basement would have counteracted his strength and prevented him from entering.

He was a normal black cat that she had chosen to take in.

Footsteps could be heard and she looked up, finding Jungkook coming her way with slow, tired movements.

“Is he sleeping?”

She nodded, “Likely. I left to let him rest.” He hummed and Minji approached him, her voice soft as she asked, “Do you want me to make you some tea?”

“What you have already prepared will be fine for me.”

“But it's cold.”

“It's still tea.”

“Alright, alright,” she exhaled before giving him a peck on his lips. “Go and relax a bit too. You need it. I'll join you right away.”

He gave her a weak smile, “Thanks, my dearest.”

Tired voice, slumped shoulders, dull eyes. His pain was palpable even now with his back to her.

She could understand him; he had lost his mother when he was young to a fall from a horse while hunting witches, and now he was losing his father to a disease.

She clenched her hands into fists.

It was not fair. They had begun happy days, their laughter filling the house, their fellowship with each other and even with the household employees.

She thought it would all end with the killing of the witch, but their family still seemed to be in the arms of a curse.

The organization was already mourning one of their important members, but when he actually died a few days later, no one could still believe that they were looking at his grave in the cemetery.

The rain and fog made the event more somber and unbearable.

Condolences and words of prayes were adressed to them with sympathy and compassion.

And the title of Duke had passed to Jungkook.

His obligations had increased and with them the pressure he perceived on himself because of the expectations other members now placed on him and the family business.

The incessant pounding in his head caused distraction and slowed his work.

And today was one of those days.

His vision was blurring and the hand that was holding the pen was trembling, the writings on those papers placed on the desk only meaningless ink.

He let go of the pen and with a sigh leaned back on the chair, rubbing his face with his hands to try to shake off the weariness.

A clink of something contrasting a surface awakened him, seeing his usual cup of tea on his desk and Minji at one side of it.

"Here's your tea, dear."

He reached out a hand toward her and Minji took it between hers, drawing her closer before wrapping his arms around her waist. His head resting on her stomach.

Her fingers began to run through his hair, slightly relieving his headache at which he breathed a sigh of relief.

He rubbed his face against her stomach.

She smiled, softened by his behavior considered childish, and let him be.

“Are you done with your work for the day?”

“Not quite. Unfortunately, I have a headache.”

She blinked, “Again?”

“Again.”

“Then drink, don’t waste time. You said it helps you get over it.”

“I will. Just let me stay like this a little longer.”

She snorted a chuckle and his heart skipped a beat.

He was so lucky to have her.

She supported him with simple gestures, understood when he needed something and assisted when he couldn't continue certain things himself.

She also declined every letter of invitation to tea parties to have a simple chatter with friends because she wanted to stay with him.

Everything about her was soothing. Her touch, her breath, her closeness. She was his main pivot. His life. His.

He couldn’t stop admiring and loving her.

And he was often caught staring at her like a fool and hearing her laugh every time she told him to stop was a cure-all.

For her he was also trying to like Sese, even though he was taking up too much of Minji's time. And she gently scolded him not to be jealous of a cat.

He probably was.

Normality was setting in again in their lives and he was over the moon.

However, something began to crack once again.

Minji was on the alert, often distant and silent. Whether at home or during meetings between members of the organization, or simply walking through the streets of the central city. Especially with him.

Anxiety and terror had mixed, shaping thoughts and theories that were taking root in his mind.

She was terrifying him. He was afraid she had grown tired of him. That she had a lover.

Just thinking about it sent him into a frenzy.

He had started having nightmares and the sleepless nights did not allow him to think properly.

And the discovery of her nocturnal outings fed his fear that was getting out of control even more.

She was not betraying him. She was not leaving him. She couldn't. She had no chance.

He had tried, he had tried to communicate, to understand the problem, but he had received no answer.

Every excuse was used to avoid confrontation.

This time he would wait for her to face the situation once and for all.

He saw her as she crossed the threshold of their bedroom with light steps so as not to make noise.

Her gaze had immediately focused on him, sitting in the chair by the window set at the left side of the bed. There was no surprise and fear of being caught red-handed; no, it was as if she knew someone was waiting for her.

Doubts crept more into him.

"Where were you?"

"I was thirsty, I drank some water."

"You were thirsty, you drank water,” he was mocking her as he got up, walking slowly up to her. “In your walking dress.”

He was so close that she could feel his breath on her face, the silent expressiveness in his eyes exposing his anxious thoughts.  hands shaking and slightly labored breathing.

He was so close that she could feel his ragged breath on her face. The quiet expressiveness in his eyes baring his anxious thoughts.

She tilted her head to the side, weirded out and irritated by his behavior.

“I put on the first dress I could find. Finding a suitable one would have taken time.”

“Can… Can we talk about it?”

“About what?”

“About how you’re lying to me.”

The snort she gave him left him stunned, the rope of sanity permanently snapping.

His heart began to pound faster, his trembling hands cupping her face. Despair clouded his mind at her faint mocking smile and no definitive answer.

He couldn't stand it. She was kind. She was loving. She loved him.

“What’s happening? Why are you reacting like this? Is someone bothering you? Threatening you? You don’t have to hide things from me. I’m your husband! I can help you!”

He was a mess.

He spoke fast, his voice quivering, and he felt like he was losing his mind.

It was exploding. He felt suffocated.

He took his head in his hands, his knees ending up on the ground, another headache suddenly occurring. This time heavier and more persistent.

His stomach burned, a lump forming in his throat until he vomited blood before falling sideways, a few splatters reaching Minji's dress.

She had moved a few steps closer, looking down on him.

Bent over, panting, shivering, frail.

“The tea has finally had its effect. Did you enjoy the nightmares? Probably of me leaving you alone. The twist is… you were always alone. I’m not your father’s cousin. I’m not part of your family. I am not a Jeon. Spreading rumors of an illegitimate child was a child’s play.”

Jungkook was gasping for air, tremendously shocked by what was happening. He looked at her, pupils shaking, face pale, jolts sweeping through his body.

"Too many questions you're asking me!” she chuckled, her arms behind her back with the fingers of one hand intertwined with the other. “My amazement at observing human greed will never end. Tearing books from witches and using them against them to feel powerful, killing them with no mercy whatsoever. Creating massacres and making children orphans. You have no respect for what you have. Truly deplorable.”

Anger was audible in her voice, her face disfigured with disgust.

“In two of those many massacres were the three most important people in my life. I am sure that the memory of a big wolf protecting a woman is not easily forgotten, as the sight of such a wolf is not every day occurrence. They were my parents. And I was watching with my husband and brother, hidden from your eyes under my parents' request. Shortly afterwards I lost my husband as well." A sinister glint appeared in her eyes, bending her upper body slightly toward him, "The pain I felt had been so immeasurable that I was burning with the desire to make you feel the same. You should have seen your father's face the day he died, when I revealed myself as a witch. My smile must have scared him a lot.” She smirked, “How do you feel?”

Betrayal was the only thing that was piercing his lungs and heart, immobilizing him from regular breathing and opening his mouth to respond.

Bitter tears began to stream down his cheeks.

“Nevertheless, I must admit that your obsession with me was a great benefit; you made access easier for me, and getting rid of those other lousy hunters didn't bother me at all.”

“Do you really have to tell him everything?”

The interjection of a dissatisfied male voice made her straighten up, but she didn’t take her eyes off Jungkook, whose attention was now on the young man who had stopped beside Minji with the black cat on his right shoulder.

“Where is Sese, brother?”

“On my shoulder.”

Jungkook saw the pet jump down and walk behind Minji.

He thought he would see him popping up from the other side, but what appeared before his eyes were boots. Looking up, he noticed pants, a shirt, and finally a face.

A face he had last seen burning at the stake.

“We should leave, I can't stay one more minute in this shitty place,” Hoseok grumbled, his arm resting on Minji’s shoulder. “I can still smell that damned burning smell and my skin being roasted.”

“You'll get over it.”

“You go to the stake next time, Yoongi.”

“What do we do now, Minji?” Yoongi completely ignored his  annoyed comment, addressing his sister.

Silence crept in.

They were watching Jungkook like a fucking prey. Like a trapped animal. And he was.

He couldn’t do much. He had been deceived.

“Burn everything down.”

As Minji uttered those words, his hand clutched her skirt in a desperate gesture, shaking his head.

He didn't care. He wanted his wife. His love. He didn't give a fuck about her being a witch or something else. He loved her. He fucking loved her!

“Don’t… Don’t leave me, please…”

“This bastard is desperate. Apparently, you left a deep mark,” Yoongi sneered, followed by a giggle from Hoseok.

Minji extended her hand in front of her brother, and he pulled out a hunter's knife taken from the house to give it to her.

“I told you destroying them from the inside would be more satisfying, brother. My role has more impact than yours. Even though women are witch hunters, they are still viewed differently than men. Taking advantage of this was essential. Look how they collapsed like a sandcastle. I hope you had as much fun as I did, Jungkook.”

The knife was held in mid-air above Jungkook, at heart level.

His fingers tightened on her skirt, pleading with his eyes not to, but she didn't listen. Instead, she released her grip on the knife.

And as if moved by an invisible force – her power – it cut through the air and pierced his chest, reaching his heart.

His eyes lost their vitality, his body stopped moving.

And the room fell silent again.

Some time later, the house began to catch on fire.

Yoongi hid and Hoseok took on the appearance of a cat again, while she warned the employees who lived in the house to get out.

It had been a wonderful sight in her eyes.

The flames that enthusiastically enveloped the Jeon house.

Bright, big, lightning up the night.

Like the witches who were burned at the stake.

It had all been so simple that it bored her.

When she discovered that her mixed blood could somehow nullify the effects of the witches' spells used by those humans, she realized that she could do something to destroy them.

And she was succeeding. After carefully studying the methods, observing the hunters, and strengthening herself, she had taken action.

Her brother was against it, he didn't want her to put herself in danger, but she assured him that it wouldn't happen. And here was the wonderful result.

She was thanking her father for being a werewolf, and the human stupidity in not having yet discovered the existence of other living beings with different abilities.

On top of that, the compassion they were showing her after this misfortune was truly hilarious.

Talking about how her late husbands, father-in-law and her distancing from society were the work of the successor to the dukedom, his obsession and fear of having someone take her away from him, how he started a fire and she ended up having to shove a knife in his heart in self-defense, it had been a theatrical show.

The Kim family even offered to host her. A kind family indeed, she had to admit. However, they had too much faith in the witchcraft that they detested so much, and she had once again entered another house of witch hunters without repercussions.

Humming as she sat at her dressing table in her new room, she looked at herself in the mirror, fixing some messy locks in front of her face.

"Jin, Namjoon or Taehyung? Who should I go for first?" she asked, eyes fixed on her reflection before showing an interested and pleased expression. "Oh, all three? Naughty."

After smiling one more time, she stepped out of her room, her reflection still adjusting her hair through the mirror.

Then she smiled, getting up and disappearing from the mirror.

A victorius and sly giggle echoing within the walls.

[itlogricky]

𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇.

Itoshi Rin x Reader.

basically just angst.

You spent a lot of time trying to improve yourself so that Rin would find you great, but you eventually come to the conclusion that you have been good enough.

You strive to push yourself harder for Rin's sake, thinking that you're only deserving of his undivided attention if you're at your best. But despite your efforts and accomplishments, he seems unaware of your development.

"Just let me wave to you, not wave goodbye.. Let me stay by your side.."

you silently said. He doesn't answer, hes too busy focusing on his matches. You begin to wonder if Rin is even aware of your emotions because he rarely acknowledges them until he needs something from you. As long as your fears go unrestrained, your insecurity increases.

You make an effort to approach their romantic interests, but you always feel as like you are being yanked away, and your chances of success are fading.

Your constant effort to capture his attention makes you feel helpless and as like you're constantly in danger of losing his favor. You gradually get desperate as a result of his chilly and distant demeanor.

"Don't let me go back to darkness of blue."

The amount of work required to continually prove your worth to Rin makes you feel confined and overburdened. The more you attempt to keep up with him, the more you feel alone and depressed since he never appears to notice the suffering you're through.

You put all of your heart into trying to be good enough so that Rin will like you, but it seems like your efforts are in vain. You become even more alone and estranged from him as a result of this. The blue darkness begins to gradually envelop you as you continue to fail to be noticed and valued by him.

The idea that Rin would never genuinely see and love you begins to plague you as your anxieties take over. Despite all your efforts, you don't seem to be getting any closer to earning his affection.

you want nothing more, nothing more...your just..good enough.

You can't help but feel like you'll never be enough for Rin after so many unsuccessful efforts. Despite your best efforts, you constantly seem to fall short. You question whether it is really worthwhile to try any more when he is constantly so cold and aloof. You feel worthless and alone in the face of his indifference.

as he broke up with you, leaving you to darkness of blue, it felt like the dark sea filled with sadness.

As you give in to your anguish about losing Rin, the darkness envelops you. You begin to doubt yourself more and more as a result of wondering if you really were as useless as he constantly treated you.

If you can still recall, you were shifting position while reaching for,the place Rin and you are familiar with seems so far away. Where he'll encircle my heart with his arms. Additionally, keep you warm all night.

Rin's passion with winning at all costs dominates his thoughts. He is totally committed to his game, striving to be the best and avoiding distractions. His feelings are subdued, and he is just focused on winning. He can't or doesn't care if he hurts people since he is unaware of how his cold and distant demeanor affects those around him.

His heart is focused on a single objective, and nothing, not even you, can get in the way of that.

In the face of impossibly high standards and the need to live up to the expectations of the person you love, you tried to accept yourself for who you are. one of accepting oneself and accepting one's flaws, perhaps you're simply too...𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝.

A/N : its almost 3 am here and i'm still awake lol, this story is inspired by xdinary heroes by their song Good enough. Thank you for reading.

Tags!1!1!1! : @0rah-s

[marciabrady]

Snow White, Cinderella, and Aurora all offer the same morals. Agree or disagree?

I think their overall thematic moral differs, just as each of those Princesses are very different. Of course, they offer so much more than just one precept but, on this particular day, I'd say:

Snow White: Be a friend to every living thing. Bringing much needed joy into this world is transformative and breeds hope which springs eternal. Going about your daily life with this happiness and kindness makes things ten times easier- for you and those around you- and will make you, and the woes of your heart, feel so much lighter. You are not the sum of the things that happen to you, nor your enemies who wish to see you fail or, at times, destroyed. You are resilient and, despite how grim things can get on earth, you were born to ascend and experience happiness, the most beautiful of things.

Cinderella: Never lose your dreams and wishes. Your faith will see you through trying times, and the individuality of your heart's purest desires will buoy your spirit and worth in a world that is, to put it mildly, trying and will sometimes attempt to obliterate you into an oblivion, into an indistinct member of the crowd. Never desert the goals you wish to accomplish and attain, because they're in your soul for a reason. The path to the ball can be an arduous one, even seeming impossible at times- but continue about it, even when all seems worth abandoning, because you deserve your place in the sun with everyone else. With this mindset, you will never be forsaken, and will serve the purpose that only you were meant for because every single person has different strengths for specific reasons.

Aurora: Don't leave a place for anything but love in your heart. Love, in all of its different forms, is the great redemptive of life and to cut any human being from that would be like "cutting away the roots of a tree- they'll soon wilt and become dead and useless." In love, nothing is ever really lost. While deceptively soft, love will persist in the faces of the greatest evil and, when truly championed, will conquer above all. Love takes so many forms- familial love, platonic love, romantic love. Even the love of a doctor who might be saving a baby's life during labor complications or a simple stranger saying something that will make you smile or something like the consistent consideration a family member abides by for you.

[sepublic]

I actually wonder if maybe we're misinterpreting why DIO dismisses Survivor as the weakest stand? It doesn't help that he explains afterwards how he doesn't like it on a general level and considers it useless for his organization, something Pucci disproves years later...

But also, when Pucci first asks DIO about what's the weakest stand power he's come across, DIO initially dismisses the question as too vague, pointing out that every stand has some situation where it's applicable and effective. At which point, Pucci reframes the question by setting more specific guidelines; He compares his question to how kids debate who would win in a fight, such as Stallone or Van Damme.

That's when DIO settles on an answer, Survivor. And I think Pucci's reframing of the question is key to understanding how DIO is declaring Survivor the weakest based on that criteria; The context of one-on-one duels.

Because DIO's answer makes a lot more sense if you're comparing stands that way; In a fight between its user and another stand user, Survivor probably IS the worst stand for a matchup, because all it will do is make the enemy more angry and empower them physically, and in this scenario, they're already trying to brawl to the death with Survivor's user. We aren't told if Survivor's user could apply the stand's power to themselves, but given Guccio's lack of participation during the all-out brawl, possibly not; DIO notes that Survivor can't be controlled, either. At best, Survivor would empower both combatants, essentially leaving the playing field the exact same.

People might bring up a stand like Highway to Hell, but it actually has some pretty defensive capabilities; If the user is attacked, the attacker suffers their wounds, meaning the user can at least take their enemy down with them. But nothing is said to happen if the user attacks their enemy first, as Highway to Hell apparently only transmits harm first inflicted upon the user. Cheap Trick also doesn't count, because it didn't even exist yet, and anyhow, it could at least take the enemy down with them.

Survivor can't do any of these things; It only empowers the enemy and can't even accomplish their death at the cost of the user's life, a Pyrrhic victory but at least a victory of some kind. But that's in a specific one-on-one scenario... Because the reality of Jojo's Bizarre Adventure is that stand battles are rarely so straightforward or 'fair', there's many different factors to consider; Such as team-ups, more stand users than just these two, the setup, etc.

Which, as Pucci exemplifies, is where Survivor shines; It can act like a ticking time bomb that turns an entire group of targets against one another, ensuring their demise while the user hides. On an open battlefield where both combatants can see each other and fight directly, Survivor IS fairly useless... But that's what makes stand battles so fun, is how they can be situational and change depending on factors, which avoids the issue of power creep. It's all about the limitations and how they encourage creativity, which leads to more interesting and dynamic arcs.

[haunted-radishes]

I have this idea that neither Nie Mingjue nor Jin Guangyao really believes in atonement, but to Nie Mingjue, that means that the only path to justice is punishment, while to Jin Guangyao, it means that punishment is useless in the path to justice.

Nie Mingjue thinks that if you can never make up for the wrong you've done, the only possible right thing to do is to make you suffer, and ensure that you forever feel the consequences of your misdeeds.

Meanwhile, to Jin Guangyao, punishment won't undo the wrongs done, so why bother with it? The only thing you accomplish with punishment is taking out your own feelings, which has its place in the world, but has nothing to do with actually making anything better.

[melodyofthevoid]

The Crane Wives Analyzed: The Singles

I’d be remiss to neglect these beauties, each expressing wildly different ends of the many themes The Crane Wives cover, but all no less wonderful. With the live recordings there’s a raw quality to the main singers’ voice in their growls that send a thrill through the listener. All obviously worth a listen. 

On another note, as of this I've successfully analyzed all of the Crane Wives' (official and released) catalogue of music! Obviously there's more upcoming (thrilled for that) but this was a big accomplishment for me! Anyways, enjoy.

Drown You Out

It takes time for wounds to heal, an unfortunate fact especially when the wounds only make themselves apparent after a separation. Excising a part of oneself, extricating the join where one life met another, even when that join is a corrosive, hurtful thing. There are pieces and parts left over, influences that seep into you long after the other person is gone. 

The singer is in such a position, having separated from a toxic relationship after building up the courage to do so. It’s not an easy decision to make, and they’re still dealing with the aftermath. In their day, in the peak of their life they didn’t know this person, but after meeting them, knowing them, loving them, they’re a part of the singer. Their song sings in their veins, subtle influences that shape their actions, words that whisper in their ear that they can’t drown out. They’re trying, they’re trying to heal but it’s just so loud. 

They look at where they are now, looking over the damage done to their mental health, their self esteem, and the work it took for them to even be where they are now. They’ve ended up where they started before this relationship, now with scars and wounds that they didn’t have before. At the very least, they know the games that their partner played with them, how they used the singer’s own mind to hurt them, and can pull them apart to save themselves. 

Still, the words linger. They still haunt, and the singer can only recognize them for what they are, and try not to sing along to that familiar tune. 

And this relationship isn’t only limited to the romantic, any relationship can leave scars like this. Familial, platonic, it doesn’t matter. It can take a long time to heal, and that journey may come with its own hurdles. But know, even now, you’re not alone. 

Sowing Seeds

You reap what you sow, the efforts you put into the ground and soil will be returned in kind, whether for good or ill. Neglect to take action, leave weeds to fester and spread, and you’ll have only yourself to blame when there’s nothing to eat but poison. 

There are forces, thieves destroying the ground and crops, turning it to useless mud in his wake. His teeth devouring the land as no one moves to stop him. The world is still, the lake doesn’t move. 

A signal tower broadcasts venom and hate to all who listen, the dark creeps closer as the sun sinks down. The singer pleads for the people to listen, to not look away or blink lest they miss their chance to make a difference. 

Otherwise, well. The world will move on as the people sleep, content to take the easy way out and ignore the world at large until it becomes impossible to ignore and they’re suddenly forced to reap the consequences of their ignorance. It’s tempting to tune out all of the noise of the world, as the news becomes overwhelming and truth harder to find, but it’s worth it, if it means avoiding… well. 

We’ve all seen the last few years, haven’t we? 

Taking Turns

For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for rich or for poor. Common vows made, sometimes kept, and sometimes broken. Because when those hard times come, it wears down the soul, exhausts hope, exhausts resources, and the future that once looked bright approaches like a train, rather than an escape. 

The sun is as it’s always been, the moon marks the start of a new month, and the singer holds out hope that things will turn around soon, even though they’ve been running in circles as of late. The rat race is exhausting, but it helps them survive so they can look forward to a day where they don’t have to carry out this way. Change will come, and maybe it’s already happening, and these are the growing pains. Change is hard, they just have to believe. 

Even if that belief is a lie, a comfortable lie that they keep telling each other to distract from the bills burdening the bank accounts. They believe in each other, and when they can’t see the light, the other guides them to it, even if it’s just smoke and mirrors. They’re in it together. 

The cycle begins on a new month, and the hope is now turning to a nervous smile. Jokes about reaching the bottom and having nowhere to go but up. Maybe one day this will all be a phase that they can look back on and laugh about, “remember when we ate ramen every day to save up?” or “when they almost turned the power out” once they’re safe and secure. They just have to tough this out and get there. 

Unless… they don’t. 

Unless the bills keep coming in, the calls get more aggressive, knocks come to the door, all wolves hungry to bleed them dry. They can’t afford this, not the constant cycle of more bad news with no end in sight, they have little left to lose and even that is being taken from them. 

Still, they cling to each other and look for reassurance, a silver lining, the dandelion’s wish, a pretty lie that they can hold even if it’s nothing but an empty pantomime of a future they’ll never have. 

They have each other, at least. 

Hollow Moon

There’s nothing quite like the thoughts that creep into your head at night, when you’re in bed ruminating about your life. When thoughts tangle like weeds, too interconnected to pull up one at a time, fears mixing with exhaustion as the hours tick on. 

This is where the singer starts, staring out at stars that seem to warp in unfamiliar ways, unable to sleep as the darkness seems to take on a life of its own. Whispers begging to be let in, to work their way into their mind. 

In the pitch black, it brings contrast to the problems that the singer’s been fighting, howling at a hollow moon, a facsimile of a real problem. There’s endless doubts filling their head with smoke and flames, spreading as they lie awake. Because they can’t sleep with all of the monsters outside their door, creeping ever closer in the night. 

So they pull the blankets tighter around them and close the blinds, shutting out the world and making a safe space. Or, at least they hope it’s safe. After all, there’s little difference between a foxhole and a grave when the war is ongoing. They hold the keys to their own coffin in their hands, a shovel and rope, intrusive thoughts growing stronger as they come to grips with the fact they made this. They dug their own grave, their patterns, and they wonder… did they make the monsters too? 

They ask the question over and over, a mantra of madness as they attempt to come to grips with their current state. Trying to ride out the wave and keep their head above water lest they drown in their thoughts. 

Here I Am

There’s a stretch of America known, colloquially, as the “Rust Belt”. A collection of states that once boasted robust manufacturing economies, steel processing mills, car plants, the works. Then the jobs started to leave overseas, the promise of cheap labor too enticing for companies willing to save on costs and abandon the towns that grew up around those factories. They shut down, left the states’ economies in shambles, and the shine began to corrode. Now the storefronts are full of cracks, the windows on the factories shattered, and the few left behind are still there. 

Such is the case with Michigan, the home state of The Crane Wives, once a haven of car manufacturing, years of government neglect, corporate retreat, and decay have left many parts of the state destitute. And the singer is left in one of these towns, watching their home crumble and decay. They watch people leave and move on to better opportunities, the streets fall into further disrepair, and lawns grow tangled with weeds as despair sets in. 

They’re forgotten, part of America left to fester and die off, any of their hopes and dreams about as dead as the lights in the factories. They look at the place around them and wonder how long they’ve been alone here, in a dead town. 

They scream that they’re still here, that they’re alone and left behind by everyone that they once loved. Maybe once they hoped that maybe the town might come back to life, but they didn’t count on everyone else packing up and leaving. Searching for somewhere else that might give them a life worth living. The ghost town is hollowing out the singer as they lose more and more, stuck haunting an empty house. 

And they can acknowledge that this is a lost cause, in the end. Promising themselves that they’ll move on and try to leave. Afterall, with no one else there, no roots to tie them to the land it feels hollow to stay. Seeing the remnants of better days and memories everywhere. They resort to begging the few who remain to stay, “pulling arms”, begging to not be left alone.

The question remains of why? Why stay? It’s a question often heard by those in small towns, sometimes well meaning, sometimes not. For the singer, it’s the same as so many others, they love their home. They believe in it, as did their father, and their father’s father. There’s a beauty in the flowers that grow in the cracks in the streets. Making a home in the uninhabitable. If only someone could just acknowledge that beauty and see that they are there. 

Daydreamer

High school at 18, graduate college in 4 years, get a job, settle down, have a family, retire, die. Hit the milestones at the right time, do what your parents did, what society dictates, at the right pace. Don’t take a gap year, don’t take time to slow down. You can’t fit in this narrow margin? Well, then there’s no hope for you. There’s always some marker on the road ahead that you’re expected to hit, and any other pace? Any missteps? 

Well, then you’re falling behind. 

The Daydreamer in question is at a crossroads in their life, stuck between taking steps towards what they want, and having to backtrack again. In that cycle of attempting to understand who they want to be, they’ll go about anywhere, take a one-way ticket just to get a chance to start over. The stumbles they’re facing now, they’re only setbacks. Nothing is a death knell unless they let it be. 

The chorus warns that they’re falling behind, but the singer insists that they’ll get where they’re heading in their own time. 

Their journey took them in directions that they regretted, altered who they were. It can be easy to assume that changes are temporary but then how do you rebuild yourself from scratch again? How many times can you do it until you find what you’re looking for? 

But their wanderings, their dreaming, it leaves them wanting more. Not wanting to be confined by the expectations that others put on them, to choose only one path. There’s so much out on the horizon, so many routes to take, people to meet, people to be. They’ll find it in their own time, not at anyone else’s pace than their own. 

Volta

There comes a time when epiphany hits. When the factors all come together and you finally decide it’s time for a change. Volta, the title of this song, is the turn between sonnets, the transition, the iteration. Shell shock setting their perspective back into place. Bombs are falling on their mind, perhaps shocking revelations, major life events, deaths, tragedies, things happening all at once. They’re getting used to it all, the lights, the sounds, their new life. 

They ask if their audience remembers the thrill and passion of youth, the hunger and spark that came so easily then. The singer wants to connect with the world, and bring that feeling to their audience. They proclaim that they’re ready to be here, in the spotlight, that they’re ready to be found by the world. 

And yes, they’ve made a mess of themselves on the journey to this moment. The journey to becoming a creative takes a toll, with the lights and sounds, the roar of the crowd, but they need something to tie them to life. An anchor to bring back to reality, instead of drifting in the shadows. 

They call to the audience to ask if they feel that same hunger, that same need to be something more. That all consuming fire that drives their creative engine. Pushes them to be more, and makes them feel alive, because this is what they were made for. 

Are you ready for it? For change? For more? Because they are. 

Take Me to War

An open declaration, an invitation to all to come and view the spectacle. A gladiator itching for combat, waiting for a challenge. Sickly sweet and itching to let loose. There’s injustice in the world, those who’ll wrong you, spit words and vitriol, and it gets to be too much. The singer finds herself embattled constantly, saddled with a reputation of talking a big game with nothing to back it up. A dog behind a fence, its bark booming with no bite. Still, that doesn’t stop them, snapping at forces far more powerful than they are with all that they can. 

No one rewards them for these battles, it’s not celebrated or righteous, and yet they continue anyways. Tilting at the windmills for all their worth. Still, even as they fight, there’s fire that they’ve swallowed, words they’ve left unsaid that burn eternally inside them. Not a blaze of glory but a consuming sear that eats away at them every day. 

At times this anger can be… performative. Not always a righteous cause but part of an expectation. An act celebrated with roses and applause as they intentionally provoke the “beast”, trading barbs and epithets to inflict the most harm. It’s all a public display for the audience to consume, always watching and ready to bite down on any missed step or mistake to destroy their heart. Yet they feed these ugly parts to the audience because that’s what they want, even as they destroy themselves with the swords they let sharpen their tongue. 

They call for the fight now, for a war. They dare anyone to underestimate them for their appearance, for their words, begging them to get close if only to scare their detractors. They itch for a fight, for something to break, a battle. Defined by their anger and fully embracing it as it leaves them bloodied and bruised, spitting out a tooth as they prepare for another bout. 

Ideas and people can poison and spread like weeds, destroying discourse and hurting so many before anyone has a chance to stop it. Watching this, the singer witnesses the destruction of the “crops”, knowing that undoing the damage will take ages. Dismantling lies piece by painful piece. So they take another route, deciding the scorch the earth and lay waste to all that the weed poisoned. Consequences be damned, it will be gone. 

And once the fires die down, and they’re left with nothing but embers, that spark will still be there, ready to catch once proper fuel is given and ready for another go. 

Empty Page

Imposter syndrome, it’s a bitch isn’t it? Constant comparisons to those who’re more worthy than you, more talented, more original, it eats away at your confidence until there’s nothing left inside. The singer’s tone is laid back as they call themselves a 10¢ copy of people better than themselves, that every thought is straight from a magazine. They’re an amalgamation of ideas stolen and made worse. Washed out and repurposed without skill. 

They stay within the boundaries set by others, toeing the line, following the path, never blazing their own trail for any reason. Obedient to a fault, promising their word. Any number of reasons could explain why, maybe fear that they’ll get lost if they stay on their own, uncertainty keeping them boxed in. Doubt in their own abilities to make any real impact. Whatever the cause, the result is the same. 

They’re an empty page, no words written on it, no thoughts uttered. A muddled shade of paint, too mixed with others to have an identity of its own. They’re a candle burnt out from their own expectations and dismay. When there’s decisions to make, when there’s things to cut out of their lives, their hands shake with fear. Unable to do it. Deferring the decision, someone else will do it better anyways so why bother. (But isn’t that just the thing, everything is unique to you, isn’t it?)

It’s naivete to believe that they’ll make something better of themselves. It’s callow, unfounded, words that hold no meaning. They’ve practiced their imitations, pulling from masters but in the end, only improving their ability to steal. 

But here’s the secret, in the end. Everything is an amalgamation of inspirations taken from elsewhere. Yes, sometimes it’s more of a one to one, but who we are is an ever changing puzzle taken from all of our experiences and inspirations. Nothing and no one is “wholly original”. That empty page is your own, so take it and use it. This is mostly editorial from me, but I’ve struggled with this feeling of worthlessness in my work, like everything I do is just copied from somewhere else. But if I listen to that instinct, I’ll never make anything at all. Why should I let that stop me? 

High Horse

It’s easy to build up an idealized version of the object of your affections, especially before one makes a move. From an outside perspective, their shining attributes blind to any possible flaws, the smallest smile sending a heart fluttering, setting expectations that can… never really be met by an actual person. Because that’s not a person, that’s an ideal, a pretty picture. 

And eventually that picture comes crashing down to the floor. Met with reality and rejection. 

The singer is shown such an offer, and returns the feelings with scorn. The woman that the confessor cherishes is a fiction, she’s a curse plaguing their mind, she’s a trophy that’s to be won up on a shelf. Not a person, not a human with her own complex feelings.  The confessor knows their worth, but is flying a bit too close to the sun here. They’ll get what they deserve though, even if they don’t learn from this situation. 

With their ire now drawn, the singer refutes the image drawn up by the infatuated of them. They’re petty, they keep a running score of those who wrong them and how they measure up. They sit on a high horse, with an over-inflated opinion of themselves, but it’s who they are. The lovelorn is struck dumb by this, and the singer holds some of their harsher opinions back. It’s not worth being overly cruel about, just honest.

This isn’t worth their time to think about any longer. The singer doesn’t reciprocate the feelings of the other, they feel no guilt for this fact. They don’t owe them anything for being idolized to this extent. They’ll put it out of their mind and move on, they’ve got other things to worry about and this certainly isn’t one of them. 

This doesn’t quite get all the way through to their audience, and in a voice sweeter than honey and laced with enough arsenic to kill a man, they call them a sweetheart, a passing grade on a low bar. Sure, they’re “nice”. They have basic respect and aren’t an outright jerk but what are they expecting? A trophy? (The trophy they put on a shelf perhaps?) It’s not happening, plain and simple, the singer has other goals and aims and love isn’t in the cards. 

Nothing’s going to change her mind, so don’t try. It’s okay to feel let down, heartbroken even, but admitting defeat looks better than begging and pleading for a different outcome. 

You wouldn’t even really like her if she came off of that high horse anyways. 

Queen of Nothing

Expectations, such a loaded term, especially in the creative space. Every piece needs to top the last one, each new song breaking a new record, pushing further, doing more. It’s a constant pressure that weighs more and more as time goes on, whether success follows or not, and when you’re a musician on the road? Well it just gets exhausting, doesn’t it? 

Being on the road, on the ride to fame is out of your control, a backseat passenger watching the world go by at dizzying speeds. Out of reach, close enough to see but not touch, because everything revolves around the next song, the next album, and it’s all so much. Paralyzing without the chance to breathe and slow down. Take in the world. 

But isn’t this what the singer wanted? Isn’t this the dream? To be creative and take their music across the nation? But for how long can they keep doing this? How long until the money dries up and the dream ends for good? But they have to finish their work, finish this journey they started for a reason. As the ruler of their destiny and yet so utterly powerless in the grand scheme of things, bearing the burden of their own expectations. 

And like a moth, they’re drawn to the spotlight, desperate to get their “15 minutes of fame”. It’s so attractive isn’t it? The validation and accolades, finally “making it” after all the hard work, and yet, there’s something else. There’s the shadows, the oblivion of never being known that pulls at them. After all, fame doesn’t last forever and the darkness of obscurity is always one step behind, if you’re not careful. 

So they wrestle with the constant battle, forever caught between wanting to slow down and maintaining that relentless pace, afraid of the consequences of bowing their head to the pressure. 

And then they go onto the next town, onto the next thing, always running and running as if running out of time and yet it isn’t. They beg for it to stop, growing more desperate as they repeat their plea. 

It all draws to a close so, so slowly, exhausted now. The weight of the crown finally too much to bear. 

The Wolf 

It’s not easy to change. Once someone’s set in their ways, set in their habits and patterns, it’s difficult at best to shift it. So… what’s someone to do? Keep fighting? Or lean in? The singer opts to do the latter, giving into their destructive tendencies. They’re not a builder, they’re a force that only tears down and demolishes. The wolf in every fairy-tale, coming to blow down your house, send out a gale and lay waste to all in their path. 

But their violence is not entirely without direction, they are a being of gasoline and torches, burning all that they touch, and they reach out in the knowledge that their grasp only leaves ashes behind. 

For a moment they lament that it’s… difficult. That they can’t bring themselves to change, to show kindness instead of teeth to anyone. Let alone themselves. They sing to their love that they’re a falling axe, wielded by an uncaring executioner. A sharpened knife, ready and waiting to stab them in the back. A poison asp, like Cleopatra’s killer, a risk by sheer virtue of proximity. 

They repeat this to their lover, hands raised in surrender. Trying to make them understand the risks. They’re a liability, a wolf at their core. They should run, run fast and hard, before the beast’s claws get them too. And the singer has to wipe the blood of their face once more. 

Nobody

For some, it’s better to be miserable in a relationship than to be alone. That fear of never finding someone else ever again, it traps people into places where they’re worse off. Memories of better times can only do so much, but if the lover knows the power they hold… well. They can hold that leash tight. 

The song begins in a quiet moment, at dawn, the lover still asleep while the singer watches her. Her murmurings like holy words, revered and beautiful. And yet, even within that beauty, there is fear, the voice is both as soft as a spider’s weaving and a hatchet through the trees. The singer pulls the covers tight around them, and waits. For what? They don’t know. 

One has to wonder though, even as the singer calls their love soft spoken, they liken her to a spider, a predator that weaves a web that ensnares and traps its prey. The holy words are for them. The connection isn’t hard to miss. 

Doubt lingers at the back door, shades of mistrust and the singer’s own issues that haunt them in the dark. Their lover lights cigarettes, and in that brief light the singer finds some reprieve from their own demons that cloud their head. Losing themselves in the smoke as it fills their lungs. Simply another element of their relationship that might kill them. 

And they say that nobody ever loved her the same way their lover tells them she does, a backhanded statement. Is it that no one else has proclaimed their love the same way? Or does she only ever say her love, telling, yet never showing. 

Because this love hurts, the deep all encompassing ache of a bruise that throbs beneath the skin and cutting as deep as any razor. Every embrace is inescapable, like the grip of a Kraken that threatens to drag them so deep they’ll never see the surface again. Warning signs are all around them, more than abundant, especially in the depths of their lover’s rage. It’s never in their favor, always a slight they committed, or a problem they have and not on their behalf. A storm rages around them and yet they’re safe, at least relatively, in the eye. The only storm they know. 

That familiarity both a comfort, and a terror. 

Their heart yearns for their lover, a love so strong and blind it blocks out all of the red flags and misdeeds that she’s committed. The determination to hold on stronger than any self preservation instincts. Although, is it self preservation? The singer repeats that nobody’s ever loved them, with the caveat now of “so she tells me”. Do they believe that this is all they can have, the best they can have?  Convinced by a web of words? 

They say they should be grateful, that something is better than nothing. That a flawed relationship is better than being alone. Isn’t it? Isn’t it? This is close enough, good enough, they shouldn’t complain, even if it hurts. It’s worth enduring… isn’t it? 

The uncertainty has taken root, and it’s up to the singer to decide if they should do anything with it. 

After all, nobody loves them like she does.

[eerna]

Hi there, i would love to know your opinion about the Nimona movie compared to the comic? What they did worse or better? And which you liked better overall. ❤️

UhuhUHU okidoki here I go. Fair warning I might be off because I haven't rewatched the movie or reread the comic yet.

The comic is pretty similar regarding the broad strokes of the story, but entirely different in the moral of the story? And the themes are different as well. It's aimed at young adults/adults, while the movie is aimed at kids. There's blood and the characters aren't as pure or righteous, and the ending isn't as forgiving. But honestly, it surprised me how similar the two were, and I legit don't think I prefer either version. While there are stuff I prefer in both, both of them accomplish what they set out to do, as two totally separate things. SO I'm separating the comparisons into three categories: Neutral, Movie did it better, and Comic did it better.

Neutral:

In the comic, Ballister has been the city's villain for quite some time, and he embraces the role while still following a moral code.

Nimona kills a lot of people and he can't stop her. She is supposed to be his sidekick, but in truth, he's the one running after her and excusing her actions. I liked the aspect of "Nimona is really really not good but Ballister loves her too much to accept it" that culminates in Ballister betraying his ideals and killing someone!

Goldenloin is Ballister's nemesis, and gleefully accepts the role - he mocks him, engages in banter, and is a prick. He isn't the born-to-be-golden-child he is in the movie - in fact, as a child he used to lie to everyone that his family was important, and was bullied mercilessly for it. He shot off Ballister's arm out of jealousy!! Because Ballister was better!!!! And the scene where he realizes he has never apologized - HOW cool is that!!!!!

In the finale, Nimona is split in half, one part of her turning into a raging monster destroying the city while the other is living through her worst memories, stuck in her child form. Ballister and Goldenloin join forces to stop her, but Goldenloin wants to kill her while Ballister just wants to subdue her powers long enough to talk her down. This means he is forced to betray Nimona, but stuck between the two people he cares the most for in this world, what else was he supposed to do!! The moment he breaks down after spending the entirety of the book all rational and stoic and cold... Waaaaaah what a good heartbreak.

At the end, Goldenloin adn Ballister are considered the heroes who saved the city, and Nimona is forgotten. She's still alive, though - she still visits Ballister one last time in another person's form so he doesn't realize it's her until it's too late, and he finishes the story wondering if she'll ever be back and know he wanted to be her friend. What a cute bittersweet ending!! Loved it!!!

Movie did it better:

The comic doesn't have the societal order commentary that I really loved in the movie. I loved how the knights are basically useless, a higher class who contribute nothing but entertainment to society, which you can only enter if you're born into it. The queen decides that the class should be expanded and regular people should be able to earn the right to join it, and she is killed for it. Her idea wasn't even that revolutionary!!! She wasn't questioning its right to exist, which would have been the truly controversial way of thinking!!! And it was enough to get her dead!!! In the comic, the knights are mostly orphans anyway, a glorified police force more than the rich celebrities they are in the movie.

Parts of Goldenloin and Ballister's relationship hit harder in the movie. I prefer the "cut off his arm as an instinct because his instincts went against his heart" story from the movie. I loved how he kept seeing Ballister as a victim. I loved the tortured love.

Nimona is way more sympathetic. The comic's explanation for her personality is that she was lied to and experimented on when she was a kid, but that's as far as it goes. We are supposed to accept her as she is, and that is a really cool story, but I just really really like the way the movie flipped it into "Nimona is actually peaceful and kind, she is vilified for not staying silent when abused".

Surprisingly, the suicide angle is not present in the comic!!! That was ADDED into the kiddie version!! That heartbreaking scene with the sword and the heart isn't there, and neither is the friendship backstory, which was some of my fav stuff. I too kept asking myself how could Nimona stand to be immortal, and the movie is like. She can't. She wants to die rather than be alone. But by the end of the movie she decides to live, symbolically turning into a phoenix. Like wow thanks I'm gonna go cry in the corner now

While Ballister's innocence sometimes grated on my nerves, I enjoyed the warmer, newer-to-societal-revolution Ballister more than the experienced terrorist from the comic. The aspect of Ballister accusing Nimona of trying to turn him to her morals because she wants him to be as evil and as much of a monster as her so she wouldn't be alone!!!! Bro OUCH

The arrow scene!! It was amazing in the comic too, but I really liked the awkwardness of the movie ahhahahah

Comic did it better:

The humor!!! I enjoyed the humor of the comic so much!!! Probably because it was written with my age in mind instead of the kids, but also ND Stevenson is just really funny in that deadpan "art student writing comics" way.

Goldenloin's name. Why is that man still named Goldenloin in the movie. It is hilarious in the comic esp with his design but the movie.... WHY

While I sorely miss the "I wouldn't die, it just wouldn't be living" line, I do have to say I prefer the subtler version of explaining themes because that's just the way I roll fdjbskabjaks

Over the course of the story, Ballister finds out there is a way to put a temporary lock on Nimona's powers, keeping her stuck in one form. And in the finale, he uses it thinking it could help talk Nimona down (as opposed to Goldenloin's idea of killing her). He keeps her stuck in one form, which is something that seems entirely reasonable at the time, and when she learns it was him who has done it, she turns away from him entirely. This is SUCH a good concept and while I have no idea how it could fit into the movie, I do have to say it's a better betrayal

The battles of Ballister VS Goldenloin are much better. Less standing and clashing swords and more kicking and throwing each other out of stuff.

The board games scene. It was way funnier with how Ballister plays Nimona's game and also starts saying stupid stuff. Excellent.

Nimona's immortality is better established, and there is no overdramatic "is she dead or not" - we find out she lives right away after she "dies". I'm really impressed with how nicely it was laid down, as someone who doesn't like death fakeouts, as it is difficult to do such an ending. The drama comes from the question of whether she will let Ballister back into her life. I feel like the movie would profit from establishing her immortality better, especially since they also introducted that she can kill herself if she wishes to. Ouch my heart.