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tojancy · 18 days

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‘ Earned it ’ ft. r.sukuna

haunted by jujutsu sorcerers, you come to Sukuna for help. after begging to work under him, he agrees. what could the King of Curses possibly have in store for you..?

ɞ⁺ contains: heian era!sukuna x curse user! fem!reader, afab!reader, four arms sukuna, degradation, praise, cussing, riding, choking, hair pulling, mean sukuna, mentions of killing, mentions of blood, making out, unprotected sex, creampie, suggestion of overstim

ɞ⁺ w.c: 3.6k

ɞ⁺ note: thank you to my favorite @sttoru for beta reading! this took forever. hope you enjoy!

“Couldn’t you just kill her?”

What?

Standing before you is a man that embodies terror—a tremendous body and another pair of arms to make him even more distinct. The name Ryomen Sukuna is a chilling one, so many stories embellished around it. Hearts tremble with fear of each fable. You have heard of all his atrocities, cruelties sorcerers were subject to. But, as you stand in his presence, you begin to realize that these tales barely scratch the surface of his menace.

Adults employed his name to compel sleep, a whispered threat to coax children into slumber. You were no exception, truly. But you were always fierce, a soul unafraid.

Right. That’s what got you into the mess you’re in right now.

“I’m sorry, my lord. But if that’s your wish, then I shall go ahead and-”

“No-! Wait… please,” you surprise even yourself, words spill forth at their own accord. Your throat grows dry at the way both of them turn to look at you. struggling to maintain composure, you implore, “Please, just one chance. I promise I can make myself useful. I’d do anything. Anything.”

An amused chuckle thunders in Sukuna’s chest. It’s a cruel sound, imposing fear upon your senses. “And.. what exactly makes you think a meek sorcerer like you could be of any use to me?”

He’s almost offended by the notion. Sukuna is in need of no one. Especially not you; a sorcerer that came begging for his help. How ridiculous.

“I-I’m a first grade!” you exclaim, “I can do so many things, I-”

“Shut it.” The nearly-amused expression has been dropped, a somber tone to replace that. Your eyes widen immediately, a telltale sign of the terror you feel. “You are a weak sorcerer. You are nothing. Do you have any argument to make?”

“No, my lord,” your eyes meet the floor in a hard glare, cursing your misfortune.

You came to Uraume with hope, recalling a past acquaintance. You had not anticipated the drastic change in her. Standing against jujutsu sorcerers was no wise choice. You found yourself haunted down with no other choice.

Perhaps finding a protector would help—someone whom all sorcerers fear, compelled by their dread to leave you unharmed. None other than the King of Curses himself. If you devoted yourself to his service, showing unmatched loyalty, maybe then he’d protect you.

If only life is so forgiving.

You believed Uraume could help. You convinced yourself that alignment with Sukuna's subordinate could forge a safer path for protection. For safety. Yet, the last outcome you could have predicted was a suggestion for your execution.

“Good,” is his sole utterance. Uraume stands a few feet away, silent unless addressed.

Even with your eyes cast down, you can feel Sukuna’s eyes surveying you, the weight of four eyes is not an easy one. His gaze is empty, one of menace. You do not appear weak, though relative to him you certainly are. However, he trusts Uraume's judgment, convinced there must be a valid reason for your presence.

“I’ll… think about it,” You hear. Your head lifts abruptly, disbelief mingling with hope at the prospect of succor etched on your face. A sigh escapes you, looking at his hard features. Despite your awareness that Sukuna's motives lack benevolence or goodwill, you grasp at any opportunity presented.

“Thank you,” your knees buckle beneath you. Tears of relief flood your eyes as you continue. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You can flee now,” he replies curtly. You weren’t expecting much more anyway. “Uraume, lead her out.”

The curse user complies, leading you from the chambers of the King of Curses. Reaching the exit, you extend a hand toward Uraume before she returns inside.

“Th-thank you…” You muster.

“I’m not the one you’re to thank,” Her gaze is hard as ice, empty as one’s could be. You were hoping for some warmth, a semblance of assurance in a world so cruel. But who were you kidding; you held no significance to Uraume, who had long forsaken her humanity to serve solely the King of Curses. “Lord Sukuna has the highest authority over your life right now. Don’t screw your chances.”

The door slams in your visage before you can reply. You swallow. Uncertainty begins to bubble into you. What if he changes his mind? What if this was some kind of ruse?

But it wasn’t, and not too long later you find yourself in Sukuna’s chambers. You hear he’s beaten yet another jujutsu sorcerer, this one remarkable. It’s a surprise to no one. You hope you’re not next.

You’re even given a room to yourself, one you barely leave unless for food. The concept of running into Sukuna terrifies you.

A loud knock comes from the sliding door, making you flinch. You hasten to it, crouching before the wooden barrier. Your palms lay flat against the surface as you slide it open with ease. Uraume towers above you, her gaze fixed.

“Lord Sukuna requires your immediate attendance,” she tells you.

“I-I’ll be right there,” your breath falters, looking up at the white-haired woman. Uraume stands still. You realize she’s only waiting for you to gather yourself and accompany her.

You’re quick to oblige, standing up and trying your best to dispel the embarrassing fear displayed over your features. With swift movement, you grab your kosode’s belt and wrap it tightly around your middle. You stand before Uraume, who looks you up and down before simply turning around and walking, expecting you to keep up.

Anxiety plagues you, your mind racing with all the possibilities of what reason Sukuna would summon you. You’re so preoccupied that you don’t realize Uraume's route isn’t the same one you took to his chamber last time.

Sooner than you anticipate, Uraume takes an abrupt halt by a door. You nearly collide face-first with the finely painted wood. Recoiling, your eyes study the door. Patterns adorn the wood, carved carefully by the hands of a professional.

The detail on the door captivates you, it makes you wonder if Sukuna has truly observed it even once in his life. Your appreciation of it is short-lived, as Uraume calls you and pulls you out of thought.

“Pay attention or face expulsion,” she hisses before knocking at the door.

A grunted “You may enter,” resonates from inside. The curse user beside you immediately falls to her knees, and you follow path. Her hands lift to the door, which weighs more than yours, and she opens it with a fluid gesture.

“She has arrived, my lord.”

“Very well,” Sukuna utters. Emboldened, you look up, and the sight you’re met with makes your face heat up. There he sits, expression unyielding and gaze inscrutable, his torso is bare—save for the black marks that adorn his chiseled body. On any other day, you would have stopped to admire the sight, but today your eyes go back to staring at your bent knees. “Come in.”

Uraume knows she’s not the one intended, while you know that you are. With great force, you’re capable of pushing yourself up and walking toward the man sitting on the floor.

The door shuts as soon as you step foot into the room, making you flinch. “W-How can I help you, my Lord?”

Quietly, Sukuna hums in thought. His scrutiny of you, trailing to your feet and then meeting your eyes once more, kindles a patent tension within. There’s a sick, twisted desire within you—a desire for the man who would kill you without second thought.

“You said you can do many things, have you not?” He raises a single eyebrow.

“Indeed, my lord,” You muster. The chamber you stand in is spacious, slowly realizing that you are within his personal quarters—a place few may enter, as you understand it.

“Let’s test that out, shall we?” he says with a sinister smirk. “Do you know how to relieve muscle tension?”

“Certainly, my lord. Do you need any assistance with that?” You speak a little more than necessary. But he doesn’t mind too much. Your vocal cords make a soothing voice anyway.

“I’d like to see what you're capable of,” he states, malice evident in his tone, prompting you to brace for the potential consequences.

He gestures for you to approach the curtained futon, elevated on what appears to be several stacks of wood. It feels peculiar to see him prone on his stomach, but it affords you an unmatched view of his well-defined back—truly a sight to see.

Whether he trusts you or deems you harmless remains uncertain. Common sense suggests the latter, though you prefer to believe the former to spare yourself from embarrassment.

A small bottle sits beside his bed, a bottle of fine oil. With refined movement, you pick it up, spilling a fair amount on your hand before spreading it gently over his back.

You work silently, kneading hardened flesh. His unique anatomy intrigues you, especially navigating around two sets of arms. Your fingers continue to glide between the muscles, working your way into easing any knots.

Once your fingers reach his neck, a low grunt leaves his lips. You’re surprised… But even more so, the feeling lingering deep within you is becoming harder and harder to ignore. Your thighs squeeze against each other in hopes of relieving some of the heat that’s itching at your core.

With every stroke of your skilled fingertips, the tension threaded in his muscles ease, all the while the tension between the two of you grows unbearably palpable.

After a few moments, you grow hot. you pause and slightly loosen the belt of your kosode to cool down. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed by Sukuna, who peeks upwards subtly. He has no shame, raising his head further and looking you up and down. The loosened kosode exposes cleavage, and Sukunua overtly stares.

He pushes himself up, sitting on the bed. Shadows of his frame dance against the curtains surrounding his bed, the room dimly lit by candles. Posture straight, an expression of attendance on your face, you keep your eyes on him and await what he has to say.

You’re dangerous, Sukuna realizes. You’re not going to make this easy on him. His self-restraint is wearing thin.

“Sit,” He beckons you with a large hand. Albeit hesitant, you oblige and sit on the lifted futon in an awkward position.

There is no denying the way his gaze makes you feel. There’s a sense of vulnerability, and a sense of excitement. You choose to remain silent, waiting patiently for his next move.

Slowly, he leans his head in your way. Your eyes immediately flit away, heat rising into your face.

“Heh,” He smirks widely, leaning away. “You’re quite amusing, you know that?”

You grow embarrassed, displeased by the way he’s talking. You’re about to comment but ultimately choose to stop yourself from saying something that could get you in trouble.

Sukuna leans forward again, this time a little further from you. The hand he places on the bed for balance dips the fabric down. “Look at me when I address you, human.”

It’s humiliating how he talks to you. For some inexplicable reason, it arouses you all the same. You’re quick to oblige. Sukuna can feel his cock harden in his pants at the way you bat your lashes his way. He knew there was something so enticing about you the moment he saw you walking behind Uraume, even more now under the dim lights and in the revealing silk. He wants a piece of you.

Cancel that. He wants all of you.

“You have a pleasing appearance,” He tells you, eyes instinctively falling to your lips. “A fine figure too. Why don’t you put that to good use, hm?”

“What would you suggest, my lord?” You rouse. “I’m at your service.”

Sukunas face draws closer to yours once more. A single hand rises to your face, cradling your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. “Interesting… You’re not dumb, are you?”

There’s a clear implication behind his words; take the hint, or don’t. You take a leap of faith, diminishing the space between your faces and pressing your lips firmly against his.

The hand that once held your face now rests on your neck, holding you in place. His tongue swipes against your lower lip, prompting you to give him entrance. He keeps his eyes open, watching over you with amusement you fail to see as your eyes are shut close.

Your mouth is warm and inviting, compelling him to savor every bit of the fiber inside. But he’s interrupted by you pulling away for air.

“Fucking brat,” he curses, pulling you back in before you can gasp another much-needed breath. His palm falls from your neck and skims the skin of your shoulder. In contrast to his typical demeanor, Sukuna’s movement is agonizingly slow as he pushes the cloth off your skin. Little by little, until your torso is exposed to the biting chill of the air, shivers cascade along your spine, eliciting goosebumps across your flesh.

Adrenaline rushes through your veins. Your heart throbs as your hands find his neck, the other on his shoulder. Closer. Your tongues dance, and the taste of you is addicting. Closer. His hands run over your bare skin, feeling up your curves. Closer. Nothing seems to be close enough. You need to be one with him.

Once content, Sukuna pulls away. The smirk on his face is enough reminder you’ve got nothing on him. “You’re weak.”

“‘M not,” you retort stubbornly, struggling to regain your breath. “You caught me off guard.”

“Yeah, right,” Sukuna’s hands fall to your hips. You would have never foreseen a scenario where you contest his words. Not without your head cut off before you completely utter your words. But this brazen attitude of yours is exciting to Sukuna, who can feel the pre staining his pants, cock now painfully hard. Just from kissing.

He maneuvers you with ease, leaning comfortably against the wall before placing you over his middle. You gasp once moved, eyes wide in surprise. You give no signs of struggle, though, so Sukuna continues.

Starting with the loosened belt, then the silk kosode. You’re bare under, left exposed to four eyes’ devouring gaze.

“Heh,” is what he says, feeling your wetness against his abdomen. “Is the wanted criminal so needy already? How sweet.”

“I’m quite sure you share the desire, my lord,” you whisper, drawing a chuckle from him. You bend forward until your face hovers tantalizingly close to his ear.“Do you not want a taste of me, my lord? I can show you what no woman has ever done.”

While the title ‘my lord’ has come from many to him, it rolls off your tongue differently. You’re so confident in your skills, and he has a feeling you’re not lying.

“I very much doubt that,” he lies, causing you to pucker your lower lip in disdain. You’re set on proving him wrong, prepared to showcase the extent of your capabilities.

Lifting your weight from his form, you turn around and give him your back. He stares down at you, an amorous grin adorning his face. Delicately, you trace your fingers over the prominent bulge in his pants. There is no mistaking the grunt that escapes him at the contact. The bulge largens. The tension grows. You swallow quietly.

“May I?” You whisper, barely audible.

“By all means,” he responds, his smirk persisting despite the furrow in his brow. Tender fingers slip beneath the waistband of his pale trousers, gradually coaxing them downward.

The sight makes you stop in your tracks; his cock springs to life, a lengthy shaft you’re not so sure you can take. The thought of going back on your words fleets momentarily across your mind, but you refrain. There’s svelteness to the way your fingers graze this tip, tinted with an angry pink. You spread the warm pre-cum over it for lubrication, softly pumping your hands over his shaft.

Surprise intensifies in you when it grows larger, making your insides churn. Your fingers continue their work, eliciting louder sounds from him.

You’re fascinated by it, a beautiful length framed by trimmed pubes. It starts with a color marginally darker than his skin, gradually merging into the angry pink hue that tints his tip. You can’t not stare.

You turn back around, looking at the man sitting before you. The King of Curses with all his mind with a troubled expression, his resolve long worn off.

“You’re taking too long,” He threatens. “Get on it already, woman.”

No less is expected from the King of Curses; he’s straightforward as one could be. A yelp escapes your lips when his hands land a firm grip on your hips, forcefully lifting you up.

You’re placed on his length without any warning, causing a loud cry to break out of you. Tears gather in your eyes at the sudden stretch. You feel him, all of him; thick and long and painful and good.

Drawing a sharp breath, you attempt to adjust to the stretch.

“Can’t take it?” His smirk taunts you. “Pathetic.”

“I-I can,” you steady yourself with two palms against the curves of his abs. “Let me get- ah–!”

Your moan synchronizes with the groan he emits, his hands maintaining a firm grasp on your ass cheeks as he lifts you upwards for friction before abruptly slamming you back down. The way your gummy walls wrap tight around him nearly makes him dizzy. Sukuna is almost sure this pussy was made for him and only him.

“Fuck–” he grunts, head thrown back as you move steadily. His hand grabs your waist for guidance as you huff and puff, trying not to be too loud but it’s so hard when he hits all the right places. Your heart thrums in your chest, body shaking at the euphoria that’s clouding your senses.

There’s rhythm to the sounds of breathing, creating a symphony of pleasure as you roll your hips, pace fastening every second. Sukuna’s hand is light against your hip, a thumb extending to rub your clit in a gentle manner, drawing circles over the soft bud.

“Oh– M’lord– I’m..” words bleed into moans you can no longer contain. Every thrust hits deeper, and every movement makes you squeeze tighter around his cock. Your eyes roll back, and Sukuna swears he could get off to your expression alone.

When a cold grip meets the writ of one of his lower arms, Sukuna’s eyes flee your face in curiosity. His hand is heavier than you expect. You softly raise his palm, desperately leaving it at your neck.

He chuckles. He loves the desperation in your eyes, the way your hips thrust sloppily, the way you claw at his chest for a symbol of control as you try your best to stay true to your words. Warm digits wrap around your neck and squeeze it lightly.

“C’mere,” he breathes, pulling you by your neck. Your lips clash into his with a gasp. God, you’re intoxicating him. Teeth tug at your bottom lip despite your mouth being agape. The moan that escapes you is happily drank down by him.

Humidity clouds the place, shiny sweat dripping down your neck. You’re in too much ecstasy to think anyway.

Sukuna sucks at your bottom lip, his hand moving from your neck to cradle the back of your head then tug at your hair.

You’re magic, the sight of you inebriating him utterly. You’re a trigger, back arched towards him in desperation. All to feel more. How greedy. You’re deadly, bouncing on him like that’s what you were made for, resolve renewing to keep up for as long as you could.

“Fuck- attagirl,” his eyes shut, dopamine rises, and all he can do is feel. “Good- shit– yeah, yeah–”

“‘M close-” your moan is pitched, walls tightening around him. “Ah– I’m– ‘m so close-”

Your entire body shakes, legs trembling and nearly giving out. A harsh slap lands across the skin on your ass, his fingers kneading the flesh before landing another slap against it. You can still feel the heat of his palm even as he moves it to hold your face harshly. “Don’t be fucking weak. H-shit–”

It turns you on, he realizes. To be treated like a ragdoll and pushed around.

“Like that huh?” another spank. “Like being hit? Tch, wh-what a fucking brat”

“Yes–!” You gasp, movement accelerating over him, drawing half of him out just to enroll him in your warmth again. He can sense your orgasm approaching, walls dangerously tight around him. His tip hits your good spot, and you go at it and at it again, moaning loudly as your nails bruise his chest.

A string of curses escapes his lips, neck stretched as your head inches closer, pressing a kiss to the skin. He groans louder, moving you faster on his dick as your pace wasn’t enough.

“Hah– I– I’m gonna– Sukuna-sama I—”

Your mouth falls open, and breath fast. You see stars, cumming all over him. The fiber of your insides pulses around him, surrounding his cock with your essence.

Nails dig into your flesh, and Sukuna’s body tenses. A desperate whine escapes you when you feel the white ropes spilling inside you. Your movement persists, set on milking every last drop he has to offer.

His chest rises and falls, a palm coming to cover his face while another pair sits on your hips. You attempt to move, trying to pull yourself off his cock. But his hands pull you back down with potent. You’ve grown sensitive, so his action draws a loud whine from you.

“Where to?” He sneers at you. “You’re not done yet, are you? ‘This all you can do?”

It’s an obvious challenge. Despite the fatigue you’re starting to feel, you’re not one to back down from challenges. Least of all ones pronounced by him.

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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 months

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A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [2.6K]

THE TIMELINE

“Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature. Each of us, then, is a ‘matching half’ of a human whole…and each of us is always seeking the half that matches him.”

- Aristophanes, Plato’s Symposium.

I. ATHENS, GREECE: 8TH CENTURY BC

The gods were angry.

Or so you’d heard. It started with whispers. Murmurs from the town and its people. Rumours spread across Athens the same way the breeze did at the start of summer. They said the gods were angry, furious.

How could the mortals be so silly? How could they possibly rile their gods like this? Again?

Stupid humans, foolish humans.

You didn’t understand.

But then one morning before the sun rose, you awoke to a reddened sky and a heavy wind, a storm brewing over the horizon, a dark mass you could see above the sea from your bedroom window. Preachers took to the streets then, standing on the cobbles with bells ringing above their heads, warning every person listening about the end of times. It had happened before, they said, their faces masks of horror. It was happening again.

The gardens all died, grass turning black, crops to dust, life fleeing from the ocean as Poseidon uprooted the seafloor, waves crashing against the cliff's edge. Athens turned to decay, colour slipping from the world as the gods ruled over it from the skies and sea. A punishment fit for the crime, the elders said, telling stories at the marketplace, of how their own grandparents had once been born together, joined at the heart, four arms and four legs.

One soul.

They said Zeus came from Olympus, that he’d crashed down to earth riding a bolt of lightning and he ripped the mortals apart. They said it was a bloodshed, rivers of red running through the plazas, wells turning thick like tar.

Zeus cursed everyone, you heard. Your kind had been getting too prideful, too full of ego and greed and want for more. The gods feared an uprising, they sat on their thrones and they resented to power you all craved.

So they did something about it.

With their wounds left to heal on their own over months and years, each half of a mortal was thrown to different corners of the earth, destined to spend the rest of their lives searching for the other half of their soul.

It seemed nothing more than a fable, a horror story for children, something you would never have believed. Soulmates? Someone made just for you? An impossible notion, you were sure you would have once thought, if you hadn’t already met yours.

He was at the forge when the first bolt of lightning hit the ground.

The concrete split and temples on the cliff sides shook, the tiles on each home shattering as they fell. You heard people yelling from your garden as the ground shuddered and an eerie quiet followed. A hollow silence, a calm before a storm and then something else hit the ground too.

Bigger, heavier, more powerful.

You dropped your basket and ran.

Still barefoot, you left the sodden clothes on the grass and fled, passing the sanctuary of your home, the temples beyond the rivers, the forests that came before the sea. You ran to the plaza, through the marketplace that was buzzing with fear, shoulders burning with pain as you slammed your way past everyone who ran against you. You were battling a tidal wave of townsfolk, each one crying and yelling.

You heard shouts of Titans! Furies!

People yelled out names they once didn’t dare whisper, each word said like a curse. Cronus, Crius, Oceanus, Thea. Standing on the marble steps of the Parthenon, a preacher in guided robes had blood running down the side of his face, a cut on his head matting his greying hair. He was ashen, clutching at his scribes and shouting at the frenzied crowd below.

“Tartarus has risen!” He yelled, “the gates of Hades have opened and we, foolish mortals, shall pay for our sins! The father of gods shall come for us, he shall feast upon thy flesh and bone and—”

The preacher's harrowing words were cut off abruptly as another crack in the earth opened up. The shining marble split and the man fell through, the world itself swallowing him whole. You didn’t have time to react more than a strangled cry coming from somewhere deep in your chest. You clasped your hand to your mouth, fearing you’d lose your breakfast, that you’d become too dizzy to keep moving.

The ocean was growing closer, too tall waves and swirling, dark pools buried into its depths. Ships were being sucked under, their white sails the last thing you saw before they were swallowed by Poseidon’s fury. A golden chariot raced down from the sky, sparks flying in the air as it landed on the roof of the Acropolis. More marble shattered and Ares, the god of war, had landed on earth to do his duty.

By the time you reached the forge, the plaza was running red, just like the elders had said it would. The bronzed statue of Hephaestus that guarded the entrance to the blacksmiths had come to life, the god himself taking its form as he spewed fire across the village, molten heat and steel dripping from his large hands, coal crumbling at his feet. The air smelled like ash, like fire and death.

As you searched for him - your other half - eyes wide and frantic, your chest heaving, Hades stood in the shadows across the cobbled road. Inky black dripped from him, from his robes, his skin, his mouth. He looked ghoulish until he stepped into what was left of the daylight, a trick of the sun turning his gaunt face handsome. He grinned at you, each tooth pointed and sharp and he held out a hand. A pomegranate was placed in his palm, the fruit cracked open and the ruby seeds spilling out of it like tiny jewels. He beckoned you, a voice in your head whispering, silky, sultry, full of promises that couldn’t be real.

Surely eternal damnation was better than a fate like this?

You moved, your body not your own, one foot in front of the other, your hand outstretched. Images flashed through your head, dark swirls of three headed dogs, rivers made of souls and gates of bones. But when they opened, there was a garden, more beautiful than the ones in Athens, with their marble pillars and fountains that led into ponds. In this garden, temples stood gleaming and tall, with maidens dancing amongst rose bushes, naked and with hair to their waists. They waved to you, more scarlet coloured fruit held in their hands and they were laughing, singing, pulling you closer--

Another bolt of lightning - bigger and louder and brighter than before - hit the ground and the maidens disappeared. The god of the underworld grinned once more before he stepped back into the shadows and turned to smoke, melting into the bloodied ground.

Zeus had landed in Athens.

And you couldn’t find Steve.

Steve Harrington, son of the town’s head blacksmith, was tending to the forge when the first god came to earth. He’d left you in bed, the threadbare sheets around you still warm, your skin littered with his leftover kisses, marks from his greedy fingers the night before. The sky had been scarlet when he walked across the plaza and in the far distance, a plume of smoke rose from what seemed like the ocean. The Methana volcano was simmering, waiting, spewing fumes of gas and dust.

A warning.

The forge cracked when Zeus arrived, the bricks splitting along with the forge floor, cobbles and bricks turning to rubble under the men’s feet. Fire and coal tumbled from the cast iron cages, half made swords of burning steel falling at their feet. The sky above rumbled, the windows shattering as bolts of lightning hit the land and people screamed, torturous sounds that made Steve run blindly out into the plaza.

Some were kneeling, their heads bent and their palms open to the sky, to the gods. A sacrifice that was ignored. Others ran, diving into buildings that immediately fell on top of them and Steve watched in horror as people dropped before him, falling like sacks, crumpled to the ground as they clutched their chests in agony. They called out their lovers' names, their voices hoarse, pleading, desperate and all at once, a crowd surged behind Steve, carrying him with them, his shoulders burning at the momentum.

He had to find you.

The market was in ruins, once fresh vegetables and fruits now smashed into the concrete, the smell of baked bread hidden under burning embers. Panicked horses fled their owners and carts, almost knocking Steve to the ground as they tried to escape the carnage. The sea level was rising, the shadows of boat sails towering over marble buildings, the hulls of ships teetering closer to pillars that once held the statues of the gods now seeking revenge. Steve had been raised to honour them, to covet them, to fear them.

And he’d never felt as scared as he did when he spotted you across the square, eyes wide and not yet finding his, your gaze too trained on the statue of Aphrodite that was crashing down too close to you. The white marble hit the floor and shattered, sending clouds of dust and dirt into the already smoke filled air and you disappeared from Steve’s sight once more.

Panic flooded him, a fear like no other and suddenly the gods that reigned from the seas and skies didn’t seem as terrifying anymore.

He yelled your name, choking on the fumes from the fires that had started to rage all around, Hephaestus riding a cloud of black coals and burning embers as he let fire pour from his palms and open mouth, a gaping maw of molten lava that dripped from and melted everything and everyone it touched. Steve flung himself to the ground to avoid the flames, crawling desperately forward before he caught himself and began to run again, hissing as the gaps in his shoes filled with shards of broken stone. Red poured from the soles of his feet but he didn’t think anything could hurt as much as the thought of losing you.

Again, he screamed for you, the letters of your name hitching in his throat, scratching like glass and more people tore in front of his path, running from the destruction. Bodies fell before him, couples forever trapped in a lovers embrace, their faces hidden in each other's chests. They became one again, four arms, four legs, two faces.

Joined at a heart that was no longer beating.

Steve didn’t want to die without you.

He found you in the rubble as Zeus moved closer, a grey and white shadow of a man, a huge hulking figure that didn’t seem real. He didn’t look like his marble castings, the statues that were gilded with gold leaf. He wore no olive laurel on his head, he bore no kind smile nor gentle eyes. Instead he held bolts of lightning in his hands like swords, like spears, throwing them at his victims with cruel precision.

A storm followed him, bigger than anything Steve had ever seen before. It turned the red clouds above the god purple and black, an inky slurry of darkness and electricity crackled between spaces. The air buzzed and Steve’s skin prickled, the static making his ripped and bloodied shirt cling to his damp chest.

Poseidon had finally shown himself, emerging from the waves, his skin a sickly green, his eyes darker than the deepest depths of the sea he came from. He held a triton, seaweed hanging from its points, his body scarred and battered from the horrors he created in the oceans. He seemed too big, a giant, an almost titan and rain poured from Zeus’ purple clouds as he advanced onto Athens.

Steve saw your arm, a limp hand from beneath a pile of stone and he cried as he lifted each piece of what was once Aphrodite. The marble face of the goddess of love smiled warmly at him and it felt mocking, it felt like an arrow to the chest.

You were still alive, barely awake, nose dripping blood and a slice across your forehead that narrowly missed your eye. You cried when Steve pulled you free, his strong arms wrapped around your torso and you clung to him, barely daring to look at the horrors that surrounded you. He smelled like smoke and fire and the metal sting of blood, but under it all, there was something like home that still lay on his skin.

He seemed frantic, calling your name over and over until you nodded and said his back, like it was only upon hearing your voice that he believed you were alive. Steve sat amongst the debris of Aphrodite and held you, your weak frame pulled into his lap and he cradled you there, your head on his shoulder and your arms around his neck.

You weren’t sure what you coveted more fiercely, the young man or your last breath.

A shadow lingered nearby, listening to the soft murmurs you shared the pretty lies you both needed to hear as you told each other it would be okay. Hades stood close, statuesque and with black plumes at the bottom of his dark robes, a midnight blue cast over his skin. He looked like he’d never been close to looking human. He held a timepiece in one hand, a golden thing that ticked too loudly and he grinned at you and Steve, watching, waiting as two creatures by his feet held scrolls of names. They were made od nothing kind, created from bone and other people’s spines, their too long tails and forked tongues that flickered over the skin of the dead as they sent their souls below.

Steve knew he’d fight a god before he let them take you.

But he didn’t get such the luxury of battling for his lover. Zeus moved closer still, rain pouring harder, electricity making his hair stand on end. The father of gods himself stood tall before you both, his eyes as white as his long hair and beard. Nothing about him softened as he gazed down at you both intertwined, blood from each other staining your lover's skin.

Steve pulled you closer, his hand cupping the nape of your neck as he pushed your face to his throat, shielding you, protecting you. You clung to him tighter, hands fisting in the rags of his old shirt and you wondered if you’d ever get to see him again. If this life was it, if this was all you were allowed.

The two of you in the ruins of Athens, the goddess of love shattered at your feet. Four legs, four arms, two faces, one soul. Connected by a heart that seemed weaker than ever in the presence of something cruel.

Silence came before the crack, the world stilling, Athens at peace. You found solace in Steve, your nose pressed to his neck as you held onto him, praying for something painless. You pushed two kisses to his skin then, the side of his throat that seemed to make your lips fizz and Steve sucked in a breath, his lips at your temple, cherishing the last touch he got of you.

“I love you,” Steve whispered and his voice cracked on each word. Tears from his eyes stream the dirt on his face, running rivers down your cheek until they mixed with your own. “I’ll find you again. In the next life, and the next again. I prom—”

A bolt of lightning, so hot it felt frozen, struck the breath of space between your chests. Something inside of you cracked then, ribs splintering as the weapon found your heart and you couldn’t feel Steve’s arms around you anymore.

You couldn’t feel anything.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #Steve Harrington fanfiction #Steve Harrington fanfic #Steve Harrington oneshot

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lilibetbombshell · 2 years

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#arc review #arc reviewer #arc reader #book review #book reviewer #book blog #book blogger #netgalley #new release #new release book #new book #new book alert #new book release #macmillan tor forge #tordotcom #alix e harrow #a mirror mended #fractured fables

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sixteenseveredhands · 1 year

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Gold Turtle Necklace from Ancient Colchis (modern-day Georgia/South Caucasus) c. 450 BCE: this necklace was crafted from 31 turtle-shaped pendants, each one made of g0ld

The necklace was discovered during excavations at an archaeological site in Vani, Georgia (the country, not the state). Ancient Vani once served as the religious and administrative center for the Kingdom of Colchis; as I've previously discussed, Colchis was also known as the homeland of the fabled Golden Fleece, and to much of the ancient world, the Colchians themselves were renowned for their skills in goldsmithing.

The turtle pendants on this necklace are all decorated with ornate filigree and granulation patterns. The eyes of the 30 smaller turtles were originally made with glass inlay, while the eyes of the largest turtle (seen in the center) were made from drops of gold.

As this article also notes (translated from Georgian):

[This necklace] is unique because of the zoomorphic depiction that it presents. Among the known examples of goldsmithing from antiquity, the depiction of a turtle is not attested anywhere other than the Vani necklace.

The local origin of the necklace is primarily indicated by the stylistic unity of the pendants with other examples of Colchian goldsmithing. It should be noted that the land turtle depicted on the pendants was widespread in Colchis.

The excavations at Vani have uncovered lots of other artifacts made by Colchian goldsmiths. These artifacts include temple ornaments, zoomorphic figures, pieces of jewelry, diadems, headdresses, hairpins, drinking vessels, and appliqués, among other things, and they've provided some really valuable insights into the unique goldsmithing traditions that existed among the peoples of Colchis -- and the myths that evolved as a result.

A few of the other golden artifacts from Vani:

Top: headdress ornament featuring an openwork design, c. 350-300 BCE; the central panel of this piece depicts a stag and three other deer, while the frame is topped by two lions and several rows of birds; Bottom: a diadem with a set of temple ornaments, c. 400-350 BCE; all of the panels along the front of the diadem depict scenes of prey animals being hunted by lions

Top: necklace with a series of ram-shaped pendants, c. 400-350 BCE; each pendant was forged from two separate castings that were sealed together to form a complete shape, and the ears/horns were then soldered onto each piece; Bottom: set of bracelets with boar finials, c. 460-440 BCE

Golden appliqués depicting various animals, c. 400-300 BCE

Set of temple ornaments that depict two pairs of riders on horseback, c. 400-350 BCE

And a map showing the location of modern-day Georgia (just for reference):

As this map illustrates, Georgia is nestled right at the crossroads between Europe and Asia, with the Black Sea located on one side and the Caspian not far from the other; it is bordered by Russia to the North and by Turkey, Armenia, and Azerbaijan to the South

Sources & More Info:

National Geographic (Georgian): Golden Kolkheti

Atinati: The Golden Kingdom of Colchis

Smithsonian: Summary of "Wine, Worship, and Sacrifice: the Golden Graves of Ancient Vani" Exhibition

Burusi (Georgian): The Archaeological Discoveries at Vani

Quaternary International: A Modern Field Investigation of the Mythical “Gold Sands” of Ancient Colchis and the “Golden Fleece” Phenomena

#archaeology #history #artifact #ancient history #georgia #sakartvelo #colchis #kolkheti #vani #gold #turtle #jewelry #golden fleece #goldsmithing #south caucasus #mythology #art #applique

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themalachitecreates · 2 years

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Commission for Dreamyprinx - 10/24/2021

Did a commission of Therius and Cashmere for @dreamyprinx cause they are stupid and gay, you know?

#themalachite.gay.png #art #dungeons and dragons #dnd #d&d #art commisions #commisions open #art commish #forge and fable #therius teagage

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ostrichmonkey-games · 6 months

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I wanna talk a little about something I've been noodling with in Stampede Wasteland. Rules that are impossible, or only exist as a sort of absence of something else?

Let's take a look at a part of generating Settlements:

The first step is figuring out how big the Settlement is by rolling 1d6. You'll probably notice that there's a result for if you roll a seven or higher. Now, unless you have a very special d6, you're not gonna get that result.

So what's the point of putting that result there in the first place? Well, how I'd interpret it at the table is that these City-States exist, but you're not going to be encountering them randomly while exploring the Wastes. Maybe there's another way to travel to these fabled City-States? Maybe that turns into the foundation for an adventure. Maybe the table actually decides that City-States don't exist anymore; something wiped them off the map. Maybe the table has come up with a way to get a bonus to that d6 roll based on the rulings they've been establishing. It could mean any number of things!

I think this works in this sort of game, partially because the rules are relatively minimal. And in a more minimal ruleset, sometimes you have to slow down and read between the lines and try and come to your own conclusions on how things work. This is, to me, very different from something being incomplete, but it could be a fine line.

If this were something like a Forged in the Dark game, this sort of absence might feel more like an oversight, but in the sorta-OSR sphere, expectations are a little different. It's interesting to think about.

The other example of this sort of idea crops up in the travel rules. There's three options for traveling the Wastes; by foot, by steam-crawler, and by airship.

Here are the rules for airship travel:

That's it. You know from reading that line that airships exist and people can use them to travel. But for whatever reason, getting passage on them is so far out of reach of the PCs that it may as well be impossible. It reveals something about the game's world, and how it operates.

Just like the City-State rule, airship travel could also spark adventures at the table. What would it take to get a ticket for an airship? What kind of people travel by airship?

I dunno! I think it's an interesting space to play around in. Exploring the space where rules and mechanics meet the world of the game, and the space that that opens up for the table to interpret those rules. Or something like that.

#ttrpg #indie ttrpg #ttrpg design #stampede wasteland #osr

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omnomnomdomcaps · 6 months

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Fibber's Fiber: A Fable (Remastered)

Reposting a few old stories for the Spooky Season. Here's one featuring @peariesprincesstimes!

Krystal only had twenty minutes before her next client arrived, and she started her break by scrambling up to her apartment to check on her heavy, sagging diaper, finding it every bit as full as it felt. Shaking her fists in familiar frustration, she then frantically untaped the soiled plastic, wiped, wiped, wiped, and wiped, powdered generously, and finally fastened a fresh diaper before making her way back down to her first-floor storefront.

What was happening to her wasn’t natural, but she knew that already. This was just the way her life was, ever since that strange old lady first walked into her shop.

Krystal had pegged her for just another sucker, easy prey for her phony spiritual medium scheme. With her hair wrapped in a shawl and her face riddled with wrinkles and warts, she never gave even the slightest impression of being anything more than a senile old hag. She eagerly asked Krystal to commune with more and more spirits on her behalf, seemed to cheer at each fabricated revelation, and showed earnest innocence when she left her physic guide a sweet as “reward” for her work.

Krystal stopped eating the strange candy soon after feeling its bitter aftertaste, but by then the potion was already in place. A small, scrawled note at the bottom of the labelless glass bottle told her all she needed to know, though it would take her some time to believe it:

A frownful fate falls to the false and the phony,

Forging their fortunes ‘pon the folly of fools,

For now, should you lie, deceive, or mislead,

This Fibber’s Fiber will loosen your stool!

It was true. It was all true. And for a girl like Krystal, who made her living off of conning the hapless and desperate, it put her in an impossible spot. By the very next night after she met the old lady, she was soiling her panties in front of a client, her face turning beet red as she tried desperately to direct attention towards her ouija board, and away from the rude noises bursting from her bottom.

In the days and weeks that followed, the girl tried everything to ease her situation. She took trips to the bathroom before and during every session. She fasted. And she tried her very very best to hold it in. It didn’t matter - when the lies came out one end, the consequences followed at the other, and the so-called psychic soon found herself running through a case of thick adult diapers, stinking up each one as she filled it to the very brim.

Tonight’s misadventure was no different. Krystal filled the room as loud as she could with mystical-sounding music, but she knew the white-haired woman in front of her could still sense her stomach rumble as soon as she introduced herself as a medium. There was no hiding the face she made as her body involuntarily pushed each time a new “ghost” would come in contact with her. And the way she squirmed in her seat answering any and every question she was asked - well, that was just obvious.

“Is everything alright?” the lady finally offered, speaking in a soft, old voice.

Krystal gulped. “Y-y-yes,” she mumbled meekly, before depositing into her diaper once more.

#ab/dl caption #ab/dl community

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ghcstao3 · 5 months

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hi again, hope school isn't being too hard on you :( I figured I'd send a few ideas in & you can answer whenever!

IT'S COLD! so how about the 141 during the summer, doing some of your favorite activities! Or maybe a teeny ramble about what each likes doing the most...?

if it's not triggering...SoapGhost in uni. The class they share is for 1 of their majors & the other's minor (or maybe just for extra credits). The extra credit assignment involves taking a day trip somewhere & they're the only 2 who go.

Soap's 2nd job happens to be helping out his local unicorn community, who have all but gone extinct. He comes across the fabled Simon Riley, the Ghost of Soap's hometown, as the poor guy wanders around after being held captive by fey for decades.

school’s just been busy more than anything thankfully!! it’s a lot of work but certainly not too difficult:)

and ahh it was hard to choose from one of these i might have to return to the others. but honestly writing about them in uni is like therapy

Simon and John meet in an upper level English literature course.

Well—Simon never really had much say in the matter, not when John had plopped himself down in the seat beside him on the first day even in spite of all the other empty desks in the small classroom. Apparently it’s what John’s heart had desired, and never having been one for unnecessary confrontation, Simon never says anything of it.

He could never really pinpoint when their friendship began, maybe forged through general interest in the topic and whispered comments and jokes about some of the contents during lectures, or maybe through necessity when they’re not familiar with many others in the class, but either way—John ends up becoming one of the better friends Simon’s made in all his years of university.

The thing is, though, with majors that don’t overlap in the slightest—be it Simon’s English major and John’s own in chemistry—they don’t really see much of each other outside of class, unless it means working on a group project. Simon thinks—believes—they’d both like to be friends outside of the course, but… for whatever reason, they each have difficulty initiating anything.

Simon, personally, would like something more. But he doesn’t need it. Just wants John’s company regardless.

But they have their difficulties throughout the semester, that is, until their professor—a sweet old woman, who endures far too much from the few immature students in her class—announces that she had received funding from the department to take interested students to a professional production of Macbeth in a town an hour over. It’s without hesitation that Simon and John both agree to go.

But since it’s so close to finals season, they end up being the only two to go through with attending.

Not that Simon’s complaining—it just means more time spent with John alone. Sort of.

And not to mention he gets to see how nicely John cleans up for the event.

“I’m so glad you boys still came,” their professor says in greeting. “I was afraid no one wanted to go anymore.”

John smiles that stupidly charming smile at her, and Simon’s really beginning to feel the extent of his growing crush on his friend.

“We wouldn’t miss it,” he says.

“Oh, thank you, John.” She glances between them both, some knowing expression appearing briefly on her face before she ushers them inside the theatre. She hands them their tickets, tells them to go ahead, she has some friends from the local university she wants to meet with before the performance starts.

As they settle into their seats, John leans into Simon’s space—closer than he could ever manage at a desk. Simon hopes the theatre’s dark enough that John can’t see the way his ears burn red.

“Warning you now,” John whispers. “I know fuck all about Shakespeare language, so you’re gonna have a lot of explainin’ to do.”

Simon huffs, trying to dispel some of the heat of his blush. “Maybe you should’ve paid more attention in class, then, Johnny.”

John laughs, knocking his shoulder against Simon’s. “Maybe you shouldn’t have been telling me so many jokes during lectures, Mr. English major.”

Simon rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother retaliating. Instead they fall into meaningless conversation until the play begins, quieting only slightly when their professor arrives and sits on the other side of Simon.

The lights dim in the audience, and the performance starts. Simon watches with rapt attention, but true to his word, John asks him far too many questions.

He doesn’t particularly mind, though, when he can feel John’s knee press against his all the while.

John rambles when it’s over, and despite the interrogation, he seemed to understand and enjoy it as much as Simon and their professor had. Simon’s more than content to listen as their professor bids them goodnight, and they both head to the train station while she heads to her car.

Simon isn’t sure what it is that causes it—but the entire ride back, John seems to encroach in his space more than usual, stuck to Simon like glue. Simon does notice his eyes drooping and his head nodding off every once in a while, so he has the excuse of writing it off as exhaustion.

Particularly when John is resting his head on Simon’s shoulder.

“Don’t wanna walk back to my flat,” John laments once they’re climbing off at their stop. “Too far.”

It’s a fit of impulse that has Simon offering, “You could stay at mine? It’s only five minutes.”

And there’s no hesitation when John accepts with a weary grin.

“You’re a lifesaver, Si,” John sighs. “Could kiss you right now.”

Simon freezes. John doesn’t notice as he ambles further away from the train platform.

“What’d you say?”

John pauses, and his brow furrows. He looks to Simon, simultaneously confused and entirely too casual. “Said I could kiss you,” he repeats. “Why? S’that a problem?”

Simon’s gaze falls to the ground as he quickly shakes his head. “No, no, it’s not—that’s not—“

“Would you like me to kiss you?” John pushes, peeking up at Simon through thick lashes. Simon knows he’d give in immediately, if he were looking into those sapphire-blue eyes.

“I mean—“ Simon shrugs a shoulder. His blush has returned in full force, from the nape of his neck, to his cheeks, to the tips of his ears. “—I wouldn’t say no.”

“Okay,” John hums, like it’s nothing, before grabbing Simon’s face and doing exactly as promised.

It isn’t anything life changing, but it’s still—it’s still everything Simon could hope for, even here as a chill runs through him from the night’s cool temperature, even if their only sources of light are the moon and a flickering streetlamp.

John eventually pulls away first, delivering a hearty pat to Simon’s chest. “Now get me back to your flat and we can do that again, aye? It’s fuckin’ freezing out here.”

Simon can’t help the smile that appears on his face. His face tingles a little less now, though he’s sure it’s still stained a deep pink. “Sure, Johnny.”

And if they hold hands the entire way back—Simon will just claim it was for warmth.

#ask #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #writing #alternate universe

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bloomingdarkgarden · 3 months

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Could Vassa Be Immortal After All?

A Firebird Theory

(WARNING: HOFAS SPOILERS BELOW)

While reading CC3 I couldn’t help but notice a plot element regarding curses that brought me back to Vassa in ACOTAR.

In HOFAS we learn Jesiba's mysterious backstory and all this talk of curses- I couldn’t help but to meditate on our favorite firebird. Jesiba unveils that she has been cursed in Chapter 38:

And also elaborates that there were unintentional consequences of the curse:

Jesiba obviously holds a strong grudge against her cursor but is able to use the curse to her advantage.

So Jesiba, similarly to Vassa, was a mortal, cursed unwillingly by an immortal male figure. The curse made her immortal in turn. This has me thinking- what if the same has happened to Vassa? More from Ch.38:

I also find the passage in ACOWAR really interesting, in which Feyre is describing her perception of Vassa the first time they meet:

‘Only a few years older than me, but ... young-feeling. Coltish. Fierce and untamed, despite her curse.’ (ACOWAR chapter 79)

Could this be because although Vassa is, let’s say, age 28- she actually stopped physically aging when she was cursed at age 20? Perhaps it's just Feyre noting that she's a spicy pepper. Who knows.

I recently went down a rabbit hole of Slavic lore and I’m so intrigued by Vaasa’s storyline in the upcoming books. Most folks are aware that SJM has taken her story directly from Slavic mythology- and there are loads of potential breadcrumbs in the fables of:

Ivan Tsarevitch in which Ivan, the youngest of several malaligned brothers, sets out on a quest to free a firebird from a dark sorcerer who also entraps other princesses (often Koschei the deathless).

Princess Vasilisa in which an archer finds a firebird’s flaming feather and gets roped into a quest to deliver a lost princess. Hello Elain’s vision regarding this exact imagery: “I saw a feather of fire land on snow and melt it.” (ACOWAR)

Swan Lake in which Princess Odette (Vassa) is cursed into a swan form by an evil lord and can only take human form between midnight and daybreak. Only a faithful vow of true love can break the spell. If her true love makes a vow to the wrong woman (Elain perhaps) the princess dies instead. Could something as powerful as a male (Lucien) breaking his mating bond to forge a destiny with Vassa be the key to breaking her curse??

Who knows.

Will Vassa be immortalized by Koschei's power touching her and chaining her to the lake? Will Lucien be the key to deliver her from her curse as Ivan was in the fables?

I don't know. But regardless of Lucien's heart, I myself am a Vassa acolyte. I'm so enraptured by the beautiful myths surrounding this lore, and am so intrigued to learn what becomes of Vassa as a heroine in her own right. Her character and story have so much magical potential!

In the words of Yakov Polonsky’s poem:

And in my dreams I see myself on a wolf's back

Riding along a forest path

To do battle with a sorcerer-tsar

In that land where a princess sits under lock and key,

Pining behind massive walls.

There gardens surround a palace all of glass;

There Firebirds sing by night

#vassien #acotar theory #vassa #firebird #lucien vanserra #this girl is on fire #hofas spoilers #acotar #cc3

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cherrypikkins · 6 months

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Here is my contribution to today's prompt from @fe-oc-week ! Oct 14 - Supports

with some more Kitt art and lore :3

cw body horror, death

I will also be linking some old support art soon :3

and once again for more lore, take a look below the cut!

The Burgess Family It is difficult to pinpoint exactly when the family of Burgess arrived at Annwen, though in likelihood they appeared some time after the defeat of Nemesis, and well after Gwyn was laid to rest. Though they claimed to be a family of merchants, many suspected that they were refugees from remnant factions of the now dismantled Agarthan empire. Gwyn, the founder of the original city of Annwen, had been known to take in defectors of Agarthan origin. And so, in following the example of their departed hero, the people of Annwen accepted the merchant family into the fold, sheltering them from the Church of Seiros.

They settled in without trouble, bringing with them ancient artifacts stolen from the underground caches of their former civilization. These they offered up to the people of Annwen for safekeeping and communal use. Mostly, they included crafting implements that were used to forge armor, weave garments, and polish stones.

Among the artifacts was a curious knife, ordinary-looking in all appearances yet strangely versatile in various applications of craftsmanship. Villagers would often remark on how it would subtly change in appearance over time, but not in a way that signified normal wear and tear. There were times when it appeared to shift and transform before their very eyes, though many dismissed this as a trick of the light. Others believed that the knife was magical. But whenever the people of Annwen used it for their own purposes, there was never any trouble.

In any case, these artifacts enabled the people of Annwen to thrive independently, away from the Church and the Empire, as well as the Kingdom and the Alliance when they each formed years later. These contributions cemented the Burgess family's place in the village for ages thereafter, even enabling them to take on leadership and guidance roles within the village from time to time. Eventually, enough time passed such that not even their present day descendants could remember their Agarthan ancestry…

The Village at Lake Annwen - Part II Many followers of the Church of Seiros wondered why certain remote settlements were allowed to exist in Fodlan away from the enlightenment of Seiros' teachings. The village of Annwen, which Gwyn held sacred, was one such example before its destruction. In particular, Saint Cichol was known to forbid anyone from interfering with the affairs of the village by order of the Church. Even in recent years, Seteth has remained adamant on this stance. Only a handful of scholars and researchers have been allowed to visit on a provisional basis, on the condition that there was to be no proselytizing.

That was not to say that the people of Annwen did not pay respects to the Goddess - only that Seiros and the Four Saints were less prominent in their worship. Even the hero Gwyn, despite not trusting Seiros and her followers, had been known whisper prayers to the Goddess Sothis. And so, in following the example of their hero, the villagers of Annwen honored the Goddess in a manner wholly unique from the Central, Eastern, and Western Churches. For some reason, the Central Church has decided not to object to this, and allowed the people of Annwen to live peaceful lives of their own choosing. Such was the promise sworn by Saint Cichol to the hero Gwyn.

Perhaps this was one of the factors that led to its destruction, for it left the Church unaware and unable to intervene when mages from a more sinister faction began to make frequent visits, making their ill intentions known only once the people of Annwen were fully accustomed and trusting to their presence. Disguised as humble scholars, they were determined to retrieve the fabled Heart of Annwen for their own dark purposes. In a sudden and coordinated attack, they struck down any who dared stand in their way, burning the village to the ground in the process.

One can only imagine the wrath they would have faced if Gwyn were to witness the crimes inflicted upon their beloved village and its people. Perhaps this was why the survivors who managed to escape the initial attack decided with heavy hearts that the time had finally arrived to enact the Rite of Awakening, even at the cost of their own lives.

Though the Rite of Awakening was meant to revive Gwyn from their endless sleep, it is speculated that something more ancient and terrible was summoned forth instead. But what could have gone wrong? The only evidence is a peculiar knife that was found at the scene of the ritual. At first it was ordinary and innocuous in appearance. But once placed in Kitt's hands, it transformed into weapon resembling a Hero's Relic. As its power awakened, so did the rage and torment of the demonic creature whose bones and blood were used to forge it.

But as the legend goes, both hero and demon are one and the same - thus it can be argued that perhaps in some unrecognizable shape and form, Gwyn did return to life.

... A few months after Kitt was rescued by Seteth and Flayn, a handful of dark mages returned to the scene of Annwen's destruction to pick at the ruins, searching for clues on where a certain Crest Stone may be found. One by one they were hunted down and felled without mercy, while a scant few survivors fled back underground to tell the tale. How ironic that those who fancied themselves superior to gods and beasts alike would now flinch at having to contend with a ghost instead.

#fe3h oc #fe3h #fe oc week #fe-oc-week #fire emblem three houses #lysithea von ordelia #bernadetta von varley #marianne von edmund #fe3h lysithea #fe3h bernadetta #fe3h marianne

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