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gojos-thot-patrol · 2 years ago

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Starring: True from! Sukuna in a cabin in the woods... Synopsis: You don't see the point in it; chasing myths on Halloween night, going deeper into the woods than you ever had before. You'd rather be at home than chasing ghosts. But, your best friend insists on finding evidence of the local urban legends, and surely she won't abandon you the moment you find what shes been hunting, right? Content Warning: Tonight we are serving True form (two dicks) Sukuna, double penetration, tummy bulges, cunnilingus, kidnapping, marking, slight dubcon, and a soft Sukuna if you squint. reader discretion is advised

“So, remind me again why we’re taking a walk in the woods on Halloween night?” You asked your friend, narrowly avoiding a thorn vine as you pushed past the brush.

“Because, historically speaking, people tend to see it on Halloween!” She explained, holding up her camera, “It’s our best chance of finding evidence of the spider demon.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her optimism.

“I don’t know if “Historically” is the right word to use there,” you grumbled softly as you continued your walk together. Ever since the two of you had started taking that Folklore Studies class for an extra college credit she had become obsessed with the local urban legend: The Spider Demon. To her credit, it was a genuinely interesting topic.

As far back as town hall kept records of, there were sightings of the beast: a giant humanoid man that was covered in ancient markings, with four arms, four eyes, and a giant mouth on his abdomen. Rumor has it, he was the one at fault for all the disappearances that plagued your small town, dragging poor, innocent souls into some far off lair and feasting on their flesh.

The sane people knew the real reason for the disappearances though; most of those kids hopped a train and got the fuck out of that dying town while they still could. You couldn’t say you blamed them. If you didn’t go to school here, one of the cheaper colleges around, you wouldn’t be here either.

Your thoughts came to a halt as the two of you came up on an old stream. You knew it well as the boundary between where it was acceptable to play in the woods, and where was off limits. Everyone in the town had followed this rule. Your great grandparents had this rule engraved in their soul as kids, just as your parents and grandparents had, just as you had. And just as your kids would one day. No one really knew why you weren’t supposed to cross the water, just that you weren’t.

And your best friend was trying to hop across. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doin’?!” You yelled as you grabbed her arm and pulled her back. She looked at you as if you had just grown two extra heads.

"I'm crossing the stream?" She asked as if you were the insane one here.

"Yeah, I can see that dipshit!" You snapped, "Why the hell would you do that?!"

"To get to the other side?"

"What are you, a chicken?! You know we're not supposed to cross this stream." Your friend dramatically rolled her eyes, making her annoyance clear.

"The only chicken here is you Y/n." She scoffed. "Come on, it's just water. It can't hurt you." She said in a tone meant to mock assurance. It grinded your bones and made you wonder why you were friends to begin with.

"Don't be like that. Everyone in this town has been told since birth not to cross that stream, there has to be a reason why."

"The reason why is probably so little kids don't drown." She explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the entire world. It made you want to rearrange her teeth. "I'm going to cross the stream and keep the hunt going, are you with me or not Y/n?" She asked.

You took a deep breath. You absolutely were not with her. Every fiber in your being was setting off red flags, you could hear your ancestors screaming at you to turn around, somewhere from the great beyond, both Cain and Abel look at you and say "girl, don't do it."

And yet, you started to jump across the rocks. As annoying as your friend was, she was still your friend, and you couldn't let her go alone. Your ancestors all collectively face palm, your nerves explode, Cain turns to Abel and shakes his head. There's no saving you now. You swore the air temperature dropped by at least three degrees as you made it to the other side of the stream. You cursed softly as you wrapped your jacket tighter around you, and rushed to catch up with your friend.

“See? We crossed the water and we didn’t explode! Some rules are just made to be broken.” She seemed confident in that, but you still weren’t. Something was so…off. Wrong. But you couldn’t figure out what. The moon was still as full as ever, lighting your way as the two of you walked. Your friend seemed fine, as chatty as hell even. And you were physically okay. Leaves crunched under your shoes, and the crickets chirped-

Wait. No they didn’t. “Hey, shush.” You demanded of your friend.

“What!? Why should I-”

“I said Shut. Up.” You snapped, an unfamiliar edge to your voice taking even you by surprise. She shut up, and you struggled to listen to the sounds of the forest. Except, there were no sounds of the forest. No crickets singing, no owls hooting, not even the rustle of a field mouse in the grass. The woods were completely silent, filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing.

“Do you hear that?” You asked your friend.

“I don’t hear anything.” She scoffed.

“Exactly. We need to turn back.”

“What?! No way!” She protested with a stomp of her foot. You were really starting to think that Darwinism would not look kindly upon your friend.

“The woods are completely quiet.” You pointed out, “That doesn’t happen unless it has a reason to be quiet. We’re not welcome here.” You tried to argue. You would have been better off arguing with the moon itself. Your friend just shook her head as she continued to walk.

“The woods are always quiet Y/n, its what makes it so peaceful, or whatever.”

“But not this quiet!” You pleaded as you chased after her, still not willing to let her die out here alone. “Dude, please, we need to go-!”

“Ooo, whats that!” Your “best friend” quickly changed the topic as she pointed out a building off in the distance, running off to check it out. You felt your stomach fall to the floor. Who would build anything out here? You ran to follow her, deciding to just drag her back home if you had to.

“Its a house!” She pointed out with a laugh as the two of you reached the edge of a lawn, “And they even decorated for Halloween, how sweet.” You looked at the house, an old wooden cabin that looked like something a pilgrim would have built back in the 1700s. You were shocked to see lights glowing in the window, indicating the building had electricity. That wasn’t what unnerved you the most though.

That would be the bones littering the yard. Animal and human alike, some looking older than others. All strewn about as if thrown there without any care, or sense of design. They looked more like discarded trash than they did decor, and a morbid part of your brain forced you to ask; do those maybe look a little too real to be made of plastic? You blood felt colder than ice as your throat contracted, an unseen anaconda choking you as your knees threatened to give out.

This place was cursed. “You should go knock.” Your friend smirked.

“I would rather die.” You whispered.

“I’m serious!” She laughed, “Go trick or treating! You’d probably be the first one to do so here.”

“No way, this isn’t right. Why would they “decorate” for Halloween all the way out here? Why are they out here to begin with? It doesn’t make sense, we need to go.”

“Well, I’m not leaving until you go knock on the door.” Your friend shrugged as if she wasn’t signing your death certificate. “These kind people deserve trick or treaters, and I deserve to take a picture of you scared shitless as you knock on the door.” She laughed.

“That’s not funny!” You snapped, your patience growing thinner as your anxiety grew.

“Oh come on Y/n! Don’t be such a bitch, just go knock on the door and then we can go, okay? I promise.”

“...Swear?” You asked softly, at this point willing to do whatever it took to leave these woods and go home.

“Swear.” Your best friend smiled, locking her pinky with yours. Her smile as angelic, enough to trick you into a facade of ease. You took a deep breath as you approached the door, carefully avoiding the skeletons as you walked. Did they looked chewed on? You didn’t want to think too hard about it. You could feel your heart in your throat, the false courage of your friends pinky promise fleeing faster and faster with every step you took closer to this house. It radiated death.

Climbing the creaky stairs was harder than you anticipated, your jittering joints protesting the very act. You reached a trembling fist to the splintering wooden door, knocking as soft as possible. “H-Hello?” You called out, hating the way your voice quivered, “Trick or Treat!” Your entire body tried to collapse in on itself, the only thing keeping you from doing so was the primal instinct to maintain your ability to run should you so need.

You waited a few seconds, then let out a shaking breath as no one came to the door. As you turned back to your friend, you were blinded by the flash of a camera, freezing you in your place. The sounds of her cackle filled you with rage. You really needed you friends.

You rolled your eyes. “There I knocked. Are you happy? Can we please go home no-” your words died in your throat as you heard the door open.

“Trick.” a rough deep voice said, deeply unfamiliar to you. You watched your friends face contort into fear and her jaw unhinged itself into a scream as she scrambled to get away. Though, you weren’t able to hear her panic, the ringing in your ears becoming deafening as you felt your feet fall from underneath you, a python of an arm squeezing your stomach as you were lifted into the air, and into the house.

You tried to grab the door frame as you were dragged into hell, becoming aware of your own screaming ripping through your throat as the frame was ripped from your fingers and the door shut in your face.

“Quite mortal.” The voice said again, and you almost instantly shut up. Something primal in your DNA sequencing knowing better than to piss off this devil. The monster turned you over in his hands, turning you to face him. Your soul left your body. You took in the visage of the beast, your panicking brain struggling to process what was in front of you.

A giant humanoid man, with four arms, four eyes, and a face and chest full of ancient markings. He was holding you too close to properly see it, not to mention the fact that he was wearing a regal robe, but you would bet an unreasonable amount of money he had a sickening smile on his belly. You were in The Spider Demons claws.

And worst of all, he was kinda cute? Like, maybe it was the unshakeable sense of death that rattled your soul and turned your brain into mush, but if he was like- a normal guy with a normal amount of arms and eyes, you would have been smitten! You were kinda smitten now, even if you didn’t want to admit that. God you…really really hoped this whole experience wasn’t awakening something in you. This would be something to unpack in therapy later- if you survived this.

The demon took your chin in a free hand, turning your head as he examined you. You smelled divine. If you had been a sacrifice for him, he would have given whoever picked you out an A++ for finding you, and a bit more leniency for a while. But, he knew you weren’t a sacrifice. The townsfolk had declared him their enemy long ago, and had been facing the consequences ever since. So, that begged the question.

“Tell me, whats a pretty thing like you doing at my doorstep on the most haunted night of the year?” He asked, turning your head to look him in the eye.

“Wishing you were a myth.” You went with the first thing that came to your head and instantly regretted it. That might have been a little too honest for this situation. But, at least he seemed to find humor in it, snickering at your quip.

“Keep wishing then human, I’m all too real.” He chuckled darkly.

“Yeah, I-I see that…Are you going to kill me?” Your voice was shakier than you intended as you asked. You hated it, but the anticipation of what he was going to do was more painful that anything he could have actually done.

“I haven’t decided yet.” He mused as he continued his examination of you. He smiled cruelly as he felt your pulse quicken under his hands. He could smell your fear, and it was intoxicating. Your eyes, blown wide with fear, were stirring something deep down inside of him, and making you far more interesting than any other human he had come across in years.

Or, maybe it had just been a while since he had anyone to fuck. Granted, he had stolen plenty of mortals from your small town, but most of the time they died in the process. Corpses held no interest to him for anything other than food. But you? You were alive and warm, and vulnerable in his claws. That fact alone made the notion of keeping you alive for a little longer far more enticing than killing you just yet.

“Um, anything I could do to help you make that decision?” You asked softly.

“The decision to kill you?” he questioned

“Well, the decision not too!” You quickly clarified, “Dying sounds kinda, well, not fun and with you being like, a real thing that kinda makes me question well everything as far as mythology goes and that makes dying really fucking scary and-”

“You’re rambling mortal.” He sneered in annoyance.

“Right! My bad I just- please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything not to die.” You begged, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as you grappled with being forced to face the unknown. You had the beasts attention though, an eyebrow raising at your offer.

“Anything?” He purred, his eyes falling to the swell of your chest and making you greatly regret your word choice. “Anything at all?”

“Anything.” You whispered softly. You reasoned with yourself that this was for your life and definitely not because the thought of getting railed by a blood thirsty demon made you squish your thighs together in anticipation. You for sure didn’t feel a rush of arousal as the thought of something meant to kill you making you cum instead crossed your mind. That didn’t happen, no way, not at all. You weren’t wondering if his dick was as monstrous as he was, or if his markings graced it as well.

“Alright then Human, deal.” He grinned wickedly as he brushed a stray hair behind your ear. “I’ll let you live, if you give your body to me first.” You felt your face burn at his proposal. Something felt fundamentally wrong about spreading your legs for a demon. You weren’t religious or anything, but that had to be some sort of sin. But, if it was for your life, surely you could indulge- I MEAN- endure.

“Before I agree, we’re not talking about possession, right?” You had to clarify. He smirked at your words. You were cleaver to ask, it showed a familiarity with the supernatural. Maybe you weren’t as foolish as you first seemed after all.

“Smart girl. But no, we’re not talking about possession.” He confirmed.

“Okay, cool, just checking.” You chuckled nervously. “You got yourself a deal.” His smirk turned into a dark grin as his free hands rushed to your clothes. You panicked, knowing he was going to rip them off and you’d be forced to walk back in the nude. That would have been mortifying.

“Wait wait wait!” You yelped, holding up your arms to stop his hands.

“What?” He growled, annoyance flooding his tone.

“Let me undress myself.” You requested, “Please? I’ll make it worth your while.” He seemed intrigued and amused, setting you on the ground with an almost unnerving gentleness.

“Will you now? Lets see.” He hummed. You nodded, taking a few steps back. You took a deep breath and shrugged your jacket off your shoulders. You had never been particularly good at being sexy, at least not in your opinion. But, The monsters eyes could have convinced you otherwise. The way he watched you undress, as if he was a starving man looking at a thanksgiving feast, or a hungry demon looking at his next meal. It gave you the confidence to put on a proper show, teasing him as you slowly shed your clothes.

“I’m Y/n by the way,” You said as your hands reached to unhook your bra, “You got a name, or is it just spider demon?” He huffed humorlessly at your quip. He never liked that title.

“Ryomen Sukuna,” He said, his eyes setting fire to your skin as you finally dropped your bra for him, “you can call me Sukuna.”

“Noted.” You nodded as you dropped your panties. His lustful grin showed off his incredibly sharp fangs as he dropped his own robe, the only thing covering him. You confirmed the mouth theory, seeing it spread and hungrily panting across his toned abs. Your breath hitched when you saw when he was working with.

His dick- or rather, dicks- looked human enough despite the markings, but they were longer and thicker than anything you had taken before. And again, there were two of them. They stood hard and proud against his stomach, twitching to be inside you. You didn’t know if the buzzing in your hands and legs was from regret, or excitement.

You didn’t have time to figure it out either before you were taken back into the demons arms, this time with less violence and more neediness. He pressed you to his stomach, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist and leaving you open to him.

“You’re pretty brave for a human, you know that?” He complimented as a large tongue lolled out of his stomach mouth and against your soaking core. He chuckled darkly as the muscle shoved itself into your weeping cunt, making you gasp at the sudden stretch, “And such a slut too.”

“Hey, this was your idea, not mine.” You reminded him though breathy moans, trying to ground yourself as your hips bucked against his giant mouth. Every movement of the tongue felt like being touch for the first time, a ripple of pleasure coursing though your stomach and legs, and making you wonder there was something supernatural going on to make a demonic act feel so heavenly.

“True,” He agreed, “But you’re the one that's gushing for a monster when I’ve hardly touched you.” he reminded you, watching the way your face contorted with pleasure as you dropped the act of innocence. He didn’t know what was more arousing to him, watching your resolve dissolve, or just how sweet you tasted as you desperately you rode his tongue. “I was going to kill you just a few moments ago, you know that right?” He growled into you ear.

“Yeah, but you’re fucking me instead. Sounds like a win to me.” You grinned and he laughed at your sudden audacity. He knew he liked you.

“You really are a whore, Aren’t you?” He teased as his tongue slipped out of your cunt and into your ass instead, watching the way your breasts bounced as you flinched and moaned at the sudden intrusion.

“Not a whore if it’s for my life.” You whined, digging your nails into his shoulders. You were starting to feel light headed from the pleasure pooling in your stomach, your cunt clenching around nothing, pissed off from the loss.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself.” He chuckled as his face fell to the crook of your neck, taking in your intoxicating smell. He could feel his dicks twitch with need as he kissed you there, fighting every instinct in his body to keep from digging his teeth into the thin skin. He tasted your sweet slick as it dripped from your cunt and onto the middle of his tongue, and finally he withdrew the muscle.

You whined as he did, head dropping to his chest, both holes now clenching around nothing. “No, fuck-” You whimpered, only for him curl a clawed finger under your chin and lift your head to face him. “Sukuna..” You whimpered as you looked into his fire red eyes, darkened by lust. His lips crashed into yours, capturing you in a heated kiss. You sighed against his mouth, hands rising to tangle into his soft pink hair as his tongue tangled with yours.

You screamed into his mouth as you felt him shove both of his cocks into you at once, one for each hole. He growled, biting down on your lip as you clenched around him. “Sukuna!” You gasped as you pulled back from the kiss, your body trying hard to push out the sudden intrusion.

“Relax for me Darling,” He groaned softly, the pet name slipping out without his permission. He pressed his forehead to yours as he rubbed your stomach, trying to ease your pain.

“I-I can’t. Too big..” You panted, trying desperately to release the tension in your shoulders. The stretch was searing you from the inside out. You felt overwhelmed, the pleasure in the pain feeling like static shocks. “It’s soo much..”

“You can handle it,” He assured you, extremely (perhaps overly) confident in your ability considering you had met less than an hour ago. You shook your head, tears slipping from your eyes. He lapped them up from your face, then captured your lips in a much softer kiss this time. Slowly, your body came to accept his, the tension melting away as his tongue tangled with yours and he eased his way further into you. The burn faded, leaving just the pleasure there, pulsating through you as he pushed deeper.

He groaned into your lips as he bottomed out into you, stilling both to give you time to adjust and so he didn’t immediately cum in you like a fucking virgin. It was almost embarrassing how good you felt around him, taking him better than any other being had before. You clenched and fluttered around him in a sinful way, bringing him closer to his climax than he would like to admit.

“Told you.” He smirked as he pulled away from the kiss, licking at the string of saliva that connected the two of you. You whined as you looked down to where the two of you were connected, watching a bulge in your stomach appear and disappear with every thrust of his hips. It should have hurt, but no- quite the opposite.

Every thrust of his hips electrified you with pleasure, sending wave after wave of intoxicating bliss through your nervous system. You had never felt so full before, so complete. You could feel his cocks rub against each other, against your walls inside of you, a dizzying sensation that you had never experienced before. Your hips bucked against him greedily as he fucked you, chasing your high.

“Look at me Y/n,” He demanded, pulling your head up so your eyes connected with his again, “I want you know the demon making you feel so good.”

“Ryomen-” You whined, forgetting in your sea of lust that wasn’t the name he told you to use. His eyes widened a bit from shock. Mostly because he wasn’t filled with rage by your insolence, but instead a surge of lust from hearing his name fall from your lips. It really had been awhile, he was feeling himself getting attached far too easily. If he knew what was good for him, he would have finished and disposed of you as quickly as possible. He wasn’t interested in what was good for him.

“Say it again.” He demanded, a hand slipping in between you to rub circles into your clit.

“Ryomen..” You whined, staring at him with fucked out, lust clouded eyes as you trembled in his arms, thighs clenching around his abdomen as the ecstasy crashed through your core and through out your body. You felt your muscles ripple and tense in anticipation.

“Again,” He growled, pulling you closer to him, and dropping his forehead down to yours. “Who does this cunt belong to?”

“Ryomen..” Your brain was too clouded to make out the rest of his command, your body buzzing and bliss building up inside of you. He picked up his pace, chasing his own high and making you scream out his name in a truly embarrassing and needy moan.

You clung onto his shoulders and neck, digging your nails into the soft skin there as the euphoria in your veins finally boiled over and hit the fire inside of your stomach, igniting it in an explosion of ecstasy and lust. Your vision exploded with stars and your brain officially clocked out of work as you melted into a puddle. Your legs shaking around him as you leaned against his strong body, unable to keep yourself up any longer.

Your velvety walls quivered around him and sucked him in impossibly deeper, needy and lustful for him. It drove him mad. He watched as your face scrunched in pleasure, your body reacting to him greedily as you melted into the pleasure he he was gracing you with.

It send him over the edge watching you cum for him, feeling you cum over him, feeling you gush around him. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer, holding you in a grip tight enough to bruise. His fangs buried themselves into your neck, marking you as his and his alone as he came deep inside of you, the warm strings gushing in you and filling you to the point of spilling over.

He held you close to him, head hung back as you both tried to catch your breath. Your mind was starting to clear the fog out, looking up to ask him to put you down before you felt him move inside you again. Your breath hitched as you realized he didn’t even get a little soft. You looked at him with almost horrified eyes as he bucked into you, only acting to encourage him. He looked back at you with lustful and wicked eyes, nipping at your lip as he set his pace and grinned.

“Whats wrong Darling?” He asked, the pet name now fully intentional in its use, “You didn’t think I was done with you yet, did you?”

🎃🎃🎃

You were warm when you woke up, despite still being in the nude. Probably because of the huge body pressed against yours, radiating heat and holding you close as he slept. Visions of last night ran though your head, making you almost painfully aware of the cum still dripping from between your thighs, and sending another wave of arousal through you. When did you pass out? When did Ryomen?

You stayed still for a few seconds, listing to your bedfellows steady breathing. The bed, despite being made from feathers and thin quilting, was surprisingly soft, and the late afternoon sun filled the old home with a warm hazy light. You realized you couldn’t stay here any longer. You couldn’t get attached to an urban legend.

You slipped out of his arms, freezing as he groaned and only breathing again once he was softly snoring. You sighed as you slipped out of the bedroom and found your clothes again. You quickly got dressed, and went to open the front door. It didn’t budge. Your eyes furrowed in confusion as you pulled the knob again. What the hell? You pulled with all your might, almost screaming with frustration as the door didn’t even move a centimeter.

“Don’t bother with that Dove.” You gasped as you heard Ryomens voice behind you, a wave of dread blanketing you as you spun to face him. He was leaning casually against the door frame of the bedroom, a content smile painted on his face. “It has my seal on it. I’m the only one that can open that door.”

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itoshirinnn · 2 months ago

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thinking

about how when shamura says bonds (chains) must be forged in godly matters they refer to both the bishops' blood but also narinder's. look at his robes, the red in the middle that starts at his throat and trails down, as if his throat had been cut not necessarily to kill but to make him bleed as much as possible

in the game, the god of death cannot die. the only time the player is in actual risk of "dying" (permadeleting a save file) is when they have 0 followers for two days. the solution to this is to recuit TWO followers minimum. guess who narinder has by his side in the afterlife.

TWO followers, given to him by shamura. they said they didn't want narinder to be lonely. But exactly why would narinder be lonely if he was "swelling with devotion" ? and forneus never says when her kits were taken, just that they were a gift to "the one they loved the most." by "they" it is heavily implied that she's referring to shamura. still, I don't think shamura meant to gift them to narinder out of malice. i truly think he did not wish for him to be lonely.

now, what does narinder say about baal and aym?

intended as KEEPERS??? why would narinder interpret them as keepers, if they were gifted to him before he was imprisoned? maybe he thought shamura was distrustful of him from the start. but even then, if they were already his loyal followers by that point, why wouldn't they be chained? they're completely free to move. Not to mention, look at their eyes. reminds you of something??

DISSENTING FOLLOWERS. all four bishops and their respective minibosses have black scleras and red irises. the only characters / enemies who have similar eyes to baal and aym are the witnesses, that I theorize are old enemies sealed away by the bishops that rise after the death of their capturer. (and barbatos but like. they're the only miniboss who has those eyes so I don't count them) Maybe shamura sent them to narinder under the guise of "keepers," knowing that narinder would guide them. Notice what he says. "Must I be blamed for my influence?"

Narinder says it was here that they cast the chains that bound him (ignore kallamar's joy I have no clue why he's so happy here?) meaning it's here that they probably fought. The monument says the same. "Here did death no longer wish to wait." this obviously refers to narinder. The one who waits could no longer bear to wait, and he put his and the other bishop's reigns in peril trying to expand his domain. shamura feared narinder would grow too greedy and held a council of war with the others.

Narinder struck at them, supposedly second. They knowingly attempted to kill (bound) their brother, just like cain and abel, and were punished for it. See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil, think no evil. narinder was punished too, relegated to the afterlife, destined to be forgotten, to rot. my theory is that shamura gave him baal and aym afterward. they loved him the most, to the point where their brother being forgotten, truly dying, was so unbearable that they gifted him two young followers under the guise of "keepers."

also think about kallamar and how he can't bear to see narinder. We know that kallamar is the second oldest, and that he's aware of his cowardice.

"... of course, it could not last forever. Perhaps my siblings did not understand this, but I have always known."

"It did not make me less afraid. Cowardly Kallamar, ha..."

"So many things I did not wish to hear... Narinder's foolish plans."

"When Shamura told us what we must do to ensure our survival... I did not wish to hear that, either."

"And yet I was a willing conspirator. Cowardly Kallamar."

shamura tells us this.

I think shamura set aside their fear of losing their brother and the love they held for him, to save themselves and their other siblings in case narinder betrayed them. kallamar did not. he was cowardly, he did not wish to hear narinder's heresy or shamura's plans, even knowing their happiness would not last.

side note, narinder's speeches to you after beating each bishop are the longest when he talks about kallamar and shamura. This could also be because he knows the lamb for longer at that point, but I do truly think that he couldn't bear to resent his youngest siblings enough to blatantly insult them like how did to kallamar and shamura.

not to mention heket's dialogue. she blames the red crown, never her older brother. when she does refer to him, she calls him a monster who will not be satisfied until all four of them are felled. she never names him. she grieves, laments about how they were happy once, all together.

narinder's dialogue about leshy is the shortest. maybe it's because they didn't know each other well, since leshy was so young, but leshy is directly stated to not have known about the plan, at least not completely. I don't think narinder resents him as much as the other because of that. leshy even calls the lamb an unworthy bearer of the crown. he doesn't insult narinder, he simply calls him "the chained one."

shamura deems you an unworthy bearer of the crown if you bow to them: "I am disappointed, I admit. I thought my brother had better… taste."

if you do not bow: "A lion in the guise of a Lamb. I expected no less from a vessel of the Red Crown. Very well. War is also my domain."

shamura is also the most outwardly resentful of mortals. "He wanted to open the doors between Life and Death, to... to allow their return. Those mere... mortals." they were the oldest, but also the most prideful, even more so than heket, who is the only other bishop who commands you to bow, and has similar dialogue to shamura. but if you do not bow, she does not compliment you like shamura does, instead she demands you to bow again, which shows her immaturity.

if you bow: "Ha! Cowardly vermin. You disgust me." if you do not bow: "You will bow, or I will make you!"

another side note about heket:

"There is no justice in this world."

"No matter how... how loudly you demand... urge... beg..."

she tells you this after you give her relic back. this is purely headcanoning now, but perhaps she had her throat torn out by narinder because he could not bear to hear her beg.

TL;DR: narinder was so, so loved. my doomed siblings 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

#cult of the lamb #cotl #cotl narinder #cult of the lamb narinder #narinder #cotl theory #cotl aym #cotl baal #cotl bishops #cotl shamura #cotl the one who waits #cotl heket #cotl leshy #cotl headcanons

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hh0320 · 1 month ago

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𓄹 ⊹ ᳝🪐 ࣪⠀. vanilla baby 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 ( it’s hard because she says just what she thinks )

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫. chris x fem! reader x changbin 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞. mechanic! brothers au, love triangle, small town, age gap, first love! chris, love at first sight, angst, smut 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. smoking, profanity, use of pet names, explicit sexual content, jealousy, possessiveness, flawed characters 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭. 3.5k | 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑵𝑬, 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑻𝑾𝑶, 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑹𝑬𝑬, 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑭𝑶𝑼𝑹 <-

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. mistakes have cost him gravely. mistakes he has piled on his back one by one and kept far, far away from you.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬. @shoganaiiii, @poody1608, @tsunderelino, @wickedbutlovely, @imagine-all-the-imagines, @hwangjoanna, @imeverycliche, @vviolynn, @jinibunny, @minkieater, @stephanieeeyang, @myflowercloud.

Now, later.

There had been a moment, once. It felt much like this. Earth spreading, trees stretching, water flowing heavy and warm, as it happens, as it is, and him—full of hard-earned shame, exhausted; closed eyes and tight fists, a permanence he cannot shake off.

Staring at your window.

Vehemently refusing to cross the line. Stubbornly, almost, and maybe for no good reason. Chris can never take anything for himself, how can he. You said it best, didn’t you, because after all that’s what it came down to—coward. He was. All this time. All his life. And what a disgraced word to come out of your mouth.

How he never wants to hear it again.

So, he’s here. And he can see; the cousins that grew up, folding white tablecloths, the bride’s mother, your aunt, his dad’s mistress at one point—hushed voices behind closed doors, he remembers, the brothers were still mourning their mother—on the phone, a perpetual picture frozen in time, gesturing wildly, ridiculously, and Chris swallows thickly, because he’s about to interrupt, he’s about to knock on the door, proper as ever, and ask for you.

What he knows he should do. Not like the boyfriend’s he helped catch, climbing up the trees like thieves in the night, throwing pebbles on the thin glass separating your bedroom and the rest of the world—your father had grounded you for a week, had scolded the boys and talked to their families.

Your father. Stern face, and laugh lines. Deep woven wrinkles around his eyes. Hands as tough as nails. All the pride he’s been taught. Chris bites his tongue until he tastes copper, and kicks off of his Mustang, taking the four steps up to your household’s doorbell.

He thought long and hard about this. In blind rage, he shoved off his brother and drove away without a second thought, and by the time he’d reached the outskirts of town, he’d wanted to crawl back to the scene of the crime, a pathetic man, someone that never learns.

Back to you. Back where he could watch you take those timid steps towards him, towards him, after four years of radio silence, after he thought you were done for good, had wiped your hands clean of this place and of everything it stood for, and him, him—after he’d made his peace and tried desperately to move on from something he never even had in the first place, of something that had been forbidden for so long—

Your family loved him like a son, sure, but, as with everything, that love had a line drawn as well. There were plans set in stone for their only daughter, and they did not include oil stains and drunken debt from deadbeat fathers, nor the reputation their mother had made for herself three decades prior, the discreet glances and pity parties they’ve had to endure because of mistakes.

Mistakes have cost him gravely. Mistakes he has piled on his back one by one and kept far, far away from you. What good would it do for you to know? Only worse, and what’s worse than this?

It didn’t even matter in the end. You were made out of Chris’ rib, that he was sure of, plum lipped and dripping of his childhood and he’d wanted you like death craves the living, and it still wasn’t enough.

And now, Changbin. Cain and Abel, although he won’t admit who is who. Only that the offering was sweet and female and his brother claimed it his.

What of Abel? Is the firstborn son born with a shovel in his hands or was he given it by the father?

He knocks, instead. Better they not hear him. Better he turns away, the name true, the name true, the name true.

What Chris doesn’t know—you’re not even there. You’re not even home.

And that’s beginning to be a problem.

Then.

The matter of the scar—

A broken bottle. Being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Being born, perhaps. Was that an excuse?

It was always a premeditated thing, never an accident. From the beginning of the line, carving down his neck, over his chest, ending above his navel—it had been a message. Amidst his father’s stupor and the smoke of bubbling meth wafting from the other room, Changbin had no place among them.

No reason to think he was better than them. The rebellion didn’t work, after all, but he kept at it anyway. The smoking, the piercings, the trouble. Twelve years old, elbow to his jugular, a jagged piece of German beer, and the cold unforgiving floor.

Chris being far away from the mess was a welcomed coincidence. By the time he’d come back, his older brother—sliced up and bleeding profusely—would be roughly patched up and drugged out of his mind, sent to his room to ‘sleep it off.’

When they speak of his father, they never talk about the drugs. But Changbin knows. The tremors, the vomit, that goddamned nauseating sweeter-than-candy smell. . . No one mentions the kid that was going through withdrawal symptoms at school.

So, no one was surprised when the boy dropped out. Because no one cared.

The scar was a byproduct of his environment, an unfortunate thing. Labels to tame the unknown. Nothing anyone felt inclined to bring up, lest they disturb the demons inside that house.

Even then, at least Chris is safe. As the monster pierces and Changbin gashes, at least my brother is not here.

And the little voice further down, unbeknownst to him: Please help me. I want to leave too.

It echoed and echoed.

It went unanswered, time and time again.

Now.

He finds you at the river. You’re swimming.

Naked.

Your clothes are under the unyielding, ever-growing willow tree—here you’d been seven and him eleven, your scraped elbow and his clumsy hands—leading a trail towards your submerged figure. He blinks at the fabric on the grass. Your back is to him, the moonlight is caressing your hair, the breeze is pleasant and inviting for once.

He must be dead. How else would this be happening?

Chris doesn’t dare a single movement. If this is death or a dream, hell even an illusion—God knows how many times he’s imagined you on that field, holding that woven basket in your hands, the one with the homemade muffins and cucumber sandwiches, smiling at the men working under your father, the sun beating down, the hours long—he’s not going to be the first to break the spell, the silence you’ve crafted.

All he has are his eyes. And so, naturally, they look at you. They gravitate towards you like they always do. Nothing else exists or has existed besides this point. You, here, and him, a witness to your life, your beautiful shoulders, the curve of your jaw. Chris sees everything, even in darkness. He sees, because he’s memorized. He sees, because he doesn’t know how to unsee.

He’s devastated by what he has done. The weight of his decision on that summer night. You’d wanted to be kissed, it was written all over your pretty face. He wanted to kiss you. He’d devoted his entire life to you and your family. He’d eaten at your table, and drank from your hand. And when you ran after him, your mother had lingered by the door.

Waiting. Forcing him on his knees with words like sacrifice and forfeiture.

So, he gave you all he was allowed. That much. And he broke your fucking heart, that invaluable thing you’ve worn on your sleeve since your front teeth were missing. He broke his just as much, maybe even more so cause of his childish want, and of fantasies that could never become.

All so you can come back to this river, under a full sky of stars, and keep your back to him after you kiss his brother. He fingers your shorts, and closes his cursed fist around them.

Where’s fair? When does he get a break for it? Fuck the befitting men your mother has surely chosen for you by now. Fuck what is right and appropriate and acceptable. He’s done.

He’s done.

He brokenly calls out your name.

You turn towards him, the water ripples, and there’s the hope, and there’s the panic. . . Chris waits for you breathless, equally terrified.

You’re the most vital part of him. He’s raised you in himself as he has grown. He loves you like he loves himself, with no difference, a mirror pointed at his face, hearts joined at birth, one beat of yours to match a thousand of his own, galloping.

He thought he could lose you. Truly lose you, and all it’d entail.

He was wrong. Terribly fucking wrong.

Then.

A game of hide-and-seek, slippery rocks by the river, and blood, red and so much of it, running down your leg, as big, fat tears stream down your chubby face and your lip quivers in pain.

This is how the young boy learns fear. Aged ten, holding your hand as the family doctor—your family doctor, the one your parents call at all odd hours of the day sometimes—stitches up your busted knee.

He wants to be brave for you, wants to be a man—the creature his father babbles about when he has one too many and suddenly thinks himself life’s teacher—, whatever that means, but your crying is making his own leg bounce uncontrollably, there’s sweat down his back, the TV is on way too loud, your cousins get on his nerves a little if he’s being honest, and will you please stop crying?

“Are you thirsty? What can I do?” He asks you helplessly, wincing at your grip tightening on his fingers.

At that, you sniffle and hide your face on the crook of his neck. Chris blushes and clears his throat, posture stiff as a board. Your warm breath is tickling him. He doesn’t say anything, though. It feels nice too. It feels like he’s actually doing something, making you feel better, like he is needed here after all, despite the increasing unease he senses growing over his head.

Unease he knows all too well. Even at barely ten years old. Home is uneasy. The liquor bottles piling up on the kitchen counter make him uneasy. His brother’s yelling and his father’s belt unbuckling, the sound it makes, clink then thud, that makes him the most uneasy of all.

“Can I have some lemonade?” You mumble against the white of his polo shirt. He nods immediately, thankful for a task. Anything that will stop the image of you slipping from the high rocks you’ve climbed together a hundred times, your tiny body crashing into the river, the deepest part of it.

You took so long to find which way was up. At first, he thought it was nothing. By the time he realized you were in trouble, you needed a grown-up. You needed medical attention. You needed anyone else but Chris, because he could not help you. He didn’t know how to.

“Lemonade, yes, I can do that,” he says, and softly untangles himself from you. The doctor looks up momentarily between the two of you, his mouth curving into something unreadable.

You, however. You look at him as if he hung up the moon. He blinks fast, heart rate picking up, and is about to turn to head for the kitchens, when you say, “Christopher!” And add:

“With the little umbrellas, please?”

He’s seen those just once before, at last summer's July fourth party. All the adults had them inside plastic pineapple cups. He didn’t understand the point of them then, but he thinks he might begin now. They make people happy. Silly, goofy happy. Happy for the sake of happiness.

“Umbrellas,” he repeats to himself, new purpose tilting his chin upwards. “Got it.”

When he smiles at you reassuringly, you smile back. Brightly. Crookedly.

At age ten. Chris thinks: her smile makes me feel fuzzy inside. And then: I hope she keeps smiling at me like that.

Now.

“I don’t think I can do this right now, Chris.”

There’s nothing shy about the way you stand before him, glistening drops of water sliding down your arms, your breasts, pink nipples erect, taunting, all the curves and dips of you, all leading down down down, between your legs, your long legs. . .

He’s not ready for this, either. He’s never been. The hardening length in his pants makes him ground his teeth, makes him angry at you, angry at himself. He was going to talk to you. No matter what. Because you needed it, because you had to hear the truth, what he’s hidden from you, if nothing else. And he would do it without lust clouding his words, damn him to hell and back. He would fucking do it.

He towers over you, closing the gap between you, your bodies grazing each other, two sharp ends meeting halfway, and you stare at his chest for the longest, refusing to go up any further, even while like this, even while any other man would—

He’s not stupid. And he’s definitely not immune to what’s in front of him. It’s eating at him from the inside out.

“Look at me,” he demands, flexing his hands at his sides in a wretched attempt to keep from touching you. Then, “Darling,” softer. “Please.”

You shaking your head at him undoes every single fucking knot that’s ever been, every goddamn moment he’s denied the fact, the simple fucking fact of you and what you are to him and what he means to you, all the times he’s played blind, looked the other way, pretended you were nothing to each other, merely friends, not much, if anything, because of age or stature or whatever the fuck he convinced himself set you and him on opposite sides, never to hold your hand again, never to hold your face as he wants to hold it.

“No,” you refuse. “If I look at you, I lose.”

The words pierce him like a thousand flaming blades.

His eyes burn with the effort it takes not to break down, but he does not blink, can’t, won’t, just lets the sound of your voice hit him again and again and again. He thinks, this is proper punishment, not by your mother or father but by your own hand, and if I die here, so be it. Chris will never forget the pure injury in your expression. Twice now, and he’s the cause of it.

“What do you lose, sweetheart?” A faint rasp, all he can manage. His lips pull at the sides. “I was the one who lost. Everything.”

“You’re lying.”

He laughs, and it’s miserable, it snatches every last bit of air from his lungs. You’re not wrong. Not wrong to assume, but then what does he say? What can he say?

He dresses you instead. Careful to keep the preassigned distance, he pulls your shirt over your head and guides your hands through the holes. You don’t speak, don’t even acknowledge the gesture, but your silence isn’t without meaning. He’s done this sort of thing for you when your knee was in a cast, when your arm was in a sling, in the summer, always in summer.

It didn’t mean anything to two innocent kids then, but it means everything now.

You continue, raising your feet as he kneels in front of you. “You call me all these things. . . Darling, sweetheart. . .” Your voice trails off, shaky with emotion. “It used to confuse me. Give me all this hope.” A hurt so deep he can’t see anything beyond it. He withdraws as your shorts reach past your knees. “Why? Why would you say those things to me? You knew. What they meant.”

His jaw clenches, then unclenches, his breathing is abnormal. . . He knows. Chris doesn’t know what to do with himself, all that he is, and has become. You’ve reached a still point where one wrong move could strip everything to the bone and expose what you really are. How carefully he’d built this house of cards. . . Irrelevant, now, and what does one do with his own marrow?

“It was the only way,” he admits, almost to himself. “The only way I could show you, without. . . You—” he looks away sharply, and releases a broken breath, a heavy sound, throat closing, heart bleeding. “(Y/N), my feelings for you, they’re not normal. There’s not one word I can use to explain them. I’ve been trying all my life. All my life. I’ve—I thought it meant protection, you were so little, and I had just barely. . . it made no sense to feel this way, not to me. I was nine years old. How do I say it?”

“Don’t say it,” you finally meet his gaze. Nothing could prepare him for the storm ahead. “You broke my heart. Over and over. You made me think I could never have you.”

“Which is why I’m not asking anything of you. Why I won’t. I don’t deserve it.”

Your brows furrow, and you huff an incredulous laugh, stepping back, motioning exasperated to your clothed body. “And you’re helping me get dressed when you could just. . .” Your hands come to move beautiful strands of hair away from your eyes. He follows your every breath. “I must look like a stupid fucking girl to you right now. Not even worth the effort to get hard over.”

He chokes on the poison you spew. “Don’t. Don’t tell me what I think.”

You hug yourself and you wait, but you’re a thousand miles away already. Chris has an awful thought, a thought that makes him green all over. Are you thinking about him? Do you want to see him instead of me? Should I really just hand you over like that, without ever being truthful to you?

“Then tell me, Christopher. Is your dick hard right now? Are you attracted to me at all?”

The anger that fills him is not his own but his father’s. It’s a black thing, made of the worst intentions, and it gnaws at him like a rabid dog. He doesn’t know how he reaches you, when your wrists are pinned under his one hand or how his fingers have tangled in your wet locks, but you’re suddenly as close as you’ll ever get and your eyes are wide and watery, and all he wants to fucking do is take, take, take from you

“Do not talk about yourself that way to me. Not to me, you understand?” He says, fiercely. “I will never treat you like—”

“A whore?” You push, looking for a fight. The girl he’s holding is a stranger to him, but he won’t admit it. He doesn’t recognize you, doesn’t recognize the temper or the bite, and it kills him. “Say it. You’ve no idea who I am anymore. What I’ve done. It’d disgust you, you’d never talk to me again.”

He looks at your mouth, in your eyes, your flushed cheeks, and his hand lifts hesitantly, a breath away, as is he, so close, so fucking close, and what if he does it? What if he shows you what he thinks about his supposed disgust?

“You know nothing,” he repeats his words from earlier with difficulty, and steps down even as the savage beast roars inside. “Is that how little you think of me? Do you think the image of you with another man hasn’t crossed my mind? Hasn’t haunted me, doesn’t taunt me every goddamn night? Someone better? Richer than me, educated, with everything to offer while I’m. . .

“Sweetheart, this is all I got,” he declares bitterly. “Here. That’s it. And my heart, whatever that could mean to you. You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t settle for this.”

You look at each other for what feels like eternity. He’s holding you in his arms , everything around you so peaceful, like nature is holding its breath to let you two clash and collide, how you were always supposed to, and he knows for a fact, that he’s irrevocably about to lose you again.

Finally, you jerk back, and Chris’ hold turns inescapable. “Let me go,” you whimper, tears shedding themselves in the end. “I thought I could. . . I can’t. . . Can’t do this.”

“(Y/N), please. . .”

“No!” You shout and once again pull against him, a wounded, cornered animal. He complies silently and releases you, but never takes his eyes off you. “No,” you repeat, quieter this time. “I should’ve never come back.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t fucking say that, darling, I—”

Watching you run away from him hurts worse than any other fate, least of all death.

You do it anyway. Barefoot and wild, a semblance of the girl from his memories, but entirely new prey to his wolf.

Is cowardice the reason why he doesn’t run after you? Or is it the familiar rev of a motorcycle he heard while he was face to face with your bare cunt?

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artinventor · 3 months ago

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So I was curious on what Cain knows of Dean’s relationship with Cas. Obviously he knows about a brother’s love so his relationship with Sam is obvious, and he met Dean while he was working with Crowley so he got a pretty good idea of what those two’s relationship was like, but he hadn’t even seen Dean and Cas together at the same time.

When Cain says that Dean is living his life in reverse and mentions Cas, he says: “and then you'd kill the angel, castiel. now, that one — that i suspect would hurt something awful.”

Now how does he know the extent of their relationship? I can only assume it’s because, since Cain himself is drawing parallels to his own life, he’s assigning roles as well. Sam as Abel, since he said that’s how his story began and Dean’s will end. Crowley as Abaddon, the demon he had a fling with, same with Demon Dean and Crowley. So that only means Cas is Colette. Just by brief interactions and context clues Cain knows that Cas is Dean’s Colette and that his death will hurt “something awful”.

What we see in the show of what Cain has witnessed is that Cas unsheathes his weapon as soon as Cain mentions killing Dean, and then he helps Dean trap Cain by briefly fighting him outside the barn. I also think that Cain is aware, much like most supernatural beings seem to know, that Cas fell from heaven for Dean. That’s not something you see often, and it’s something that they all roast Cas for, often with a romantic implication.

“the one in the dirty trenchcoat who’s in love with you”

“he was your boyfriend first”

“It was all about saving one human, Dean Winchester”

Cain calls Cas, Dean’s “pet”, so I imagine he might have the same thought process as everyone else here. It’s just very interesting to me how the show has outside characters clock their relationship like this and now also make a parallel to a blatant romantic relationship then not do anything direct about it because they’re too afraid to.

#first time spn watcher #supernatural #spn 10x14 #jess watches spn #dean winchester #castiel #spn #destiel

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knight-a3 · 4 months ago

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Adam, the First Man

Hazbin Masterpost

Heavenbound Masterpost

Adam is one of the characters I did not like the portrayal of in canon, so there's a fair amount I'm doing differently.

More notes under the cut

--Character--

I hate the crude misogynist characterization, because it feels disrespectful to Abrahamic faiths. I can't help but feel Christians in particular are targeted, even though Adam is a character is Jewish and Islamic traditions as well.

Adam will still be on the arrogant side, but not nearly as insufferable. I want him to portray traditional, positive aspects of masculinity. Loving and protective husband and father, hard-working, and protective. But, has a bit of a temper that can lead to a tendency toward vengeance. Act first, questions later. Eve was a calming influence for him, but she has mysteriously disappeared and he suspects hell had something to do with it. He'll exterminate every demon if it means he can find answers and bring her home.

--Background--

He and Eve were the first humans and were tasked with cultivating the garden of Eden. Abyss wanted them to Fall so it could consume them, so it created Lilith. Lilith befriended them, then offered the forbidden fruit to Eve. Eve, realizing she'd be kicked out, ran to Adam. So he could stay with her, he ate the fruit as well. The fruit gave them the ability to understand morality, and ultimately the ability to choose good and evil, aka sin. Now that they could sin, they could Fall.

Abyss instructed Lilith to seduce Adam to sin. She tried to force herself on him, to get him to commit adultery, but he rejected her. The friendship between the three of them was broken by this. Lilith hadn't eaten the fruit yet, so she didn't really know what she did wrong.

Adam and Eve were banished from Eden, while Lilith was cast to hell with Helel(Lucifer). Adam and Eve had a family and lived happily ever after. Until Cain killed Abel. I don't have that aspect of their story totally worked out, and I'm not sure how relevant it will end up being.

Children-- The Bible only names three children. Cain, Abel, and Seth. But it says they had "more sons and daughters". There's no definitive numbers. It's not even clear if Cain was actually the firstborn. The true firstborn may have gone unnamed because Cain had a more prominent role to document. No daughters are named in the Bible, but some traditions and apocryphal writings mention a few. Aclima, Awan, and Azura.

The bible story basically goes like this: Cain and Abel offered sacrifices to God. Abel was a shepherd and gave the best of his flock. Cain was a farmer and gave some of his crop. There is no specification to the quality of his offering. So the implication is that he was selfish and kept the best for himself and either gave an average or sub-par offering, maybe even as an afterthought. So when God favored Abel, Cain killed him out of jealousy. Seth was born to essentially replace Abel, so I'm assuming that means Seth was also a shepherd.

History or myth?-- I personally think the Adam and Eve story is largely symbolic, not literal. The method of history keeping during the early biblical days was through stories, often using symbolic imagery to portray a general idea of an event. Which is why there will be other stories across various cultures with similar themes and plot elements. I think the story of Adam and Eve is representative of the evolution of ape to human. While Cain and Abel is about how humans can sin.

Afterlife-- Adam became the chief saint, the highest rank of the archangels, and leader of heaven's army. The army was tasked with protecting heaven and earth from threats, particularly from hell. Demons would sometimes escape and wander earth, so they had to either be sent back to hell, or exterminated.

When concern over hell's growing population and risk of an uprising became prominent, the exterminations began. Recently, the exterminations have been more brutal. Turns out Eve has gone missing, and Adam thinks hell is to blame somehow. So he's furiously searching for her.

--Design Notes--

Appearance: I wanted Adam to look like he could be the first man. Which I felt meant he needed an actual beard, darker skin, and more textured hair. I used Moses from Dreamwork's Prince of Egypt as a model. I figured a more middle-eastern look would be fitting for a Hebrew character.

I had his halo positioned to resemble horns to reference the canon design, and allude to the halo as his helmet's wings.

Apple: Canon has apples be a symbol for the Morningstars, especially Lucifer. But I think it would be more fitting for Adam and Eve instead. "Adam's apple" is a real term, after all. So I wanted to incorporate that.

Crusader: I do not like the demonic looking uniforms for the exorcists. Why would they want to look like the people they are killing? It doesn't make sense to me. It's not even a disguise.

I thought a Crusader theme would be more fitting. So I gave him a Great Helm. Specifically a style of Great Helm referred to as a Sugarloaf, which has a conical shaped top. Domed and conical shapes were better at deflecting blows than flat topped versions. Great Helms did not typically have a movable visor, and experts disagree on if they ever did. Some bascinets have a visor that can make them look like a Sugarloaf Helm, I guess.

I'm just leaning into my nerd side now, but breathing holes weren't always on both sides. Sometimes it was just the right side, since the left was typically the side presented toward the enemy.

The wings on the helmet do have historical precedent. It's called a crest. They're an indication of status and identification. There's two situations were you might see them. 1, in tournaments where participants want to be identifiable and show off. 2, in battles where looking important means the enemies would rather ransom you than kill you. They weren't generally built into the actual helmet, but were removeable. The example to the bottom right of the above set is not-- as far as I'm aware-- a historical example. But it did serve as inspiration for me.

People can get pretty creative with them.

This helmet piece is specifically what "crest" refers to. It's only a piece of the "coat of arms." There were and still are some specific customs to official heraldry, and I won't claim to know all the rules, just that it isn't as simple as googling the your family name's coat of arms, because sharing a name doesn't guarantee it belongs to your family. Heraldry is recorded and officially verified by governments.

Priest: The priestly garb is to reference his high status as an angel, and the religious implications. For official church vestments, what is specifically used and how it looks can vary by denomination, position, event, etc.

The staff is based on a crozier. Which is symbolic of a shepherd's crook. My sheep nerd side is going to come out with this one. There are two basic sizes of crook: Neck sized, and leg sized. Herding sheep is one thing, actually catching them is another. They often don't want to be caught, but they need to be checked on. I've had this struggle when trying to look at my ewe's hooves when she was limping.

I think that's all I have for now.

(Edit notes will go here as needed)

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel redesign #hellaverse #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin adam #adam firstman #angel adam #hazbin exorcists #hazbin heaven #heavenbound au #a3 art #fan art #fanart #digital art #character sheet

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horseimagebarn · 11 months ago

Note

I am going to get you and all your little horses will suffer...

how can you love kermit and joker if you yourself are incapable of spreading anything but selfish vindication i dedicate this blog to seeing the beauty in some of the most controversial yet standard creatures on the internet and yet you dedicate yourself to hatred and violence towards everything unless it pleases your twisted logic and niche interests i and my horses will not suffer because even when we feel pain we know that joy will live on in this world through love and respect and yet you deny yourself that and seek destruction instead of love if cain had truly loved abel if jacob had truly loved esau would the world not have been a bit easier for you and i in this modern era to navigate if adam and eve hadnt been fueled by only basic and animal emotions like hate and jealousy if they had thought with empathy and rationality would they have not been aware enough to see past the serpents urging why did they all have to seek more for themselves at the fault of others when there was so much raw beauty around them in nature why shouldnt one be happy the world is full of love even if there is a horse like bucephalus who shares in it do you think bucephalus had any choice in the life he was given why must you be so full of hatred and so quick to blame a creature whose agency was wholly removed through thousands of years of domestication dont you understand that life is simply a challenge to find contentment in your circumstances and bucephalus has done his best in his circumstances to find it why cant you accept the same challenge why must you run from it and blame all those who have succeeded where you have so willingly and grievously failed

#ask #horse #horses #horseblr #horseposting #the muppet joker #muppet joker #the croaker movement #the croaker #bucephalus #someday i hope youll find it muppet joker #the rainbow connection

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bonnie-the-butcher · 4 months ago

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Rip Tide | Chapter XII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.179 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

I will never be able to top that Cain and Abel paragraph. Please mourn for my writing career. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You can feel the vice grip of JJ’s hand pressing against your veins, your pulse thundering against him, growing faster with every failed attempt to wring yourself away.

– JJ, – You gasp, trying to twist yourself out of his hold, pulling, wringing, fruitlessly. He yanks you forward before you can finish, dragging you toward the bike.

Your breath catches.

– JJ, let go of me, you’re hurting me—

– Get on the bike. – He doesn’t yell it. His voice is tight, barely restrained, the kind of anger that isn’t meant to be loud—it’s meant to be a warning.

You shake your head, twisting against his hold. – You can’t drive like— You can’t— I can’t just leave—

– Yes, you can. – His grip tightens. – You will.

He’s pulling, and you’re fighting it—your heels digging into the pavement, the weight of your body thrown back, hand grasping at the grass like it can hold you back. You try to wrench your wrist free, but he’s so much stronger than you like this, fueled by something dark, barely controlled.

– Stop it! Please, just fucking stop it, JJ! What are you doing?! – Your voice cracks, desperate. – You’re acting crazy, just—let me go!

He doesn’t. Not for a second. His hand tightens, impossibly, against your arm and he tugs you forward with all his force until you crash against him, barely on your feet, your knees shaking.

– JJ—

– I swear to fucking God, – He growls, his voice a rumble something familiar, painfully so, something that makes your stomach turn. – if I have to tell you again—

You shake your head, thoughtlessly, maniacally. You can’t control the movement.

You don’t know what he’ll do if you refuse.

And that’s the problem.

Because neither does he.

JJ isn’t thinking. He isn’t here.

He’s someone else entirely. His mind is a blur. Whoever this person is, standing before you, wants nothing but to hurt you.

Your heart hammers as the reality sets in.

You could fight. But he'd beat you. You could hope for help. But there’s no one around to stop him. You could scream, but what good would it do if no one’s there to hear you?

And if you don’t do what he says?

He won’t leave.

Not until you get on that bike.

Barry’s bike.

Barry.

Your heart stops.

Where is Barry? What did JJ do to him? Why didn’t he answer your calls? Did he take something else? Did he leave him, alone, somewhere, with nowhere else to go?

And if he doesn’t leave, if he keeps shouting like this, keeps grabbing you, demanding you go with him—

It’ll be worse.

So much worse.

Your job. Your safety. This sliver of security you're already clinging to by the skin fingernails.

You just barely escaped being fired. JJ isn’t above making a scene to teach you a lesson. He doesn’t care how much he hurts you when he’s like this.

The words get caught in your throat. You force yourself to swallow them down, along with everything else you want to say.

Your hands tremble as you reach for the seat.

JJ exhales like he’s been holding his breath. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t talk to you, doesn’t let go of his anger. Just swings his leg over the bike and nods toward the seat behind him. – Get on.

You hesitate, taking a step back without even thinking, like your body won't let you do this, and he snaps—one hand darting out, grabbing your wrist again, tugging you forward so violently you stumble.

Your stomach lurches.

You don’t want to do this.

But what choice do you have?

You climb onto the bike, your legs barely steady, your arms wrapped around him because you have nothing else to hold on to.

JJ barely gives you time to breathe before he guns it. The engine revs, roaring like a vicious animal. The bike lurches forward before you’re even ready. Your grip slips. Your balance wavers. For a split second, you’re weightless.

You slam against JJ’s back, your arms snapping around his waist on instinct, clinging tight as the bike rockets forward, faster than it should, faster than it ever should.

– JJ—!

The wind rips the word from your mouth.

Streetlights flash by in violent streaks of gold and red. The world blurs at the edges, sharp and endless and cruel, like you’ve been thrown into a nightmare that won’t stop shifting.

JJ doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t breathe. His body is tense, coiled too tight, a wire pulled so thin it can feel the incoming snap. His grip on the handlebars is white-knuckled, his back rigid beneath your grip.

The bike swerves.

Your stomach drops.

The road bends, but JJ doesn’t. He takes the turn too sharp, too recklessly, the tires skidding for half a second. Your whole body tilts, your knee nearly scraping asphalt.

You whimper, pressing yourself closer, fingers desperate as they grasp his clothes, knuckles aching from how hard you’re holding on.

– JJ—slow down!

He doesn’t.

The engine growls louder, vibrating beneath you, rattling in your bones, shaking in your chest like a second heartbeat.

He flies past a red light, too fast, too close, too dangerous.

A car blares its horn—loud, long, furious.

You choke on a scream, your whole body bracing for impact, for the crash, for the pain—

But nothing comes. Only the phantom of an accident growing within you, coiling inside your chest, tightening, painfully, building up a fear that already has you frozen, praying, waiting for death.

Terror crawls up your throat, sharp and cold.

– JJ, please, – You gasp, voice cracking. – Please—just stop.

For a moment, you think he won’t.

For a moment, you think he’ll ride forever, until the world ends, until you both crash and burn.

Then, finally—finally—he eases off the throttle.

Not much.

Just enough to breathe again.

Just enough to make you realize you were barely breathing at all.

Your pulse roars in your ears.

The wind still slashes at your skin, the tires still groan against the pavement, but the speed—the nightmare speed—has lessened.

Your fingers ache from gripping too tight. Your lungs burn from holding back screams.

And just then, just when you feel the burn in your throat, your lungs, your eyes, retreat, when your arms loosen the slightest bit, when you nearly relax, he sinks his foot on the gas, and suddenly you’re going faster than you ever were.

You can’t contain the scream this time— It surges through you like a bullet, and it ends halfway through, your voice dying in your chest, having used up the little breath you had— you’re choking again. You can’t think.

Your mind rushes, your hands cling, tears falling from you before you can even register them.

But JJ doesn’t slow down.

Even as the streets turn to dirt. Even as the road twists into something precarious, dangerous, unforgiving.

The pavement is cracked, riddled with potholes, with gaping wounds in the asphalt that could send you both flying if he miscalculates even once.

But he doesn’t care.

He flies down the path like he’s untouchable, like the Cut itself will bend to his will, like there’s no chance he could crash.

But you could.

You watch the ground loom ever closer with every turn he makes, asphalt slashing against the metal of the bike like a blade.

Your bones rattle with every jolt, your stomach lurches as the tires stumble over loose gravel, and you can barely think past the fear.

The bike jerks to a halt before your house so suddenly that you don’t even realize it stopped at first.

And you’re falling.

You don’t know whether you jumped or were thrown off.

Your feet hit the ground, but your legs don’t hold.

Your knees collapse into the dirt.

Your hands reach out, clutching the earth beneath you like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

You gasp, dragging air into your lungs like you’ve been drowning for miles.

The ground is solid. Rough. Real.

But it slips through your fingers, and you can’t hold yourself steady.

You try to focus on the feeling of grit beneath your nails, the sting of pebbles digging into your skin.

Anything to remind yourself that you’re not moving anymore.

But you still feel it.

The phantom pull of the road. The momentum still dragging at your bones. The way your body still thinks you’re going too fast, too fast, too fast—

Somewhere in the haze, you hear voices.

Barry. John. Shouting. Arguing.

You squeeze your eyes shut, press your fingers harder into the dirt, try to remind yourself that you’re here. That you’re on the ground.

That you’re not crashing.

But God, it still feels like you are —Your hands shake so badly you can barely hold the dirt within your fingers. You breathe, gasping, trying to get air, but it’s stuck against your hiccups, against the sobs you don’t even have the strength to choke down— You’re crying. The air is still whizzing past you, sharp, so sharp you can feel it dragging you back, the ground looming closer, your bones nothing but glass.

– There you fucking are. Was it fun? You had your little fucking joyride?! – The voice echoes out from beyond, like you’re stuck, sinking into the air, towards the pavement, and they’re watching you from above.

It's Barry, you realize.

His voice cuts through the haze, loud and livid, sharp enough to hurt. And something inside you thrums. That stupid part of yourself, the part that always hopes someone will help you.

You want to run to him. You want him to see you, to hold you —solid, real, safe— you want something against you, something that isn’t this void that clings to you, this feeling that you’re a moment away from the worst pain you’ll ever feel.

But you can’t stand.

You can’t look at him.

You can’t do anything.

Your hands are still pressed into the dirt, your chest heaving, your body still bracing for impact that never came.

Because it still feels like you’re falling.

And you are.

You’re on the ground, but you’re not. You can’t stand. You can’t move. You can’t breathe.

Something is gonna crash against you. Something sharp. Something that’ll hurt you.

You’ve been beaten enough times to know this feeling, the gasping, aching anticipation of the whip coming down, that split second before someone hits you, before the ground jolts you, before something in you breaks.

Your whole body shakes—not just from fear, not just from the cold, from the void, but from the ache of knowing something worse is coming. You know it's coming. And you know you won’t come out of this unscathed.

Barry stops.

Mid-step, mid-swing, mid-word—he stops.

Because he sees you.

He sees you on the ground.

He sees you pale, trembling, sobbing.

And just like that, his anger vanishes.

He says something, his breath caught in his throat as his steps quicken, as he rushes towards you, having completely forgotten the rest.

His boots crunch against the gravel, loud and reckless and looming. You can’t even help but flinch. Your body jolts backwards, away from him, and you’re crawling again, recoiling until he’s dropping to his knees beside you, reaching out but not touching.

Like he’s done so many times.

And you’re there, this broken stray, cowering in the corner, shaking, shaking so bad you can’t even reach for him like you want.

– Sweetheart, – He murmurs, low, gentle in a way that makes you feel all the more pathetic. – Look at me.

You can’t.

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head, curling tighter into yourself, fingers digging into the dirt as if you could disappear into it.

Barry swears under his breath. His hand resting so softly against your shoulder that he too is almost startled by how you flinch.

He stills.

His hand is barely touching you, barely even there, and yet your whole body flinches—hard, like he struck you instead— like a dog, waiting for a boot in the ribs.

His breath hitches.

– Shit, – He exhales, barely a whisper. Slowly, carefully, he puts his hand on yout back. You don’t move.

You stay there, curled tight, fingers buried in the dirt, shaking, shaking, shaking.

He steadies the rest of his hand against your skin. And you don’t move. Because this is familiar. He’s done this before.

This isn’t new.

Barry swears again, softer this time, and then —very slowly— he moves again. His knees drag through the dirt, his other hand rests on your side.

Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just... offering.

A slow, steady pressure against your back. A grounding weight. A reminder.

You shudder.

Your body is still caught in the past, still bracing for a hit that isn’t coming, still waiting for the moment of impact.

But it doesn’t come.

Just warmth.

Just Barry.

Again.

Nothing’s coming. You have to tell yourself. It’s over. You're okay.

But you don’t believe it. Not fully.

– Sweetheart, – He tries again, voice lower now, still gentle but almost frustrated. Your heart catches. And you feel that guilt blooming in you again. Because he’s had to do this before. Because he’s had to pick up the pieces of you from the ground plenty of times before. You want to kick yourself. You don’t deserve this. You almost flinch away. But his hold tightens, the slightest bit. Grounding. Like he’s afraid to scare you away. – You’re okay. You’re okay. Just relax. You're okay.

You’re okay.

You don’t move.

Not until he presses a little firmer. Not until his fingers brush your ribs, not holding, not forcing, just... there. Until he pulls at you, softly, not like JJ did.

Barry doesn’t hesitate.

His arms wrap around you, firm and solid, pulling you in, gathering you up, shielding you from the air itself. The second you feel his grip tighten, you break. A sob wracks through you, sharp and choked, as your hands claw at his shirt, gripping, gripping, gripping.

You cling like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

Like you’re still moving too fast, and he’s just barely keeping you grounded.

Barry holds you tighter. – You’re okay. – He repeats.

Something's coming. Steps behind him. You see the outline of someone, legs walking towards the two of you, but when you move, he holds you tighter. Arms bracing your back like a straightjacket, keeping you from yourself. Keeping you sane.

– You’re okay. – Is the only thing he says. And he keeps saying it, again and again, until the words echo in your mind, bouncing against the walls of your skull, less and less frantic until you can say it.

You believe him.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to stop falling.

But your name resounds again from behind you. Once, a second time, then you feel that same hand that grabbed you sink into your arm again, trying to pull you back. – Get up! – JJ shouts, nails sinking into your shoulders as he grabs you.

Barry pushes him away.

Shoves him.

You hear the stutter in JJ’s steps as he stumbles back, sinking further into his arms like a child. – What the fuck did you do, huh? What the fuck did you do to her, JJ?!

– Get up and fucking look at me. – He keeps pulling at you, calling your name, his hand burrowing into your flesh. You want to stand, you want to push him away, but you cower. And Barry does it for you.

He shoves JJ again, hard enough that you feel the struggle between them. – She ain’t gotta listen to a word you say, psycho! What the fuck is your problem?!

JJ laughs—sharp, bitter, like it’s the funniest fucking thing in the world.

– Course you’d hide behind him, – He spits, his voice mocking, cruel. – That’s all you ever fucking do. Hide.

Barry tenses.

You feel it.

The way his muscles coil, the way his grip shifts, ready to push back, to swing, to end this.

But JJ doesn’t care.

He doesn’t even look at Barry.

He’s still looking at you.

You can feel his eyes burning holes into your back as you pull back from Barry. You can feel the rage emanating off of him.

– You got nothing to say now? – JJ presses, stepping closer. – Nothing at all? You usually talk such big game, baby. Now you can't even look me in the eye?!

Barry moves first.

– Back the fuck up.

It’s not a warning.

It’s a command.

– Why? Are you worried she’s too close to stab me in the back again? The way I see it, she’s in the perfect position to do that to you, man!

You pull back from Barry, hands still clinging to his shirt as you turn to look at JJ, but Barry doesn’t let go, not as JJ’s gaze finally flicks to him, smirking, scoffing. Not as he pulls you to your feet again, tearing you away from your friend like you're nothing but a thing he can take.

– You feel good? – JJ’s voice is low, furious, barely held together, as his hands sink into you. – Feel real fucking good going behind everyone’s back? Working for Rafe? That do it for you?

Your chest tightens.

– Stop it—

– You got your little job, right? – JJ barrels over your words, stepping closer, looming, his breath hot, sharp, filled with venom. – That what you’re calling it now? Fucking us all over for a paycheck? Maybe that isn’t it though, maybe you’re the one who’s getting fucked, huh?

John bristles from the porch, his voice low, tense. – JJ.

– Nah. She knows what she’s doing, right? Did you tell your brother how Rafe was all over you in that parking lot, calling you baby and shit?! That dignified, hard-working girl act you put up really paid off huh? You really had us all fooled! – John doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t call JJ out, he just stands there. – Feel fulfilled now? Now that you managed to tick off every fucking form of betrayal in the book? Because you got me fucked up!

Barry’s done.

– She ain’t got you fucked up, man. That’s exactly what you are. Are you serious right now? – Barry snaps, voice rough with disbelief. – You wanna talk about her fucking up? You—you who does nothing but fuck up?!

– Nobody is fucking talking to you, bro.

– Ain’t nobody around here your “bro”, JJ. Thank God, too. Weren’t your parents siblings or whatever? That’d explain why you only got half a fucking brain.

– Shut the fuck u—

– Oh, Alabama over here’s mad! – Barry scoffs, a quick, sharp sound drained of anything even close to humor. – That’s actually hilarious. That some bum like you would feel like you have the right to call anyone out on what they do or don’t do for work. You sit here, lounging for free in this house she pays for, doing jack shit with your fucking life like the trailer trash your ass is—but she’s the bad guy for working? Is that how long it’s been since you had a job, JJ? That you can’t fathom the possibility of someone making money without selling themselves?

JJ laughs.

Not real. Not amused.

Just dangerous.

Like he’s already decided how this ends.

– That’s cute, – He murmurs, nodding slowly, like it’s all some joke he’s humoring. – That’s real fucking cute. You’re gonna add anything to this conversation, or is your dog doing all the talking for you today?

Barry chuckles. Dry and low, so low you can barely hear it. – Dog? You run around sniffing John B’s ass all day and night like you’re in heat or something, but I’m the one who’s a dog? Shit, I ain’t see a bitch around here but you, JJ.

JJ lunges. His fist swings through the air, quick and violent, but before he can even touch Barry, he uppercuts him in the stomach.

JJ tumbles back, his hands still on you, tearing at you, grabbing, ripping, pulling— but his grip doesn’t stand the pain Barry caused him, and he falters.

Barry reacts instantly.

He grabs his arm, shoves him off of you, pivots —his knuckles slam into JJ’s temple.

The sound is sickening: A dull, thudding crack of bone on bone. JJ’s head snaps sideways. His body stumbles, tilting, collapsing.

But Barry doesn’t stop.

He’s on him before he hits the ground, tackling him hard, sending them both crashing into the dirt.

JJ barely has time to react before Barry’s fist connects again.

And again.

A hit to the jaw—JJ spits blood.

A hit to the cheekbone—his head slams back against the ground.

Barry is relentless.

You call his name, your heart racing, the blood searing your vision like a burning bush, but he doesn’t listen.

His teeth are bared, his muscles coiled and shaking, his body moving on pure fury, on the weight of everything JJ has said, everything he’s done. The years he’s spent hating him for you, the months he’s been hating JJ for the stupid shit he pulled and the problem’s he’s caused him.

He’s beating him to a fucking pulp.

JJ groans. A sharp, wet, broken sound, choked by the blood in his mouth.

His fist swings again—

And that’s when you move.

You throw yourself forward, grabbing Barry’s arm, yanking, clawing, trying to drag him off—

– Stop it! You’re gonna kill him! Stop it! – Your voice cracks, weak, your attempts useless even as your brother joins you, trying to pull them apart, but Barry keeps swinging.

His breathing hard, shaking, still staring down at JJ, moving despite your grip and John’s, like he wants to break something permanent. Like just bruising him isn’t enough.

Like he’s one more hit away from doing it.

You pull harder, hands gripping his clothes, his arm, anything you can reach.

Barry jerks against your hold, laughing, spitting at JJ—then finally, he lets you drag him back.

His breathing is ragged, wild, unhinged.

JJ groans, coughing. His face is already swelling, blood smeared across his cheek.

Your stomach twists.

You reach for him before you can think, hands hovering over his face, over the bruises already forming.

– JJ, – You breathe, shaking. – Jesus fucking Christ.

He's a mess. Blood, flesh, face. You can barely make one thing out from the other. Barely see the damage.

Your hands brush the bloodied hair out of his face, an instinctive motion, just so you can see where the cuts ends and the swelling begins. And for a moment, he almost seems like he’ll let you.

JJ's eyes part, moving though your face as you look at him, and he breathes in deep. He sighs.

A familiar sound.

Relief.

Relief that it's over.

You reach again, just barely ghosting your hands over his temple, where Barry hit him first. But his eyes widen, something in them shifting, cold, cruel.

And he shoves you away.

Hard.

Hard enough that you stumble back as well.

Hard enough that Barry notices.

You hear him tear himself away from John's grip, rushing past you, but you grab him just in time. – Please, please Barry. Stop it. Just stop it. Don't do this right now.

Barry is still trembling, breath wild, erratic, hands twitching like he’s one second away from lunging all over again.

You feel it, the anger rolling off him in waves, the way his body keeps trying to pull forward, like something feral inside him hasn’t had enough.

You grip his wrist tighter. – Please, – You whisper. – Please, Barry. Just stop it. Don’t do this right now.

Barry’s teeth grind together. His breath is sharp, ragged, dangerous.

But he listens.

JJ doesn’t.

John helps him sit up, a steadying hand on his back, but the second JJ is upright, breathing, aware again—he’s talking. Talking, insulting, tearing into you like it’s the only thing keeping him conscious.

– You’re gonna let him? – His voice is hoarse, broken, but still filled with venom. – This piece of shit does nothing but get you in trouble but— He spits blood onto the dirt, wipes his mouth, shaking his head. – You’re just gonna let him do whatever he wants?

Your stomach twists.

– JJ—

– I shouldn’t be surprised. – His head snaps up. Eyes blazing, furious, wild. – You let it happen, – He snarls. – You always let it happen, You don’t give a fuck about us. Don’t fucking act like you do. You stood there and fucking— He gestures to himself, to the mess Barry made of him, to his swollen face, to the blood dripping onto his collar. – And you fucking let him do it.

– What the fuck are you gonna do about it, then, tough guy? – Barry laughs, his hands trembling.

JJ’s muscles snap tight.

You push Barry back again, more frantic now, shaking, pleading, but he doesn’t listen.

Your hands tremble.

JJ pushes himself up fully now, John’s grip still firm on his shoulder, holding him steady. But it doesn’t matter.

Because JJ is not steady.

Not at all.

– You ain’t gonna say anything, huh? – He breathes, voice cold, sharp, shaking. – You play the tough girl act very well for someone who’s such a bitch.

Barry tenses again. His laugh is the crack of a whip as he pushes past you, you have to shove at him just so he won’t rush in and punch him again.

John’s holding JJ back, his face wrecked with something almost sad. Almost worried. – Let go of me. – Barry groans, the impatience growing in his voice. – Let go of me sweetheart, this motherfucker needs to be put in his place.

– Let it go, Bee.

– Let it go?! – He does a double take, looking at you as if you’d grown a second head. – Let it go? He just called you a—

– I heard it. Please, this is enough. You nearly killed him. You won. – You grip his arm tighter. His breath comes out heavy, perplexed. – Just let it go, please.

John’s voice is a murmur behind you, whatever it is that he says to his friend doesn’t reach you, but you know it isn’t working, because the outrage on JJ’s face doesn’t budge. – JJ—

– You’re a fucking traitor. – He spits your name out along with the blood, your brother still trying to pull him back with all he’s got. – You are. You’re a traitor and a whore!

It punches through you.

JJ stumbles forward, closer, swaying but still standing.

– You don’t belong here, – He seethes. – Get the fuck out.

Your heart stops.

You blink at him, your breath snagging in your throat.

This is your house. Your home. He can’t—he can’t just tell you to—

– Get out. – It’s louder this time, meaner, angrier, like it’s his right to say it, like he actually has the power to take something else from you. – Since you’re so happy to be Rafe’s free use slut, go ahead and do it on your own! We don’t fucking need you!

Your lips part. – This is my house, – But your voice is a sliver of what it once was. You’re not looking at JJ. You barely hear his words, but your brother is standing there, completely still. His arms suddenly lax around the other boy. – This is my house! – Louder, firmer, but just as useless.

– I don’t think it is. – JJ laughs. He’s looking back at your brother now, too. Because he knows John isn’t gonna say anything. He knows it just as well as you do. – Your name isn’t John Routledge. That’s the name on the deed, isn’t it? And it’s not yours.

– John. – You’re pleading again. The gray-green of your brother’s eyes gaping at you emptily, thoughtlessly, as if he’s gone into shock. – Say something, John. This is my house too!

He doesn’t say anything.

Just stares.

– Say something!

You don’t know how many times you’ve done this.

How many times you’ve stood there, practically on your knees, begging him to act like a brother. To act like he cares about you. To act as if he’d loved you for a single moment of his life.

You don’t know how many times you’ve gotten this exact response.

The blank stare.

The guilty face.

That look in his eye that tells you just how much he doesn’t have it in him to pretend, even for a moment, that you’re less than the stupid girl who, for whatever reason, has done everything in your power to keep him afloat.

– John. – His name comes out hoarse, quiet. A whisper. A prayer. A plea.

His eyes never waver from yours, he keeps looking, keeps standing there, and though his face is cracked with guilt, there is no shame. Nothing that would make him act on it.

Maybe there’s just nothing there.

No fire. No anger. No defense. No loyalty.

Just the look you’ve seen a thousand fucking times before.

You don’t know why you still beg. You don’t know why you still believe.

You are pleading with a ghost.

John doesn’t move. He just looks at you. Like he’s already decided. Like this is already done.

And it is.

But it wasn’t done with the fight, or the cursing, or the blood, not even the way JJ turns, tossing the keys to the bike onto the ground, storming off like he’s the one who was wronged. Not when you see the way John hesitates for half a second, looking at you like he wants to say something, like he wants to take it back, like he wants to undo what’s already done—

Not even when he follows him, turning his back on you like it’s so simple, so natural, like it was always meant to be.

It ended years ago.

Maybe it never even began.

Maybe you're the only fool alive who ever believed you were his sister.

The night cracks open.

The silence presses in.

You're stuck inside your body, inside your head, inside all the memories that claw their way back into you like rusted nails.

You are twelve years old, standing behind John, watching through the schoolyard fence as JJ and the others shove you into the dirt.

"Ain’t she your sister?" someone asks.

John laughs with them.

"Nah, man. I don’t know her."

You are fifteen, standing in the living room, your hands trembling at your sides as your father slams you against the wall.

John is at the end of the hall.

Watching.

Silent.

Your father’s voice is thunder in your ears.

"You think you’re smart, huh? You think I don’t know it was you?"

But it wasn’t you. It was John.

And he lets it happen anyway.

You are seventeen, standing in this very yard, watching your brother walk away from you again.

Just like he always does.

Just like he always will.

Because John —the John you thought you knew, the John that sobbed in your arms for months every night your father didn't come home, the John who wouldn't eat unless you fed him, who wouldn't sleep unless you held him, wouldn't leave the house unless you were close enough that he could grab you, was never there. John, the boy, John, the brother. He's only ever existed as far as he needed you. And now he doesn’t— is not there.

He's John B.

The star student, the popular kid. That boy that was always too good to hang around some mongrel like you.

And this is what John B does.

This is what he’s always done.

He doesn’t protect you.

He doesn't defend you.

He doesn’t choose you.

Every time you’ve asked God whether you were your brother’s keeper, you felt the weight of every living soul around you say no —You closed your eyes, and you were Abel, lying, stupidly, on the ground you just tilled as he stood behind you with a stone, ready to crush you. You were Remus, laying bricks with your back turned as he came to slay you. You were Osiris, walking thoughtlessly into a coffin he’s made to bury you, fully believing that he wanted nothing but to see you well— Because for every life you’ve shared, he’s killed you, and still somehow convinced you to pray that you’re still siblings in the next.

You don’t remember when your hands started shaking.

Or when your knees lost their strength.

Or when your breath began coming too fast, too shallow, not enough, never enough.

All you know is that the world tilts.

And you sway.

And you break.

And you cry.

You reach out—for something, anything—but there’s nothing to hold onto.

Nothing but empty space where your brother used to be, where the two of you used to play, where you once believed you could be something like brother and sister.

The sky blurs. The trees waver. The ground rushes toward you.

But before you can collapse, before you can even feel yourself falling, Barry catches you.

He's solid. Real.

Not like John. —You shake your head, mentally scratching that concept from your conscience— Not like John B.

– Hey—hey—look at me. – Barry’s hands grip your arms, tight, steady. His eyes search your face, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile. – C'mon. Breathe.

You press your hands against his chest, against something solid, something unshaking, something that won’t disappear the moment you close your eyes.

And finally you do breathe. But the wound is still gaping. Still bleeding. And John B is already gone. The door slams closed, leaving you to rot in the silence, bathed by the flickering light of the porch; the one you asked him to change for a lightbulb you bought weeks ago, and is still sitting, forgotten on his nightstand.

Barry smooths the tears away from your face, like he used to do when you came to him after a fight with your father, like he’s done for every heartbreak since. – Let’s go home. – He whispers, his hands still cupping your face. The plastic of his keys—Rafe’s keys— pressed against your jaw. – C’mon, let me take you home.

– It's gone, Bee.

– It's not.

– He kicked me out, I can’t come back. It's gone.

– It’s not, it isn’t, don’t fucking say that—don’t ever say that again. – His grip on you tightens, the muscles of his hand flexing against your skin, quick, so quick, you barely brace yourself when he makes you stand in front of him. – That piece of shit isn’t your home. This place? This fucking dump you lived in? This isn’t your home. I’m your home, okay? And you’re mine, and you’re not staying here to keep breaking your own heart over and over again. Let's go.

– Barry—

– I don’t wanna hear it. – He's firm. He's angry. Your chest weighs heavy, still forever afraid of any sign of anger, even when it’s not directed to you. But he holds you, and he looks at you, really looks at you, and he repeats. – Let’s go, okay? I’m taking you to my place, and I don’t wanna hear you complaining.

– Okay.

– C’mon.

Barry’s hands are firm, unshaking, steady, and you barely feel them as he guides you toward the bike. Everything is distant, muted, like you’re watching yourself move from somewhere outside your own body. A conscience beyond your own.

You let him press the helmet onto your head, let him buckle it under your chin with a flick of his fingers. And you watch the way he moves.

His hands are still clenched as he tosses your purse, discarded over the ground, on your lap. He looks over his shoulders, at the closed door, with his jaw clenched, and every so often he shakes his head, frowning, outraged by a thought you can’t hear, can't know.

You don’t remember climbing onto the bike.

You barely register the way Barry grips your hands, pulling them around his waist, but he doesn’t say anything. Not the usual "Hold on, sweetheart," he always says like it’s second nature, not any of the stupid comments he makes whenever you ride with him. His movements are brisk, borderline impatient, but not careless, never careless. He kicks the bike to life, the engine shuddering through your bones as it hums beneath you, the heat of the exhaust jostling against the scrapes on your legs.

Then, you’re moving.

Not fast. Not yet.

But even at this speed, the wind presses against you, makes you feel untethered, unsteady, fragile in a way you haven’t let yourself acknowledge until now. You close your eyes and grip him tight, focusing on the smell of the helmet, breathing it in, the smoke of his cigarettes, the shoddy menthol of his nicotine gum, and something grounding, something real.

Your fingers find the fabric of his shirt —your shirt— the old marina shirt that belonged to your dad, the one you were wearing that day with him and Rafe, when everything went to shit. It’s crumpled, but it feels nice, still tender from the fabric softener you used for that last wash.

You feel the moment he registers it, the way you grip him, trying to distract yourself—the way his muscles tense slightly, the way his hands shift against the handles, grip tightening, the moment of hesitation before he sighs through his nose and settles.

He drives slower than usual.

Not slow, but slow enough that you can tell.

Slow enough that it’s not Barry’s usual recklessness, his usual need to prove something.

Slow enough that he’s paying attention.

You don’t know how long you ride like that.

Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. Maybe a whole fucking lifetime.

Everything is blurred, stretched thin, bleeding together like a half-forgotten dream, and you let it wash over you, let the hum of the engine drown out the roar in your head, let the road carry you somewhere, anywhere that isn’t here, that isn’t now.

You don’t notice when he turns onto the familiar back roads.

You don’t notice the flickering neon light, the cracked pavement, the darkened windows.

You don’t notice where you are at all.

Not until he kills the engine.

Not until the silence crashes over you, sharp and final. Not until you hear the low creak of his kickstand settling, the way he shifts slightly beneath your hands, pulling off his helmet, running a hand through his hair before glancing over his shoulder.

Not until you look up.

And the sign is right there, right above you.

The River Styx.

Your stomach drops.

But Barry doesn’t say anything, his fingers brush over your wrist, still taught around his waist, and he pats his other hand over your knee. – C'mon.

You just stare at the sign, the neon glow casting strange shadows across the pavement, the weight of everything pressing down on you all over again.

You should have known.

Of course he’d bring you here.

Because where else would you go?

Where else is there to go?

Barry swings his leg off the bike, tossing the helmet onto the seat, shaking his head like he’s already exhausted by whatever is going on in his own head. He exhales sharply, running a hand over his jaw, then gestures toward the door.

– Come on, sweetheart, it's about time this day fucking ends.

You swallow hard, unmoving.

His brows pull together slightly, like he’s trying to be patient, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say, but Barry isn’t built for patience, for softness, for comfort in the way people expect it.

So instead, he sighs, takes a step closer, and reaches for your wrist, fingers curling around it, not pulling, just holding. – You promised. – He says, but this time it actually is softer, kinder, nearly patient. – Now, we can go back if you want, but then the deal is over, and you'll have to sleep on the pull-out couch.

You scoff, still looking at the sign, but you feel your arm relax under his touch. – You suck.

– Not just yet, I’m still sober. – He winks, smiling half-heartedly as he pulls you to the door.

Finnean, the owner’s son, grins the moment he sees you, arms crossed over the bar, his too-many tattoos peeking out from what should have been the sleeves of this dirty wife-beater he’s wearing, the gold tooth in his smile catching the dim light. – Well, well. Look who finally crawled outta the grave.

– You thought we were dead? – Barry hums, unamused, knocking twice against the counter as he slides onto the stool, pulling you beside him.

Finnean laughs, more a scoff than anything as he places two cups before you. – D’you ever hear the expression ‘only the good die young’? Good ain’t the case for you two. I was actually leaning towards your ass finally getting detained.

– Why? Your brothers need a lil company? Maybe sweetheart can go to see them. – Barry pats your leg, smiling, tight and taught, none of the usual ease on him. – What’d you say, jailbait?

– You can go all you like, sweets. I’m just not sure you’d come back.

– You’re a peach, Finn. – He smiles at you, green eyes flashing with something you don’t want to understand as he turns his back and grabs something.

– And you’re a plump, little red cherry. – He shakes his head, setting the glass down in front of you with a wink before tossing something onto the bar. – I could just pop you in my mouth.

A bowl of bright red maraschino cherries sits before you. Your heart stumbles, a smile actually forming on your face.

Barry grins, nudging them closer. – Knew that’d cheer you up. – His shoulder brushes yours as he pulls your stool closer, watching you eat. – We weren’t in jail or nothing, but this one just got out of house arrest.

– That brother you’re always talking about? – He asks Barry, already throwing his head back, laughing, reaching for the bourbon before Barry even asks. – That explains it. – You stop for a moment, aching again.

Was it so obvious? – Does it? – You murmur, and Finnean gives you a look.

– You disappear for months, and when you finally show up, you look like someone dragged you through hell backwards. – He nods at Barry. – He looks ready to start swinging on the first motherfucker who blinks at him wrong.

– That’s just his face, – You say dryly, eating so you don’t have to look at them.

Barry just snorts, shoving your shoulder lightly. – Ain’t you a charmer? – He takes a cherry from your hand, still chewing it as he downs his cup. – Hit me again.

– You tryna meet God or something? – Barry chuckles at your words, this time more genuine. The smile lingers as Finn pours more bourbon into his glass, sliding another over to you.

– Holler when you get tired of this loser, okay sweetheart? – He winks, that same old joke he always says, grinning as he slides on over to another customer. – Finn will love you long time.

You breathe out slowly, your lungs still burning as you reach for the glass.

You’re tired of thinking about John.

Tired of mourning someone who was never there to begin with.

Maybe Barry had a point with the whole drinking your sorrows away thing. He’d been doing it for years, already. Started drinking just after his father was finally arrested for good.

And hey, if it worked for him…

You bring the glass to your lips, feeling your friend’s eyes on you as the liquid runs down your throat like straight gasoline. He chuckles, patting you in the back.

The first drink burns.

The second warms.

By the third, you’re floating.

The night bleeds away with every time you glimpse the bottom of your cup staring down at you.

Time slips through your fingers, lost in the clink of glasses, the sharp burn of bourbon, the sticky sweetness of cherries.

But though your thoughts slow, the ache never leaves you.

Barry loosens, even as you remain a little melancholy, all warmth beside you, his voice low in your ear, teasing, coaxing laughter from you with every sarcastic remark, every quiet joke. He tips the bottle, refilling your glass before you can even think to ask.

Your chest clenches.

The songs in the background rise, fall, twist into something familiar.

Somewhere between the fourth drink and the sixth, you’re singing along, voice tangled with Barry’s, both of you yelling out the lyrics, slurring through the old Irish verses, laughter shaking through you as the whole bar joins in.

You don’t remember when Finnean slid the bottle of homemade moonshine across the counter, just that Barry caught it with a smirk, tucking it under his arm before pulling you off the stool.

His hands are already on you, already guiding, already pressing against your waist.

You stumble, laughing, pushing him back. – You can’t fucking drive like this, dumbass.

Barry grumbles, rolling his eyes, but you grab his arm and pull.

So you walk.

Through the streets of the Cut, the night air cool against your flushed skin, your voices loud, singing through the empty roads from your empty chest. Barry spins you at one point, pulling you into his arms, making you laugh, and you linger a moment longer than you should, his arms still around you when you finally pull away, palms burning hot through the fabric of your shirt as he walks behind you.

By the time you reach his trailer, your legs ache, your chest hurts from laughing, and your head is woozy.

His trailer is dark, not a single light on as he pulls you towards it, hands searching your sides, his chest pressed against your back. His fingers rest at the small of your waist, loose, familiar, something closer to instinct than thought.

He’s closer than he should be, you know he is, but you don’t push him away.

Maybe it’s the drinking.

Maybe it’s the way the night has stripped you raw, leaving nothing but exposed nerve endings and memories that won’t stay buried.

Or maybe it’s just him.

The warmth of him.

The familiarity of him.

The fact that he’s still here despite the fact you’re down in the dumps.

But the way he's looking at you now isn't new. It's far too familiar.

His lips part slightly when he turns you, his head tilting, eyes flicking between your mouth and the mess of your hair, the flush of your skin, the shape of you standing so fucking close to him you could feel the shape of your body moulding to his.

He leans in, breath fanning against you like a dragon’s, warm, cutting, almost inviting you to be bitten. You turn just in time, his lips landing on your cheek, warm and soft, and way too eager. – You know we never stop once we start. – You mumble, your back brushing the railing as he pulls you up the stairs.

Barry’s lips twitch. His fingers flex against your waist, just barely dragging down, slipping lower, gripping just enough to pull you fully against him.

His voice is low, rough, already gone. – Who says I want to stop?

You know you shouldn’t.

It’s been a while since you drank and remained conscious, but the ache in your chest is doing nothing for your rational thinking skills, and when he cups your face, soft, so soft, like no one else in the world ever does, you let him.

You taste yourself first—sweet, sticky cherry, the sugar lingering on your tongue, and he hums, pulls away just a bit, licking his lips before he kisses you again. You taste him, then. Malt. Amber. Tobacco. Bourbon-smooth and burning at the edges.

You feel guilty already.

But you want the comfort. The ease. The warmth.

His hands tighten, pressing into the small of your back, like he needs you closer, like the inches between you are somehow unbearable, and he sighs against your lips as he kisses you again. The guilt writhes within you as your pride swells. He hums into your mouth, something low, something pleased, something that sounds dangerously like relief.

You barely register him guiding you back until your calves hit the edge of the couch on the porch, and suddenly you’re falling.

Not away from him.

With him.

Barry pulls you onto his lap, knees spreading beneath you, hands gripping tighter, hotter, rougher.

His mouth moves against yours with purpose now—hungry, claiming, a little desperate, a little too much. But he never pushes. He always begs you to take.

You feel his breath stutter when you shift against him, when your hands tangle in his hair, when your fingers scrape against his scalp just the way he likes and he groans, deep in his throat, pulling you tighter.

This is it.

This is the cycle.

This is the inevitable.

This is history repeating itself.

This is what you do when you have nowhere else to go.

This is a promise, a bad decision made in the heat of too much alcohol, sealed between his teeth and your lips, unspoken, unbreakable. You don’t really know what you’re promising. But like the fool you are —like the fool you’ve always been— you’re almost glad to hold it out on a silver platter, just to get that rare sliver of love you’re always desperately grasping at.

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