#his ghostly instincts are going wild

[regonold]

Ok so i was listening to the tornado by owl city and thought of this

Portals to the realms should never be opened long for if they are the area around them gets corrupted a filled with ectoplasm burnt up from sustaining the Portal now the Fenton Portal has had this happen but it was unnoticeable due to danny cleaning the ecto filter

But slowly a pool of corrupted ectoplasm was building under the town of amity and oneday after yet another fight with one of his rouges it starts swirling now amitys natural ghostly ness has kept it contained within it's boarders

But the amount of "lazerus waters" here is enough to fully consume the city above it and it's started swirling growing up to encase the city above it

Far away from amity in the watch tower john constantine had called a meeting about a small town in illinois due to rising death energies there due to this they think that the ghost king is attempting to use a herald to summon him to this relam to reak havoc

So they go to try stop it and reach there in time to see a swirling green forcefield of sorts coming the town upon closer inspection they see a teen with snow white hair stinking of death magic with his hands in the force field john saus that must be the herald of the ghost king so superman flies to pull him away from the swirling green field

Danny on the other had is panicking his family his fright his people and his haunt are all in there he has to stop it he has to and now some asshole in blue is telling him to stop this? Oh hell no he'll save what's his thank you very much

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Can I ask for prompt 13, Nightmares?

Yes of course you can! Here you go!

Summary: Astarion wakes from a particularly bad nightmare, thankful that you're right there when he needs you

Astarion hates nightmares. He hates the way he’s all alone in them, running from something he can never escape. He’s always trapped, back against the wall, nowhere to go as his worst fears swallow him whole and then he wakes up with a start, gasping for air he no longer needs, eyes wild with panic.

He hates how pitiful he feels each time he wakes from a nightmare, wanting nothing but to curl up into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest and cry. It makes him feel vulnerable, raw, naked, and nothing good has ever come from that.

He hates the way his skin crawls moments after he wakes, lingering ghostly imprints of the night causing bile to form in his throat and he shivers, wanting nothing more than to leave the tent but the fear that the creature of his nightmares may be waiting for him outside keeps him curled in his bedroll.

His clawed fingertips dig into the flesh of his arm, a quiet sob slipping past his lips. He feels weak, pathetic, and shrinks further into himself. He hates the trembling that follows suit, he can’t stop himself from shaking no matter how deep his claws sink in and tears continue flowing down his cheeks.

He hates how no matter how far he runs, Cazador is always there, taunting him, laughing at him, shattering his dreams. The vampire lord’s claws are always around his throat, squeezing all the air out of his undead lungs, the despicable choking feeling tearing his mind apart even though he doesn’t need to breathe anymore, the pain that explodes from where Cazador’s hands clench around his throat.

He hates hates hates hates —

“Star?” Your whisper slices through the haze, a light reaching out to him in the darkness. He whimpers in response, instinctively shifting in the direction of your voice and you wrap your arms around him, pulling him close.

“I’m right here, my star,” you murmur, running your fingers through his hair. He grips your clothes tightly, curling tighter into you as he buries his face into your chest, shoulders shaking with each sob. It breaks your heart to see him like this, curled into a fetal position, in pain and yet you can’t do anything to help.

You would do anything if it meant he would be free of all that haunts him.

Your free arm slips around his waist and you shift until your back faces the tent flap, blocking the sight of anyone who may happen past. He burrows deeper, pressing as much of himself against you as he can. You smell of warmth, safety, everything he needs right now.

“I’m right here.” You say again. You’ll say it over and over again until he fully understands and accepts what it means, no matter how long it takes. You continue threading your fingers through his hair, the rhythm soothing the vampire and his sobs begin to die down, his grip on you loosening slightly but he remains glued to you.

“Don’t leave.” His words are so soft that you barely catch them.

“Never,” you reply firmly. “Not for anything in the world, I promise.”

He keens, resting his head on your chest so that he can hear the steady pounding of your heart and suddenly he feels a little less alone in the chill of the night. It’s still cold, but at least he has your warmth to curl into when it gets too much. He can lean against you, knowing that you’ll be there to catch him should he fall.

You’ve given him so much in the short time you’ve been travelling together, more than he knows what to do with and he doesn’t know how to pay you back, or if he can even pay you back. Yet you never demand compensation for your efforts, never seeming to want anything from him, leaving him confused and lost.

Each time he wakes from his trance, he expects his side to be empty just like it usually is. He’s used to waking up all alone, picking himself from the messy sheets to clean up, feeling the coldness of the bed on the side he didn’t lie on, but ever since that night in the forest, the other side of the bed has never been cold. You’re always there when he closes his eyes and when he opens them back up again, sometimes curled into his side, sometimes wrapping him in your arms, but you’re always there, lying next to him.

It’s the only reason you know about his nightmares.

There are times when he tries to push you away, telling you to leave once you’ve done whatever it is you’ve come to his tent to do and you do leave, only to pop your head back in moments later with a lame and clearly made up on the spot excuse just so you can stay in his tent for the night. He tried forcing you to leave before but you stubbornly refused, so each time you throw him a new excuse, he simply sighs in resignation and lets you stay.

Tonight he’s glad he let you stay.

You gently rub his back, an area nobody had ever touched without causing him to feel sick until you, and he leans into the touch, yearning for something gentle. You can’t help but smile softly when he does so, noticing that he has finally calmed down and has stopped trembling.

He still buries himself in your arms, quietly pressing his forehead against your shoulder with his eyes closed as he takes a deep breath, letting it out with a shudder. His gaze flicks up, meeting yours for the first time since he woke up but quickly flicks back down again.

You don’t ask. You know he will tell you when he is ready and you’re more than happy to simply accompany him for what remains of the night. Still, you worry for him, this nightmare must have rattled him quite hard and you yearn to know the reason for his pain tonight but you hold yourself back. He comes first.

Astarion wordlessly tugs at your hand and you blink, confused but let him do what he wants. He slips his freezing hand into yours and you jump slightly, but quickly give him a reassuring smile when he looks at you with concern.

“Your hand is just a little cold.” You give him a gentle smile. He stares at you for a little while, as if discerning whether you are speaking the truth, before looking back down at your intertwined fingers, holding your clasped hands to his chest.

“Stay,” he pleads softly. You’re the only thing shielding him from the chill his nightmares leave behind, and he’s not sure he’ll survive the night if you leave.

“As you wish, my star.” His eyes light up at your words, a hint of gratitude in them as he curls up against you once more, still holding your intertwined hands to his chest.

“Thank you.” Those words barely scratch the surface of what he wants to tell you, but it’s all he can manage tonight, and that’s more than enough to you.

“Anytime.” With that, he drifts back into a trance to the steady rhythm of your beating heart, your warmth enveloping him. The nightmares still terrify him, but he takes comfort in knowing that should he wake up, screaming and sweating, you will be right there to pull him back to reality — the reality that he has you, always.

[hypewinter]

3 HC/AU Prompt Thingy (3)

1). Box Ghost hears he was powerful and feared I'm the Dan timeline, gets ripped

2). Jason, as a reverent can hit ectoplasm ghosts

3). Guys Night Out (choose whatever ghosts you want)

(I love making these and your the only one who writes for them, :))

Ok hear me out: Full DILF box ghost. Don't scroll away and just give me a second of your time ok?

Boxy gets swoll. Real swoll. His gimmick might still be dumb but now he's so strong that no one dares to point that out anymore. That being said, he is still the best dad ever to Boxed Lunch. I'm talking about helping her tie her shoes, being a willing participant in her tea parties, tucking her in at night, the works. He's such a good father that when Boxed Lunch asks for a super rare Orphan toy that was only ever distributed in Gotham, he immediately agrees to get it for her.

Johnny 13 hears about Box Ghost's little outing and invites himself along as he wants to get Kitty some new jewelry to make up for their last fight. Thus begins a wild night for Boxy and Johnny as they both have a heart to heart (now that Johnny 13 can't make fun of him for fear of being punted through a wall) plus they even bond over how much they love the women in their lives.

All is going well. The boys have done some fun stuff around the city, gotten up to a little mischief, and even picked up Johnny's apology jewelry. The only thing left is Boxed Lunch's toy. As they're scouring an abandoned warehouse full of discontinued toys that's when Jason drops it. He'd been getting reports of strange occurrences all night from his men and he'd finally been able to track it down to this warehouse. Of all the things Jason anticipated, it was not two weird looking metas going through boxes. But nevertheless he has a job to do.

He aims his gun at the two metas and demands they step away from the boxes. They don't. Why would they? They're ghosts, this human can't hurt them. Sure enough when Jason eventually fires at their knees after a couple of warning shots, the rubber bullets go right through. Jason is shocked to say the least. And now his mind is whirring a mile a minute trying to figure out how those two just did that. Meta powers? Hidden tech? How is he going to deal with this? He doesn't want to go through the embarrassment of calling for backup.

Johnny 13 on the other hand, is pretty peeved this guy won't leave them alone. He's ruining their night out! So he decides to scare him. Maybe that will make him leave. So Johnny gets right up in Jason's fac- er mask and lets out a pretty impressive ghostly howl if he does say so himself. Except instead of running away, Jason instinctively punches him. In the nose. And it hurts. A lot.

So now Johnny is reeling in pain, Jason realizes he can take care of these guys the old fashioned way and Boxy has finally found the Orphan toy. "Oh no!" I hear you say. "The fight of the century between Boxy and Jason is about to go down!" Actually no. Not really.

Box Ghost has been teaching Boxed Lunch about conflict resolution recently and he is not about to let his actions contradict his words. So he explains the situation to Jason. Jason for his part is a little miffed but understanding. You're just trying to be a good father. I get it. Besides these toys are just gonna collect dust in here anyways. Oh but you do have to return the jewelry. *Sad (and pained) Johnny 13 noises*

Jason kinda feels bad for the whole, punching Johnny in the nose thing (even though it was totally his fault) so he offers to take them to find non-stolen jewelry for Kitty instead. Thus the boys night continues! Now with extra shenanigans.

[alexusonfire]

Haunting

Brienne of Tarth

Prompt: Monsters

A/n: Look at me go, another Brienne fic for week two of Spooktober with @daydream-cement! I was really struggling with this prompt but I'm quite happy with the overall plot... though y'all may not be 🤣 Character death... and this is very much not my usual style so please let me know what you think of it!

You can find Daydream's fic here!

Brienne's gut is never wrong. She'd learned as a young girl to trust whenever it clenched or squirmed, screaming at her from her very core that something is not right. Not once has it failed her or lead her astray, even as she grew to womanhood. Anytime she feels that familiar nagging and fluttering, the little voice the back of her skull telling her no or yes, do it or don't do it, trust them, no don't trust them, she's listened, she's followed, and she's always the better for it.

Yes, Brienne's gut is never wrong... which is why she knows something is very,very wrong today.

She'd first heard it this morning; a distant, almost ethereal, call coming from between the trees, one that seems to pull her away from her desired path whether she wants it to or not. Everytime Brienne attempts to move deeper into the woods, the sweet song once again beckons her to the nearby shores of the ocean, it's thrashing waves somehow soothing, and oh so lovely in it's bluish-gray color...

No. No, no, no. Deep down, she knows who it is that calls to her... what it is. Her Father had warned her of them as a child, often coming back from his trips across the seas with wild tales of crashed boats and beautiful voices floating over the shipwrecks. At the time she'd thought them nothing but an old man's fantasies, sailor's tales told to warn off others from jagged rocks and stray islands appearing suddenly in a misty morning.

"I suppose he was right to be afraid of the waters" Brienne mumbles to herself, packing up her supplies from lunch and loading her horse. Even Valkyrie seems unsettled today, her hooves shifting uneasily in the dirt beneath them. Brienne takes a deep breath and shakes herself, attempting to rid her bones of the sweet lullaby that's been rattling through them for hours now. She means to mount Valkyrie, to gently lead her towards the smell of earth and moss and home...

She does neither of those things, and she cannot say why. Water licks at her now-bare feet, and it surprises her. Wasn't she supposed to be heading away from the shore? How did she get here? When did she get here? Where are her boots? And Valkyrie?-

The ghostly voice calls again, battling her every sense that this is wrong, something is wrong, she isn't supposed to be here-

Her gut is screaming, thrashing about like an injured rabbit. Valkyrie is letting out desperate whinnies behind her, helplessly tied to a tree. Brienne is waist deep now, the icy water soaking through her pants and the bottom of her tunic. Her armour has been discarded somewhere, though she can't remember ever taking it off. She's losing focus, every instinct that normally tells her to run dulled to a distant hum. Her gaze drifts towards the water ahead of her, a curious shape slithering towards her catching her attention.

"How beautiful," she thinks, of the large, rounded black eyes now staring back at her from beneath the foamy grey; she wonders how the woman- no, not a woman, exactly, close but not close enough- manages to stay underwater for so long, and why it's teeth seem to be too many and too sharp. She does not flinch when mottled greenish-gray hands grip softly at her waist; when was the last time she'd been touched so gently?

Beckoned, she allows the water-woman to pull her deeper and deeper, the once distant chorus now ringing loudly in her ears. Brienne notices that the creature's mouth moves in time with words, and she realizes it's singing to her. She's flattered, really, for no one has ever serenaded her before, much less with such a beautiful tone.

She does not notice the water beginning to fill her lungs, nor the crushing weight of not being able to take a full breath. 'This must be what it feels like to float' Brienne thinks as the woman-creature holds her close, the teeth that are too many and too sharp smiling as it sings Brienne to sleep; surely that's what's happening, as Brienne finds the edges of her vision growing blurry and dark, exactly like when her day has gone on for too long and she can no longer fight away the exhaustion.

So sleep she does.

--

It's peaceful. Easy. The siren thought the lady-knight would have put up more of a fight; though it admired the hours Brienne managed to fend it off, once her skin had touched the water, she belonged to the siren, as had so many men and women before her. The siren traces their too-long fingers across Brienne's strong jawline, now slack and pale, and it finds themselves almost regretting their choice.

Almost.

No one ever knows what happens to Brienne of Tarth. A body is never found, and her horse mysteriously disappears along with her. Rumors swirl and tales are spun, some more outragous than others, but the truth of the lady-knight lays with her bones at the bottom of the Great Sea, and with the sirens who lurk in it.

--

@weemssapphic @rosieathena @renravens @ness029 @saturnnnnl @aemilia19 @milciak

[petvampire]

Idk if you're still taking prompts but if you are I'd love to see some primal play with the cat king and Charles. I need to catch up on your tarot fic btw I adore it but I'm like three chapters behind lol

I’m so sorry this one took so long, it’s definitely been simmering in my head a while and just needed a spark! Also hope you’ve caught up, and hope you enjoyed. 💖

Cat King/Charles primal play. NSFW.

~

Charles is a city boy; he’s not much at home in woods and forests, but he still moves through them easily, trusting his ghostly nature and his instincts to guide him. It’s rare he even has reason to be out somewhere like this. Especially without Edwin. Especially when they’re not on a case.

Tonight, he’s here because of an invitation he couldn’t resist.

He and the Cat King have sorted out most of their issues, the serious ones at any rate, though they still tend to disagree on things and needle each other seemingly just for the fun of it. It keeps an interesting heat between them, and they’ve found a number of… entertaining ways to play with that. Thomas is always one to nudge his lovers into new experiences, and despite his initial hesitation, Charles has found that going along with it ends up really well for him most of the time.

So yeah. He’s here because of Thomas, really; because the other suggested he needed to blow off steam in a way that he isn’t quite willing to with Edwin or Monty. He’s still careful with both of them, after a fashion. Charles, though… Charles has always been a fighter. And he can take whatever the Cat King can dish out.

That’s the assumption, anyway.

All right, it’s still a bit odd, being out in the woods knowing he’s being tracked by something animal and supernatural. Usually the things hunting him aren’t so clear in their intentions. It gives him a bit of a leg up, or so he thinks.

He always tends to forget that the Cat King doesn’t play fair.

There’s not the usual burst of violet fire or the subtle chorus of cat’s meows. A sleek, dark figure rushes from the shadows, and Charles has to admit he’s caught totally off guard. If someone had been trying to hurt him, he’d have been utterly screwed.

As it is, the glancing scrape of cat’s claws against his back is so light it’s nearly ticklish rather than painful. Just enough to make him aware of the other’s presence. He braces himself, turns and settles into a fighting stance, hands up. He doesn’t have his cricket bat, of course, because this isn’t really a fight.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous, though.

Hands are on him before he can think, the weight of a body bearing him down to the ground. He strikes out without thinking, and hears a husky chuckle in return as calloused hands block his strikes, pin him to the ground. He can see the gleam of golden eyes, the faintest flash of a fanged smile. “Not good enough, ghostie.”

It makes a flash of heat roll through Charles, makes him lash out in earnest. He gets one good strike to center mass, earning a rough grunt from the Cat King, but he catches the other, harshly pinning the offending hand against the soil. The hiss that rises on his lips is more animal than human as his other hand wraps around Charles’ fist, with pressure tight enough to hurt if he wanted to. It’s a warning, a threat.

And yeah; usually, he would fight back until his last undying breath. But with these hands on him, these claws pricking at his flesh, he folds, giving in with a slow exhale, tilting his chin up to expose his throat.

A familiar face floats above his own, but there is something foreign in those golden eyes, a distant, wild note that he has never seen before. It sends an honest shiver down his spine, and he sees the Cat King grin at the reaction from his trapped prey. He’s never felt so vulnerable before, not even a few steps away from Death herself. He feels raw and exposed, every inch of his flesh suddenly so fragile.

Thomas bends his head, sharp teeth scraping over the delicate skin of his neck, and Charles whimpers.

He’s prey, he realizes. He’s a mouse in a trap, at best. Because the Cat King has him, well and truly, and he won’t let him go.

And fuck if that doesn’t send a spike of unexpected arousal through him.

A clawed hand traces down his chest, shredding fabric in its wake, and he can’t do anything but shudder at the delicate brush as those claws touch skin. His trousers are shredded in like fashion, and he’s shaking as a sharp point traces oh-so-delicately down his length. He wants to pull away, and at the same time, he wants more.

Even when he looks up, that familiar face is a mask of animal need, of lust and rage and cruelty. The Cat King is showing the basest elements of what he is, and Charles can either run from it, or embrace it.

He meets those cold, glazed golden eyes and flashes a cocky smirk. He’ll never back down, ever - and he’ll also never hold what Thomas is against him. He can take it.

The Cat King snarls, and a hot mouth presses over his own, body pinning him to the ground. A hand snakes between his legs, and Charles muffles a whine into Thomas’ mouth as two fingers push into him, no hesitation, no preparation. He can handle it, though, trying in vain to catch his breath when the other is intent on stealing it.

Magic flickers along his nerves as slick lube presses into him as an afterthought, but he can’t focus on that when Thomas is biting his way down the line of his throat, leaving harsh red marks against his skin. The Cat King’s hands are surprisingly rough as they roll Charles over, push him onto hands and knees.

There’s no teasing or drawing things out, as Thomas usually enjoys. Just a hot body plastered against his back, cock pressing against his hole, shallow thrusts driving him inside. Charles bites back another whine, and the Cat King just buries himself deeper, making the ghost see stars. His hands are grasping almost desperately at the earth and dead leaves beneath them, wanting something to hang onto. He hears a low hiss pressed against the back of his neck, but it sounds somehow pleased, and he can’t help the tiny little moan that escapes him in return.

It’s enough encouragement, apparently. Hips snap harshly against his ass, and the shock of pain-pleasure makes him moan, automatically arching for more.

He can’t help himself when it comes to making his partners feel good.

The Cat King is ruthless, pounding into him, sharp teeth leaving their marks along his neck and shoulders. Claws dig into his hips to keep him still, and Charles whimpers but endures. He’s hard as a fucking rock, too damn close coming untouched, but his whole focus is on Thomas. Whatever he needs, fuck it, he’ll give.

A snarl is buried against the nape of his neck when the feline finally comes, and Charles can smell the blood where claws prick into his skin. He doesn’t so much as ask for a breath - he’s pressing himself back for more, offering himself like a sacrifice beneath the other’s predatory need.

He’ll fight if he wants, oh fucking yes. But if the Cat King just wants willing prey, he’s here for that too. And hell if he doesn’t love either prospect.

[dutifullyshamelessearthquake]

Oh god, being nauseous while performing is not something I would wish in my worst enemy (actually it kind of is)

honestly, if you are to write a Lyney fic where he’s unwell during a performance it would be just IWBSISBDJSBSJ

I swear to god I have this for the rest of the week and my headpiece gives me such a bad headache I think I’m going to dieeeee

Oh no!! I hope you feel better soon, that sounds absolutely horrific! You're much stronger than I am, if I was in that situation I would simply perish. Sending good vibes!

On that topic omg I actually did start writing a fic about Lyney getting sick during a performance!! I didn't get very far, but basically, Lyney just managed to wrap up his performance before he promptly passed out backstage. I was actually really happy with it too, I can't tell you why I never finished it! Maybe it's time I pick it up again... Yes I'm definitely picking it up again!

I also still have that multi-chapter fic planned of Lyney getting sick on a lengthy tour. Oh man, I need to make time to actually write that! That's going to be a wild fic, if I can just find the time!

Y'know what, snippet from that Lyney fic I never finished below the cut, specially for you. Feel better soon!!

The audience applauded wildly as Lyney performed whichever trick he had saved to close off with. He bowed one last time, remaining in that position as he took a practiced step back and disappeared through the curtain. The applause was deafening. For a moment Lyney held his pose, still bowed with one hand holding the rim of his hat.

“Lyney, you did amazing out there.” Lumine said to him, as Lyney slowly straightened up again. ”That was-”

She didn't get to finish her sentence, when Lyney's legs suddenly buckled beneath him and he went down.

“Lyney!” Lumine exclaimed, bolting over. Lynette beat her to it, sliding to the ground just in time to catch Lyney's head before it could hit the ground. Lumine dropped to her knees next to them as Lynette gently lay her brother's head down.

Up close, Lyney didn't look good. His face was ghostly pale beneath his make-up, covered in a fine sheet of sweet. Lumine instinctively combed back his hair, laying her pale over her forehead. Lynette had a hand around one of Lyney's wrists, feeling for his pulse.

[artificialfanfiction]

Strings of Fate – Prologue

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Disclaimer: The content on this blog is entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes. None of the scenarios depicted here are based on real-life occurrences. Enjoy the stories and let your imagination run wild!

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pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader

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The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wave of sound that reverberated through the small venue like an unstoppable force. It was a typical Friday night at The Raven, an underground club in the heart of the city that had become known as a breeding ground for raw talent and unfiltered passion. The stage was small, the lights dim, but the energy in the room was electric, charged with the anticipation that something unforgettable was about to happen.

In the back of the room, near the bar, Y/N nursed a drink, her fingers tapping absently against the glass. She was here for the music, as she was most nights, drawn to the unpolished authenticity of the performances. Music was her escape, her salvation, the one thing that made sense in a world that often felt overwhelming and chaotic. She had come to The Raven more times than she could count, always in search of something she couldn’t quite name. A sound, a feeling, a connection.

But tonight felt different. There was a buzz in the air, a palpable sense of excitement that thrummed through her veins. She wasn’t sure what it was, but something was coming, something that would change everything.

The lights dimmed further, casting the room in shadows, and the chatter of the crowd faded to a low hum. The sound of footsteps echoed from the stage as the next band set up, the tension building with each passing second.

Then, without warning, the first chord struck, cutting through the silence like a blade. It was raw, powerful, and so full of emotion that it sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine. The crowd surged forward, drawn to the stage like moths to a flame, and Y/N found herself moving with them, pulled by an invisible force.

When the lights came up, they revealed a lone figure at the center of the stage, a man with tousled dark hair, dressed in worn leather and black jeans. But it was his eyes that caught Y/N’s attention, intense, focused, as if he were staring right into her soul.

The man leaned into the microphone, his voice a low growl that sent a thrill through the audience.

The band launched into the song with a ferocity that took Y/N’s breath away. The music was unlike anything she had ever heard, heavy and dark, yet laced with a haunting melody that wrapped around her like a fog. The lyrics were raw, full of pain and longing, the kind of words that came from a place deep inside, a place most people were too afraid to go.

Y/N couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man on stage, the way he poured every ounce of himself into the music. It was as if he was exorcising demons with each note, each word. There was something magnetic about him, something that resonated with a part of her she usually kept hidden. 

She knew, instinctively, that this was what she had been searching for. This was the sound, the connection she had longed for but had never found. It was like he was speaking directly to her, through the music, through the raw emotion that pulsed with every beat.

As the song reached its climax, Y/N felt her heart pounding in her chest, matching the rhythm of the drums. She was utterly captivated, lost in the music, in the moment. And when the final note rang out, echoing through the room like a ghostly whisper, she knew she had witnessed something special.

The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers filling the room as the band finished their set. But Y/N was silent, her mind racing, her heart still beating in time with the music. She knew she couldn’t let this moment pass, couldn’t let the connection she felt slip away into the noise and chaos of the night.

As the band left the stage, Y/N made her way through the crowd, her eyes locked on the man who had captured her attention so completely. She didn’t know what she was going to say, didn’t even know if she would have the courage to speak to him. But she had to try. 

She had to know if he felt it too, the pull, the connection, the unspoken understanding that their paths were meant to cross.

When she finally reached the backstage area, she found him leaning against the wall, his mic still laying on his chest. He looked up as she approached, his eyes meeting hers, and in that instant, she knew.

“Hi,” she said, her voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in her stomach. “That was…incredible.”

He smiled, a slow, crooked grin that sent her pulse racing. “Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it.”

“I’m Y/N,” she said, offering her hand.

He took it, his grip warm and firm. “Noah.”

There was a brief silence as they looked at each other, the weight of the moment settling between them like a tangible thing. Y/N could feel the spark, the potential for something more, something deeper.

“I know this might sound crazy,” she said, her voice soft, almost hesitant. “But I think there’s something here. Something we could create together.”

Noah studied her for a moment, his eyes searching hers as if trying to read her soul. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low and filled with unspoken promise. “I think you might be right.”

And just like that, the world shifted.

In that small, dimly lit room, surrounded by the echoes of their connection, two paths crossed, setting the stage for a journey neither of them could have predicted. 

A journey of music, of love, and of fate.

And so, it began.

[h0rr0rsaxo]

[ Plans. || RE simp party || P2. ]

Warnings: None

Tags: @insane-horror-movie-addict

A/N: I love this little series we're creating...I think it's super fun. Also sorry there isn't really romantic moments-- yet. But in the next part that I create, I'll be sure to add a little spice!

Word count: 2,093

Anni stumbled out of the dimly lit bar, her vision blurred and her balance unsteady. She had done it again, drinking away her sorrows, trying to numb the pain that had been consuming her for far too long. She was a depressed alcoholic, and it seemed as if nothing could lift the heavy weight off her chest. The parking lot before her was nearly empty, the darkness swallowing up the few cars left behind by their owners. Anni fumbled with her car key, struggling to keep her balance as she made her way toward her vehicle. The frigid night air stung her cheeks, but she barely felt it through the haze of alcohol.

As she approached her car, a voice suddenly broke through the silence. "Driving home drunk? I thought you were a cop, Sparks." Anni's heart skipped a beat as a tall man emerged from the shadows, his expression stoic and his voice devoid of emotion. The elegant swirls of smoke from his cigarette encircled him like a ghostly halo, and his eyes seemed just as lifeless as Anni's own.

Anni narrowed her eyes, her patience wearing thin. "Fuck off," she spat, quickly unlocking her car and sliding into the driver's seat. She tried to start the car, but it didn't budge. Panic began to rise within her, her heart pounding in her chest. Narrowing her eyes, she realized that this random stranger knew her name.

The man appeared in the passenger seat beside her, as if materializing out of thin air. "It's difficult to drive when all your tires have been slashed," he said, his voice still unnervingly monotone. Fear coursed through Anni's veins, and she frantically reached for her gun. But before she could even aim it at the mysterious stranger, he deftly smacked it out of her hand. He took a long drag from his cigarette and then blew the smoke directly into Anni's face.

The smoke was unlike anything she had ever experienced—thick and heavy, almost tangible. It seemed to wrap itself around her, invading her senses and clouding her mind. Within moments, her vision began to fade, and her limbs felt like lead. As her consciousness slipped away, the last thing she heard was the stranger's voice, as cold and lifeless as the darkness that enveloped her. As she fell limp, he quickly caught her in his arms. 

Blankly, he stared at her. Perhaps it was because he felt as if she reminded him of his past self— alcoholics with no hope for the future. 

Flynn's arms strained as he gently lifted Anni's limp body out of the car, his eyes scanning the deserted parking lot for any sign of danger. He knew he couldn't risk using his car to escape, not with his partners hot on their trail. Instead, he would have to carry her through the night until the helicopter came, relying on his training and instincts to keep them both safe. As he began to walk, the sound of Lloyd's manic laughter filled the air, and Flynn tensed, his grip on Anni tightening. He could hear the sound of his partner's footsteps on the roof of the nearby building, and he knew he was getting closer.

Suddenly, Lloyd jumped down from the building, landing with a thunderous crash on top of the car. The metal groaned and buckled under his immense weight, and Flynn didn't even winced at the sight. Lloyd was insane, a wild card that Flynn knew how to handle— he was probably the only one that could tolerate his insanity.

"Flynn, my man! You always know how to make an entrance!" Lloyd exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement. "What's going on here? Is this a new game? Can I play?" Flynn ignored him, his focus on getting Anni to the hideout. Viper appeared next, her graceful form floating down from the building with ease. Her cloak billowed around her, creating an ethereal effect that made her look almost otherworldly. She swung out her scythe, the blade gleaming in the moonlight.

"Is that the target, Flynn?" Viper asked, her voice cool and collected.

Flynn nodded, his expression grim. "We need to get her out of here. Her co-workers will soon take notice to her sudden disappearance." He turned his head to her now crushed car, "As well as her destroyed car.' 

Lloyd cackled, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Well then, let's give them a run for their money! I've been itching for a new rush!" Flynn shook his head in exasperation, but he knew there was no stopping Lloyd once he got going. He adjusted his grip on Anni, feeling the weight of her body against his chest. For the past few weeks they've been creating this plan, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her.

— . — . —

Chris hurriedly made his way through the dimly lit bar, scanning the faces of the patrons as he went. He was looking for Leon, his partner in the D.S.O, to tell him what had happened to Anni. She had been kidnapped and disappeared without a trace, and Chris needed Leon's help to find her. As he searched, Chris noticed a commotion in the corner of the bar. He could see a figure slumped over on the floor, surrounded by empty bottles and glasses. It was Leon, passed out from drinking too much.

Chris gritted his teeth in frustration, but knew he couldn't afford to waste any time. He walked over to Leon and tried to wake him up. "Come on, Kennedy, wake up. We have to talk," Chris said, trying to keep his voice calm. Leon groaned and mumbled something incoherent, but otherwise remained motionless. Chris knew he had to take more drastic measures. He reached out and slapped Leon on the back of the head.

"Captain, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Leon sarcastically questioned, glaring at the taller man with blurred vision. He groaned, slowly opening his eyes and trying to sit up.

"Get up, Leon. We have a serious problem," Chris said, his voice urgent.

Leon rubbed his head and looked at Chris with bleary eyes. "What's going on?" he asked, his tone still slurred.

"Agent Sparks has been kidnapped for several days. We don't know where she is or who took her," Chris said, his voice grim.

Leon's eyes widened in shock. He sat up straight and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. "What? How did this happen?" he asked.

"We don't know. Her car was destroyed, and there's no trace of her. We need to find her, and fast," Chris said, his voice urgent.

Leon nodded, suddenly sobered by the seriousness of the situation. "Do we have any leads?" he asked.

Chris hesitated for a moment before answering. "The C.O.T.D might have something to do with it. The boss of that organization…isn't exactly fond of me," he said.

Leon's eyes narrowed in anger. "That son of a bitch. We'll get him." he said, his voice suddenly determined. Chris nodded, relieved that Leon was finally taking the situation seriously. Together, they made their way out of the bar and into the night, ready to track down the kidnapper and bring Agent Sparks back home. The entire D.S.O. was in a state of panic. They had been frantically searching for any information on the C.O.T.D, the mysterious criminal organization that had kidnapped Agent Sparks. But despite their best efforts, they had almost no leads to go on.

Chris, the captain of the D.S.O, was pacing back and forth in the command center, his jaw clenched tightly. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes from days of sleepless nights and non-stop investigating.

Suddenly, Nadia, one of the D.S.O's top agents, walked into the room. She looked almost hopeful, but her gaze dropped when she saw the state of Chris. "Hey. Any luck finding a pinned location on the C.O.T.D?" Nadia questioned, her voice quiet.

Chris stopped pacing and turned to face her. "No, Nadia. We've been working around the clock, but we're still no closer to finding them," Chris said, his tone exasperated.

Nadia nodded, her expression falling. She knew how much finding Agent Sparks meant to Chris, and how hard he had been working to solve the case. "I see. Well, we'll keep looking," she said, her voice determined. Chris nodded, his eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him. He was running out of ideas, and he knew that time was running out. She could see the determination in his eyes, and she knew that they would find a way to bring Agent Sparks home. They just had to keep searching, no matter how long it took.

The D.S.O headquarters was buzzing with activity. The captain of the organization, paced back and forth in his dimly lit office, his face etched with worry and stress. He couldn't believe his prized agent, Agent Sparks, had been kidnapped by the notorious criminal organization known as the C.O.T.D— He couldn't believe it; how could he have let this happen?

Chris had ordered his agents to interrogate every criminal even remotely associated with the C.O.T.D. He was desperate for information, and he wasn't going to stop until he found Sparks. He clenched his fists, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. 

Just as he was about to leave his office for yet another meeting with his agents, the lights suddenly flickered and went out. Chris narrowed his eyes, instantly on high alert. Something was off. As abruptly as they had gone out, the lights came back on, revealing a tall figure standing across the room. It was Archer, the leader of the C.O.T.D himself, an intimidating man with a towering height of 6'7 and an eyepatch that covered one of his eyes. He grinned menacingly at Chris as he spoke.

"You know, Chris—when I first found out about Agent Sparks, I didn't think you had actually fallen for her. I found the possibility of you actually caring about someone to be impossible—but seeing you so worried has me reconsidering." Chris glared at Archer, his heart pounding in his chest. 

"I almost don't blame you. She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?" He didn't know what the criminal mastermind wanted, but he wasn't about to let him have the upper hand. Archer smirked, speaking up once again, "It's a shame, you know. I was convinced you were nothing more than a heartless solider."

"What do you want, Archer?" Chris spat, his voice shaking with anger. "If you've harmed her, I swear, I'll make you pay."

Archer chuckled, unfazed by the threat. "Oh, she's still alive... for now. But you don't have much time, Chris. If you want her back, you'll have to play by my rules."

Chris clenched his jaw, his eyes never leaving Archer's. "You underestimate me, Archer. I will find her, and when I do, I'll make sure you and your entire organization pay for this."

Archer smirked, seemingly amused by Chris's determination. "We'll see about that, Chris. Time is running out." With that, he vanished as quickly as he had appeared, leaving Chris seething with rage and fear for Agent Sparks. The chase was on, and Chris knew he had to act fast. The life of the woman he had grown to care for, and perhaps even love, was on the line. He couldn't afford to lose her, and he couldn't afford to let Archer win.

Chris gritted his teeth as Archer disappeared, leaving him alone in his office once again. He knew that he couldn't trust the criminal mastermind, but he also knew that time was running out. He had to find Agent Sparks before it was too late. Just as Chris was about to leave his office, the lights flickered and went out once again. He tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for his gun. However, he remembered Archer's warning about the explosives and reluctantly put his weapon away.

As the lights came back on, Chris saw a man standing in front of him. It was Varrick Smith, one of the C.O.T.D's captives. Chris had ordered his agents to rescue as many hostages as possible, and Varrick was one of them. Varrick spoke in a smug voice, his eyes darting around the room. "I can take you to Archer, but he said that you have to come alone. No other agents, no backup."

Chris narrowed his eyes. Should he really trust this criminal?

[cloudninetonine]

*walks on in tiredly, offers you coffee, downs my own* Hey there, how is existence treating you? Just passing on by to wish you a good day and a happy new year early as I'm tired plus leave some stuff down.

No need! Irish mythology and mythology from the Isles by itself is really metal, I could go on and on about story about Cú Chulainn and how it fully went down and how some of those stories can apply to Seraph/Fia, Una/Zelda and Dia/Ancient Au Ganon, but we'd be here all day, so I'll just leave this here:

https://youtu.be/XqyEADY_20Y

The song itself is a pretty good summary of his story and feats, there's also a video on OSP that although outdated also explains it pretty well, let's just say that absolute unity of a man's life was absolutely wild XD, I can go more into the Riastrad later if you want in another ask, plus some other bonkers stories. And you're absolutely right on that one, it was like that with Cú Chulainn, he was so strong literally everyone would have wanted to see him fail, so I can see Seraph/Fia being a bit distrustful but perceptive, not outwardly so, but he can probably judge people's characters pretty accurately as a result of always having to be on the watch out for enemies.

Also, uh, writing the Lora thing, when it's done I'll link it here, how do you feel about Irish folk songs? Or Sea Shanty style songs?

Also, since Cú Chulainn had not one but TWO man killer/eating war horses he got from the Fae via right of conquest, I personally headcanon he probably had at least one horse like that and if it's still around it's hostile towards anyone that isn't him, Player, FD, Wild, Twilight and Epona and if it sees Dink it's on Sight, just straight up biting his head off and stomping all over him with their hooves I don't make the rules.

The idea of him eventually sacrificing himself at the end of his life aiabsibsiabai- It honestly fits very well narratively, I am destroyed once more thank you for the food, plus it fits very well, they barely managed it even with some headstart (and likely the death of the Leviathans in Hyrule, I feel like they were the original beasts that fell when the Calamity first struck, and that later on the Sheikah and Zonai were inspired to make the Divine Beasts by them to finish it off), so it makes sense he'd want as much ready or tied up as he could before dying. Specially if he felt he didn't do enough to keep it from happening in the first place, although he'd probably want to leave his arm to fully finish holding down Ganon or he'd give permission to Una to do it, hence why I theorize his body might still be down there and that in an Au it probably got corrupted, while his spirit and maybe Una's once she dies are down there holding it down as much as they can, although it's just a theory and headcanon territory and if Nintendo won't tell us anything then everything goes xD

Honestly if Player threw anything at him he'd just either dodge on instinct or laugh, I think he likes people with spunk to them and it's only common sense to throw stuff at a ghost when startled, if Una is there she probably smacks him over the head with her own ghostly self and probably kicks him into gear into going with Player so he can keep an eye on them and Wild while she watches their shieldbrother to make up for accidentally scaring them, probably acts as a silent companion to Player and does his best to lead them away from danger and probably is there for them a lot in an older brother fashion (in my au he had a physical guide, whom he called Craein {Crane}, and they were basically like a gender ambiguous Anne Bonny and got Isekaied as Ganon's sibling, think of them as a Player who adapted to their situation without the Chain and adapted too well, becoming jaded due to the situation at the time and a warrior even if still a gremlin at heart, trying to prevent things from going wrong even with limited information and knowing it's hopeless, Player probably reminds him of Craein who always missed their home but wouldn't tell where it really was even to the end of their life where they basically cursed him out in the most roundabout "Don't die, I know you're extremely durable but please don't die-" ever, so since he couldn't aid them he'll aid Player as he can tell they're from the same place and he feels it's only fair), there were myths were Cú Chulainn still was seen riding around the country side on his chariot, so maybe some times he shows up when Player is alone and uses what little magic he can use as a ghost to make himself semi-corporeal and tap a bit into the Riastrad, basically scaring off foes with killing intent if needed be? Although there lies the question in who could see him like that and connect the dots. Or, the more comedic option, one of the most effective methods of snapping Cú Chulainn out of the Riastrad was if you basically had a lady show him their breasts, because he'd be too busy trying to look away or cover his eyes you could dunk him on like 8 vats of water and he'd cool down (literally, all of the water in the vats vaporized) or a river and he'd snap out of it because shockingly enough he was a gentleman, so, Seraph/Fia possessing Wild, and Player just threathening to strip down to their socks which gives enough time for Twilight to dunk him into a nearby river, shenanigans ensue that or Seraph just immediately hands control back to Wild so fast the poor guy trips and falls on Player with disorientation or something idk, I can see Seraph/Fia internally screaming after that because on one hand, he drank his respect juice every day and his Aryll would murder him if something like that happened, on the other, brownie points for his descendant?

Seraph/Fia being just limbs on the floor wrestling with Twilight is hilarious and I agree with Wild on that sentiment, sorry Time, you're my favorite and first Link but ya gotta see the comedic value, but also, consider: Cattle Raiding, aka basically herding competitions done in ancient times by Celtic adjacent folk, where you had to both herd your cattle, steal your foes' and put them down in a non lethal manner as preparation to war, the Zonai were most likely sea faring and since they were also warrior folk that's definitely on the table, so just him and Twilight on a herding competion trying to simultaneously herd their own cattle and knock the other out of their horse by any means necessary for mentor rights over Calamity and Wild.

Also, I personally headcanon him with gradient hair, like the roots start gold, but go fully Gerudo red by the end hence why he's depicted as red haired in the tapestry? Something like that, could be fun, also to fully support the fact him and his Ganon/Dia were shieldbrothers: Corpse Ganon has similar clothing not only the Gerudo, but also to Seraph/Fia in the tapestry, so something tells me he gifted the clothes to him after they were gladiator friends in full and earned their freedom, and that he'd probably give Player something like that too over time if he can (like the bracelets around the arm in TOTK), or just straight up give them a tame wolf/wolf-dog or something since it's what they did for people held in high regard back, the total of people he probably would have gone to those lengths for being three (aka Dia/Ganon, Una/Zelda and Aryll/Macha).

Anyway, on a less serious note as my brain power is running low, Tides is my spirit animal, and if we want to add to Time's trauma, Player either showing him this or absentmindedly humming this if they're a bit out of it:

https://youtu.be/GCOBa91Hoz8

https://youtu.be/JgFNf4nLGNk

For the lols, Time is my first Link ever as I played his games first and a lot when I was young and so we both have the same trauma, but I also can't help but poke at it once in a while, apologies to him.

Anyway, hope you're having a good day today! I'm going to procrastinate on sleep some more now.

-A Very Awkward Summertime Musician.

Honestly, Sum, keep feeding me mythology I generally just love the topic in of itself.

Second, I LOVE FOLK SONGS AND PIRATE CHANTIES- If you mention Celtic Women I will scream in pure joy, god I love their music.

Also I fucking love predator horses, like yes, you guys are built like that you've gotta use it. Terrifying but awesome, like Kelpie just ten outta ten- you best believe Player would be shit scared first, until they realised they're chill and now they're besties.

Glad you like my self sacrifice input I very much loved mentioning it, angst is enjoyable only if I'm making it /lh

Honestly loving ghost shenanigans, Player is suffering but its in a funny way that doesn't make me a complete sadist and yeah, that's all I gotta say JXJQJJS (My brain power ain't great, forgive me)

If Seraph/Fia were to give Player a wolf they're running off with it, that's their wolf now, Time can't say shit.

THANKS FOR DROPPING IN AGAIN SUM

[minusgangtime]

Cutie map shatterspace 3:

Nightmare moon: in the world,a goddess of night took over the world,drowning the world in eternal night,the world adapting to her ways and magic to function. Even after she was killed/dethroned. The sun never rose,as of right now,the sun rising is only a mere hope,the world now mostly consists of humans,werewolf’s,vampires and ghosts. Despite this,everyone does thier best to get along and find a new normal.

Beta: escaped the goddess with his sister but got separated after a wild wolf attacked them both. It only took a few hours for betas body to change forever,he is now a werewolf,he is stuck in his full moon form unless the clouds are covering the always full moon. During the goddesses rule,beta wandered the woods,looking for his sister and often staying at abandoned sheds to avoid any dangerous forest animals. After the goddess was dethroned he was found by MB and the rest of the gang and together,found betas list sister. Though a bit more energetic then he used to be,wolf/dog instincts will do that to you,he is very intelligent and kind.

MB: was captured by the goddess but decided to work as a spy working on the inside,as a result,he was turned into a vampire as all her guards were. When left alone,he’d give GF a note,stating what he learned that day. After months,he and pico finally activated thier plan. MB and pico distracted the goddess by fighting her while GF would destroy her once weakened. They succeeded but at a cost,in the conflict pico was fatally injured,rather then letting him die,MB turned him to a vampire,he didn’t want to lose one of his true loves. Now he can finally relax and chill. Though now he’s not offered a daily supply of blood by the goddess,he uses hospital blood bags as a substitute. He’s chill and relaxed.

Blue: was killed very early on after the goddess took over thanks to his rebellion. However,through willpower,his soul refused to leave and it stayed. His ghostly figure looking like a luminescent version of his body with white glowing eyes. Making it difficult to tell that he was dead. During the goddesses rein,he mostly just wandered,testing what he could do. Discovering he could float,go through walls,possess while somehow still being able to eat and drink-after the goddess was dethroned,he was found by the boyfriends and despite him thinking they’d be horrified,they hugged him,welcoming him back. He may have problems with personal boundaries but is incredibly sweet and friendly.

Pico: during the goddesses rein,pico would help MB sneak out so they could have dates during the long night periods. When they teamed up against the goddess,he put up a long fight,though sustaining many injuries,it wasn’t til the goddess was confirmed gone that he succumbed to his injuries. However MB had used his vampiric venom to turn his partner into a vampire. Now,while pico is trying to adjust to his new hunger and powers as a vampire,MB helps him adjust. He’s pretty chill and reliable.

GF: GF went into hiding when the goddess took over,using a robe to hide herself in the darkness of night when going outside. She teamed up with pico and MB to take down the goddess. When the boys had weakened her,GF used her power to finally put her to rest,however,the blast ended up cracking one of her horns,breaking the other,leaving burn scars in her body and blinding her eyes. She had to get a cybernetic replacement for one of her wings cause one of them hit permanently broken and she now needs to use special glasses to see. While her broken/cracked horns don’t affect her magic too much,it can cause her magic to become unstable or frantic when emotional. She’s very sweet and loving to everyone she meets.

Shelby: while escaping the goddess with beta,the two were split up when they were attacked by a wolf,like beta,it only took a few hours for her body to turn into the form of a werewolf. Though unlike him,she was much more paranoid of the world around her. She was barely able to eat or sleep and spend her nights completely alone until the gang could find her again. She is shy and can lash out accidentally when extremely emotional,but she’s still really nice to people.

-mod shelby

(Soon 👀)

[mask131]

Fragments of fright (2)

From Richard Cavendish’s The Great Book of the Supernatural

THE FEAR OF THE WOLF

From the 17th to the 19th centuries, numerous Europeans had good reasons to fear predatory animals, especially wolves. But they also feared the predatory and animal instincts of humanity – the wolf inside the man – and these two fears fused to give birth to the myth of the werewolf.

The werewolf was not invented by American horror movies: it is an old European fear, the terror of humans that turn into wolves to hunt and kill their own kin.

In 1603, in the south-west of France, worrying rumors spread in villages about young kids disappearing without leaving any trace. In one case, it was a baby that had disappeared from his cradle, inside his own house. People thought about wolves… but some evoked a more frightening possibility. Then, one day, as she was guarding cows, a thirteen year old girl from a hamlet near Espérons (today’s Eugénie-les-Bains) was savagely attacked by a strange animal. It was like a great dog, with a reddish fur and sharp teeth. The beast ripped her clothes, but she managed to make it flee by hitting it with the iron-end of her staff. Later, a teenager of thirteen or fourteen years, named Jean Grenier, bragged about having attacked the girl in the shape of a wolf. He even added that he had already killed and devoured many more children before. He finally confessed to another young girl, probably in hope of gaining her favors, that he owned a wolf skin, that he wore whenever he wanted to go hunting with his werewolf friends. In his own words, they usually killed dogs, but they found the flesh of young boys more “delicious”. When he was arrested, Jean Grenier confessed, seemingly of his own will, being a werewolf. He told of how he had received his wolf-skin, and an ointment he needed to cover his body with, from a tall dark man he had encountered in the woods – this man being none other than the Lord of the Forest, that he had sworn to serve. Jean gave numerous details about the children he had killed and devoured, and the family of the victims testified of the truth in Grenier’s words. Of course, this tall dark man was immediately identified as the Devil, but Grenier was not burned at the stake. The tribunal, deeming him insane, rather considered that he was not responsible for his actions and had him locked up in a Franciscan monastery at Bordeaux, where he died in 1611. One year before his death, he encountered a visitor, that later described him as a gaunt man, with a pale face, sunken eyes, pointy teeth and hooked nails. According to the same visitor, Jean sometimes walked on all fours, and loved hearing about wolves.

Another famous lycanthropy case in France was the one of Gilles Garnier, born in Lyon, who was burned alive at Dole in 1573. His body was burned as much as a human body could be burned, to make sure there was as little “traces of his passage on Earth” left. Living an isolated lifestyle, Garnier frequently wandered in the woods, where he claimed to have met a ghostly man, who offered him the power to turn into a wolf by covering his body with an ointment. Was it a truth or a lie? Garnier was still condemned for the crimes of killing and devouring several children of the region. It is very interesting to note that, in the only case in which Garnier was ACTUALLY seen attacking a child, a child that managed to fight him back (leading to Garnier’s arrest), he did not have the appearance of a wolf – he looked like a regular human being. The tribunal, not caring about this detail, claimed in its reports that, if he hadn’t been stopped, he would have devoured his victim. Which would have doubled his crime, adding to it the shame of a sacrilege: it was Friday, and on Friday, every good Christian must restrain themselves from eating any kind of meat…

[A part of the success and fascination of the werewolf myth, still today, is due to the sadomasochism inherent to the legend – wild, savage, masculine beasts attacking and devouring innocent maids and virgin girls… Still today, in horror movies, the werewolf symbolizes the mixture of violence and sex.]

Germany also had its lot of werewolves. The most famous of them was Peter Stubb (or Stump), executed in Bedburg, near Cologne, in 1590. After breaking his bones, the executioner ripped his flesh off with hot-red pliers, before he was beheaded and his corpse burned to ashes. According to the rumor, he had been active as a werewolf for twenty-five years in the region, killing and devouring farm animals, men, women and children. Among his many crimes, he was accused of having raped some of his female victims, of having abused of his sister and his own daughter, and of having killed and devoured the children his daughter had with him. He confessed his crime, but only after being tortured with a rack. The documents written about his atrocities claimed that the Devil had given him a magical belt. Whenever he placed it around his waist, he turned into an hungry wolf of an immense strength, which had “two big eyes that glowed in the dark” like flames, a large mouth “filled with numerous sharp and cruel teeth”, a “gigantic body” and “powerful paws”. As soon as he removed the belt, he returned to his human shape. The description of his animal shape does remind one of the European folk-belief in ghostly hounds.

Unfortunately, cannibalistic murders are not just belonging to the past, but today no need for the murderer to turn into a wolf. The “werewolves” of the past were very probably people suffering from a form of mental disease known today, that made them believe they were transformed into animals. The magical ointment described in several lycanthropy stories could have contained an hallucinogenic drug that encouraged these hallucinations. The fear of the wolf was very strong in Europe until a recent time, and sometimes the murderous beast was not a man in disguise.

In 1881, at Toresz, in Hungary, a poor Gypsy musician noticed that his wife often left at night. One night, spying on her, he saw her leave their house. At dawn, the door was opened by a great gray she-wolf, holding a dead lamb in her maw. At noon, her wife served him a lamb meal, and the following days she brought back beef and pork, in such quantities that the musician had to sell some to the market. But the peasants, whose herds were decimated, suspected the truth, and seized the two Gypsies. When the priest covered them in holy water, the wolf-woman screamed horribly and disappeared. The angry villagers then killed the unfortunate musician.

[If you are French and from the Normandie region, you might have heard of the local variation of the werewolves, the “lupins” who were said to dig up corpses from cemeteries to eat them.]

[rotworld]

31: Wild Hunt

few would be so foolish as to seek out the wild hunt, but you’re no fool. the lord of the hunt and his riders eagerly welcome you.

->explicit. contains gangbang, polyamory, mild feral behavior, mild gore, implied murder.

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.

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They come at midnight, riding blood red auroras from the Land of the Fae. You hear the galloping first, the low drone of the war horn. You see their silhouettes race across the night sky. Their approach is heralded by the toll of church bells, a slow and solemn death knell. Much of the village has long since fled for the nearest shelter, extinguishing glimmering candle lights and leaving no trace of life behind barricaded doors, but there are always a few unlucky stragglers and those with more boldness than sense. There is always you, slipping silently out the door and going where no one should go.

Like all beings from the Land of the Fae, the Wild Hunt is mercurial. They are ruled by their whims and by forgotten accords. You follow a path of conquest and bloodshed through farmland, through a village, through ancient ruins in the forest. There’s no way of knowing what the Hunt will do when they come across someone.

Some are of no interest. You see the twisted bodies of those who did not clear the road fast enough, bludgeoned to death by a procession of spectral horses. Some are taken, tossed over the backs of the riders as they pass. They may be riders themselves next year, changed by their journey through the Land of the Fae, or they may not survive.

It’s instinct that slows your steps, the inherited fears of your ancestors. The Wild Hunt leaves ghostly fire in its wake, green and unburning, and everywhere it touches blooms with thorns and fae flowers. You see the same ghostly glow through the trees. You hear the bustling war camp, the laughter, the revelry at the end of a hunt. Something buried deep within you recognizes the danger. It sees a wolf den or a pit of snakes. But you press on, peering through the tangles of foliage and winding vines growing up all around you.

There are at least a dozen riders scattered around an emerald campfire. The twisting flames are neither hot nor cold, but there is an eerie feeling of strange magic in the air. Ales and meads are passed around in drinking horns as they tend to the wounded and compare trophies. There are still-beating lich hearts, sparkling dragon scales, and gruesome relics of creatures you can’t even guess at. 

One of the riders, stripped down to his breeches as another applies salve to a brutal, claw-like wound, rests his boot on the decapitated head of a hydra. There’s something familiar about him, the shape of his face, the curve of his nose, but you aren’t sure until one of the other riders comes over and calls him “Rory.” You knew Rory. He lived in your village. The two of you snuck out on moonlit nights to kiss beneath the sheltering boughs of ancient trees. The Hunt took him years ago and you’d feared the worst. It’s strange to see him again after you’d already mourned him and it makes you hesitate. Would he remember you? Would it be more painful if he did? 

“Not bad for your first hunt,” one of the other riders tells Rory, bandaging his shoulder.

“Not bad? You wouldn’t have a head if I hadn’t jumped in when I did,” he says, grinning. He’s not the same scrawny boy he was when they took him. He’s big like they are, taller and more fearsome than any mortal. He’s grown his hair out, tying back long curls in a high ponytail that reaches the middle of his back. His soft brown eyes have turned burning gold. There are painful-looking notches in his ears, the flesh snipped away to make them look more like the pointed ears of his companions.

“He’s right, Glavra, you had a poor showing tonight,” another rider teases the one beside Rory, smirking over his drink. “It would’ve been a pain to have to cut the beast open and fish you out a piece at a time. Might’ve just left you there.” 

“And what were you doing, hm?” Glavra snaps. “Watching? Twirling your sword around? Don’t come on a hunt if you have no intention of actually hunting.”

A third voice joins in with hard finality. “That’s enough. If you have a disagreement, do not squabble like children. Fight like riders. You embarrass yourselves before an offering.” 

You swallow hard as all eyes turn to you. Cernunnos, Lord of the Hunt, rises from where he sits cross-legged by the fire. He beckons you into the clearing with one raised hand. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” you say, embarrassed. 

“We look forward to your interruption,” he says smoothly. The Lord of the Hunt has antlers for every phase of life; the small nubs of a fawn, the branch-like protrusions of a young buck, and the sprawling crown of an elder. He knew you would come and he’s already peeled off his light armor and leathers, wearing only a loose and dangling loincloth. You feel the other riders watching intently as you cross the clearing to him. They stare hungrily but they remain a respectful distance away. Those who remember you from years past call your name with warmth and affection. 

You feel Rory’s stare burning into your back, but Cernunnos demands your attention, pulling you into a searing kiss. He cups your chin and licks into your mouth, waiting for you to let him in before he tangles his tongue with yours. You’re panting, saliva dripping down your chin, when he pulls away, acutely aware of the heavy silence draped over the camp.

“An offering?” Glavra says slowly, a twinge of suspicion in his voice.

Cernunnos chuckles but doesn’t answer, letting you explain yourself. He savors being able to see and touch you again, caressing you as you speak. “Cernunnos and I met several years ago. I’ve been visiting him at the end of these hunts ever since.” For you, it was a near-death experience. For Cernunnos, it was love at first sight. The whirlwind romance has been anything but typical, but you find that you don’t mind that much. Sharing you with his riders seemed natural to him, a logical next step in your relationship. You’d been embarrassed initially, but the riders were rather open about skinship and desire. This group, to your delight, seems little different.

“Glavra. Tirun,” Cernunnos calls, causing two riders to shoot to their feet. They’re complete opposites. Glavra is wide and broad-shouldered, his skin unnaturally pale and his long, black hair blending into the crow feathers adorning his cloak. Tirun is smaller with a healthier complexion, his hair silver and tied into one long braid tossed over his shoulder. He’s smirking as he looks you up and down, in stark contrast to Glavra’s more cautious gaze. “You two have a score to settle. Why not raise the stakes?” You know that look. The Lord of the Hunt smiles serenely, but there’s mischief in his eyes. “If you lose, you can only watch tonight.” 

The fire crackles quietly, filling the silence. Tirun must be something of a troublemaker. He looks enticed by the challenge, eyeing you with undisguised lust. “Now there’s an idea,” he purrs. He glances at Glavra, head tilted. “I hope your pride’s not too bruised from the hydra, because it’s about to take another beating.” You don’t know either of them very well, but you assume Glavra won’t take the bait. You’re an oddity. Not every rider trusts you, and some simply aren’t interested. 

But the look Glavra gives you is absolutely feral. Heat rises to your face and arousal pools in your stomach from his gaze alone. “Bold words for a coward,” Glavra growls. He throws off his armor, unlatching his gauntlets and throwing off his cloak, leaving him in only his softer leathers. The other riders begin to laugh and egg them on, making space in the clearing for the two to circle each other like wolves. 

“They’re not going to really hurt each other, are they?” you ask nervously. Cernunnos smiles at you, endeared by your concern.

“Don’t worry, my fawn,” he says, wrapping an arm around you to pull you into his side. “This is how we settle petty disputes. They fight bare-handed, you see? The greatest harm will be to one’s pride, but it’s good to be humbled from time to time.” His hand slides down, shamelessly cupping your ass and squeezing. “I’d like you to watch them fight for you,” he murmurs, “but it’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you last.” 

You meet his searing gaze, feeling lightheaded with want. “I can multitask,” you say coyly. Cernunnos grins. You yelp when you’re lifted onto his shoulder, carried like a sack of grain. He carries you across the clearing to a pile of furs and discarded cloaks. All his; you can tell by that particular scent of pine and petrichor. He lays you down gently and joins you, capturing your lips with his. He undresses you with deft, firm fingers, tugging your tunic over your head and exposing your chest to the cool, night air. When you’re bare before him, he pauses, leaning back to take in the sight of you. 

“It’s as if every meeting is our first,” he says, caressing your cheek. “I’m charmed by you all over again.” Cernunnos is in awe of you, urging you to open yourself, to discard your shyness with him. He trails his lips down your chest and over your stomach, his hands moving restlessly over your skin. He can’t decide where to touch you. He settles on the places that bring out your neediest noises, massaging your thighs and using his talented fingers on your sex. He’s so focused on you’re pleasure that you think he must not notice the sounds of someone approaching, the footsteps that stop right behind you, but the Lord of the Hunt misses nothing. 

“Rory,” he addresses the rider without looking up from your body. Your heartbeat quickens. Cernunnos allows you to turn away and gaze up at your old lover. You feel so vulnerable, naked on the ground in front of him, but you see no judgment in his eyes. Rory’s expression is complicated, numerous emotions flickering across his gaze; happiness. Anxiety. Desire.

“I know you,” he says quietly. “I knew you in a past life.” You nod, glancing at Cernunnos. You’re not sure if you should say anything. You don’t need to, because Rory kneels, carefully keeping himself in the grass and not trespassing on the soft pile of furs. “May I?” 

You think he’s talking to Cernunnos, but Cernunnos turns to you. “May you what?” you ask, your heart racing.

“May I touch you?” Rory asks without hesitation. He looks at the ground, as though he has no right to even meet your eyes. “May I please you?” 

It’s not unusual for other riders to approach once Cernunnos has laid with you, but he’s barely touched you. You’re unsure of what to do. Cernunnos senses this and squeezes your shoulder. “What do you want, my fawn?” 

You know what you want. You reach out to Rory, framing his face with your hands. You raise his head, urging  him to look at you. “Yes,” you tell him, “you may.” He’s kissing you before the words even leave your lips, kissing you feverishly. Rory’s body collides with yours and you fall back into the furs. He follows you, blankets your body with his and his hands are all over you. He kisses like Cernunnos, with passion kindled over many moons spent apart. He nips at your lower lip, pulling gently with his teeth, and shivers at the whine he drags out of you. You have so many questions for him. Where has he been? What has he seen? But the time for words will come later. Now you just have to feel him. 

“Rory,” Cernunnos says, his voice low and growling with need. “I know I have waited far too long already. Haven’t you?” 

Rory reluctantly parts from you, his lips flushed and glistening with your combined saliva. “Yes,” he says with a shaky breath. “Yes, I have.” He slides his hand between your legs and strokes you, wetting his fingers in your arousal. “Are you ready?” he asks you.

You are. You always prepare before you leave for the camp and now you’re achingly empty. “Please,” you say. Rory and Cernunnos exchange a glance, something unspoken passing between them. They stand suddenly, lifting you without difficulty. Rory stands in front of you, quickly stripping away the last of his clothing and wrapping your legs around his waist. Cernunnos presses in close behind you and you’re pinned between their bodies, warmed by their heat.

“Eager for us, are you, my darling fawn?” Cernunnos drawls against your ear. He slips two fingers into your entrance easily, finding you wonderfully stretched. You sink down onto his fingers and it’s not nearly enough. 

They don’t leave you waiting. Rory brushes his fingers beneath your chin and pulls you into a kiss as Cernunnos enters you, his hands grasping your hips. The thickness of his cock pushes you to your very limits and you sigh shakily as he fills you with a single thrust. His breath warms your neck and he groans, lifting you halfway up his length before dropping you back down. You’re just starting to adjust and remember how it feels to be stuffed full of him when you feel Rory, hot and hard, brush against your thigh. 

“I thought I would never see you again,” Rory says hoarsely. He rubs against you when you sink down on Cernunnos’ cock. “But you’re here. You’re real. It’s not a trick.” He sounds as though he might cry.

“Take them, Rory,” Cernunnos says softly. “They want you.” He clutches the meat of your thighs, relishing in your tight heat all around him. Rory’s grasp brushes his when he takes your hips, steadying you as he nudges the head of his cock against you. You thought you knew what it was to be full, but you didn’t. Rory might break you, but you’d let him. You cling to his shoulders, whispering his name as he moves his hips and slowly, carefully enters you, mindful of your every gasp.

“You’re perfect,” Rory says breathlessly. He hilts himself inside of you and the pressure is almost unbearable. He falls into a rough rhythm with Cernunnos, thrusting up into you whenever Cernunnos pulls out, leaving you constantly full. The friction is maddening, the hot pulse of their cocks inside of you sending you over the edge far too early. You cum with a cry that’s halfway between their names, slumping in their hold. 

“Oh, my fawn,” Cernunnos sighs fondly. Rory stills briefly inside of you, uncertain, but Cernunnos never stops moving. He kisses the nape of your neck, licking and nipping, making you whine as he grinds into you. “The night is still young. We have so much more pleasure to give you.”

It’s then that you notice the other riders gathered around you, even the newcomers you’ve never met emboldened by Rory’s forwardness. They circle Cernunnos’ nest in various states of undress, some merely watching, some palming their cocks. Over Rory’s shoulder, you see the battle of Glavra and Tirun still rages. Glavra is clearly the stronger of the two but Turin is much quicker on his feet, dancing away from Glavra’s strikes. They clash like beasts, growling and snarling. 

“They fight for you, my fawn,” Cernunnos purrs. “For the right to mate with you.” 

Rory begins to move again and your attention is torn from the fight, looking down at where your bodies join. His grip moves to your backside, kneading at your flesh in time with his thrusts. Your thighs are starting to ache but it’s satisfying, the kind of pain you’ll savor with the memories in the morning. “I’m jealous,” he admits, grunting when you squeeze around him. “Cernunnos has had you all this time and I never even knew.”

“Jealousy has no place in the Hunt,” Cernunnos chides him. “We share the spoils, the joys and the sorrows. I gladly share my fawn, so long as they wish to be shared.”

The ache in your legs grows too great to bear and Cernunnos is the first to notice. He and Rory share another glance and you’re lowered back into the nest. “Rest, and let us please you,” Cernunnos murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He looks back, cocks his head, and the riders are upon you. 

You lie back and eagerly take what they offer. One of the riders, flaxen-haired and heavily scarred, kisses your inner thigh, trailing his lips up to your sex. You arch your back with a cry when his mouth engulfs you, tongue swirling around your sensitive flesh. Another kneels beside you, offering a jutting cock with a bead of precum on the tip. You wrap your hand around it, pumping lazily, rewarded with a hand in your hair and fevered praise.

“Beautiful,” the riders murmur, caressing you, teasing your nipples and massaging the soreness from your thighs. You feel debauched and divine, worshipped by these fearless hunters who take and give in equal measure. The rider with his head between your legs slides his hands beneath you, cupping your ass and urging you to grind against him. You cum on his tongue, shaking as he hums around you and teasingly licks your slit. He fills you with his cock while you’re still shivering, his hands roaming your chest. 

Somewhere nearby, Cernunnos murmurs, “Go on.” You can hear the smile in his voice. Hands are on your face, tilting your head back. You look up and Rory is there, his knees resting on either side of your head. He looks almost wounded, his hands trembling. He’s still hard, his cock bobbing against his chest. 

“This is alright?” he asks. “You want this? We aren’t hurting you?” 

You smile and reach out to him. Rory leans down and kisses you. The angle is awkward but he’s so earnest, so hungry for you. “I’m ok,” you assure him. “I want this. I come here every hunt just to see Cernunnos and his riders. And now,” you stroke his cheek, “to see you, too.” 

Rory looks like he wants to say something else, something even more vulnerable, but he doesn’t. Not yet. Maybe later, when you’re tangled together, a heap of satisfaction. But for now, he gently caresses your chin, tilting your head back, and presses his cock against your lips. You let him in, tasting his lust for you. He moans as he slides down your throat. He wraps his hand around your neck, feeling the bulge of his length sliding into you.

“Don’t forget about me, my fawn,” Cernunnos says. You feel his enormous length against your free hand, grinding against your palm. You stroke him just the way he likes, twisting your hand around his head, and he rumbles in pleasure. The rider fucking you cums with a long moan and you writhe as he fills you, slipping out with a rush of cum. You’re exhausted, unable to do anything but lay there, reveling in the affections of the riders. 

There’s a crash as a body hits the forest floor and a snarl, an animalistic growl. “Oh? Those two are finally done?” one of the riders muses. “Come on, Tirun. Take your prize.” 

The pleasure is blinding but you’re aware of someone new touching you, slender, firm hands spreading your legs. You choke around Rory’s cock. Tirun teases you, rubbing his leaking head all around your entrance. “To the victor go the spoils,” he purrs. “Get a good look, Glavra. Don’t want you to miss how this sweet fawn takes my cock.” You feel lightheaded when he thrusts into you, your eyes rolling back in your head. 

Cernunnos is right. The night is just beginning, and you are just as ravenous as his riders. You give yourself to the pleasure of the hunt’s end, taking and being taken until the sun rises.

[pleasantanathema]

Pray to Me

Pairing: Shinsou x Fem Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Gods!AU, Rough Sex, Too Many Norse Mythology References

Word Count: 8.5k

         The frigid waters were laden with blood and ice, the salty waves licking the bows of long boats as they accosted the shores. The dark waters of the bay looked black against the fresh snow, churning oars sending sprays onto the docks as warriors returned home.

           You stood among the crowds, whips of snow billowing past your reddened cheeks, your arms crossed in protection across your chest. Despite losing the men within your family to raids and battles long ago, you always came to welcome back those who were fortunate enough to receive homecoming. Upon the sails of the ships was the symbol of your earl, dancing proudly against the winds of winter as the men and women beneath them hailed their successes from summer and autumn.

           High upon the prow of the leading ship was a carved figurehead, meticulously crafted in the image of Skoll, the wolf who hunts the moon. The wolf’s jaws were wide and within his wooden tongue was an etching of a crescent moon; the wolf with his prey in his maw was a symbol of Ragnarok, a symbol of the return of chaos. And upon the prow was a man you had never seen before.

          The man was all shades of violet and violence. His hair was the color of crushed mulberries, the long strands pushed back and wet from the sea, so deeply purple that it looked as if you were to touch him, your palms would stain with color. Blood, russet and old, crimson and fresh, was splattered across his cheeks. A warrior’s tattoos stained the expanse of his chest and arms; the thick, blue lines were heavy and sprawling from the wood ash buried within in pale skin. And his eyes, they were purple and bright, painted with black kohl. The dark smears ran down his impressive cheek bones and curled up from his eyes, appearing catlike. The curious orbs resembled the farthest stars that lined night sky.

           You expected murmurs from around the docks, but it was as if the man belonged there, towering over all the rest, hands pulling at the mouth of the wolf within the wood. He was silent power within the snow, lean and muscular, body on display as if the storm did not touch him. You felt drawn to him, like he was looking for you high upon the prow. Your feet moved before you could think. You wanted to be closer, to have those violaceous eyes upon you.

           You moved in front of the crowd, standing by the edge of the water, sand and ice crunching underfoot, but when your eyes darted to find him, he was gone. There was no trace of slick purple hair within the throngs of people. Disappointment settled into your spirit and wearily you traveled home to rest.

           For weeks you dreamt of him, saw shadows of him within the corners of your vision; illusions of a dark cat in your windows, a tawny owl upon barren branches.

            Some nights you dreamed you were sinking into a vast violet sea, trying to swim upwards to break against the surface, to breathe air into your lungs and call to Odin to rescue you. But you were stuck, some unknown force pulling at your ankles and keeping you in a watery, nebulous purgatory just below the surface. You would always give up, allow yourself to float within the celestial unknown of the eerie, mauve waters, allow yourself to feel weightless and accept that you were no longer in control. The undercurrents would push you, bring you into strong, waiting arms, and you would awaken, breathing in and feeling like for a brief moment you were whole.

           No one you asked had seen the purple haired man, save those who returned from raiding in the East. One warrior told you that the man you saw upon the prow of the ship was a land spirit, brought with them from the Balkans after blessing them with the gift of fire and aiding their struggles to survive as the weather turned bleak. Another relayed that the man was a spirit of the Wild Hunt, a straggler from the ghostly procession that attached himself to the fleet and brought the callousness of winter with him. No matter what they believed him to be, they had all seen him, the man with violet hair and violent eyes.

           You knew that the sisters were calling to you from The Well of Fate, whispering the future that they had laid before you. Something about the purple haired man, whether he be man, vestige, or spirit, made you believe that you were fated to meet him again.

           Nearly a full moon cycle passed before your curiosity could take no more. In the dead of night, you wrapped yourself in your cloak, ignoring the shadows and wisps of eyes in the dark as you made your way through the sleeping village.

You found yourself before the Seer, ancient and decrypt, asking for him to translate the gods’ wishes and intentions for your life.

           “What questions do you have of me?” His voice was as rickety as the bones that adorned his hut, rattling from stray winds. He had lived hundreds of years and now dwelled between life and death, an interpreter between gods and man.

           “Wise one, I desire to know the gods’ plans for me. I have dreams.”

           “What dreams have come to you?”

           “I dream I am drowning within the bay, and that a man saves me, but only after I stop fighting the currents.”

           There was a pregnant pause between you. The Seer considered your words. Your thumbs fiddled within your lap, and you felt heavy, like you were under the gaze of more than just the ancient one.

           “A precarious quest awaits you, one that will take you between worlds, to the land of the gods.”

           “But I do not understand. I do not adventure, nor travel. I am only a simple healer. What kind of quest could await me?”

           Below hooded eyes you watched a black tongue escape his mouth, worrying across dry lips as he pondered your words. Only a few times in your life had you visited him, well aware that fate was already the master of all, even the gods, as even they were subject to fate just like any and all other beings.

           “You shall go past where the fence separates us from the place of self-willed beasts, finding refuge in that which is chaotic, anarchic, and wild.”

           “But, Seer, I do not—.”

           “Yes, child, I know you do not understand. But such is the way of prophecy, only to be understood when it has happened, and it is too late to change it.”

           You stood to leave, seeds of fear sprouting within your spirit.

           “But do not forget there is order within the chaos.” His voice crackled like fire, calling out to you as you left his home, forging a path through the snow to your own.

           The foresights of the Seer lingered within your disposition, the cryptic words reverberating through your mind and taking hold in your daily life. You started to fight the currents in your dreams, only to wake gasping for breath after monstrous beings pulled you into the abyss. The warm arms of your illusory savior felt farther away than ever before. The murky glooms in the crevices felt stronger, grimmer, the oppressive eyes of darkness following you from every corner, every winter shade.

           Your hands began to slip as you tended to the wounded, your thoughts becoming absent as you crafted medicine or supper, often burning yourself over fires or forgetting ingredients. You felt lost, abandoned by the gods, but still yet you prayed.

           Winter continued to rage on, with the moon living within the sky at all times of day and bathing the world in a constant dusk during the desolate midwinter. Every night before you made for bed, you trekked behind the village to the isolated temple to the gods. No one was ever there. The summer raids were over, the men safely returned with riches aplenty, which, along with the great harvest, had left many believing that the gods were in good spirits and were bestowing ample blessings upon their dedicated supplicants.

           But you, you felt no love from Asgard, felt no promise of Valhalla waiting for you.

           The temple was hardly a sanctuary at all, just a hut overrun by dormant vines and overgrown with dying grass, with an altar for blood sacrifices tucked away against the back wall. Despite being a devoted village, most saved their prayers for their pilgrimage to the great temple in Uppsala, but you had become desperate. You needed to feel closer to the gods, to find the place beyond the fence that was foretold to you.

           You knelt upon a broken stone, obedient hands upon your knees as you began to pray.

        “Odin, all-father and far-wanderer, may you grant me wisdom, and    courage,

         Thor, grant me your strength, wield your hammer to break the barriers that hold my mind,

         Baldr, the beautiful, beloved by all, please bestow upon me joy and light,

         And Freya, mother of beauty, the völva, help me to discern my fate—.”

           Your prayer faltered as you heard steps crunch upon the grass. But the sound wasn’t of footsteps coming towards you, more like someone shuffling, shifting their weight within the temple.

           You were not alone.

           All your instincts began to fight one another. Your mind wanted to flee, to spring your legs and send you running to safety, but your heart felt like you needed to stay, to speak into the twilight for answers. The conflict led to you staying still and being silent. Your hands fisted upon your thighs, your eyes closing tightly. Whatever was there would go away, whoever was there would leave. Maybe there was nothing there at all, only the spirits playing tricks on you again.

           “And why haven’t you called out for me, little one?”

           The voice sounded like vibrations from within the deepest ocean; deep, unfathomable, and a little wicked.

           He was there, before you, arms across his tattooed chest that was on display under emerald linen and violet head cocked to the side. He was grinning, like a cat would upon discovering new prey. His purple hair was arched into wild plumes, his skin rubbed clean but the kohl still upon his cheeks and around his eyes. He was handsome in the firelight, fiendishly so.

           “Who are you?” Your voice was a whisper, so light and airy it floated away into the darkness.

           “Who am I?” He laughed, leaning against the sacrificial altar, a blatant disrespect for the gods.

           “Who am I…” he repeated it, drawing circles in the dirt with his toe. He shifted his weight back and forth for a moment, eyes closing as he picked up an imaginary rhythm.

           “A creaking bow, a burning flame, tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake…”

           Your breath caught in your throat, fingers twitching in your lap. You recognized the pattern and knew what words came next. It was an old saying your mother used to whisper under her breath, a chant for the old women and those who held superstitions. It was a warning, a rhythmic song to help children remember to stay safe, to avoid perils.

           Your mouth opened before you could stop it, finishing the proverb for him.

           “The sons of a king, an ailing calf, a witch’s flattery. No man should be such a fool as to trust these things. For they are the trickster in disguise.”

            “Aha, so you do know me, girl. Yet after all this time, I’ve never heard you pray to me. Why is that?”

              He crouched down to your level, his startling, devilish eyes gleaming like amethyst. He was too close and you felt yourself leaning away, back arching and neck aching as you tried to pull yourself from his gaze.

             “No one prays to you, trickster god.”

              He merely shrugged, a strong hand reaching for you. Rough fingers found your chin, pulling you closer as his eyes danced across the planes of your face. You began to shake, overwhelmed by being in the presence of perhaps the most dangerous god.

            “And how do you know I am he?” he laughed, thumb running over your lips, “I could be Heimdall, sent by Odin to watch over such a devout and…fascinating little creature.”

           “Because you’re so…” you paused as you looked for the words. You felt like you were drowning within his gaze, falling to the ground even though you hadn’t moved since he appeared.

           He stood quickly, turning on his heel and smirking.

           “Because I’m so what? Handsome? Charming? Surprisingly muscular for a god who uses wits and magic to seduce his subjects?”

            He pouted at your silence, wanting more of a reaction.

          “What if I told you I could be beautiful instead? Would that hex you?”

           This time he didn’t give you an opportunity to respond. Within a haze of smoke, he transformed.

           A languid, sensuous body appeared between the mists. Voluptuous breasts met your eyes, smooth thighs peeking from beneath an exquisite olive dress. Long, violet tresses fell down the woman’s back, curling so perfectly she looked to be unreal. But his eyes stared at you from the feminine face, dark lavender and sinister upon high cheekbones.

          “Hmm,” she sighed, holding her hand out for you to take.

          You took the soft hand outstretched to you, surprised at the strength behind the grip as she pulled you to your feet. The goddess was tall and slender, and she gazed at you while she pondered whatever was on her mind.

          “Still not as beautiful as you…” her voice was melodic as she looked over her own body, swaying within the graceful skin for a moment before catching your gaze and stopping. You stood still, heart pounding in your chest as you gazed at the hermaphrodite before you. Her lashes fluttered as a familiar smirk spread across her features.

          It was as if she was floating when she neared you again, purple hair uncontrollable and suspended within the air. Her tender hands came to your cheeks, pursing your mouth with her thumbs.

         “No…nothing is as beautiful as you, little servant.” Her supple lips overwhelmed your own. You gasped, hands flying to her chest to stop her, only to have your fingers sink into the luscious valley of her breasts. A chuckle fans across your face, more masculine than feminine, and the mixture of the voice had shivers of excitement and pleasure racing down to your toes. You were too shocked, too scared to kiss back, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her lips moved against yours gently, pleadingly, only becoming more active when the delicate hands upon your cheeks converted to thick fingers and rough calluses.

           Before your eyes the god shifted again, returning to the fetching masculine figure that he was before. You could smell him now, taste him, like smoke from smoldering coals and the residue of rain from within a summer’s forest. Your hands were still upon his chest, your fingers brushing against the skin that was on display between the open buttons of his tunic. His kiss was intoxicating, a hum of magic upon his lips as he drank you in.

           “You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” He chuckled, licking your lips wantonly before pulling away.

           “Why have you been haunting me?” You demanded between heavy breaths, emboldened by his kiss.

            “Haunting you? No, no. I’ve been watching you. Observing you. You looked so…sinless among the throngs when I sailed in all those weeks ago. I must say I am very pleased by the things I have seen.”

            “And what have you seen?” Your voice snapped; tongue sharp.

            His hands caressed your upper arms, eyes glancing across your body as if he was admiring a pattern within runes that he had seen a thousand times before.

           “You serve…everyone. The gods, the people in this village, you tend to the weak spirited and the broken bodied, you serve everyone but yourself.”

            The god grew quiet, leaning forward to inhale the sweet scent of your hair. His lips pressed to your temple, thumbs stroking your arms through the thin fabric of your clothing. His breath fanned into your hair and you suddenly felt your heart begin to beat more slowly. It was as if his presence alone, his touch, could calm the raging turmoil within your mind.

            “Now, I want you to serve me.”

            “Yes,” you said too quickly, a knee buckling as you prepared to kneel, “of course, anything for a go—.”

           “Shinsou.” His hands held you in place, kept you from bowing to him. He watched as your head tilted and your brow furrowed, obviously wanting to please him. “Shinsou is the name my friends call me, and as shall you.”

          “Shinsou.” You tentatively said the name back to him. Your people knew him as Loki, but to know a more intimate name made tingles of warmth spread across your chest, like he was entrusting knowledge unknown by mortals into you.

           He became violet and beautiful as you said his name, a warm smile decorating his striking face. The safe feeling of your dreams washed over you. These arms, his arms, his hands and his body, were the safety you had been dreaming of that saved you from the tumultuous seas. You stared at him for a moment, hands feeling a heartbeat within his chest. He looked so human, felt so real, yet still an otherworldly air swirled so poignantly around him. Everything inside of you wanted to fall into him, to feel enveloped by his spirit.

        “I’m going to take you away,” he whispered it, hand trailing from your arm to your face, tucking hair behind your ear in a most affectionate way, “you’ll never have to come back here, unless you want to.”

        “Take me away? To Asgard?” Your breath hitched as you said the name of the haven of the gods.

          He laughed, the sound like honey dripping across your soul.

         “No, little one. I am of the giants; don’t you remember the ancient stories? To Jotunheim we will go.”

          Your brow lightened, remembering the words of the Seer. Jotunheim, your brain wracked over the word, letting it roll within your thoughts until it revealed what you were looking for. Útgarðr, you realized, the name of that same place given by your ancestors. It meant the world outside your own, the world of chaotic wilds that surrounded Midgard. The place beyond the fence.

         This Loki—this Shinsou—was indeed fated to you after all. You felt the connection from the moment you saw him sailing in the winter winds, felt it even more profoundly as he held you before him in the temple. For some reason, the trickster god had chosen you, or perhaps he was merely following fate, testing you for all this time to see if you were truly the human girl destined for him. He was a sign of change, his hands wrapped around the prow of the ship that was carved into a symbol of Ragnarok, the end of the cycle of this world. He was proving to be a carrier of the end times, at least the ending of your own mundane life. And just like Ragnarok, you had a feeling that with this end would come a new beginning, that Shinsou was taking you away but leading you to a new life, a new destiny, far beyond what you could ever imagine.

          “Take my hand,” it was a polite command, his words weighty but light enough to promise that you could decline.

            You felt something between his fingers, a quietness, a wickedness you could not quite name. It was like a dull thrum of lightening humming between your skin and his. Billows of smoke weaved between your bodies. Just as quickly as he transformed into a woman, Shinsou had you whisked away, transported so rapidly you felt dizzy. You clung to him, your godly refuge, light flashing as your feet found new purchase upon what felt like a floor.

            For a moment, you thought the room was a mirage. It was unlike anything had ever seen before, so lavishly decorated with lush furs, viridian curtains, polished stone and warm fires. Books lined every wall and the air smelled of perfumes and incense, even a fountain sprung from stones in the far corner. It was truly unearthly, but his arms around you felt like home.

           His head rested upon your shoulder from behind, his palms flattening on your chest to feel your heartbeat as you took in the sights around you.

           “This is…this is your home?” One of your hands gripped a muscular forearm.

            “Mhm, more like a home away from home, a safe haven.”

             He uncurled himself from you, a stout hand pushing at your lower back to urge you to explore. You padded around the room, fingers caressing the spines of books along the walls, finding many in languages unknown to you. Between many of the tomes were vases and trinkets, some glowing with mystic hues, humming with magic well beyond your comprehension.

           “What will you have me do here?” Your breath caught as you turned to find him. He seemed so large and ominous within the space, like was the commander of the room and the only ornament to be admired within the vast collection around you.

          “You haven’t figured it out? My, and I thought you were keener than most mortals.”

            He rolled his shoulders, sighing with content as he removed his tunic, tossing it into the air to only have it dissipate before your eyes in a bright flash of magic. His tattoos seemed darker in the dim light, like the blackest earth pressed into his skin. A serpent trailed down one of his impressive biceps, his other arm decorated in a swirl of runes and etchings of a wolf and a horse, his chest covered with a dark, ethereal depiction of Yggdrasil, the world tree, it’s branches spreading across strong pectorals and its roots weaving between the hard muscles of his stomach.

         “Come,” he motioned to you with his fingers, “come back and touch me.”

          You had no hesitation, coming to his call like a pet would their master. It felt safe to be back in his arms again, to have your fingers running over the indigo lines of art upon his handsome skin. He proudly showed you his arms, eyeing you with great interest as you admired him.

         “Your children,” you mused softly, tracing the pictures so marvelously stretched upon his musculature.

        “Yes,” he laughed softly, “my children. Call me sentimental, if you must.” The enormous snake was no doubt Jormungand, the serpentine dragon that encircled all the oceans, all of Midgard. Then there was Fenrir, the ferocious wolf that was chained away somewhere from all humanity and gods alike, in wait to break his binds and eat the world as the end began again. And then there was Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse that bore the weight of Odin in all of his battles. They were all wild creatures, the offspring of the unfathomably powerful god before you. They were all beasts of anarchy, yet they looked so beautiful upon his skin, so harmless within the ink.

       “Order within the chaos…” you whispered, echoing the words of the Seer.

       “I want you.”

       His powerful voice rumbled from within his chest. It startled you, caused your wandering hands to cease upon his arms and become still before him.

       “Why?” Breathless. You felt breathless.

        “I have traveled every inch of the nine worlds, regarded every corner for fascinations and enthrallments, yet it was in the homeland where I found what I wanted. You are the most beautiful, pliant little create I have ever beheld, and I want you within my bed.”

       “No, you can’t! I’m nothing, no one of importance, you…you can’t.”

        He left you then, smirk adorning his features as he sauntered to his bed, waiting for you to follow. And you did, an unspeakable urge to touch him, to follow him, to feel him, to be overwhelmed by him, drawing you to him like a fox to its den, to its safety.

        “Well, if you don’t want me, my brother Katsuki would give up his fates in order to have such an alluring woman within his sheets.”

       “Katsuki?”

        He paused, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, that playful grin still upon his lips.

         “Thor, if you rather. We all have many names, but I only want mine to come from your tongue. So many nights I waited to hear you pray to me, call out to me within your dreams, but I tired of lingering. So now I will have you say it, scream it, for me, little servant.”

         He pulled you into his lap, hands greedy upon your flesh, pulling at your thighs and sinking between your ribs. He looked untamed upon the bed, hair almost purposely unruly and muscles rolling and ready to hunt what he wanted to take.

         “Do you think you can do that for me? Pray to me? Call out for me like you need me?”

           Thick fingers gripped at your cheeks; violet eyes hazy like storm clouds above the ocean. You were reminded that he was a devious deity, a shapeshifter, a trickster, the one thing that your elders warned you about as a child. A burning flame, tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake, he was all those deceitful things and more. He was the epitome of chaos, yet he had chosen you, desired you, and you knew that deep within your spirit you wanted him as well. He was handsome beyond compare, but his physical splendor was not all that had you holding onto him. Behind those eyes was a promise of release from every woe, a chance to experience pleasure like you had never known before.

         “Yes, Shinsou, whatever you desire.”

          “So devoted to the gods,” he whispered, bringing you flush against his body, “now I’ll make you feel like one.”

          Slowly, he ran his hand downward, finding the intimate, remarkably soaked place between your legs. He could feel your wetness from beneath your wool coverings and a satisfied groan builds within his throat as his lips curl even more sharply, devilishly.

         “So wet for me already,” he chuckles, wrist flicking and sending your clothing away.

         You gasped, feeling the threads peel away from your body by what felt like imaginary hands. Just like his tunic before, your shirt and trousers were gone, whisked away to perhaps another dimension never to be seen again.

        “Look at you,” he boasts, keeping one hand tucked between your slick thighs as the other rakes across your curves, pinching, pulling, teasing at your flushed skin, “not even the goddesses compare to you. Mhm, thank the All Father for breathing life into you, I must thank him for creating such beauty.”

         Your mouth could barely stammer a thanks. You were beguiled, stunned within his lap, your legs stretched over gloriously muscled thighs. You almost felt shameful to be on such display for him, but the hunger in his eyes and the hardening cock underneath told you just how pleased he was to have you.

        A deft finger began to circle your most sensitive spot, making you bite your lip as a groan burned within your throat. He was slow and deliberate with his movements, gaze catching every breath you made, every shift and roll of your body. You felt hot, unbearably so, as his finger toyed with you so languidly.

       His other hand found your breast, cupping it and testing its weight within his giant palm. His thumb grazed your nipple, circling it at the same pace and movement as your clit. He grinned as he watched you slowly come undone, felt your walls and insecurities crumbling away at his touch.

        Shinsou then took your sensitive clit between two fingers, rolling it so perfectly that it sent sparks of pleasure racing across your nerves, surging from your thighs to your toes and back again. He kept going, stroking sensually, purposely, with such expert skill that you felt you could cum just from his slightest touches. Is this what being with a god felt like? Like you were constantly on the edge of euphoria, every touch and stroke like the gift of life within your body?

      Your head tipped back as you moan, giving in to the overwhelming pleasure. He watched with glee as the column of your throat was on display for him. He took a moment to press his hot mouth against your flesh, sucking roughly against the side of your neck like he was taking your pleasure for himself. You could only moan again, the sensations already drowning you in such bliss you were surprised your inner coil of pleasure hadn’t broken for him already. He was an expert in giving pleasure just like he was the art of manipulation and sorcery.

      All too easily he moved you below him on the bed, his impressive body now hovering over your own, mouth still biting at your neck, fingers still circling your nipple and caressing your pussy.

     “Tell me what you want,” it was a soft command against the slick skin of your neck.

       “You,” you breathed in deep, breasts pressing against his tattooed chest with your inhale, “please, more.”

       “More of what? Of this?” he pinched at your nipple, tugging it and twisting it so wantonly that you couldn’t help but to shriek in pleasure for him, “or this?” his two fingers danced along the lips of your pussy, sliding between the wet folds before returning to your aching clit, swirling against it so proficiently that you felt your inner muscles clenching and begging for release.

        “All of it, I want everything.”

       “My, my, you are a greedy little thing.”

        All at once, he ceased his motions, easing the pressure upon your body and leaving you wanting, burning, begging for more. But he is not gone from you. His fingers, coated in your slick, tauntingly trace over your clit once more, so light it’s like the kiss of life just barely brushing over your delicate flesh. You began to writhe in response, needing more friction, needing more of his touch, but he moved his weight upon your body to suppress you. He was teasing, purposely neglecting to give you the stimulation you so desired.

         “Any time you want more, you say my name, little one. Say my name and I can give you everything you desire.”

         “Shinsou, please.”

          He groaned, he himself coming undone at the sound of your voice. He couldn’t even begin to explain how gratifying it was to hear his name come from your lips. He was no fool of a god, he knew no one prayed to him, but he wanted you to pray to him more than anything he had ever desired before. Your songs of praise would fill him in ways a mere mortal could never fathom; your prayers, his name from your mouth, was more intoxicating than any substance Odin had ever created. To have you, a devoted child of the gods, calling his name while he stole your faith away from every other god and claimed it all for himself, fulfilled him beyond measure.

        His touch trailed lowered, finding your puckered pussy pulsing and waiting, ready for him. He entered a single finger, a heavy moan of approval ghosting against your neck as your inner walls contracted around him, pulling him deeper into you.

        “So fucking tight,” he lifted his head, finding your eyes closed and pretty mouth agape, “I can’t wait to have my cock in you.”

          Waves of pleasure rocked over your body as he moved his finger within you, curling it to massage the fleshy walls, quickly finding a sensitive spot to stroke against. His palm pressed against your clit as he buried another finger into you, the two digits working in tandem to spread you, spear you onto his thick fingers, pushing them far into your depths. Every plunge had you gasping, bursts of bliss spreading across your skin like flames.

         His mouth returned to yours as he fingered you, hot and heavy, but his kiss felt controlled, like he was holding back. You reacted quickly, pushing up into him with all your strength, arms circling his neck and pressing him for more. You wanted what he can give, all of it, and you showed him with your actions. Your hands fisted into those vivid purple plumes of hair, tugging as your hips began to match the speed of the hand working within you. You moaned, loud, desperately, your tongue prodding his lips. He graciously accepted your tongue, opening his mouth and wrestling against you. His tongue licked your own, slow and wet, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness.

        “Shinsou,” it was a murmur against his mouth, but he heard it, soaked it up and began to thrust and curl his fingers faster than before. You cried out at the pleasure, mouth falling from his.

         “You like it a little rough, hm? You’re so easy to read, my dear. I am going to make you cum so hard you’ll be begging for all that I have planned for you.”

            His words had your cheeks and ears burning with a blush. He only grinned, choosing to prop himself onto one arm so he could watch you. With every flick of his wrist, every move of his fingers inside of you, he watched your face. He watched how your lips curled, how your jaw clenched. He felt your hands twist in his hair; felt how you would pull on the violet strands in desperation when he touched the perfect spots. His eyes scanned your body as well, watching what made your breasts bounce, your stomach clench, your walls tighten around his fingers. It didn’t take the god long to discover exactly what made you tick.

          He rapidly increased his pace, using his newfound knowledge to make your body feel like it could explode at any moment. He touched you just right, plunged his fingers so perfectly as to keep you on the edge of your euphoria for as long as he could. Truthfully, he could’ve kept you in suspense forever, but Shinsou was not a god known for his patience. He wanted to watch you cum, wanted to see your face when you came around the fingers of perhaps the most reviled deity. One even you wouldn’t dare pray to.

        “You ready?” He called your name, making your eyes flutter open to see him. He saw the lust within your brilliant irises, your dilated pupils, and that sight alone had his cock harder than it ever had been before. He was no longer sure he could keep his composure as he watched you come undone.

        He leaned down closer, close enough to catch your breath within his mouth. He would’ve expected you to kiss him had you not been so far gone, so close to otherworldly release that your lips could no longer form words.

        “Cum for me,” that wicked tone of voice was back, his fingers now slamming into your body, “cum for a god, little mortal.”

         His thumb returned to your clit, showing it no mercy as he rubbed tight, fast circles against it. His words, his fingers, his body, his breath, it was all too much.

        “Sh-Shinsou!”

          You reached a high you had never felt before as you came for him. Your head felt dizzy, like you were back to drowning within your dreams, waves and waves of euphoria crashing over you so roughly you felt like you were sputtering for air amidst the onslaught of pleasure. Your walls clenched and unclenched around his unceasing fingers, your chest tightening, your core exploding, heat blooming from every patch of skin he had dared to touch. You screamed. Over and over, the bliss felt never ending, and he baited you for even more.

       “That’s right, cum all over my fingers, just like that, just how I want you.”

        It felt like he was drawing your orgasm from your body, pulling everything he could from you. His thumb still stroked your clit, fingers still buried deep within your body as you quivered around him. Your thighs clamped around his thick forearm as you finally began to descend from your high, body loosening and sinking into his bed.

         He finally stilled his movements. He merely smirked as he watched your chest heave with breaths as you basked in the afterglow of your pleasure.

         “Good girl,” he cooed. In the haze you realized how much you wanted to hear those words again, recognized how much you wanted to please him. You wanted more of those encouraging words, more of his admiration, wanted to know how much of a good girl you really were. Your spirit suddenly craved even more, despite the world-shattering orgasm still lingering within your muscles, your blood, your soul.

        You felt empty when his fingers left you, but watched in shocked delight as he brought the digits to his awaiting mouth. He sat up before you, sucking at his skin and cleaning your slick from his fingers with a very greedy tongue. He looked wild, uncaged, like the wolf Skoll had finally eaten the moon and brought the world to end.

       “Fuck,” you whispered in awe, scrambling for purchase against his sheets as you propped on your elbows to watch him.

       He quirked a brow as he slid his tongue between his fingers, relishing your slick as if it was the sweetest honey.

       “I’m sorry, did I make the pious girl curse?”

        “I’m not pious!” You countered, feeling flustered, shaking your head and pouting as he only laughed.

         He smirked as he finished cleaning his fingers, crawling up the bed and pulling you into his lap.

         “I dare not argue, not after those delicious sounds you just made for me.”

          Shinsou quelled any words that were forming in your mind with a kiss, his lips tasting of you. You moaned against him, feeling his arms snake around your back and hold you to him. His cock was hard and heavy, now prodding against your still pulsating pussy.

         “Mhm, how will I take you?”

          It was a pondering to himself, but the words still made you tremble. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your nipples hardening as they brushed against the downy hairs of his chest. His strong hands found the flesh of your ass, lifting you to hover over his large, throbbing erection. You held in a breath, waiting, expecting him to take you hard and fast and now, but he merely teased your entrance.

        “This way?”

          The head of his cock began to spread your lips apart, warm and silken and making you drip even more than before. He sat there for a moment, using the strength of his arms to lift and drop you just ever so slightly onto his cock, each little movement making you gasp.

          But then the anchors of his arms were gone, sliding down your thighs as he laid you back on the bed. So easily he moved on top of you again, one hand gripping your thigh, the other slithering up your body to wrap around your tender, kiss bruised throat.

        “Or perhaps like this?”

         He held you against the bed, cock still hard and waiting between your spread thighs, sliding ever so gently against your pussy. His fingers flexed against your throat and he watched how your eyes flashed with want, with need.

          “I could always take you as a woman. You fell so easily into my kiss when I transformed earlier, hm? Would you like that?”

           He could feel your gulp underneath his palm, shaky and deep.

          “No,” he was smirking, plotting. His deft fingers took your hip into his hand and flipped you over, both hands skimming down your body and pulling you up onto your knees. With a stern hand he kept your breasts pressed into the mattress by applying pressure to your shoulder blades, positioning you just how he wanted. You felt even more exposed than before, your pussy open and wanting and waiting, spread before his hungry eyes like a meal ready to be devoured.

          The head of his cock was back at your opening, prodding your lips apart and slowly sinking into you with agonizing slowness. You held your breath, hands fisting into the sheets. He continued to open you more and more, his cock thick and hot. His hand on your hip constrained you securely, keeping you locked into place. The hand on your back did the same, his hold strengthening as he felt you writhe before him.

        “Yes,” he purred, cock easing into you, “this is how I want my little servant.”

          But the rocking of his hips stopped, the head of his cock now barely pressing inside of you. You breathed heavily against the sheets, sweat trickling down the back of your neck in anticipation. Without being able to see him, face him, you could only feel him. You felt his fingertips press deeper into the curve of your ass, as if readying himself, or perhaps attempting to use restraint. The hand on your back was steady, keeping smooth pressure on your skin. His thighs were solid and strong against your own, his breaths even, his cock so fucking hard.

        You cried out in anguish, your aching pussy clenching around the head of his cock.

       “Please, Shinsou!”

       “Pray to me.”

         His tone was nefarious, teasing, almost inhuman in how deeply it reverberated from within that broad chest. You closed your eyes and imagined how the sound must have climbed the dark branches of the world tree upon his skin.

      “Pray to me like you did to the other gods in the temple. I want to hear that pretty voice beg for me to fuck you.”

        That breathless feeling returned. Your heart began to race, mind rolling around too many thoughts at once that couldn’t be comprehended within your lusty haze. You hastily mulled over words within your head.

         “Shinsou…” you began, feeling his fingers begin to mark crescent moons into your flesh, feeling the tip of his cock throb within your core, “wielder of cunning, god of mischief, I beg of you, please bestow upon me great joy and pleasure, take my body as this offering to you, so that I may serve you and grant you the indulges of the flesh—!”

         With your final praises tumbling from your lips, he slammed his cock deep inside of you, stretching and spreading you and making you feel like he had set your body alight with magic. Your body lurched forward, nearly toppling over from the power of his thrust, but his strong hands kept you in place, allowing him to begin a brutal speed. Your ass bounced forcefully against his hips, breasts jostling with every thrust. One of his hands curled around your waist to your lower stomach, and he groaned when he realized he could feel his cock bulge from inside of you. He became heedless then, impaling you with reckless abandon, eager to feel your belly swell from the onslaught of his cock.

        The forcefulness of his fucking left your muscles aching and your lungs breathless. You were now moaning with every plunge of his cock, as with each stroke he lit a fresh burst of pleasure that rippled across your entire body akin to the streams of enchantments you had seen him wield.

         You felt like you were slipping away, having to fight to keep your thoughts alive as he brought you up the mountain of euphoria with just the heavy strokes of his cock.

        “Don’t fight the currents. Let go for me.” He grunted the words between thrusts.

         You allowed ecstasy to fully wash over your body, allowed his hands to guide you, hold you, take you to far beyond what you once thought the limits of pleasure entailed.

          Shinsou moved the hand from your back to your shoulder, using the leverage to pound your body back against his. You could only moan at the feeling, of being so full of his cock, of hearing his groans join the chorus of your own. You clung to the bed with what strength you have left, allowing him to completely take the reins of control and have his way with you.

          With each and every thrust, he pulled you back at different angles, trying you, testing you, watching you, seeing which way he fucks you makes you react the most. He listened for sharp cries and deep moans. He felt for your walls to flutter, your abdominal muscles to tighten, learned your body and fucked you with a chaotic yet controlled force.

         He leaned over your back, hand moving to your neck, pulling your face up from the sheets. This position has him somehow deeper, head of his cock kissing where the curve of your cavern meets your cervix, farther than any had ever gone before. He filled you to the brim, stretched you so wide you felt you could burst, the intense pleasure of it all bringing tears to the corners of your lashes.

         He brought your face closer to his, so that he can kiss your cheek as he fucks you, feel your hair against his chin, watch your breasts bounce so unabashedly from his force.

         “You like this, hm? Serving me? Letting me fuck you like this?”

         “Yes, yes!”

          He squeezed the hand on your stomach, making you moan as you felt the massive cock from inside of you press against your belly.

        “You like being so full of my cock? No mortal could ever fuck you like I do!”

        “Yes—fuck—you feel so, so good, Shinsou!”

         You could feel sweat on his skin, feel his heart beating like a caged raven within his chest. He felt so human, felt so real, but the euphoria he brought you was transcendental.

        “You’re such a good girl, such a dirty girl, for me, only me.”

         His powerful words were becoming whispers within your hair, vestiges upon your skin. You could only nod, the plowing of his cock into your core now leaving you more breathless than before. You could feel your release nearing, the flames being fanned by every stroke of the head of his cock against your walls, every push of his hand against your belly.

        Your slick was dripping down your thighs, pussy so wet that every time his cock assailed your core your ears were met with the sinful sound of drenched bodies meeting one another in animalistic rut. You were climbing the orgasmic ladder again, aided by the sublime feel of his crushing hands upon your neck, your stomach, his vast chest against your back, rough lips pulling your face into him, and his thick, repetitive cock drumming into you.

      Your mind was on sensory overload, your body uncontrollably bucking against him, begging for another otherworldly release. You could feel your walls clenching around his cock, your body pleading on its own. Pleasure was singing down your body, bringing pure delight and bliss with every pulse, every push of his cock. You were so close, so fucking close, all you needed was for him to allow you to go over the edge. You had submitted to his currents and knew only he could bring the ebb and flow of release.

     You began to chant his name in prayer.

    “Fuck yes, little one, just like that. Oh you’re so good, aren’t you?”

    “Yes, yes,” you choked out, nearly sobbing for relief, “so, so good for you!”

     “Then cum, cum for me!”

      He roared the words against your cheek, his command overwhelming you and sending you spiraling as the waves of euphoria returned, crashing over your body like a tumultuous sea. Your body crumpled underneath his and he held you, the violent tightening of your body sending the god himself over the edge. Hot cum poured inside of you, making you cry out at the magnificent feeling of being completely filled by him. Your snug walls struggled to flutter around the girth of his cock, prolonging your orgasm and making you feel suspended within his arms, gasping for breath and reveling in every dull thump of his cock inside of you.

     He held you for a long moment, hand against your belly, hand around your neck. It was his turn to bask in the afterglow of sex, to feel wholly spent and satisfied with the girl he had handpicked for himself. You were perfect in his arms, hands fisted into his sheets, lips swollen, his seed dripping from where he was still lodged within your depths. You’d let go, allowed him to have you, to take you, and there was no way in the nine fucking realms he was ever letting you go.

     Shinsou kept you within his embrace as he collapsed to the bed, inked chest heaving and Jormungand curling around your back to hold you against him.

    “Mhm, all the scheming I had to do to get you here, in my bed, filled with my cum.”

    “Scheming?” You asked into his chest.

    “What, you didn’t think all those dreams were coincidence, no?”

     You sat up to look at him, all tussled violet hair, kohl on his cheeks smeared, grin upon his lips.

     “And the cats? The owls? All those eyes on you in the dark? All that time spent waiting for you, little one. I even had to whisper my indecent plans to the Seer. Can you imagine that conversation? At least he put it into fun little riddles for you to decipher.”

    “I—I can’t believe you would do all of that, for me. You could’ve just taken me.”

    He snorted at your remark.

     “I did. My hand was forced to interrupt your fucking daily prayer time and beguile you away.”

     You nestled back to him, sinking into his skin, his touch.

     “Well, I am gleefully bewitched.”

      “And to think,” he chuckled, curling a finger under your chin and bringing your eyes to his, “all you had to do was pray to me.”

      You were far too tired for rebuttal, choosing to instead settle with a kiss. He had chosen you. And for that you were filled with adoration, filled with a need to please far greater than you had ever desired to find the veneration of any other god. It was all for him, for a god who had no doubt tricked you into his bed.

__________________________________

This was written for the Citrus Dome writing collab.

[spxllcxstxr]

Wouldn’t It Be Nice • R.L

(Gif not mine)

Request: maybe a blurb where the reader is dating Remus and one day, they randomly decide to miss classes and go on a date instead. maybe a walk, so it’s super simple but they talk about their life - their future and that makes it romantic. basically a fluff. lkshda I don’t know I just want him to hold my hand and kiss my forehead. Love your writing! — anon and hii, you asked for more remus requests and as a remus simp i just had to comply. i'd love to see more one shots that show both sides of remus: the softy, cuddly boy and the sassy, snarky comments king. so maybe have a moment where he's being cute with the reader and the immediate other they're sassing each other off and that's just how their relationship works :) — @moonysimpp

Summary: You skip a class and plan a wedding

Warnings: brief weed mention, skipping class, a little suggestiveness?, talks about marriage, no mention of Voldy/the war

Word Count: 1.4k

A.N: At first, I wasn’t going to combine these two requests...but I made Remus both snarky and soft so I thought why not? I hope that’s ok with the two of you, I feel like it just worked out well this way. As always, let me know what you think and love you all ❤️

Title: The Beach Boys - Wouldn’t it be Nice (I just got this vibe immediately after reading the request)

****

“Have I gone completely mental, or is the Remus John Lupin actually asking me to skive off History of Magic?”

Remus stands across from you, leaning his shoulder against a stone pillar, red and gold tie prim and proper, hands buried deep in the pockets of his slacks. His eyes lazily roll at your theatrical gasp.

“And in our N.E.W.T. year!” You continue, dramatically clutching your chest. “What a naughty boy you are, Lupin. Can’t believe Minnie ever made you a Prefect!”

He raises an eyebrow at you, the right one, with the white jagged scar cutting it in half like a bolt of lightning.

“Are you done yet, love?” He casually asks, amused by your antics.

“Am I done?” You repeat, shocked. “My bad influence of a boyfriend is trying to get me to play truant!”

He snorts at your claim knowing full well you and Sirius skipped Herbology yesterday to get high behind Hagrid’s hut. No one was a bad influence on you except yourself, and everybody knew it.

“C’mon, Lily’ll take notes for us.” Remus takes a hand out of his pocket and rubs the back of his neck. The very simple and casual action has your heart fluttering.

“Oh, yeah.” The red head beside you scoffs. “‘Lily’ll take notes for us.’” She mocks in a lower voice to imitate Remus’. “Y’know, as Head Girl, I should be taking points away from you, Remus.”

“That’s rich comin’ from you, Lily.” Remus chuckles, reluctantly dragging his body away from the wall and closer to the two of you. He brings his index finger to the bottom of his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “Who was it again that let you off when you and James got caught in the Prefect’s bathroom—“

Your friend’s face gets drenched in deep red embarrassment. Her eyes grow as wide as dinner plates. “We agreed to never speak of that, Remus.” Lily’s voice is deadly serious as she interrupts his thought.

Everybody in the entire castle and their pets knew all about how Remus walked in on something happening between James and Lily in the Prefect’s bathroom in December, but nobody except the three of them knew the exact story. It was considered major drama in the castle and even after months, people are still whispering about it.

He smirks at her bright and flustered face before turning his triumphant gaze onto you.

“So, you joinin’ me, love?” Remus asks, his hand outstretched towards you.

You always had trouble saying no to Remus Lupin.

“Hm, spend time with my boyfriend or be put to sleep by Binns’ awful monotone lecture? What a hard choice.” You snark before immediately grabbing at his hand and interlacing your fingers.

“Thought so, love.” Remus cockily voices, still smirking.

Remus’ lips briefly connect to your hairline in a kiss before he starts pulling you outside.

You barely have enough time to call out a goodbye to your friend before you’re scampering to keep up with Remus and his extremely long legs.

The air is cool against your skin, when you first step out onto the grounds. It’s crisp and clear and it beats sticking around in the musty castle. Students with all different colored robes dart around you, trying to make it to their classes in time.

“So what do you have planned for us on this fine day, Rem?” You ask, sauntering down the green rolling hills, occasionally purposefully bumping into his shoulder.

“Ah, I don’t have anything planned exactly.” He admits, thumb stroking your hand as the two of you pass Hagrid’s hut. “Just wanted to be with you. And not go to class, of course.”

“Wanted to get me alone, hm?” You tease, swatting lightly at his shoulder.

You can practically hear his eyes roll around in his sockets, something he does frequently since he has to deal with both you and his four other best friends. You don’t think there’s been a day since first year when his eyes haven’t made their rounds.

“You’re positively obnoxious, y’know that?”

You’re stepping over the plants and underbrush making up the tree line of the Forbidden Forest, trying not to get your foot submerged in mud.

“Yeah, but you love me.” You tell him, trying to balance on a fallen tree branch.

“Eh...” Remus shrugs, watching you maneuver around a twisting vine.

You narrow your eyes and stick your tongue out at him as a response.

He takes you to the spot Kettleburn usually lets his Hippogriffs roam around between lessons, a large clearing with some boulders and tree stumps to sit on.

The Forbidden Forest is beautiful in the soft May sunlight.

The leaves are lush and green, alive with various creatures noisily chatting away with each other. You hear the faint trampling and pounding of hooves off in the distance. Sweet scents of spring flowers drift through the breeze, relaxing your tense muscles.

The Forbidden Forest is even more beautiful when you’re supposed to be listening to the ghostly form of Professor Binns drone on and on about the Gargoyle Strike of 1911 in a stuffy old classroom.

Your back leans up against the rough bark of the nearest tree. It digs into your back and probably dirties your robes but you find that you don’t mind at all.

Eyelids flutter shut and you inhale the cool air deeply to ease your mind. The rustle of leaves from the gentle breeze and the chirping of surrounding creatures fills you with a sense of comfort.

Slowly, you open your eyes to see Remus sitting on a large dark boulder, gazing at you intently.

“Do you think Dumbledore would let us get married here?” You ask dreamily, observing the pale yellow sunlight filtering through the leaves.

Even from this distance, you can tell Remus’ body goes rigid.

“M-married?” He sputters meekly. “Is this a proposal? Are you proposing to me right now?”

Remus jumps from his seat, robes billowing behind him as he anxiously strides towards your spot.

“Do you want it to be a proposal?” You cock your head to the side.

“No!” He shouts, eyes wide. “I mean—fuck!” Remus continues to sputter, ears glowing pink.

You laugh at his fluster. “Relax, Remus, I know what you meant.”

“Oh thank Godric.” Remus huffs out a laugh before pressing his own back to the tree next to yours. “Just give me a few years and I’ll buy you a ring, love.”

“Well now I’m just excited.” You giggle, admiring how he’s carefully turning his head to survey the clearing.

The pale jagged lines of his scars dully glimmer in the rays of sunshine that make their way through the treetops. It’s almost angelic.

“It would be nice to get married here, wouldn’t it?” You hear him murmur, more to himself, you suspect.

“Just how many wizards you reckon been married in the Forbidden Forest?” You chuckle. “Darling, I think we’re obligated to be the first.”

Remus shakes his head fondly at the notion. His head lulls back to face you, eyebrow raised.

“Oi, you don’t need to convince me. Dumbledore’s the one you ought to ask.”

“Ah, he’s a softy.” You wave away his thought. “We’ll be fine.”

Remus raises his arms like he was presenting the wild and untamed forest behind him. “I don’t know love, it is called the Forbidden Forest.”

You shrug. “Well maybe they’ll rename it.”

“Oh yeah? To what?” Remus snorts, running a hand through his sandy curls.

You smile, making a grand gesture with your arms. “The Forbidden Unless You’re Remus and (Y/n) Lupin Forest.”

“Y’know what?” Remus smirks, kicking off of the tree. “I like the name change.”

“Oh yeah?” You raise an eyebrow as he ambled closer to your position.

“I particularly enjoy the (Y/n) Lupin part.” He places his hands on either side of your head, foreheads almost touching.

You hum in response, eyes gazing into his own honey brown ones. His eyes flick down to your lips before pressing his own to the top of your forehead.

Warmth spreads from where his lips connect with your skin, a smile instinctively growing across your face.

“Remus and (Y/n) Lupin.” He muses as he pulls away.

“Now that I think about it...” Your index finger taps against your lips in thought. “(Y/n) and Remus Lupin rolls off the tongue a bit better.”

“Whatever you say, love.” He happily sighs.

•

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20 @amourtentiaa @cherie-draco

Remus Lupin Taglist: @lunalovecroft

[witcher-lore-enjoyer]

Viper Witchers

Cat | Griffin | Bear

Gorthur Gvaed

The Witcher School of the Viper made their home in the stronghold of Gorthur Gvaed. Guarded by a remarkable tower adorned by a frighteningly ominous spiral coiled around its contours. Yet it held not a candle to the terrifying moat that surrounded it—deep by several hundred feet and truly… breathtaking. No one could tell if what was filling it should still be called water. The smells above the moat were, to put it mildly, hard to forget. Viper witchers, who survived the fall of the stronghold, later joked that it was the stench that led the Usurper’s army to find Gorthur Gvaed. Countless soldiers died in this gutter. According to legends, so many perished that one could have made their way to the other side of the moat on a bridge composed entirely of their corpses. And the odour grew even worse

Located in Tir Tochair (a scarcely inhabited mountain range that divides the Korath desert from the modern-day northern and central provinces of the Nilfgaardian Empire. It is known as the largest lasting enclave of gnomes.)

There were many scrolls and manuscripts about the legend of the Wild Hunt.

Founder

Ivar Evil-Eye

There’s a terrible tale behind each and every scar⁠—you’d be surprised just how many are true.

Ivar was one of the unfortunate few who endured the mutations extremely well, and so was selected for further, more complicated experiments. Of those subjected to these enhancements, only he survived—perhaps due to the mages only managing to partially complete the trial.

As a result of these experiments, Ivar gained his moniker, as well as a new sight. His so-called “Evil Eye” saw a different world. Many other worlds, really. With his eye, he watched as ghostly riders dashed along the Spiral, and observed how they’d kidnap, kill, and conquer. Forever haunting Ivar’s special vision, these spectres became his obsession. 

Training

Each student is given a pet to raise during their stay at Gorthur Gvaed, in order to form a strong emotional bond throughout their training. Years later, before becoming a fully-fledged witcher, they are ordered to slaughter their companion in cold blood.

Viper Witcher Mentor

Viper mentors are especially cold and ruthless in order to prepare their students for the harsh life that awaits them.

Some Lore from Gwent

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or weaker. It depends, really.

It is often said that witchers took on the characteristics of their schools' namesake creatures. Without a doubt, this was true of the Viper School. They were agile, quick, and frequently made use of deadly poisons.

As with the other witcher schools – the Wolves' Kaer Morhen as sole exception – none were aware of the Viper School's location. Only one detail ever became widely known... That it stood somewhere south of the Yaruga. In Nilfgaard.

Perhaps it's no wonder then that Vipers were less inclined to neutrality than other witchers. The Empire would never recognize such a stance. There is only obedient servant... Or mortal enemy.

Emperor Emhyr var Emreis gave them a choice they could not refuse: assassinate a few kings in the Northern Realms in exchange for rebuilding the school to its former glory.

The emperor, however, did not keep his promise and instead of rebuilding the school, he sent bounty hunters after its few remaining members to remove any loose ends.

Armor and Equipment

Viper Witchers are trained to fight with twin blades, often referred to as “fangs”. This style focuses on fast and furious strikes aimed to overwhelm their target, be it monster or man.

These blades would often be coated with poison as the school made great use of its knowledge of alchemy.

No need to strike deep when but a scratch will prove fatal.

Five More Witchers

Letho of Gulet

Witchers never die in their beds. - Letho

Some friends you see after many years apart and you immediately develop a headache. Not out of antipathy, but as a somatic premonition of the hangover sure to follow your drunken reunion. Seeing others, however, gives you an itching pain in your back and a desire to reach for your blade. For Geralt, Letho of Gulet had a foot in both of these camps.

Letho, if Geralt doesn’t ask him to go to Kaer Morhen, says, that he will be heading to Zerrikania citing a possible reason that it's a matriarchy and he's always had a deep belief "that it's women who should rule the world."

Serrit and Auckles

He seems different, but in reality is so similar. Our paths have been the same: we survived the Trials, endured the same training and have slain so many monsters that we no longer keep count. So many men, also. The difference is in the details – when I see him moving in combat, I want to laugh, but I also see that he is just as effective, if not more so. There is, however, one critical difference I cannot describe adequately. He has a goal, he is committed to something. He doesn't wander the world as if blown about by the wind. I believe he feels emotions at a level I cannot attain, yet these emotions are not typically human. Is it an illness of some kind? I think he teeters on the brink of instinct and emotion, and that he uses up a lot of energy to maintain his mental health. I hope I get a chance to know him better and learn from him. Nothing specific – just life. - Serrit about Geralt

Serrit was a lot more hot-headed than his brother, complaining about the lack of action they had in the past days.

Letho's got a plan… what could go wrong? - Auckles

Auckes seemed to be the less serious of the brothers, being sarcastic at times while being very confident of his skills.

He appeared to regard Geralt as a friend, which is reflected when he asked if Geralt wasn't hanged for Foltest murder and Letho asked him if he wanted to see him hanged, he lowered his head and just answered "no".

Along with his brother, Auckes was fond of using bear traps.

Kolgrim

Fate seemed to take pleasure in torturing Kolgrim. Fortune only smiled upon him if it was accompanied by a stroke of very bad luck. It was always thus, even before Kolgrim became a witcher. When he was still a young harmless brat...

On the eve of Saovine small Kolgrim was kidnapped by a weeper, which replaced him with its own cursed offspring. Fortunately, the monster was slaughtered by a witcher that very same night. The boy's savior, having taken pity on him, decided to escort him back home. Kolgrim was relieved to be returning to the warmth and safety of his mother, unaware of his impending misfortune.

The woman greeted the witcher with hatred in her eyes, not believing a single word that came out of his mouth. Blinded by her contempt, she refused to even look twice at her own crying son, utterly convinced that the weeper's baby was her real child. With the door slammed shut in their face, the witcher had no other choice than to take Kolgrim with him – straight to the Viper School.

Over many future years, fate mocked Kolgrim many times – both during his murderous training and the later travels around the Continent. His life ended most ironically. For he, who was once stolen and then rejected from his mother, was accused of kidnapping a child.

Warritt The All-Seeing

By slightly modifying the Supirre sign, Warritt gained the ability to see... everything.

Supirre is a Sign enhancing the auditory perception of the user. Drawn on a solid surface, it allows the people near the Sign to hear sounds which would be normally inaudible due to the distance or background noise. As such, it is often used for eavesdropping.

It compensated the monster hunter's lack of sight by giving him the ability of echolocation.

[blufox234isadumbname]

dream (XD, maybe?) visits fundy in his dreams. it's the only thing making them bearable, and keeping him sane

:)

Nobody [inspired by a mitski song]

Many make mistakes, Fundy was one of them. He just wanted to make sure Yoghurt was safe that night, what with more mobs emerging from the south. He just wanted to tuck his kid and make sure he slept better than him. With kiddish purrs becoming white noise, he should've stopped himself when he felt his lids flutter, when his bed dipped and he saw the house go black.

The fox-hybrid opened his eyes, already letting the horror sink in before opening the damn door. It was all over again, he thought he was getting better. No. He was a fool, still a foolish fox. Yoghurt was no longer by his side, and he already started to feel sweltering heat entering the home. Fundy's heart already ached, already sore. His breaths were heavy, weighted over him as he laid in the dreaded empty bed. Tears were beginning to form but he blinked and rubbed them harshly away. Just close your eyes, he thought. But he knew better, wishes could never be reality. He just wanted it to be over, so he had to do it himself. Fundy always had to do everything himself anyways, this was no different.

He got up and readjusted his black breton cap. Steady and stalwart, steps crept towards and stopped in front of the door. Twisting the knob, a final breath was heaved before the same scenery greeted the displeasured fox. He became familiar with the barren land, covered by only hot dry sand and tall cacti. The winds seemed to be strong that dream, dust clouds were choking the poor dreamer. He closed the door behind him, noticing his red tail hung low. First thing was first, he left the area of his house to find anything out of place. It was instinct to try and spot something that stuck out like a sore thumb, besides his little spruce wood cottage.

Fundy sank his naked feet into the sand, burning his padded paws. He trudged along in a random direction, which was wherever the barest clouds were drifting opposite from. That's all he did for a couple of minutes, maybe more than half an hour to him. Prime, he hated how the sun was bright, how the sunshine was a glaring spot above him. He hated to stare at the dull sky for any second longer. He hated winds dusting the sand into his eyes. All of it was n eyesore, metaphorically and litterally.

He just continued onward, awaiting any subtle and not-so-subtle ghostly remnants of his history coming back to haunt. To be reminded of why his life sucked, that was surely fun, right? He wanted a break, a detour from the disaster that was him. For not the first time, he wanted to be elsewhere. Not just in the dream but in reality. Yes, Las Nevadas was the haven he wanted it to be. But that came with the cost of having his dreadfully undead father closer to him. As if he wanted a chance to be mocked and haunted. Even more so, Tubbo and Ranboo causing a commotion with Quackity already had set him at unease. Threats towards a nation he called a home, a lovely return to the cycle. Like dirty water from the sea to acid rain in the clouds, it's become the same horrid cycle.

Speaking of clouds, the fox-hybrid looked up. The smallest gathering of clouds became a crowd of them all across a brighter baby blue canvas. The yucky yellow sand turned a grassier green. If he squinted, he could maybe see the blooms of other than cactus flowers. Finally, a reason for the feet under him to pick up their pace. Fundy kept running towards the green, faster and faster as he could taste them with his fingers. As soon as he was near enough, he dived right into the fresh field. A little mistake, per usual, as he began rolling down a knoll all of a sudden. Through the short wild grass into a taller field of lavender and peonies, the fox finally took a deep breath. A clean and relaxed breath-

"Hello, Fundy."

- before it hitched.

Fundy lifted his head up above the flowers to spot a cleared spot. In the patch of cornflowers and poppies, a naked area of just grass lay, with a figure. He knew it well, with the dirty blonde hair - though he never remembered it being at scruffy and shoulder length - and deadly smile-painted mask adorned. In a lime, white and black letterman jacket over a starkingly orange jumpsuit. He knew that man well, even by the soft humming. The blank eyes of the mask and the man behind to stared at the fox-hybrid. If it weren't a nightmare yet, Fundy figured it just started.

"How are you here?" The hoodied man asked

"Don't...don't even talk to me..." The overcoated fox snarled with teeth bared and tail puffed.

Dream huffed, toying with something in his hands.

"I just asked. The dreamscape is not normally so free reign. For you, you're the least I expected to be able to cross barriers of mind."

"What the fuck are you talking about. Why are you here? What, to haunt me? To mock me? To tell me I'm useless?"

"...To make flower crowns"

He held up said piece of rope strung with flower blooms. His was a cornflower and daisy crown.

"That...that's it?"

"Can you control your dreams?"

"That...it's none of your business, Dream."

"I'm assuming no. But you are willingly seeing me. So in that case, I suppose I can tell you. You know I was imprisoned, in that big ol' prison? Anyway, a being gave me a wish, or rather a gift. I could control my own dreams, I could lucid dream whenever I wanted to. So I could stay in prison while still feeling the grassy field. So I'm here."

"You don't...get nightmares? NOS Cary reminders of your past? Nothing scary?" *And while I do?*, Fundy doesn't add on. Dream pauses for a break. before he answers

"How could I? I control every aspect of my dream. Though you are certainly not part of it. I appreciate the company, kinda? But I'd rather not keep it. It's be nice if I just asked that dream being to remove you-"

"NO!"

"Excuse me?"

"P-Please...I-I don't wanna go back..."

He hated how his voice became frail at the drop of a hat, how his ears flattens and how shaky his hands became. Already begging to a tyrant, the same one who's destroyed everything in his life. What Fundy had begged was true, however, he didn't not want to go back to nightmares. This was the only time the dreams felt good. Albeit muddled by a lime menace, it was better than the frightening things ahead did him. The fox heard the man sigh.

"Sure, sure you can stay."

"Thank you..."

Fundy sat down in front of Dream, criss-cross legged. And the two were silent. The dreamer kept weaving in the flowers in the rope while the intruder simply watched. His clawed hands picked at the grass blades. Admittedly he enjoyed the scenery, if it weren't for the horror of a man in front of him. He noticed the excess rope tossed aside and something in Fundy urged him to use it too. He could tell eyes were on him again even from behind the unmoving mask.

"Yes, you can make flower crowns too. You know how to make one?"

"Y-yeah. Niki taught me how to make one with rope. I made hers with alliums. She gave me one made out to tulips" Fundy chuckled at the memory fondly.

Dream paid no mind just gave Fundy the extra rope and returned to his own project. After that, the quietness continued for much longer. But Fundy was never a fan of long silences.

"...Why a field? Out of flowers? I didn't know you were into this kind of stuff."

Dream paused for a minute, seemingly deliberating. He room a breath and spoke;

"It's just me wanting to relive old memories. Before settling in the SMP, me and George went to a flower field. We just spent half the say there doing jack all."

"It's always George is it?"

"... he's my friend. I'd do anything for him."

"Even terrorising a nation? Even threatening a kid? Even dethroning him?"

"..."

The silence spoke volumes. Fundy knew he overstepped, but it was hard for him to be sympathetic over it. He swore the surroundings looked dimmer for a second.

"I miss him. I'm no longer allowed visitors and even then, he never came by to visit."

"Who did?"

"Sapnap. Bad. Tommy, surely you know. Then Technoblade."

"Wait Techno visited you?"

"Less visit and more just made a new space in my jail cell. It's like a vacation to him. I'm not mad but...I like here better anyway."

"What's it like? In the jail cell."

"Tight. Closed. Hot. And I mean scorching. It's surrounded by lava. Barely much room to move around, not much there. I do have books to write in but so far I have started writing none."

"Someone hasn't been productive, I see?"

"I liked to write stuff. Just random things. But in a cramped space...I can't. I see why people are claustrophobic. It's feel like hell in there...for more than just the lava."

Fundy started to feel a twinge of a heat wave on his back as he stuck a flower into the rope. It died down shortly after.

"Since you're asking me questions. It should be fair I ask you."

"That's...yeah, that's fair."

"What were you doing, before you slept?"

"In bed. Just...alone in my cottage. Far away with no one else." Fundy lied, no matter the somewhat friendly tone, he wasn't ever going to risk Yoghurt.

"I thought you had Eret? Or Niki? I thought maybe you guys stay in at Least a neighbourhood."

"I...I haven't spoken to either in so long. I think they forgot about me. That's...fair"

"Hmm..."

Before I slept I was just building m stuff in Las Nevadas. It's...it's a thing Quackity built. I can't say more than that-"

A roar of something, not too loud but enough to be noticeable, came through. It spooked Fundy well enough.

"Dream what-"

"Let's...not talk about that."

"Well, what else is there to talk about me? I have nothing else. That...that palace is all I got going for me honestly."

"I thought you had more."

"No. After L'manburg, all of it gone, I don't have much else. By who, I wonder?I didn't care, that was fine by me until I did something different. I'm making sure I have a place, at least."

"Like a house?"

Fundy twisted the stalk gently, silently.

"Like a place of belonging. Where I can be remembered and people know where I am."

"I get that..."

"Of course you do, you tyrant. Your name is sure to be famous."

"Not the being remembered part. The belonging part."

The clouds seemed heavier at that moment.

"Find it hard to believe coming from the same guy that he cares for no one but a kid's discs."

"I know what I said, Fundy. But I don't care about the discs. I care about having control. Having everything in my hands. To take strings of the marionette and play them by my fingers. That's what I aim for, not just useless material discs."

"What does this have to do with belonging?"

The roar came back, a roar of thunder.

"The puppet master is not a puppet. He cannot be a puppet. When the puppets go free, he is left for dead..."

Dream's scarred hands clutch the half done green tulip crown. Down a drop goes from the petal. Then another, then another. Fundy looks up, to see the trickles. Down the drops of precipitation go to his face. Fundy's chest felt heavy, clebtched by something in a grip. He saw Dream looking up as well. From the angle he could partially see the bottom features under the mask. A pursed mouth with scars on his lips. Dottings of freckles across his cheeks. Streaks of not raindrops reaching down his chin. He heard the hiccups, the struggle to compose oneself. He knew that too well. Fundy found the part to care about as he stroked Dream's forearm carefully.

"I-I'm sorry, It's...I-I'm never like this. I'll just change-" the masked man's voice was breakable, cusp of falling apart.

"No. I like the rain."

Dream looked back to Fundy. It was true, the fox-hybrid liked rain. He used to play in the puddles as it drizzled even into adulthood, before more important things occupied his time. Like getting weapons for war or spying on a president. Fundy had on a solemn smile, a weak one in the likeable weather. His hair and fur became bristled whislt his tail wrapped unconsciously around him.

"I feel alone too. Everyone has left me

The people that I care about always hate me or leave. They leave me frightened in a place where everything so to survive. I'm barely staying alive as is. I don't have anyone."

"I don't have anyone either. I'm heartless, I pushed them away. Techno is with me, yeah. But what happens then? I'm too scared to find out. All I want is to just be free..."

Fundy laughed a bit. He tossed aside the half-effort flower crown and stood up. He opened his arms wide, further than his shoulders. He kept laughing, giggling, wheezing over. He raked a hand through ginger and snow white locks of his, knocking back his black breton cap.

"What's so funny?"

"Well, one, it's already crazy you're telling me all of this. This all feels like stuff you'd suppressed hard. Even in your dreams. And secondly...god, I wish we talked more sooner."

"What?"

"You and me, both alone in this world. We're unlovable. Reckless bastards we are. I'm not the worst like you but by Prime, I'm just as lonely as you. I can't excuse reving Wilbur and the 16th...but maybe we could've been friends."

He knew dream was smiling, not from the mask but from the small line of daylight peeking through the clouds.

"Fundy, I could never be friends with you. I'd push you away too."

"Then don't push me away now. I'm desperate, man."

"...I wouldn't."

Fundy smiled a glint of the sun right back at Dream. For once in a dream, he was at ease. The pouring rain slowed s little down to a drizzle, enough fro him to avoid smelling of dog water. The clouds journeyed away from the meadow, and let the sun's smile through. He loved the rays of sunshine gracing his face above him. He loved he could stare at the cloud-scattered sky for almost hours. He loved the winnow through the grass that made them dance. He loved it there.

"Sorry about the rain. In my dreams, I rarely can talk to anyone. And techno is not exactly the most relatable with what I have. Outside, I keep it in. But where I am, where we are, is inside me already."

"Fun to know this is the inner machinations of the terror Dream."

"Hehehah"

"...I probably won't remember this happend. When I wake I won't have a clear thought of events. Just so you'd know."

"It's fine. I knew you wouldn't anyway. That's why I let most of it out. That and because, I feel like I can trust you. I can't leave my cell but maybe someday I'll find you again. And maybe-"

A click from behind Dream's head could be heard. He moved his hand latched onto the mask and pulled it down. There he was, gentle scarred smile with even gentler eyes, covered by dirty blonde turning silver white to the tips. Irises coloured almost like emerald and aqua ender eyes looked back to the fox. Finally, his black tipped ears lifted and twitched, and his tail was wagging slightly.

"-we could be alone together again?"

Fundy's heart ached, sore already.

"I'd like to. For now, let's just depend on dreams."

"I can work with that."

Dream tossed his mask aside, uncaring and apathetic to the piece of porcelain disguise. He gently pushed Fundy by the tip of his finger, to which the former feign to be toppled. He fell in the middle of the tall peonies and lavenders and tulips. Dream joined a second after, right next to Fundy. Bliss, this is what he Fundy would call it. He felt less tensed, less mangled on fear. He had spent sleeping hours just shaken, because his fears conquered him alone. Taunting him because he was alone. Preyed on every part of him alone. But now he had a chance, to dwell int eh shrot grass, be crowned royalty in a field of flowers and feel less on his own. Fundy closed his eyes, as the smell of morning dew hit him.

And he woke up, lied curled up next to Yoghurt. And with a flower in his palm. A rose. He already wants to sleep, no matter the chance of being in the desert again. He wants to see the sunshine in the field of flowers more than anything.