#god is the master artisan

[tears-that-heal]

artist on instagram @jasminem_001

[argusthecat]

Thinking about the worldbuilding in WH40k, and something weird stands out to me. The average citizen on a hive world works, like, fourteen hours a day, six days a week, right? They’re basically expendable slave labor kept in line by violence and religion. Their lives suck.

That part’s normal. Exploitation of the working class is a key part of basically every dystopia. What’s weird about 40k is that… no one seems to benefit from it? Like, there’s things sorta akin to artisan and aristocrat castes, but this is a world where skilled labor just gets your organic parts painfully replaced with bad cybernetics so you can suffer even more as you serve your god king. And being ‘in charge’ of anything is a great way to get noticed for something going wrong - a daily occurrence - and being executed for it.

Normally in fiction (and real life), people toil away day and night to enrich their masters as part of some kind of thematic lesson about how the rich are parasites. But WH40k shows us something very different; a world where those systems of parasitism have gone so rampantly out of control, that even the people who are supposed to be the exploiters, are caught up in the brutal cycle of violence and pain.

Instead of saying “you can only push so far before someone pushes back”, it instead says “you can only push so far before YOU GO OVER THE CLIFF EDGE TOO”. And I just think that’s interesting to think about.

[janearts]

Roisia Lydgate: Character Overview

This is really more of a background introduction to her character, but I'm trying to put as much information in one place for future reference or for anyone who wants to get a better idea of her character. Details underneath the cut!

Meta-Knowledge

Roisia is my Source Hunter from Divinity: Original Sin, but I recreated her in Baldur’s Gate 3 as a way to continue her story albeit in a completely different universe. The story and events of DOS have since become part of her backstory, and tweaked to fit the world of Faerûn.

Name Pronunciation

I’m honestly none too fussed about pronunciation. Her name is an 11th century mediaeval name that would later become “Rose” in Middle English. Roisia is probably meant to be pronounced something like /ɹɔɪːsiːɑ/ (Roy-see-ah) based on other name variants found around the same time. Her nicknames, as given to her by her parents, include: Rose, Rosie, petal, pet, rosebud, bud, so on and so forth.

Personality

Roisia is charming, adventurous, with a voracious curiosity, and a deeply analytical mind. She believes that taking care of the dead and providing a voice for the dead is her life’s calling. She was formerly raised to be a Cleric of Kelemvor, but believes that her god has disowned her since she reanimated her father. She now believes herself to be deemed among the Faithless. She’s compassionate to those in need and is willing to break rules (and the law) to help others. While she is generally a law-abiding citizen, she is dogged in pursuing the whims of her curiosity and will likewise do whatever it takes to solve a puzzle, a mystery, or a murder… or simply answer a question that has occurred to her. She is sociable, prefers when everyone gets along, and will try to talk her way into and out of most situations. This includes charming, reasoning, intimidating, and/or deceiving others to get her desired outcome. Ultimately, she finds solace and comfort in the company of animals, the dead, and books. Her favourite animal is the noble spider, and she breeds and raises some species in her spare time.

Spells and Such

I tried as best I could to replicate Roisia’s DOS character. In DOS, she was classed as a Witch. Witchcraft spells in DOS are a mixture of Necromancy spells and Enchantment spells, and I chose my spells in BG3 to imitate the ones that you get in DOS. As a witch in DOS, Roisia also had the ability to talk to animals and summon a spider. (I cheesed this in BG3 with the Find Familiar spell—technically a Conjuration spell—and having her drink a potion after every long rest.) To be more in keeping with her backstory, I gave her a Guild Artisan background and invested skill points in skills like Medicine.

Backstory

Roisia grew up in Eastway of Baldur’s Gate. Her father worked in the Gray Harbor shipyard as a shipwright and her mother was a Mortarch, running the Eastway Cemetery & Lydgate Funeral Service. She was raised to follow in her mother’s footsteps as a Cleric of Kelemvor, and specifically as a Mortarch, from an early age. She assisted her mother in managing the burial customs and rites for the Lower City’s diverse community (from embalming to ritualistic cannibalism to poisonings), comforting grieving family members of the deceased, and tending to the dead buried in the cemetery.

Her life took an unexpected turn when her father drowned during a sea trial. Grieving for her father, Roisia made her first attempt at Necromancy. She unwittingly used a wish spell in the process and reanimated him as a skeleton. Because it was the wish spell, not her first attempt at a necromantic ritual, that bound the soul of her father to his bones, Roisia is determined to master the School of Necromancy and truly resurrect her father.

She is interrupted in her early studies by the appearance of Eustace, who recruited her into the Source Hunters, an organisation dedicated to eradicating dangerous magic users (like… Necromancers). “We need you,” he said. “… and you need us.” Roisia & Eustace (or Roy & Stacey as they became known to each other) investigated the mysterious murder of a town counsellor and uncovered a Necromantic cult in the process. As they adventured together, Roisia began to develop feelings for Eustace, but as their adventure concluded and they returned to the Source Hunter Academy, Eustace did not return those feelings. Dejected, Roisia left the Source Hunters and returned to her home in Baldur’s Gate.

To “cure” herself of her heartbreak, Roisia drew up a list of lifelong goals for herself. They are:

1. A cemetery or plot of land of her own to oversee. 2. “Tenants”/”Residents” (aka The Deceased) to house and tend to on this land. 3. To master Necromancy such that she can extend indefinitely her own life and the lives of her loved ones. 4. One (1) Spouse (*not of the squeamish variety) 5. Children (*ideally 3-5)

Refocused aggressively on her list, Roisia returned to her duties during the day and her studies during the night. She was abducted by the nautiloid one night while she was off to dig up a new test subject.

Playlist

[radiancewrite]

Reading the first book of tgcf and

General Xuan Zhen was the Martial God of the Southwest, and possessed seven thousand temples

Nan Yang Zhenjun was the Martial God of the Southeast, possessed eight thousand temples,

Why does feng xin have more temples than mu qing??? But then

To speak of the present, there was only General Xuan Zhen whose divine statues were in a better situation. Why? Because for everyone else, if their statues were ugly, then whatever, leave it be. But when Mu Qing saw his statues were hideously-sculpted, he would either secretly destroy them and then make people resculpt, or appear in dreams to express his displeasure. This went on for a long time, and the grand believers had all learned that they had to find an artisan master who could sculpt beautifully!

That's why he have less temples than fx, if he let people sculpt him however he will probably have 8000 temples too, but then

Feng Xin, who got his divine title changed so randomly, didn’t find this out until decades later. He basically never bothered to look closely at the signs of his own temples, but one day, he suddenly felt rather baffled. How come there were so many women coming to pray in his temples, and each of them were flushed with shyness on their cheeks? And what in the world were they praying for when offering incense?!

Atleast mu qing is sure nothing like this will ever happen with him

[ghulah]

The Papas, DND and VTM

As some of you know, I am an avid TTRPG liker, watcher, player, etc. The idea of the Papas (and the Ghouls) playing a campaign has always been very fun to me, so I consulted with the council (my wives @bonesy-doodles and @parabunny).

And so, I present to you, the Papas and their set ups for Dungeons and Dragons and Vampire: the Masquerade!

Primo

So, Primo is overall very much the traditional Dracula of the bunch. He's all dark and mysterious and probably actually evil (by some metric), despite the garden tending and the (poisonous) plants he takes care of. He for sure is a roleplay guy but will kick ass in combat.

In DND, he would definitely attempt to play a Dhampir Warlock or Artificer. Artificer especially would allow for alchemy and a lot more fucking around with spellcasting - therefore making it both challenging and engaging and for Primo to pull some insane shit during session. He could also just multiclass Warlock/Artificer, definitely pact of Fiend, Undead, or the Great Old One. The Dhampirism is for vibes, okay. It just fits.

As for VTM, he would be Malkavian or Nosferatu, but the oracle aspect of Malkavian makes it all the more ominous. There is also Hecata and Tzimisce! Either way, he's one of the more ancient, traditional vampires. Primo would play VTM and say, "I am Cain." (bones said this) Much to the chagrin of the Master of Ceremonies.

Primo is also a dice hoarder, he has so many sets and he has a specialized dice bag for it too. It's embroidered.

Secondo

Secondo is very - how you say - wild? He would bring chaos to the table I fear, but he does it in character rather than like being a frustrating player. While he does read the rules well, he does it to get around them I feel.

In DND, he'd play a fighter class, probably just straight up Fighter or Barbarian. And he'd play bigger species like Dragonborn and Orcs! So basically the tank and also main hitter. But for a little bit of religious aspects, an Oathbreaker Paladin would be perfect for him. It has those angsty, turned back on my god vibes as well as the tankiness of melee classes. a Barbarian Paladin multiclass would hit hard methinks.

VTM wise, he'd definitely be Ravnos. I considered Toreador and Gangrel, but I think Ravnos fits the best. He loves (un)living on the edge and rather than the high art vibes that Toreador embody, it's a lot more, well, wild! And also cool. Very rogue-ish and plays by his own rules.

I think he likes fun dice that are like, metal specifically. Some of them are more dark, gothic designs and then some of them are just super fun.

Terzo

Alright, this guy for sure is a roleplay-heavy player. Yeah combat is fun and all but only to get shit done. He loves taking his time curating his character's aesthetics and their motivations and all. He will stick to the bit, do not try him.

That being said, of course he's playing a Bard in DND. He would play either a Tiefling or something of the Elf variety. College of Eloquence would be what I'd assign to him. The bardiest bard to bard, you know? However!! He could also play a Warforged, specifically one with Art Deco elements and that could also reference Frankenstein. It always comes back to Frankenstein with him.

To riff off of the artistry of bards - Terzo would be a Toreador. They're known for being artisans. They're beautiful and charming, seductive...all of which fits the bill for the type of character Terzo likes to play. On the other hand, he could very well play a Brujah. They're known as rebels, warrior-scholars. Terzo would play a vampire that's very Vampire Chronicle-esque.

He's also pretty superstitious about his dice, like if one of them rolls badly he will retire it.

Copia

I think Copia also enjoys the roleplay aspect of TTRPG's a little more than the combat but he gets super giddy whenever he hits a critical hit or takes someone down.

For DND, he would play a Tiefling Cleric. He's got that vibe that he enjoys both the aesthetics and the idea of Tieflings conceptually! Personally I think he always has a Tiefling PC on hand at all times, like it's just his thing. Other than Cleric, he might also take Druid for Wildshape, so he could turn into a little rat. Otherwise, he might also enjoy Sorcerer (magic nepotism /hj). Who has time to learn spells? Not him!

VTM though, it'd be funny if he played a Lasombra. Definitely hilarious considering their whole social-climbing thing and the administrative aspect! Tangentially, the Ministry Clan would also be kinda ironic. I just think he plays that sort of vampire that is less Ancient but more like What We Do In The Shadows vampire.

He likes having dice for each of his characters, he might reuse some, but he prefers having one set for one PC.

Extra

They all play an Oops! All Tiefling Bard Game, at some point. It is so stupidly fun.

There have been fights over in-game choices. Many of them. It's okay, they get through it.

The Ghouls do play as well! I have not figured out their own preferences yet, but trust, they get to have their TTRPG time.

OC tidbits

My OC, Sibling Nephtys would run games like Monsterhearts (college ver) and Monster of the Week.

Bones's OC, Sibling Rigorian, would run Dungeons and Dragons.

Para's OC, Bunny, would run Vampire: The Masquerade.

[raeynbowboi]

Mystery Inc as a DnD Party

I figured as long as we're still in the vicinity of spooky season, I'd build everyone's favorite gang of teenage mystery solvers as a collective unit. Pulling from their group dynamic to come up with a party roster that will give everyone in the party a designated role.

FRED JONES

PALADIN || OATH OF THE CROWN

INVESTIGATOR BACKGROUND

Skills: Athletics, Insight, Investigation, Persuasion

Freddie is the dimwitted but lovable himbo leader of the team. He's also the muscle, except in moments of athletic skill, when he's outshined by Daphne. His backstory isn't always consistent, but he's usually a jock of some sort. He's not usually all that book smart, but he has a good heart, and inspires his team to success. Paladins who swear an Oath to the Crown hold law and justice above all else, and Fred usually enjoys catching the bad guys and seeing justice served.

DAPHNE BLAKE

BARD || COLLEGE OF LORE

NOBLE BACKGROUND

Skills: Athletics, Acrobatics, Deception, Insight, Investigation, Persuasion, Sleight of Hand, Performance

As surprising a choice as this might seem, Bard is actually a very appropriate choice for Daphne. Modern Daphne is the most supportive and emotionally intelligent member of the group. From What’s New Scooby-Doo? to Be Cool, Scooby-Doo, Daphne has become the emotional powerhouse of the group. Sensing when her friends are off their game, and offering sage advice to her friends when they need it. She’s also become a very creative girl, skilled in singing, dancing, fashion, design, and more. She’s grown to be the group’s resident skill monkey, almost on par with Velma’s uncanny encyclopedic knowledge on all brainy subjects. If a lock needs picking or the gang needs to get out of a trap, you can count on Daphne to have a nail file, bobby pin, or something else on her person to save the day. She's typically also the face of the group when it's not Fred, meaning she's going to want high Dexterity and Charisma. I chose Lore because Daphne is a reporter in Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island and this is the only real career she's ever had. A lore bard is basically a more magical reporter, and singing the tale of her group's mysterious endeavors.

VELMA DINKLEY

ARTIFICER || ARTILLERIST

SAGE BACKGROUND

Skills: Arcana, History, Investigation, Nature

Velma was the most debatable one for me, as she could be a wizard or an artificer. And I was really leaning toward Wizard, but I had to stay true to Velma's character. She's been a tinkerer and a gadgeteer for a long time now. Velma is absolutely fascinated by robotics. But while Velma in our world can handwave superstitious nonsense, in a world with gods, demons, and real ghosts, I could absolutely see Velma using her knowledge to become a powerful wizard. I even considered the Knowledge Domain Cleric because it's basically designed to be a magical detective, and if Velma was going to worship a deity, it'd be a god of knowledge and reading. Ultimately, I did choose Artificer as it was more in-line with her base character as a skeptic and a scientist, but she would work as a Wizard. Plus, as is, Daphne is the only full-caster in the party.

NORVILLE "SHAGGY" ROGERS

RANGER || CONCLAVE OF THE BEAST MASTER

GUILD ARTISAN BACKGROUND || COOKS & BAKERS

Skills: Animal Handling, Investigation, Stealth, Survival

No surprises here, Shaggy and Scooby are a bonded pair, and the two were going to be joined to each other one way or another. Scooby is technically a Beast of the Land, and there's no Great Dane stat block, so call him a Mastiff if you need to. You can't really build Scooby by himself per se. There's no dog race unless you go Custom Lineage or something, and even then, I'd struggle to assign Scooby a class as he's mostly an animal sidekick. Make sure Shaggy picks up Cooks Untensils and proficiency with them so he can become the party's designated camp chef.

Ultimately, I'm happy with how the team turned out. Fred's the tanky and bulky frontliner, Velma can use her robotics to help solve mysteries, Daphne is the face on top of having so many skills, and Shaggy works with Scooby. Inadvertently, they're also all classes with access to healing spells. So, while I suspect Daphne being the sole full caster will probably assume primary role of group healer, everyone is capable of healing each other up. Making this a great group of supportive friends taking care of each other.

[peanut-butter-parkerxx]

Brushstrokes of New Orleans: 002

Previous part || Navigation || Next part

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

The garden of the Mikaelson mansion was a symphony of colors and textures, a lush tapestry woven from the finest threads of nature. Vibrant blooms cascaded from trellises and arbors, their petals kissed by the golden rays of the setting sun.

The air was alive with the heady scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, mingling with the earthy fragrance of damp soil. As Elijah and I wandered through the garden, I couldn't help but be struck by the beauty that surrounded us. Tall hedges of boxwood formed intricate mazes, their dark green foliage a stark contrast against the blooms that flourished at their feet. 

The path beneath our feet was paved with smooth cobblestones, their surface worn by the passage of time. Elijah cut a striking figure against the backdrop of the garden, his tall frame clad in a crisp white shirt and tailored trousers, his hazel eyes sparkled in the fading light. His movements were graceful and measured, each step a testament to his poise and refinement. 

Beside him, I felt small and insignificant, a mere mortal in the presence of a god. My own appearance felt inadequate in comparison, my simple dress and worn sneakers a far cry from the elegance of Elijah's attire.

As we walked, Elijah pointed out various artifacts hidden among the foliage, his gestures graceful and fluid. He moved with a quiet confidence, his every movement imbued with a sense of purpose and grace. His voice was smooth and melodic, a soothing balm to my restless soul.

I, on the other hand, felt awkward and clumsy by comparison, my movements hesitant and uncertain. I stumbled over roots and rocks, my eyes darting nervously from one artifact to the next. And yet, despite my ineptitude, Elijah never once made me feel inadequate. Instead, he guided me with patience and kindness, his presence a steady anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

There were statues of ancient gods and goddesses, their faces weathered by centuries of exposure to the elements. There were vases and urns adorned with intricate designs, their origins shrouded in mystery. But it was one particular piece that caught my eye, a small figurine nestled in the crook of a tree. It was made of delicate porcelain, its features exquisitely crafted with painstaking detail. I felt a flicker of recognition stir within me as I gazed upon it, a memory hovering just out of reach.

"Do you recognize this piece, Penny?" Elijah asked, his voice gentle as he studied my expression.I nodded slowly, a furrow forming on my brow. 

"Yes, I believe so," I replied tentatively. "It's the figurine of Demeter, the ancient Greek goddess of agriculture and fertility." Elijah's eyebrows lifted in surprise, a hint of admiration shining in his eyes. 

"Impressive," he remarked, his voice tinged with approval. "Not many people know the name, let alone the story behind it." I smiled modestly, a warm glow of satisfaction blooming in my chest at his praise. 

"I've always had a fascination with Greek mythology," I admitted, my voice tinged with excitement. "There's something so captivating about the tales of gods and goddesses, of heroes and villains." Elijah nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. 

"Indeed," he agreed, his gaze drifting back to the figurine. "The story behind this piece is quite fascinating. It is said to have been crafted by a master artisan during the height of the Athenian Empire, a testament to the skill and craftsmanship of the era."

I listened intently as Elijah recounted the tale of the figurine, his words painting a vivid picture of a time long past. It was as if he had unlocked a door to another world, allowing me to step back in time and experience history in all its glory. 

"How do you know all of this?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. "I mean, this piece isn't exactly well-known, and yet you seem to know everything about it." Elijah smiled modestly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. 

"I have a bit of a penchant for history," he admitted, his voice tinged with self-deprecation. "I find comfort in the stories of the past, in the forgotten artifacts that tell tales of bygone eras."

I couldn't help but smile at his confession, a warmth blooming in my chest at the thought of sharing this passion with him. It was a side of Elijah that I hadn't seen before.

As Elijah and I continued our leisurely stroll through the garden, we came across a small alcove tucked away beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree. Nestled within the alcove was a pedestal upon which rested a singular artifact, its presence commanding our attention.

We both stopped in our tracks simultaneously, our eyes widening in recognition as we beheld the artifact before us. Without a word spoken between us, we both uttered the name of the piece at the exact same moment, a synchronicity that sent a shiver down my spine.

"The Forgotten Symphony," we said in unison. A soft smile graced Elijah's lips as he turned to me, a twinkle of curiosity shining in his eyes. 

"It seems we share a fondness for this particular piece," he remarked, his voice tinged with intrigue. I nodded eagerly, a warmth spreading through my chest at the realization that we had a shared appreciation for the same piece of art. 

"Yes, it's always been one of my favorites," I replied, my voice filled with excitement. "There's something so hauntingly beautiful about it, don't you think?" Elijah's gaze softened as he looked at me, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his expression. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, as if lost in the depths of my eyes. And then, with a slight stutter, he began to explain the story behind the artifact. 

"The Forgotten Symphony," he began, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words. "It's... it's a piece that holds a special place in my heart." I watched him intently, my curiosity piqued by his sudden hesitation. 

But before he could continue, I felt a surge of confidence wash over me, a desire to help him in any way that I could. And so, without missing a beat, I picked up where he had left off, recounting the tale of the Forgotten Symphony with passion and fervor.

"It's a piece that tells the story of lost love and longing," I explained, my voice steady and sure. "A symphony left unfinished, a melody that echoes through the ages, reminding us of the power of love and the pain of loss." As I spoke, I could feel Elijah's eyes on me, his gaze softening with each word that fell from my lips. And when I finally finished, there was a moment of silence between us. 

And then, with a slight blush staining his cheeks, Elijah turned away, his mysterious demeanor returning in full force. But I could see the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had formed between us in that fleeting moment. 

"Now I understand why, your professor was so eager for us to meet."

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

[dramione-fanfiction-forum]

𝙳𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝙳𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚘 𝚁𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚜

This year we’ve totaled 89,400+ words and counting across 14 stories - including four (4) works in progress with 26+ chapters to be released - and an art submission (!!). These Deflower Draco submissions are sure to spice up your week!

🌸 Read the collection here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DeflowerDraco2023

🌻💐🌹🌺🌸🌼🌷

🌸 As The Full Moon Rises - KiraAnn (Know_It_All_2008)

At the height of the full moon's power, they're desperate to get a leg up on Lord Voldemort. The ritual should give them just that.

🌸 a cure I know that soothes the soul, does so impossibly - @king-geets [ART]

OT3 shenanigans 😈

🌸 Broken Arrow - Fictionismyescape [@justforme2023]

This wasn't the time, not when there was a war happening. But it might be the only chance they had.

🌸 Expect the Unexpected - @starboygrove

A humiliating moment at the beginning of Hermione's Eighth year at Hogwarts leads her to an unexpected scenario. Draco Malfoy, a reformed Death-Eater who she has become fast friends with, makes an impossible request. Hermione battles her feelings while helping Draco with his odd predicament.

🌸 F*** the Pain Away - @damsel-in-mistress

"Three things happened simultaneously: His left hand shot out to grasp the intruder’s wrist in a death grip, he realised who the intruder was, and the Stupefy died on his lips. Brown eyes open wide with surprise, brow furrowed, mouth ajar in a soft gasp, Hermione Granger stood before him." When Draco's world is misery and dread, Hermione happens upon him in Myrtle's bathroom. None of them could have forseen what this would lead to.

🌸 Growing Sideways - @inadaze22 [WIP - 1/20]

For years, Draco has been complacent. His career is on track, his future is arranged, and he's adapted to the darkness plaguing his restless nights. When paired with Hermione Granger on a top secret project, he begins to question if the comfort of familiarity is enough. As long nights dwindle and their connection grows, she shines a light on possibilities he's never imagined.

🌸 Last Nite - shaparecium [@dinkycharlie]

Draco is sentenced to five years in Azkaban. On his last night in freedom, Hermione Granger visits him and he confesses that he is still a virgin.  [Oneshot written for Deflower Draco Fest 2023]

🌸 Lessons from Professor Granger - JCOBryan1990

“You are drunk, sir.”  She laughed out as he continued to stumble forward, his hands clasped the frame; his face landing inches from hers. “I may drink a of had.” Laughing she gathered him closer into the room, “Really?  And what pray tell has you drinking so much on a Tuesday?  Testing the potions from your students again?”

🌸 Lovegood's Love Cure - Saberspooky [WIP - 3/6]

After being abruptly dumped by her boyfriend and abandoned by her best friend at the Hogwarts train platform, Hermione vows to make the most of her final year at Hogwarts. Luna Lovegood provides just the opportunity when she attempts to cure her friends' broken hearts by matching students up with their soulmates based on an extensive compatibility quiz, but everything goes awry when Hermione Granger is paired with the last person she would expect.

🌸 Magically Bound - @acanadianmuggle

Hermione has written a novel and in the magical world, a handbound copy without a spark of magic must be used as the master copy from which all duplicates are made. In a workshop in Wiltshire, she will find the artisan who will make her book and to who might bookbind them together.

🌸 Summer Skin - @echoofpromise

Her skin is warm and glowing beneath his touch as he glides his thumb across the rigid edge of her collarbone, and Draco thinks this is heaven. This is what God wanted for his children, for them to feel just as weightless and defying and cosmic as he feels in this moment thanks to Hermione Granger and her cinnamon tongue.

🌸 The Perks of Dark Magic - @o0sarena0o [WIP - 1/6]

Two decades after the war, Draco Malfoy is an innovative, renowned Grand Master Potioneer. His draughts are sought-after and often aid the DMLE with their most difficult cases. Hermione Granger, a highly acclaimed curse breaker for the Ministry of Magic, encounters a curse she's never seen before. Reluctantly, she approaches Draco Malfoy for assistance, not knowing that his profession's darkest secrets come with a life-changing price. Written for the DeflowerDraco2023 Fest 🌺.

🌸 The Promise Of A Parent - @kryskrosszee [WIP - 1/?]

After the death of his mother, Draco finds out that the Blacks and the Malfoys both had high hopes and great expectations for him - and now at the tender age of twenty-three he has only two years to find someone to help him produce the next Black heir or he will be punished, severely, for his failure.

🌸 virgin violets in bloom - @riddikuluspuff

Throughout their time at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy had hidden away the fact that he was actually sexually inexperienced and was actually a massive virgin. Two of his closest and best friends, Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass, had helped him to spread rumours throughout the school that were the total opposite of who he truly was. They spread rumours around the school that Draco Malfoy was the most sexually experienced Slytherin they had ever been with and that he hasn’t actually been a virgin since late in their fifth year. But, once leaving school, the inexperience he truly had followed him and his unlucky strike with girls was running thin with his self-esteem. He hated it. However, one night, Draco drunkenly stumbled into Hermione Granger and she slowly informed him that she was willing to teach him everything he needed to know to pleasure women. Hermione Granger was fully prepared to deflower Draco Malfoy. A one-shot for the 2023 Deflower Draco Fic Fest

🌸 White Lilies, Sweet Peas and Hellebore - @ceilidhchaos

A Darker Language of Flowers Story For Deflower Draco Fest White Lilies mean purity and commitment Sweet Peas mean blissful pleasure Hellebore mean scandal

🌻💐🌹🌺🌸🌼🌷

🌸 Read the collection here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DeflowerDraco2023

[mrigasiras]

Chitra, housed in between the tail end of sidereal Virgo and the beginning of Libra, is a master artisan. Its symbol is a shining pearl or jewel. It represents one who knows how to perfect something, add the necessary heat and pressure, to make something as beautiful and pristine as possible.

I have seen that many Chitra natives are comedians, or have a comedic aura about them. Comedy allows someone to poke and prod at someone's flaws and insecurities, in a way that isn't totally debilitating or obvious. Even when they are saying things with the harshest brutality, the sparkling energy of Chitra causes people to reflect the harshness back on themselves.

Weird Al Yankovic has Chitra moon and has been doing parody songs since the 80s. He pokes at the music industry and other sensitive topics, but no one really bats an eye, because he is so charming -- a dazzling pearl, mesmerizing to the masses.

Weird Al is a more mild example, but I see this over and over again with Chitra natives-- they do controversial things but do not suffer the consequences.

Examples: Shane Dawson, Chitra moon -- has had so many controversies of doing "demon"-like behavior including inappropriate conduct. Same with Onision, Chitra moon. Doja Cat seems to live her life based on controversy. I also notice they embody the brutality of their yoni animal -- the male tiger.

Controversy seems to blow over them. They are the star jewel, the one everyone loves to look at, even if they are stirring up drama and chaos. They bring needed pressure to one's life, to refine them into a better person.

Don't forget what I said before -- they are master architects, even if it's unconscious. They know what is not quite right and what needs to be tweaked and pointed out. Would a master architect accept any flaws in his masterpiece?

Chitras love the spotlight, to be with the most "God" like -- their deities are demons who wanted to become Gods. Shane Dawson, as I stated before, has rubbed elbows with elite, rich people. Doja Cat, rubs elbows with the rich and elite. Kim Kardashian, is fully saturated in her elite lifestyle.

[tears-that-heal]

I’m not a Victim. I chose to see myself through my Father God’s eyes, always. I’m His Masterpiece. ❤️ That includes you, too.

[occasionaltouhou]

sorry about my last ask i promise to grow and change as a person

anyway what do you think about misumaru? personally... idk maybe it's unfortunate but she doesn't look like a particularly interesting character

people joke and talk about how 'she's a milf' or whatever and sure, but somehow with her it gives her a boring vibe. it feels like, contrary to all other touhou characters, she isn't just vibing

i personally don't really like her design, tenshi did the rainbow thing better and her pose is kinda silly

what drives me up the wall is that she's a boring character... who crafted Reimu's yin-yang orbs! when was the last time we got actual, bona fide Reimu lore before that!? there could be all sorts of connections to the Hakurei god... but she's kind of a nothingburger. it's a shame, really. maybe you disagree

thank you. life is all about these little learning experiences

anyway. misumaru, huh... she's definitely a character who hasn't gotten her time to shine. misumaru is actually kind of a Big Deal in a lot of ways, first and foremost that - based on her name, at least - she's tamanooya-no-mikoto. which means she's an amatsukami who's closely tied to both the provenance of a clan that technically predates modern japan itself, and also to the myth of amaterasu in her cave - which, of course, also theoretically ties her directly to the lunarians. and just to top it all off, tamanooya-no-mikoto is also the creator of the yasakani no magatama, which is, y'know, about as big of a deal as it gets in japanese mythology

so just from which kami she is, she's already got a lot going on. and she is, of course, the creator of the yin-yang orbs - why wouldn't you hire a master craftsman to create the goshintai for the kami used as a lynchpin of gensokyo?

there's a few more interesting facets to her, one of which is the very fact that she hasn't shown up before or since unconnected marketeers - she is specifically protecting her interests in the mountain. she's firm, competent, she provides guidance and aid, and she is about as selfish as we've seen of any kami. the only reason she showed up is because people were taking rocks she claimed as hers!

so she's an amatsukami, but not a lunarian. it's worth noting also that there aren't many shrines to tamanooya-no-mikoto; she's only really a step or two above hina in terms of being a so-called "feral kami". she doesn't really seem to have any allegiance to gensokyo, or to the hakurei shrine (or else, y'know, she'd probably have shown up at any other time). she's just kind of a weird artisan. and she makes magatama and balls. and she throws them at people for fun. what's better than this

[nerdythebard]

#59: Thor, God of Thunder

[Art Credit: Raf Grassetti] ---

It's been so long since I said this, but... Welcome, Gods and Goddesses! Our long-time reader, @dionysus-liber, has requested a mythology-accurate build of Thor - God of Thunder and Storms, God of Strength and Masculinity, Protector of the Hearth, and one of the key members of the Aesir pantheon. Now, the reason I chose the appearance from God of War: Ragnarök is because I believe this to be the most accurate portrayal we have in any media at the moment: brusque, with bushy red hair and beard, and built like a powerlifter off-season. I could've make an entire separate post describing the intricacies and little details of Thor's character, but for now, let's get down to business to defeat the Jötnar!

Next Time: Divine storm rages. It continues moving East. Watch out for horses.

Now, what was that thing we're usually do here? Ah, yes, build goals!

Divine Equipment: While Thor boasts unrivaled physical strength and stamina on his own, he is also the master of three important items that further increase his might; those being Megingjörð, the Power Belt that doubles his strength, Járngreipr, the Iron Grip Gloves granting him resistance to all the power he generates, and of course the famous hammer - Mjölnir, the Grinder.

The Force of Nature: Thor is the embodiment of pure strength and power. He brings down the full might of the Aesir gods to all enemies of Asgard. The thunder you hear in the skies is the result of his mighty hammer swinging against Jötnar skulls. While he doesn't manipulate lightning to the same extent as, for example, Zeus or Ao Kuang, the storm always joins him on the battlefield.

War Priest: People know Thor mostly due to his feats of strength and achievements on the battlefield (and probably because of... eugh... Chris Hemsworth's portrayal), but what you might not know is that Thor is also viewed as the ultimate protector. His hammer is used to bless and certify marriage ceremonies, he has the ability to heal wounds of warriors, and even resurrect his faithful chariot-pulling goats.

---

There are two options when it comes to making Thor in D&D. One is to go with Goliath if you want to emphasize his endurance and strength; that would be a very good, solid base, but I've used this one in my Kratos build, so we're gonna use the other option (and this blog's regular go-to), the Aasimar from Mordenkainen's Monsters of the Multiverse. We start with a +2 and a +1 to two abilities of our choice (Strength and Constitution respectively), resistance to necrotic and radiant damage, the Healing Hands ability that lets us heal a creature for [our proficiency bonus number of d4s] Hit Points once per long rest, and the Light cantrip (to apply on the hammer :D)

Thor gets involved not only in the affairs of the divine, he is also very prominent in the lives of mortals. His protection and blessings are not only sought by warriors going a-viking (yes, viking is a verb) but also by the common folk and Scandinavian villagers. Because of that, we shall make him a Folk Hero. We gain proficiency in Animal Handling and Survival, which will be useful to take care of our goats in the desolate wastelands of Jötunnheimr, as well as proficiency with one set of artisan's tools (perhaps brewer's supplies to have a refreshing gallon of mead on the road) and land vehicles (such as goat-drawn chariot). Finally, thanks to the Rustic Hospitality feat, we may find our place among the mortals and common folk with ease and have a better chance of finding food, shelter, and potential aid in some tasks.

ABILITY SCORES

This one is a no-brainer, for Thor we must lead with Strength. Follow that up with Constitution; all that bulk has to contribute to something. Dexterity will be next, Thor does not move around the battlefield but an occasional hammer throw requires a good eye.

Wisdom will actually be next, but mostly because we need it for multiclass later. Charisma will be on the lower end; although Thor has good intimidation game, his messy appearance and brusque manners are far from some of the more charismatic characters. Finally, we're dumping Intelligence - the world of arts and science is not one we frequent.

CLASS

Level 1 - Barbarian: We need a solid base of health and damage to start with. Barbarians get a d12 as their Hit Dice, [12 + our Constitution modifier] initial Hit Points, proficiency with light armour, medium armour, shields, simple and martial weapons. We will give Thor a hide armour and, of course, a warhammer. Our saving throws are Strength and Constitution and we get to pick two class skills from the list (Athletics and Intimidation).

As a Barbarian, we of course start with Rage. By unleashing the divine fury, for 1 minute we gain the following benefits if we're not wearing heavy armour:

Advantage on Strength checks and Strength saving throws

A +2 bonus to damage rolls for attacks using Strength (increases as we level up)

Resistance to bludgeoning, piercing, and slashing damage

Rage lasts for 1 minute but it can end earlier if we decide to end it, we are knocked unconscious, or we fail to deal or receive damage during our turn. Initially, we can Rage twice per long rest.

We also get Unarmoured Defense; if we're not wearing any armour, our AC becomes [10 + our Dexterity modifier + our Constitution modifier].

Level 2 - Barbarian: We develop a Danger Sense, giving us the advantage on Dexterity saving throws against effects that we can see (such as traps and AoE spells). To apply that status, we cannot be blinded, deafened or incapacitated. While attacking, we can also declare to make a Reckless Attack; we gain an advantage on the first Strength-based attack of our turn, but for the entire turn the enemies have an advantage on attacks made against us.

Level 3 - Barbarian: At this level, we can now use our Rage three times per rest. At this level, we also get to pick our subclass, our Primal Path; since Thor is the ultimate warrior of the gods, we're gonna use Path of the Zealot. We are able to channel Divine Fury into our weapon strikes. While raging, the first creature we strike on our turn takes extra [1d6 + our Barbarian level] radiant or necrotic damage (we choose the type when we get this feature and cannot change it).

As the Warrior of the Gods, we are meant to live until Ragnarok. Revival spells (Revivify, Raise Dead, etc.) do not require any material components when used on us.

Level 4 - Barbarian: Time for the first Ability Score Improvement. We're going to grab the Thrown Arms Master feat from Critical Role's Tal'Dorei Campaign Setting Reborn (it's now on D&D Beyond, the setting is semi-canon, I'm using it!): our Strength or Dexterity increases by 1, and weapons without Thrown property (such as our current warhammer) gain that property; I would also ask the DM to allow the next part of that feat: when missing a throw, a weapon comes back to our hand; normally, it works only with light weapons, but considering our divine strength, I personally would allow it in this case.

Level 5 - Barbarian: With Extra Attack, we can now strike twice during a single Attack action. We also gain 10 feet of extra movement when not wearing heavy armour, thanks to Fast Movement.

Level 6 - Barbarian: At this level, we can literally change our own fate by being ANGRY. With Fanatical Focus, we can re-roll a failed saving throw when raging (once per rage), but we have to use the new roll. We can also now Rage four times per rest.

Level 7 - Barbarian: It's time to let go of all we've learned in Asgard about being a civilised fighter and give in to our Feral Instinct. We have an advantage on initiative rolls. Additionally if we're surprised before a combat (but not incapacitated), we can shake off the surprise and act before anyone else but only if the first thing we do is Rage.

Level 8 - Barbarian: Time for another ASI. This time, we shall put one point each into Constitution and Wisdom in order to prepare to tap into our divine portfolio with...

Level 9 - Cleric: Time to harness some divine magic! Multiclassing into Cleric doesn't provide us with any new proficiencies, but does unlock Spellcasting. Wisdom is our casting ability and we know cantrips, regular spells, and rituals. Clerics have access to their entire spell list and can prepare [Wisdom modifier + Cleric level] spells every day. We start with three cantrips (Mending, Thaumaturgy, and Word of Radiance) and two 1st-level spells (Ceremony and Cure Wounds).

Clerics also get to pick their subclass, their Divine Domain at first level. Here, it's obvious to go with the Tempest Domain to gain some power over the storms. We add two extra spells to our list (Fog Cloud and Thunderwave) and gain Wrath of the Storm: if we get hit by a creature standing within 5 feet of us, we can use our reaction to impose a Dexterity saving throw onto it; on a failed save, it takes 2d8 lightning or thunder damage (our choice) or half as much if it succeeds. We can do that a number of times equal to our Wisdom modifier per long rest.

Level 10 - Cleric: We continue our divine development with Channel Divinity. Using this feature, once per short or long rest, we can tap into the power of Asgard and utilise one of two (one deafult + one granted from our subclass) following effects:

Turn Undead: As an action, we can impose a Wisdom saving throw onto all undead creatures within 30 feet of us. On a failed save, they are Turned (cannot take reactions, must spend their turn running away from us, cannot get closer than 30 feet of us) for 1 minute or until they take damage;

Destructive Wrath: When we deal lightning or thunder damage, we can use this Channel Divinity option to deal maximum damage instead of rolling

We also get one more spell for our small but significant arsenal; let's pick Bless, so that our party can receive the grace of the mighty Thor!

Level 11 - Barbarian: For this level, we gain the Brutal Critical feature. Whenever we score a critical hit with our melee weapon, we can add one additional die for determining weapon damage.

Level 12 - Barbarian: This time, we get a subclass feature. Our Zealous Presence is truly inspiring on the battlefield. As a bonus action, once per long rest, we can unleash a thunderous roar. Up to 10 creatures within 60 feet of us that can hear us gain advantage on attack rolls and saving throws until the end of our next turn.

Level 13 - Barbarian: At this level, we get Relentless Rage. If we drop to 0 Hit Points while raging, we can make a DC 10 Constitution saving throw. On a success, we get 1 Hit Point back. Each time we use this feature, the DC increases by +5 and resets back to 10 after a short or long rest.

Level 14 - Barbarian: We finally get another ASI. We can finally cap off our Strength to that godly 20.

Level 15 - Barbarian: Our Brutal Critical feat improves here. When scoring a critical hit, we can now add two dice to our damage rolls.

Level 16 - Barbarian: At this level, we get to channel our inner Dylan Thomas and Rage Beyond Death (...eh, they can't all be winners). While raging, we do not go unconscious if we drop to 0 Hit Points. We still have to make Death Saving Throws, but all the effects only take hold after our Rage ends... at which point, we can call Relentless Rage and possibly shrug off the damage.

Level 17 - Barbarian: To add on top of the previous feature that makes us immortal as long as we Rage, we gain Persistent Rage. The only way our Rage ends is if we choose to end it or become unconscious (which, as previously established, cannot happen from battle damage).

Level 18 - Barbarian: This is our final ASI of the build. While there is a lot of stuff we didn't develop (and two odd numbers, much to my distaste), we have to balance it out with more Constitution so that we can at least soak up some damage that will definitely hit us.

Level 19 - Barbarian: Our Brutal Critical ability improves again. This time, it's reeeeally going to hurt whatever creature we score the critical hit on, as we can add a total of three extra damage dice to our melee damage roll.

Level 20 - Barbarian: Our capstone is Barbarian 18, which gives us the Indomitable Might ability. If we make Strength checks and our roll is lower than our Strength score (i.e. 20), we can replace the outcome with our Strength score.

---

And that is Thor, as close to his real-life Norse myth portrayal as I could make him. Before I give you a short summary of him, however, I also need to point out that in D&D there are three items (from DMG Guide) that directly represent Thor's Symbols of Power; those being the Hammer of Thunderbolts (Legendary Maul), Gauntlets of Ogre Power (Uncommon), and Belt of Giant Strength (various rarities and types). If you wish to implement collecting those as your character's personal quest/backstory element, feel free to discuss it with your DM. Now, back to the build, what did we manage to cook?

To start off, we're a typical tank. With Strength and Constitution being our highest abilities, adding a +4 damage to damage while raging plus several opportunities to summon lightning onto our enemies. With the Cure Wounds spell, we can stay on the battlefield a little longer, and the combination of Relentless Rage and Rage Beyond Death gives us a chance to fight even after suffering serious wounds. Our role in the party is simple: deal damage and focus the enemy attention on ourselves.

Our Unarmoured AC is 15, we have a +1 to our initiative, and the average of 197 Hit Points.

Unfortunately, for decent health pool and damage dealing we had to sacrifice pretty much everything else. Apart from Strength and Constitution, our abilities are not great and we don't have a lot of skills to contribute to besides Athletics.

---

I'm back, darlings. Hope this holiday season goes well for you. I do not make any promises to not sound like a dishonest fool, but I at least hope I can give you something to enjoy. Looking forward to reconnect with all of you wonderful lot.

-Nerdy out!

[dramioneasks]

HP FESTS: DramioneFanfictionForum (Part 5)

Deflower Draco 2023:

Broken Arrow by Fictionismyescape - E, one-shot - This wasn't the time, not when there was a war happening. But it might be the only chance they had.

Summer Skin by echoofpromise - E, one-shot - Her skin is warm and glowing beneath his touch as he glides his thumb across the rigid edge of her collarbone, and Draco thinks this is heaven. This is what God wanted for his children, for them to feel just as weightless and defying and cosmic as he feels in this moment thanks to Hermione Granger and her cinnamon tongue.

The Perks of Dark Magic by sarena - E, WIP - Two decades after the war, Draco Malfoy is an innovative, renowned Grand Master Potioneer. His draughts are sought-after and often aid the DMLE with their most difficult cases. Hermione Granger, a highly acclaimed curse breaker for the Ministry of Magic, encounters a curse she's never seen before. Reluctantly, she approaches Draco Malfoy for assistance, not knowing that his profession's darkest secrets come with a life-changing price.

The Promise Of A Parent by KrysKrossZee - M, WIP - After the death of his mother, Draco finds out that the Blacks and the Malfoys both had high hopes and great expectations for him - and now at the tender age of twenty-three he has only two years to find someone to help him produce the next Black heir or he will be punished, severely, for his failure.

Magically Bound by aCanadianMuggle - M, one-shot - Hermione has written a novel and in the magical world, a handbound copy without a spark of magic must be used as the master copy from which all duplicates are made. In a workshop in Wiltshire, she will find the artisan who will make her book and to who might just bind them together.

Growing Sideways by inadaze22 - E, WIP - For years, Draco has been complacent. His career is on track, his future is arranged, and he's adapted to the darkness plaguing his restless nights. When paired with Hermione Granger on a top secret project, he begins to question if the comfort of familiarity is enough. As long nights dwindle and their connection grows, she shines a light on possibilities he's never imagined.

Lovegood's Love Cure by Saberspooky - E, WIP - After being abruptly dumped by her boyfriend and abandoned by her best friend at the Hogwarts train platform, Hermione vows to make the most of her final year at Hogwarts. Luna Lovegood provides just the opportunity when she attempts to cure her friends' broken hearts by matching students up with their soulmates based on an extensive compatibility quiz, but everything goes awry when Hermione Granger is paired with the last person she would expect.

virgin violets in bloom by riddikulus_puff - E, one-shot - Throughout their time at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy had hidden away the fact that he was actually sexually inexperienced and was actually a massive virgin. Two of his closest and best friends, Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass, had helped him to spread rumours throughout the school that were the total opposite of who he truly was. They spread rumours around the school that Draco Malfoy was the most sexually experienced Slytherin they had ever been with and that he hasn’t actually been a virgin since late in their fifth year. But, once leaving school, the inexperience he truly had followed him and his unlucky strike with girls was running thin with his self-esteem. He hated it. However, one night, Draco drunkenly stumbled into Hermione Granger and she slowly informed him that she was willing to teach him everything he needed to know to pleasure women. Hermione Granger was fully prepared to deflower Draco Malfoy.

F*** the Pain Away by damsel_in_mistress - E, one-shot - "Three things happened simultaneously: His left hand shot out to grasp the intruder’s wrist in a death grip, he realised who the intruder was, and the Stupefy died on his lips. Brown eyes open wide with surprise, brow furrowed, mouth ajar in a soft gasp, Hermione Granger stood before him." When Draco's world is misery and dread, Hermione happens upon him in Myrtle's bathroom. None of them could have forseen what this would lead to.

Expect the Unexpected by starboygrove - E, 3 chapters - A humiliating moment at the beginning of Hermione's Eighth year at Hogwarts leads her to an unexpected scenario. Draco Malfoy, a reformed Death-Eater who she has become fast friends with, makes an impossible request. Hermione battles her feelings while helping Draco with his odd predicament.

Last Nite by shaparecium (Dinkycharlie) - E, one-shot - Draco is sentenced to five years in Azkaban. On his last night in freedom, Hermione Granger visits him and he confesses that he is still a virgin.

Lessons from Professor Granger by JCOBryan1990 - E, one-shot - “You are drunk, sir.”  She laughed out as he continued to stumble forward, his hands clasped the frame; his face landing inches from hers. “I may drink a of had.” Laughing she gathered him closer into the room, “Really?  And what pray tell has you drinking so much on a Tuesday?  Testing the potions from your students again?”

Sounds Like Dramione 2023:

With a Whimper by anne_ammons - T, 7 chapters - Once upon a time, he was in love... 

Stolen World by Fictionismyescape - M, 4 chapters - no summary

Deep, Deeply by vannminner - M, 5 chapters - Stripped of himself, of his home, Draco Malfoy has lost all hope of restoring his missing pieces. That is, until hope comes in the form of a childhood rival he's hesitant to befriend.

pillowtalk by riddikulus_puff - E, one-shot - pillow talk noun pillow talk is the relaxed, intimate conversation that often occurs between two sexual partners, sometimes after sexual activity, usually accompanied by cuddling, caresses, kissing, and other physical intimacy. It is associated with honesty, sexual afterglow, and bonding, and is distinguished from the dirty talk which usually forms part of foreplay. - Hermione Granger was in love with an older man. She couldn't believe that she had fallen for someone that was old enough to be her own father. It was crazy to think about but she was in love. Draco Malfoy was the one holding Hermione's love and attraction. He was the perfect boyfriend. Their relationship had started out as a sugar daddy relationship before developing into a friends-with-benefits relationship before they both admitted that they had romantic feelings for each other. They had been dating for almost two years, and Hermione couldn't be happier with him.

After the War by tambrathegreat - M, one-shot - Draco floats between life and death. He reviews his life and a certain know-it-all plays a surprisingly large part.

Beneath the Starlit Sky by Fractured - E, one-shot - Draco Malfoy faces a double conundrum: 1. His temporary role as Hogwarts Astronomy Professor is coming to an end in six weeks. 2. He's fallen for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

The Deal (Running up that Hill) by aCanadianMuggle - T, one-shot - It's an eighth-year conundrum as Hermione balances researching why Malfoy has been acting so strangely and maintaining a fake relationship with Ron so he can come out on his own terms.

This fest is ongoing.

[yandere-writer-momo]

Monster F-er Anon is back!

The Yarem and Darling in Feudal Japan’s Fantasy AU Hierarchy? (Mythical Creatures, while Darling is just a Human)

I was thinking Darling would be a Geisha/Shrine Maiden (Neither are allowed to marry unless they quit their occupation)

Though I have no idea where Shrine Maidens, Priests, Priestess are in the Hierarchy 😭

There are 8 Main Classes (Though I’m not an expert, but I think it’s cool)

And you can definitely changed these, since I’m unsure (And I don’t know where the others in the Yarem would fit, including the ones that aren’t in the Yarem/aren’t talked about as much)

Emperor - Yuuichirou (Why not? Let’s give this man some attention) He disowned Yujiro’s ass 😂

Shogun - Tokugawa(?)

Diamyos - Doppo, Kaoru? (Yakuza), Jun (Took over a lawless land), Oliva (Did it too, but for fun and to prove he could do it), Yujiro(?), Kaku,

Ninja/Assassins - Doyle, Sikorsky, Gaia, Dorian, Yanagi,

Samurai - Katsumi, Retsu, All of the Shinshinkai,

Ronin (Samurai that have no master) - Musashi (For Real 😭), Sukune, Baki, Jack,

Peasants -

Artisans - Darling (Geisha)?

Merchants -

Foreigners - Jun, Oliva,

Fun fact, the Emperor (For a period of time) was just a Figurehead, while the Shogun held actual power (Military)

Poor shrine maiden darling. She just wants to be a shaman and these men won’t leave her alone.

Jun and Oliva would be foreigners. Jun is still a pirate while Oliva is navy captain but they both pose as merchants to continue their game of cat and mouse

Kureha and Kosho are priests and childhood friends. They encourage you to stay as a Miko (shrine priestess). Kureha is a Kannushi (and he hopes to lie with you if you decide to marry a ‘god’). Kosho is a regular priest.

Ninjas/ assassins are Gaia, Sikorsky, Doyle, Dorian, Spec, and Yanagi. Doyle constantly disguised himself as a geisha (but he’s still a deadly assassin)

Baki, Jack, Musashi, and Sukune are Ronins

Katsumi, Retsu, Suedou, Katou, and all the Shinshinkai men are samurai. Kaoru poses as a samurai so he can fight more. Retsu is a foreigner who was able to become a samurai once Katsumi rescued him from slavery

Daimyos are Doppo, Kaoru, and Yujiro. Yujiro is trying to kill his father the emperor

Shogun is Tokugawa

The emperor is Yuichiro (who isn’t seen much)

Poor shrine maiden is always the one who saves these warriors so they’re all attached to her. They won’t let her go

[chrishemsworthsbitch]

Chris Hemsworth brainrot

I’m always experiencing this in one way or another, he’s my number one man after all, but I’m experiencing it EXTRA hard today so you know what that means, time for another semi-poetic rambling

This face lovingly and carefully sculpted by the forces of all things good and holy in this world for the purpose of easing those who gaze upon it. Warm, beautifully weathered skin, a jawline of stone, peaceful Atlantic blue eyes, a beard softer than silk, golden locks pulled from the sun and woven into his head like a masterful tapes, voice smooth as molten chocolate from lips as plush a ripen peach and a smile that could stop armies in their tracks with its glory

And dear god the body…

Michelangelo is out there somewhere rolling in his grave in agony, for the statue of david was outdone centuries later and there’s nothing he can do about it

These mighty biceps that both lift steel and iron like mere paper are air and yet wield that same cold hard strength as a shield for those embraced by them

These heaving pecs that bulge through his clothes like the helm of a mighty ship splitting the waters before it, smoothed and rounded to the uttermost point of perfection like the most delectable of pastries and adorned with the most perky nipples, bright pink like the sky at sunset

These immense thighs that portray the strength necessary to choke the life from even the most fearsome grizzly, standing strong and rugged like the mighty redwoods, and hardened by years of athletic prowess and power. Yet for all the artisanal glory, for those who find themselves on top of or between them, they are silken, warm like a fire in the tundra

And through their strength, those thighs hold up 2 great beasts, an immense, voluptuous ass, sculpted to rounded perfection by diligent training and a monstrous python, it’s power barely held back by mortal dressings, filled with the sweet nectar of life and prosperity

Behold God’s best creation, a being so incredible and majestic, strength and gentility boiled down to their essence and given masculine form, endowed with the power and muscle of a god yet he is gentler than a fawn having just been brought into the world, and god weeps for nothing she has created since this man has been anywhere near as beautiful, inside or out

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Tithe 2/2

Part One

Summary: Younger Gods AU - don't need to read the original fic to enjoy. (But you do need to read part one.)

18+ NSFW

Warnings: Neglect/abuse/manipulation, unhealthy relationship dynamics, SMUT (artisanal?), the whole-ass angst train, needlessly verbose prose for the "aesthetic," potential (minor) S2/comics spoilers

My master list for further reading

Recommended listening: Son Lux "Let Me Follow," and Ghostly Kisses "Blackbirds"

Next on the one shot list is a Hob x reader x Morpheus inspired by a prompt. And Younger Gods, of course. And the new, super-long mystery project.

Any of you lovely fucks want an AU of this AU? Like, with the Tom Ellis Lucifer? Same premise, wildly different story. I kinda want to write it, but I can't promise when it will appear. Let me know if there's an audience or if I should leave it on the back burner until it boils down to sludge.

Part Two

The bread runs out, and then the waterskin goes dry.

Her life becomes an hourglass, slowly draining as she waits to be remembered.

The Morningstar likes her best when she’s weakened, desperate, when there’s nothing but frantic hope left in her eyes, and it all belongs to the ruler of Hell. She hasn’t reached that point yet, but each day brings her a step closer, and if the Morningstar does not come, does not bring light to her cell, she’ll eventually fall beyond even that.

The last drop of water rolls over her parched tongue, leaving a damp trail that sticks to the roof of her mouth. Her cracked lips aren’t bleeding – yet. She’d rather be asleep before they do. This time, she won’t crawl back towards consciousness without a light to follow. Until the door opens, she’s determined to dream. Of all the things she may lose, her misery, her life in Hell is not at risk. But damned souls cannot enter the Dream Lord’s realm.

If she remains forgotten, she’ll lose her meadow and the storms that rush to greet her like old friends she never knew.

Dreams have become a finite resource, and she wants as many as she can hold before they disappear forever. The Dream Lord said he would not take them from her, but death might.

She curls into the dark, face tucked against cold stone, listening to the hollow shadows that keep her company. Until she drifts.

She escapes.

It’s so easy; it never fails to surprise her how quickly and far she goes in the space between breaths. Hell, she’s always been told, is the one place in the universe impossible to escape, but that just isn’t true.

One moment, she waits in the cold. The next, she rests in soft grass with rain washing her clean of cares.

The meadow bursts with life – slow-growing things and skies rolling thick with heavy clouds – all very busy existing. Peacefully thrumming with a green pulse removed from time. Each beat of the space’s verdant heart lasts a moment. An eternity.

She loves every inch of it, and the possibility of losing this home breaks her heart.

For a day, she stays in the grass. Unmoving. Bathing in the rain and the beams from the sun and moon that peek between thunderheads.

Although she imagines his eyes on her, suspects his touch in the rain and his attention in nodding daisies, the Dream Lord only returns on the third day. He did not visit – openly at least – as her rations slowly drained away. She can only guess why, but she sees the question unspoken, the unwanted answer that brought their last meeting to an end.

Maybe he senses the change, the deeper melancholy infecting her place of peace, and it’s called him back like an open wound left to fester.

He still cannot save her.

She knows.

She was the one to tell him, after all.

But when she looks up, knee-deep in the stream with the rain peppering kisses along her neck, she’s glad.

What can he take she isn’t already doomed to lose?

He’s a familiar face now, and she doesn’t have many of those. He stands in her sanctuary, and no bad thing can happen here. She refuses to believe otherwise. She needs faith in something. Her hope in the Morningstar fades in the dark with her half-mortal body, and her grey-sky meadow fills a flaking hollow in her chest.

There’s room in that hollow for him, too.

Her meadow is already a part of the Dreaming, and thus a part of its Lord. She found rest and safety in him before he waited at the edge of the woods, and if he wants to visit the stormy plain while she sleeps, who is she to deny him?

He doesn’t approach, and neither does she. He’s content to watch, studying her leisurely play like her wet ankles will tease out some great mystery, or the grass she weaves into a plait holds terrible riddles. But she only wants to feel flowing water over her skin. She only wants to make something green and fresh into a pretty wreath to set in the rushing stream.

When the sun catches the clouds on fire, and sunset burns hot pink and gold, she settles in a cluster of colorful weeds to wait for the stars. Yellow flowered sour grass, little wild violets, and bristling white clover peep up between her fingers, cushion her head as she lies back.

She feels the Dream King approach more than she hears him. It’s like the wind stops to bow, and his presence fills the little pause in the meadow’s pulse. Sitting beside her, he watches the sky clear. The clouds never hide the constellations when she dreams. They’re too wonderful to hide, even for the most liberating storm.

His eyes mirror the cosmos as he turns to her, enchanting. They should make him distant. Unreachable. But she swears she could name the constellations twinkling there.

“What brought you here?” she asks.

“A part of me has always been here. I am the Dreaming.”

She isn’t sure if he’s being obtuse on purpose, but she can’t remember the last time she felt free enough to ask questions, so she presses it, building a history between the two of them, growing their encounter into a connection.

“The first time I saw you. When you waited by the trees.”

Galaxies comb over her as she rests, looking up at him from the bed of weeds and wildflowers.

“Curiosity.” Honest and simple. It isn’t exactly a vulnerable confession, but he doesn’t have anything to prove to her, and she likes the honesty.

She wonders if it will stretch to the present.

“And this time?”

The light in his eyes sharpens as they narrow. He looks at her like he’s the one who asked the question, hunting for answers behind her eyes.

“Curiosity unsated. And –” He hesitates long enough she thinks he won’t continue, but when he does, his voice has something beyond a ruler’s curiosity, a trace of the stories buried in his gaze during their last encounter softening the words to a rumbling whisper. “Perhaps, concern for a dreamer.”

The last rind of orange sun dips under the horizon, and the stars jump to life, ignoring the twilight. They’re all eager to burn.

She rolls fully onto her back, smiling as she takes his gaze with her, and looks up. How many more nights of dreaming does she have left? How many stars can she count, and if she tallies them all, can she keep them when she goes?

He waits for her answer patiently, as sure and still as the dark he wears so well.

Since he didn’t lie to her, she can’t bring herself to lie to him, either.

“This may be my longest dream yet. And my last.”

She thought he was still a moment ago. But now the dream goes still with him, and he’s a black hole locking the world in his gravity. It’s only suspense. Not suffocation. It draws her without either having to move.

When he breathes again, the stars remember how to twinkle. The stream dares to run.

“Has the Morningstar forgotten you?”

“Yes.” She’s resigned to her death, but she already yearns for all these beautiful things she can’t keep. “I wish this were real.” So she could tuck a flower in her pocket to smell when she wakes. So she could cradle a star in her palms during the coldest nights of her pitch dark cell.

More than anything, she wants the storms to follow her home like a stray dog.

“Your life here is as real as what you feel in the waking world.” He pauses. Corrects himself. “In Hell.”

Her view fogs over, and she blinks quickly, before any tears leak down her face. She doesn’t try to hide the misery in her voice. “That just makes it worse, though.”

A shooting star arcs overhead. Instead of a wish, she pins her fears and regrets to it, hoping it will take them far, far away, leaving her to enjoy however many dreams she has left in peace.

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He leaves less and less.

For the first week, he comes every other night. Then he appears with the stars. Eventually, he arrives early enough to see the sun set and lingers long enough to watch it rise again. A growing pattern spreads like a bright stain: the weaker she becomes, the closer he sits. The longer he stays.

Rain still falls, thunder grumbles, and lightning flashes quick as thought. It’s all still her, all still her dream and her place, but she’s dying, and they both know it.

Eventually, it becomes a matter of leaving when he must rather than visiting when he can.

She isn’t sure why he cares. He oversees all dreamers, and the Dreaming expands beyond even those countless billions. She waits for the right opportunity to pose the question – a bright afternoon when the then clouds glow with the sun and dim rainbows hover over the trees. Everything tastes possible.

“I am the Dreaming, but I believe this corner of my realm would crumble away without you.” He buries his long fingers in the grass, tilts his head back to study the gathering clouds. “The meadow is mine, but the storms are yours, and their energy feeds everything that grows here. I could create a facsimile without your rain, but…”

His endless eyes turn to illuminate her, expressing all the dangerous things hanging like forbidden fruit between his words.

It would not be the same.

It would not feel like her.

It would lack the smells and shades of her untrained, demi-god soul.

And he would miss it.

He would miss her.

How should she tell him she will miss him, too?

“Dream Lord –”

He interrupts her. “You’ve given of yourself, and I enjoy your company. Please.” His chin drops so he can eye her through his lashes, and she isn’t sure if it’s an invitation or a dare. “Call me Morpheus.”

Her mouth feels strangely dry as she meets those eyes – dark in spite of the stars they hold. “Morpheus.”

“Yes.” His deep voice drops even lower, pushing her thoughts aside like a puff of dandelion seeds. “What name do you wish me to use?”

The dandelion seeds fly back to the stem and turn to stone. She looks away, humiliated, wondering if he’ll just forget he asked and tell her something new instead. But, patient as ever, he waits, though he seems aware the question wasn’t taken as intended.

She lets the silence sit until it’s awkward, until the shame and horror burn in her throat, begging for some kind of release. The answer chokes its way free.

“People call me things, but I don’t have my name. The fae didn’t think I needed it. The Morningstar calls me Rain. But that isn’t my name.” It all tastes like vomit. Ugly and undeserving of the quiet meadow. He’s given her permission to call him by name, and it’s a wonderful gift, but she can only show her scars to excuse her failure to offer the same. “I have no name to give you.”

That strikes him. When she dares to look him in the face, she sees the empathy. His slackened expression holds no judgement. He doesn’t mock her or take back what he’s shared. Frustration lies in the way his eyebrows pinch, though, and she’s seen it there before.

He’s found a limit to his power, and he doesn’t like it.

This time, instead of placing her alone in the field and leaving, he folds the narrow space between them so she presses into his side, under an arm that brings her even closer.

It’s a denial on his part. Who would dare pluck a dreamer from the defense of the Dream King’s arms?

She chooses to accept his embrace regardless. It’s the first she’s enjoyed in quite some time. The best by far, even if he’s claiming something she hasn’t expressly given permission to take.

With his chin resting on her head, he murmurs, “We shall find it for you, and you will have any name you wish until that day.”

Like she has time to wait. Time and opportunity to search the waking world for the name her mother gifted her.

She doesn’t have the strength to argue. She wonders if he says these things because he knows, too.

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The storm rages through the meadow. She feels herself slipping fast, but she irrationally hopes if she pushes more of herself into the dream, some fragment will live on. Morpheus can keep it. He can keep the meadow and the chaotic weather. Her afterlife will keep her away, but she doesn’t want to leave him lonely in a dusty field.

They stand together by the stream because she’s sick of lying down and waiting for the end, even if she feels it biting her heels. She’ll meet death on her own two feet. His arms keep her upright, pulled close to his chest.

Only days left now. Maybe hours. She fights to stay in her dreams, aware of the throbbing headache and spiking pain in her physical belly. It all washes through the link to flesh and bone, echoes that manifest in her dream. She’s lucid enough to recognize them for what they are, and she’s lucid enough to ignore them. She chooses the dream. Considering Morpheus holds her fast, the dream has chosen her, too.

Even in the circle of his arms, remaining takes focus. The discomfort of her living body leaches through and jerks on her tether to wakefulness, demanding she return and suffer in full.

As the Dream Lord holds her, she holds him. Her arms loop around his narrow waist like he’s a tree in the storm that will anchor her against the pull from sleep. Lovers would carve their names into the trunk. Instead, she whispers, “Will you stay? Just a little longer.”

It is all she has left.

He breathes into her hair, and the gust is pleasantly warm compared to the wind. Only a little longer. She imagines his arms cinch just a bit tighter in defiance.

When he speaks, his voice is haggard, the smooth darkness roughed by an unspeakable emotion that has dared touch the Endless. “I will stay.”

He’ll stay until she can’t.

Until the end.

They stay together, breathing in time, pretending the end isn’t galloping towards them. Playing at eternity in cherished silence.

And then –

The door creaks, and she jerks awake. Dim light – still blinding – pours into her cell, framing the winged ruler like the sun.

“My sweet Rain. Did you think I had forgotten you?”

She looks to the light with hope, but it isn’t for the Morningstar. It isn’t for the fire’s warmth or the bland food that will fill her shriveled belly. She hopes to live so she may dream again, bring rain to Morpheus’s lonely meadow.

The months have taken their toll. The Morningstar holds out a hand, calling her to rise and return to her monarch’s side, but her knees fold the moment she tries to stand. And she does try. The igneous rock scrapes her palms as they catch her full weight, and she gasps for breath at the effort.

Even if there is light, she’s still dying. She needs water. Food. It isn’t too late to perish.

The Morningstar sweeps down, not to lift her off the floor, but to hold her chin and force her eyes from the floor. Lucifer’s eyes are hungry on her face. They demand her helpless adoration. Her wild hope.

“You are unwell.” The ruler of Hell says it like someone else left her in her cell for the better part of a year. No responsibility. No guilt. Only feigned concern tender and light as a feather. “We must remedy that.”

Mazikeen helps her up, half-carries her as the Morningstar moves to a table full of food and a tall pitcher full of what she desperately hopes is water. Little chimes ring through the marble hall with each shuffling step. The demon helps her sink to the floor their ruler’s side, her head resting against a knee. Easily within the Morningstar’s reach, angled so her desperation is on display.

As ever, she’s at the Lightbringer’s mercy. Her tormentor is her savior. But that’s only true because she must live to keep her dreams, and there’s a cup of water in Lucifer’s hands.

A ringed hand holds her jaw steady as the goblet nears. “Here. Drink and be well, Rain.” As she swallows, a hand runs over her hair. Torn chunks of bread and grey vegetables follow, taken from the Morningstar’s fingers. She knows how to behave, how to appear thankful and glad when she’s screaming inside. Her dignity died a long time ago. It doesn’t chafe her. But she has someone else’s hands in mind now.

She is still something the Morningstar fears to lose, and the Morningstar has no idea she’s given her hope to another king.

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She enters the dream in his arms.

He holds her like he’s been waiting, unmoving since the light of the open door woke her.

They stand in the meadow with the threat of rain carrying across the sky in rolling thunder, and as she finds herself, discovers her balance, his hands rise to her face.

He studies her as he had from the edge of the woods, but it isn’t her actions he marks. Inquisitive stars peer deep to draw out new pain, searching for hurts, asking without words if she is well.

Her hands trace the back of his fingers, wandering to his wrists, over his sleeves and up to his elbows. Then back to his wrists in a soothing stroke.

“I will dream again,” she assures him.

The Morningstar has remembered her. She will live, and she’ll return to this green place in his Dreaming.

His hands shift so his thumbs press on her jaw, tilting her face up to meet him. She expects a word or some nebulous expression she’ll spend her waking hours puzzling over, but he banishes all her expectations effortlessly.

With a kiss.

Silken lips press to hers. A touch. An introduction.

Her heart stalls in her chest as her hands cling to forearms. Holding him close in confusion.

“I thought you lost.” His mouth barely leaves hers, and each word is practically a kiss of its own. “I thought this meadow would languish without the rain.”

Apparently, the grass wasn’t the only thing to grow thirsty in her absence. He barely finishes before he kisses her again. An invitation this time, a call to dance as their lips glide together. Careful touches grow warmer, firmer, and she dares to answer in kind. She’s never been invited to play this game before, but she feels like she’s glowing, like there are no bones or muscle left in her body, only the hazy idea of lightning before a bolt gathers itself.

His hands slip along her jaw so the tips of his fingers can curl into her hair. She has his full attention, the weight of a billion dreams, and she wonders if this will consume her. She entertains a fantasy that he can tear her away from her mortal body, keep her in his soft hands like this forever.

Their lips break apart so he can press his forehead to hers, noses brushing together as he puts together the questions he must ask before he takes more.

“Will you spend this dream with me?” He pauses his thought for the next kiss. It’s quick, but no less sweet. When he pulls away, he leaves enough space to look, to hold her gaze. She sees his need, his hunger, and she hopes he’ll swallow her whole, let her never be lonely again.

“May I show you what it is to be worshipped, little storm god?”

There’s a touch of a growl in his voice, and it carries through her in a delicious shiver. He isn’t the only one who wants, who needs, who hungers. Her hands wander to his chest. Two curious, brazen fingers creep higher to ghost over his lips, trying to discover the secrets behind the blinding power of his kiss. When his eyes flutter shut, bolder hands brush along his eyebrows, down his nose, until he shudders and catches them up in a grip like silken iron.

With more kisses to her fingers, her knuckles, the inside of her wrists, he says, “Please. Give me your words, little storm god.”

Here, in his realm, he’s asking permission. Has anyone ever asked for it before? No. Never. She swells with something painfully bright, and she feels drunk on power. She smells ozone from her lightning.

The feeling burns, fierce and lovely, as she stares into the stars he calls eyes. She doesn’t recognize it. It’s nameless as she is. But she wants more, and if she has to give him every word she’s ever spoken and ever will, she’ll gladly surrender them.

“Yes.”

He slips closer, nuzzling with soft kisses under her ear as he presses her hands against his chest again.

She tries to think of more words – the right words. Breathless, she says, “I’ll spend this dream with you. Please. Morpheus.”

Before she can descend into frantic babbling, he seals her agreement with another kiss. He asks with gentle touches for her to open for him, and she gladly gives leaves for him to take as he wishes, because she’s falling into the sky, and one of his stars burns in her heart.

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He pulls night around them like a curtain.

Even the stars disappear behind a thick scrim of cloud cover.

The trees rustle with the breath of a rising storm, and for the moment, their psithurism is the only song in the dream, the only sound as he lowers her into the grass, its emerald flush gone silver in the night.

When he first reclaimed his tools and began the laborious process of remaking his realm, the green meadow had dazzled him. He’d stumbled upon it by chance. Great swaths of ruin and decay gave way to a peaceful storm, and as he’d stepped into her space at the edge of the Dreaming, the rain melted the weight on his shoulders. His power mingled with hers across the landscape, and though he knew all dreamers without stopping to speak with them, he found himself wanting to understand. He wanted the little storm god to look at him and answer his questions.

How could a prisoner of Hell have so much life to share with the world of sleep? Did she know what boon her rains granted the desolate corner of his kingdom?

He approaches her with all his questions, and he finds a lonely demi-god who hardly knows what she is. Her divinity is fact, but it has no influence on her waking hours. It is a gift unconsciously offered, poured into his world to sustain life and passion where all else cracks and decays.

The longing in the dream touches him, a lonesome song of a trapped thing, so he gives her warm sun between the clouds, lets the long grass embrace her and the stream kiss her feet. When he returns, when he struggles to leave, he soothes her with contact she’ll recognize as his embrace. Hands, and arms, and his chin on the crown of her head.

It’s a quiet thing. A balm for a heart that has never been any way but broken. He basks in her relief as she faces an end he unwittingly inspired, and it soothes aches of his own. It goes this way until he craves the little storm god in her meadow – her respite from Hell.

The craving grows in quiet hours and misting rain, fed by the threat of imminent loss. He thinks he has lost her when she fades from her dream, only for an instant, but it’s more than enough. When she returns to his arms, he is decided.

He pours that reverence into every soft touch, each stroke of his lips.

She gives him the words he most wants to hear, and he begins his worship.

When she looks up from her bed of grass and flowers, her expression suggests she’s the one eager to praise, that he is the god deserving offerings. He must show her differently.

He sets a hand on her chest, splayed fingers just reaching her collar bones. His palm drags down as he leans in to claim her lips, splitting her attention as his palm travels between her breasts, down her belly. As his hand returns, he banishes her clothing. His hand rests over her heart, flesh to flesh, and he listens to her waking pleasure through the dream. It’s only an inexperienced whisper, but he will teach it to sing.

Prayers drip from his tongue as he tastes her neck. Her confused, eager hands roam his hair, his neck, the collar of his coat with little noises of joy and frustration. When he smiles, charmed but determined to keep his slow pace, he moves his hand from over her heart to cover a breast. Patience has its rewards, but he will not leave her cold and wanting.

He fills his mouth with her other breast instead of words, and he tastes her heartbeat through the tender skin as he teases her peak into a bud. She gasps and arches, so his free hand slips around to support her back, keeping her near as he begins his feast.

The first sprinkles of rain patter over them, but the storm god panting under him hardly seems to mind, and neither does he. He loves her rain, her kindly chaos.

“Morpheus.”

He answers the summons, returning to her lips as his thumb circles a stiff nipple. Pushing her thighs apart with a knee, he reclines between her legs, giving her time to adjust to the position without feeling exposed. She fills his senses. Petrichor and crushed grass. Moving water and electricity.

There is more of her to have, and he thinks he may combust if he can’t have it all. He breaks their kiss with praises as he works his way down the path his hand took in the beginning. Words feel hollow, beautiful, and good, and perfect – his mouth does a better job expressing his passion when it’s full of her skin.

His hands paint her body with affection. They explore each dip and curve, spread over her back, cradle the dip of her waist, return to her breasts and curl around her hips. He doesn’t give her space or time to grow shy, but he enjoys her yelp of surprise when he swoops low and pulls her knees over his shoulders. A kiss to the inside of her knee reassures her of his intentions, and he moves to her core.

He licks her entrance, and a broken moan rewards him. How sweet. He must discover what other sounds she makes when she isn’t guarding her words and asking careful questions. As free as she believes herself to be, she does not know how to be unrestrained, even in her dreams. That is alright. He will help her.

Every flick of his tongue triggers a gasp. When he takes her clit she whines. Her hips try to dance against him, chasing pressure and release, but he has complete control, which he uses to build a slow pleasure that will shatter her. He wants her to fall apart on his tongue, and Dream of the endless is nothing if not determined.

She comes with a cry that sounds almost hurt, but the dream practically glows with her passion, and the clouds echo her calls with thunder.

He isn’t satisfied, and he pulls another from her, this time beckoning her to the edge of madness with curling fingers in partnership with his tongue. He allows no pain, free to banish any possible discomfort from this encounter. If he ever has her half-mortal body in the Dreaming, he will drag her through hours of bliss until she cannot recognize any pain in their coupling. But that is a concern for another day.

For the time being, he’s happy to grow drunk on her taste.

After she catches her breath for the second time, she reaches for him, and he takes her outstretched hand, pondering how lovely their fingers look laced together as she tugs him back up to cover her so she can rain chaste kisses over his face and down his neck. He’s burning for her, and the ache crawls from his belly into his chest as she puts her lips to his eyes, his nose, his chin.

His clothes melt away, and she explores every inch she can reach with fresh enthusiasm. He kisses her back into the grass, savoring the warm fingertips tracing the lines of his chest, dipping over his stomach.

He gathers her leg to rest over his hip, maintaining the kiss as he presses inside. A groan reverberates through the entire Dreaming, and he bites down on a name he doesn’t know. It has never bothered him so much as it does in that moment.

But her hands are on his face, and her whole form writhes to welcome him.

As he moves within her, he aches to fill her with stars and wishes, to let her breathe her dreams through the desperate gasps billowing over his ear. She clings to him, and he reaches for her heart. Though they are too close for him to even imagine a parting, he kisses his hopes and assurances into her flesh, breathing devotion and faith as the wind sweeps down with the rain to bless their union.

He wants to take everything she naively offers, but he wants to give as well. He wants to search out the name bestowed by her mortal mother and return it. He wants to whisper it like a benediction as he takes her again in the storm, tying them closer with old magic and simple understandings.

She chants his name with dizzying fervor, stoking his desire to find more, to press nearer in every way. Her body offers him the relief of a cottage fire in an autumn tempest, and he throws as much fuel on that fire as he can. As his hips roll to meet hers, he murmurs, “Let me feel you again. Will you give me another? Can you give me more?”

She’s past the point of words. Even his name has fallen from her lips, though he still feels it thrumming in her mind as she flutters around him, approaching the end with the most desperate sounds. He kisses her sternum, just over her heart to ask a boon of the little goddess coming to pieces in his grip.

“Please.”

She remembers how to speak as she crashes through her third high.

“Morpheus.”

What would he give to hear her call him thus every evening? It must be a spell. He prays the magic takes, that it sets around them, binds them like satin cord.

He works back up her throat, hungry for another kiss as his own end rushes near. She accepts him so readily, so happily. Even though she’s exhausted from pleasure, the smile she meets him with has the flavor of spring.

Joined in every way, he shudders with his release, filling her the way her rain filled his heart. Reluctant to leave, he rests above her, within her, as he stills. Quick breaths push her chest against his, and he cradles her blissfully limp body. Her fingers twine through his hair again, soothing, trying to return satisfaction and fulfillment she’s already given him twice over.

Her storm tempers itself. Satiated purrs carry through the sky, and a misting rain glitters on her bare skin, catches in her hair and lashes like jewels plucked from the night sky. Her eyes may as well be moons for the tidal pull they exert over him.

Though he has just had her, has yet to even pull away, he wants more. It’s a thirst he can’t slake, and he marvels at his own sway as she presses into the palm he holds to her cheek.

All too soon, she will wake. In Hell. She will suffer, regardless of the Morningstar’s favor.

There are few hates as strong as the starving man’s as he watches a fool leave all he’s ever craved to rot.

He will not allow it. He cannot bear to as she kisses his hand and glimmers in the sleeping meadow.

“Twice traded storm god,” he murmurs, “should you be willing, I would negotiate a third trade for you, to make you a creature of the Dreaming.”

He watches her face, almost mistakes the tears dripping from her wide, hopeful eyes as more rain. Eager again for her words, he kisses over her cheeks and returns the salt in a searing kiss, branding her with their entwined passions.

He wants all of her. Forever. He tells her as much.

“I would make you mine and keep you.”

If she agrees, she need never disappear from his arms again. He need never worry that the rain will cease. She need not sleep in a cold cell, trapped in the dark alone.

Her acceptance shines in her eyes, haunts the stroke of her hands over his back.

“I would be willing.”

It’s better than an oath, and he knows just how to honor it. He’s more than ready to worship her again.

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He sends Cain as his emissary. It’s the first thing he does after he loses the storm god to waking, and he waits on his throne for news, struggling to attend to his duties as he wonders what news his subject will bring.

Will Cain see the storm god, veiled and chained with bells in the corner of the room, or will the Morningstar lock her away again at the first whisper of a guest.

What demands will the ruler of Hell make of him in exchange for the storm god? It is a negotiation he dreads, and not only for the risks he will face. The Lightbringer is often cruel, and the tithe may have to pay for her own freedom in blood. But Morpheus will have her regardless of the Morningstar’s machination. Even if she comes to the Dreaming mauled, he will celebrate her arrival.

Surely she knew the danger when she accepted him?

She is made to weather storms.

He need not fear too much.

Cain returns.

He gives Morpheus a letter from Lucifer Morningstar, formally sealed with wax, written on parchment made from some ancient beast’s hide. Before he breaks open he words, he quizzes his subject. Had he seen the storm god? Was she well? Did the Morningstar intimate violence as it became clear who, in fact, claimed the tithe’s allegiance?

The first murder shakes his head. “She stood in the shadows with the Morningstar’s favorite Lillim. I didn’t even notice her until I said your name and the bells on her ankles trembled.” He hesitates, and Morpheus feels the sun dim behind the throne room’s stained glass.

“What?” he demands.

“The Morningstar – well, the Morningstar smiled.”

Morpheus opens the letter and immediately spots the trap. It is a terrible thing, clearly meant to destroy him. But he doesn’t care. Not as much as he should. And the Morningstar must know it.

It’s less of a letter and more of a will. Lucifer Morningstar has left Hell. The infernal realm and all within is given into the hands of Dream of the Endless.

An impossible burden. An invitation for war and conflict with a dozen of the most powerful entities to ever grow thought.

Yet all he can think of is the door in the royal chambers, and the little god locked behind it.

Cain took a day to travel back, and the storm god is not asleep. He cannot feel her in the Dreaming, and he wonders if she’s hurt, if the pain keeps her from resting. What has the Morningstar done in the hours since handing Cain the message?

He rushes to Hell. He does not pause to enter by the gate, armed with the word of the Morningstar. This time he enters not as a guest but as lord. If any demon dares interfere, he will not regret tearing his way through them.

Word of the Lightbringer’s desertion has already spread, and Hell hums with a particular kind of anxious chaos. Demons press against rules, abandoning their posts in the image of their former keeper. Souls wander, wild-eyed but free for just a moment of their torment.

He cares for none of them.

A few small devils scatter as he enters the Morningstar’s chambers.

The door stands open, the cell empty. Subdued fear crests over him like a wave.

Had the Morningstar simply left the demons to tear into her flesh? Undefended? Screaming as he waited for word to reach him?

He will find her soul and take it away with him, turn her into a true creature of the Dreaming and give her an eternity free of whatever agony the Morningstar had left for her.

One of the devils tries to skitter past him to the door, and he seizes it by the neck.

“What happened here?”

It chitters and croaks, but it is weak, and it bows quickly to Dream’s power. As razor-sharp claws scratch at his hand, it hisses what it knows.

“Ruler summoned fae king. Wanted magic. Wanted potion to stop sleep. Stop dreams. Stuffed it down the tithe-pet’s throat. Took the tithe. Took Rain. Not here. Gone. Gone. Gone. Let me go?”

He throws the twisted cretin across the room, snarling.

Yes. Now he sees why the Morningstar would smile. The little storm god made good bait, even if the former ruler of Hell had no intention of surrendering her.

The eternal ash scratches his lungs, but he can’t help drawing breath after breath, looking for some trace of her as he crouches to touch the floor of her cell.

She met him here.

He wonders if he can feel her hunger and thirst in the stone, her loneliness in the shadows.

She dreamed herself away, and now she will have no escape. Even if she walks the waking world, Morpheus has no doubt the Morningstar will find ways to punish her. And without a realm to govern, there should be plenty of time for torment.

The burden Lucifer so elegantly foisted on him prevents Morpheus from chasing after his little storm god for weeks and months. Time slips by as he sorts through the mess left by the Morningstar’s retirement, and by the time he’s free, she is gone.

He searches the waking world and discovers nothing. No stories, no whispers, no hints. The Morningstar has hidden her well, and he knows better than to ask the Lightbringer to trade a second time.

Months stretch on, birthing new years and decades.

He wonders as he waits in her meadow, still hoping that she will break the magical chains twisting through her mind and dream her way home.

Does she ache for him as he yearns for her?  

The grass is turning yellow.

Is she in pain?

The stream runs dry and the bare trees rattle like skeletons when faint breezes disturb the still air.

What else has the Morningstar taken from her in retaliation?

The sun is too bright, and the stars turn dull.

He was right. It is dying without her. Fading around him even as he tries to sustain the place where he kissed her, where they joined and made love for the first and last time.

Morpheus does not give up, but there is no path to follow, and the corner of his world they shared crumbles. She becomes another bleeding scar he cannot staunch, a misery he carries in love.

Perhaps one day. Perhaps by some miracle or mistake they will meet again. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Nothing kills hope, not even when it becomes a knife between his ribs.

He wanders the sea of the unconscious, looking for storms.