#something something i was named after a prophet. damn.

[maigetheplatypus57]

I WAS JOKING???

[plutoswritingplanet]

White Rabbit pt.2 (Peter Ballard x Female!Reader)

PART 1

a/n: first of all, i am so fucking sorry it took so long. life kept kicking me over the head, like i was a damn football. but, i’m here now.  Started writing it....had a breakdown... bon appetit

Warnings: NON-CON, a lot of threatening, Possessive Behavior, Explicit Sexual Content (oh, you know guys, the usual)

Summary: As you keep getting stalked by the visions sent by Vecna, one moment of peace gets cruelly interrupted. 

One pill makes you larger.

There is no way in hell you'll be able to listen to this song again, after this whole ordeal is over. It's already becoming quite annoying, your brain seeking other means of stimulation every time you are forced to rewind the tape. It was your favorite song, of course, but you had so many different ones. You missed Jimi Hendrix, you were not going to lie.

The base continues to repetitively resound throughout your brain, mixing with the ever-present ticking of a grandfather's clock. Sometimes, you can almost make out the familiar shape, the white face with beautiful, ornate numbers. It emerges between the paneling of Max's camper, resurfaces from the drying patches of grass, when you look out the window. Every single sighting, a reminder of your shameful encounter from days before.

Arguably, Max went through her curse in a much more agreeable state than you. The little ginger kept her headphones on dutifully, giving you an annoyed glance, when you took a bit too long to put on yours. Guilt squeezed the insides of your stomach in vice-like grip, whenever she looked at you with this unreadable expression of hers. Like she could read your scrunched eyebrows, deduce the whole story from the way you bit your lip whenever the monster's name was mentioned. She knew something was wrong, of that you were certain. And despite all that, despite the shame consuming your insides, you still wanted nothing more, than to hold the child's hand, to tell her everything was going to turn out fine. Even if you didn't believe a word from that sentiment.

There was a plan forming. A very half-assed plan, that had nearly as many holes, as Swiss cheese. But it was the best you lot had, and after hearing Nancy's prophetic visions, you knew, there was little time for thinking. When you first heard that Vecna, One, Henry, whatever his name was, had imprisoned Nancy in the Upside Down, had shown her nightmares beyond comprehension, your blood ran cold. What did she see, what did he show her? Did she know about your little altercation in her bathroom? Hopefully not. You couldn't stand the thought of your friend knowing about your momentary lapse of strong will.

- He only has one kill left - Dustin says gravely, his hand squeezing your wrist.

You can't look at him. Can't stand seeing your brother worry so much, especially since you are supposed to be the one looking after him. Perhaps Vecna was right, perhaps you really did fail him. You shudder under the oppressing thought, squeezing your eyes shut, so no one can see your pained expression. Despite all that, the feeling of his eyes burning holes into your face makes you twist your palm. You give his smaller hand a hard squeeze, one, that hopefully conveyed just how much he doesn't have to worry about you. Even if you can always hear the sound of the clock just below the music. Even if Vecna keeps sending you visions of spiders crawling over your friends shoulders, little reminders, that after all, you are completely and utterly alone.

Your eyes drift towards Max. She stands straight as an arrow, staring with unseeing eyes, a deep scowl on her face. Your heart nearly wrenches itself out of your chest. This poor fucking kid.

You'd never tell this to Dustin, or anyone else, to be frank. But when Vecna inevitably attacks again, you wish he'd go after you. Max doesn't deserve this, any of this, and despite knowing that you're not ready to die, you'd give yourself over in the blink of an eye, to save her. To save any of the kids. You've watched them grow, alongside your brother, and you'd be damned if you didn't consider every single one of them family.

You've taught Dustin how to ride a bike, your daily lessons quickly gaining an audience of his three friends. Not only that, but you made them sandwiches, when they started hanging out for hours on end, becoming the cool sister. One, that smuggled them sweets and soda, when their parents worried about potential rotten teeth.

Which is why you raise your hand immediately, when the subject of a trap entered the room. You needed to keep Vecna occupied, keep him in one place while others got to his lair. So, the most logical answer would be, to give yourself over. Serving yourself on a silver platter, and praying it gives everyone enough time.

Max leaves the camper, the moment the decision is made. She can't look at you. To be quite honest, not one person from the group can hold your gaze. The pity painted on their faces is making you squirm. It's a small price to pay for stopping the end of the world, and there were quite a few ideas already brewing in your mind.

You wonder how much you can really push your luck.

He did say, he wanted to keep you, savor the guilt or whatever the fuck he enjoys tasting these days. You'd be lying, if the prospect of using this newfound connection to the monster didn't fill you with a sense of anticipation. The memory of his tormenting touches both painful and arousing. What do the people call it? The Call of The Void? You've read about it sometime ago, during one of your weekly raids conducted on the local library. It is a phrase used to describe an unexplainable impulse to hurl yourself into the void, be it height, or, in your case, the life-ending embrace of a monster.

The hot summer air hits your face, as you exit Max's camper. The whole team wearing determined expressions on their faces, the plan slowly rolling into action. You fell behind the group, lost in thought, a deep scowl painting your features as you mulled over all the possible outcomes. None of them were without gigantic risks, and you dreaded for the safety of your friends. Max had explained to you her idea, how to keep Vecna at bay, how to hide from him inside your own mind. Since then, you kept mulling over any happy memories you could find. Prom night, your sixteenth birthday, the day the group first introduced you to Eleven. Images flash behind your eyes, as White Rabbit slowly comes to an end. The grass under your feet is starting to become yellow from the unreleting sun.

That's when a gentle hand on your wrist catches your attention, snapping you back to reality from the confines of your daydreaming. Gentle, brown eyes peer at you from under a cheap rendition of a Michael Myers mask. One of his slender hands drags the rubber up, so the man can look at you properly. Curse him and his dimples, you think, as Eddie Munson smiles at you. There's worry painted across his face, as his eyes swipe all over you, taking in your expression like this is the first time you've seen each other.

- Hey - he says in a hushed whisper, and you can't help but smile at his casual tone.

You can feel his rings drag the material of your shirt, when he rubs his hand on your shoulder in a comforting gesture. Never, not once in all the years you knew about, or heard about Eddie Munson, did you notice the way his eyes reflected rays of sunshine. It is truly a shame your brother didn't bother to introduce you before all hell broke loose. At the same time, maybe it was for the better. Your mother would surely develop a heart disease from all the stress, after seeing her children hang around a man such as Eddie. Light catches on one of his rings, and you are cruelly reminded, that time does not, in fact, stay still, no matter how much you wish it to.

- Hey - you answer, cheeks already forming a blush, to your inner despair.

- You okay? You look kind of... not...here - his hands move, when he speaks, even when he tries to be subtle.

To that, you smile, a shaky one, but a smile nonetheless. A chuckle escapes you, one, that startles you in its sincerity. Eddie smiles as well, cheeks coming up to frame his beautiful, dark eyes.

- Yeah, well, being the bait will do that to you - you attempt to joke, even if the words leave a bitter taste on your tongue.

You can clearly see a shadow of concern flash across his face, as his hand squeezes your shoulder a bit tighter. He's one of those people, who wear their emotions clear as day. There's no guessing about what he's feeling, and you appreciate that. From all the new and terrifying things barging into your life, Eddie proves to be the least confusing.

- I wish I could tell you everything will be alright - he sighs, eyes leaving your face in favor of dancing across the space between the two of you.

- You don't have to, really - you assure him, one hand coming up to rest atop his, giving his slender fingers a soft squeeze, hopefully conveying everything your words cannot.

His face stretches out in a smile, eyes sparkling with that gentle expression you've come to anticipate. And then, you blink.

And when you open your eyes, there's no Eddie.

Instead of his familiar frame, your eyes fall onto a stained-glass rose, floating into the red sky, right in front of your face. You scream, stumble back, until your foot catches onto some sort of root, and you fall backwards. Your body collides with the wet surface underneath, something rotten immediately seeping into the fabric of your clothes, red substance splashing across your shoes. The sight wrenches a gag from your throat. The air is thick and unpleasant, residue clings to your skin, invading your eyes and nose. You cough into a balled fist, and shudder at the unpleasant, tearing feeling in your larynx. Then, just as you're about to take a shaky breath, something wraps itself around your throat.

Before you can even think of screaming, your oxygen gets cut off, and you are forcibly yanked up, to your feet. As much as you struggle and wail, you cannot contort your head back enough, to see, what is holding you captive. It feels raw and fleshy on your skin, and if you focus hard enough, you can almost distinguish four, sharp fingers along with a thumb, squeezing down. Your legs kick out, as you begin to feel lightheaded, and just as the corners of your vision begin to fade to black, the hold loosens. The gasping breath you take feels like razors going down your throat. You take it anyway, despite the pain, tears springing in your eyes.

- So troublesome - you hear a terrifyingly familiar voice, words muttered into the crown of your head, lips moving in your hair.

Fear, like living ice, climbs up your entire body, when the realization as to where exactly you ended up in, falls on you like an avalanche. There's various debris flying around you. Pieces of wooden structures, gigantic, warped remains of cement, smaller rubble falling from the sky. Pieces of a home, you realize, as you begin to recognize wooden columns, a set of ornate stairs, windows. Out in the red space, a familiar grandfather's clock begins to spin, slowly, like it has all the time in the world.

- Let me go - you mutter, brain beginning to slow down, some sort of confounding fog coming over your senses, one, which you refuse to associate with desire.

There's a chuckle, clawed fingers flex around your neck, sharp nails retracting. Soon, there's no memory of a monster holding you captive, and if you look down, you can see a blurred image of a familiar white shirt. He's back to playing pretend, or so it seemed. You'd be lying, if you said you weren't grateful for that small change. It helped to keep your mind from breaking, well, from breaking completely. You want to scream, to tear your body away from this creature, which has caused nothing except blood and suffering. But as you boil on the inside, there's a pressure at your back. A warmth of a body being pressed against yours.

Another hand finds its purchase around your waist, fingers dragging across your shirt, toying with the hem, but never quite catching your skin.

- You know - he starts in a light voice, goosebumps erupting all across your skin from the feeling of his breath fanning over the back of your neck - I never liked sharing.

There's an edge to his deep rumble, one, that makes you open your eyes and hold your body taunt as a string. But he's breathing. My God, he really is breathing. Which means, either he learned how to pretend to be human, even more convincingly... Or he was real, tangible, not some figment of your corrupted mind.

- My mother, my stupid, pathetic mother, used to make me share all my toys with my sister. All my childhood I've never had anything, that was truly mine.

At the word "mine" his head dips down behind you, nose burying deep into the juncture between your shoulder and your neck. You shudder yet again, as he takes a long whiff of air, before letting out a nearly sinful groan. It shakes the very bones inside of you, and your body immediately reacts, a familiar pressure of arousal seizing your lower stomach.

- Which is why - he continues after composing himself, voice still slightly rough - I do not enjoy my things being taken away from me, even for a second.

There's a pregnant pause between the two of you, and you realize, he's waiting for you to say something.

Your brain scrambles for any response to this vague sentiment he has presented you with. Taken away? You weren't taken away in any way, shape or form. He let you go, quite literally. So, you stand, eyes still searching for any means of escape, as you feel him move against your back, like a restless snake. His head comes to rest upon your shoulder, and you know he's looking at your face. His eyes bear into you, drilling holes into your cheek, as if he's trying to see your teeth through your skin. He probably can. This is his domain after all.

- I don't know what you're talking about - you seethe through your teeth, testing your strength against his grip.

Another chuckle, but this one sounds too cold, too humorless, and with a gasp, you feel his hand leave your throat, fingers immediately digging into your hair and grabbing a handful. Then, he spins you around, like a ragdoll, until you are forced to look him in the eye. The beautiful, blue eyes, ones, which holds a cruel glint of sinister pleasure at the sight of your contorted face.

- Do you think I'm stupid? - he asks, all gentleness leaving his voice, and for a split second, you can see his image flicker, giving you a glimpse of the monster he truly was.

The gasp you let out is drowned by a wet, disgusting sound, as his hands throw you back, causing you to land on your backside. The floor welcomes you just like it did moments before, with this weird, unnatural substance coating your clothes, your skin, your hair. Before you can even think of finding your bearings, the man bends down. His movements elegant and effortless, as he climbs over your body. One hand on your knee pushes your legs apart, until he can sit between them comfortably.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, when he drags his eyes through the length of your body, before captivating you in that cold gaze of his. There's no escape from his eyes, and the pure evil lurking within. Evil, and something else. Something, he can read from your own face as easily, as one would read the alphabet.

- Please - you breath out, although you're not sure what you're begging for.

His delicate lips stretch out into a knowing smile. But there's no kindness in his expression, and before you can register this familiar, sinister glint in his baby-blue eyes, his hand grips your throat yet again. This time, his muscles twitch, and you gasp, as your head gets pushed to the ground. Liquid seeps into your hair, dyeing it the color of rust. The force of the impact shakes the very brain inside of your skull, and as specs of white dance around your vision, you try your best to focus on his features.

He leans in, keeping his gaze fixed on your disoriented face, until you can feel the illusion of a breath tickle your temple. Then, you fight to surpress a moan, when he drags his teeth over your earlobe.

- I told you, I will destroy all your friends, everyone you love - he whispers cruel words in the most tender of tones.

Your blood runs cold, and he pins you to the ground, as your body tenses up.

- And, because you force my hand, I will make sure Edward Munson suffers the most.

Panic, bloodcurdling and sudden like a shockwave, ripples through your entire body. Suddenly, you realize why you're here. Because you smiled at him, because you entertained the notion of exploring further relationship... Because you knew you were chosen by the monster, and you still wanted the hero.

- No - your voice is weak, and so is your body, as you start to struggle under his lithe form.

- Oh yes - the monster leans back, to look at your face, a beautiful, radiant smile painting his features - Yes, because it will hurt you. Yes, because I want to see your heartbreak. I want you to understand, without a doubt, that there is only one person in all of the universe you belong to.

Tears start to pool at the corners of your eyes, pain and regret twisting your features. Eddie's face worms itself into your mind, beautiful, brown eyes hollowed and bloody, jaw unnaturally bent.

- And that person - Vecna's image shifts, as rage shakes his stature atop yours - Is me.

Nothing could prepare you for the kiss he has wrenched out of you. His lips soft and unrelenting, as they descended upon yours, like a thunder from the sky. Teeth clink against yours, when he demands access to your mouth, one, you're determined to withhold. That's when his free hand grips your jaw in a vice grip, fingers pressing into your gums, until you are forced to open your mouth. He's quick to fill it, wet tongue immediately searching every crevice it can reach.

Despite it's cruelty, your back arches into the kiss, body writhing underneath him. Your eyes remain tightly screwed shut, as you let the monster take it's fill of you. Hand twists your hair, adding even more pressure at your scalp, and soon you start to worry he'll rip out a chunk of your locks. His other hand is restless as well, traveling the expanse of your stomach, worming itself under the cotton fabric of your shirt.

The feeling of his fingers digging into the flesh of your breast is familiar. Reminiscent of your previous encounter in the bathroom, although much more terrifying.

Because now, you know this isn't just a game you're playing with the monster on your own.You've dragged another, innocent person along with you, straight into the void. Tears preak the corners of your eyes at the mere thought, of what Vecna has in store for your hero.

- Tell me... - his melodic voice brings you back to reality, eyes snapping open, as you gasp for air.

He looks as unaffected as ever, his illusion of a face just a breath away from yours. You marvel at how realistic it looks, at the way you can see the texture of his skin. The way his flawless cheeks now carry a shade of pink so pretty, you almost forget what he is.

- Tell me... - he repeats, softer this time, his palm sliding from under your shirt, in favor of finding one of your hands.

He brings your arm closer to him, leaning away so he can press a kiss right at your wrist. Your eyes flutter at the gesture, and shame mixes with desire in your gut. He has no right, being what he is, and still doing what he does to you.

- Tell me... - a whisper, lips ghosting over the underside of your forearm.

- When he touches you - your body goes rigid, but he doesn't deter, a ghost of a kiss in the hook of your elbow - Do you feel safe from me?

Your eyes lock, blue encasing yours like the deepest parts of the ocean, dragging you down, and down, towards the darkest of hells. You feel so stupid now. Just another idiot girl, thinking she can outrun unstoppable evil. Thinking, she can find a safehaven in some oblivious boy she barely knew.

But there's still some fight left in your bones, and as his head dips below to bite at your shoulder, you strike. Bending your arm at a speed you're quite surprised you possess. Your fingers find purchase against some fleshy vine creation. It twists in your grasp, a living organism of it's own, despite coming out of his body. Without much of a thought, you pull, fast and ruthless, until the vine pops free. Hot, dark liquid covers your hand, sticking to your skin in a disgusting coat.

The reaction is instantaneous.

Vecna snarls, his body flinging itself off of yours, as he grips the side of his neck. The illusion is gone. What once was a beautiful, angelic man, now is an aglamation of vines and leathery skin. You don't wait any longer, scrambling to your feet. Sneakers you've picked up at a garage sale years ago nearly fall off of your feet, as you throw yourself into a sprint. Muscles scream at you, from under your skin. They've never been used quite as intensely as this, and you know full-well, you won't be able to keep this tempo up for long.

There isn't really any place to run, your mind being completely infected by this vision of a red wasteland. Staying here would be a death sentence however, so, you choose an unfamiliar line of trees, somewhere in the distance. Perhaps, you could hide inside the forest. Wait out, until your friends find a way to help you. Because they will find a way. They aways do.

All your hopes are snuffed away in an instant. You make marely a couple of steps towards your supposed freedom, when a hand grabs at the back of your shirt. Stitches tear, as your body is flung in the air, landing with a sickening splatter right at the bottom of the lonesome, wooden stairs. Every bone in your body hurts, adrenaline making your muscles shake so much, you can't support your weight enough, to push yourself up.

Vecna descends upon you, a wicked snarl twisting his monstrous features. Your head starts to pound, images of the monster and the angelic boy flicker, mixing together right in front of your eyes. You don't know, what you're looking at. You don't know, which face you punch with all your might.

Henry Creel falls onto the floor, as your foot kicks out, hitting him right in the stomach. Vecna gathers himself up, and pounces on you again, as you try to crawl up the stairs. Then, it's Henry again, putting his hand around your neck in a gesture so familiar, it doesn't shock you anymore. Vecna glitches through, as you show your teeth, like a wild animal, that fights as hard as it can, before being put into a cage.

- Get the fuck off me - your voice is raw, breathless, as Henry's human form finally stabilizes for good.

Blonde locks fall in front of his eyes, framing his face in a way you've never seen before. There is wildness and rage in his gaze, one, you mirror with a feverish look of your own. Then, time stops, for only a second. Your breaths mix together, lips so close, you can almost feel them biting into your skin. There's anger brewing under your skin, a writhing, ugly feeling, much like his true form. But there is also desire, newly awakened by this short chase.

- Remember this - he whispers into the space between the two of you, and your eyebrows shoot up in confusion - I am going to ruin you completely.

He doesn't kiss you on the lips this time. Instead, his head dives down, immediatelly attacking your neck, teeth scraping that one place, where he can see your pulse run rampant. With a loud moan, you let go, finally giving yourself up. Jumping into the Void with arms wide open, ready to embrace the nothingness. Henry doesn't waste time, his hands drag your shirt upwards, your arms nearly dislocating, as he forcefully tears the fabric from your body. And you let him, your skin growing hungry for his touch with every second.

Then, comes the time for your pants. You slide down two steps, when this monster of a man fights with the damp fabric. Finally, he frees your legs, throwing the offending piece of garment somewhere into the red void.

The wooden steps dig painfully into your legs and your back. Your head bumps into the edge of the railing, and you pray your injuries don't transfer to the real world. If you ever make it out of here. Henry's body writhes between your open legs, as he unbuttons his white pants. Somehow, his attire remains unaffected by the grime of the surroundings. Your brain is too focused on him, on his fingers tearing into your flesh, to remember, that his current form is an illusion.

It certainly doesn't feel like an illusion, when he yanks your underwear to the side, and enters you in a swift movement of his hips. Your back arches from the steps, legs flailing, as you struggle to accommodate his size. While your first encounter in Nancy Wheeler's bathroom was all about teasing you, this feels more urgent, like there's truly some grand shadow of a time running out, hanging over you both.

Nails dig into the wood of the stairs, scraping the laquered coating. You don't know what to do with your hands, with any of your limbs for the matter. Because no matter where you put them, Henry immediately pistons into your with such force, your body shakes. And, what is perhaps the most terrifying thought of all, it feels good.

The way he pounds into you with reckless abandon, the way his hand comes up to grip your hair. His other hand holds tightly onto the wooden railing, muscles working overtime under the white fabric of his shirt. His head burries itself into the crook of your neck, where he pants, groans and whimpers, every sound sending delicious shivers all across your insides. This is you, this is all your doing. Your head falls back at the realization.

The pressure building at a fast pace in your lower stomach makes you buck your hips up, to meet Henry halfway, to take him in deeper.

- Tell me, who do you belong to? - he seethes into your ear, twisting your hair. - Say it's me, only me, who can make you feel this way.

You hate him so much, it shakes you to your very core. But, his thrusts slow down just enough, to make you whine at the loss of stimulation. You were so close, climbing towards your release with each bruising move of his hips.

- Say you're mine - he grits out, looking at you with those baby-blue eyes of his, so cruel and animalistic.

It's just words, after all. Just words, and you were so close.

- I'm yours - you don't recognize your voice, it sounds so far away - I'm your and it's only you, who can make me feel this way.

He seems satisfied, capturing your lips in a biting kiss.

One move is all it takes, a single, brutal thrust of his hips, and you're unraveling. Muscles spasm all at once, and the sound that wrenches itself out of your raw throat can only be described as a howl of a wild animal. He finishes not far behind, his hips stuttering, before finally, he lets out a strangled groan. His arm gives out, falling from the railing to the floor, and the weight of his body feels surprisingly grounding, as you try not to pass out from all the feelings overtaking you.

- Damn you - he whispers, hand grazing your cheek in a manner that could be considered romantic.

"No, damn you" you want to say, but can't find the strength to.

And as you both lay there, squeezed into the corner of the wooden steps, you blink again.

And when your eyes open, all you can see, are beautiful, brown eyes, looking at you with such concern and kindness, your heart breaks.

- Guys, she woke up! - Eddie screams, not once looking away from your face. - You completely lost conciousness back there. Gone! Poof!

His hands are warm on your shoulders, so gentle, so caring. And in that moment, as you look at him with pained expression, painted with guilt and fear of what will befall him, all you can do is break down and start crying.

...

Taglist

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[collegetennisoriginstory]

that G/MC one that got away ask has me imagining something like that with Tobin. Tobin's comments during dinner about going pro and the level dedication required becoming somewhat prophetic when they end up breaking things off because there just wasn't enough of MC to dedicate to tennis and their relationship at the time. In my head it's not a fight, but it is a necessary and painful conversation that ends it, maybe with Tobin recognizing how things are trending and wanting to mutually end it before things started getting nasty at the same time MC's spotlight was getting bigger? They genuinely try to stay friends, but in the immediate aftermath both sides are pretty raw and by the time Tobin feels safe MC suddenly seems so much farther away.

Flash forward some time and MC's settled into the rhythm of a pro career when their coach/trainer abruptly retires or takes some sort of leave, and they find themself in need of a replacement for their next tournament on relatively short notice. Seems like it's going to be tough until they just happen to run into a familiar face - a certain someone who hasn't made a name for themself in the industry quite yet, but one who knows MC's tennis (singles or doubles) better than most and how they tick better than maybe anyone. The results of the new partnership speak for themselves on the court, but what about off of it....

AHHHHH. ❤️ 💔 🔥

The complication of ex-tobin as MC's coach and both their careers / dreams once again hinging on their ability to keep it in their pants/keep it profesh and civil after things fell apart previously is too damn good!!!

Yall have been K I L L I N G me with these post-college 'rekindled romance" scenarios (link to the G one) and I am now convinced that if CT:OS ever gets a sequel, these should absolutely become canon.

The journalist who's made a name for themselves in sports reporting for... REASONS, the currently unknown young coach... I feel like for Rayyan, maybe there could be a breakup that resulted from the tension of always competing against each other, and the media pressure that comes with it, plus Rayyan's obsessive drive to be No. 1 (possibly MC's too?)

Not sure about Sam though. Maybe Sam's the only one you're allowed to stay with in the sequel.

Love love love these, you have made my day anon!

[smokeowl-mx]

THE OWL HOUSE...THEORY...?

Ok! Wanna dump something here real fast before it leaves my mind forever.

-Piece by the amazing @moringmark . A faithful representation of Phillip Wittebane's afterlife. Rest in Pain, b**ch!-

Something that actually bugged me about The Owl House was Phillip's name change to Belos.

Given he was a human and had enough knowledge to warp around as the Emperor of the Boiling Isles, his name had to mean something like Hunter's.

DISCLAIMER: I DON'T CLAIM TO HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS, THIS IS JUST WHAT SOME RESEARCH LED ME TO. IT MAY BE WRONG OR STANDING ON FALSE INFORMATION. IF YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS SUBJECT FIRST HAND, FEEL FREE TO CORRECT ME AND GET ME OUT OF MY IGNORANCE.

Doing some research for a project I'm making. I stumbled upon the main deities of slavic folklore.

Perun, whose equivalents would be Zeus, Odin and/or Thor.

And his chaotic sibling: Veles, whose equivalent is Loki and Pan.

Even though I say "equivalents" is just so you get an idea of their abilities and roles. Perun was the main god of the pantheon with power over lightning, symbol of order.

Where I wanna go with this is what Veles was.

Veles was also known as Welos, he was not just the god of nature and shepherds, but also god of the barrier between this world and the underworld, guide of souls through the threshold and, get this, GOD OF MAGIC, ALCHEMY AND WITCHCRAFT!

Philip not only turned himself into a "Prophet" and Emperor, but, to his own DAMN SATISFACTION, HE BECAME A GOD FOR THE WITCHES. Everytime a Witch called his name, they were calling him their God.

After The Collector gave him the weapons to rule over the Isles, he felt himself as superior to them, even more so than he already did. So much so he gave himself the name of one of the few MALE GODS OF WITCHCRAFT to prove his point across. THAT'S THE EXTEND OF THIS GUY'S NARCISSISM!

Still don't believe me?!

Veles or Welos was often portrayed in two forms:

A horned inverted triangle and a Horned Man (thus, the horned mask)

Some of the animals that represented this deity were the snake, the dragon and the owl. Belos had a very slithery personality and a slow way of dealing with those who opposed him (like a snake killing it's prey) eventually became a Dragon (when he took the Titan's heart hostage) and the Golden Guard's mask looks like an Owl.

Also, remember that guardian of the threshold thing I said previously, it fits with his whole "protect the world from evil" BS he believed.

Given he couldn't do magic, he did alchemy. If you're familiar with the work of an artificer or FMA, you should get the idea. Alchemy was a pseudo science, antecesor of modern chemistry, that studied the world, it's elements and magic to harness it to make things as the famous Philosopher's Stone and Lead's transformation into Gold. One of the matters of study of alchemy was resurrection. Thus, the Grimmwalkers.

Following the previous point, Red was often asociated with the Stone and it's abilities, it also meant "the end of a great work". What leads me to believe his and Hunter's "Magic" were product of alchemy and, maybe, the creation of a Philosopher's stone.

Given the hints and little winks TOH makes to FMA, I believe I ain't jumping any sharks.

Though his Puritanism also influenced how things would run with the Isles under his control. He wanted to feel like a God, but without the Witches knowing it (because it will blow his cover in a sec) so, he gave himself a name connected to everything he hated, but that could elevate him without suspition: Belos, The God of Magic, Alchemy and Witchcraft.

So yeah...what Elijah from Not so average Fangirl said in "Hollow Mind" wasn't that far off.

Belos, for Witch and Hunter = Witch Hunter.

@danaterrace You have my love and respect.

Thanks for everything! Can't wait to see what you make next.

FOR MORE UPDATES ON THIS, FOLLOW THE REPLIES.

[nikolai-alexi]

the night before sirius graduates hogwarts and joins the order in the war, he goes to the astronomy tower for the first time since his fifth year when they dropped the course. he doesn’t really know why he goes, but something drives his feet away from the gryffinfor common room, away from his friends and the booze they shouldn’t have and the record player moony enchanted. he’s not sure why he’s walking up the steps to the tower, but he is.

when he gets to the top, he almost immediately turns around and walks away. surely there must be something wrong with this inner drive to come here. because he doesn’t need the person leaning against the handrail to turn around to know exactly who it is. and he’s not looking for a fight tonight, not now.

so he goes to turn away. goes to leave. to close this heavy wooden door between himself and regulus for what feels like a final time.

“sirius,”

regulus doesn’t call out. he doesn’t yell his name. hell, he barely whispers it. but sirius has always been more attuned to regulus than anyone else. regulus doesn’t have to say a word for sirius to head him shout. he takes his hand off the door handle and turns around. regulus isn’t looking at him.

“regulus,”

regulus says nothing, doesn’t turn to face him, nor does he seem to breathe into the silence between them. that inner drive tells sirius to walk forward. he does.

he walks until he stands beside regulus at the handrail, this is the closest they’ve been to one another since that night two years ago. this is the closest they’ve been to one another in two years and yet sirius can’t ever remember feeling as far away from him as he does now.

“when did you know it was time to let go?” regulus asks after the silence stretches taut between them.

sirius blinks, not really understanding the question but feeling the importance of them. he doesn’t know if regulus is asking about their parents or their expectations as house of black heirs or any number of things really, but he searches for an answer that could satisfy any of them. he doesn’t answer for a long time.

“i think,” he unexpectedly gets choked up, “i think i realised it was time to let go when holding on didn’t do a damn thing for either of us anymore.”

he contemplates his own answer for a while before continuing, “there’s not a single thing i wouldn’t have done for you, regulus. if you’d asked me to stay, i would have. if you’d asked me to take you with me, i would have. but you made my choice for me, and while there’s not a day that goes by where I’m not grateful that you pushed me through that fireplace because I’m sure she would have killed me if you hadn’t, you poured wax down the fraying rope i was trying to hold onto. you stayed and came out the other side. you didn’t need me anymore, and i found that i needed myself.”

regulus stays still as stone, not moving, not breathing, he just stays frozen, before abruptly turning away. but this time, sirius is the one who speaks before he can leave.

“regulus,”

regulus pauses at the door, hand poised over the door handle and does not turn.

sirius doesn’t turn from the handrail.

“letting go doesn’t mean i ever stopped lov—“ he can’t force the word through his teeth, “it doesn’t mean i ever stopped caring about you.”

sirius pretends he doesn’t hear the sigh that leaves regulus’s lips as he leaves the tower.

a year later in the height of the war, sirius wakes in the middle of a cold december night with the voice of his brother echoing in his head. he can’t make out the words of what he’s saying — regulus’s words are garbled and muffled, making sense of them is like trying to hear under water. he wonders if maybe it’s a sign. maybe he ought to try and…he doesn’t even know what. sway him to the order? make amends in the middle of the war? fat chance of that. he falls back asleep with a chuckle at the absurdity of the thought.

a week later the daily prophet announces that his baby brother is dead.

and suddenly, he hears the words from his dream clear as a mourning dove’s cry.

“it’s time to let go now.”

[fancassticfiction]

Y'all, Ghost is making the former Sunday School teacher in me freak out. Because I'm noticing things with these recent drops, and damn if this Tobias and the team ain't clever. An equally clever person could look at these observations and make theories, but I'm fighting a migraine and will not be doing that.

Let's start with the new shirt in the Ritual series:

Okay, so I'm putting last year's shirt with it because here's what I'm noticing. Thanks to the obvious name of the Papa 1 shirt, this is going a lot quicker, but they're both inspired by stories of the Book of Genesis, Primo with the Garden of Eden and Secondo with Noah and the Ark. Those are the first two stories, and they're the two major stories in the book of Genesis that even those who have not been to church might know.

For fun, I'm going to mention what stories come next: The Tower of Babel, a not-as-well-known story that explains what happens to the descendants of Noah's 3 sons (I love a good parallel) after they try to build a tower to reach God in their hubris, and the stories of Abraham, who became the prophet God revealed himself to and is considered the father of the faith, and some of his descendants, who become the Israelites.

Now, what story comes after Babel and Abraham? Moses.

And what just came out with Moses-inspired art?

Now what did Moses do? In the Book of Exodus, he freed the descendants of Abraham from slavery in Egypt and led them to the Promised Land. This album cover checks off literally all of the major events of Moses's story:

The parting of the sea? ✅

The staff with the snake? ✅ (Fun thing about that btw. Two different stories involve Moses and a snake. Story 1 has Moses turning his staff into a snake to prove God's existence to the Pharoh as a miracle. The other is from the Book of Numbers where Moses is told by God to erect a statue of a serpent on a pole that would protect those who looked at it from the punishment he sent.)

The creation of the tablet of the 10 commandments? ✅

Again, I'm fighting a headache, so I don't plan to do more than make these observations (and explain them poorly), but if you happen to think of something...do tell. I wanna go all feral like the Swifties with this shit when this headache disappears. 🤣

[gracethyomen]

"Loose Tongue"

Hello again. It's me. The prophet. Welcome back to two idiots dancing around each other. We're getting into some violence so watch out. This bit is mostly Matt's point of view. I'm not a man and I'm not blind so I'm doing my best here, but please bear with me. Also, my favorite canon character in this series has finally arrived. Mommy Claire, I love you.

Warnings: Emotional instability, violence, mention of violence, catholicism, mentions of blood and injuries. Matt being a major simp. Injuries, blood, sewing wounds, wound care, medical procedures, Matt being a little obsessed with Natalie.

"Daddy!" A small voice, a little boy's voice. Punches being thrown, the squeal of tires around a corner. A knife in his side.

The smell of a garbage dumpster, the numbness spreading from his legs up...

He woke with a sharp gasp, arms flailing at the hands holding him down.

"Hey, it's okay." A voice told him, soft, female. She was calm, she's done this before. She smelled like latex and antiseptic. There were dirty scrubs in the next room. She's had medical experience, a nurse if he had to guess. "We have to get you to a hospital."

"No." He repeated, trying and failing to sit up. He was lying on a hardwood floor, no, a rug between him and the wood. He was probably bleeding all over it at this rate. "They'll kill everyone."

"Who?" She asked, leaning over him to try and keep him from moving.

"They'll kill everyone in the hospital to get to me." A sigh but she put the phone away, sitting back on her heels. "Where am I?"

"You're in my apartment."

"Who are you?"

"I'm the lucky girl who pulled you out of the garbage." She said snidely and confirmed when he asked if she'd seen his face. "Your outfit kind of sucks, by the way." She moved back to grab something.

"Yeah, It's a work in progress." He said, trying to sit up again.

He was stopped by a firm hand on his chest. "Okay, I really wouldn't try to move too much." She scolded, "You've got two or three broken ribs, probably concussion, some kind of puncture wound and that's just the stuff I know about." He felt her pull his eyelid up slightly followed by the near-imperceptible warmth of a light on his face. "And your eyes, they're unresponsive to light, which isn't freaking you the hell out, so either you're blind or in way worse shape than I thought."

"Do I have to pick?" He tried to joke but was cut off by a cough. Damn, his chest hurt.

"You mind telling me how a blind man in a mask ends up beaten half to death in my dumpster?" She asked, poking at the wound in his side.

"The less you know about me the better." He insisted around a groan of pain, stiffening a little on the floor.

"Knife wound?" She asked, shining her light on it to get a better look. He nodded in confirmation as she tended to it, trying not to move too much while she worked. "I think I got the bleeding stopped, but I can't tell how bad it is internally without a series of x-rays, so-"

"No hospitals." He reiterated.

The woman sighed. "This is my night off. I'm really not looking for some guy to die on my couch." She sighed. "You got a name?" Silence. "Yeah, I didn't think so. All right, I'll call you Mike." when he raised a brow she forced a laugh. "Guy I used to date. He liked keeping secrets too."

"Thank you..." He waited and she murmured her name. "Claire."

"Rest." She tapped his chest gently and stood. "We'll figure out the other stuff after." He didn't bother to nod in agreement. Not as the darkness started to take him.

He woke to the feeling of sharp tugging on his side.

"You opened some of your stitches in your sleep. You tried fighting me."

"I'm sorry." He murmured, stopping his pained shifting to let her work."

"I didn't take it personally." She reassured distractedly, focusing on the stitches. "Who's Natalie?" Claire whispered, not looking up from where she was stitching him back together. Matt immediately had to fight the urge to tense up, feeling his mouth go dry with nerves. 

He coughed a little, scrubbing a hand over his face. "What do you mean?" He murmured, thoughts going to the scent of jasmine flower and ginger. The smell of her shampoo that always clung to her hair. The feel of her skin under his fingertips when goosebumps raised at his touch. He stomped that train of thought, closing his eyes to try and clear them.

"You were calling out in your sleep," Claire replied, still focused on her task, but undeniably curious. "You woke up a little and asked for Nat, too."

"She's..." He sighed, at a loss. "It doesn't matter." Lie. That was a lie. Of course, she mattered. She always mattered. She mattered the most. But he never let that train of thought get too far along. Even if his heart turned a little at his own words. 

"I see," Claire said coyly, smirking faintly. "So she's the girl." He heard her giggle a little, tugging a little too hard on the stitches, making him wince. "Let me guess," She continued. "Tall... dark hair... pretty blue bell eyes..." 

"Hazel eyes." He blurted without thinking, fighting the urge to kick himself. Instead, he let out a shaky breath, fidgeting with the blanket draped across him. "Her eyes are hazel." 

"So you're a psychic now." Claire joked. "Fascinating. But I was right about the rest?" 

Matt shook his head. Unsure of why he continued talking. "Her friend told me. I wanted to..." He swallowed. "I wanted to buy her a scarf. For her birthday. I didn't know what color." He fought a smile at the memory of asking one of the shop attendants which colors would go best with what Foggy had described her as. "She's short." He said flatly. "Her hair's not dark either." 

"And what is it?" Claire snickered, and he felt her tie off his stitches before wiping away the excess blood. 

His lips quirked in the beginnings of a smile, eyes turning fond as he answered. "Strawberry blonde. Too dark to be true blonde but not quite fully red either." He admitted. He didn't want to tell her that he'd pictured Natalie in his mind many times. Trying to arrange features he thought would fit her voice... Her movements... Her. Just her. Vague guiding touches and friendly descriptions only gave a few pieces to put together.

"Does she know..." Claire paused. "About your-" She broke off. "Hobbies?" He laughed lightly at the word, groaning as it pulled at his fresh stitches. 

"No." He said firmly. "No, she doesn't know." He sat for a moment, trying to close his mouth to no avail. The tiredness and the pain made him weak. "I'll make sure she gets home. Stay on the roof of her building until I hear her keys in the lock." He confessed, remembering many nights atop the bricks of her apartment building, waiting to hear her distinctive footsteps on the stairs. "There's a bistro right across the street, Marquette's, the owners know her by name, I bring her leftovers when she forgets to stop for dinner the night before."

"So..." Claire interjected, hands clearing away the mess of her makeshift E.R, tidying the space. "What's the deal? Relationship? Situationship? Burning passion?"

Matt tilted his head back against the sofa, reminding himself why he kept his distance in the first place. Engraving those reasons into his mind. 

"It..." He shook his head. "Nothing would ever work between us." A sigh blew out from between his lips, only to be cut short by a quiet realization.

Claire noticed his change in demeanor and carefully sat back, brows furrowed. "Mike?"

"Someone's coming." Matt whispered. "There's someone in the building, a man, going from door to door."

"How do you know that?" Claire asked incredulously.

"Ssh." He hissed, sitting up with a soft groan. "He's on the third floor already. Smells like Prima cigarettes and discount cologne."

"You can smell a man on the third floor?"

"He really likes that cologne." He said by way of explanation. "You'll smell him soon enough." He paused, smiling softly. "You're looking at me like I'm crazy, right? Seems the appropriate response. There are some things I haven't told you about me, Claire."

She snorted shakily. "You haven't told me anything about you." She crossed her arms, the squeak of her gloves on the skin of her elbows hitting his ears. "All I know is you're very good at taking a beating."

"That part I got from my dad." He nodded his head thoughtfully. He tilted his head, then indicated the knife set on the counter behind Claire. "This all you got?"

Claire sighed but grabbed one of the bigger ones, studying it. "Yeah, it's for vegetables, not a knife fight."

He carefully lifted it from her hands and started limping towards the door, snatching his mask from the sofa. "He's at your neighbor's door."

Claire sprung into action, "You kidding me! Hey! Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!" She stepped in front of him, blocking his way. "You can barely stand up right now."

"That's what the knife is for." He reasoned.

"Wait!" She pushed at his chest gently, trying to put distance between him and the door. "Don't do this. Not in my home. Okay, nobody has to get hurt. Just stand over there on the side and be quiet. I'll get rid of him." Matt pressed his lips together, but nodded in agreement, slipping behind where the door would open.

He listened carefully as she lied to the dirty officer, putting herself in the line of fire for him in a way similar to how Natalie often did. Unbidden, he found his thoughts wandering back to her. Fuck, Claire reminded him so much of her. A little more free, a little more quick to speak, but cut from the same cloth nonetheless.

"See?" Claire sighed, closing the door loudly behind her. "No reason to get all stabby." She wrinkled her nose as she walked past him. "Boy, were you right about that cologne."

"He didn't believe you," Matt growled, slipping his mask on and entering the hallway, snagging a fire extinguisher from the wall and walking to the banister, dangling it over the edge.

"Mike!" Claire whisper-shouted. "What are you doing?"

He held up his free hand to stop her, listening carefully to the heavy footsteps on the stairs before letting the extinguisher go, colliding with Foster's head and knocking him unconscious.

"Shit!" Claire gasped, "What do we do now?" She groaned, gripping her head with both hands.

"There's someone else," He tilted his head towards the floor up from them. "One floor up, watching us. He's young. He's scared."

"Santino?" Claire peeked up around the banister at the teenager, swearing under her breath. "He's the one who found you in the alley."

"He's seen my face too?"

"Yeah."

"Claire." Matt said gently, "Go upstairs and get him. We're gonna need help carrying Detective Foster to the roof."

"This is way past what I signed up for." Claire sighed, pacing back and forth on the rooftop and intermittently glancing at the tied-up man near the edge.

"What exactly did you think that was?" Matt shook his head, hands on his hips.

"Do you really want to get into this in front of him?" Claire snapped back, pulling on her makeshift mask.

"He's out."

"He could be faking?"

Matt tilted his head towards the detective, counting the space between his heartbeats. "No. He's not."

"Okay, that's what I'm talking about." Claire pointed at him accusingly. "Okay, I find a guy in a dumpster who turns out to be some kind of blind vigilante who can do all of this really weird shit like smell cologne through walls and sense whether someone's unconscious or faking it." She flapped her hands around as she talked, finally letting some of that pent-up stress get out. "Slap on top of that, he can take an unbelievable amount of punishment without one damn complaint!"

"That last part's the Catholicism." He listened carefully. "He's awake now. Stay back and don't do anything unless I tell you to." He instructed, "Please. It's safer that way." He turned away from her to stalk towards their prisoner, dropping his shoulders and readying his fists.

"Here's how this is going to work." He started, voice low and dangerous. "I'm gonna ask you some questions. You're gonna answer them. If you're lying to me, trust that I will know and I will be unhappy." He leaned into the detective's space, pinpointing his heartrate and measuring it carefully. "Where's the boy?"

"Dead." Without hesitation he shot his fist into the man's stomach, aiming for that soft spot where the last few floating ribs lived. The satisfying crack was music to his ears.

"This is what unhappy looks like." He snarled, feeling the blood start to roar in his ears, adrenaline taking over. "Where's the boy?"

"What do you care?" Foster groaned, squirming in his binds uselessly. "If he's not dead yet, he will be."

Matt ignored him. "Why did you take him?"

"Figured you'd come running."

"And after I was dead?"

"Sell the kid. Like all the others."

Claire's breath hitched at Foster's words, and Matt's jaw clenched. Without pausing, he landed two quick punches to the man's jaw, drawing a scream out of him.

"I was telling the truth on that one!" The man gasped, blood pooling in his mouth.

"I know." Matt panted, holding himself back from landing more blows just yet. "Where's the boy?"

"So you find him. So what?" The man laughed darkly. "We'll take another. Kill me, somebody takes my place. As long as people are buying, we'll be selling. Nothing you do tonight can change that." The man spat blood onto the asphalt of the roof. "But go ahead. Keep hitting me. Let's see who drops first." He sneered menacingly, and Matt opened his mouth to respond but was stopped by Claire tapping his shoulder.

"Try stabbing him in his trigeminal nerve." She offered.

"Where is it?"

She guided his fingers to the space between his eye and his eyebrow. "That's the supraorbital foramen. You want to go in right under there." He nodded and leaned in close to Foster, pulling a knife from his belt with one hand and holding his head still with the other.

"Hold still," He warned with sinister pleasure. "I might do some serious damage if you squirm." He turned back to Claire for a moment. "How will I know when I find it?"

"He'll tell you." Claire said, and her voice had taken on something darker than was there before.

Screams erupted around the rooftop, feeding that ugly monster in Matt's belly. The monster that thrived on listening to a man who inflicted untold harm on children voice his unending pain.

"You're right what you said before." He taunted, digging his finger into the wound he'd created. "I kill you, somebody takes your place, but they'll all end up back here. Just like you. And sooner or later, one of you is gonna tell me what I need to know." The man thrashed madly but Matt held him fast. "Ssh! Listen, I need you to know why I'm hurting you." He hissed. "It's not just the boy. I'm doing this because I enjoy it." With that, he wrenched the man from his bonds and marched him to the edge.

"No, no, no!" The man pleaded, blood dripping around his eyes and nose. "No, no, no!"

"Where is he?" Matt shouted, shaking him over the edge so he felt the air beneath him.

"Underneath the Troika restaurant!" Foster cried. "Eleventh and forty-fourth!" The man took a few deep breaths and then continued. "If you're lucky, they'll kill you before they start in on the boy. It would be a shame for you to watch what they do to him!"

Matt tipped him over the edge, cherishing the sound of his screams.

He had a little boy to find.

a/n: Hefty dose of plot for this chapter. We're getting to the point where the one-shot I posted earlier comes into play, and as both parts are part of whole chapters, you'll likely see them reposted in the larger storyline. We finally got some Daredevil Daredeviling.

Thank you to everybody leaving notes on the various parts of this story, I love you guys.

As always this story is dedicated to @abucketofweird, without whom this story wouldn't exist.

If you enjoy this story please consider leaving a note or following for more! It means a lot to me when you do!

-Sybil :)

[anghraine]

I just finished the Silmarillion and Faramir and Denethor being Numenor call backs feels waaaay more significant now. Damn. I knew vaguely what happens before reading but now I have a greater appreciation for the sense of scale involved here.

It also means I encountered the first age origins of some of the Stewards names (Denethor, Boromir, Finduilas) I was wondering if you had any thoughts on any connection or relevance to their lotr namesakes? It makes Faramir an even more interesting choice in terms of departure from that tradition (and then Elboron after him, I wonder now about the choice of the El- prefix)

Another Silm finisher! Welcome :D

And yeah, I remember realizing on a first read that something important was going on with the Númenor throwback thing, but reading the Akallabêth and being like "...oh" made it more powerful and complicated in a really intriguing way. And the dream of Númenor's destruction haunting Faramir can be understood without the Silm, but it's definitely more with it.

I think the namesake thing is mostly a Dúnadan tradition that's gone on so long that later Third Age people with those names are more likely to be named after previous Third Age people with those names than directly for First Age ones (it could be both simultaneously, of course, esp if First Age names form a lot of the common "pool" of Gondorian ones). We see those kinds of namesakes in the House of Dol Amroth, too (Morwen, Finduilas, at a remove Ivriniel), and also just some random Gondorian characters (like Húrin of the Keys).

"Our" Denethor and Boromir, say, are most likely named for Steward Denethor I and his own son, the Steward Boromir. But there might have been a lost reference going on with the previous Denethor and Boromir. And I suspect the Ruling Stewards made more of a point of using First Age heroic names than they had before (though they and others did do it outside the Ruling Stewardship) to underscore their royal/heroic origins as they became the functional ruling dynasty.

I don't imagine the choices were always "random First Age name that the parents liked"—potentially some were even prophetic in meaning or in terms of future resonance with the original bearers' lives. There could be other reasons, too. I imagine that the names of Finduilas and her sister Ivriniel reflect some sort of parental or familial preoccupation with the original Finduilas, say. And generally, I think a lot of the choices would have to do with cultural stature in Gondor—which might explain why there are a lot of references to Edain heroes and some to big name Elves, but not to the Fëanorians.

I'm rambling a bit, lol, but I do find it interesting. Faramir's name, far from the insult it's often taken as, is a name of literal royalty. We know that the Stewards before the Ruling Stewardship often took Quenya names to mark their royal origins, as did other families of royal descent (the royal family themselves always did it). So a royal Quenya name is actually weirdly suited to Faramir's role as the Steward/chief counselor/regent/etc for Aragorn, but I doubt either parent knew exactly that would happen when he was born—maybe Finduilas had some flash of insight as Dúnadan mothers sometimes do, though. It's appropriate in meaning for her personally at any rate (fára means shore).

The El- prefix for Faramir and Éowyn's son is very interesting, you're right! Considering Gondorian preoccupation with legends of the past and use of their names, it's hard to think there would be no association with the El- of the royal family of Doriath, including Elros. Faramir is a descendant, if remotely, but bringing that tradition back after thousands of years would certainly be an intriguing choice on his and Éowyn's parts. If it's not an allusion to Elros et al. but chosen for meaning, that's just "star" or (more loosely) "Elf," which is also rather peculiar. The -boron is a pretty obvious reference to Boromir, of course. I'll have to think about how I headcanon that particular one, actually.

Thanks for the ask!

[grimsneverendingfuneral]

Grim where is that rosekiller fic you were teasing us about? 🤨

damn. yeah :/ probably never gonna be posted lmfaooooo. or maybe like. in a long time

im sorry im really inconsistent with shit like this. my writing, i mean. i knew this when i started writing the fic but i went in anyways, teasing yall and shit. im just a fuckin tease, truly

i can give you another long-ish snippet under the cut if you want something to chew on

A pair of marigolds are provided soon after, which Barty doesn’t wear, and Evan is almost inclined to offer a helping hand, shocked at how little protest Barty gives him. 

He gives him none. With the compliance of an automated coffee machine, Barty steps up on the ladder and starts scrubbing the walls above the bathroom sink with vigor, eyebrows drawn down and lips pinched together. 

Evan stands, watches him do so, observing him with clinical attentiveness – his eyes caressing over Barty’s every bump and curve; the sharp elbows, the hills of his hips, dipping into slackened black jeans, loose enough to reveal heart-patterned boxers. The slope of his back, jostling back and forth with each swipe of the sponge, accompanied by the muffled sound of shallow breathing, an occasional sniff. The skin on his fine wrist, the veins pulsating beneath with hot, slick blood, black with lack of oxygen, crimson when exposed to the light. It makes Evan’s hands tremble, iron grip beginning to slip on his resolve, trying to put together the gloppy, scattered gray matter of his mind back together in a panic. 

Barty looks down at him. “Hey blondie, you got any drugs? My Vyvanse is wearing off.” 

Evan’s mind is suddenly spun wildly out of orbit, smacking on the wall. “Uh–”

“Can I look in here?” Barty asks him, already pulling the cabinet open. 

“Stop!” Evan shouts, slamming it shut. 

Barty just laughs, nearly falls off the ladder. 

Evan huffs, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re going to fall, Barty,” he berates, strutting to the corner of the living room where he keeps his drug paraphernalia. “Barty. What kind of a Jesus apostle’s name is that?” 

Barty laughs again, throwing his head back and swaying back a little. “You’re funny. Pretty and funny,” he tells him pervertedly, pressing the sponge into the wall and scrubbing. “It’s not my name, not really. It’s my dad’s. You wouldn’t believe my full name even if I told you.” 

Evan stares at him for a few seconds, hums, then flicks the lighter to the bong’s bowl, inhales. It bubbles between them, milky smoke curling up the straight tube, between Evan’s lips. 

It’s a green glass bong, and the color of it reminds him of Barty’s.

Chromium. 

It’s the color on the wheel opposite to crimson, and Evan wonders if he’ll ever get to see that color. Maybe on his floor, like an inkspill in the form of something divine; the essence of Barty and the vibrance of his innards, twisted and warped around each other, creating a hue of dacre, shiny, marooned plum, perhaps.

Coagulated, fleshy matter and bits of weed, scattered in all the cracks in his floorboards, pouring into the bathroom, tainting the linoleum.

What happens when bleach and blood mix? Does it create something that wasn’t there before? What does it feel like to slather your hands in it, to touch the inside of someone? 

Does Barty have an inside? 

From above him, Barty’s resonant voice cuts through his aching mind. “Why did you let me in here?” He smirks. “Don’t you know about me?”

Evan blinks, remnants of smoke falling from his lips. “Well, why did you follow me? Don’t you know about me?”

“Yeah, I know about you,” Barty says around another cheeky smile, tongue between his teeth. “I told you. I see you, you know, around campus.”

Evan narrows his eyes. “You see me?”

Barty nods, wipes at his leaking nose. “Around campus. You’re always listening to that music, looking like you’re having prophetic visions. It’s pretty alluring. Damn, this bleach is–” 

“Are you feeling faint? Dizzy?” Evan asks him, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. He quickly clears his throat, pushes a strand of hair out of his eyes with his index finger. “You should– take a break. Sit down for a moment,” he adds apprehensively. 

Stalling. He’s stalling. What exactly is he stalling? Is he really going to hurt this person? Does he really want to go through with this? 

Evan’s eyes flit to the various objects in the apartment.

Bleach to scrub the blood. Bong to diffuse the tremors. The Persian carpet he bought at an auction. He would have to remove it from the living room. Is the bathtub big enough for Barty’s body? He could fold him. Does he have enough hydrofluoric acid left? What would he use? One of Pandora’s expensive Japanese stainless steel knives? 

Evan looks away from his unholiness. “Well, I don’t know about you. Never seen you before in my life. Why should I know about you, anyway?” 

Barty scoffs, a dismissal of Evan’s tone, canines showing through a smug grin. “Okay, I’ll sit.” 

When Barty perches himself on the ladder, half-sitting on the third step with his legs stretched out, there’s a moment when their eyes meet. 

Evan notes that Barty doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch. His face twitches, eyebrow raising just slightly. 

He’s so long. Long and languid, and Evan thinks maybe Barty’s the panther now, the way he’s looking at him like he wants to push him up face-first against the wall. 

Barty tucks his bottom lip into his teeth, feet resting on either side of Evan’s as he stands stiffly in front of him, bong in hand. 

And then something absolutely earth shattering happens. 

Barty’s foot wiggles, brushing the inside of Evan’s foot arch, sock fabric rubbing on sock fabric.

The feel of it makes Evan’s throat dry up, his guts clench. He wants to lean away, get that heat emanating from Barty’s body far, far away from him. Wants to lock him up in a basement, throw away the key, leave him there to beg and cry and moan. 

Barty gently takes the bong from Evan’s tight grip. “Well, if you want a semblance of truth, blondie, I’m damaged goods.” 

Evan raises a brow, watching Barty’s adam’s apple bob with a harsh swallow. “Damaged goods?”

Barty nods, takes a hit from the bong. When he tilts his head back, he blows the smoke into the light, casting a thin veil over their heads. “Yeah,” he croaks, coughing slightly. “I’m shit. But hey, at least I’m me. I’m shit but at least I’m me.”

“Well, we are all just insects groping for something terrible or divine, either way,” Evan tries to reassure him, for some odd reason. He feels compelled to soothe the slight twinge of self-hatred behind Barty’s eyes. “That’s Philip K. Dick.”

Barty coughs into his elbow after another hit. “I think you’re divine,” he says through a cough, eyes watery, rimmed pink. 

Evan clenches his teeth. Barty smiles. 

Smiles with his sculpted, flushed cheekbones, mouth in a perpetual state of laughter, like it’s all so absurd to him.

Evan turns his eyes away. “You don’t even know me,” he grimaces. “You’re a fool if you think I’m anything close to divine. I’m a wretched person.”

“I like wretched. Wretched’s good,” Barty affirms, reaching out for Evan’s wrist. 

His own pulse against Barty’s thumb pad makes him nearly gag.

[profanepurity]

what are some names Primo and Eliza have thought of when they’re ready to have kids? After plants? Demons? Anti saints(if that exists)? Or after saints as an inside joke, to piss off seestor and nihil?

FYI, love your art and it always makes me smile when I see you’ve posted something new!

Thank you so much!!! I'm so happy and honored to hear that my art makes you happy 🖤

So the name of Primo and Eliza's baby is actually fairly significant in the AU's story, so I thought it would do better formatted as a full-blown fic!

The short answer to your question is that they actually came up with a name pretty early on. Primo was definitely wanting to name their baby after a flower for a hot minute too lol.

They didn't do it for their baby, but I can totally see them presenting baby ghouls that spawn in Primo's garden by jokingly naming them after saints (Nihil and Seestor get so mad lol)

It's funny that you mention anti saints too since that's totally in the plot of a comic I'm working on 👀

CW!!!: Bishop! Primo x sister of sin oc, graphic descriptions of violence, injury, and blood. There is a death scene. Mentions of sex as well but nothing explicit. I PROMISE this is about baby names lol 🤭

Fic, "Guiding Star", Under the Cut!! Word Count: 4,224

Bishop Emeritus Primo stood at the altar, hands folded neatly in front of him, his eyes a dull red in the darkness of the room. The latin prayer slipped past his lips so easily and smoothly. Primo had ascended the ranks of the highclergy into a bishop by merely the age of 20. He would spend a large part of his life in this ranking before his next ascension, but he was destined for a great purpose in the Old One’s evil plan. 

Only two month prior, Lucifer had come to him in a dream. The fallen angel had chosen him to rear the antichrist. Having children was never something Primo had considered, being so focused on his studies and pleasing the expectations of the church and his own father consumed his early life. But it seemed that Satanas had his own expectations that he would need to meet as well. 

Primo had awoken violently from that very dream, breathing rapidly as sobs wracked his body. Prophetic dreams were not necessarily uncommon for the young Bishop to have, far from it actually. But what made this one so different was the fact that the dream had- well, terrified him. 

For context, usually Lucifer liked to make his dreams a bit of a light hearted mind fuck. Sure, there would be some intensity to them depending on what the message was, but humor was usually sprinkled in there some where or another. Contrary to what you might think, Lucifer was rarely serious for more than ten minutes at a time. The Right Reverend Stell even possessed a dry, dark humor than would make you crack up in the middle of a tense encounter, or grow even more disturbed by the man.

 Fucking Bishop Stell. 

That was what pissed Primo off about these dreams more than anything. Bishop Stell, Lucifer, was across the damn hallway in his own quarters. Yes, his presence was not always within the church, as he would be “attending matters else where”, yet rather than simply coming to him in flesh, Lucifer preferred to leave him sleepless with cryptic, baffling dreams Primo would have to spend hours deciphering later. The young bishop would wake with a groan and disgruntled italian grumblings, shuffling out of bed and throwing the covers off himself to write it all down at 3 in the morning, only to be greeted in a meeting full of bright eyed, happy Bishops.

No, this dream had sent Primo into a panic, fighting to breath as he sat upright, eyes wide and full of tears as he actually considered going to Reverend Stell like a child that had a nightmare.​​ The thought that this could have been a product of his own mind did cross him, but it just didn’t seem likely. 

Primo was of course well aware of Lucifer’s fall from grace. The elders within the church droned on and on of it in the children’s ministry. It was tiredly preached by every priest that had ever held a mass. The Fall was the equivalent to the Gospel of Matthew around Easter, everyone knew it. The only time the story would be remotely intriguing anymore would be if Bishop Stell or Bishop Null would be leading the sermon. The most recent time, the Reverend had Free Bird playing in the background as he described the dissension as if he had actually been there- Primo wondered if anyone outside of his family and the ghouls knew that he actually had been. 

“What the scripture left out in this passage was how your unholy Father killed 27 angels, burned down seven monestraies in heaven, and fucked up archangel Michael significantly… before he did unfortunately get his own ass kicked.” Bishop Stell worded it as if he was describing a fight he was in 20 years ago at a college party. 

“When your mothers ask you if you would jump off a cliff if your friends were, your answer should always be yes. Belilal fell from heaven right after Lucifer, he wasn’t going to let his best friend embarrass himself alone. You shouldn’t let your friends get their asses kicked alone either.” Bishop Null would add in that happy, charming chirp he had, smiling with amusement. It was never something the Lords themselves would take seriously. 

This dream had been the most vivid, graphic experience of warfare that Primo had every experienced. He stood out of body, watching swords and weapons swing, wings fracture and bones snap. So much blood shed onto the white clouds. Heaven had turned red. 

He spotted Lucifer easily. How could be miss the great Seraphim? His destruction of the Heavens had not been exaggerate. Magnificent structures burned, angels were crushed and torn apart like prey, the dogs of Heaven dropped from the skies like dead flies as Lucifer let out an indescribable shriek- a harbringer of death. 

For a brief moment, Primo thought that Lucifer’s Order was going to prevail. He watched in a shell shocked awe, unable to move or look away. Though he was sure if he were to look down he would not see his own body. But, as he knew was inevitable, the Rebel Chief fell, dissolving into the body shaped like a man as angels swarmed and broke him down. The Prince of Heaven’s armies, Michael, locked into combat with the weakened Lucifer, backing him further and further towards the edge, until Michael’s spear plummeting through his chest and sent Lucifer in a rapid descent down from seraph skies- now chaos bound.

Blinking, Primo found himself in the Pit. The white goat beside him stood among the fires, exhaling puffs of sulfur. 

“Emeritus… eligit te.” It rasped. It happened too fast for Primo to register immediately, as Lucifer’s body plummeted and hit the ground only a few yards away. The noise upon contact made the young Bishop want to vomit. Satanas stood up on his hind legs, prancing and bucking wildly in celebration of the fallen angel, laying so sacred and profound on the floor of Hell… suffering. 

Primo remembered the day Lucifer had picked him up and held him during his dedication to the church. He remembered every whisper, every soft brush of phantom wings around him that had comforted him to sleep as a small child in the orphanage. Lucifer always answered his incantations and summonings, always held his head and directed his eyes to ground him in a vision. Primo didn’t want to turn and face him. He didn’t want to see the body. 

“Pater meus filius… imperia perdet… adducet plagas… rectores orbis terrarum.” Lucifer’s voice was forced and strained, blood filling his lungs as every word hitched in a choked sob. How could Primo not look at him? He suddenly possessed his body again, coming to his side and placing shaking hands upon him, daring to touch him. The fallen angel’s body burned, seering every nerve in his hands as he held them to Lucifers split open head. 

He accepted. “Etiam Domini.” Primo managed to speak, shocked to hear how his voice came out in a trembling whimper. Primo stared into the white, empty eyes of Lucifer as black started to seep into them through the edges. He was vaguely aware of the other bodies falling. 

Belial… Beelzebub…Asmodeus. 

“... The opening to Free Bird is pretty fitting right now actually.” Primo didn’t even think about his words, he just spoke. His eyes widenned at what he’d just said, but Lucifer actually smiled, blood seeping past the corners of his lips and down his cheeks. It’s a shame he won’t be breathing during that sexy ass guitar solo.

Hearing the unholy Father described as waiting in tomb was something Primo had always thought to be more metaphorical. He wasn’t expecting, nor prepared, to feel that burning heat turn stone cold. He stared at the slacked face in his palms, hearing mournful, pained shrieks and wails in the distance.

His Father just died in his arms. 

The scream of a woman that he some how knew was Lilith tore apart the trance Primo had fallen into. That’s how he found himself sitting up in bed crying. 

Sunlight creeped in through the curtains of his room as the muffled, some how still obnoxious music was carried by the morning.

He never thought he would be so happy to hear Mama Mia at 6 in the morning. 

*

Primo had gone straight to the children’s ministry to find a very particular sister of sin. The sight of her auburn curls peaking behind her habit drove him towards her. 

“Your Excellency?” Sister Elizabeth barely had time to greet her boyfriend properly before he was fully embracing her in a tight hug. She had put down some of the fruit she had been preparing to plate for the children’s morning snacks to wrap her arms around him, place a hand on the back of his head and running her fingers through the platinum blonde. 

“.... Primo.” The slight urgency in her hushed voice had forced Primo to pull himself away, enough to look at her at least. 

“Lilith came to me-”

“Lucifer came to me-”

They both stared at each other in shock. Eliza went first, telling Primo that Lilith has declared her to take the position as the next Prime Mover. Who her Papa would be was not mentioned. Primo then told her his dream, and that Lucifer has chosen him to father the antichrist, but didn’t describe who his Prime Mover would be. 

Another silence fell between them as they processed eachother’s words. Primo looked down at the little mobile crib that Eliza was keeping beside her. He recognized the one year old that had been dropped off at the ministry’s door not long ago after Sister Imperator had returned to the church, much to his father’s shock and delight. Primo stopped himself from thinking about that train wreck of a relationship as he just sighed at the sight of baby Copia- the only thing his mother had left him with was his name and a warm blue blanket. His youngest brother Terzo was only a few years older than him.

Eliza noticed Primo’s gaze and looked at Copia as well. Smiling softly, she went to pick him up, holding the bundle in her arms. Primo could help but think she looked gorgeous holding a baby.

“I think you’ll be an amazing Prime Mover, cara.” 

As Primo considered his future more after that, the young bishop would come to the children’s ministry to visit his Sister of Sin daily at the tail end of her duties. They’d only been dating for a little less than a year at this point, but Primo couldn’t think of anyone he would rather have a child with, especially one so important. Seeing her read to the children and make them laugh and encourage them in their little activities broke his heart each time. Her patience was seemingly endless, and her love for the children sang through her eyes and voice like a song only he could hear. He knew she would be an incredible mother.

One day, she had caught him watching her, fixed on the way she was rocking a little one to sleep. A smirk graced her lips, making her fangs peak past her lips in a way that made the Bishop feel as though he was going mad. The sister approached him quietly with the baby. 

“Sorella?” He raised a brow at her as she offered him the baby. 

“Would you like to practice?” She asks in light wry, earning a scoff from Primo. 

“I get enough practice wrangling mi fratelli.”

“Si, but I want to see what you’ll look like as Papa.” She practically purrs at him. The future Prime Mover seems to have chosen the father of her child as well. After that little announcement, Primo took her straight to his room, barely keeping his hands off her. 

It wasn’t until they were tangled in eachother’s arms, breathless and spent, did a thought come to Eliza’s mind. 

“.... what the hell do we name the antichrist?” She gasps softly, her head laid against her bishop’s chest, scarlet eyes blinking up at him widely. Bishop Emeritus stared right back at her with his own mismatched gaze. 

That was a good question. 

This would eventually lead to quite a few serious conversations between the young couple. The reality of marriage, the reality of having a child, the reality of raising one, regardless of its significance to the Old One’s plan, needed to be seriously considered. They were both very ambitious clergy members, involved in several demanding obligations and duties within the church, and to their own dark practices. Just managing to see eachother on a regular basis was some times a struggle. 

Primo was also actively involved with Secondo and Terzo, only six and three years old respectfully. He was aware how demanding it would be to raise a child of his own, along with his little brothers, as he was certain the significant absence Papa Nihil had with him would be extended to Secondo and Terzo throughout their childhoods. 

Starting a family would need to wait for the time being. This at least gave them time to consider a name though. Bishop Primo and Sister Elizabeth spent any night they had free walking the gardens that Primo was beginning to steadily expand himself. He would show her the names of the floral, occasionally mentioning how some of them could be potential names. 

“Leilani is beautiful.” Sister Eliza mused at the thought. 

“Si… Is that a name you would like, my Rose?” Primo asked her as she held his arm. 

“Mm… it’s definitely an option. Not too feminine?”

“That’s a good point… we should keep the name neutral.” Primo’s voice trailed off in thought as he stared at the plowed patch of this section of his garden. Eliza couldn’t help but brush the blonde hair off his creasing brow back into the rest of his hair, amused and smittened by how serious he looked. 

“What if our child rises from coal and ash like a feral fire ghoul crawling out of the depths?” She asks him, eyes glowing softly in the night. 

He gazed upon the gorgeous, hellish creature that was his wife to be with nothing by adoration. “... That would be metal as fuck.” he breaks the seriousness and makes her giggle. 

“We would have to off set some of their power by naming them something stupid… like Kevin.” Now Eliza was fully laughing. Her laugh was more beautiful than any song or hymn Primo has ever heard. 

They did eventually settle on a name. 

The prophet of the Morningstar took a deep breath as he finished his morning prayer and stood from the altar, putting out each candle one by one. Today would be the day he would present that name. 

*

Primo found himself growing anxious as he walked through the halls of the high clergymen. His arms folded behind him as his mind wandered past where his feet were taking him. It made sense to him and Eliza that if they were going to wait on having a child, even still after becoming Papa and Prime Mover, that they could at least designate a name for their future child as a promise to the Old One. 

Primo was torn out of his thoughts by the click of heels and a warm voice. 

“My, we’re quite grave this morning, aren’t we?” There stood the tall, deathly beautiful Bishop Mater. His anxiety lessened almost immediately as he bowed his head to her. “Reverend, fogive me, I’m just a bit… nervous.” He admits. 

“What could the unblessed Bishop Emeritus Primo possibly be nervous about?” She asks, serpent-like eyes gazing upon him, somehow holding the same softness you would expect from a mother looking proudly at her son. 

“... I’ve decided on a name for Lucifer’s child. I’m about to present it to the Bishops. I hope you’ll be in attendance at the meeting…” His words caused the other bishop to lose her smile, falling silent. Primo’s edge returned now tenfold. 

“... If you think I shouldn’t-” 

“No-” Her hands come to rest on the outer sides of his arms. “You should.” Mater’s reassurance did little for him now.

“... I want to show my gratitude towards Him for waiting. I want the dedication to be a promise and to prove that I’m committed to his will… but what if He rejects the name?” Primo’s voice dissolves. Yet Mater’s gaze softened with every word she listened to, her pupils dialating into round, doe-like orbs. 

“You’re not going to name his child a latin number, right?” Her smirk growing when Primo bristled up. 

“Absolutely not!” 

“Then he’s going to love it, sweetheart.” Her nose crinkling as she smiled. Mater kissed his ringed hands and then his forehead, making the young Bishop’s face scrunch up slightly as he tried to hide his smile, the feeling of her lip gloss sticking to his forehead. 

Primo continued his walk after that and entered the small congregation room of the Bishops, Mater trailing behind him silently, slipping past him and the door frame to move off to the side. The boisterous arguments and barking laughter had become a pleasant normalcy to Primo. It was such a stark difference to the other clergymen. He even found himself wishing Nihil would spend more time here like he used to, only drifting further away into his own obsessions with the Ghost project as he aged. At least he still smoked weed with Satanas from time to time. 

“There you are, you’re late.” Bishop Avarice huffed at him through his cigar, the large man reclined back in his chair lazily, just as if Beelzebub was in his own throne. 

“Reverend Carnalis isn’t here yet,” Bishop Null chides at him quietly.

“Carnalis is probably balls deep in a sibling right now.” He rolls his eyes, biting down on that cigar with large canines that looked a little too sharp. Bishop Null just grinned at Primo before he noticed the edge to the young man. 

“Seen something spooky, kiddo?” Null was far too sweet looking, far too kind, Belial only needed a small reason to snap. 

Primo controlled his breath and kept his eye contact with Null, reminding himself he wasn’t in a den of ghouls… yet. 

“I wanted to present something to you all.. If your excellencies are not otherwise occupied.” 

“Depends on what you're presenting to us, Emeritus.” There was the honey smooth voice of Bishop Carnalis walking through the door behind him. He sounded as attractive as sin itself, but behind that mask he wore was the flesh and blood of Asmodeus, dripping with carnal desire. 

Before Primo could continue, Bishop Mater stopped Carnalis, sliding her hand over his chest and pressing herself to him strategically. “I think we should all hear what Reverend Emeritus’ presentation is before Reverend Stell arrives. 

Now all eyes and ears were on Primo. 

“... I have decided on a name for Lucifer’s child.” He repeated what he had told the unblessed mother in the hallway. The background noise of Def Leppard on the radio some how ceased the moment the words left his mouth. Silence fell upon the room, Avarice’s cigar threatening to fall out of his mouth, Carnalis’ previously tight grip on Mater loosened, and Null looked almost scared. 

Primo felt like he was about to snap, barely managing his agitation at this point.

“Is that what you’re presenting to us?” Null asked as he came around the table towards Primo, seeming anxious himself.

“I’m started to question if I should now.”

“No no- just let us hear it first.” Null ushers, perhaps his vibrations were poorly masked excitement rather than anxiety. 

“Kid, if he hates it you’re fucked-” Avarice barely finished his sentence before the Reverend Bishop Stell opened the door and stepped in. 

“Who’s getting fucked now?” He asks, standing in the open doorway and looking over each one of them. “.... who killed the radio?” The Bishop’s suspion darkening his expression.

“Oh we were just-” Mater was cut off as Primo turned to face Stell. “I have an offering for Lucifer.” Defiance shining in his eyes, glinting red as he looking up at the older man. Primo rarely stepped out of line, and even more rarely did raise his voice to another high clergyman, or anyone for that matter.

“He was running it by us, but I believe it would be best if we spoke about it privately first-”

Null walked over to Stell’s side and touched his arm. Primo was not going to allow any more delays though. His nerves have twisted into anger and spite of the Bishops. Even Primo had had his reckless moments as a young man.

“Sister Elizabeth and I are designating the name of the antichrist.” Now Stell’s eyes were locked solely on Primo. Black eyes that held an emotion Primo couldn’t quite discern at the moment, one that he might find concerning if he wasn’t so pissed. 

Primo held Lucifer’s gaze, not daring to look away. He was waiting for the young Bishop to dare to continue. There was no backing out now.

“....Michael-.”

The door slammed shut so hard the hinges nearly tore out of the wall. 

“IT WAS A JOKE- I WAS JOKING!” Primo shouts just as Lucifer stopped right in front of him, barely contained rage being held back. Satanas’ laugh trickled in from the shadows in the back of the room like sand paper against a chalk board, mocking Lucifer.

Primo could practically see the flames of Hell threatening to erupt out of Lucifer’s mouth and eyes. “... Yeah, that was a good one, you little shit.” his snarling whisper promising violence if Primo didn’t pick his next moves very carefully. He could feel the tension from the other Lords around them. 

“... no it was, that was a shitty joke.” Primo admitted quietly as he moved his hands up slowly. He was very aware how weird and stupid this probably looked. However, he was trying not to die right now, so a bit of embarrassment could be forgiven. He placed both of his hands on either side of Lucifer’s head, just like he had in his dream. The prophet stared into his eyes with no fear or hesitation. Eliza and him were fully committed to their future child, and fully dedicated to the fallen angel. 

“I am dedicating the name of your child to you, Lord Lucifer. They will be named Astr, after my guiding star. I will love and guide them as their father, just as you have done for me.”

It was almost comical the way Bishop Stell’s shoulders fell and his brow lifted. And Primo would’ve laughed if he didn’t see the shocking, deep sadness that filled Lucifer’s eyes. It was like Primo told him the worst news of his life, and suddenly he grew terrified and scared again. He didn’t have time to say anything as the image of baby Copia flashed in his head for a moment, confusing the young bishop. When he focused back on Stell, he was smiling, like he wasn’t just about to start sobbing, hell he looked incredibly proud even. 

“I believe Lucifer would greatly approve of that name, Bishop Emeritus.” He purred, taking one of Primo’s hands from his head and kissing one of his rings. 

“I feel like I’m watching a fucking Hallmark movie.” Bishop Avarice groaned, earning a hiss from Mater. The tension finally lifted and the music finally came back on. Nothing Else Matters by Metallica played quietly in the background as the other Bishops approved and blessed the name, despite the jabs and sneers from the sappiness. 

The heir to the Emeritus lineage and the bloodline of the dark architect will be, Astr. 

Bishop Emeritus’ attention was pulled by Bishop Carnalis, playfully questioning if this meant Sister Eliza and him have been getting busy lately. While he was distracted, Null discreetly slid his arm behind Lucifer’s back, pressing a warm palm to the permanently fractured piece of his spine, then to his shoulder blades where rotting wings would connect to his body. He had caught that initial look. When Stell finally looked at him, he just smiled handsomely and winked at the other. Null returned it weakly, but he couldn’t maintain it as he whispered near his ear. 

“I heard what she named him… I don’t understand how you expect me to walk around here and not gut her for that kind of offense.” Null’s words were shaking slightly with anger.

“Babe, you sound really negative right now, you know that?…”

“... That’s because I hate seeing you in pain, jack ass.”

“And I love seeing you go batshit with a ritual blade… but we have to keep playing dress up for now…” Stell’s eyes met Null’s for a moment, just an inch away from eachother. Null stared at Stell’s lips for a moment before smirking, leaning into his ear once more. 

“I liked you more when you impulsively started wars with God… You’re boring now that you’re a daddy.” He nips the shell of Bishop Stell’s ear sharply, before pulling away and walking back into the center of the conversation with an innocent smile, ignoring the low growl and burning lust in the glare from The Devil.

[localcuttlefish]

My sona started out as a DBD oc, it progressed from fandom to fandom and now I have a large group of them. They all have the same name with very minor differences. Tempted to make a FAITH one too!

Your oc Issac is so cool! How would he react around other characters like Gary or Garcia?

First of all, let’s go!! Weird OC/Sona fandom progression gang!! We out here!!

I’m glad you think he’s cool! I promise you he’s actually so pathetic it’s insane; literally God’s most profound soggy loser 

Every time someone asks me about my OCs I crack open Pandora’s box, and by Pandora’s box I mean my notes app to write out a fucking wall of text. In the best possible outcome, Isaac and Father Garcia don’t interact very much. Not because they dislike one another, but because there aren’t many opportunities for them to interact in the first place. The only time they would really meet face to face is if Isaac survives with John through the Daycare Center long enough to see Garcia save John by shooting Gary.

Garcia would likely demand Isaac doesn’t follow John into The Crucible because of Isaac’s profound connection to demonic powers, and sending Isaac into The Crucible would be bringing Isaac closer to Gary, which is the last thing they need. All that established, Isaac would help Garcia defend the entrance to The Crucible, until Isaac can no longer resist the call of the void behind him. Being that Garcia values courage and resilience in the face of danger, Isaac would likely lose Garcia’s respect once he succumbs to the terror. What Isaac wouldn’t mention to Garcia, though, is that the prophetic visions he had as a child in the Daycare Center aligned with the events playing out in front of him. Isaac would know that he’d have to torch something or someone in The Crucible. A crucible is, after all, a place for fire and molten metal. This is where he’s supposed to be.

The Crucible was actually what Isaac’s vision of the “Holy Spirit” stemmed from. The core of his prophetic visions. Isaac would not be able to see John and Miriam fighting, but he would see vicious figments of hellish fire and uncanny faces, hallucinations of places in the past, and visions of the people who corrupted him to the point of madness. This is the unearthly horrors’ last ditch effort to frighten Isaac away from helping John, a last ditch effort to scare him into submission. In this frenzy, he would pick up a torch off the wall to defend himself from these visions, unaware of the fact that he is hallucinating. What breaks the hallucinations is when he hears John demand to be given the torch. He can recognize the color of John’s voice through the horror. Isaac does him one better and, in his holy delusion, lights John’s damn hand on fire (a win is a win?), and John transfers the flame to Miriam.

Only after John completes the exorcism of Amy Martin would Isaac have another opportunity to interact with Father Garcia. All things considered, Garcia would probably snap at him for running to The Crucible, but in an ideal setting, John would defend Isaac and explain what happened. Isaac and Father Garcia would likely remain on neutral terms at that point, being that yes, Isaac did succumb to what Garcia believes is fear, but because of that, Miriam was defeated.

Give it a little more time, and Garcia would probably understand why John is adamant on defending Isaac. Maybe John sees in Isaac what Garcia sees in John. He’d slowly start to understand. Father Garcia would probably keep his distance (what with the whole holy war going on) though, but Isaac would still reach out every now and then. May as well extend an olive branch once in a while, even if Garcia chooses to ignore it. 

Once in a blue moon, though, Isaac might spot Garcia at smaller concert venues Among The Bloodied is playing at. It’s never the venues or concerts Isaac informs him of, though, so Isaac has no clue how Garcia finds out about where the band is playing. Among The Bloodied isn’t hugely well known, and Garcia doesn’t seem like the type to know his way around a computer. Isaac’s asked John before if John is the one who tips Garcia off, but John adamantly denies it. Every time Isaac tries to catch Garcia after a show to speak with him, Garcia is nowhere to be found. 

As for interactions with Gary?

: )

I think that’s gonna need it’s own separate post. Stay tuned!

[yoonessa]

◜⋆ ࣪ still with you, jeon jungkook ꒰ intro!

Genre: Reunion of former best friends, attempt at comedy, angst, drama & more.

Chapter Warnings: Nothing too serious, just Jk being something... Stupid with the protagonist who in fact, has a name! I can't get used to putting Y/N, sorry, it's wattpad's fault. Flashbacks at the beginning. Jungkook ptd era, a few months before, I don't know, it looks like it did at the end of 2020.

Note!: Sorry if this has grammatical errors of any kind, English is not my first language but I try, take the liberty of (without the need to be cruel, please) correct or point out anything that doesn't make sense. It's not my first time writing a fanfic (surprise, this is part of one of those) but it's my first time publishing some of what I commonly write on wattpad by this app. Let me know what you think!

I've never been the kind of positive person who sees the glass half full or the rainbow after the storm. You could say it was quite the opposite.

I saw the empty glass and had no expectations that there would be water nearby that could fill it, nor did I expect calm after the storm, for all my life I lived in the midst of an eternal one. A frightening, never-ending downpour of bad times and dealings, one after another, another and another.

Naturally, having grown up in the midst of so much disaster, I became one. At the young age of fifteen, adults labeled me a lost cause.

At school the teachers called my attention every time I opened my mouth to give my humble and irreverent opinion on any subject they exposed, they punished me for not doing my homework, for falling asleep in class, for punching some idiot who wanted to be too clever with me and they ended up scolding me for wearing the untidy uniform or sometimes, incomplete.

At home, my parents' attitude toward me was not very different from that of the teachers at school; Yelling, punishment and a few blows for being me… A lost cause that didn't want to be found. I had them fed up.

And I was also tired of having to fight everyone who stood in front of me. Or well, with almost anyone who dared to cross eyes with me, because there was one exception. The only person on the face of the Earth with whom I dared not even jokingly argue was my paternal cousin, Min Yoongi.

The twenty-year-old (back then obviously, duh) was one of the few, or the only person I still had a shred of respect for. But he had earned it in large part by the way he ignored the words of his parents, my uncles, and left home to try to make a living doing what he loved most: music. The other part of my respect came from the fact that when I talked to him like everyone else, like he was stupid and his IQ was -20, he gave me damn devilish looks that sent shivers down my spine.

Min Yoongi was the only living being on the face of the Earth that I listened to and obeyed. Most of the time.

And when my parents realized that, they took advantage. They took advantage of the fact that when he spoke, I seemed to be listening to a prophet of the apocalypse willing to make me survive a few more days, and they also took advantage of Yoongi's economic shortages.

The cards my parents decided to play were simple but advantageous to both parties, supposedly. From my point of view, they put on my cousin's shoulders a responsibility that did not belong to him and that would end up leaving him bald before he was forty: They made him my official babysitter.

Every afternoon, Yoongi had to pick me up when my school day ended and then, since my parents didn't trust my judgment one bit, the pale man had to take care of me for the rest of the day until nightfall; The first few days were boring, if I'm completely honest.

Since I didn't have the trust of adults, I didn't have the privilege of staying home alone, doing nothing and procrastinating. Yoongi would pick me up from high school and then we would walk back to my house, where we would eat whatever mom had prepared before going to work, he would help me do some chores (which initially I didn't even plan to do but that I ended up doing because he got as stubborn as a mule), we would watch TV and when the clock struck ten minutes past eight, he was leaving.

That was our routine the first week, in his second week as a nanny, Min Yoongi finally deigned to introduce me to the boys he had hung out with to try to fulfill her dream.

"She's Hanami”. He said simply, by way of introduction.

“Tell me Hannah, not Hanami. If they do, they're going to get by…” His disapproving look was what made me shut up and smile sweetly not like me. “Just kidding. But I really prefer to be called the first thing”.

Five of the six boys standing in front of me nodded their heads unconvinced. I even think I heard one of them, the tallest and lankiest, whisper something similar to another that he feared for his life.

I stifled the urge to snort and began to explore the room I was in with my eyes. Yoongi had taken me to the small apartment where he said he was living. It wasn't very big or small, it was the perfect size for two people to live comfortably.

The problem is that it was inhabited by seven and that's why it looked tiny. There were things cluttering every space and the neatness, well, it left a lot to be desired. It was a never-ending mess, underwear everywhere, a huge pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, the cushions in the living room were lying on the wooden floor, and the bedrooms…

I felt a chill as I looked at everything in detail. And an immense curiosity overshadowed that spasm when in my field of vision appeared the sixth boy who had been left out of the dry presentation that was given to me.

He beat me by a few centimeters in height, his hair was as black as the… What do I know, the blackest black hole in the galaxy? And equally dark, round eyes that watched me with a certain fear. I was amused to see the feeling heightened when he saw me move in his direction.

“Am I scary?” That was the first thing that came out of my mouth when I was a measly thirty centimeters away from the boy.

I didn't need a verbal response because his body gave him away. He took a few steps back from me, and his voice trembled as he uselessly shook his head:

“No, you're not scary”. Yes, credible.

I chuckled and took the steps he had taken back. This time he stayed in place and when he scanned my face, I could see something else in his half-slaughtered lamb eyes. He wasn't afraid of me for being me, unlike the other lanky guy, he was afraid of me just for being a girl.

And I confirmed it when I extended my hand to him in a friendly way to introduce ourselves properly.

“You heard that my name is Hanna, tell me your name” He looked at me full of insecurity, nervous “Go on, tell me”.

His lips cocked into a grimace, but he ended up going along with me.

"My name is Jungkook," he muttered, clasping our limbs loosely.

“Ah, do you see? It wasn't that hard,” I squeezed his hand tightly before letting go. “You don't have to fear, I don't bite and when I do, it's usually in a fight”.

He was petrified and I began to wonder if Bambi's little eyes lacked humor, because he didn't laugh at the joke that moments later, I had to clarify. That seemed to relieve him.

I was relieved that after that awkward exchange, and as the days went by that I shared with the group of boys, Jungkook became my person; We were the same age, had an intense taste in common for banana milk, and had the same revulsion for the subject of English. We were both similar teenagers living completely opposite lives.

But it was part of what brought us closer together.

When I was in high school, so did Jungkook. In the evenings, when we were supposed to be doing our homework, he was rehearsing some new choreography, a new song, recording something in the studio or composing. And I went with him.

Seen from the outside point of view, the situation could be understood to mean that I was the one who did not leave the boy alone. But seen from my perspective, he was the one who wouldn't let me leave his side. And I wasn't complaining.

He would call me on the phone every morning while we were on our way to school, ask me to stop by the agency (with which he and the other six boys, including my cousin, had signed to start their artistic career) in the afternoons, on weekends he would invite me to his dorm room to do absolutely nothing together or on the contrary, help you clean up all the clutter accumulated in the place. I agreed to everything without hesitation or thinking too much, because I liked it.

Jungkook seemed to enjoy my company and I enjoyed his. I enjoyed and rejoiced in the feeling of feeling indispensable to someone. To even be pleasing in the eyes of another human being.

While I was with him, the problematic Hanami, the one with the worst grades, the useless one with no future, and any negative qualifying adjective with which I had been described before, disappeared. And in contrast, I turned into a bunch of other brilliant, beautiful adjectives.

Being with Jungkook, it was Hanami who was wise, Hanami who - proudly - could eat more than three servings of gimbap, it was Hanami who was the expert in movies and in making the wittiest jokes.

It made me feel like the sun when it was, indeed, the moon. Jeon was the planet earth around which I revolved.

“If she asks you out again, say no,” I raised my hand in the air when the jet-haired man meant to speak. “She threw you lunch a few days ago, it's all clear”.

Nothing was clear to the one-eyed Bambi and he let me know.

“It was an accident, she apologized to me and then offered to share her own. I don't see the problem”. He crossed his arms while dumbfounded.

“Realize, Jungkook! She did it on purpose to make what you just told me happen. She likes you!” I covered my mouth with both hands after I shouted the undeniable truth.

Jeon only raised both eyebrows, but he didn't even flinch, unlike me.

We had been talking for at least forty minutes about a girl in his class who had spent the previous weeks harassing my friend, who, being excessively kind and typical of him, had not dared to send her to… far, far away. He didn't stop and that day, as I remember, she asked him out.

I objected to his acquiescence, and Jungkook would not budge or be willing to follow my advice.

“She likes me, isn't that reason enough to go out together?"

I snorted, stressed. Another way Jeon and I were similar was how stubborn we occasionally were. We stood firm with our decisions until the end.

I was about to roll my eyes one last time when the most timely and juicy idea crossed my mind.

“Okay. If you agree to go out with your partner, I'll ask Taehyung to go on a date.” The roles of who was the most indignant and in disagreement were reversed, it was I who was now watching with disbelief and despair.

“And why Taehyung, Hanami?!” In short, I got him out of his boxes, there were few times when he called me by my full name. “Think again, you fool!”

I let go of the grip on my shoulders, just as I had grabbed him seconds before, and pretended to think, as if weighing his request.

“Nope. If I'm going to date anyone, I want it to be with Tae. Have you seen it? He's funny and he has good taste in music,” Jungkook pretended to vomit at my feet after hearing the way I described his friend and partner.

Just as I refused to let my best friend go out with that bullie, Jeon refused to visualize a reality in which I had anything to do with the younger Kim's. As he once explained to me, one of the many in which I joked that I liked Tae, said that it would be strange and that if things went wrong between me and the square-smiled boy, I wouldn't be able to take sides.

“Go out with anyone else but not Taehyung, please” he complained in a chant, shaking my arms.

I don't know if it was the work of the wise universe or a coincidence, but while Jungkook threw his tantrum begging him to find another candidate to go out, my first supposed choice appeared in the practice room we were in.

He was wearing black sweatpants and a white sleeveless shirt that was noticeably larger and made him look smaller than he actually was.

He stood behind Jungkook, who, in his temper tantrum, did not notice the grimaces of displeasure that Kim directed at him. It was inevitable to let out a laugh when Taehyung made a face that I thought was funny.

“Do you still dare to laugh…?”

“Leave Hannini alone, Jungkook,” Tae interrupted, pushing aside the man and passing an arm around my shoulders in a friendly manner. “I told you you should be my best friend, but you refused”.

It was common for Taehyung to spontaneously show up and start talking about anything, joking and jumping from topic to topic every five seconds. It could be stunning at first. And it annoyed Jungkook that he hinted that he could be a better friend to me than he was.

“I just don't want to be your best friend, Taehyung,” he frowned. “I want us to go for a walk and hold hands”. I pulled his arm out of my arm and clasped our hands quickly.

I took him by surprise and saw that he was about to make a disgusted face, but I gave him a squeeze and surreptitiously looked at the round-eyed man who was looking at us without believing my audacity.

He picked up on my true intentions, relaxed, and played along.

“Oh my dear Hanna, you don't know the joy that fills my heart when I hear you say these beautiful words.” Drama was Taehyung's middle name, though I attributed that drama to a behavior learned from the eldest within his group.

The hand we were holding became on his chest for a few seconds before Jungkook slapped it away. He was outraged, furious and… He looked too cute like that.

“Yah, you're not going out anywhere together!” The youngest of the three of us tugged at my hand and pulled me quickly away from Tae, who could barely contain his mocking laughter. “Stop bothering me, both of you”.

As expected, we did the opposite. Taehyung looked at me and I looked at him, then we looked at Jungkook and our fit of laughter erupted. At that age we used to laugh a lot at the expense of Bambi's little eyes, probably because he was funny without even trying and he wasn't aware of it.

What I'm well aware of is that this fifteen-year-old Jeon Jungkook doesn't share the same feelings for me that the current Jungkook harbors.

“I don't like it, change it or something.”

I refrain from literally pulling the strands of my hair or shouting a whole string of insults at him and contrary to everything above that someone in my situation and with a sane mind would do, I offer him my most false but pleasant smile before in a calm tone, ask:

“What's not to your liking this time, huh? Because we've changed the track five times, your part of the lyrics three times and the name twice.”

Most of the time I love my job, it makes me feel fulfilled and with a reason to live, spending my time locked in the studio making musical arrangements, composing side by side with other people and helping in the recording of new songs satisfies me. And I never thought I would become one of those people who hates to work because that's precisely why I had chosen to dedicate myself to this, because no one can be unhappy if they earn money doing something they love.

But I was wrong, I've been hating with every inch of my body and heart, working. The last three months have been horrible and all I want is to be fired, to be fired without a chance to come back even if I beg, because I wouldn't. If I do beg, it will be for them to change the group from which they put me as the main producer.

“And I'm still not convinced one bit, despite all the changes you mentioned,” Jungkook says cynically. I want to punch him “It doesn't matter, I think we'll have to do everything from scratch.”

I'm going to punch him, I'm going to take his head in my hands, and I'm going to smash it against the computer keyboard until he thinks about the great stupidity he just spouted so lightly.

I'm about to open my mouth and probably ruin my short but flawless career as a producer when the studio door is suddenly opened and a certain twenty-something saves me from being unemployed.

“Hanni, the food has arrived, let's eat because I feel like I'm out of my mind- Oh, sorry for interrupting!” When Yeonjun realizes who I'm with, he doesn't take long to bow several times to apologize “You can also come and eat with us, hyung”.

I give the turquoise-haired man a disapproving look and he gives it back to me. Yeonjun doesn't understand why I claim that Jungkook doesn't like me and I don't understand why he just invited him to eat with us when these last few months I've repeated to him ad nauseam that I feel some discomfort around him.

Both are half-truths, of course. But I also can't tell Choi that one of his idols and I have known each other since we were stupid teenagers - more him than me - and that the reason he knows and claims that he doesn't like me is because that's exactly what happens.

Jeon Jungkook hates me, he's not happy that we've met again after years of not hearing anything from me and I completely understand.

© 2023. Please do not translate or upload to another platform, it's already on Wattpad.

[sitp-recs]

Hey you do you know any drarry fics in which Draco is dealing with internalized homophobia as in believes himself to be straight (and not not being out as a gay, couse that one I see often)

Hello! I know a few, although I think that one is a bit tricky because it’s often intertwined with closeted Draco and/or external pressure for him to get married. I hope these work for you:

Born Sick by orphan_account and Writcraft (M, 6k)

Draco has been raised to believe homosexuality is a sin. When he encounters an out and proud Harry Potter, his world turns upside down. He is forced to question his beliefs, his values and himself.

Only A Kiss by @writcraft (E, 10k)

Sometimes it's only a kiss, but rarely, if ever, is it that simple.

Common and Cliché by bryoneybrynn (E, 17k)

Aurors Malfoy and Potter have to work a case on Beltane. It would be simple if everything wasn't so damn distracting.... For those of you who are wondering, yes, I've tried to cram in as many h/d clichés as possible. But hopefully the story works as a story, too. It's not crack!fic by a long shot but it is a bit tongue-in-cheek.

Vanishing Cabinets by @romaine2424 (E, 18k)

Take one Wizarding Family Values politician who has a secret life, and add one Auror who detests discrimination of any type, but becomes a bit obsessed with said politician, and you have enough sparks to ignite a Beltane fire. (EWE)

Don't Stop It Before It Begins by mischieviolet (M, 19k)

“I don’t understand how this is of any concern to you, Malfoy,” Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest. Draco blinked at the use of his last name, something that Harry only used with him in jest these days. “I’m merely spending time with my Auror partner, who is from another country, and has no one here. I would do the same if it were you.”

The Partner, The Rival and The Very Big Case by oceaxe (E, 24k)

When Harry and Nott are paired up to go undercover as fake boyfriends, Draco is disappointed not to get the assignment. It's just professional jealousy that's making him feel so upset. Obviously. He's engaged to be married to Astoria, after all.

All Roads by korlaena (M, 36k)

Draco hates his job at the Prophet. He hates it even more when he’s assigned to write an article on Harry Potter, who left the country three years ago after their falling out. Draco doesn’t want to face the truth about himself, but he’s stuck between Harry and his duty, and he’s out of options.

[insipid-drivel]

slow inhale

Inverted crosses and crucifixes are not “iconic symbols of Satanism”!!!

The above image? 100% holy. Totally canonical. Has absolutely NOTHING to do with Satan, Lucifer, or “The Devil”. It’s called the Petrine Cross aka The Cross of Saint Peter and is a symbol of piety, humility, deference, and martyrdom particularly to Jesus Christ (not necessarily his other canonical phases of existence) and his relationship with the Pope. It’s also one of the symbols most closely associated with The Pope.

It is one of the main reasons I can’t take exorcist and demon-themed horror movies seriously ever. Not because I’m a polytheistic soul-selling Bandrui (those things are true but they’re not why), but because it’s a continuity error! A hilarious one if you think about it! The demon is just showing how much the characters really don’t understand about the religion they’re espousing in the movie!

So, why would St. Peter be associated with something that, for all intents and purposes, we visually associate with something that is backwards from Christianity or whatever “holiness” means? Because, like Jesus, St. Peter was also crucified, or at least that is the version of St. Peter’s story that is considered most canonical. In truth, stories about St. Peter that still exist date back only as late as 200 AD with the apocryphal “Acts of Peter”. Whether or not the upside down part of the story was canonical hasn’t been determined with any real certainty, but it was the version told by this guy:

Origen of Alexandria! Origen was largely considered one of the greatest early Christian luminaries, scholars, philosophers, poets, and all-around book nerds and is the primary source for the whole “St. Peter was crucified upside down” story, inspiring Renaissance masterworks like this little number by Caravaggio:

“Crucifixion Of Saint Peter”

Origen’s popularized telling of the tragic demise of St. Peter makes a big deal about the story-canonical feature that St. Peter insisted upon being crucified upside-down because he didn’t feel worthy to emulate the same, now-iconic crucifixion of Jesus.

So how did the Petrine Cross become a symbol associated with Satanism?

France.

Well, not all of it, but France was involved. In the early 19th century, a cult leader by the name of Eugène Vintras insisted that he was the reincarnation of the Prophet Elijah. Aside from that, he also practiced necromancy (which is the art of cavorting with DEMONS, not corpses for the love of my blackened, shriveled occultist heart) and was commonly seen wearing robes and symbols depicting the Petrine Cross.

In comes This Guy:

Éliphas Lévi was another famous 19th century French Occultist (after leaving the Catholic priesthood when he was in his 20′s to get drunk and listen to metal or something) who took one look at, and presumably all surviving sketches of  Eugène Vintras, saw his regalia of Petrine crosses, and wrote the literally-damning words that for wearing his inverted crosses, Vintras’ satanic leanings were obvious.

After Éliphas Lévi wrote about Vintras’ wearing of the Petrine Cross and Satanic preferences, the inverted cross gradually became more and more associated with anti-religion movements and, of course, Satanism. The final nail in the Apocryphal Iconography Crucifixion came in the 1960′s-1980′s with the dawn of the horror movie franchise and the rise of the Satanic Panic, a mass hysteria movement that had to be debunked by the FBI where young people and children were convinced by their therapists during hypnotherapy sessions that they had been the subjects of Satanic rituals at the hands of the parents/guardians at very young ages that never happened, destroyed families, left countless people traumatized. FBI agent Kenneth Lanning went on to publish what’s commonly referred to as “The Lanning Report” to debunk the claims of abuse and lambast the therapist that started the panic in the first place.

If you want to really rock like a Satanist, consider donating stuff like feminine hygiene products to your local Planned Parenthood ;)

[theotherackerman]

COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: Any recognizable elements belong to Attack on Titan, Game of Thrones, House of the Dragon, A Song of Ice and Fire

NOTES: CHECK THOSE TRIGGER WARNINGS! Reminder: Mikasa is grieving. Grief makes you do things you might not do otherwise. I hope this answers a good amount of your questions. Also a reminder that this is not a 1 to 1 on Game of Thrones or House of the Dragon. There will be major things and it does not follow the exact plot. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy all 33 google doc pages!

TRIGGER WARNING: Attempted suicide, war, vague references to trafficking, death on the page

CHAPTER TEN: THE END OF A DECADE BUT THE START OF AN AGE

Not many people thought of dragons as a comfort. Most found them to be terrifying. 

The dragons were where Mikasa had received her most comfort. 

Meadow had taken to following Mikasa and Kayda on their walks through the garden. The larger dragon flew overhead, keeping his watch. 

When Mikasa finally felt strong enough to fly on Kayda again, Meadow had followed them into the sky. 

“I have a feeling I know what Keiran’s last command was,” Levi replied one night over dinner. 

Mikasa raised an eyebrow. 

“Mīsagon tala,” Levi replied.”I would have given Vulcan the same command had I been in his position.” 

Protect daughter or defend daughter was the likely translation. 

“He should have done it himself,” Mikasa muttered under her breath. 

Sasha rested a hand on Mikasa’s shoulder.

The guilt and anger had not left Mikasa. 

The information her mother had given her had been useless to her.

Why did she need to know that her mother was a kinslayer? 

Yui had readily sacrificed her son, her sister, and her husband.

 For what? 

To push the Tyburs back? 

For how long? 

What was to stop them from coming back? 

What was she to do with the information her mother gave her?

Information that made little sense. 

Her mother hadn’t spent much time with her when she was alive so why should Mikasa care about this woman? Why was she grieving someone who didn’t give enough of a fuck about her to even write her a damn letter after her mother left her here? After years of pushing Mikasa away, this was what her mother left with her. Something about songs and sacrifices. Fire and ice lashing from Mikasa’s body never to be seen again. No matter how many times Mikasa called upon it. 

Useless.

Mikasa wished her mother would have left her nothing rather than riddles. 

There was this sinking feeling that Yui had unleashed something inside of Mikasa. The blood, the kinslaying, that had been done in Mikasa’s name. 

After pushing her food around her plate, Mikasa excused herself from the table. 

Food wasn’t sitting right. 

She wondered if it ever would again. 

It was a few days later when Mikasa found herself alone in the library. 

Something had drawn her there. 

A book was open on one of the tables. 

The Doom of Valyria was the title of the chapter.

A drawing of a volcano erupting took up most of the page.

Mikasa frowned as she began to read. 

The Doom of Valyria was an event like no other. 

First Valyria broke away from the continent, becoming its own island. Some say the blood magic harassed to allow the dragon riders to tame dragons caused this. In magic, there is give and take. 

Few Houses fled from Valyrian due to most writing off a prophetic dream being nothing more than madness. 

The Houses that fled from Valyrian ended up in the North of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Mikasa turned the page to find out the next page of the book had been ripped out. 

There were other Dragon Lord families in the North? 

Who were they? 

Who had ripped out the page? 

Mikasa frowned as she began to flip through the book. 

Blood Betrayal

Kinslaying is the worst sin a person can commit. 

It derails the very law of nature and leads to grave consequences. 

The Amethyst Empress was slew by her own brother, the Bloodstone Emperor. He was jealous of his sister’s crown and decided to take it instead for himself. 

This ushered in the Long Night.

While this is not confirmed, one thing is known for sure. 

Killing one’s own kin will lead to great and powerful magic that cannot be contained. It will mar one’s soul and should not be done for no other reason that it simply goes against nature. It is held as sacred as Guest Rights. One does not allow someone into their house only to slay them. One does not slay one’s kin. 

The magic unleashed will be dark. 

And magic will claim what it is owed. 

Mikasa slammed the book shut, only to see the cover. 

Notes IV: 

Yui Azumibito 

It took all of Mikasa’s power not to throw the book at the wall. 

Why was she even here? 

Then again, there wasn’t much she could do. 

Sasha was in the forge. 

Levi was in meetings with the minor houses.

Annie was helping load supplies to go to the Capitol. 

When Mikasa had tried to help, she had been pushed away. 

People citing her “illness” as the reason why. 

Illness. 

Right. 

That’s what people had thought had happened to her. 

“Mother, what did you do?” Mikasa asked herself as she picked the book up again. She opened the book up to a random page. 

Azumbito and Ackerman families both come from old magic. 

Though they are not the only ones. 

The Jaeger family has strong ties to being skinchangers, specifically Wargs.

Wargs: a skinchanger who can enter the mind of a wolf or a dog. 

The Jaeger family is also known to have Greenseers, experiencing prophetic dreams, also known as Greensight. 

Only one in one thousand is a Skinchanger.

Only one in one thousand Skinchangers is a Greenseer. 

Though it seems in recent years, the number has gone up. It is as if magic is preparing itself for a fight. 

I have noticed that most descriptions of Greenseers state that they have bright green eyes. 

The Ackerman family also has a history of prophetic dreams. They refer to these dreams as “dragon dreams.” 

The original families in the Seven Kingdoms seemed to all have connections to some sort of skinchanging and elemental connection. I do not know what this means as magic has not been present in the Seven Kingdoms since something to do with a Stone Deceiver. Any information on this “Stone Deceiver” cannot be found. 

Whatever it was has caused an unnatural balance in the Seven Kingdoms and I wonder how long this can go on until the magic fights back. 

“How about you explain to me what you did instead of rambling on? None of this is helpful,” Mikasa said to no one specific as she turned the page.

Bloodmagic

Requires blood

“Oh. I would have never guessed. Bloodmagic requires blood,” Mikasa snorted before reading on. 

and sacrifice. 

It is considered the darkest of magic, the most powerful. 

Azor Ashai plunged his sword into Nissa Nissa’s heart to create Lightbringer and end the Long Night. 

The Dragonlords of Valyria used bloodmagic to bind their magic to them. 

The Ackermans has a long history of using 

The bottom of the page was torn. 

Frustrated, Mikasa snatched the book up and stormed out of the library. 

She walked straight into Levi’s office, thankfully no one else was in there beside Levi. 

With all of her strength, she tossed the book at Levi’s head. 

Without even looking, Levi dodged to the side. 

“Why did you rip the pages out?” Mikasa demanded. 

Levi looked up from his writing. “I didn’t rip any pages out. I don’t even know what you just hurled at my head besides its book.”

“It’s a book of my mother’s notes!” 

Levi stood up and picked the book up from the ground. He looked at the cover before flipping through it. 

“Oh. This. The pages were ripped out when I found it. I didn’t rip them out. In fact, the pages that would be helpful are the ones missing. If I had to guess, either your mother or Kenny tore them out. Now are you done throwing things?” 

“No. I want to know what’s going on.” 

“As would I. But apparently anyone who hasn’t had forty names days does not get to know. All I know is an ice sword was found. Tyburs may control the Others. That’s it. I know nothing else.  Grisha is very tight-lipped about whatever it is and Kenny is even worse.” 

“So am I just to accept the fact that I erupted into ice and fire? Will it happen again?” 

“That’s what I went looking for answers for. There’s none.” 

Mikasa sat down in the chair in front of Levi’s desk. “I’m tired of not knowing and just being expected to go along with whatever happens. Do you know how exhausting that is? I didn’t have a say in anything in my life. I had to stay here. I had to marry Zeke or Eren. I have to do all of these things for a woman who I don’t even know. A woman who did not care enough about me to tell me what happened to me, why it happened to me. I just have to accept it. Well, I can’t. I can’t sit here and pretend to be a princess anymore. I can’t do nothing anymore. What was I being trained for, if not to fight, to help?” 

Levi sat back down in his chair. “I’m not stopping you from fighting. By all means, fly off to war. But know what choice you’re making. It isn’t easy to end someone’s life. It’s not like the tales. You’ll have to make that choice. You are entirely in charge of your life now. Kiyomi’s son has already ascended the throne. You’re not their princess anymore. So you can live with no regrets but make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons. So fly off to war if glory is what you wish. You wouldn’t be the first Ackerman to do so. But do it for the right reasons. If you want to fight for something, maybe you should look at your betrothed.” 

Mikasa’s hands curled into fists. “Why? He won’t fight for me.”

Levi reached into his desk and pulled out several pieces of parchment with a wax seal of a wolf on it. “These came today. Kenny dropped these off early this morning during a supply run, they’re from Eren.”  He picked them up and held them out to Mikasa. “Looks like a letter for everyday since we sent word to the capitol that you were asleep, I’d say. I was going to give them to you once I was done with this letter.” 

Mikasa took the letters from Levi, holding them in her lap. Eren was the last thing she needed to think about. She was already conflicted with feelings about her family. Now she had this. She stood from her chair. “I’m going for a flight on Kayda,” she said as she walked out of the room. She needed to clear her head. There was no room for that on the ground. 

—--------------

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG! 

Sasha was the only one in the forge while others took an afternoon break.

“Is that the sword for Mikasa?” Annie asked as she walked up. 

Sasha looked up before nodding. “I’m finishing it now. I want her armed with Valyrian steel. Your daggers and sword are done if you want them.” 

“I’ll wait until we all have them,” Annie replied with a shrug. 

“Are you worried?” 

Annie shrugged again. “I’ve killed before, I know you have as well. War doesn’t scare me.” 

“Do you feel like we’re being kept in the dark?” 

Annie nodded, “Not by Mikasa. Not on purpose. Everyone else…..I think they still see us as children.” 

Sasha nodded in agreement. 

Kayda roared as she flew overhead, Mikasa on her back. Meadow flew behind them but did not echo the roar. 

“I don’t know if she should be flying so soon,” Sasha remarked.

“You can be the one to tell her that then,” Annie snorted. 

“You’re right. I just worry,” Sasha said as she looked to the sky. 

“I do too.” 

—----------

How much sleep had Hange lately?

When was the last time they slept? 

Kenny poked Hange in the shoulder with the end of his pipe as they nodded off during a war update. Hange sat up straighter.

Exhaustion would end up claiming them sooner or later. 

—------------------------------------------

“Stop flinching,” Connie told Armin as he stitched up his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” Armin muttered. 

“You should be wearing armor if no one else is,” Connie said as he began the next stitch. 

“I’m not wearing plate while the rest of you are in leather.”

“We’re replaceable.” 

“Not to me.” 

 “Keep saying shit like that, Armin, and we will start to think you’re fond of us,” Reiner snorted from the chair next to him as Bertolt was stitching up Reiner’s back. 

“How bad is it?” Armin asked Bertolt.

“It’s not bad. It doesn’t even hurt that bad,” Reiner answered as he chewed on willow bark. 

“He’ll live. He shouldn’t see the front lines for a bit,” Bertolt reported. “Neither should Colt.” 

“Where is Colt anyway?” Connie asked. 

“Passed out in Zeke’s room.”

“We’ll put Colt on night duty to guard Eren. Reiner can guard Zeke. I’m sure Hange will agree,” Armin ordered.

“You’re not taking me off the frontline, Armin,” Reiner hissed.

“You’re lower rank than me, Reiner. I make the calls. I need less dead. Marco, Marcel, Hannah, Ruth, and Thomas.”

“Fine, but I’m not going to be happy about it,” Reiner asked as he pulled his tunic back on.

Armin snorted, “wouldn’t expect anything less.”

—---------------

After dinner, Mikasa had retired to her room, the letters still in the pocket of her dress. 

She sat on her bed and pulled them out. 

Taking a deep breath, she popped the seal on the first letter. 

Mikasa, 

I have heard you have fallen ill. 

I hope you feel better soon. 

-E

Well, that was kind. 

She sat it to the side before opening the next letter.

Mikasa,

I hear that in addition to you being sick that you have lost your parents and brother. I offer my most sincere condolences. I cannot imagine what it is like to lose your entire family. Well, I suppose not your entire family. You still have Levi, Kenny, and Kuchel. I suppose soon you’ll have me. If you even want me. I’m sorry for how I’ve been. In my head, pushing you away was easier. Now the capitol is being attacked because of me. Not exactly because of me, I suppose. But things got worse with the Fritz Loyalists once I was crowned. My father will never admit it but I know it’s true. They didn’t care that he had a bastard, they cared that the bastard could be on the throne. Zeke has no interest in having children so I’m most likely to be heir. I don’t want that crown. 

That’s the first time I’ve said…well written that. 

This is me apologizing for the way I’ve acted towards you. I’m not very good with words. But I did it to protect you from my world. 

I’m sorry. 

-E

Mikasa sat the letter to the side before opening the next one. 

Mikasa,

What was that last letter? 

I’m glad I didn’t send it. 

I hear you’re sick, they say. 

You haven’t woken. 

I’m worried.

-E

Mikasa shook her head. He was worried? He could just apologize and think everything was right between them? 

He was just like her parents. 

Never thinking of her feelings. He was only apologizing because he felt guilty. Not because he realized he had done something wrong. He didn’t care about that apparently. He only cared about his feelings.

She didn’t bother to open the others. She took them and shoved them into her bedside table. 

There was so much anger in her right now.

Her parents, Eren, whoever had ripped the pages out of her mother’s book, they all made choices for her. They all wanted what they thought was best but never cared about Mikasa’s feelings. 

It was all about them.

She wanted to scream, break things. 

She was just so angry. 

Fuck them. 

Fuck them all. 

Her hands tingled. 

Looking down, Mikasa saw flames dancing across her knuckles.  She frowned and blinked. 

The flames were gone.

Had they even been there? 

No. 

She must just be tired. 

—————

The sound of Kayda chewing on a deer was not one Mikasa liked. She looked over at the dragon who was eating the burnt animal. 

Shaking her head, Mikasa returned to her mother’s journal. 

Sadly, it was things Mikasa already knew. 

More tales of the Long Night from other cultures. 

Tales of an Ice Dragon who befriended a girl, a story Mikasa had heard from Kuchel many times when Mikasa was younger. 

Turning the page, there were only three phrases.

The dragon must have three heads. 

The promised heir. 

A Song of Ice and Fire.

“Lovely more riddles,” Mikasa muttered as she leaned back against the bench. 

Kayda looked up from her deer. 

“Don’t suppose you know what the dragon must have three heads, the promised heir, and a song of ice and fire mean, do you?”

The dragon blinked and then went back to eating. 

A roar echoed overhead. 

The ground shook as Meadow joined them in the garden. He too had gone hunting. If Mikasa had to guess, that was a chard bull from a local farm that the dragon had in his talons. 

“Levi is going to have to pay for that,” Mikasa told the dragon as she turned the page. 

Meadow made eye contact with her, smoke coming out of his nose. 

Mikasa laughed before returning to reading.

Skagos Sygerrik

Stone Deceiver 

Rock Liar

Stone Liar

Rock Deceiver

None of this makes sense.

Location? 

Spell?

Curse?

Person? 

Mikasa looked up, sensing a pair of eyes on her. She looked around, trying to see if there was anyone.

She appeared completely alone besides the dragons. 

Kayda lifted her head, also examining the area. 

Meadow let out a low growl. 

Mikasa closed her book. 

Strange feelings were something not to be ignored so Mikasa made the choice to walked back to the castle. 

—--------

It had taken some getting used to having a warm body next to Jean all night. It had been going on for almost a fortnight now. 

He knew he needed to talk to her, figure out exactly what that meant. 

Bells were tolling. 

“Fuck,” he heard Pieck muttered. “Get up. We’re being called.” 

Jean rolled over to see Pieck pulling on her tunic and pants. 

“Get up!” She said as she pulled him to his feet. 

His pants were being shoved at him.

“So we’re not going to talk about this then?” he asked as he pulled on his pants. 

“War bells, Jean boy. War bells.” 

“Fuck,” Jean muttered as he dashed over to his room.

She was right. 

—-------------

It was the middle of the night. 

They were being attacked in the middle of the night. 

The bells pulled Eren from his bed. 

“Get back in there,” Colt had hissed at Eren when poked his head out into the hallway. 

“What’s going on?” 

“If I knew, I’d tell you.”

Eren narrowed his eyes. 

No, Colt wouldn’t. 

Eren went back into his room, sitting back down on his bed. 

Midnight didn’t make a sound. He just sat on his perch, watching, observing. 

Fenrir sat on the bed next to Eren on full alert. 

Eren would be safe. 

—-------------

Seaflames echoed a roar before releasing her flames. 

At this rate, Grisha was going to be King of Ashes. 

But what choice did he have? 

Dina and Carla were getting as many servants into the underground tunnels as possible while Kuchel and Kenny rode their dragons into battle. 

The rebels were not in the castle but Grisha wasn’t going to give them that chance. He pulled his sword from his belt and charged into battle with Valkyrja at his side.

He would not sit while others defended his kingdom a moment longer.

They would survive the night, even if he had to kill every person out there himself.

—---------

Smoke was drifting up from the ground and into Mikasa’s bedroom window.

“We’ve been attacked,” Levi announced as he came billowing into Mikasa’s bedroom, already dressed in his leather armor.. “They’ve set fire to several of the minor houses.” 

“What do you need from me?” Mikasa asked as she got out of bed. 

“Be on standby. Vulcan and I should be able to take care of this. If things get bad, I’ll need you and Kayda. You remember the command?” he asked as he double checked his sword.

Mikasa nodded. 

“Good. I’ll return. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” he warned her before he left the room. 

Mikasa dressed in her leathers quickly. Sasha and Annie came charging into her room, dressed in their armor. 

“What do you need from us?” Annie asked. 

“Guard the castle. Keep the servants safe. Sasha, take to the tower. You’ll have a better vantage point from there,” Mikasa commanded as she shoved her daggers into the sheaths on her legs. She fastened her sword inside its scabbard to run along her spine.

“I’ll finish your sword soon,”Sasha noted.

“It’s fine. I’ll be on Kayda. I doubt I’ll need it much anyway. Stay safe,” Mikasa ordered as she left her bedroom. 

All three women went their separate ways. 

Vulcan could be heard letting out a roar as he fled towards the fire. 

The courtyard was chaotic, everyone running which way. 

The knights barking out orders.

No one paid any attention as Mikasa ran  towards Kayda. 

She wondered if Meadow would follow her into battle. She had not tried to command the male dragon, though the thought crossed her mind. 

Stopping to figure out where exactly Kayda was, a cold metal blade was against her throat.

“There you are. If you scream, I will kill you. But before I kill you, I will do horrible things to you,” a voice whispered into her ear. 

Not thinking, Mikasa ran an elbow into her assailant’s stomach.

The man caught off guard, stumbled.

“I told you the bitch knew how to fight!” another man called out.

She saw there were at least ten men surrounding her.

Pulling her sword from her back, Mikasa stood up straight.

“We can always send her back to the prince in pieces,” the man chuckled.

They were all dressed in royal armor and helmets.

She had heard armor had been stolen from the capitol. This was that armor.

Charging at the one in front of her, Mikasa swiped her sword, knocking that man to the ground. She threw her elbow into the one who rushed at her from the right side. But the one on her left, she missed.

Tumbling to the ground, Mikasa lost hold on her sword. One of the men tried to climb on top of her but Mikasa was faster with the dagger. She ran along where the metal armor spilt above his breeches, cutting his stomach open. 

She pushed the body off of her as two men grabbed both of her arms. 

She trashed to try and get rid of their hold.

 “Skoriot?” the raspy voice echoed in her head just as it had the night she erupted. Where? It asked. 

She couldn’t answer as two hands jerked her shoulders. She let out a scream. She kicked but two men grabbed her legs. 

“We’ve got her,” the man who had put the knife to her throat replied. He leaned down, running a finger down her face. “Scarred but still pretty. We’ll ransom you to that bastard prince and then we’ll sell you to someone else. You know how much a girl like you goes for? Or maybe I’ll just send you back in pieces.” 

The men laughed as Mikasa thrashed again.

“No one’s going to save you,” the man laughed. “Bind her hands and feet. Then we’ll get her out of here. Don’t touch her. No one is to touch here.

The ground shook. 

Kayda came charging into the area. Immediately, the dragon grabbed one of the men who held Mikasa’s leg down by his head. Shaking the body, Kayda removed the man’s head from his body.

Mikasa used her other leg to kick the other man who held her other leg. The men holding her shoulders, let go of her and tried to get away. 

A dark shadow flew in front of the moon, blocking it. 

The green dragon landed, stopping the men from running. 

Meadow let out a roar as Kadya circled around to the back of the men. 

Mikasa sat on the ground, watching as the two dragons trapped the men. 

Meadow looked over Kadya’s shoulder to Mikasa.

Knowing what had to be done, Mikasa said the one word she had hoped she would never have to use in this way. 

“Dracarys,” she ordered. 

Kayda and Meadow let out a stream of fire while the men screamed in pain.

Mikasa didn’t cower or cover her ears. 

She just sat there until it was over. 

Once the men were deceased, the two dragons prowled over to her. 

Kayda nudged Mikasa with her head, getting under Mikasa’s shoulder, trying to get Mikasa to her feets. 

Meadow watched, snorted smoke. Then he blocked her view of the bodies before he also started nudging her. 

“Alright. I’ll get to my feet,” Mikasa replied as she stood up. 

This was not a conversation she wanted to have with Levi.

—--------

Somehow Eren had drifted off to sleep again and drifted into a dream.

Flying through the sky to reach Mikasa.

The command of dragonfire. 

Then Eren was being shaken awake. 

Sunlight filtered in from the outside. It was early morning.

“Mikasa was attacked in the North,” Colt reported. 

“What?” Eren asked as he threw the covers off. “Is she well? Is she hurt? Should I go there?”  In a flurry, Eren began pulling his tunic and breeches on. 

“She’s fine. Well, as fine as one can be. I don’t know much. I don’t think I’m supposed to know anything to be fair. Lord Ackerman spoke of it as he was going down the hall. He flew from The North to speak with the King,” Colt informed him. “But she is alive.” 

“What’s happening here?” 

“The King is speaking to Kuchel. They are discussing what’s to be done. The rebels are in the courtyard. I got moved in here with you to keep you safe. I’m to move you when I receive the command from Armin.” 

Eren nodded. Midnight flew down and landed on his shoulder while Fenrir stayed asleep on the bed. 

—-------------------------

“I will not be king of ashes, Kuchel!” Grisha roared as he stood from his chair. 

Zeke sat in his chair, drinking whatever awful wine that his father kept was. Levi leaned up against the wall while Kenny sat in the chair in front of Grisha’s desk. 

“They attacked my House, Grisha! I demand justice. I demand justice in blood,” Kuchel growled as she prowled forward and knocked the chair she had been sitting in over.

“And I demand my people be safe!” Grisha screamed.

“Do it,” Carla said from her seat on one side of Grisha.

Everyone in the room looked towards her. 

“What?” Dina asked.

“Do it. Kuchel, go out there and burn every rebel you find. That’s an order from the Queen,” Carla said as she stood. 

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Grisha asked her.

“Being a Queen. I am tired of watching our son’s friends die. Now Mikasa has been attacked? Because of what? We weren’t married before Eren was born? I’m tired, Grisha.”

“So we just kill anyone who doesn’t agree with us!” Grisha threw his hands up. 

“You did it first,” Dina challenged. 

“No, I did it because they took you,” Grish said as he turned towards his other wife sitting in a chair. 

“And after you won, you got rid of those who didn’t support you. What is the point, Grisha? What do we win? I think he is right. We take our people, we go North. We go home. Let them have the damn capitol. The North can stand on its own.” 

Grisha shook his head.

“Is that throne worth it? Is it? Because there are more important things going on. We would be safe in the North. Or we were. Until this happened.” 

“They were in your armor. That’s how they got through. No one questioned them,” Levi reported.

“I won’t run. That’s final,” Grisha stated. 

“Then you are a fool,” Dina said as she stood.

“They tried to kill Mikasa!” Levi pushed off of the wall and watched towards Grisha. “My heir. Your son’s betrothed. The only reason the Ten Kingdoms will not break their trade and support is because of her. The dragons burnt the attackers. They died screaming. I don’t feel a bit sorry for them.”

“It’s gone too far, Grisha,” Kenny reported. 

“I think you’re forgetting your place,” Grisha stood straighter. 

Zeke ripped the crown off of his father’s head and tossed it across the room. 

Everyone fell still. 

Grisha started at Zeke. 

“Eren doesn’t want the throne. I do not want the throne. I do not care about some fucking chair made from dragon fire and swords. They’ve attacked the North. The North. No one has been stupid enough to do that. They’re getting bold. And now we will all suffer because you let your pride take control,” Zeke stared at his father down. 

“There is more going on than you could ever understand,” Grisha replied.

“You could try explaining it to me instead of keeping me in the dark! I’m your heir and half the time, you act like I do not exist. I never wanted this! I never wanted to be a prince, to be paraded around to different women for a political alliance. I told you Eren should have married Mikasa once we were in the North. I told you neither of us had any desire to take the throne. But you did not listen. You never listen! You know I envy Levi because a dead father is better than one who is a king. I don’t have a father, I have that fucking crown.” Zeke stormed out of the room, slamming the down behind him. 

The wall shook. 

No one moved. 

No one said anything. 

Time passed slowly as everyone was frozen in time.

“Kuchel, do what you need to,” Dina spoke. 

Kuchel nodded before she left the room. 

“I’ll go check on our son,” Dina dismissed herself from the room. 

Carla looked at Grisha before following Dina out. 

“I’ll go out to the front lines. I’ll help Hange. See if there’s anyone with information that they want me to extract,” Levi left the room without another word.

Kenny looked at Grisha. 

Grisha looked at Kenny. 

“Why did you put me on this fucking throne?” Grisha asked as he collapsed into the chair, rubbing his temples.

“I wasn’t going to take the fucking thing. You can’t continue to be soft of these people,” Kenny said as he pulled his pipe out of his pocket. 

“So I am to be a king of ashes.” 

“I’m not saying go burn the whole capitol to a crisp. I’m not talking about the elderly, the children, or the innocent. I’m talking about those who continue to try and kill us. I know you want to give them mercy but you’ve given enough. Now it’s affecting my house, my family. I can’t allow that, Grisha. You know that. They could have done a lot worse to Mikasa. They almost did.” 

Grisha sat forward, ran his hands through his hair. “I know.”

“No one said the crown was a light thing to wear.” 

Grisha nodded. “Do what you need to.”

Kenny nodded before leaving. 

—-----------------------------

Eren ended up falling back asleep again. 

He was somewhere in black abyss. 

“Dohaerās,” a raspy voice called.

“Dohaerās,” the same voice repeated.

“Dohaerās.” It echoed again.

“Dohaerās.” And Again.

“Dohaerās.” And again

“Dohaerās.” and again. 

“Zaldrīzes rȳbus, lo mērī udrirzi Valyrio eglio ȳdrassua,” the voice  said. 

“Dohaerās.”

“Dohaerās.”

Then Eren was shaken awake again. 

“You speak Valyrian?” Zeke asked him as he stood over him. 

“What?” Eren asked as he sat up. 

“Valyrian. You were speaking it. What were you dreaming about?” Zeke asked as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I….I don’t remember. What was I saying?” Eren ran a hand through his hair. 

“Something with a D. The only Valyrian word I know is dracarys because that’s what the Ackermans shout before the dragon’s release their fire. It wasn’t that.”  

“What are you doing in my room anyway? I thought father was keeping us separate.”

“Nice to see you too, little brother. We’re safe for now. Kuchel, Kenny, and Levi are out there.” 

“Is Mikasa here?” 

Zeke shook his head. “She’s very….she was attacked.”

“I know. Colt overheard Levi and came to tell me. I have fallen asleep twice since then. I haven’t been sleeping well. Even when I do sleep, it doesn’t feel like I’ve rested.”

“They’re dead. Her attackers. Kayda and her father’s dragon took care of them.” 

“That’s good. Because I would have killed them myself.” 

“I don’t doubt that. I’m thinking…I’m thinking of asking father to send us North. We take our friends. I just…I don’t want to be here anymore. I can do more in the North. Hell, I’ll guard Mikasa myself.” 

“I don’t know if she’ll want to see me.” Eren looked down. 

It was his own doing. He knew that. Even if she did get his letters, there was no guaranteeing that she would forgive him. 

“She will. Maybe you should do something for her.” 

“I wrote her letters.”

“But did you really do that for her or for yourself?”

“Fine, what should I do then?” 

“I don’t know,” Zeke shrugged. 

“A lot of help you are.” 

“Though I do know of someone we could ask,” Zeke grinned. 

—-----------------

The dragons were taking care of the capitol. 

Pieck was exhausted. 

She had a new wound on her shoulder that Jean was stitching up when Zeke bursted into her room. 

Zeke gave her a knowing look. 

“You might knock,” Pieck scoffed. “I’ve got my tits out and your brother is redder than a rooster.” 

Eren was looking at the floor avoiding eye contact. 

“I’m almost done,” Jean said as he stabbed the needle through her flesh. 

“And how much have you had to drink?” Zeke asked. 

“Not that much,” Pieck muttered as she looked down. 

“She’s good at getting stitches,” Jean replied. 

“Should I be here? I feel like I shouldn’t be here. Being betrothed and all,” Eren said as he turned his back facing Pieck. 

“Pieck doesn’t count. She’s practically family,” Zeke said. “I have a question for you.” 

“Yes, I’ve been sleeping with Jean. Well, sometimes sleeping,” Pieck answered with a shrug.

“Stop moving,” Jean commented. 

“What?” Eren asked as he still faced the door. 

“Not the first question I was going to ask but….” Zeke trailed off. 

“Fine. What is it?” Pieck asked. 

“What can Eren do to make up for what he’s done to Mikasa?” 

“Oh I am the wrong person to ask for that.”

“Why? You're a woman. You know things.” 

“Glad you noticed!”

“You know what I mean.” 

“And what I mean is every girl is different. What would be meaningful to me, might not be meaningful to Mikasa. If you truly want to make things up to her, do something for her. Something from your heart.” 

“I’m done,” Jean said as he cut the thread from the needle. 

Pieck pulled her tunic on. “It’s safe to look, Eren. I’m all covered now.” 

Eren turned around. “I don’t know what to do. Zeke gave me the same advice. I…” 

“Learn Valyrian,” Jean said as he put the needle on Pieck’s bedside table. 

“What?”

“Valyrian. Mikasa speaks Valyrian. Her whole family does. Surprise her. Learn a few phrases. It’s what I would do.” 

Eren narrowed his eyes at Jean. “Do you speak Valyrian?” 

Jean scoffed before answering, “kessa.” 

“I don’t know what it means.”

“It means yes but not a lot. I only know what little basics I picked up from Hange. I know yes, no, hello, and goodbye. I was hoping to impress the Princess with them. I don’t need to anymore.”

“So I’m taking your shitty idea?”

“I’m just trying to help you. If you don’t want it, fine. But that’s what I would do.”

“I don’t know what to do!” 

“Well figure it out!” 

“What my brother means is that is a wonderful idea and he’ll keep that in mind,” Zeke said as he steered Eren towards the door. “You and I will talk later,” he smirked at Pieck as the princes exited the room. 

“He’s going to be insufferable now,” Pieck groaned as she sat down on her bed. 

“Why?” Jean asked as he sat down next to her. 

“Because he’s been saying I have feelings for you.”

“Do you care that he knows?” 

Pieck shrugged, “not anymore. I…I….we could die tomorrow. I don’t want to live with regrets.” 

Jean nodded. “So you want me to go then?” 

“I thought you were supposed to be smart. No, I’m telling you, I don’t regret this. I don’t know what we’re doing. If it’s courting or something else, but I like being around you. Have you have my back. When Marcel died….” Pieck closed her eyes. 

Jean pulled her to him. “I know.”

“And you lost Marco…”

Jean closed his eyes. 

“And I don’t know who will be next. I don’t want to lose anyone else.” 

Jean nodded as he just held her. 

——————

The dragon egg mocked Mikasa. 

The damn thing had never hatched. 

It had been inside of Meadow’s saddle that he finally allowed Mikasa to take off. 

So now the egg sat on her bedside table. 

She had been told her brother had carried it with him everywhere. 

Yet on that night, she had not seen him with it. 

“Why didn’t you hatch?” She asked the egg like it would answer. 

The egg remained still and unmoving. 

Useless.

Like everything else her parents had sent her. 

—————

“Send the boys to the North. We’ll compromise,” Kenny said as he released a puff of smoke. 

“My wives talked you into asking me that,” Grisha noted.

“They didn’t say anything to me. I’m saying what makes sense. We send your boys to the North. Levi can watch them from above when they make the trip. They get to the North where they’ll be safe. That way if things go to shit here and you do decide to run, I only have three wolves and three people to worry about instead of five people and five wolves.”

“And what will my people think?” 

“They’ll think you’re helping to support your son’s future marriage. He’s getting to know his future wife, his brother is his chaperon. You were sent to stay with us for a time.”

“I remember. If I do, I want all their friends sent with them. A full guard detail.”

Kenny nodded, “most of them are Northerns anyway. Do you think your wives will agree?” 

Grisha considered it for a moment. “I think they’ll see it for what it truly is. No matter what we tell anyone else.”

“Kuchel and I will remain here for as long as we need to, you know.” 

Grisha nodded. 

—----------------------

Screams came from the dungeon. 

“Who sent you?” Hange asked the man chained to the board in the dungeon. 

“I’ll never tell you,” the man replied before he spat blood onto the floor. 

“I see your interrogation is going well,” Levi said as he leaned in the doorway.

“His name is Duran. That’s all I’ve got from him. Thank you for procuring him for me,” Hange said as they picked up the knife. 

“You should thank Vulcan. He grabbed him. How did those talons feel?” Levi asked as he entered the room. 

“Fuck you,” Duran spat blood in Hange’s face.

Levi stormed in and grabbed Duran by the throat. “I say we just give him to Vulcan to eat.” 

Hange grabbed a rag and wiped the blood from their face. “Hear that Duran? We’ll feed you to the dragons.” 

“I don’t care. No matter what you do to me, the real ruler of the Seven Kingdoms will come and sit on the throne. House Fritz will be restored to its former glory.” 

“Dragon?” Levi asked again as his grip tightened on Duran’s neck. 

Hange nodded. 

—---------------------

Seeing Vulcan up close, Hange controlled themself. 

The dragon was massive, not quite as massive as Seaflames. Only slightly smaller than Blaze but he was a beast. 

The dragon nipped at passers by who paid him too much attention. Hange had heard the dragon liked to bite. 

The dragon’s eyes locked on Hange who was unabashedly staring at him. 

“You're a beautiful dragon, aren’t you?” Hange spoke. 

Vulcan’s chest puffed up. 

“You keep talking to him like that it’ll go to his head,” Levi muttered as he waved the dragon closer. 

“He can’t understand me. Zaldrīzes rȳbus, lo mērī udrirzi Valyrio eglio ȳdrassua.” 

Levi scoffed, “yes. A dragon only listens when you speak in Valyrian meaning he only listens to commands in Valyrian. It doesn’t mean he only understands Valyrian. Trust me, that dragon understands Common just fine.”

“Where does his name come from?” Hange asked as the dragon stood in front of them. 

“An old, old language that no longer exists. We only have some remnants in our books from Valyria. Vulcan was a god of fire.”

“And Kayda?”

“A less common language in the Ten Kingdoms. It means little dragon. Erwin mentioned you were interested in dragons,” Levi adjusted Vulcan’s saddle. 

“I’m interested in anything to do with magic. I find it fanasting. The whole kingdom was built on magic. Then suddenly it was gone. No one who lives now understands how and why. Yet the Ackerman family still has their ties to their dragons, the Jaegers to their wolves. The rest of us are left without any magic at all.” 

“If I told you something in confidence, would you have to tell the King?” Levi asked as he began to walk towards the dragon pit. 

Hange cocked their head to the side before following him. “Would it put the King in harm’s way?”

“Not at all.”

“Would this be something you’d normally ask Erwin about?” 

Levi nodded. 

“Then you could ask me.” 

Levi nodded as he continued to walk towards the Dragon Pit. 

Hange tried to rack their mind for what Levi could possibly want to ask them about. Clearly, it was related to magic. Did Levi know more about magic than he let on? Possibly. Then again, if he needed to ask Erwin or Hange about it, then maybe he didn’t. 

Perhaps Levi was just as clueless about certain things as Hange was. No amount of research had brought Hange any closer to knowing why magic was suddenly gone. 

Once inside the dragonpit, Levi turned and faced Hange. 

“I tell you this in confidence because you were Erwin’s…..I feel as if there is no one else I can ask this too. My cousin, Mikasa, erupted with such power, magic power I’ve never seen. There were flames, ice. They just shot out of her body. She didn’t burn. Then she was….asleep for weeks. I didn’t know if she was ever going to wake again.”

Magic. 

Mikasa had magic. 

It wasn’t dead.

There was some way Mikasa had been able to generate magic. 

“Well, say something,” Levi commanded. 

“I’m sorry. I’m a bit….the fire isn’t surprising. But ice? I’ve never heard of an Ackerman with ice magic,” Hange said as they put their hand on their chin. 

“Why is fire not surprising?” Levi asked as he crossed his arms across his chest.

“Well, the Ackermans in the past were known for their blood and fire magic. I assumed you knew that. The only time I’ve heard of fire and ice together is the song of ice and fire. Or in other words, The Long Night. The heir to save us all will defeat the Others. Perhaps, the heir who saves us not only has power of fire but also ice. There’s an interesting thought….” 

Levi looked over to Vulcan while Hange continued to ramble about the Others. 

—---------------------------------

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

Was it drums or Mikasa’s own heartbeat? 

She couldn’t sleep. 

She saw those who had attacked her. 

She saw her mother killing her aunt, her brother.

Over and over. 

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

Nightmares.

Over and over. 

When would it end?

Did her mother not realize how much her actions would hurt Mikasa? How much guilt Mikasa would carry around? 

And those men? 

Why had they attacked her? 

Simply because she had been engaged to Eren. 

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

She was to blame for her soon to be husband’s birth now it seemed. 

Now she slept in a tunic and breeches because she feared the men would come back.

Annie and Sasha had wanted to spend time with her today. 

Wanted to sleep in this bed, keep her company. 

She had pushed them all away.

Ordered them to stay away. 

They could not deny an order from her.

Instead, Mikasa spent time with the dragons and reading. 

She spent time allowing the anger inside her to grow and grow and grow. 

Until she was nothing but anger. 

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

The egg was mocking her.

A reminder that her brother could never be a dragon.

He had been given such a small, easy task.

Be there and let your egg hatch.

But the egg did not hatch because her brother was not a dragon.

Her brother was a peacock, preening for their aunt’s approval, their mother and father’s attention. 

He was the perfect heir.

Seen.

Not heard. 

He was a child and somehow, he still was a better heir than Mikasa. 

Of course he was! He was raised there! He was wanted.

Their parents had just left her here. 

There was no part of Mikasa beside her mother’s blood that made her a member of the Ten Kingdoms. 

She was too wild, too strong. 

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

Snatching the dragon egg from the bedside table, Mikasa went out into the night. 

Kayda was waiting for her by the backdoor. 

Mikasa didn’t think about how the dragon knew exactly where she was, where she was coming. 

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

Rage was building in Mikasa’s veins. 

Fire. 

She could feel it burning. 

Meadow had found them.

Flanking either side of her, Mikasa and the two dragons made their way to where Mikasa had first erupted with power. 

The dragon egg glowed. 

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

Placing the dragon egg on the scorch marks, Mikasa looked at Kayda and Meadow.

She would destroy the last link to her parents, her aunt, her brother. 

Mikasa sat down next to the egg. 

The egg glowed brighter as Mikasa felt the flames licking at her hands. 

Fire danced around her knuckles. 

She was the problem. 

She was the reason that the fire had been set, displacing so many. 

Some part of her knew that she was the cause of her parents death. 

“Dracarys,”Mikasa told the dragons. 

Neither did anything. 

“DRACARYS!” She screamed but the dragons did not respond. 

“DRACARYS!” She yelled again. 

But the dragons did not obey her. 

The flames on her body grew. In addition to dancing on the knuckles of her hands, flames danced around her bare feet, slowly making their way up to her ankles. 

“DRACARYS!” 

Her throat was getting sore. 

Sobs escaped her body. 

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

Falling to her side, Mikasa continued to sob. 

Why? 

Why was she the way she was? 

How?

How was she supposed to continue on this way?

The dragon egg continued to glow. 

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

Reaching out, Mikasa grabbed the egg. She curled her body around it. 

Flames still danced on her hands. 

It wouldn’t harm the egg. 

She knew that much. 

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

So she lay then and sobbed.

Flames danced along her hands and feet.

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

BA-DUM

CRACK!

SNAP!

CREEK!

The flames on her hands and feet died. 

Mikasa felt drained but her eyes snapped to the egg in her arms.

The egg.

It was hatching. 

Mikasa watched as the egg continued to break as she sat it down. 

Emerging from the egg, the baby dragon let out a screech.

“Se zaldrīzes ēdruta emagon hāre bartos,” the raspy voice said.

The dragon must have three heads. 

[hwanchaesong]

👤: ATEEZ Choi Jongho

📼: Anymore - Somi

genre & warnings: angst, cursing, university au, athlete jongho, asshole jongho, somehow cheating??? mentions of breakup and alcohol

word count: 710

requested by: @hyvn-jaeee

You knew it.

You fucking knew it.

"Oh? You're here to support me aren't you?"

His cocky voice made you want to break his cute, button nose. (you can't though, you're not gonna risk detention because of him.)

"No, I am here because my friend told me to give this to her boyfriend." you smiled at the bane of your existence, or also known as Choi shitty Jongho.

You stood up and threw the bottle of gatorade and snacks towards Yunho, the tall man catching it all with ease, "Your darling is currently having her exams, so I am here to deliver you that."

Yunho smiled at you gratefully, "Thanks, Y/N."

"You're not giving anything to me?" Jongho interjected your conversation with his friend, making you scoff and roll your eyes at him.

"I am not entitled to, goodbye." you waved a hand at him, sassily walking out of the gymnasium and trying to ignore the holes that your ex is boring on your skull.

Sure, there were those times where you think of him and wishing that you're also running in his mind from time to time.

Though the most popular idea that always crossed your mind was the fact that maybe, you guys should've stayed as friends instead of being lovers. (now enemies)

"Y/N, wait up!"

Your name being called pulled you out of your daydream, snapping your head in the direction of the voice.

"What?" you raised at eyebrow at him, not having enough patience for his bullshit of the day, "Lemme catch my breath a little."

"Jongho, I don't have the time for this."

"Okay, okay, I want to make a proposition to you." he raised his hands up in surrender over your stern statement.

"And that's?"

"If I win this, let's get back together."

Now he got your full attention, "I don't wanna watch your game."

He smirked, leaning down a bit to your eye level, his minty breath lightly blowing against your own nose, "Nobody said that you have to watch, our victory would spread around like a wildfire in our campus."

He didn't give you a chance to reply, doing the same gesture that you did a while ago that definitely spiked your annoyance up, "Think about, baby."

Baby.

That damned petname that he used to spew like sugar, you hated it. You hated it so much because even after your break-up, it still affects you like crazy.

You went home that day with a bittersweet feeling in your chest, you already knew that they won, what he said earlier came true.

'What is he? A prophet?'

You groaned when your phone vibrated, indicating a message from someone. That groan was replaced with angry noises when you saw that it was him who texted you.

From: xxx-xxxx

'Guess you already know the news. Meet-up with me in our usual place, let's talk.'

P.S. this is the one and only Choi Jongho, I'll bet my liver that you already deleted my number.

Will you go?

There's nothing wrong with trying, right?

Of course there would be something wrong, if him kissing an another girl at your spot is not wrong, then you must be crazy.

You took a breath, ready to keep him out of your life for good. That was stupid of you to consider his offer knowing that you already gave him the key to your soul once yet he lost it like it was nothing but a piece of trash.

It was difficult duplicating that key, and now you wanted nothing more but to down some shots and numb away the pain of living in a nightmare.

The moment you imagined a future with someone, you have to keep your mouth shut even if it means that you'll be messed up after all this.

When you open your mouth, forever will be ruined and you'll somehow realize, this ain't it.

It's okay, he's not the last man on earth.

He's not the only one who would come to you like a gorgeous daisy, willing to give you happiness and comfort until he grows like a rose, full of thorns and wickedly bleeding you dry.

It's fine, but for now, you'll choose to not hope and hold your heart over him anymore.