bad sad and mad

jjk & csm brainrot : 22 : she / her

[ummmlife]

ʿ ִֶָ𓂅 𓏸 ՙִՙ Bibi ⬞ 𖥻 ２２ ; she / her ; not native english speaker

𖥔 ࣪˖ 🌷: will mostly post about jujutsu kaisen & chainsaw man (depending on my hyperfixation of the moment)

𖥔 ࣪˖ 🌷: nanami kento main

𖥔 ࣪˖ 🌷: thirsty thought about nanami 24/7

𖥔 ࣪˖ 🌷: both nsfw & sfw ; also angst & fluff

𖥔 ࣪˖ 🌷: i like miserable men

𖥔 ࣪˖ 🌷: won't be very active

𖥔 ࣪˖ 🌷: it's not like i know how to write either lol

𖥔 ࣪˖ 🌷: maladaptive daydreaming = my content

masterlist here! ao3 here!

[ummmlife]

YOURE BACK!!!! 😭🩷🩷🩷 I MISSED YOU!!!

HIIIIIIIII I RECOVERED MY ACCOUNT YES!!!

although i have literally no inspo to write anything since i became this dude 👇

(that's right!! i'm employed now!!!)

but hopefully one day i'll write again something!! ... hopefully

lately i've been thinking about office worker nanamin and how life was probably to him now that i'm an office worker too and damn... maybe i should write an essay about it

[ummmlife]

today i got tickets for the bts concert in my country, tickets to watch the tadc movie in the theater AND ALSO AN ILLUSTRATION OF MY HUSBAND WITH HIS HAIR DOWN?????

TODAY I WON IN LIFE

[ummmlife]

The Grimoire of Eve (OM!AU Fanfic)

Chapter 1 — Second Prince of Hell ; Avatar of Greed (7,540 words)

warnings: this chapter includes references to concepts, figures, and narratives derived from abrahamic religious traditions . these have been adapted and reinterpreted for the purposes of fiction ; this work does not intend to offend, misrepresent, or critique any religious beliefs. additionally, this chapter explores themes of mental health decline , includes references to suicidal thoughts , and contains elements of graphic body horror.

tags: alternate universe, found family, action, supernatural elements, biblical imagery (abrahamic religions), biblical symbolism (abrahamic religions), demon summoning, demon/human relationships, original mythology, magical girl transformation, identity crisis, loss of innocence, moral ambiguity, coming of age, growth, seven deadly sins, slice of life, angst, wholesome, non-sexual nudity, slow to update, work in progress, alternate universe - canon divergence, body horror, gore.

Read on AO3!

prologue

What had initially been curiosity ceased to be so. Curiosity fades when it finds no resistance, when it is neither challenged nor satisfied; what replaced it was something slower, more deliberate. A habit, at first. Then, a necessity.

Lyn read.

Every night, without exception, she returned to the small room at the back of the house, closing the door behind her with the same careful gesture, as if any louder noise might disturb something invisible. The air never changed. It remained dense, motionless, with that same faint scent of dust and earth, of things that had remained abandoned for too long.

She simply couldn't stop.

She would sit in the same spot, the journal across her lap; its weight already felt familiar, almost predictable. The pages no longer resisted her touch. They opened easily, as if they recognized her.

At first, she read to understand. Then, she read because not reading felt… incomplete.

The symbols that had previously seemed strange to her began to acquire a certain coherence. It wasn't clear, not entirely, but it was enough. Patterns emerged where before there had only been noise. Certain words repeated. Certain structures reappeared. It wasn't knowledge in the sense she understood it, but something closer to recognition. And every night, she stayed a little longer.

Minutes turned into hours without her realizing it. The house sank into silence around her, her parents' presence fading until it was as if she were completely alone. The outside world lost its urgency, its weight, its hold over her. Only the journal remained. Only the slow turning of pages, the faint rustle of paper against paper, the silent absorption of something she could not yet name.

Lyn read.

She read for longer; she stayed up later. At one point she decided to stop for a couple of days so as not to be completely absorbed by the journal, but she returned the following night, and the next, and then again.

Weeks passed, then months. And, before she could grasp the gravity of the situation, Lyn began to prepare for the invocation ritual of Lord Mammon.

… That is, until the ritual stopped being an idea and she began to take it seriously.

— “... Where am I supposed to get a subfossilized bog oak branch?” Lyn frowned, even more confused than before, — “What the hell is a subfossilized bog oak branch supposed to be?” 

“(...) a bog oak branch that must be subfossilized, a piece of telluric iron the size of a fist, three heavy plates of raw lead…”

 — “Isn’t lead dangerous?” Lyn asked herself as she read the list of materials for the ritual in the journal, but she came to her senses after reflecting briefly, — “I’m going to summon a demon; of course it’s dangerous…”

At first, they were small things, objects that could go unnoticed, purchases made without much thought, justified by reasons that faded as soon as they were no longer necessary. Mostly, metal. Dense, inflexible things that left a faint residue on her hands long after she had set them down.

Lyn didn't question it; there was no way to question the danger in a ritual to summon an infernal prince.

She began to move differently through the city, slower and more attentive, as if something on the margins had become more important than what was in front of her. Shops she had never entered before felt familiar; others, less visible, required a more thorough search. Places where no questions were asked, or where the answers didn't matter.

Some things arrived sealed, wrapped in layers that resisted inspection. Others she carried herself, feeling how their weight shifted subtly with each step, as if they possessed a gravity that didn't entirely belong to them. She took everything to the abandoned cabin a few blocks from her grandmother's house. Not all at once, never all at once. One object at a time, placed with care.

At first, there was no visible order or structure. However, over time, a pattern began to take shape. The distances between the objects remained constant; certain materials were never to touch, while others seemed to demand proximity. Regardless, she didn't remember making any decisions regarding it. The journal remained open when she returned each night. It didn't instruct. It didn't command. But the shapes inside had begun to align with what she had gathered, as if the act of reading and the act of acquiring were no longer separate things. By then, the purpose was already defined. She hadn't understood it, but she had accepted it. It wasn't a decision born of ambition, but of a heavy, almost innate inertia.

For Lyn, the choice of Mammon, the Lord of Greed and Riches, was not an act of greed. In her mind, gold and jewels were solid, tangible things with a weight she could understand. It seemed like the most calculable risk: to summon that which fills the gaps of the world. And she was, above all, a vast, silent gap. Besides the fact that it was the least dangerous ritual in the journal.

Over the next four months, the outside world finally finished fading away.

Lyn had always been an expert in invisibility. As the only daughter of parents whose existence was measured in tight schedules and silent dinners in front of screens, she had grown up in the margins of her own home. It wasn’t an acute sadness, the kind that makes you cry; it was a pale depression. Her parents weren’t cruel; they were simply distant, like celestial bodies orbiting so far away that their heat never reaches the surface. In that house of clean surfaces and functional conversations, Lyn learned that not occupying space was the safest way to exist.

That’s why, when she began to meditate in the cabin, it wasn’t difficult for her. Others struggle against the noise of their desires; Lyn had almost none.

She would sit on the dusty floor of the cabin, her back against the rotting wooden wall, and let time filter through her. At first, she sought the "spiritual synchronicity" that the journal suggested in visual whispers, but she soon realized she didn’t have to build anything. She only had to stop holding onto what remained of her identity.

One had to coexist with the absolute vacuum of reality itself, even if it was overloaded with constant stimuli.

The first few weeks were a purge of memory. She would stay there for hours, watching as her childhood memories, the sound of her father’s keys arriving, the scent of her mother’s expensive perfume that never stayed long enough for a hug, became abstract, devoid of emotional weight. They were just data. Pixels on a screen that was no longer turned on.

As the second month merged into the third, the silence of the cabin became her only homeland. She began to experience stillness not as a lack of sound, but as a physical presence. It was a soft pressure in her ears, a vibration that seemed to emanate from the open journal in front of her. The journal was no longer an object; it was an anchor. It guided her downward, toward a depth where the air felt denser, almost liquid.

It was in the fourth month when the first break occurred.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday, after a dinner where no one had spoken. Lyn retired to the cabin and, almost before closing her eyes, she felt the click. It wasn’t an explosion; it was like a sort of shedding of an old scab. Suddenly, the sensation of her knees against the floor vanished; the cold of the night no longer made her skin crawl. During a few seconds of frozen panic, she thought she had died, but then she realized she could still see. Only, she wasn't seeing with her eyes. She saw herself from above.

There was Lyn: a small, hunched figure, with hair falling over a face that looked carved from wax. She looked like a shell abandoned on a riverbank, and yet, she felt no pity for that girl. She felt a terrifying liberation; she was out. For the first time in her life, she wasn't trapped in the density of her own flesh, nor in the weight of the expectations of a family that didn't know what to do with her.

It was an astral projection in its crudest form. It wasn't a trip to the stars; it was a displacement of consciousness into the gray.

In that state, the ritual circle on the cabin floor glowed with a light that wasn’t light, but pure intent. The objects she had collected; the lead, the iron, the subfossilized branch, were no longer scrap metal. On this plane, they had their own gravity. They pulled at her.

Lyn understood then that her introversion, her inability to connect with others, her solitude as an only child in a house of shadows, had actually been a long process of preparation. The world had left her so alone that she had learned to inhabit the void, and the void is where demons hear best.

When she finally returned to her body, the homecoming was painful, feeling the weight of her lungs, the monotonous beat of her heart, hunger... it all seemed like a vulgar distraction. Her true life was happening in those moments of separation, where the journal spoke to her in a wordless language about the Lord of Greed.

Mammon wasn't just money, Lyn understood in one of her deepest sessions. Mammon was the hunger that is never satiated because it seeks to fill a void that isn’t physical. And no one understood the void better than she did.

She was no longer afraid of the ritual; she couldn't be afraid of something that already felt like part of her anatomy. She was ready, not because she was brave, but because she had nothing left in the world of the living that weighed more than the promise of that encounter. She closed the journal for the first time in weeks; her fingers, stained with graphite and dust, did not tremble. Four months of silence had erased the last doubt. Lyn was no longer a student of the occult; she was a vessel waiting to be filled.

But the environment did not remain unaltered. While Lyn emptied herself of everything unnecessary, something else, beyond her control, ended up disappearing.

— “...”

Lyn could only watch as the wooden casket was slowly lowered into the depths of the earth, while the sound of the rain mingled with people’s sobs and a priest’s voice saying: — “Lord Jesus Christ... grant our departed brothers rest in the peace of these tombs. Amen.”

Her grandmother’s death wasn’t a seismic event; it was a light going out in a room where Lyn was already in the dark. For months, dementia had turned the old woman into an echo, but it was an echo that still recognized Lyn’s presence. When her body finally gave out, the silence that remained in the house on the outskirts wasn't the "stillness" Lyn loved, but an absolute deafness that seemed to devour the sound of her own footsteps.

Her parents, moved by that "silent functionality" that characterized them, decided that the most practical thing was to move into the grandmother's house. Because life goes on, after all. For them, it was a matter of square footage and savings; for Lyn, it was like being buried alive in the mausoleum of her few happy memories. Rooms that once smelled of herbs and sun now smelled of industrial cleaning products and stacked cardboard boxes. Her parents moved through the hallways like strangers in a territory Lyn had already mapped out with her solitude. They saw an old house in need of repairs; Lyn saw the shadows of a woman praying the rosary while keeping secrets in glass jars. Every time she passed the empty armchair by the window, she felt a tug in her chest, a seam opening in her already fragile perception of reality.

It was then that a point of no return began.

The enlightenment she had brushed against during her meditations, that ability to see her own body from above like an empty shell, transformed into a trap. Now, returning to her body after each session was physical agony. Feeling the brush of clothes, the taste of dry air, the monotonous beat of her heart... everything felt repulsive to her. The depression, which was once a "pale mist," became a black, viscous tide.

She felt her brain rotting inside her own skull, as if the water it rested in were stagnant and filled with parasites eating away at it. She couldn't think clearly, not anymore; it was impossible. Even attending school normally became a torturous responsibility. It wasn't just that the world didn't see her; it was that she no longer wanted to be seen by the world. She would look in the mirror and wouldn't find the "quiet girl" the teachers described; she found an anomaly, a side-effect of a universe that didn't know what to do with her.

The final four months were a brakeless descent. Lyn stopped seeking "synchronicity" out of curiosity and began seeking it out of desperation. She would lock herself in the small room in the yard, the place where she found the journal, and spend hours in a darkness so dense that time lost its definition. The anonymous author’s journal was no longer a study; it was a suicide note.

— “Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts,”  she whispered one night, remembering the passage from Isaiah her grandmother used to mark, but giving it a twisted meaning. If the world of the "righteous" had no place for her, perhaps the world of the "fallen" did.

The deadline materialized: the night before the start of the second term of her first year of high school. Lyn was thirteen and a half, an age when other children fear exams or seek the approval of their peers. She, instead, looked at the calendar with the coldness of someone scheduling an execution.

She didn't want the ritual to work to obtain riches. Mammon’s name on the paper reminded her of an "greed" not for money, but for existence. She wanted the ritual to be a mistake; she wanted the power of a Prince of Hell, a being who could lead humanity to ruin, to simply erase her from the map. If the ritual failed and she died in the process, it would be enough. If the demon appeared and consumed her, it would be enough. Anything was better than Monday morning, better than walking the school hallways again like a shadow that no one stops to look at.

She only wanted everything that had happened in her short life to be enough to finally have eternal rest.

That last night, after slipping out of the house at midnight, the atmosphere in the cabin was unbreathable. The distance between her grandmother's house and the abandoned cabin was measured in shadows and the crunch of dry earth under her feet. It was only a few blocks, but to Lyn, that journey felt like crossing a border into a territory where the laws of physics were beginning to fray. The night was dead, windless, suspended in a stillness that seemed to mock her internal agitation.

Upon arriving, Lyn wasted no time. Her movements were mechanical, stripped of the first day’s reverence and replaced by a feverish urgency. She knelt on the rotting wooden floor and, with a piece of stone, began to scrape the surface until the grain of the wood was exposed, peeled like an open wound. It was the "world's hide," the raw foundation the journal demanded.

She sat on the floor; the cold of the wood no longer bothered her. She opened the journal to the page for Mammon’s ritual. Her fingers caressed the worn leather, not with the veneration of an apprentice, but with the caress of someone holding a gun’s trigger to their temple.

— “The faster I start, the faster it will all be over,” .Lyn she murmured, closing her eyes, — “I guess.”

Outside, the city night continued its ignorant course. Inside the cabin, Lyn Fadi stopped breathing for a second, hoping that, upon opening them again, the world she knew would have ceased to exist, or that she, finally, would have ceased to belong to it.

— “First attempt,” she whispered, her voice cracking from the cold air.

To summon the Prince of All Greed, the air in the cabin first had to transform into a dense atmosphere, a crushing darkness where light had no place. Lyn began by stripping the rotting wooden floor in the center of the room, scraping until the “skin of the world”, the raw, cold earth, was visible beneath her fingers.

Upon that foundation, she drew the circle. She did not use salt, but crushed cinnabar; the dust of this mercury mineral traced a crimson line representing the "Vein of the Earth," a boundary that under no circumstances was to be crossed. Just outside the circle, she labored to use the heavy plates of raw lead to form the triangle of manifestation. She knew, from what she had read in the journal, that lead was the metal of Saturn, the "deadest" material in existence, and that its function was to serve as an anchor to prevent the titan's immense mass from crushing the cabin's structure upon crossing the threshold.

She then grasped her resonance tools. In her right hand, she held the bog oak wand, wood that had remained submerged for ten thousand years until it turned black and hard as bone. In her left, she gripped a piece of telluric iron, pure metal extracted from the earth that had never been defiled by the fire of a forge. The dry strike of iron against wood vibrated in the marrow of her teeth, a dead sound. Rhythmically, Lyn prepared to pay the toll. In the center of the lead triangle, she placed the bronze cauldron filled with coins that carried the weight of her own history. Over the metal, she poured the mixture of honey and ox blood: the sweetness to represent the allure of wealth, and the blood to mark its inevitable cost.

Finally, she did not direct her voice to the heavens; instead, she leaned down to speak directly to the ground. Her invocation was born from deep within her chest, vibrating into the earth:

— "O Mammon,

Thou who dwellest beneath the weight of all that is claimed,

Keeper of that which men bury, count, and betray,

I call not unto Thee as the meek call unto light,

But as one who standeth at the threshold of want and possession.

Let the earth remember Thy name.

Let the hidden veins stir at Thy passing.

Let that which is bound to desire answer Thee.

I have gathered that which speaketh in silence:

Gold unbreathed by the sun,

Blood yet warm with its price,

Coins that have known the hands of the lost and the damned.

These I lay not as offering, but as witness.

Come forth, O Bearer of Measure,

Take form where the circle holdeth firm,

And behold that which hath been prepared in Thy dominion.

For I seek not Thy blessing,

But Thy presence.

Let there be accord where there was none,

Let the bond be marked where word and will converge.”

… Nothing.

The silence in the cabin was absolute. Not a change in temperature, nor a vibration, nor a shadow moving out of place.

She tried a second time, correcting the position of the lead plates. Nothing. A third time, her breath coming in gasps and her hands trembling, pouring more blood, striking the wood with such force that her wrists began to ache. Nothing. The fourth time was a flurry of hurried desperation; she hurled the words into the air as if they were stones, hoping one might shatter the glass separating her from the occult. The result was the same: the iron scent of stagnant blood and the hum of crickets in the distance.

Lyn slumped back, sitting on her heels, her face stained with ash and cinnabar.

— “What did I expect?” she asked herself, and the question hurt more than the exhaustion.  — “Did I really think this was real? That a Prince of Hell would bother with a fool who can’t even look her parents in the eye?”

She felt stupid. The journal, the ritual, the four months of meditation... it all seemed now like the feverish fantasy of someone drowning and trying to grab a shadow. She checked the clock; it was 3:10 AM. The hopelessness was a physical cold climbing up her legs. She stood up to pack everything away, to accept that on Monday she would return to school and her invisibility would remain her only homeland.

But then, something inside her, a remnant of that existential greed, stopped her. She had a little cinnabar left, a remnant of blood, and a final will that wasn't bravery, but an absolute refusal to go back to being the same old Lyn. At 3:16 AM, the dead hour, she began again. She didn't do it with hope, but with surgical coldness. She cleaned the circle and retraced the cinnabar line with obsessive precision. She placed the lead. She took the iron and the wood. This time, as she struck, she didn't look for a sound; she looked for the intent behind the blow.

She recited the prayer to the second demonic prince once more:

— "O Mammon,

Thou who dwellest beneath the weight of all that is claimed,

Keeper of that which men bury, count, and betray..."

Suddenly, the air turned solid.

It wasn't a gradual change; it was as if, from one second to the next, the atmosphere had transformed into liquid lead. Lyn felt the weight first at the crown of her head, a downward pressure that made her cervical vertebrae creak. Her lungs, which a moment before functioned without thought, became heavy, as if she were trying to breathe mud. The weight slid down her shoulders, pushing her toward the ground, forcing her to hunch over until her forehead nearly touched the wood.

It was a physical, visceral horror. She felt her eyeballs being pushed toward the back of their sockets. Her knees buckled under an invisible load that wasn't measured in pounds, but in geological eras. It was the gravity of a mountain concentrated within four walls. Her soul, if Lyn still possessed one, felt compressed, reduced to a minimal point beneath the boot of an invisible giant.

Then, the cabin floor gave way.

The old wooden beams splintered with a sound that recalled human bones snapping. The center of the lead triangle sank, revealing a darkness that wasn't a lack of light, but a devouring presence.

And from that darkness, he emerged.

First came the smell: a putrid wave of oxidized copper, earth wet for centuries, and the rancid sweat of a thousand kings dying in silken beds. It was a stench that could be felt on the tongue, bitter and metallic. Then, the mass of flesh. Mammon was not an ethereal entity. He was a ten-foot-tall mountain of red, diseased flesh. His obesity was monstrous, a parody of abundance; his abdomen hung in heavy folds, like sacks full of rocks dragging across the remains of the wood. His entire body was covered in purulent warts and scabs that shimmered like unpolished rubies under the light of the only candle that hadn't yet been extinguished by the pressure, as well as pustules filled with a greenish secretion mixed with blood.

His face was a nightmare of folds. His eyes, small and buried deep within the fat of his cheeks, were the color of dirty gold. There was no trace of humanity in them, only an ancient hunger, a need to possess that warped the space around him. He seemed to be sitting on an invisible throne, or perhaps his own weight forced him to maintain that posture of a stagnant sovereign.

Mammon’s skin vibrated. Lyn, paralyzed by the weight that threatened to burst her blood vessels, saw the creature stretch out a hand. They were hands like meat hooks, with thick fingers ending in nails that looked like iron splinters. The Red Prince let out a growl. The sound did not come from his mouth, but from deep within his chest, a rumbling of stones grinding at the bottom of a dry well. It was the voice of the grave, a frequency that made Lyn’s teeth dance in her gums.

Mammon leaned toward the cauldron. The movement displaced the air with such force that Lyn felt the pressure in her ears was about to make her bleed. The creature thrust its hook-like hands into the mixture of blood and honey, scooping up the soaked coins. The sound of his yellowish ivory teeth crushing the metal was the final blow to the room's sanity. Lyn did not look away. She couldn't. She was pinned to the floor by the tons of greed emanating from that being. The horror of seeing that ogre of red flesh feed on material misery hit her with the realization that the journal had not exaggerated. Mammon was the weight of the world. He was every crown bathed in blood, every mine where men died for a golden glint, every hollow that humanity tried to fill with dead things.

And she was there, in the center of his gaze, being weighed on a scale that understood nothing of justice, only of value. The weight on her body increased, a final warning that, in the presence of the Prince of Greed, nothing, not even she, was permitted to be light.

The sound of Mammon’s teeth grinding the metal wasn't a noise; it was a violation of the logic of matter. Lyn watched, her knuckles white around the bog oak wand, as the Prince of Hell brought handfuls of bloody coins to his mouth. Each crunch echoed in the center of her brain, a burst of yellowish ivory against ancient alloys that turned her stomach. The mixture of ox blood and honey dripped from his fingers like thick tar, staining the folds of his colossal belly, which churned with every chew like a sack of living rocks.

Lyn wanted to vomit, but the weight crushing her prevented it. She felt that if she opened her mouth to gasp, her own lungs would collapse under the atmospheric pressure this being generated. The air smelled of oxidized copper and a sweet rot that made her head spin. Her thoughts, once so flat and gray, were now a whirlwind of pure terror: I shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't have done this. She remembered the journal’s warning: "If you show disgust, he will realize you are poor in spirit and consume you instead." She forced her eyes to remain fixed on the demon's grotesque figure, watching as his red, bifid tongue licked every last drop of blood from his butcher fingers.

Then, silence returned to the cabin, but it was a silence with mass. Mammon licked the last remnant of iron and honey, his dull ruby eyes locking onto Lyn’s small figure, which looked like a speck of dust against his scarlet immensity.

He spoke.

— “Speak, you vessel of clay.” The voice did not come from a throat; it was a tectonic rumble, a clashing of plates that made the cabin floor vibrate with a painful frequency — “The weight has been paid. Ask. Fill your vessel."

Lyn opened her mouth, but nothing came out; her mind was a blank desert of static. For months she had visualized this moment as an exit, as an end, but never as a real exchange. She hadn't thought of a wish because, deep down, she didn't believe her own voice had the power to summon something so physical.

— “I…” her voice sounded like a silk thread snapping — “I... I don't know. I don't know what I want."

The atmosphere became even heavier. Mammon tilted his massive head, the folds of his neck creaking like old leather. His eyes shined with a sickly light.

— “You... do not know?” The tone changed, becoming sharper, like the screech of a steel door dragging across stone — “Millennia without the touch of the surface! Millennia of hunger! And you bring me here for nothing?!”

Mammon moved, and the rotting wooden floor beneath him groaned, on the verge of pulverizing. His irritation felt like hot needles against Lyn’s skin. The demon stretched out one of his hook-fingers, pointing to the center of the circle, where Lyn, in her panic, pressed the journal against her chest as if it were a shield.

Lyn's fear finally broke into sobs. Tears began to stream down her cheeks, mixing with the red cinnabar dust that still stained her face. She saw herself from above, as she did in her projections, but this time there was no liberation; only the pathetic image of a thirteen-year-old girl who had played with forces that despised her very existence.

— “I’m sorry!” The cry was barely a ragged whisper, the sound of something that has been kept under pressure for years and finally bursts. It wasn't the voice of a summoner, but the weeping of the girl who hid in the hallways of a house where no one stopped to ask what she thought or how she felt. The tears began to trace clean furrows over her cinnabar-stained cheeks, diluting the ritual's poison into a purely human salinity.

She collapsed onto her knees, letting go of the bog oak wand with a dull thud. She no longer cared if the circle broke, if the lead "anchor" failed, or if Mammon's weight turned her into dust against the rotting boards. The vacuum she had cultivated for years—that depression that wrapped around her like a mist—finally overflowed.

— “I didn't want the gold…” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands soiled with dirt, honey, and blood — “I only wanted… I wanted someone... anyone... to stop. I just wanted someone to see me!”

She remembered her parents, moving through her dead grandmother's house like distant stars whose heat never reached the surface, lost in a silent functionality where she occupied no space. She remembered the deafening silence that remained when dementia took the only person who looked at her as if she were more than a forgotten shadow.

— “I thought that if I summoned a demon, my death would be quick!” she covered her face with trembling hands, where the physical pain of Mammon's weight mingled with the dull ache of her own existence — “...I thought even a demon would have to acknowledge that I’m here in order to devour me. I’m so tired of being invisible... of being something that shouldn't have existed.”

Mammon remained motionless, a mountain of red, diseased flesh that seemed to absorb what little oxygen was left in the cabin. The stench of copper and the rancid sweat of dead kings wrapped around her like a heavy shroud. Lyn no longer expected a pact; she expected an execution. She wanted the God of Greed to finish the job that life had left half-done: to erase her completely.

— “Please... just kill me…”

Lyn’s liquid loneliness spread across the floor, crossing the cinnabar line without permission—a tribute of pure misery that shined with a light sadder and heavier than any coin in the bronze cauldron. Before her, Mammon evaluated that human wreckage, weighing whether the absolute void of a thirteen-year-old girl was a treasure darker than all the riches he had claimed since the beginning of time.

For an instant, the roar in Mammon’s chest stopped. The air, which until a second ago weighed like lead, seemed to freeze in absolute stasis. The Red Prince’s eyes, those unpolished ruby gems, lost their glint of hungry greed to become dull, looking toward a point that was not in that rotting cabin, but in an abyss of time that the human mind could not process.

In the Prince’s vast and dark consciousness, an exhumation occurred from the deepest part of his memories.

More than a thousand millennia ago, on a plain where the sky still smelled of volcanic ash and the earth was young and cruel, a figure stood before him. A woman. She did not ask for empires, nor did she seek the shine from the earth’s ribs. She was on her knees, her face lined with tears. — “I feel so lonely...” that woman whispered, her voice lost in the wind of the dark night. The memory struck Mammon. He, who was the Lord of Greed, who devoured the history of kings and chewed the metal of eras, suddenly found himself before an echo he did not know he possessed. Lyn, with her weeping of a broken girl, had revived in him a moment of contemplation that Lucifer himself had tried to bury in oblivion.

For the first time in eons, the red titan felt no hunger, but a frozen shock.

The silence stretched on, dense as the lead that anchored the ritual. Mammon shook his enormous head, brushing away the echo of that ancient woman. His voice, though still deep as a landslide, took on a more articulate, almost mundane nuance.

— “What do you offer in for presence?” Mammon asked, his irritation vibrating in the air like static electricity.

Lyn blinked, confused amidst her tears, hesitating slightly — “What do you mean?”

— “You have brought me here for company, insignificant little thing,” his smile was a wound of yellowish ivory — “Hunger is not sated with silences. What you give me?”

Lyn looked down at the journal. Her fingers flipped through the pages with feverish speed until they stopped at a marginal note, an instruction that seemed to have been waiting for this exact moment. Under the light of the full moon filtering through the cracks in the cabin, Lyn leaned toward the mass of red, diseased flesh, breaking the safety distance.

The whisper was inaudible to the world, a secret vibration that only the demon caught.

Mammon opened his ruby eyes, but this time greed was replaced by genuine wonder. A nervous, almost human smile formed among the folds of his grotesque face. He saw in Lyn something that left him speechless, a quality in her void that only he could recognize.

— “Well now…” The Avatar of Greed let out a sigh — “Very well... I shall be with you until the day your flesh turns to dust.”

Having said that, Mammon extended one of his fingers—those nails that looked like shards of rusted iron, and directed it toward the girl's back. The air, already saturated by the stench of copper and rancid sweat, seemed to contract around the point of contact.

Before the metal touched her skin, Lyn felt the heat. It wasn't a cozy heat, but that of melting metal seeping into her pores. When the finger finally pressed against her spine, the light exploded. It wasn't a celestial golden glow, but the toxic radiance of molten gold seeking its mold.

Lyn arched violently. The scream that escaped her throat was not human; it was the sound of air being ripped from lungs collapsing under physically impossible pressure. She felt her t-shirt vaporize in seconds against her spine. The pain didn't stay on the surface; it was as if a red-hot knife forced its way through the dermis, separating flesh from muscle with a wet hiss. The heat became solid, a saw of light that began to carve ancient symbols directly into the bone of her vertebrae. She could hear the sizzle of her own boiling blood, the smell of burnt keratin and scorched flesh filling the tiny space between her face and the rotting wooden floor.

She wanted to pass out; she longed for the darkness of the gray she had visited in her projections to claim her, but the pact did not allow for oblivion. Her eyes, bloodshot, remained open, fixed on the red cinnabar staining the floor, while she felt her very soul being held by burning tongs to be branded like cattle. They were seconds that stretched out like an eternal punishment.

When Mammon withdrew his hand, Lyn collapsed with an agonizing spasm. The weight of the atmosphere returned to normal, but her body continued to vibrate with the trauma. She lay there, face down against the raw earth, panting with a wet, broken sound.

— “You’re so dramatic,” Mammon’s voice rumbled like a landslide of stones at the bottom of a pit, devoid of empathy — “It’s just my mark. It doesn’t even hurt.”

Lyn tried to move, but the brush of her tattered clothes against the open wound tore a groan from her that made her nauseous. She reached back with a trembling hand, touching the soaked fabric. It wasn't just sweat. Her fingers came back stained a thick, hot crimson. There, in the center of her back, the skin had become a crust of intricate relief. Mammon’s seal was not on her; it was in her, fused with her marrow, reminding her with every heartbeat that she was now a vessel waiting to be filled.

Lyn remained sunken in her own agony, her face pressed against the rotting wood and the cinnabar mixing with the trail of her tears. Each spasm in her back sent waves of fire toward the nape of her neck, reducing her voice to guttural, dry sounds, like those of a wounded animal. However, amidst the gasps laden with blood and saliva, she managed to articulate a demand that was born from the depths of her fractured will.

— “You should…”, the air hissed in her lungs, heavy as the liquid lead she had just summoned  — “You should look more... human... if you're going to be with me.”

The roar in Mammon's chest stopped short. The folds of his face, that nightmare of red and diseased flesh, tightened before splitting into a dark smile that revealed rows of yellowish ivory. It was not a smile of grace, but that of a predator who finds amusement in the new disguise demanded of him.

— “As you wish, insignificant human.”

Then, the horror shifted shape.

There was no poetic fading. The ten-foot-tall mass began to collapse upon itself with a wet and traumatic sound, as if tons of rotting flesh were being sucked into an invisible drain. Lyn heard the crunch of monstrous bones breaking and rearranging, a din of organic matter folding with unnatural violence. From the creature's purulent pustules and warts, a golden mist began to emanate, but it was not a warm light; it was a dense, metallic vapor that smelled of ancient coins and ozone.

The mist enveloped the center of the cabin, momentarily hiding the cauldron's feast of blood and honey. When the smoke began to dissipate, the mountain of red flesh had vanished. In its place, standing upon the boards that still creaked from the weight of what had just occurred, stood a young man. He was of an offensive, almost inhuman beauty. His skin was dark, deep like the earth Lyn had excavated for the circle, contrasting vibrantly with hair as white as snow. But the most unsettling part was his eyes: two icy blue sapphires that held, in the depths of their pupils, a trace of the ancient hunger Lyn had seen in the demon before her.

Lyn watched him from the floor, her vision blurred by pain and trauma. Upon seeing that face, a strange vibration rippled through what remained of her sanity. She could swear she had seen those features, that exact way of tilting his head, in some forgotten corner of her memory. The fallen angel reached out a perfect hand, whose nails were no longer iron hooks, but polished obsidian.

— “This human enough for you?” The voice was no longer a landslide of stones, but a velvet melody hiding a deadly edge.

The weight of the seal still vibrated in her marrow like a seismic echo, but the primal need to stop being invisible pushed Lyn to stand up. Her movements were clumsy, like those of a marionette with newly knotted strings, as she mechanically wiped away the cinnabar and blood streaking her cheeks.

In that corner of shadows, surrounded by the stench of copper and ozone, the girl who had always been a ghost in the school hallways began to speak. It was an unstoppable torrent, an overflow of years of silence accumulated in a house of "silent functionality" where her parents orbited far away from her. Lyn told him about the repetitive monotony of her days and how she had become a background character in her own life, a "quiet girl" whom no one ever asked for an answer.

As she spoke, Mammon remained motionless in his new, frigid beauty of sapphire and obsidian. His gaze, though human in appearance, scrutinized Lyn with surgical intensity, searching her words for a trace of a heritage that would justify her connection to the journal. Subtly, the demon led her toward her origins, toward that grandmother who prayed the rosary among shelves filled with herbs and forbidden objects. The Prince of Greed listened to the description of the house on the outskirts and the chance discovery of the book under an uneven floorboard in a room full of forgotten things. Mammon was looking for a spark of lineage, an echo of the anonymous author who once bargained with the lords of the legions, or perhaps a trace of… that person. However, as Lyn described her ordinary life and her depression, a subtle irritation began to tighten the demon's perfect features. He found nothing special; only the common misery of a "vessel of clay" who had the luck, or the misfortune, to stumble upon forbidden knowledge.

Despite the growing impatience emanating from his figure, Lyn didn’t stop. She spoke with a fever bordering on delirium, pouring into that fallen angel every secret no one had ever wanted to hear, failing to notice that for the Avatar of Greed, her personal history was as light and worthless as the dust floating in the cabin. She was finally being seen, but Mammon only saw a void that, for now, held none of the treasures he expected to find.

The warm sunlight of dawn began to filter through the cracks in the rotting wood, cutting through the soft golden mist that still floated in the room. The spell of the conversation broke when Lyn, her gaze still blurred by the physical trauma of the seal, caught sight of the time: 7:07 AM. Her terror of the demon was replaced, in a surreal twist, by panic over the school bell and her parents' inquisitive stares at every morning's functional breakfast.

— “I’m gonna be late!” Lyn exclaimed, her voice regaining a youthful vibration that was jarring in such a scene of desecration.

Without waiting for a response from the sapphire-eyed being, Lyn scrambled to grab the dark leather journal, pressing it against her chest as if it were an ordinary textbook. She stood up with a groan of pain, ignoring the blood soaking her t-shirt and the sting of the mark that was now part of her own anatomy. She walked toward the exit with feverish urgency, dodging the dead lead plates and the cauldron where the coins chewed by the Avatar of Greed still floated.

— “See you later, Lord Mammon!” she shouted from the threshold, her figure quickly disappearing into the shadows of the dry dirt path leading toward civilization.

Mammon remained motionless in the center of the cabin, surrounded by the exposed hide of the ritual and the stench of oxidized copper he himself emanated. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the dripping of bloody honey onto the wood. He, a prince capable of leading humanity to ruin, the devourer of kings and possessor of the world's riches—had been left behind like an awkward secret in a cabin that smelled of death.

— “...What in the hell I done got myself into now?” he muttered, his voice no longer from beyond the grave, but a whisper heavy with genuinely human confusion.

He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze lost on the girl’s trail of footsteps. An exhumation of millennial memories struck him again, taking him back to that silent plain where the sky smelled of volcanic ash.

— “Why you gotta remind me so much of...?” Mammon sighed, not naming the person who once wept for her loneliness in an eternal night.

“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and Mammon.”— Matthew 6:19–21, 24.

hello everyone! this is officially the first chapter of this story and mammon made great entrance! for years, i’ve always been deeply interested in demonology, so i decided to draw on some of my knowledge of the original myth of mammon to create a (100% fictional) invocation ritual and also to reimagine his physical appearance in his original form~ so i hope you enjoy this horrific version of him i also wanted to experiment a little with body horror in some parts of the chapter; i hope i was able to evoke that feeling in you while reading. and if I didn't? oh well, i'll just have to try harder and practice a lot! Iihope you enjoyed this chapter and that you'll look forward to the next one! thanks for reading, as always!

[ummmlife]

The Grimoire of Eve (OM!AU Fanfic)

Narrative Prelude + Prologue (4,164 words)

warnings: this work includes references to concepts, figures, and narratives derived from abrahamic religious traditions. these have been adapted and reinterpreted for the purposes of fiction. this work does not intend to offend, misrepresent, or critique any religious beliefs. additionally, this chapter explores themes of mental health decline and includes references to suicidal thoughts.

tags: alternate universe, found family, action, supernatural elements, biblical imagery (abrahamic religions), biblical symbolism (abrahamic religions), demon summoning, demon/human relationships, original mythology, magical girl transformation, identity crisis, loss of innocence, moral ambiguity, coming of age, growth, seven deadly sins, slice of life, angst, wholesome, non-sexual nudity, slow to update, work in progress, alternate universe - canon divergence, body horror, gore.

Read on AO3!

chapter one

—Narrative Prelude—

In the waning days of the Upper Paleolithic era, somewhere in what would one day be known as the Middle East, a young woman stands atop a stone, gazing out at what was once her home.

— “...Why did you do it?”

Those are the simple words she asks the enigmatic man beside her. He is tall, nearly as tall as the dry young trees that surround them. His beauty is unsettling, almost inhuman, but the woman knows his true nature. She has already been cruelly deceived. She bears no grudge, unlike her husband. What she carries is a great and burning curiosity toward the wickedness in the being who stands at her side in that silent plain.

The man glances at her and laughs, not with kindness or mercy, no. He laughs with the arrogance of one who has never been denied.

— “Ah, I see you mistake the deeds of a younger brother for mine, dear Eve.”

He begins to circle the stone, his gaze shifting between the young woman and her belly, almost mocking her current state.

— “My apologies. He… He only came into this world a few millennia ago. As you might imagine, my younger brother lacks the restraint to tame his unruly impulses.”

Eve looks at the wicked creature calmly. She feels no hatred, no sorrow. In truth, she feels nothing at all but an unrelenting desire to understand why that serpent lured her into tasting the fruit of wisdom.

— “...Why?”

She asks again, her human voice soft against the vast silence. The demon leans in ever so slightly, enough to meet her gaze.

— “...”

He smiles faintly, as if savoring the moment before his answer.

— “We demons act on impulse when we are young.”

He straightens his back and sighs.

— “The simplest way to put it is this: my brother deceived you and your feeble husband because he wanted to and because he could. Nothing else.”

Desire and power. Disobedience and sin.

Only a handful of moons have passed since Adam and Eve’s exile from Eden, after Satan deceived them into defying the Creator of the Celestial Realm. Still, Eve can't rid her mind of how effortless, how deceptively simple the serpent’s seduction was the moment she committed what would become the first sin.

She looks around her. At her feet, dirty and covered in hard calluses from working the earth, trying to coax life from it. She lifts her eyes to the sky, toward that searing sun, where the Great Father watches them as always. Then, she looks once more at the demon, who though unchanged, now seems somehow more dreadful.

— “If you are not the one who deceived us… then what is your name?”

To one who has never seen a demon before, this being might be mistaken for an angel. And those who do recognize his nature would know he once was one. He was the most beloved of the Father’s angels, the one who, for reasons never fully known, betrayed his kind and his Creator, unable to see beyond the limits of his own pride. This is the first fallen angel, one of the seven princes of the Underworld, and the living avatar of pride.

— “My name is Lucifer.”

The young woman stares at him. His unnerving, almost-human visage does not frighten her. Strangely, it intrigues her.

— “Are all your kind the same?”

Are all demons like Satan? Do they all wish to harm simply because they can?

— “Are you like that, Lucifer?”

Her question drifts through the dry savanna air, vibrating in the heat that blurs the horizon, among the bare trees too afraid to whisper an answer.

He smiles, that same smile, as if sketched in charcoal across a face too flawless for this world.

— “I am far more than you, Eve.” His voice holds no arrogance, only certainty. — “You were shaped from clay… I was light before I had form.”

He circles the stone where she sits. He does not touch her. He doesn’t need to.

— “Yet still, there is something in you I recognize. Something I find... familiar.” He pauses briefly, as if peering past her eyes into something deeper. — “Desire. The hunger to know. To cross thresholds. To do more. To be more.”

She meets his gaze, not with fear, nor with submission. But with the ancient stillness only women who have lost everything can possess.

Lucifer extends a hand. In it, an object: A book bound in dark leather, and a piece of blackened charcoal. Unmarked. Weightless. And yet, it feels as though the world could shift through it.

— “What you do with this is yours to decide,” he murmurs. — “You may leave it here, forget it like all things once sacred… or you may write.”

Eve blinks slowly, examining the strange item in his hand, not fully understanding.

— “I don’t know how to use that.”

Lucifer tilts his head, his gaze aglow with an ageless, rehearsed patience.

— “You do. You already know everything.”

He touches, without actually touching, the center of her forehead. — “The fruit opened the gates. The words will come. First as sound. Then as shape. And later… as power.”

Eve takes the book. It is warm, not from the sun.

Lucifer steps back. His figure begins to fade into the wind.

— “Write what you will. What you fear. What you imagine. What you uncover.”His voice no longer seems to come from him, but from the earth itself. — “The book is yours. But what you place within it… will never entirely belong to you.”

And just like that, he is gone.

As if he had never been there at all. Only the scent of warm air remains and a book, still untouched, resting in the hands of the first woman.

"For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.” — Ecclesiastes 1:18.

—Prologue—

No one is born destined for darkness, but some end up there. Sometimes by accident, life pushed them into it, and often simply because there was nowhere else they could go.

It all begins with an absence: a glance that never comes, a word left unsaid, a door that closes without warning. Loneliness doesn’t appear all at once; it settles in little by little, seeping in like a whisper at the edges of the day until it becomes a language spoken in silence. And when it becomes the only constant, the world loses its shape, time loses its meaning, and the body begins to feel alien.

Abandonment does not destroy immediately; first it runs, then it distorts. After a while, all that remains is darkness, but that darkness is not a void, but a refuge; it is the place where everything despised piles up. There dwell the things that should never have existed, the thoughts no one should have, the emotions that have no place anywhere else. Monsters aren’t born in hell: they’re born here, amid guilt, shame, and oblivion.

In the midst of that inner night, a spark sometimes appears.

Not hope, but necessity.

The need to understand more, to do more, to be more. Even if that means risking what little remains, even if that means leaving humanity behind. 

But even in the midst of that darkness that envelops, that rots, that consumes from within, there is something that sometimes remains. Not hope, not light; but a spark. An irrational, almost useless, yet persistent impulse: the desire to break the rules we were given, to defy what was denied to us, a primitive instinct that compels us to move, even if we don’t know where.

Sometimes, rejection does not extinguish the soul; sometimes, it transforms it, bends it, twists it, makes it restless, unstable, disobedient. Because if the world offers no answers, then they are sought elsewhere; if life gives no meaning, then it is wrested from the forbidden.

And it is there, in that liminal state between abandonment and rebellion, where anomalies arise. Where someone, at some point, without having to, dares to look beyond the veil. To touch what should have remained sealed and open what was buried in fear.

From that anomaly, she was born. Not as heroes or martyrs are born, but as a side effect.

A consequence.

In some corner of the world, without witnesses or warnings, a girl appeared whose existence seemed to matter to no one, not even to herself.

It was not nihilism that guided her, but a radical indifference to the value of her own life. If she had to risk it to understand, to feel something, she would do so, not because she sought death, but because she saw no real difference between living and not living.

Lianna “Lyn” Fadi had never considered herself particularly unlucky. That would have required comparisons, and comparisons required perspective, something she had long since stopped seeking. She was an ordinary young teen, with no distinguishing features other than her own presence. If you saw her on the street, you wouldn’t even stop to look at her.

Life, as she understood it, wasn’t cruel in any dramatic or deliberate way. It simply… passed her by. The days came and went with a monotonous, repetitive certainty, each one blending into the next until even time seemed to lose its definition.

People talked around her, not to her. They laughed near her, not with her. Even at home, where warmth should have been natural, spontaneous, there was only a kind of silent functionality. Her parents weren’t cruel. They provided her with what she needed, asked the appropriate questions, and filled the roles expected of them. But there was always something missing in their voices, something that never quite reached her.

So Lyn learned, from a very young age, not to expect it. 

By the age of twelve, she had already grown accustomed to the feeling of being a secondary figure in her own life. She moved through school like a shadow, present enough to be noticed, invisible enough to be forgotten. Teachers described her as “quiet.” Her classmates, when pressed, would say she was “that quiet girl.” No one ever asked her what she thought, what she wanted, what she felt.

It wasn’t that she didn’t have answers. It was that no one had ever stopped to wait for them.

After class, she rarely went straight home. Instead, she walked the longest route that wound its way to the outskirts of town, where the streets turned into dirt paths and the air carried the dry scent of open earth. There, isolated from the clustered houses and the distant noise, stood her grandmother’s house. It was an old place, worn in a way that made it seem older than it was. The walls retained the sun’s heat long after nightfall, and the windows reflected more light than they let in. To most of her family, it was uncomfortable, impractical, too far removed from everything that mattered.

For Lyn, it was the only place that gave her a sense of stillness.

Her grandmother used to fill that stillness with something else, a presence that was hard to explain and impossible to ignore. She had been a woman of contradictions, praying the rosary every morning with silent devotion while keeping shelves stocked with herbs, candles, and objects that didn’t belong to any church Lyn had ever known. Some called her a santera; others whispered less kindly when they thought no one was listening. Now, she was just a shadow of that woman.

Dementia had slowly consumed her, robbing her of her memories bit by bit until only fragments remained. She would sit by the window for hours, muttering nonsensical words, her gaze lost somewhere beyond the walls of the house. Lyn still sat with her sometimes, not to talk, just to be by her side.

In a way, her grandmother was the only person who had ever looked at her as if she were more than just a fleeting memory.

Behind the house, past a patch of dry grass and a fence that was more leaning than standing, there was a small room attached to the structure as if it were a last-minute addition. At one time it had served some purpose, perhaps as a storage room, but now it had become something entirely different. A place for things no one wanted to deal with. The old shelves sagged under the weight of forgotten books, their spines cracked and faded. Glass jars filled with dried plants and unrecognizable powders lined the walls, their contents long since reduced to fragile remnants. The air was thick with dust and the faint, lingering scent of earth, of something preserved.

Lyn spent most of her time there. Her parents didn’t like it, but they didn’t stop her either. It was easier to leave her alone than to argue about something they didn’t understand.

At first, she had gone there out of curiosity. There was something about the room that made it different from the rest of the house, something that suggested a purpose, even if she couldn’t define it. Over time, that curiosity became a habit. She read whatever she could. Most of it didn’t make much sense: symbols, diagrams, fragments of languages she didn’t recognize, but some things were easier to understand. Astrology, for example; birth charts that mapped the sky at the moment of a person’s birth, suggesting that everything, every trait, every tendency, was already written long before they had the chance to experience it.

She couldn’t fully understand it, but she got the idea.

That there might be a reason why things were the way they were.

The day some women her mother had hired to clean arrived, the house lost what little peace it had left. Strange, loud voices echoed through the hallways, accompanied by the constant sound of footsteps and the pungent smell of cleaning products. Doors opened and closed. Objects were moved. The fragile stillness Lyn had come to rely on was shattered in a matter of minutes. At first she kept her distance, retreating to the edge of the living room, watching as the strangers moved through spaces that had always seemed distant but untouched to her. 

Then she heard one of them mention the storage room at the back.

 — “...And that room in the back?” one of the women asked.

Her mother sighed softly. — “That… I don’t know. There’s just a bunch of old stuff in there. I suppose we’ll have to clean that out, too.”

Lyn spoke before thinking. — “I’ll do it.”

Both women turned to look at her. Her mother frowned slightly, surprised. 

— “‘You?’” 

— “Yes.” Her voice sounded firmer than she expected, —  “I know where everything is. I don’t want anything to get… damaged.” 

There was a pause. A brief moment when it seemed her mother was going to argue. Then she shrugged.

— “Okay... But don’t make a bigger mess, all right?”

— “I won’t.”

That was enough; even if he couldn’t convince his mother 100%, it was enough.

That room seemed to absorb sound; even the faint scrape of wood against the floor quickly faded away, swallowed up by the stillness that permeated every corner. Lyn worked slowly, her sleeves rolled up just enough to keep the dust from sticking to her, her movements careful yet distracted. There was no urgency in what she was doing. No real purpose, beyond the vague expectation that something had to be done.

She moved objects from one place to another, cleaned surfaces that would get dirty again in days, perhaps in hours. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The act itself was enough: something that filled the space between one moment and the next.

Her thoughts wandered, as they often did, toward that familiar, heavy silence. It wasn’t sadness, not in any clear or dramatic sense. It was something flatter. A kind of distance that made everything seem slightly unreal, as if she were living a life that didn’t quite belong to her. Days passed, people talked, things changed, but nothing seemed to fully reach her. Like looking at something through glass.

She paused briefly, resting her hand on the edge of a shelf. “Is this how it’s supposed to feel?” The thought arose and vanished without resistance. There was no answer waiting for her, nor any urgency to find one. Just that same numb awareness, returning to its place.

Lyn exhaled softly and pushed the shelf a little further away from the wall; that was when she heard it. A faint, hollow movement beneath the floor. She stood motionless, pressing her fingers lightly against the wood. For a moment, she thought she’d imagined it: another small distortion, another thing that wasn’t quite real.

Then she pushed again.

The sound returned, this time unmistakable. Frowning, Lyn crouched down, feeling around the floor until she found it: one of the tiles, slightly uneven, with the edge raised just enough to break the pattern. It looked accidental, like something worn down by time, or something disturbed. She pressed it, trying to push it back into place, but instead, it lifted just enough to reveal the darkness beneath. Lyn hesitated, then slowly slid her fingers into the crack and pulled the tile out. The space beneath was shallow, hidden among layers long forgotten; inside was a small wooden box, its surface mottled with patches of mold that spread irregularly along the grain.

It looked old. Older than the room. Older than the house.

Lyn looked at it for a moment before reaching in and pulling it out. It was lighter than she expected, though something about it felt… sturdy. Not physically. Something else. 

She set it on the floor and opened it; inside was a leather pouch, dark, worn, and with edges cracked by the passage of time. It didn’t have the musty smell she’d expected; instead, it smelled dry, preserved, as if time had passed around it rather than through it. 

There was something inside. Lyn reached in and pulled it out: a book and a necklace.

The necklace slid easily into her hand. A thin, frayed string held a small wooden charm, its surface carved with a faded symbol unknown to her. It looked like a tree not like the Tree of Life; it was much more primitive and rustic, but it was undoubtedly a tree… Or at least it looked like something of a tree. The lines were worn, smoothed by time, but they were still deliberate; too precise to be merely decorative. 

She turned it between her fingers, examining it, searching for something familiar. There was nothing; that made it harder to ignore. Then she turned her gaze to the book; in this case, she decided to sit on the cold tile floor before examining it.

The book was heavier, bound in dark leather; its surface was smooth in some places, rough in others, marked by use but not by neglect. It had no title, no markings, nothing to explain its purpose. When Lyn tried to open it, it resisted, just a little. She tightened her grip and pulled harder; the cover gave way.

The pages inside were filled with dense, irregular but careful handwriting, accompanied by small illustrations scattered between the lines. At first glance, it looked like an old journal: notes on mixtures, combinations of herbs, oils, and powders, instructions written with deliberate precision.

It appeared to be the journal of an ancient apothecary or herbalist, or whatever they might have called it in the old days: a witch’s book.

At first, nothing seemed out of place. Lyn turned another page, expecting to find more of the same: measurements, remedies, careful instructions meant to heal, not to harm. And for a while, that was all there was. The handwriting remained steady, the tone methodical, almost monotonous in its precision.

Then, gradually, it changed. The illustrations became more intricate; symbols began to appear in the margins: curved lines, intersecting shapes, patterns unlike anything she’d seen in her grandmother’s books. The writing itself sharpened, as if the hand writing it had grown more confident, more deliberate with each line.

And then she saw the word.

Ritual.

Lyn’s eyes lingered on it for a moment, her fingers resting gently on the page. Below, there were more. They weren’t remedies, they weren’t cures, they were instructions.

The names were written with a care that bordered on veneration. Every page containing a name had drawings of symbols, plants, minerals, rods, and what appeared to be various creatures.Each name was followed by detailed procedures; the arrangement of objects, specific times, precise conditions that had to be met without deviation: māmōnā, ba’al zəḇūḇ, livyāṯān, and others she couldn’t pronounce. Their forms were unfamiliar to her, almost heavy on the page, as if the ink itself resisted holding them.

A cold unease settled in her chest. For a moment, Lyn thought of closing the book, of putting it back in the box, sealing it beneath the floor where it had been hidden for so long. That would have been the sensible thing to do.

Instead, she kept reading.

There were notes scattered among the instructions, observations, corrections, and something else. “They are not as described; they do not act without reason; under the right conditions, they will listen.” Lyn frowned slightly as she leaned in closer, focusing her attention and leaving the rest of the room behind.

The author described them not as monsters, but as beings; dangerous, yes, but not irrational. There was a strange familiarity in the way he described them, as if they were governed by rules not unlike those of people.

More notes followed, mentions of conversations, of lords, masters, kings of entire legions, of agreements, of pacts.

The price is often exaggerated; princes demand a lot. But, at least with the author of this journal, they seemed able to negotiate. Perhaps out of respect, or perhaps out of affection.  In any case, Lyn lightly pressed the edge of the page.

Princes.

The word carried weight, even without context. Something superior. Something distant. Something that made the rituals before her feel smaller… more accessible, even safer.

She couldn’t stop, not because some inexplicable supernatural force was preventing her, but because, for the first time in a long while, something had completely captured her attention.

 When she finally looked up, it wasn’t by choice; it was because something in the silence had changed. The room felt colder, the floor beneath her legs had gone numb long ago, and a dull ache was settling into her muscles. Her back protested as she moved slightly, and stiffness suddenly washed over her. Lyn blinked, her gaze unfocused for a moment as the world outside the book came back to her.

The house.

The faint, distant sounds of movement.

The silence.

 And beneath it all… That same weight settled upon her again without warning, familiar and absolute, pressing down on her from all sides as if nothing had changed. She pressed her fingers lightly against the page; for a brief moment, she considered closing the book, putting it away, letting the sensation pass as it always did, but instead, she looked down again. She looked at the names, the instructions, the possibility they implied.

 “What if it works?”

The thought came easily, too easily. There was no fear in it, no hesitation, only a calm, steady curiosity, sharper now than before.

“What do I have to lose?”

The question didn’t sound dramatic; it carried no weight; it felt… objective. If it failed, nothing would change. If it worked…

 Lyn exhaled slowly, her gaze lingering on the page for a moment longer before she closed the book, her fingers resting on the worn leather cover. And in that moment, the idea no longer seemed distant; it felt possible.

And that was enough; even if it worked and she died, it was enough.

For the umpteenth time, Lyn turned her gaze to the mysterious book in her hands and flipped through its pages until she found the one that caught her attention the most. That page contained what the author called “the simplest and least risky ritual” of them all. A ritual capable of summoning and attracting the second prince of the underworld king’s court: “Māmōnā,” the god of greed and the riches of the new world. Capable of leading all of humanity to ruin in its endless pursuit of wealth, this noble, according to the author, is the most docile among his brothers and the one who reached out to the author of the journal on more than one occasion.

This would be the demon Lyn would attempt to summon, the demon that could completely change her life, and clearly she would pay any price to fulfill that wish.

"Seek the Lord while he may be found; call on him while he is near. Let the wicked forsake their ways and the unrighteous their thoughts. Let them turn to the Lord, and he will have mercy on them, and to our God, for he will freely pardon."

— Isaiah 55:6-7.

i've decided to post the first chapters of my om!fanfic (which is mainly in ao3) here too because it's part of my tumblr content i've been part of the obey me fandom since the first game's release in 2019. i've been creating this AU since mid-2020 and have tried to keep it interesting for my own entertainment, and now i've decided to share it. here you'll follow my OC, a female heroine who, due to her inner darkness and loneliness, ends up in hell... literally. this story incorporates elements familiar to the magical girl genre while trying to maintain the essence of the Obey Me characters (with some variations to make them more demonic)

finally, i want to mention that english isn't my first language, so if anything sounds strange, i sincerely apologize. i'll do my best to make it as enjoyable as possible. <3

[ummmlife]

honestly i dont wanna write about jujutsu nanami anymore. remembering that he died still affects me to this day (┬┬﹏┬┬) i just wanna write about regular civilian salaryman kento nanami *sigh*

[ummmlife]

hello om! fandom, i humbly come to present you my (finally published but still in progress) om! fanfic based on an au that diverges from canon (it has an oc but i promise i'm keeping the og characters as they canon as possible) that i've been working on since mid-2020. the whole wokr is, theory, complete and i just need to write it down into chapters. if you'd like to read it, i hope you enjoy it <3

[ummmlife]

OMG PLEASE COME BACK!

Have you seen the new illustrations of Nanami in the phantom parade game????

I'M FINALLY BACK AAAAA honestly when i saw those cards (i think they're cards?? idk i've never played phanpara) i had to excuse myself to go to the restroom in the middle of a meeting with a client at work. i just couldn't stand myself i love my husband so much, i love him

[ummmlife]

i finally managed to recover my account 😭 my phone died on halloween last year and i lost access to my tumblr until now!!! anyone there (who remembers me)????

[ummmlife]

just watched the chainsaw man movie and

oh my fucking god, i can't even make a single coherent sentence to express everything i felt during and feel after watching it

just

yes

[ummmlife]

from the bottom of my heart and my soul:

i hate every single one of you people who got to watch reze movie already or is going to watch it soon

THE FUCKING MOVIE WILL PREMIERE IN MY COUNTRY IN ONE MONTH

ONE WHOLE MONTH 💔

[ummmlife]

all nanaemo stage play actor's pictures pt. 2

[ummmlife]

all nanaemo stage play actor's pictures pt. 1

[ummmlife]

realistic nanami's d analysis

warnings! ; nsfw (kinda) , headcanons (obviously) ; educational 🤓☝️

as a nanamin simp i've been reading and hearing about nanami's 9 inches manhood all over the internet and, honestly?, that doesn't sound accurate to me

something that happens to people who like nanami a lot is that they portrait him like a white man and, consciously or unconsciously, i feel that the 9 inch thing has been motivated by that current of thoughts

that's why i've decided to make a long research about the male genitalia comparing the average sizes all over the world, asia and finally, japan

of course, i did not give him a micro penis, but please don't expect the king cobra between this man's legs

i stress again the fact that this is my opinion and if you don't agree... well, there's not much i can do about it :)

context ;

for us humans, diversity comes in different styles of things, perhaps no topic elicits as much curiosity, speculation, and even anxiety as the dimensions of the male reproductive organ: the penis. from ancient myths to contemporary media portrayals, societal fascination with penile size permeates cultural narratives worldwide. however, amidst the myriad myths and misconceptions lies a scientific inquiry into the fascinating variations of penile size across different populations and ethnicities.

so, repeat after me: not every hot man has a 9 inches long d– / jk

in a comprehensive analysis conducted in 2020, researchers examined studies on penis size and determined that the typical length of an erect penis ranges from approximately 12.9 cm( 5.1 inches) to 13.9 cm (5.5 inches.) They suggested that the actual average tends to lean towards the lower end of this spectrum. (King, 2020)¹.

Another study indicated that the length for a flaccid penis was 9.16 cm (3.61 inches). (Veale et al., 2015)².

and that is what i’m basing my analysis (headcanons) on.

let's take a look on this chart (of dubious origin):

in this one we can see and compare the different sizes of the male reproductive system in different countries. if we look at it, japan has an average of 13.56 cm (5.3 inches).

investigating more in detail the male population, i managed to find that the average penis size in japan is about: 13.56 centimeters (5.33 inches), with a diameter of 3.53 cm (1.39 inches) at the head and 3.19 cm (1.25 inches) at the shaft when it's erect. (日本人の平均ペニスサイズが明らかに! | TENGA FITTING(テンガフィッティング), n.d.)³

knowing all of this, let's get into the heart of the matter that concerns us today.

his size ;

i'm using using this essay for a reference (since my humble self does not own a peewee) (男性器の大きさについて|大東製薬工業株式会社, n.d.)⁴.

to keep it simple:

erected :

length; 13.73 cm (5.4 inches) ~ 15.37 cm (6 inches)

girth; 11.73 cm (4.6 inches) ~ 12.73 cm (5 inches)

flaccid :

length; 9.73 cm (3.8 inches)

girth; 9.37 cm (3.6 inches)

the shape ;

i imagine it with a base a bit wider than the head (it gives fat dick ohohoho) and slightly curved up, the foreskin is still there and the skin is more pigmented there (#967a68). i can imagine a notorious vein coming from the base to the tip from below. his glans is paler than the shaft (#aa8483) and when it gets stimulated it turns into a #c96c60 shade.

nuts! ;

how do i say this?

they look heavy, somehow. also notoriously asymmetrical, the left one hangs lower.

is the carpet matching the curtains? ;

no, and this is my personal headcanon since I like the idea of ​​kento bleaching his hair since high school, from dark brown to his blonde tone he all see now. but if you don't think the same, it's alright, it doesn't affect anything.

he's hairy, everywhere, yes i'm also talking about his butthole!!

but he like to keep the hair trimmed and nice, not a crazy jungle of hair, since he also like to keep his face clean. it is a routine procedure that he does once every one or two months, always using an electric shaver.

so if you plan to give him head (or eat his ass, idk and idc), please expect to feel his pubic hair tickling your nose

+ his buns ;

his glorious glutes are made of 90% pure muscle, it also look squared shaped.

amazing, wow.

sources ↓

anyway, you don't have to take everything i wrote literally or personally, nanami is a fictional character and it doesn't really matter what his penis should or could look like. if you imagine him differently, great, i do too lol, my brain is never going to imagine him with some exact measurements or shape

hope you enjoyed my little essay on nanaken's penis :) it's the first time in my life that i talk so much about cocks lol

bibliography ;

1. King, B. M. (2020). Average-Size Erect Penis: Fiction, Fact, and the need for Counseling. Journal of Sex & Marital Therapy, 47(1), 80–89. https://doi.org/10.1080/0092623x.2020.1787279

2. Veale, D., Miles, S., Bramley, S., Muir, G., & Hodsoll, J. (2015). Am I normal? A systematic review and construction of nomograms for flaccid and erect penis length and circumference in up to 15 521 men. BJU International, 115(6), 978–986. https://doi.org/10.1111/bju.13010

3. 日本人の平均ペニスサイズが明らかに! | TENGA FITTING(テンガフィッティング). (n.d.). 日本人の平均ペニスサイズが明らかに！ | TENGA FITTING（テンガフィッティング）. https://www.tenga.co.jp/special/fitting2012/

4. 男性器の大きさについて|大東製薬工業株式会社. (n.d.). Copyright (C) 2015 更年期障害・勃起不全・早漏のOTC医薬品は大東製薬工 All Rights Reserved. https://daito-p.co.jp/essay/penil_size.html

[ummmlife]

what kind of hallucinogenic drug was i on when i wrote this?🧍‍♀️

[ummmlife]

girlhusband & malewife

[ummmlife]

canon btw

[ummmlife]

saw this meme on yumetwt and decided to nanamify it

[ummmlife]

nanamin nation hello???? omfg!! loooookkk!!!!!

I NEED TO PLAY IT NOW