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orqheuss · 10 months

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For whatever we lose (like a you, or a me)

(Ominis Gaunt/Sebastian Sallow/GN!Reader ANGST)

Pre!Parenthesis Universe

Summary:

“Oh for the love of—” Sebastian cut himself off, quickly drawing his wand from his sleeve and pointing it at your chest. Images danced behind his eyes; Solomon destroying the plant that could have cured Anne; The blurry image of the goblin that had cursed his sister running from the house, cackling in villainous mirth; finding his parents bodies in the cellar, thick plumes of colored toxic smoke spewing from their cauldron. His vision faded to a striking black. White hot pokers stabbed into his temples, and he cast his wand at you in a blind rage. “Crucio!” *** The Scriptorium called your name, and who were you to ignore its song? At least, that's what you told yourself as Sebastian pushed you and Ominis deeper and deeper into the mausoleum.

Word count: 9k

Tags: arguing, violence, cruciatus curse, dark!sebastian (kind of), sexual humor

AN: I’m moving all of my fics over from Ao3 to make them more accessible! These are my fics.

Not a sound could be heard in the moonlit, desolate hallways of Hogwarts. The distant star casted a haunting glow over the courtyard and shone through the grand windows of the Great Hall. Figures long lost to time danced through the paintings lining the hazelwood walls, waltzing to an imaginary concerto. The ghosts floating about chatted quietly about their history, telling tales of cadences forever forgotten in old textbooks. Their whispers shivered the leaves in the trees on the campus grounds, leaving them humming at the fall winds cascading from the sky and turning their once vibrant green spires into a burnt orange. Lanterns lined the Grand Staircase at the heart of the castle, a paragon of regality and the wisdom of the great wizarding school. Baroque styled banisters basked in the glow, expelling person-shaped shadows on the enormous walls lining the mystical architecture. Down the stairs laid an ornate stone door, its architrave adorned with a cosmic silver snake. Two freshly lit braziers framed the entrance and swayed in the steely breeze of the dungeons, its smokey ash pirouetting in romantic couplets towards the ceiling.

A third was sparked to life just down the way. The line of light seemed to lure in anyone who were to walk the halls past curfew; beckoning them with the promise of mischief and pleasure. Standing before the final brazier, basking in its luminescence, were three young students. One leaned against the far wall of the corridor, arms crossed tightly against his chest with a sullen look adorning his features. His eyes seemed to catch the light and shimmer like frosted glass on a winter morning. Another stood in front of the boy, directly under the cold stone of the giant candelabra. He was beaming with elation, his eyes glittering with waywardness and intrigue. His brown irises seemed to reflect the fire back in challenge, almost daring it to blaze brighter than he did. Between the two was the final student. A slight frown quirked the corner of their mouth, glancing back and forth between their two friends in trepidation. They could feel each emotion emitting from their companions like a thick fog, coating the hallway and leaving the braziers the lone match shining through the storm. Each felt something different about their quest— had different motives for the scintillating adventure. They all heard the distinct call to the Scriptorium before them, and felt more than compelled to answer. With a great rumble, the stone wall sloughed away and opened up to a chasm leading downward. A spiral staircase slithered from below and attached to the ledge, hissing out a stream of steam in its wake.

The three friends stood in awe at the display, amazed at the grandiloquence of the long dead wizard who made this place. They were about to enter Salazar Slytherin’s Scriptorium, a feat very few could claim as their own.

Sebastian Sallow turned on the balls of his feet and beckoned his friends over, a giddy look twinkling in his eyes and stretching his smile. The prospect of finding a cure for the curse that plagued his sister heavily outweighed any unease he may have had at the daunting entryway. He nearly vibrated with excitement— the need for thrill buried itself deep in his bones. He could taste the tombs of secrets hidden in the enigma before him, feel the leather bound books worn with oil from the fingertips of his house founder. The forbidden magic thrummed in his veins and set his blood aflame like the brightest sunlight. Something unfamiliar flashed in his eyes, something dark.

Ominis Gaunt, the heir of Slytherin himself, flicked his wand from his large robe sleeve and sparked it to life. A red light pulsed from its tip, and the hallway came more into focus in his mind. He pushed himself off of the wall and walked towards the imposing archway, closer to his family history simmering below. He looked striking, noble even, with his even, strong steps. Only someone close enough to be in his own skin would notice the slight tremble in his hands, the sweat that beaded at his brow. Anyone else with his condition could hear the steady hammer of his heart against his rib cage, the fast but even beats swimming in his ears and resting behind his eyes. He thought of his dear aunt Noctua, the last of the Gaunt’s to enter the foreboding mausoleum— how she had disappeared soon after finding its entrance. A shiver ran up his spine and something akin to fear lodged itself in his throat.

You looked on at the two boys. You had no feelings for this moment, nothing to go off of but the words of your two comrades. You peaked down the chilling stairs into the never-ending darkness. It seemed to hiss in contempt at being awoken. This metaphorical pit of serpents had fangs, and each dripped with a deadly poison befitting the strongest men. The blackness crept up your arms and buried itself in your hair— it whispered sweet nothings into your ears, enticing the ancient magic flowing under your skin. You inhaled the titillating aroma of devillment and stored it deep in your lungs. Excitement and worry crashed against your soul and swirled like a hurricane in your stomach, sending ripples of anxiety through your very bones. You truly didn’t know how you felt at that very moment, but you knew, more than anything, that you wanted to protect your friends. Something inside, though, felt familiar. Something was calling out to your magic, and you felt inclined to answer.

You pushed the anxiety aside for now. The two boys, now standing next to you, both had things they needed to learn from the Scriptorium, and you were going to help them find it. The idea of adventure took over your senses at that moment and spread heat through your chest, glowing as bright at the braziers you had just lit.

Even Ominis, a very stoic and reserved boy to most, seemed to have a gleam about his face that shimmered in eagerness. Not many knew, but he most definitely had a taste for chaos— he had to with the company he kept. There was something so intriguing about the Scriptorium to him. Maybe it was something forged in his very being, him being a Gaunt after all. Either way, the young wizard turned his attention towards his companions in a silent confirmation that he was ready to go. You cleared your throat hesitantly, drawing the attention of Sebastian away from the dark hallway before you.

“Alright boys,” you gestured towards the entrance with your hand, “shall we?”

The two nodded in your direction. Sebastian turned to you with a cheeky grin decorating his features. “I haven’t seen a tunnel this big since your mum.”

Another thing about the Sallow boy: he very rarely took anything seriously.

At the unimpressed look you gave him, he held his hands up in a placating manner, chortling to himself, “Aw, come on. That was a good one—”

You reached your hand towards his face and promptly thumped him on the forehead with a flick. Sebastian dropped the troublesome smirk and quickly brought his palm up to rub at the affronted spot, hissing through his teeth in pain.

You looked at Ominis next to you, and as if sensing your disappointment he shook his head while looking up at the ceiling, muttering to himself, “Merlin, help me,” before beginning to walk down the daunting staircase.

You and Sebastian fell into step behind the young Gaunt, trusting his instincts and sentient wand better than your fleeting eyesight. The tunnel was unequivocally dark, even the lumos dancing in front of your face barely pierced the surface. Your shoes made a distinct squelch sound on the wet cement with each step deeper into the pit.

Down,

down,

down you went.

The stairs seemed to go on forever, descending into the fathomless unknown. Each sound echoed off the tightly packed walls, bouncing back and forth like a well crafted game of wizards chess. The seconds ticked by slowly, cascading around you like the steady stream of drips coming from above. The piping loomed imposingly above your heads and drizzled along the black-stone walls. You must be truly under the castle, you supposed. You felt tightly packed like a tin of sardines— three fish wiggling together towards the unknown fate of the stew pot. Ominis could smell your discomfort behind him, and quite honestly, he was inclined to agree. He couldn’t sense the end landing, if there even was one, in the infernal devilry that was the accursed sepulcher. The scent and taste of mildew and stale air coated his nasal cavity and larynx, making it impossible to determine anything else from the two orifices. He would gripe about his lack of sight in situations like this, at least normally, but he doubted that it would make much difference at the current moment. There was truly nothing around them.

Sebastian could taste the unease in the air from his two companions, and he detested the feeling greatly. It was of the utmost disrespect to the boy to turn down adventure; there was absolutely nothing in this world that he didn’t want to poke and prod, to know how it ticked. If there was one thing that his parents passed down to him before they died, it was that. He understood that it was a daunting task, and a very large ask of his dear friends, to take this journey with him, but for Merlin’s sake, it was Slytherin’s Scriptorium! He had only ever read about this monumental library, hiding deep in the caverns of the Hogwarts underbelly. How could he say no to this journey, this discovery? If it helped Anne along the way, what was the harm of it all?

Just as you were beginning to think you would never leave the Hadean staircase, it finally puttered off to a smooth path of river-stones and a dimly lit concourse. Ominis stood at the forefront of the group, his wand casting a small bale-fire and illuminating more of the imposing hallway. Sebastian chuckled lowly behind him. Wrapping his arm around the smaller boy's shoulders and leaning his head towards you, his eyes focusing deep into the darkness before him, he hummed.

“Hmph. Dark, ominous corridors. My favorite!” He cheesed at your bubbling laugh, snickering to himself at the obvious annoyance of the other boy.

Ominis bemoaned the statement, groaning and throwing his head back minutely. A hand raised to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “No comment.”

You turned towards your blond haired friend, placing your own hand on his shoulder and leaning in next to his ear, a dangerously coy simper tweaking up the corners of your mouth.

“I certainly love one of Ominis’ corridors.”

The wiry boy wiggled out from under your arms, making a sound of disgust at the comment as his cheeks turned a bright fuchsia. Sebastian desperately held in giggles behind his hand, watching as the boy made an obscene gesture with his middle finger in your general direction. The taller boy stepped closer to the other, gently grasping his arm by the wrist and redirected the gesticulation to face more fully at you instead of a little to the left where it once was pointed. Both of you paused, looking between each other's eyes and the offending finger with barely contained mirth, before combusting dramatically into boisterous laughter. Sebastian leaned against the wall in support, nearly screaming around the laughs that wracked his body. You still stood across from Ominis, doubled over with your hands on your knees. Gasping breaths left your lungs as you teared up in humorous pain. Ominis’ scowl somehow got deeper, and once again he turned away from the pair of you and began to walk down the hallway himself— screw you two hooligans to the sticking place for all he cared.

“Yes, yes. Hardy har, laugh at the blind fellow. Incredibly mature, you both are.”

Sebastian walked up to your hunched form, patting you gently on the back before grasping at your shoulder and helping you stand. You both leaned on the other for support as the last of your giggles tittered into the air around you. Taking a deep, cleansing breath before shakily releasing the air, you began to walk after the tiffed boy. His haunches were raised above his ears, only the tips poked out and were flushed a light pink. You quickly ran to catch up with his quick steps, waving your wand around in front of you to avoid any obstacles in the low lighting. Your arm landed on his shoulders once again, and you sniggered jovially,

“I do apologize. That was terribly coarse of me, my dear Ominis.”

Sebastian slid up on the other side of the boy, wrapping his arm around his other shoulder and resting his hand at your elbow. He accentuated his accent, adopting an incredibly posh vernacular. “Indubitably. Frightfully uncouth of us. Please forgive us, dear friend.”

Ominis growled in the back of his throat, mumbling curses under his breath and shrugging off both of your arms. “Go lick a leprechaun taint, the both of you.”

You both gasped in outrage.

“How dare you, good sir!” Sebastian cried, a hand fluttering over his heart and a scandalized look decorating his visage.

You took a similar stance. “We are children of God! Deviant behavior such as that must be saved for one's wedding bed.”

The two pureblood wizards paused and turned towards you, confusion laced in their eyebrows. The brunette leaned closer to you, arms now crossed in befuddlement, and glanced at you from his peripheral vision like he was about to share a secret.

“What’s a ‘God’?” Sebastian whispered out of the side of his mouth.

You turned towards the boy, finger raised and mouth open with an explanation at the tip of your tongue. You quickly decided against it, though, as you knew it would just confuse them more. Best not try to explain muggle religion to two boys who have never stepped out of their small towns until it was time to go to school. You sighed, lowering your hand and about facing the end of the hall, ambling along ahead of the pack. The two boys shrugged and continued after you.

At the far end of the hallway stood two imposing stone walls, an ostentatious doorway slid into the space between. Looking at the entrance, embellished in the texture of scales and decorated with serpent imagery, you felt a sense of dread wash over you. Each turn in this maze of a catacomb seemed to linger with a foreboding aura, flooding your senses and raising the hairs at the back of your neck. You turned to look at Sebastian, now at your elbow just behind you. He was gazing at the door in pure curiosity, his eyebrows pinched together in contemplation. He ran his hand along the intricate carvings, tracing each snake with delicate precision.

Ominis slowly entered the room, his head tilted left and then right with a pensive look adorning his face. He stood in the center of the room and closed his eyes, seemingly listening to something that only he could hear. Soft hisses slithered through the room from the pipes above, adding to the dreadful vibe. Each hiss caused him to twitch in one direction to the next. If you didn’t know any better, you would say that he was possessed by a snake itself.

His eyes suddenly snapped open, startling you with his ferocity. He quickly paced towards the door, running his hand along the carvings with Sebastian. The homing signal at the tip of his wand cast an eerie glow on the wood, mingling with the green fire torches lining the walls. He leaned his ear on the door, listening closely to the whispers in the walls. He tilted his head towards the pair of students, gesturing with his chin at the entryway.

“It’s speaking to me.”

You quirked an eyebrow at the boy. “The wall is talking to you?”

He nodded, pressing his ear against the wall once again. You walked towards the blond, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead in puzzlement.

“Are you feeling alright, Ominis? Are you ill? How can the wall be ta—”

“Shush!” He gently grasped your arm and lowered your hand to your side. “No, you numpty. It’s speaking parseltongue, the language of snakes.”

Sebastian leaned away from the door, snapping his fingers in excitement and pointing at the blind boy.

“I forgot you could speak parseltongue!”

Ominis huffed to himself, trepidation coating his tightly spoken words, “Well, I don’t particularly enjoy it. Parseltongue is notoriously associated with dark wizards, something as you know I have tried very hard to disassociate myself with.”

He leaned away from the door, instead resting his hand on the wall beside it. He looked up, unseeing, at the grand archway decorating the edges of the room and listened carefully once again to the hissed whispers.

“I think I need to speak to the door for it to open. Please step back, the both of you. I don’t want you hurt if something goes awry.”

You both took a noisy step back, making sure to alert him since he briefly put away his wand in favor of leaning on the stone wall with both hands.

Ominis sighed to himself, blowing upwards and dislodging part of his hair from his styled quiff. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”

From his mouth came a series of lethargic hisses, stringed together as if in a sentence. The sound seemed to fill the entire room, echoing off the stone walls and bouncing back at you from all angles. It amplified steadily as the hisses from above answered in turn.

Three of the decorative serpents came to life within the wood, slithering through the holes of the door and gliding along the edges of its carved trenches. A stream of mist puffed from its outer ridges, silencing the voices floating around you with a defined burst of powerful air. It blew the hairs dangling around your face backwards, tickling the tips of your ears and the back of your neck. Every hair on your body stood on edge and you suppressed a shiver.

The three of you stood silently for a moment, basking in the sudden quiet. It was like a bubble that had mysteriously appeared around your heads spontaneously popped, sending a rush of startling stillness pulsating directly into your ears.

Ominis was the first to break the spell, clearing his throat around the tightness that rested there, his cheeks glowing with a soft rosacea, and gestured through the now open doorway.

“After you.”

Your face broke out into an animated grin. “Ominis, you truly possess a rare ability, indeed!” You gently brushed your hand on his shoulder as you passed through the archway. Ominis’ cheeks blushed a darker red, and he reached his hand behind his head, rubbing softly at his neck in embarrassment.

“Oh, er, it’s nothing.”

Sebastian stayed in the back of the group, a scowl on his face and his arm crossed tightly across his chest. He glowered at the door like it affronted him, cursing it for allowing his friend to show his rare gift. Stalking towards the next room, irritation heavily prevalent in his steps, he muttered to himself the phrase you had just spoken in a mocking tone. He wasn’t sure which of you he should feel jealous of— you complimenting Ominis, or Ominis getting complimented by you.

Both, he decided. He was jealous of both.

The three students passed under the bend and entered into the next room of the monolith-lined maze. Once fully inside, the imposing door behind you closed with a loud slam. Sebastian ran at it, pulling desperately at the carvings and pushing with all his strength. Ominis joined him, throwing his weight at it with a grunt. The door didn’t budge.

“Shit!” Hissed the brunette, punching the door one last time before taking in the room behind him. “Guess we’re stuck in here until we find the next room.”

The blond leaned back against the wood, an annoyed puff of hair leaving his mouth. “Until we find the next room? How do we even know that there’s a next room? We could very well just be stuck here until we inevitably die of thirst or hunger, whichever happens first.” Ominis turned his head towards the sound of the pacing boy. “Sebastian, we’re eating you first.”

Sebastian stuttered in outrage, “Why me?!”

“Because it was your idea to come here in the first place!”

“Say that to my face you—”

Tired of listening to the boys argue, you lit the tip of your wand and began to explore the new area you had unlocked. It was a large stone room with a gunmetal gate at one end, a giant lock decorating the middle. Spiderwebs covered every corner, starting from the very far bottom corner and stretching to the upper corner across the room. You shuddered, thinking of the large arachnids you had fought not that long ago. You hated spiders. Making your way closer to the gate, you traced your finger along the lock, noting strange shapes in the metal. It seemed like it wouldn’t take a key like normal, it was a puzzle of some sort.

Turning towards your friends, you tuned back in their argument. They were face to face, arms crossed, with indignant expressions.

“It’s your ancestor that seems to like puzzles so much!”

“Look in a mirror, Sebastian.”

“How dare you!” He stuttered for a moment, wracking his brain for a suitable comeback, “Were you dropped on your head as a child?!”

Ominis scoffed, a sarcastic grin stretching his lips, “Oh, bold of you to assume I was ever held—”

“BOYS!” You shouted for them from the gate. “Can you have your lover’s quarrel later? I found something.”

Their faces instantly softened a fraction at the sound of your voice. They stepped away from each other, embarrassed by their squabble, straightened their cloaks, and walked over to where you stood.

Sebastian came up to the gate, running his fingers along the lock like you did, before grasping at the bars and giving it a good shake. The gate rattled against the ground, scraping at the concrete below, but refused to budge. He took a step closer, craning his head around and looking through the small slits in the metal. His collar dug into his neck uncomfortably. Growling, the boy tugged on the offending cloth.

“This bloody collar—”

The freckled boy stood back, looking at the gate once more for a moment before undoing his robe and tossing it unceremoniously to the ground. He shrugged off his jacket and vest next, leaving him just in his white button down and tie. He quickly pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, shaking out his arms in the process, and loosened his tie before undoing a few buttons near the top of his shirt. Grasping his wand between his teeth, Sebastian took hold of one of the horizontal metal rungs in the gate and pulled upwards with all his might. Still no movement.

A blush began to creep up your neck at the display before you, and you averted your eyes from the very attractive boy. You turned towards Ominis, only to find him in a similar state of undress. He was in the process of carefully undoing the buttons around his cuffs and folding the sleeves to his elbow. You noticed he had neatly gathered his jacket, vest, and robe and placed them atop one of the assorted rocks littering the ground. He began to walk towards the other boy, listening to his struggling grunts of effort. Your blush somehow got brighter.

“Let me try.”

Sebastian took a step back and waved his hands in a “have at it” motion. Ominis approached the gate in a similar stance to the other boy, flexing his forearms and pulling upwards once again. You could see his muscles straining under the material; he may have been slim, but he certainly wasn’t unfit. Eyes skipping from one boy to the other, one with his hands on his hips, panting at the effort he had just exuded, and the other now pondering the gate before him, a finger resting on his chin and hand resting on his other elbow across his chest, you suddenly felt like the room had gotten at least ten degrees hotter.

In your flustered state, you took a step back away from your companions. You bumped into something just behind you, a piece of sharp stone slicing through your shoulder. Releasing a hiss in pain, you grasped at the wound and quickly turned around, looking for the offending object. Just over your shoulder stood a large stone statue of a snake poised to strike. It was resting on two circular bases, one atop the other with just enough space between to twist them to different directions. You noticed symbols decorating the rims of each— they were the same shape and style as the two on the gate lock. You quickly crouched down and took hold of the stone, turning it until both bases lined up with the ones on the lock. A loud click sounded through the room and the gate before you opened.

The three of you quickly turned towards the sound, wands poised in front of you ready to strike. Seeing no danger, you all lowered your weapons and turned back towards the statue. You crouched yet again, running your fingertip along the other symbols.

You spoke to the boys over your shoulder, “It’s a puzzle. You have to match the gate symbols to the ones on the snake.”

Sebastian barked a laugh, coming up behind you and gazing at the sculpture. “Absolutely brilliant, you are! Bet I could do that just as well, eh?” He patted you on your shoulder with pride, not noticing your new injury. You clenched your teeth, a pained hiss escaping through the gaps. The brunette drew his hand back in alarm, looking at the small streak of blood on his palm. He took your arm gently, eyebrows furrowed at the medium sized cut in concern.

“Stars, you’re hurt! What happened? Are you alright?”

You placed your hand over one of his, looking at him over your shoulder and forcing a laugh. “That’s how I found the statue in the first place. I’ll be fine, it’s just a scratch.”

He looked at you with doubt, but let it go, releasing your arm and taking a step back. “If you say so.”

You stood, shaking out your arms and shoulders. His hands felt like small fires against the cool air of the mausoleum.

“Okay, Ominis and I will stay here and look for more of these puzzles. Sebastian, you go look in the other room and see if you find anything. Call out if you need backup.”

Sebastian saluted two fingers in your direction before running at the open gate, grabbing at the taller ledge of the other room and heaving himself up. You watched him disappear onto the other floor. You and Ominis spread out, each taking a different corner of the room. It was bigger than you originally expected, going on for at least the length of a classroom. There was another gate at the very center of the room, the same as the other. Your eyes scanned each corner of your side for the distinct shape of Salazar’s sculpt, calling to Ominis on the other side of the room.

“So, why does Salazar Slytherin like snakes so much, anyway?”

Ominis shrugged, “Some legends say that he was an animagus— that his form was a basilisk.”

You whistled lowly, “That’s a big snake.”

The boy chuckled softly, going back to the original silence directly after. Ominis bit his lip, chewing it over what he should say next. He didn’t like the silence, it made him feel like he was back home. The ambiance of the Scriptorium certainly didn’t help, either.

He took a deep breath before speaking. “Are you truly alright?”

You smiled, moving over to his side where he was feeling along the wall. You rested your hand on his shoulder, a feather light touch that felt like a heavy weight because of his nerves. “I am, I promise. Please don’t worry about me, everything is fine.”

He turned his face towards your voice. “I always worry. About the both of you.”

Your face softened at the confession, bringing your hand up to gently caress his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing at the contact. Brushing your thumb against his cheekbone, you felt a surge of nerves in your stomach; butterflies bumping around in the inner lining of your gut. You opened your mouth to speak.

“Ominis, I—”

A short shout cuts through the quiet. You both whip your heads in the direction of the open gate, calling out to the boy on the other side.

“Sebastian, are you alright?”

You hear him fumble around for a moment, calling in return, “The statue bit me! Be careful not to get it wrong!”

Ominis gently grasped your chin, turning it back towards his face. He listened to you expectantly, patiently waiting for you to continue your thought from before. The blond was incredibly nervous, hoping that you couldn’t tell that his hand was shaking. You hesitantly flick your eyes from his irises to his lips, soft and inviting. You wet your own, taking a shaky breath in.

“What were you saying?” Ominis whispered, his face a hairs length away.

Your eyes quickly slid over to the left, feeling incredibly hot under the collar all of a sudden. A strange shaped rock caught your attention, curved at the base like a worm. There it was, the final puzzle. You gasped, fumbling out of Ominis’ hold on you and quickly scurrying over to it, turning the dial to the shapes on the other gate. Just as yours slotted into place, a second click could be heard from the room over. The second gate opened with a loud, rusted creak, leading into a third, and what you hoped was final, room.

Sebastian made his way back over to the two of you, an elated grin stretching across his face as he gazed into the next section of the crypt. Ominis had dropped his arm when you de-tangled yourself, now crossing both in front of his chest with an expression similar to someone who smelled something foul.

The three of you crept into the room, wands poised for any danger that may come forward. The gate slammed shut behind you once more, trapping you there like before.

“Salazar Slytherin isn’t done with us yet,” Ominis whispered, a grave seriousness adorning his visage.

You quietly make your way to the other side of the room where a large, disfigured door lay. It was covered in carvings; scratches marred the corners, flowing dangerously into disturbing images of screaming faces. You felt the air around you grow even colder than before, a shiver running down your spine. There was a flutter of paper to your right, and you swung your wand towards the sound. The tip illuminated an old piece of parchment, covered in dust with sections of it nibbled away by rats. You gently pick up the letter, afraid it would fall apart at the slightest movement. On it was a journal entry of sorts, big looping cursive depicting the fate of the last explorer to make it to this room. You carefully scanned the note, each word filling your chest with dread. Gazing down at the ground near your feet, you quietly gasp at the sight of a decaying skeleton. Its bones were a stark alabaster against the gray concrete floor; spiderwebs weaved throughout the skull and down to the rib cage.

Noctua Gaunt.

You quietly ushered Sebastian over to where you stood, handing him the final journal entry of the woman before you. He scanned it, his eyes growing larger by the second and his face adopting a grim expression. The freckled boy looked at you for confirmation, and you gestured to the skeleton below. He gasped quietly in his throat, looking over his shoulder at the other Slytherin quietly pacing by the gated entrance.

You quietly spoke, sympathy lacing your tone, “Ominis, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. There’s a note over here, next to a body.” You cleared your throat uncomfortably. “It’s Noctua.”

The boy froze his movements, head tilting down towards the ground in sorrow. “What happened to her?”

“The note says she was stuck in here, and that she could only open the door with an unforgivable curse. She didn’t have anyone else in here with her, so she was unable to escape.”

You walked up to the now shaking boy, his hands grasping at his opposite elbows to ground himself. You gently moved your hand to his shoulder, stroking the joint with your thumb. He roughly shrugged your hand away, returning to his pacing; his face morphed into a look of pain. His hands ran through his hair in anguish, mussying it up into a wild mane.

“She died stuck in here, and we will suffer the same fate. We will be stuck down here forever— the next person to enter will find our bodies like we found hers.”

Sebastian bent down to pick up the note you dropped, studying it closely again. He quickly paced towards you both, anxious nervousness rubbing off of him in waves.

“Don’t give up quite yet. She says that she couldn’t leave because she was alone and had no one to cast the spell on. There’s three of us— we can get out! We just have to cast the unforgivable.”

Ominis threw his hands down in agitation, spitting at the other boy, “That’s dark magic, Sebastian! Unforgivables are unforgivable for a reason. You can’t just cast one, you need to mean it, and I don’t particularly want to hurt either of you. Do you?”

Sebastian’s eyebrows knitted together in irritation, “If it means getting out of here alive and finding a cure for Anne, I’ll do anything I have to.”

You stepped between the two squabbling boys, holding your hands aloft to keep their distance from the other. This argument was getting heated fast, a darker, more dangerous aura rested under the surface than the argument in the prior room. You spoke to the brunette to your left, “Sebastian, which spell is it? What do we need to do?”

He scanned the note for a third time, eyes alight in a combination of rage and panic. His expression grew grave, and he felt something lodge itself in his throat. He forced the words out from around it, slightly choked with emotion, “We need to cast the cruciatus curse.”

Ominis’ wrath was palpable in the air, filling the room like a thick fog. “Absolutely not! There must be another way out. There is no way in Merlin’s name that I’m letting either of you cast that spell!”

The taller Slytherin growled, throwing the note down on the ground and pacing back to the horrifying door. He ran his hand along the faces, each twisted in pain. He sighed, pushing his anger back down into his chest. It would do them no good to argue with each other.

“I understand that you’re scared, Ominis, but there isn’t another spell. This is the only way out.” He took a deep, steadying breath, before finishing his thought. “You’re the only one here who knows the spell. It should be you who casts—”

“Are you soft in the head!? I would rather die than cast that spell again. I question our friendship just at the fact that you would ask that of me.”

Sebastian pressed his forefinger and thumb against the bridge of his nose, pinching it in exasperation. He turned on the balls of his feet towards where you were, silently watching the fight with fright in your eyes. He walked towards you, placing both of his palms on your shoulders and looking deep into your eyes.

“It’s up to us, then.” He paused, searching your face for something. His eyebrows creased in concentration and something else that you couldn’t name. Fear? Anger? Assurance? You weren’t sure. You weren’t sure you wanted to know. He quickly spun away from you, beginning to pace the length of the room while muttering to himself, tapping his wand against his leg in a sporadic rhythm. You watched from your spot next to the door. It seemed to glow with evil energy, spreading its wicked tendrils around the room like a well-fed devils snare. You could almost feel it crawling its way into your nose and mouth, wrapping around your throat and squeezing the air from your lungs. Rapid breaths escaped from your lips, your heart pulsing rapidly in your chest. Your wide eyes, absolutely swimming in terror, refused to leave the daunting door. You open your mouth to speak, before a resolute voice cuts you off from your thoughts.

“Cast it on me.”

Your breath caught in your chest, freezing in your veins as your blood ran cold. Surely you didn’t hear him correctly? He wasn’t asking you to—

“Cast it on me, it’s the only way.”

You slowly turned in his direction, meeting Sebastian’s beautiful brown eyes, normally filled with warmth but now cold and hard. He stood directly across from you, the glow of the door casting a striking shadow on his youthful face. His demeanor was all straight lines; tight and unmoving in discernment. There was no changing his mind, he had made his choice— his figurative bed. He would rather take the curse himself than have to cast it on either of his closest friends. You saw the determination in his eyes, in the thin line of his lips and jagged edges of his clenched jaw. He was an immovable force, and who were you to try and bend physics to your will? You closed your eyes, gathering your resolve, before meeting his eyes once again. The fire behind your irises burned brightly, a blazing inferno ready to take the entire world into its flames.

“Alright, if you’re sure. Do you know the spell?”

He looked at the door again in trepidation before meeting your gaze, something unknown still swirling in his irises. “In theory. I can teach it to you.”

The both of you moved through the motions of the spell, repeating it a few times to make sure you knew what you were doing. The movements in itself felt dirty— wrong, even. Like you weren’t supposed to be privy to this kind of knowledge. Your wand arm felt numb, like the cold was seeping into your very bones and inducing hypothermia. You swallowed thickly, before raising your wand to Sebastian’s chest. You stared into the other’s eyes, both filled with intense worry and fright.

“Are you ready?”

The brunette took a deep breath through his nose, clearing his mind and attempting to calm his rapid heartbeat. He nodded his head, not trusting his voice, eyes squeezing shut in preparation for the unimaginable pain he was about to experience.

Your shaking voice spoke, mouth feeling weird around the accursed word.

“Crucio.”

A slight red spark shot from the tip of your wand, but no pain came to the Sallow boy. His eyes shot open, looking at you across from him. You were shaking like a leaf, staring confused at your wand and then at him. He knitted his brows in angered confusion.

“What happened? Why didn’t it work?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Ominis spoke from the back corner where he had sat himself, head leaning heavily on the wall behind him and his arms resting on the tops of his knees. His face was riddled with resignation. “I told you, you have to mean it. You have to want to inflict pain on the other person.”

Sebastian growled loudly, his teeth clashing together harshly as he clenched his jaw in anger. “If you’re not going to offer anything helpful, just be quiet.”

You stood in stunned silence at the boy's ferocity. He quickly rounded back towards you, teeth clenched in a near snarl. He pointed at you accusingly,

“Why aren’t you angry? You need to be furious! Yell at me— tell me this is all my fault! Let me have it!”

You stuttered at the boy, hands shaking even more forcefully now. You knew what he was doing; he was trying to make you hate him. He wanted you to be so angry at him that you could easily cast the curse. Unfortunately, the tactic seemed to have the opposite effect on you. Your heart ached for the boy, listening to each word he said and knowing somewhere in your heart that he thought this of himself. Apologies filled your mouth and spilled out like a waterfall of dismay. They splashed against the ground and the droplets sprayed everywhere, bouncing harshly against the echo chamber walls.

Sebastian continued yelling, rage pouring from his being, “Stop apologizing! I brought us down here, it’s my fault we’re in this situation to begin with! I’m the reason you have to cast this spell! You didn’t want to come here at all before I basically forced you and Ominis. Look at him, he’s petrified! I did this, cast it on me!”

Tears gathered in your eyes, horrified terror coursed through your body because of the boy across from you. He was breathing heavily, eyes ablaze and nostrils flaring like a bull. You had never seen him like this before. The anger poured from him and swirled around the air like a dense cloud, permeating every inch of the desolate cavern. Ominis hesitantly stood from the corner, intense worry spreading across his face. He slowly approached the two, steps soft and slow, hands outstretched in front of him like he was dealing with a raging animal. He could smell the tension, feel the red hot heat of fury and agitation.

He hesitantly spoke, his voice shaking with a soft timber, “Sebastian, take a step back. You’re scaring them.”

The frenzied boy rounded at his friend, snarling and gnashing his teeth, “No, they have to do this!”

You continued to spew apologies, the words getting swallowed by the thick, maroon fog and evaporating into vapor. Tears cascaded down your frightened face, staring unblinking at your rampaging friend. He was nearly foaming at the mouth in outrage, his eyes wild and hardened. He didn’t look like himself, a complete stranger in his own body. All Sebastian could feel was anger, extremely hot and branding his very soul with a wave of wrath. He could hear your pitiful cries, Ominis’ begging for him to stop. He wouldn’t let you both stand in the way of curing his sister.

“Crucio!”

Your screams filled the small room, ricocheting off the walls and burying inside the duo's ears. Ominis slapped his arms around his head, bending over in pain, his sensitive ears amplifying the violent outburst tenfold. His heart shattered in his chest at the sound of your pain, crushing his soul in its devastating grasp. The sound snapped Sebastian out of his trance, his face morphing into one of absolute horror and revoltion at what he had just done. He dropped his wand in shock, stumbling backwards into the nearest wall and sliding down it. Tears welled in his eyes as he watched you writhe on the floor in never-ending pain. He brought his hands up to his mouth, covering it in distress, and whispered curses and pleading apologies against his skin.

“Oh Merlin, what have I done? I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

Pain— that’s all you knew. Your blood was boiling under your skin, the veins feeling like they were going to burst out of you in a shower of blood at any moment. You clutched your abdomen in agony, nails biting into your arms in desperation. Blood ran down from your hands, coating your sleeves and staining them red. Each organ felt like it was dying slowly, decay seeping deep into your body and coating every surface. Your heart pounded harder than ever before, threatening to combust right through your ribs and out of your chest. Every nerve ending fired off in rapid succession, blazing through your body like a wild inferno and leaving intense burns in its wake. Your head was the worst. It felt like someone stabbed a freezing ice pick through your eye socket, retracting it and pushing back in with each pound of your heart against your skull. Bile rose into your throat, evaporating around the force of your wails of pain. You were curled on the ground, arms tight against yourself in protection. It felt like you would never be happy, be well, again. The torment went on for what felt like years, centuries even, wracking your body with heaving sobs and otherworldly screams.

In an instant it was over. Sparks of residual magic shot against your skin, shaking your body to its core. The world around you was dark and silent, your senses absolutely fried. A heavy weight was resting against your back, pressing against you with a relieving, grounding pressure. Your hearing returned first, flooding in like you had just rinsed the water from them.

“Come back to us! Are you alright? Damn it, please say something!” The panicked voice of Ominis filled your electrified brain, the sound grating against your ears. He pressed his palms against your cheeks and raised your head from its spot on the cold ground, wiping the tears from your face. He rested his forehead against yours, listening closely to your shuddering breaths. “Please, give me a sign that you’re still in there.”

A groan eased its way out of your tight throat, pushing past the damage your screams had done and croaking through like a toad. Ominis sighed in relief, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before gathering you gently in his arms. He stroked your hair, letting the last of the tremors make their way out of your body. Your consciousness faded in and out, lids fluttering open and closed around the blackness resting just behind your eyes.

“Shush now, don’t push yourself. Everything’s going to be okay.” Ominis gently coaxed your head to rest against his collarbone, his cheek pressing against the roof of your head. He continued his movements along your hair absentmindedly, lulling you into a soft sense of security.

The blond spoke to the distraught boy behind him, voice devoid of any emotion. “We need to get them to the infirmary.”

Sebastian broke out of his morose stupor, panic rising in his voice, “We can’t! She’ll know that we’ve used an unforgivable! Not to mention, we’re out past curfew. We’ll likely get expelled, or worse!”

Ominis sighed inwardly, his head leaning back and smacking against the wall behind him with a dull thunk. He knew that Sebastian was right, no matter how much he wanted to throw the boy to the wolves at that very moment. If they were to bring you to the hospital wing the nurse would ask all three of them questions, and none of them were prepared for that. There wasn’t a single lie in the world that would be that convincing. With a final growl of agitation, he made a decision.

“Fine, the Undercroft, then.” He leveled the taller boy with a harsh glare. “Go get whatever you’re looking for and meet us down there. I hope this trip was worth it, Sallow.”

The clock tower sounded three times, signaling the beginning of the witching hour. Two students rested against the chaise lounge conjured up out of an old shipping crate. Your shoulder had been dressed, the bandage peeking out from under your ripped blouse. The same was done for the indentations on your arms, half moons lining your biceps in a circle from your sharp nails digging into your skin. Ominis gently stroked your hair from where your head rested on his lap. You had fallen asleep not long ago, your quiet whines of pain tempered out and gave way to startling silence. Anger festered under the boy’s skin, warming him to an uncomfortable degree. It burned in the back of his mind, boiling against the memory of your screams and whimpers of immense pain. He had half a mind to curse Sebastian where he had stood in the Scriptorium. Ominis heard his panicked breaths and whispered apologies after he brought you to your knees, truly realizing the damage that he had done and the dangers of dark magic. Good, he thought. Maybe he’d finally stop moving down the dark path that he was so set on. He deserved to beg for your forgiveness.

The metal gate of the Undercroft squeaked open, the sound of heavy footfalls following after. Ominis gently picked up your sleeping head, standing from the chaise and lowering you onto one of the many pillows lining the cushions. He quickly paced towards the brunette, eyes blazing with barely concealed fury. Sebastian paid no mind, flipping through the large tomb he had collected from Salazar’s Scriptorium. He looked up and saw the approaching boy, not noticing the very prevalent anger on his face.

“Ominis, you’re not going to believe what I found—”

The smaller boy slammed into him, pressing his forearm against his neck and shoving him harshly into the nearest wall. His wand was pressed against his chin, glowing menacingly in the candlelight of the hideaway. The blond’s mouth was twisted into a gruesome snarl, teeth looking like fangs in the dim lighting. Sebastian gulped against the arm pressed against his larynx. He dropped the book in surprise, a cloud of dust puffing up from the ground at its harsh landing. Even though Sebastian knew that Ominis couldn’t truly see him, the boy’s heated glare seemed to set fire to his very soul.

Ominis growled at the taller boy in a gravely low voice, his teeth gnashing around each word. “If you ever hurt them again, you will be dead where you stand. This is the last I want to hear of dark magic, Sebastian. You’ve gone too far; people have gotten hurt. Promise me that you’ll stop— you’ll find some other way to heal Anne, or this friendship will continue no longer.”

Sebastian nodded as much as he could around his friend’s arm, squeezing the words out of his crushed throat, “Yes, I understand, I’m sorry!”

The anger seemed to evaporate from the smaller boy in mere seconds, his arms dropping to his sides and his shoulders slumping. He grasped the front of the freckled boy’s shirt, leaning his forehead against his chest with a heavy sigh.

“I almost lost you both today. I can’t do that, don’t make me live through that again. Please, I can’t lose anyone else, I can’t bear the thought.”

His shoulders began to shake, tremors rocking his entire body and sending the tears gathering in his eyes down his pale cheeks. He softly cries into the shirt of his friend, grasping harder at the cotton between his fingers and burying his face even deeper. The freckled boy stands still for a moment, startled by the sudden emotional whiplash. He hesitantly raises his arms and circles them around the shoulders of the crying boy, looking over to your sleeping form with guilt swirling in his eyes.

He had hurt both of his friends today over something he thought was so trivial, so insignificant. He just wanted to find a cure for his sister, not cause undeniable pain to those he loved. He truly was turning into a monster; the dark magic he was so fascinated by had begun to circle around his heart, squeezing it with its thick tentacles. Sebastian buried his head into Ominis’ neck, deeply breathing in his scent. The mildew of the cellar was thick against his skin, but reminisce of his expensive cologne and natural scent, something musky and rich, still lingered there. He focused on it, the familiar smell warming his insides and bringing his heartbeat to a slight increase.

He hadn’t promised the boy that he’d stop exploring the dark arts, instead twisting his words into something that sounded like agreement. Sebastian knew that he would come to regret that decision, but he couldn’t give up on Anne. She was his flesh and blood, his twin sister. She was everything to him. He knew that he would hurt his two closest friends more than words can express with his decisions, but deep in his heart he believed that he was doing the right thing.

With a heavy heart, Sebastian basked in the comfort of the Undercroft and the arms wrapped around his waist, praying to anyone who would listen that this wouldn’t be the last time he felt this safe.

AN: Did I make an "Ominis gets pegged" joke? Yes, yes I did.

***

like what you read? here's more!

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childotkw · 1 year

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re that au where au!tom yeets himself into canon - so you said harry would be happy to ignore the, uh, particular brand of obsessed tom's got going with him. but what about everyone else's (who knows his real identity) reaction to that? like harry's friends (I imagine tom would be using every opportunity to push them away so he can hang out with harry alone), the rest of the order, dumbledore (who i assume trusts him about as much as you can trust a dementor to not snack on your soul), the other death eaters, or even canon!voldemort

oh ho ho

Harry knows, after the initial confusion and fear and disgust and rage are cycled through, that the presence of a different Tom Riddle at his side is not accepted but for the moment tolerated.

The Order, Dumbledore, are too soldier-like to disregard what an asset Riddle will be in this fight -

(war, a part of Harry corrects, because even if he's never experienced it on such a scale, every day of his life has been a battle and he knows, bone-deep, what the beat of drums on the horizon means)

and that if the only thing guaranteeing his compliance is access to Harry then they will do it. Because Harry has always been more tool than person in their eyes, more symbol than boy.

And it's not even that Harry particularly minds being given up like a sacrifice, an appeasement, an offering because that's what he's spent his whole life being moulded into, isn't it? Someone to lay down his life for others, someone to take the hits, someone to draw the ire and attention of the most dangerous man in the world so that others could spin their plans on the side.

He's honestly not even surprised when they agree to let Riddle stay with him.

His friends don't understand his ease with the situation. They don't think he's in the right headspace to know what he's agreeing to (don't trust me, Harry thinks, a little bitter, a little sad). Ginny, in particular, is wroth at the Order's decision. She rages, she spits, she cries - because the young man standing at Harry's shoulder shares the face of the boy she had put her faith in and been violated by, been betrayed by, and it's not fair to ask Harry to go through that too.

Hermione and Ron are more quiet in their disagreement, their anger on Harry's behalf a simmering but ever-present force. They don't like Riddle, don't trust him, don't want him near their friend, but Harry is unmoving and the more time he spends with Riddle the less weight their voices seem to hold and they're scared.

Voldemort, on his part, is at first frustrated and then curious. He shares a mental link with Harry, after all, and the more glimpses he gets of his other self - of the things he says to Harry, of how masterfully he brings the boy under his purview, of the subtle influences he imposes that always, always lead to impressive growth in Harry - the more he begins to understand just why a version of Tom Riddle would leap dimensions to find another Harry Potter.

The Death Eaters are more confused than anything, but the ones that cross paths with Harry more often? The ones that find themselves on the end of his wand more and more? They're the ones that begin to see. That know -

Harry Potter is shifting. Slowly, incrementally, he's sliding away from being a paragon of Light propaganda and is becoming more...open-minded. His spells drift more towards maim than subdue. Curses roll of his tongue without hesitation. His magic, just as fierce as ever, has a certain flavour to it now, some mix of Dark and Light that is bewitching to see.

And when he rages how beautifully it swirls.

Tom is...content for the most part. Under his guidance Harry has begun to shake some of the more unappealing traits he's been forced to cultivate over the years. He's more assertive, more confident, more in control. Proactive rather than reactive. Stable rather than teetering on the edge of destruction.

Harry's no use to Tom if he can't stand up to him, after all. What good is a balancing influence that fails at balancing?

#anonymous #HP #YEET AU #harry potter #tom riddle #tomarry

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tarisilmarwen · 9 months

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Rebels Rewatch: "Secret Cargo"

Mon Mothma is a badass, that is all.

Hello another one of my husband's favorite episodes.

So much story expressed in just body language and establishing shots. The Ghost is waiting--apparently they've been there a while if they're willingly listening to holonet news--and they're all anxious and bored.

So the Ghorman Massacre, if previous Legends canon still holds, is that incident I mentioned way back when, when Tarkin landed a Star Destroyer on top of a group of protestors, implicitly with Palpatine's permission.

And can we just admire the sheer balls on this woman? Mon makes this pretty speech in the Senate chamber while it's in session.

Meaning she called Palpatine a "lying executioner" to his face.

Legends canon also holds that right after this, she personally hand-delivered the Declaration of Rebellion to his desk.

Yeah. I love her.

Heeeeeey good thing they established how utterly creepy these droids were back in "Warhead" because I see it and now I'm filled with dread.

The sound design for these things is still excellent.

Love how Ezra can tell different dialects of Binary apart in order to know the probe "speaks Imperial". He be learning behind the scenes yo.

(In more ways than one, as we'll soon find out.)

The way they draw out this suspense as the probe makes another round is great, quick teamwork and fast reflexes almost had the thing once it was within range.

Intense Ezra is intense. :)

The Ghost takes in a Y-wing in yet another cool utilization of its cargo hold.

Too bad these pilots are ungrateful. "You're making things harder for all of us!" Awwww boo hoo is the tyrannical authoritarian government getting even more tyrannical and authoritarian because it's finally being pushed back against? That's an occupational hazard, people. You're in a rebellion, it's not going to be cake and ice cream.

"It would have been prudent to avoid detection, as ordered." The probe was literally on top of them looking in their windshield, I think it was long past having detected them.

But enough griping about Gold Squadron's backseat rebellion-ing, let's get some more action!

One of the Y-wing pilots conveniently gets taken out so Ezra can take their place and I love this expression from Gold Leader:

He's just like, "Really? This upstart kid?"

But Hera has complete faith in him, awww.

Ezra looks really good in a Y-wing helmet. I don't think he keeps this one, he only seems to collect Imperial helmets.

*ANGELIC CHORUS*

Faslfhaksjfh pretty sure fandom winced when Ezra said the cursed line but! In this case nothing bad happened. Guess we broke the curse.

And now we learn just why the Rebellion loved using Y-wings so much. Two attacks from two fighters and they absolutely cripple this light cruiser.

His face is too pure sometimes. T_T

I really like how Mon is characterized here, Rebels really leans into her Paragon qualities. She sounds like a woman who's tried her best and is finally fed up, and you absolutely believe in her capacity as a Rebel leader. I think one of the reasons I'm reluctant to watch Andor is how they handle Mon. I'm not really a fan of "graying" my heroes.

Dantooine namedrop!

Four Star Destroyers hovering over Capital City now, come on guys that's excessive.

The beginning notes of Thrawn's leitmotif play softly here, in glockenspiel it sounds like, before switching to the iconic organs. As a side note, since they have Kiner for the Ahsoka show please please let there be some theme carryover from the show.

Thrawn already knows Hera's tactics well enough to deduce where she's going to go; through a risky, little-used smugglers corridor in a nebula. Him sending Pryce and Konstantine to head her off I don't actually think was him setting them up to fail, because for all intents and purposes they had the Ghost dead to rights, Hera was just a bit too creative and clever and managed to slip free.

Why is this show so good at coll menacing shots for Thrawn?

Mon speaking to another one of the archthemes of Star Wars: When to keep fighting inside a flawed system versus when to break from it and burn it all down. There's no real easy or right answer. Bail, and Padme, and Mon worked for years within the system, both of the Republic and the Empire, trying to change it from the inside. The Republic, for all its flaws and problems, could have been salvaged if enough people cared enough to fight for it, and absent Palpatine's influence of course. The Empire on the other hand, is rotten to the core, from the top down, the entire hierarchy and infrastructure designed to deprive its citizens of rights and due process and basic freedoms and control them under an oppressive hand.

Which isn't to say that continuing to fight against the Empire's rule from the inside, in the government halls rather than on the streets, was a worthless endeavor. Not all political conflicts can be solved by direct action. But it does take wise discernment to know when to start openly opposing a corrupt system.

Mon has apparently reached that breaking point.

This whole conversation is just... nice.

Hello yes, someone order some fresh scenery porn?

Ezra gushing about how Hera's "the best around" awww.

The Empire shows up, Vult Skerris now shoved in a TIE Defender, as if he wasn't a hassle enough in a regular TIE, and Ezra tries to warn the others about the Defender to no avail, we lose a couple redshirts.

This music cue is gorgeous, the animation on the nebula is gorgeous, I know I'm not being super verbose this rewatch but this episode is just so nice.

The way the Interceptors just melt, the bits that peel off the Ghost...

This music cue is much more relaxed than the wailing chorus at the end of "Journey Into The Star Cluster", more like a track you'd hear in a nature documentary, maintaining its sense of subtle awe and wonder even as a danger is narrowly escaped.

Love that Mon immediately knows she needs to stall for time so that Hera can think up something. She's fitting into the Rebellion already, knows her people well. :)

Also hilarious how her stalling tactic is a laundry-list of political demands.

LOL Chopper rolling along the floor there.

Ezra being an actually really decent pilot (because Hera taught him) and taking care of business. <3

Hera's face when she hears Ezra. <3

Sabine would have loved Hera's tactic here.

SCORCHED.

Dantooine be pretty.

[CIRCLE HIGHLIGHTS THE PART IN MON'S SPEECH ABOUT AUTHORITARIANS STIFLING FREEDOM IN THE NAME OF "SAFETY", POINTS EMPHATICALLY.]

Rebels said beware tyrants trying to control you for your own (or "the greater") good.

This whole ending bit is just so... optimistic. There's a sense of hope and heroism, of dawn breaking after a long night. Things are clear cut, there is evil and we must stand against it.

And finally the true Rebel Alliance is born. :)

Ahhhhhhhh I love this episode I love it, it feels almost chill in pacing and tone but that sense of clarity of purpose, that OT feel, it's just beautiful, this is just a pleasant episode.

Even knowing what happens in the finale can't fully dampen the spirit of this one.

#star wars #star wars rebels #ezra bridger #rebels rewatch #liveblog

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galehowl · 1 year

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here's more cursed Twitter content, for context - a doodle bc I was thinking about FFXIV/Howl's Moving Castle crossover, which obviously means half-transformed ugly bird monster Emet

but tbf, I def hc that the Paragons can shape-shift as they wish within the limits/aesthetic of their forms, and the reason for this hc is because it's fun and I also get to draw dumb things

#I can bully Emet more and that's the main reason #also half-transformations are really fun #ffxiv #emet selch #howl's moving castle #SORT OF LMAO #my sketches #my art #this isn't exactly art but whatever #gale is shitposting

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saphirered · 2 years

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I love your work and am desperate for more!

Could you do: Ashton’s “one that got away” shows up after being gone for a while. They are in their head but FCG talks them into meeting their ex.

Possible angst turned spice?

I have an unhealthy love for Ashton.

I've been having soooo much trouble writing this and I don't know why 😭 but I finished it. I think I might be experiencing a C3 block and I'm not happy about it. I might go back and just rewrite the whole thing at some point but it's a fic!

Ashton had been on edge the moment they set foot in Bassuras. Not because they might face the manifold of dangers this trash city holds because they don’t have a reason to fear. Okay… Not entirely true. There’s one danger they fear. You. Ashton isn’t really sure you left on good terms. You had a thing. Then you got into an altercation the day before their accident and Ashton never returned. Undoubtedly you’d have heard it went to hell, spoke to some of the old crew who would have told you. In their defence you never came looking either. In your defence, as far as Ashton’s pervious crew’d known, he’s dead so why would you come looking? It’s all a jumbled awkward mess and the question wether you’d be putting a knife in their back or welcome them with curses and pleasant greetings were more in favour of the knife, or so they tried to tell themself. You make a perfect pair; always running from something. Even each other. Until you can’t escape it anymore.

So when Ashton was showing the squad around, getting them familiar with all the secrets of the city, or at least those notable enough to remember outside of a drunken stupor, he did not expect to see you. Least of all at the Seat of Disdain getting quite close and familiar with a yellow cloaked individual. Gotta admit it was quite a thing to see you with your tongue down another person’s throat and he wouldn’t call himself the jealous type, didn’t think it would sting after this long but it does. Ashton had grown silent and the others caught on so a quick recovery was necessary to avoid suspicion and questions from his companions. Their heart sank when they saw your smile when you pulled away. Ashton remembers that look well. The ghost of your touch lingers on his cheek when you reach out to the stupid Paragon’s guard cheek and stroke your fingers along it. Their lips tingle when you press them against the guard’s one last time, and while holding the other hand, step backwards with a playful look that promises more upon reunion, before your fingers untangle and drop. You turn on your heels and walk away. Ashton quickly rushes along his friends into the opposite direction even when ice runs through their veins and a fire grows in the pit of their stomach. All questions are ignored.

Then comes the matter of housing. Dingy taverns and inns only, places to lay low. Plenty of them around but some safer than others. Bells Hells had settled down in a tavern enjoying some shitty drinks because it’s been a rough day. Finally a moment of peace but peace does not last long. Ashton shrinks in, lets their shoulders drop and bends closer to the table huddled up together, as if not to stand out.

“Something wrong, Ashton?” Letters is quick to note. All attention is diverted toward them.

“No.” Short and direct would have been enough for FCG but not for the others because Laudna laces her fingers together. and leans her chin atop with a frightening smile.

“Did you see some old enemies? Are we going to get into a bar fight? I do love a good show. The place would be the perfect scenery for it. We’d definitely draw the attention of the Call then.” The woman speaks gleefully but Imogen is quick to pat her shoulder and tell her to quiet down a bit before others hear and of course Laudna is quick to oblige to the sorceress’ suggestion. Though that doesn’t mean the attention is away from Ashton. FCG is nothing if not the perfect little therapist. It just so happens that the automaton notices the direction they’re looking every few seconds, eyes always falling back to a particular individual by the bar.

“Should we be worried?” They ask, noting the yellow cloak draped across your shoulders as you take a seat, call for a drink and some questionable food. Both are served to you at the mere presence of the cloak and you seem to make no move to pay. In all account Letters takes you for exactly what you present; a member of the Call and that sets off some alarm bells.

“No. But I Probably shouldn’t stick around long just in case?”

“An old friend of yours then?” Ashton snorts in response.

“You know what? Sure. Let’s go with that one.” He grumbles into his cup downing the contents.

“Oh, I smell a cross lover. Didn’t end on good terms?” Chetney grins every bit as wolfish as expected from a werewolf.

“Can we stop with the fucking interrogation?” Ashton shuts them down and so they do veering the conversation elsewhere. This is a touchy subject and they got the memo no is not the time to pry. But Letters, Letters is the exception here.

“Maybe you should go talk to them?” Grass suggests.

“If I want my fucking face to get punched in, sure. Let me go say hi.”

“You’re using sarcasm to deflect. If you’d just tell me what happened between you then maybe I can help because you’re upset and you know I don’t like it when people are upset so let me help you, please?” That just makes him feel guilty for lashing out a little. Grass isn’t deserving of their anger with themself.

“Fine. Before I took the job, we had a thing. Then you know what happened. I never came back. Disappeared and never looked back. They moved on with their life and so did I.”

“Did you love them?” Silence is answer enough. “Did they love you?” Silence again but thoughtful this time. Did you love him? You’d said it plenty of times, showed it too. Would you still think that way now after this long? You look as well off as a fellow scoundrel can be.

“I don’t know, Letters. I don’t know. It’s been a long time.”

“Then why not talk to them? What have you got to lose? Either you get answers, get to explain what happened, and closure or they’ll never know the truth, and be left wandering, or for a bomb to blow once you run into each other.” The automaton’s got a point there. It does sound tempting but then again, should they really rip open old wounds? Is it really worth it to see you upset, or worse at the mere sight of them? Ashton’s already done you more than enough harm. But that’s not his choice to make, is it? You deserve the truth, the whole truth because all this time he’s wondered what became of you, what you were unto, if you were alright but never had the guts to get close to your life again. If you share but a fraction of those feelings, then perhaps you have wondered too. Ashton doesn’t give another answer and the implied silence is enough; they’ll think about it. It takes more thought. FCG is perceptive enough to tell this will fester and Ashton will be likely to excuse themself from the group to seek you out.

————

The night goes on and you’re enjoying your drink, given something less shit than the rest of this place it seems. You converse with the barkeep casually about nothing at all. Even now Ashton can call out your voice among the masses, hone in on it. One by one the others head to bed. They’re the last, for now, trying to muster up the courage, still stuck halfway between calling this course of action fucking mental and whatever sliver of positivity their mind can latch onto. The decision is about to be made for him. You rise from the bar stool, toss a coin at the barkeep in thanks and turn on your heels. For a brief second you falter. For a brief second your eyes fall upon the genasi but just as quick they leave and you make way for the exit as if you hadn’t seen them at all. In a moment of stupidity or courage, Ashton doesn’t know as the two often overlap, they get to their feet and chase after you.

“Hey.” He tries to get your attention picking up pace a little but you keep going.

“Hey!” This time much closer Ashton half anticipated what was coming but that doesn’t deflect the pain he feels next. A fist clashes with his face, and knocks him back a step or two, leaving the taste of iron on his tongue. With a groan they hold their jaw, where the force impacted.

“Hey? Hey?! That’s what you fucking say to me after playing dead for years? Fucking hell, Ashton!” You go in for another punch but they manage to avoid that one.

“What the fuck do you want me to say? ‘Surprise, I’m not fucking dead!’? Gods I forgot you could pack a punch.” He spits some blood to the side and wipes his mouth recomposing and bravely facing your glare as you cross your arms.

“I suppose that’s fair enough.” You grumbled. What is someone supposed to say in a case like this? It’s all kinds of fucked up. “Now what the hell do you want?” You try to keep up the facade of anger but in reality, all you can think about is how you want to pull them into your embrace, and be happy they’re standing here in front of you.

“I wanted to say hi but fucking hello isn’t good enough apparently so fuck you too.” There’s a smile in his voice that you fight not to mimic.

“This is why you get punched in the face, Ashton. Your attitude.” And so you lose the fight to that smile, the corner of your lips turn upward and something within their chest just sparks alight be that relief or some kind of happiness.

“I fucking missed this.” They admit. The tension beginning to alleviate. “I missed you.” It slipped out before Ashton could correct it but with the look you give, the one so akin to what he knew from you, that loving acceptance of the rough life the both of you had, it feels so familiar yet so far out of reach when their memory falls to you this afternoon at the fortress, when that yellow cloak of yours blows in the wind.

“I missed you too.” You admit. You take a tentative step forward.

“You probably shouldn’t-“ You’ve already wrapped your arms around them and pulled yourself closer. Ashton doesn’t refuse your embrace for it isn’t unwanted but he wants nothing more than to tear that yellow fabric to shreds right now. “We’ve got some matters with the Call and I don’t want to put you in any danger by being seen close to us.”

“If you think I’d have lowered myself to the likes of the Call, you’re dead wrong. It’s just business. So if you need an in, I might be able to help.” That would have been really fucking helpful for the rodent break-in but he’s not about to share that yet. That’s the last thing on their mind right now. This is about you.

“So when I saw you this afternoon-“

“You should know how I kiss my lovers versus how I kiss my advantages or have I become that good of an actor? Need I remind you?” Ashton shakes their head. Unbelievable. Yet you speak true. So like Letters keeps telling them; if you feel like you can’t believe something you know to be true, then maybe your mind just doesn’t want to come to terms with that truth for better or worse. There might be some truth to those words. You pull back enough to look at them and let your hands clasp both sides of their face and in that very moment all the worries of the world fall away.

“I don’t know?” Ashton tries to wrap his head around this all. Why aren’t you upset? Sure you threw a punch that might even bruise their skin but holy shit and you seem to catch up on these inner questions.

“Ashton, you were dead until today. I’m not saying let’s go back as if things never happened. I’m saying we can talk this out, if you’re open to it because I’m willing to listen.” Letters was right. Maybe things can be solved by talking. Perhaps he shouldn’t tell FCG this works because it might set a precedent but he’s thankful no less. “Now that doesn’t mean you’ll get off scat free for what you say and I might still be throwing a punch or two so be careful.” You smile and they know you’re only half joking.

“You know you’re fucking amazing, right?”

“The fucking best.”

#critical role x reader #bells hells x reader #ashton greymoore x reader #ashton x reader #critrole x reader #critical role #critical role fanfic #critical role fanfiction #critical role imagine #bells hells #ashton greymoore

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todayisafridaynight · 1 year

Note

so yea im here again to bother (anonymously bc thats the only true way to communicate to ppl amirite) so let's pretend rgg writers didn't pull an asshole move on him and he lives and now hes like. a side character or whatever u can catch him to chat whatever the point is hes alive AND THE QUESTION IS: do you think he keeps appearance aoki-style clean and tidy or he goes back to masato-style emo swag? or is he gonna be the most cursed mix of these both cause i can't decide what to draw and probably im gonna just sketch it all slap it on one sheet and post but i've been hit by sudden interest about what my fellow aoki fan thinks?

my heart wants him to go back to his e-boy swag ways in this purely hypothetical timeline but honestly im not sure, it's somethin i ask myself a lot also: it's beyond just aesthetics and the sort that make up masato arakawa and ryo aoki, so i can't confidently say one thing or another

if you dont care bout aimless ramblin uhh skip the Read More cause i could just wrap up this ask here :)

heh. you care about my aimless ramblings :]

'ryo aoki' represents 'the paragon of japanese men' yk: clean shaven, conservative haircut, neat and tidy (glasses are just bonus points for 'yeah he looks smart') etc etc. that's not to say ryo aoki was purely a facade or persona, masato obviously had to harbor some puritan ideology beforehand in order to pursue his career as passionately as he did (though spite and a need for love and attention are strong, he probably wouldn't have been as effective in his position if he didn't believe what he was preaching to an extent)

im rambling about all of this cause without the need to keep up that 'perfect image' anymore and being ready to start over, aoki would be free to present however he wants without worrying about his image. would he still like to be seen as immaculate ? would he be ok with that more rugged look again ? a part of me doubts it since that was 'the lowest point' of his life, so why go back to it

that's not to mention how preppy was his aesthetic from birth to his 20's, though now i ask if that was his choice or if that's how masumi thought to present him to look like a regular civilian (not saying masumi was being a control freak over him obvi, im just saying did urge masato towards that kind of style yk. it's just a things parents do, and considering masumi is aware the yakuza lifestyle isn't something to aspire to i'm sure he wanted his son to appear as detached from it as he could--but now this is turning into a ramble about masumi SORRY)

plus, by 47/48, i think he would have outgrown the gritty-yet-flashy aesthetic. if anythin, maybe he'd just dress like masumi did during his 20's- not exactly the same, but something similar

assuming he wouldn't be in jail in this timeline and he was Just Chilling, i also have to ask if he'd want to restart his political career but genuinely this time and pursuing things that would actually benefit japanese society. that's tiptoeing into greater speculations tho but it's somethin' to consider if you want to ask 'what would aoki be like in LaD8'

#snap chats #THIS ASK TURNED OUT LONGER THAN EXPECTED SORRY I JUST HAVE A LOT OF THOUGHTS ABOUT HIM #these arent even all of my thoughts about his appearance this really is just a condensed version- which is insane to say its still long #anyway hope this helps. doubt it did i think you're back at square one LMAO #i hope at least you got a kick out of readin #now here's my question to yall: should i go out again.#i dunnooooooo i kinda wanna get A Treat esp since im finally done with all my business stuff #but i dont wanna go out too much but i also want something sweet and like a meal ig and i always like going out to places..#hmmmmmrmraGGHGH decisions...#anyway keep me posted on what you do bestie im curious as to your thoughts on this :]

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ruiniel · 2 years

Text

A covering of treasons

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Rating: Explicit 🔞

Relationships: Sauron/Celebrimbor

Characters: Sauron, Celebrimbor

Count: 4.8K

Tags and warnings: Oneshot, Self-indulgent, Seduction, Oral Sex, Gratuitous Smut, Conflicted Mairon, Eregion, Resolved Sexual Tension, Scheming, Alternate Universe, Dominant Mairon, Manhandling, Dry humping, Angst, Silvergifting, Hatred fueled by lust, Mairon POV

Also on AO3

Music I wrote this on: KI:Theory - Stand by Me

Title from Edge of Thorns by Savatage

Summary:

An older oneshot.

In which Mairon returns to Eregion for reasons he can't quite grasp. All the same, he intends to make the best of it.

The striking notes of the goldsmithing hammer rippled against the brick walls of the workshop.

He rose to his feet and straightened, placing his tool onto the worktable before stretching to ease the strain in his back. The Maia then raised his workpiece, regarding it with a critical eye.

Perfection.

He blinked, amber eyes narrowing, sensing he was no longer alone as further evidenced by the pounding rhythm of another heartbeat. His nostrils flared, and excitement teemed in his chest at the sound of hard footsteps drawing near. When moments passed and there came no greeting, he sighed. “Can I help you, Tyelpë?” Mairon asked with a hidden smile, a pale gem on his ivory face.

“... perhaps,” the Elf muttered. His high boots scraped against the cold stone tiles as he came to a halt at some distance, removing his dark leather gloves.

If there was any skill Mairon most thrived from lately, it was knowing minds and turning hearts; perfected through the Ages, it posed a form of never-ending amusement that had kept him from clawing his eyes out of boredom during the years spent among the hapless denizens of Eregion. He delighted in piecing together goals and motivations, twisting them to his purpose — all without their pursuer even guessing as to the outcome, until it was too late. His success in these endeavors proved, time and again, that no creations of The One were immutable paragons of righteousness. Mairon could name a hefty number of such failures as examples, even from the illustrious family of the shuffling idiot that now graced his abode.

“You could help me, now that I think of it. You could begin by revealing where on Arda you’ve disappeared to, for so long a time?” the Elf broke into his thoughts.

Mairon’s smile widened, cutting his face like fire. “Gone. On errands,” he said.

Tyelpë smelled of raw iron and forge-fire, melting memories of forgotten Valinor. Mairon inhaled deeply, a detested trepidation coursing through him as the son of Curufinwë came closer still. Fine, the Maia admitted, maybe shuffling was not the best word to describe the fiery presence of his former apprentice. Yes, his apprentice, though Tyelpë would take offense at being called such nowadays, for the ridiculous arrogance that burned his blood. They were all the same, the descendants of Fëanáro. Tiresome, stubborn brats, tied to that delicious pride that cursed their fates and brought their irrefutable downfall. The Maia blinked away flashes of that other vain, auburn-haired fool, chained bloody, his body a constellation of ragged wounds, his dried lips bitten raw against whimpering and sobbing in pain. And Mairon had been nothing but thorough in his interrogating methods upon Thangorodrim; seldomly, he wondered if Fëanáro’s eldest carried his gifts down to whatever putrid hole had swallowed him.

Something pressed into his windpipe, catching him unawares.

How ironic, Mairon thought. This again. He kept still and did not struggle against the forearm wound around his neck, for he’d suffered worse, after all, and the Elf’s vice hold was nothing compared to the maw of the Valinor hound. Fingers dug into his shoulder. The grip was not meant to hurt, not really, and Mairon had known this type of possessive grit before, in another Age. He shoved the stabbing memory to the depths of his mind, carefully placing down his workpiece — a plain gold band, ready for polishing.

“What is that?” Tyelpë asked, frowning, his inquisitive gaze riveted on the gleam of the ring.

Mairon caught the muted fascination in the Elf’s voice. His craft often had that effect on most, but for some cursed reason, none tickled or gratified him better than Tyelpë’s restrained awe.

Mairon’s long, pale finger skimmed over the bright, harmless-looking cumulation of his efforts before he tucked the band in a small wooden box. His eyes flickered like sunbursts though the Elf did not see. “Trinkets,” he said. “I’ve taught the Gwaith-i-Mírdain all I know, and now I need such projects to keep me busy.” His self-assured response left little room for doubt and besides, there was no threat that he could sense; the Elf was here for something else.

“Annatar...”

Mairon waited, but this one bid his time as usual, and the Maia had nearly enough of this boorish sulking. Despite this, as much as he loathed Elves, sometimes this particular spawn of Finwë had him scraping his knees raw across the chipped tiles of his chambers, whipping himself bloody, coming so hard he’d nearly faint at the thought of throwing the Elf against a wall and doing all manner of unspeakable things to him, not the least of which was to fuck him until his cock hurt. Along the years he’d shared his knowledge with the son of Curufinwë, many fleeting moments of strangeness had lengthened between them, until affinity and admiration morphed into half-hearted glares and a sententious, ofttimes poorly handled tension, translating in many professional differences. Not that Mairon was a coward — he’d always taken what he wanted, lest some form of higher power prevented it. “Might you release me so we can speak civilly?” he turned his head so the shadow of his breath warmed the Elf’s skin. A thrill ran through him when the other jerked his grasp on his shoulder, stepping back as if burnt.

Mairon swallowed and rubbed at his neck, turning to face his fellow smith fully. “Good to see you, as well. To my study, shall we?”

Tyelpë sighed. “I’m not here on a social call,” he grumbled but followed Mairon as he led them outside the workshop in self-assured strides.

They passed many arched, lamplit corridors and reached his study. The starlit night pooled through a wide-open window, and sheer crimson draperies stirred hedged by a mild wind, brushing against a wide, dark desk set beneath. A few lamps cast their buttery light over the furnishings, harnessing shadows that ebbed and flowed about the space and coiled in dark corners. Mairon motioned for the Elf to take a seat, but Tyelpë cut the offer with one impatient wave of his hand.

Mairon shrugged, removing his work gloves and his hard leather apron, flinging them carelessly onto a chair. He reached for a flagon set on the desk and poured two tall glasses of dark ruby wine. He looked up, offering one out.

The Elf rolled his eyes but neared all the same and took the drink from his hand, their fingers barely touching.

Oh, but this one had a fëa of fire, true to his legacy. It lapped at Mairon’s own spirit, and he greedily sucked its light whenever the Elf would be too enmeshed in him to notice. It tasted of sweet magma and Mairon had spent many nights high on the flavor, stroking himself to desperation, aching and barely keeping from invading Tyelpë’s dreams to burn him with glimpses of his own deepening torment. Why, in the name of all that is unholy, did he return here? This was not in the plan. But then, he was making a habit of breaking his own devices lately. He presently took a sip of wine and watched the Elf watching him, then leaned against the ornate oak desk with a nonchalant air, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “Well, then?”

The Elf looked no better than the Maia felt, where Mairon’s personal affair had left him depleted as he’d not been in an Age. Had they sensed anything? Mairon doubted it, and soon it would not matter. All he needed was a little more time, his plan near fruition. But what to do about his former apprentice, now facing him at ease so proud and, the former demiurge in Mairon could not deny it, splendid in his loftiness. A crimson cloak was carelessly thrown over his broad shoulders, and his sharp, youthful face of burnt amber was framed by the fall of shining, obsidian locks; eyes like translucent gems seemed to cut at the surface of Mairon’s warped, crooked soul.

“Well, we’re standing here like fools, and you’ve yet to properly answer my question,” the Elf snapped, as though gleaning his assessing stare.

“It was a private journey, Telperinquar,” Mairon said with a careless motion of his hand, turning to his workplace.

“Was it, now?” The Elf’s eyes followed him shrewdly. “Explain.”

The Maia stopped behind his desk, setting order among the inordinate heaps of scrolls and designs piled up in his absence. Ones he had not cared to manage, thinking he’d never return. “What is the matter with you lately, Tyelpë?” he shook his head. “This uncanny suspicion does you no favors. Can one not head out wandering anymore, to hone their craft or simply explore? This city becomes stifling after a while, and as you know I like to roam.” He paused, licking his lips. “Besides, there is a saying I like to put forward when one is tempted to look beyond their own private gardens: curiosity killed the cat.”

“Clever, as far as sayings go,” the Elf retorted. “Alas, lucky for me, I am no cat,” Tyelpë muttered, raising his chin.

Mairon stopped fussing with the paperwork and sighed. “No, indeed,” their eyes locked, and a lazy smile changed his unblemished face. You are a mangy, nosy stray, as all your exiled kin.

Tyelpë’s star-grey eyes narrowed, and a line of concern furrowed his dark brows. “You look weak,” he observed, tilting his head to one side. “Sickly, almost. Has something happened to you during your… journey?”

“What manner of questions, Lord of Eregion!” Mairon’s smile blazed as he undid his practical braid, oddly gratified by the Elf’s interest in his well-being. Laughable, and no less absurd. His shimmering pale hair fell in waves down his shoulders, reflecting the reddish light of the lamps.

The Elf’s eyes never left him, which pleased Mairon immensely. Appearing oblivious, he stepped around his desk and neared Tyelpë. The fair form he donned now held no candle to the ones he’d used before, but it would do.

Tyelpë’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fist in an involuntary clench at his side.

Yes, it would do nicely.

The Elf downed his wine and set the glass aside, before unclasping his heavy cloak and dropping it onto the chair over Mairon’s belongings. The Maia reached him, still smiling into Tyelpë’s darkening expression.

Mairon gasped when a powerful hand bound around his scalp, drifting to his nape, pulling him in, closer. He wrinkled his nose, keeping an unruly sneer at bay. Soon, it will not matter. Now was as good a time as any. He pounced. “Why, Tyelpë,” his voice was low, throaty, with a hint of soft, alluring moonbeams. “My friend, if I did not know any better, I’d say you missed me,” the Maia demurred as he reached and tucked a stray lock of shining hair behind the Elf’s tipped ear.

His former apprentice did not so much as flinch at the touch, but his pupils were black fathoms, the grey in his eyes reduced to thin ringlets of flickering stardust. Tyelpë yet watched him warily, gaze drifting to the lying smirk curving Mairon’s mouth. “I’ve scoured the entire blasted Ost-in-Edhil for you.”

The pup had a quest, it seemed. Tantalized, Mairon grinned, wondering what the outlet for this wayward lust would be if the Elf had any inkling of his machinations. He was high on the burning scent of corruption and brought his pallid face closer to Tyelpë’s; the hold on his nape loosened, and warm, trembling fingers drifted lower in a hesitant caress. He seized the moment and leaned in with a whisper. “You found me, did you not?”

The subtle tremble of the other’s body was exhilarating, like velvet nightshade streaming through the blood in decadent swirls. “What now? Or did you not think that far ahead?” He placed his palm flat against Tyelpë’s chest, his other hand clutching the Elf’s arm, and with purpose, he inched impossibly closer. “Tell me. Why did you come here, Tyelpë?”

Tyelpë stifled a noise deep in his throat and retreated a step, but Mairon was relentless, his eyes burning into the Elf who dazedly allowed him to lead, being guided in a slow sway with nary a shred of resistance. He did not stop until Tyelpë was pushed against the tall shelves stacked with tomes adorning the walls of his study. Slowly, Mairon raised one knee, grazing Tyelpë’s inner thigh; the muscle tensed, and beneath his palm, Tyelpë’s chest rose with a sharp intake of air.

“I’ve… I’ve come to...”

He had reduced a brilliant artisan, descendant of the great Finwë, to a stuttering fool in moments. Amusing. Predictable. Enticing.

Mairon clicked his tongue, drawing closer until his lips ghosted the Elf’s chapped, dry ones. “Tell me why you really came here, Tyelpë,” his molten eyes shone, his power coiling around the Elf though Tyelpë did not notice. He never did. “... seeking me?” His straight nose found Tyelpë’s cheek then he nuzzled lower, inhaling the scent of musk and embers on his skin. “... watching me.” His other hand found Tyelpë’s ink-black strands. Lips parting, Mairon placed an open-mouthed kiss on the warm column of the Elf’s neck. His hips tilted forward, and he bit back a growl at the physical evidence of his successful attempt; he pressed against the straining hardness, pleased at the shudder that followed.

Tyelpë tensed as though wanting to fight him, but Mairon slammed him roughly into the wood with his body. His bejeweled fingers grasped a fistful of Tyelpë’s hair, and there was a dull thump as the Elf’s head struck the shelves.

“You missed me,” Mairon said, his voice gaining a metallic edge, one that few save his forgotten servants ever heard. He knew caution was key, but breaking this one was much too appealing. And a part of him—the part he loathed as it turned him weak and needy as he’d not been in an Age—wanted to hear the Elf say it with something akin to desperation.

“Annatar… I...” came the words, strangled and wanting as a firm hand clutched at the Maia’s tense back, fingers searing on Mairon’s left shoulder blade; the other gripped his rear and with a groan, the Elf pulled Mairon into him.

He was crumbling, piece by prideful piece. Mairon smiled, soft lips alighting on the tip of Tyelpë’s chin, and he tilted his hips, grinding until the Elf hissed and mumbled a stream of colorful expletives. Anticipating the taste, Mairon coiled a strand of Tyelpë’s rich hair around his fist, pulling suddenly so the Elf moaned — in pain or pleasure, it was hard to tell. Either would do, but a part of Mairon wanted to see the splay of Tyelpë’s sweat-drenched body and the sheen of spent relief on his stern features. “Admit it, Tyelpë,” he murmured, and added for good measure, “… please.”

The Elf was melting against him, all defenses in shambles. Mairon gripped Tyelpë’s hard jaw in a vice hold, enough to ensure it would bruise, and slowly, very slowly, ran his tongue over Tyelpë’s lower lip. “Say it,” he commanded.

“Why?” Tyelpë hissed, his gaze fierce, looking as though he wanted to murder Mairon, or at the least do him bodily harm.

Mairon felt himself go steel-hard, thriving on the Elf’s conflicted emotions, on the desire risen like wayward flames too wild to douse. If nothing else, flames had always catered to his will. “Because...” he chuckled, “I... need to hear it,” he cooed with the feel of Tyelpë’s upper lip between his own. “Honesty and courage are both such rare traits in their pure form,” he smiled as the Elf dipped his head, slanting his mouth over Mairon’s, fingers still digging into the other’s clothed form before he greedily sucked Mairon’s lower lip into his mouth; his eyes fluttered closed.

Mairon forced down the beastly rumble that struggled up his throat—it would give him away—and responded with bruising swiftness, swallowing the Elf’s sighs, nipping and teasing as he reached to feel the impressive length outlined through Tyelpë’s breeches.

“Cursed Morgoth!” the Elf spewed. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed…” he all but moaned, over and over, the words like crushed chants against Mairon’s seeking mouth.

Hearing his former master and lover mentioned with such fervor, by the one he would now devour no less, awoke something strange within the Maia, like a weed sprouting from endless wastes of hardened lava. For a moment, the details of his plan, ever-churning at the back of his mind, faded to nothing. Mairon broke the kiss, eyes aglow with remnants from the depths of Orodruin. If the Elf only looked closer, he would see where Mairon had been. The Maia felt the involuntary shift of Tyelpë’s lower body as he leaned wantonly into his hand, craving more; his obliging fingers skimmed to the fastenings of Tyelpë’s belt.

Tyelpë gaped at him as the belt came undone and was discarded to the floor. When Mairon freed his cock and took him in hand with relish, he swore again and leaned forward, taking Mairon’s mouth in another savage offensive. For the first time Mairon was caught unawares, but his own want burned and he deepened the fierce kiss before turning his head, breaking away, himself rather breathless. “Easy now…” he panted as Tyelpë’s forehead fell against his shoulder.

“Forgive me, I am… I should… I should leave,” but he made no attempt to do so, nor move to free himself from the iron cage of Mairon’s arms.

Mairon cradled the Elf’s head to him, his other hand slow and insistent as he pumped Tyelpë’s arousal; a moan came hot and muffled into Mairon’s shoulder.

“Stay,” Mairon whispered. The plea in his own voice both angered and confused him. Still, his invisible shackles had already tightened around Tyelpë’s fëa, and there was no escape. When he removed his hand, slick with the proof of the Elf’s need, Tyelpë grasped Mairon by the hips, rutting against him for more friction. And Mairon would not be petty. His arms wound around Tyelpë and hedged him away from the wall, leading them both in a slow retreat, a winding dance as one followed the other, each drowning in their own defeat.

He pushed Tyelpë down onto the closest armchair so he fell heavily against the soft cushions, his eyes fevered, his jaw slack as he watched Mairon undoing his own belt, removing his work tunic to reveal the hardness of his broad chest and arms, corded muscles defined by many yéni of working the forge.

Mairon smirked at the silent appraisal. Tyelpë’s eyes held a guileless fascination, his hand gliding up and down his length in lazy strokes.

The Maia removed his dark boots, then unfastened his breeches and rolled them down so his straight cock strained out, thick and strong, the head glistening wet. He approached the Elf with hunger in his eyes. “You want me.”

“You are…” Tyelpë murmured, still stroking himself as he followed the sway of Mairon’s hips. Mairon leaned over with his arms propped on either side of him, his bare knee wedged between Tyelpë’s thighs. “... yes,” he gulped before Mairon kissed him again, longer and deeper, his tongue intrusive and demanding.

The Elf tasted of warm wine and white fire, the flame eternal Mairon had long since smothered, though its occasional flare awakened too many sharp-edged memories for comfort. Finally, they broke apart, a thread of spit thinning between their lips.

“Your turn,” Mairon breathed, reaching to undo the Elf’s tunic, his hands wandering over the skin he bared with care bordering on tenderness; his cock twitched at the feel of firm, unspoiled flesh beneath his wanton fingers. He’d had others, consumed them, but none were quite like this one. None had ever made him retrace his steps, skewing his carefully wrought plans, only for a taste.

A mere taste.

The Elf’s upper layers landed on the floor. “Annatar,” Tyelpë begged, “Annatar, please...” he failed to finish his thought, tilting his head as Mairon sucked on the pulse point at his throat, his fair hair feathering over Tyelpë’s neck and chest.

Mairon drew away and stood. None had ever begged him in this way before, that was certain. He watched his unknowing captive, a sight to behold spread and disheveled before him, dark hair fanned messily over his bared skin.

Without thought Mairon dropped to his knees, and reached to roll Tyelpë’s breeches down his legs; if nothing else, this was certainly better than a dream. The Elf’s hips lifted briefly, and Mairon dragged his garment down to his ankles. He roughly clawed at Tyelpë’s thigh; he was so far gone, all he wanted was to take. His deft fingers wrapped around the Elf’s cock, and his aureate gaze never left Tyelpë’s as he ran his warm tongue over the hard, swollen head, eagerly lapping at the thin slit brimming with liquid pearls.

Tyelpë hissed through his teeth, his abdomen tightening, hands grasping the armrests.

Mairon circled the rim with his tongue as his hand squeezed the base, stroking up and down. “More?” he asked.

Tyelpë nodded, one hand gripping his seat, the other shaking as it sifted through Mairon’s silken strands.

Mairon hummed in pleasure at the needy hardness gliding past his lips and Tyelpë all but melted into the armchair, chest heaving, head falling back. His fingers tightened in Mairon’s soft hair. “Like that…’’ he rasped.

Mairon stroked Tyelpë’s thighs, his eyes smiling at this different sort of victory. Tyelpë was in his grasp now, and this would be the way of things. He would obey. The Maia could barely contain himself as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked faster, his tongue teasing along the deliciously engorged vein pulsing hot and angry.

Tyelpë moaned, reached, and held Mairon’s head still, thrusting inside that willing mouth, his breathing harsher with each choking suckle.

A sudden rapping noise startled them both; Mairon broke his rhythm, but his teasing never ceased.

“My Lord Celebrimbor?”

Mairon opened his eyes, watching Tyelpë slowly return from his lustful reverie. He blinked fast, as though trapped in a haze, though his body remained slack beneath Mairon’s grasping hands.

This would not do. The Maia recognized the voice of Tyelpë’s aide. Mairon narrowed his eyes and gave a drawn-out suckle that had the Elf biting his lip so hard he drew blood, the flesh instantly bruising. He became driven, his hand squeezing the base once before he took Tyelpë’s full girth down his throat as if to say: I’m not done. And neither are you.

“My lord?” the intruder continued, his voice muffled beyond the door. He daren’t enter without being admitted, that they both knew. “I was told you had gone to meet with the lord Annatar. You asked me to remind you of the appointment with the guild, this evening?”

Mairon could tell the Elf struggled, grinding his teeth as jerking fingers slid through Mairon’s strands of spun silver and gold, yanking weakly as if to pull him off. All too soon it morphed into a caress, and the Maia was suddenly forced down roughly, kept in place with an elegant hand as the Elf thrust into his smiling mouth.

“Luinion… go ahead please,” Tyelpë said finally, his voice betraying nothing but thoughtful hesitation. Mairon was impressed. “Oversee the gathering today in my stead. This will take…”

The Maia grinned as Tyelpë’s eyes rolled back in pleasure while grappling with the situation he’d unwittingly invited upon himself — to say Mairon was not thoroughly enjoying it would be a lie.

“... longer than I thought.”

Somehow, the words came out as dignified as Mairon had ever known the son of Curufinwë. He tried to enjoy this triumph, but something strange and new and unknown clawed at his insides. Something out of his control, and therefore dangerous. It wedged itself like a rabid beast between his ribs, and his own rising fear of it fuelled a bitter hatred towards both the Elf and his own base desires, for the way he could not stop needing the body and mind now subdued in his power.

“As you wish, my lord. I will debrief you after,” the voice beyond the doors sounded after a few heartbeats, followed by receding footsteps.

Mairon went so deep the tip of his nose was tickled by the dark curls that arrowed from the Elf’s navel to his groin. He sucked faster, his tongue flicking over the sensitive head of Tyelpë’s cock. He had once wanted nothing less than to see the Elf battered and bruised as a penance for all the wrongs done to him and his master through this Age and the last. But now, when he thought he needed nothing else, when the coronation of his efforts was within sight and endless might was so close he could feelit burning the tips of his fingers, he only…

He only wanted more of this. Perhaps he’d keep this one around, once he revealed himself and took the world. His pale hand roamed the fine bronze expanse of Tyelpë’s skin, over the arch of a hip.

No, the Elf was prey; a small, sinuous delight, nothing more. But the mere thought of having Tyelpë stand by his throne once he bound them all to his will, a submissive, loyal servant of unrivaled skill at his beck and call, aroused him so much he nearly spilled himself then and there like some witless mortal during their first time. He shook himself, drawn back into the warm intimacy of his mouth filling with willing flesh, always loath to leave anything unfinished, for good or for ill. He gifted the Elf with the languorous curls of his tongue until his hitched breaths turned to helpless moans. Mairon reached for himself and pumped fast, the wet sounds of his own lapping and the Elf’s delight flinging him into the center of the cyclone; his want spread its scarlet wings, ready to engulf him.

“Annatar…” Tyelpë croaked, watching Mairon through his dark lashes, utterly stripped down to the bones of his will, lost and pliant. The muscles in his abdomen hardened. “I will not last much longer, I’m…”

Mairon seized Tyelpë’s hips with both hands and struck a relentless pace, overpowering the body writhing beneath him until his name spilled from Tyelpë’s lips along with the spurt of his essence.

Pleased, Mairon swallowed greedily as the Elf softened in his savage grasp, his chest warring in an endless rise and fall, his cock still hard and twitching in Mairon’s mouth. Pale lashes fluttering, Mairon licked the last beads of release, eyes closing at the slow graze of Tyelpë’s nails against his scalp. Yet on his knees, he rested his cheek on Tyelpë’s bare thigh, his own breathing erratic. The unknown feeling from before became a spike to his heart, delving deeper, gilded with serenity and care that confused him and stoked his ire; but the touch of coarse fingers bled him of fury as they followed the sharp lines of his face, the swell of his tense shoulders.

“… thank you.”

Mairon would have laughed deliriously at that, but the softness and sincerity in the Elf’s voice held his scorn at bay. “Do not thank me,” he muttered instead, harsher than intended. Soon, you will curse ever having met me.

Fingers tilted his chin upward, and he gazed into a new vision of devotion that rent his spirit in two. His vigor seeped from him, through his hurting knees, into the hard floor, leaving a breakable husk. A novel ache ate at him; a craving for something unseen, indefinable; something Tyelpë owned. His eyes closed as a roughened thumb grazed his bottom lip.

“What about you?” Tyelpë asked.

Ever the generous one. With a knot in his throat, Mairon still found it within himself to smile. “Then come to my chambers, and… well, if you wish, I can teach you more of my skill.” He raised a shapely silver-gold eyebrow.

Tyelpë offered a beatific smile that seemed to brighten the room. He rested his face in his palm, his other hand threading through the heavy sheet of Mairon’s flaxen hair. “You and I. Like the old days, in a way.”

Mairon sighed, the damnable spike shearing through, impaling him on the blissful ignorance that pulled at the Elf’s lips. He had poured most of himself into that cold, golden bauble now lying harmlessly in wait, the instrument of their fall.

What to do with the rest?

Slowly he rose, with Tyelpë’s hand pulling him close for another lingering kiss. One concession, before he left again; before their lives would change forever. “Yes, Tyelpë,” he pressed the words against the other’s lips, the name like pouring honey in his mouth. “Like the old days.” For a breath, he actually believed it.

#silmarillion fanfiction #sauron #celebrimbor #mairon #silmarillion #ruiniel:fanfiction #silvergifting

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dreamersscape · 10 months

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Curiosity Killed the Cat: A Dreamersscape Story

Which doesn't seem quite fair, really, considering although I like cats a great deal, you still wouldn't call me a cat person.

Step #1: Love Kakashi Hatake far too much as a character.

Step #2: Scroll through his tumblr tag. Slowly start noticing that people often draw parallels between him and another character from the currently-running Jujutsu Kaisen manga and anime, Satoru Gojo.

Step #3: Think, "This is fine. It appears they're mostly just comparing their similar character designs and they both have unique things going on with their eyes. I'm not seeing anything that's really piquing my interest with this series; I'll just quickly look up if there's anything more to these comparisons beyond surface-level resemblances and that will be that."

Step #4: One of the next things you learn about Gojo is that a common clickbait-y way to frame discussion around parts of his personality is along the lines of, "Does Gojo have a God complex?"

Step #5: Think, "Ah, okay. That's likely an exaggeration, but probably Kakashi and Gojo can't be all that similar, or at least I likely wouldn't feel much the same about them as characters. Now I'm simply curious how far off Gojo actually is from having a God complex and then I'll be done."

Step #6: Did not back out of this rabbit hole at this juncture.

Step #7: Hard to recollect exactly the order of things from here, but learned that Gojo is the teacher for his own group of 3 fifteen-year-old students (and also previously taught older students since he's the head of first-year high school students at his very small school), learned back when Gojo was a student at this same school he had a very close friend who was instrumental in imbuing Gojo with his current moral principles and this friend is now dead, and learned that Gojo is the unequivocally strongest character within his universe's power system, and thus while he has a LOT of confidence in his own abilities and can be a bit cocky and a show-off, he definitely doesn't think of himself as godlike (anyone who's familiar with JJK and reading this--I'm aware of 'the honored one' thing, hang on a sec).

Step #8: Decide, "Alright then. Well, I am starting to get more intrigued by this series. Maybe I'll look up a little more about it and watch the first episode or two. It'll be fine. After all, I get now why people are reminded of Kakashi by Gojo and vice versa, but it certainly sounds like Gojo's personality is basically the opposite of someone who's convinced they're scum and is incredibly unassuming and humble and could honestly use a bit more self-worth so he at least possesses a modicum of self-preservation inclination. Gojo seems to have a lighthearted, goofy side that is partly used as a cover for his deeper emotions, and I might get attached to that based on other characters I've loved, but that still ought to be pretty safe. If I do wind up liking Gojo the most out of all the characters, there's no way he'll put me through the same heart-wrenching agony as seeing Kakashi being a paragon of strength of character and sheer goodness, while inwardly he can't see anything of value in himself."

The thing is, I wasn't wrong.

But clearly, I underestimated the pain I could still experience at the hands of a Kakashi-adjacent character.

(All I'm about to explain is completely non-spoilery, by the way. And by that I mean I'm not going to be ruining any major plot points or the "viewing experience" of watching the anime or reading the manga. Anything I reference that happens at any point beyond the first few chapters, I'll be as vague and opaque about it as possible, as well as very brief. And it will also all be basic background info/set up level stuff.)

Okay, so before I get to the real kicker, let's start with Gojo's dream.

In the world of Jujutsu Kaisen, the chakra equivalent is called cursed energy. However, cursed energy is not a life force. Cursed energy arises from people's negative emotions, and if the quantities of negative emotions emitted by the populace is large and concentrated enough, this creates cursed spirits of various sorts. For example, humanity's collective fear and pain experienced through natural disasters created a cursed spirit out of that resulting enormous amount of cursed energy. Cursed spirits usually aren't sentient, but almost unerringly they cause great harm and often death to humans. The number we're given at the start of the manga is around 10,000 unexplained deaths and missing persons per year in Japan are the result of curses.

Jujutsu sorcerers are the people who exorcize (or destroy, more like) cursed spirits to mitigate that as much as possible. They exorcize the curses with cursed energy-fueled techniques that are unique to each sorcerer. A sorcerer's innate cursed technique (CT) is said to comprise around 80% of their potential/talent as a fighter of curses. We're told that over the course of the last, I don't know, century or so (?) - the date at the start of the series is June 2018 - curse spirits have been increasing in strength and number. However, the incredibly rare combination of the Limitless cursed technique and the Six Eyes in-born trait Gojo was born with is so powerful that his birth alone swung the balance from being in the curses' favor back over to the side of the jujutsu sorcerers.

Details on Gojo's childhood are quite sparse, basically the only things we know about the Gojo family are it's one of the three big clans in jujutsu society and they're very wealthy. As far as I'm aware, Satoru is the only member of the clan we've ever met. So there's only supposition for what his home life was like up until he started at Jujutsu High, but we do know that because his possessing both the Six Eyes and Limitless was the first occurrence of such in 300-400 years, his existence was something of a spectacle and many sorcerers came to visit him just to see it for themselves, and too, he was the target of curse users (sorcerers who use jujutsu for evil and their own selfish gain) in pursuit of the over 100 million yen bounty placed on his head since he was very young.

It would be pretty reasonable to assume Gojo was subsequently rather sheltered and perhaps quite lonely as a child, but at the same time praised and lauded for how he was so naturally, prodigiously powerful. It only makes sense that Gojo has more than a little pride in his strength and puts so much stock in that. I'm sure he really enjoyed the attention and notoriety he received, and he never expresses resentment regarding any pressure that might have been put on him as a kid to be the infallible (future?) vanquisher of curses (although later I do think he places more and more pressure on himself to "take care" of everything and be responsible for the safety of everyone in the jujutsu world and beyond), and yet I do believe it's apparent he understands he didn't get to have a "normal" childhood. As a part of one of the big clans, he was surrounded and immersed in the political power plays and jockeying for prestige and influence by jujutsu society's elders/leaders/'higher ups' from the start (we don't know when or how it happened, but presumably because he's the strongest living Gojo, at the start of the story Satoru is the head of the clan), and these higher ups view Gojo in terms of how he can best be used for their own benefit. Outside of his high school best friend and later a few of his students, Gojo has very few people who have more than a cursory understanding of who he is as a person, who seem to want to know him, not the living embodiment of the title 'The Strongest', but just Satoru Gojo. Gojo likes being The Strongest, but when that's all everyone around him appears to care about, it leaves him feeling very isolated and alone.

As I mentioned before, though, Gojo never complains about this. He doesn't ever even imply "because I was treated this way, I want to prevent anyone else having to go through that." He does tell one of the people he's somewhat close to what his aim is and what the reason is behind it, but it's worded in a way where the person is confused by Gojo's explanation, and we as the reader can't even be sure he's referring to himself, since it could just as easily be in reference to his deceased friend.

It's informed by his experiences growing up certainly, but Gojo's fierce desire to give the kids he watches over the opportunity to fully and freely enjoy their youth is not about regretting what he missed out on; it's about what he can do for them, doing all he can to protect and preserve their childhood and making sure no one can take that away from them.

I realize I haven't exactly explained what precisely Gojo's 'dream' is and how it ties into all this, so I'll attempt to circle back to that now.

Jujutsu Kaisen begins with our main character, Yuji Itadori, accidentally stumbling his way into the jujutsu world by doing something very dangerous in order to be in what he thinks is a better position to help his friends out of a bad situation. He succeeds in helping his friends, but what he had to do to make that happen is an action that is punishable by death under jujutsu regulations. Naturally, Yuji was unaware of that, but it doesn't matter to the sorcerer higher ups. Gojo hears about the situation, intervenes, and is able to get the elders to suspend Yuji's execution for the time being. I'm glossing over a bunch of stuff but let's roll with that for now. While Gojo is explaining the whole situation to Yuji, the first thing he tells Yuji about the higher ups is that he thinks they're a bunch of cowards. And really, that's just the tip of the iceberg for how Gojo feels towards these leaders. He's not a fan of them by any stretch of the imagination. I said above Gojo never voices resentment directed at them over his lack of a carefree childhood, and that's true, however his dislike of the higher ups does seem to be partly personal. We just don't know the specifics other than that when he criticizes them (to their faces or a fellow colleague) he sticks to their wrongful actions on the whole, not how they've wronged him. A handful of episodes later, the higher ups pull something really awful and underhanded while Gojo is away on another mission, a scheme that is partially motivated by wanting to get back at Gojo for interfering with Yuji. Newly and deeply angered by this, Gojo delves further into the corruption at the top of the jujutsu world and then tells us about his dream:

A similar scene happens one year previous to this:

(Gojo doesn't use it anywhere near as frequently, but his saying 'what a pain' about many a situation still manages to give me Shikamaru feelings and I enjoy that.)

What stands out to me the most here is how much Gojo WANTS the students/his allies to be equal to or surpass him in strength. He's not at all concerned with keeping his position and accompanying power all to himself like the higher ups are. During one of the first chapters of the manga/show, to allay someone's uneasiness over potential danger, Gojo tells them, "Don't worry, I'm the strongest." It's only later that we learn when he was much younger he was originally quite happy to say, "Anyway, it should be okay. We're the strongest." I really think he would like nothing better than to be able to say that once again.

In an unusual turn of events for me, when I caught up to the JJK manga a few months ago, I actually had pretty good timing with what was currently going on, but now the story is starting to enter into its final stages and it seems like a lot of people in the fandom feel the narrative is very possibly leading to Gojo's death in some way that will better enable this brighter, less corrupt future for the jujutsu world and his students that he's been working towards this entire time. I don't think that would be a bad outcome, I'm not against noble sacrifices entirely, but I really, really, really don't want to see this happen. And here's where my unexpected Kakashi-adjacent feelings come into play. The reasons for why I'm so invested in seeing both Kakashi and Gojo live to be a part of the better world they helped create are pretty different. Yet, they're also not miles apart. I don't think Gojo has as many doubts as Kakashi that he has a place in the future of which he dreams, but from what I can tell his main focus is on that future existing for everyone else. Maybe he believes that is his purpose as The Strongest? Probably he does have every intention of being there with his fellows. I just want that for him so very much. For the few glimpses of kid!Gojo we got, who always looked so solemn; for the teenage Gojo with the biggest, goofiest smiles, who had so much connection ripped away prematurely; for Gojo the teacher, who works so hard to make every kid feel welcome and excited and to know they aren't alone. I'm aware of the kind of story I'm reading--Jujutsu Kaisen is unrelentingly brutal to its characters. It's a matter of course to have your heart mercilessly stomped on over and over reading JJK. It's not the sort of story where you can reasonably expect a happy ending. Unfortunately, I'm much too optimistic of a person for this manga and I'm far too attached to the story and characters and I'm in way, way too deep.

But let's ignore all that for now and get to the Kakashi-adjacent part of Gojo which clobbered me over the head with feels even worse than what I've already detailed!

@panharmonium, when you've reached this part of the post, I can't really guess what you're thinking about it all, but what if I told you that one of Gojo's students, Megumi Fushiguro, the Sasuke-adjacent one, was, along with his one-year-older step-sister Tsumiki, quasi-adopted/looked after/raised by Gojo from the time Megumi was six/in first grade and Gojo was just nineteen? By blood, Megumi is actually a member of the Zen'in clan, another of the three major clans in jujutsu society. Gojo, fresh out of high school and still newly, painfully estranged from his best friend, hears by chance that Megumi, who's on his own at this time apart from Tsumiki (also parentless), is about to be sold to the Zen'in because of the cursed technique he's just manifested, and although it has nothing to do with him, Gojo goes to Megumi and asks him if he wants to go live with the Zen'in. Upon learning if he chooses this, Tsumiki will be very unhappy (the Zen'in clan cares nothing for her and they are by-and-large super blatantly misogynistic), Megumi says no and Gojo's like, "Cool, that's great! I'll take care of everything and I'll make sure you two have everything you need. I want you to grow up strong!" And then there's a moment in the manga, where present-day Gojo is taking a nap and dreams of this first meeting between himself and Megumi and when he wakes up to his three students coming to see him he does this:

AND THE SECOND SEASON OF THE ANIME JUST STARTED AIRING A FEW WEEKS AGO AND THAT MEANS I'LL BE ABLE TO SEE THIS MOMENT ANIMATED POSSIBLY AS SOON AS AUGUST 3RD (DUB PROBABLY AUGUST 17TH) AND I'M GONNA DIE. HE LOVES THAT KID SO MUCH!!!!!

So obviously that's super sweet and all, but maybe you're thinking, "Okay, that's nice, but do they really have that Kakashi 'n' Sasuke vibe?" and to that I say, "CHECK OUT THIS SHORT VIDEO AND THEN HOPEFULLY I CAN REST MY CASE."

youtube

Also, it is now my most important goal in life to draw a Kakashi & Sasuke version of these panels so I can dedicate it to you (and padmerrie if she wants in on this):

Of course, I'm not saying Sasuke and Megumi are carbon copies of each other (or Kakashi and Gojo for that matter, as I've tried to delineate above). Megumi has a bit of a grumpy disposition, but he's also very polite; he always calls Gojo "Gojo-sensei" and he uses "-senpai" for all the upperclassmen (who he met previously to becoming a student at Jujutsu High). Megumi is the dog guy in JJK and Gojo's more reminiscent of a cat in some respects. Etc., etc., etc. But in general, I really hope you see the vision!

While I'm at it, I might as well show you the little Gojo & Yuji video that naturally gives me all the Kakashi & Naruto feelings:

youtube

Yuji's already got the jubilantly-tackle-hug-your-sensei part down! (Although, of course, Gojo's much less resistant.🥰)

It is admittedly much more of a stretch to say Nobara is Sakura-adjacent, but I have seen someone describe her as a 'gremlin child' and I love that about her! <3

Anyway, I totally get if none of this is up your alley for whatever reason or you don't have the time to get into JJK if this happens to persuade you or if you just want to prioritize other stuff right now. *I* didn't mean to get into it, after all! The plan for my looking into JJK was to be purely for enhancing my love for Kakashi, and I failed spectacularly at limiting myself to that. I just thought I would share to see if it would be a fun read for you. :)

#super stressed for tomorrow night's chapter honestly #so channeling my emotions into this rambly mess of a post #oh also I decided to forego the companion gifset that goes with this #still gonna post it soon but I don't want to rush it and most of the visuals are already included here #in the gifset they'll just be the anime visuals #and it's going to be captioned 'gojo really asked is anyone going to adopt these kids instead of sentencing them to execution or selling #them off like cattle? and then didn't wait for an answer' 'cause three separate instances makes a pattern buddy #random musings of a personal nature #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo #megumi fushiguro #yuji itadori #yuta okkotsu #tsumiki fushiguro #kakashi hatake #panharmonium

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giordirossi · 1 year

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TW: gore, violence, blood

Seduce and destroy remained her least favorable and yet somehow most successful method of luring in Russian filth. Pose as a lonely woman, stand at an upscale bar and pretend to look lost, wear something just tight enough to draw attention without being too obvious about it. Coupled with the occasional wig and anonymous nature of her work, it made for the perfect situation to slide a questionable cocktail across the counter and bat her lashes like a cosmopolitan Jack The Ripper.

They always slumped during the “walk to the car” segment. Nobody ever made it to the mouth of the alley before knees hit pavement and her backup swooped in to carry the not-quite-dead weight, stuffing them into a trunk and eventually escorting the unlucky contestant into her little gameshow of horrors. This shit was practically clockwork by now and while she much preferred the challenge of a good brawl in darkened corners, a knife to the ribcage typically made people less inclined to talk. Here, though? Here she could take her time and get a little... creative with the methodology of extraction until they were no longer of any interest.

Take the latest sad sack currently dangling by his wrists, twirling gracefully like a crimson coated music box figurine. Susceptible to the frigid temperature from last night and her continued games this afternoon, inching ever closer to desperate pleas for a mercy she couldn’t fathom. Experience attuned Giordana to the telltale signs, every shuddered breath and mewling whimper provided insight into what further agony a man’s body could take. Where his personal line existed, how close she traipsed along the edge of knocking him into useless oblivion. At least her hands were clean–– for now.

This one required further marinating and with an admonishing click of her tongue, she released the singular salvation between his mottled torso and the next fragment of suffering. Metal twisted against sinew in jagged spiral motions, further mangling what was once a shoulder.

His ensuing screams echoed along the warehouse’s walls like a most unholy choir, reverberating to the heavens and finding no response. Perhaps God really did choose favorites. The sound was a sickening alarm that might have turned over anyone else’s stomach, but Giordana sat unfazed and perched on a stool, reaching across a table of workman’s tools to pry her burner from the depths of a purse Vinnie bought for her this past Christmas.

Speed dial number one, it went straight to his own spare and he answered on the first ring. Typical. Some might infer that as a hallmark of their unwaveringly devoted friendship, she preferred to call it not having a life. All with an affectionate smirk, of course. “I’m thinking our usual spot at seven.” No greetings were necessary and her voice held the candor that accompanied casual dinner plans, despite any obvious shrieking in the background on her end.

“Oh dio, not there. The wait’s always an hour and it’s fucking French. The last thing I want tonight is––” Unmitigated howling followed by a slew of curses drew her attention away for a split second. “Do you mind? I’m on the phone.” As if her target had gone and inconvenienced a perfectly reasonable discussion. Not that she was the paragon of manners, but surely he could still use his one good eye to gauge the situation.

The glint of a needle and its accompanying thread sat untouched at the corner of her workbench, lithe fingertips reaching forward to trace the fabric and rolling it over with idle curiosity. “Anyway, just pick me up and we’ll play it by ear. Yeah? Good.” Relentless in all aspects of her life, consistency was key if nothing else. With that, the call ended and it became a party of two yet again as she pivoted the seat around to face her company.

Ironic, wasn’t it? How they deemed her the Russian of the Sovrani? She certainly didn’t recall being unwise enough to end up in these same straits, and while it had been years since teeth grit at the moniker, now her lips only pulled back into a voracious smile. Time to give her guest a taste of familiarity.

#( x. self para )#blood tw #gore tw #violence tw #just a lil kickstart

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raplinesmoon · 2 years

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Outside The Window (MYG x F!Reader)

Part 1 of Snowed In: A Duology

pairing: Med Student!Yoongi x Med!Student Reader genre(s): smut, pwp, slight angst au(s): medical school AU, enemies-to-lovers (not really) AU word count: 2k warnings: mentions of anatomy lab, scalpels, dissections, medical jargon and terminology, brief mention of smoking, bad study habits, cursing, both the reader and Yoongi are super duper thirsty, Yoongi is kinda whipped and it's a little sad, smut warnings: explicit smut, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation, orgasm denial, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple play, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), slight exhibitionism rating: 18+

summary: on this cold, wintery night… you find yourself trapped in the library with your rival, Min Yoongi, who proposes an unconventional way to pass the time.

a/n: I have no words, nor any explanation... but I heard this pick-up line in a medical school tiktok and I totally imagine Yoongi saying it. This was kinda fun to write, but is highly unedited. I still am a little new and rusty to writing smut, so pls be kind! I hope you enjoy!

A chill permeates the air as the veil of sleep is pulled out from under your eyes. Letting out a loud yawn, you arch your back like a cat curled up in front of the fireplace. A cup of warm hot chocolate by the fireplace sounded like the perfect cap to your evening. While the rest of your medical school class had already left for the semester, you’d decided to cut your break a few days short to catch up on some much needed studying for your impending board exams after the holidays were over. And that’s how you found yourself in the medical library on a snowy Christmas Eve.

The rattling of a doorknob draws your attention, and your eyes narrow as you take in the person who’s the source of the sound. Min Yoongi. Your classmate turned rival, who it turned out, had the same idea as you, making the two of you the only ones in the library.

You didn’t want to hate Yoongi. You swore on that fact whenever the rest of your classmates would poke fun at your disdain for each other, chuckling that your type A personalities had created some unresolved tension between the two of you. He’d rolled up next to you in the anatomy lab one day, usurping your de facto position as group leader, oohs and ahhs resounding around the table as he showed off his skilled hands that could perform the most delicate dissections. You’d excused yourself that very first day, not wanting to admit that it was the sight of his ring-clad fingers wrapped around a scalpel blade that made you light-headed, and not the smell of the formaldehyde permeating your scrubs.

Ever since, resentment had seeped into your veins, and you shuddered at the mere mention of Min Yoongi. How was it fair that the man barely studied, instead preferring to light it up and mix rap tracks in his basement, and still somehow managed to come out equal or on top of you every single time? He’d even been named president of the prestigious PhiDE, the medical frat that not only honored academic excellence, but was a paragon of social status.

“Shit,” his deep voice rumbles, knocking you out of your spiral into a simmering rage. You furrowed your brows as he cast an exasperated look in your direction. Hadn’t he left twenty-five minutes ago? You could’ve sworn you saw him pack up his books and drain the last of his iced Americano, heading out into the frosty winter night.

“Came back for more, Min?” you taunt, a glint in your eyes. “Finally realized that you can’t BS your way through boards, like you always do?”

His masseter bulges, Yoongi’s jaw clenching at your off-hand comment. He scoffs, walking straight up your table and slamming his hands down in front of you. You feel a strange spark in your stomach, salivating at the sight of his strong, sinewy triceps right before your eyes.

“For your information, doll,” he seethes, “I finished reviewing all the chapters an hour and a half ago. I was in the middle of my second run-through.”

He straightens up, looming over you as his sharp eyes take in the sight of your binder with color-coded notes and rainbow highlighter markers.

“Not that it matters how much we study anyway,” he continues, taking in your glare. “There’s a six-foot pileup of snow against the library door. We’re trapped in here until they come and clear it out in the morning.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding,” you gasp, feeling the blood leave your face. You couldn’t go home and enjoy your cup of hot cocoa? There had been a Netflix Christmas movie with your name written on it waiting for you. And now, you were here, snowed in at the library with the one person you couldn’t stand. Life was a bitch.

“Nope,” Yoongi replies, popping the “p”, causing you to let out a gulp as you take in the sight of his pouty lips wrapping around the word. This was bad. You had to get out of here now.

“Say,” Yoongi drawls, leaning over the table until his nose is barely an inch or two from yours, “I noticed you were struggling with a couple of the review modules. What if we bounced questions off of each other? It’s not like we have anything better to do.”

“Over my dead body, Min!” you snap, turning away furiously as you feel your cheeks heat up. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to being productive.”

“Suit yourself,” Yoongi smirks, yawning and stretching his arms overhead. Your eyes bulge at the sight of his biceps straining under his shirt, and you choke on your saliva, coughing out a small fuck! in response to the tightening in your throat.

“What was that?” he cranes his neck towards you, a devilish gleam lighting up his eyes.

Crap. You’d been caught red-handed. There were only two ways out of this: admit that you’d shamelessly been ogling his toned body, or agree to his outlandish proposition.

“I said fine,” you sigh, dropping your thick textbook on the table, opening it as it lands with a thud. “Where do you want to start?

Forty-five minutes later, and you realized you were in big trouble. Not only was Yoongi’s self-righteous, cocky attitude while studying reproductive biophysiology driving you up the wall, but the methods of studying he employed were rather… unconventional.

“Which of these is not a sign of a TORCH infection?” Yoongi’s gravelly, sleep-ridden voice echoes in the reading room.

“Easy, croup” you purse your lips, thighs flexing involuntarily as you anticipate Yoongi’s response to your answer.

“Good girl,” he grins, and you feel your core throb at his praise. “You really know your stuff, princess. I have to say I’m impressed.”

“I’m hurt,” you let out a whine, watching Yoongi’s pupils dilate at the pitch of your voice. “You always tease me.”

A groan escapes Yoongi’s mouth, and he quickly clears his throat to cover up the offending sound.

“Anyway, next question,” he whispers, his voice dropping into an absurdly low pitch, the vibrations sending a tingle up your spine.

“Which nerve innervates the clitoris?” he purrs, a breath hitching in your throat as heat spreads across your skin.

“T-that’s not from any of the question banks,” you stammer out, heart racing at his lewd query.

“Answer the question, baby,” Yoongi breathes, the cool metal of his rings brushing against your fingertips. Baby? You feel goosebumps rise up your arm as you take in his messy hair and red lips swollen from biting them.

“The dorsal nerve,” you choke out, leg bouncing up and down as you seek some sort of relief from the arousal currently overtaking you.

“Wrong,” Yoongi grunts, grinning at the sight of your pouty lips as you whimper in protest. “It’s the hypoglossal.”

“You have to be crazy, Yoongi, that’s nowhere near the clit-, oh,” you sigh as you feel his fingers run up your thigh. “Oh.”

“You have thirty seconds to strip and bend over this table before I give you a failing grade for that mistake,” Yoongi hisses. “It’s time for some hands-on learning.”

The storm rages on outside the library window, and for once, you’re grateful for the howling winds as they drown out the obscene squelching and slurping of Yoongi mercilessly working your slit with his tongue. You feel your folds drip more with every lick of his tongue, shamelessly bucking your hips against him, riding his face as you pull at his cotton-candy colored strands.

Shuddering, you sob as his relentless onslaught continues, one harsh of suck of your clit causing you to whimper and arch your back.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squirming too much,” Yoongi rasps, his arms coming down on your stomach to pin you underneath him as he laughs between your thighs. You shiver at the rumble of his deep voice and the cool air of his breath hitting your pussy, breathy moans getting louder and louder until suddenly-

Yoongi’s tongue retreats, and you feel your orgasm violently withdraw as you sob from the overstimulation. Looking up, you see Yoongi smirk, chin and hair glistening with your arousal, reaching over his neck to strip his shirt off.

“You really thought I’d let you come, just like that?” he snickers. “No way, princess. You wanna be a try-hard, then you have to work for things.”

Closing your eyes, you hear the clink of his belt, quivering as you try and spare yourself from being utterly wrecked by the sight of his cock.

“Look. at. me,” he grabs your chin and turns your head towards him, your eyes fluttering open. “I want you to ride me, I want you to watch as you fall apart on my dick, as you beg me for more.”

“Do you think you can do that, princess?” he groans, gripping your thighs as he sinks you down onto him. You cry out as the initial pain subsides and you feel his hips snap up into you, pubic bone rolling against your clit.

“Yoongi, I, fuck-, fuck, it’s too much!” you plead, shamelessly rocking aginst him as he sets a brutal pace, the sounds of skin slapping and your breathy moans echoing bouncing from the walls.

Yoongi says nothing, licking his lips as he sits up, wrapping his tongue around your nipple and giving it a harsh suck, the new angle allowing him to hit deeper inside of you.

The combined stimulation causes fire to build up in your core, savoring his touch as you reach down and tug on his strands again, his hips jolting for a brief moment before they slam into you again.

All of a sudden, your haze clears as you hear beeps coming from outside the window, watching as the snow clearing trucks roll onto campus. The thought that any of them could look into the library and see the two of you has you clenching unexpectedly on Yoongi’s cock, causing him to hiss as he swirls his tongue against your nipple.

“You like that they could see us, baby? You’re squeezing me so tight, shit,” Yoongi groans.

The fire in your abdomen reaches a peak, a new wave of arousal suddenly washing over you as you feel your hips jerk, coming undone as you collapse on top of Yoongi, feeling him spill into you moments later.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around you. “Being snowed in has never been so fun.”

Looking up at you as he tenderly brushes his fingertips against your cheeks, he presses his lips to your temple.

“We should get cleaned up,” he smiles. “If you want, I can cook you some breakfast now that we’re finally getting out of here?”

“I, um, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you whisper, still feeling boneless from the mind blowing orgasm you’d just had. Guilt overtakes you as you realize that you’d just fucked your worst rival in the med library, and the worst part was, you’d liked it. You’d liked it so much, in fact, that you wanted nothing more than to join him in his apartment and laugh with him while he cooked pancakes over the stove.

“My parents actually texted me early last night,” you lie, teeth clenching as you spew the words you know will break his heart. “I’m catching an early train back today, and finishing up the rest of my studying at home. I think it’s better if I head out.”

“Oh,” A dark look crosses Yoongi’s face, and you feel your heart lurch. “Yeah, that’s fine, you should head back. Be careful though, the roads might still be slippery.”

“Thanks Yoongi,” you say softly, pulling your coat on over your sweats and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “You get home safely too, and good luck on your boards. I know you’ll do great.”

“Happy holidays, ___,” Yoongi waves, his voice cracking as he watches you run outside the library and down the cobblestone pathway, the snowflakes falling outside the window as your figure disappears beyond the sea of white.

A/N pt. 2: Thanks for reading! I'm sorry I ended it on such an angsty note, but I think it's more fun that way! As always, any feedback or comments are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi 💜

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