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starfirewildheart · 8 months

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Chapter 5

The Wolf and the Flame

Summary: Geralt had just found Ciri and was headed to Kaer Morhen when something drew him into the woods. He found a woman near death and things changed for them all. (I suck at summaries just read please!) Yennefer is bad in the start of this but she and Geralt work on their friendship. Eskel is a dick at first but there is a reason and it works out. Will have a happy ending. Ciri is younger here than in the netflix show. She is about 12.

Warnings: abuse history, injuries, hurt comfort, no one under 18 to be safe, will add when I need to

Words: 3,266

Yennefer cursed under her breath as she heard Geralt returning faster than she’d expected. He’d gone into the woods while Ciri and Jaskier were packing their things on the horses. She had to do this now if it was going to happen and she knew it. She’d helped Naurel to her feet with the guise of leading her to the horses just before she threw down the vial that caused the portal to flicker open.

“YENNEFER!” Geralt yelled when he saw the air ripple and wave to life. He ran toward it diving just in time to grab Naurel and pull her back causing all of them to topple to the ground. He rolled to his feet as did Yennefer and she tried to bolt toward the portal. It faded just before she reached it.

“Fuck,” she tried to figure out what to do. Had he seen her open the portal? If he hadn’t seen her do it then maybe she could claim surprise. If he had seen her could she make it to Ciri in time to take her instead since Geralt had his hands on Naurel? She only had one more potion to open a portal and she had to make it count. Movement caught her attention and Geralt’s as they both turned to see six Kikimora running toward them from where the portal had been.

“Fuck,” Geralt grabbed an elixir from the holster on his thigh and drank it as he pulled his sword from his back. He stopped one of them from slicing into Naurel by cutting its front legs off then stabbing it through the head. “Stand with Ciri and Jaskier,” he ordered. She ran to them and they all huddled together near the horses.

His sword arced through the air sending black blood flying as he fought against the monsters. They were fast and vicious as they encircled him instinctively knowing if they took out the biggest threat together the humans would be no match for them.

“Geralt!” Ciri gasped as one Kikimora stabbed into his thigh as another sliced across his side while he cut the head off of another with his sword. She hid her face in Naurel’s shoulder.

Naurel saw them spitting venom at the witcher and could see the smoke rising from his skin as it was melting away. Her hand was searching Geralt’s saddlebags while keeping her eyes on the battle trying to find anything that would help. By the time her hand closed around the handle of a dagger Geralt had killed four of the six creatures but he was fading from blood loss and the acid-like venom they had spit on him. “Jaskier, take Ciri,” she said, shoving the girl to the bard. Naurel stepped carefully toward Geralt and the two remaining Kikkimora’s just as the witcher hit his knees. “Hey!” she yelled to get their attention as she sliced across her arm.

“No!” Geralt’s voice was different, more dangerous and demanding with the elixir. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She held up her hand letting the blood flow freely knowing it would drive them crazy. Everything after that happened so quickly it was a blur. Geralt was on his feet right behind them swinging his sword and cutting them to pieces. He cut one’s head from its body and with a huge leap through the air he stabbed the other one from the top of the head through, driving his sword in the ground with a squish.

Geralt saw another portal open to his right and four people running toward them. On instinct, he raised his blade to the first one but stopped short of killing him. “You look like day-old shit,” he rasped before dropping his weapon to the ground and leaning heavily on Naurel while grasping the bleeding gash on her arm.

Eskel was shocked when he saw Geralt was the one at the site of the attack, Their amulets had all alerted them to the presence of monsters nearby, and with Triss at the keep, she offered to portal them so they didn’t have to ride in the snow. He hadn’t expected to see his brother at the other end.

“What the fuck happened here?” Lambert asked as he saw the four humans and the six dead Kikkimoras.

“A portal opened and released the kikimora,” Geralt explained. “Nothing else came through though,” his confusion was clear. “Did you see anything?” he looked at Naurel.

She wasn’t sure what happened. It looked to her that Yennefer used a potion to open a portal but why would she do that? She was a witch, she didn’t need a potion for that. “I..I don’t know. I just saw Yennefer drop a potion and then everything went wavy.

All eyes turned to Yennefer who thought up a lie quickly. “I had made a potion for Naurel and was about to give it to her when the portal opened. I didn’t see anything come through besides the creatures. I’m sorry I wasn’t of more help but I was trying to get her to safety.” Geralt could hear her heart racing but he didn’t question her. She breathed a sigh of relief.

It was decided that Geralt, Naurel, Ciri, Yennefer, and Jaskier would accompany Triss and Eskel to Kaer Morhen through a portal while Lambert and Cohen brought the horses up the path. It ensured that the keeps location remained a secret and also that Geralt and his friend could be treated quicker.

When they stepped out of the portal he put his arms around Ciri and Naurel ushering them into the great hall with Yen and Jaskier following with Eskel. “Look who we found,” Eskel shouted at the other witchers.

“We thought you were dead,” one of them yelled.

“Not yet,” he grinned as they all moved to embrace their brother. Naurel and Ciri smiled as they watched them interact.

“Wolf?”

Geralt turned toward the newest voice. “Vesimer,” he hugged the old witcher then introduced his companions.

“Damn three women and a bard,” one of his brothers smirked. “You must be in hell.” Naurel grinned and shook her head at their banter before allowing Triss to guide her to a seat at one of the tables.

Once greetings were shared and everyone started drinking and telling stories Geralt sent Ciri and Jaskier off in search of rooms and Triss, Vesimer, Geralt, and Naurel all moved to the laboratory. Naurel insisted that Geralt be looked over too after all of the venom and he smiled. “I’m a witcher. I will heal on my own.”

She wasn’t happy about it but she relented and let Triss expose her wounds. Vesimer stepped forward but stopped, “May I?” she nodded her consent, grateful he’d asked before touching her. After much looking and touching, even drawing blood for testing she was on edge but covered in salves and most of her wounds were healed by Triss. She wasn’t hurting nearly as much now.

Knowing that she’d agreed to come here to help Geralt figure out why he was so drawn to her she knew she had to come clean now. She looked at him, “You’re sure they can be trusted?” After all the things that had happened she was terrified of their reaction and them turing her over to the enemy again.

“Yes,” he assured her as he slipped his arm around her for support.

Vesimer looked at them both in question but gave her the time she needed to find her words. “I.. I’m not sure where to start to be honest. I was a slave in Centra all my life, sold when I was three, and just traded around to a few families. There was nothing about my life that seemed important at all. It was really boring, to be honest, until the day I was sent to the market to buy a sweet cake for the master's child’s birthday. You see his mother didn’t like to cook and she feared that he was already too reliant on me so if I made him a birthday cake that it would make him look to me more than her,” she knew she was babbling but couldn’t stop herself.

“I went to the market after lunch and bought a sweet cake and a wooden soldier that my master wanted to give him as a present. As I was walking from one merchant to another there was a group of guardsmen wandering around and one of them made a crude comment to me. I ignored him and finished the shopping but they were waiting for me as I left.” A shiver wracked her body at the memory and Geralt rubbed her back soothingly. “They cornered me and kept trying to touch me making lewd comments about things they wanted to do to me or me to do to them. I tried to walk past again and one of them grabbed my breast. I..I slapped him,” her voice wavered and tears spilled down her face. She looked at Geralt with wide, pleading eyes as she tried to explain her actions like she was going to be punished for them again. “It was stupid I know but I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I felt my hand connect with his cheek.”

His heart broke at the fear that was coming off of her. Geralt hugged her close to him rockinging her gently to try and sooth her. When she was finally able to speak through the sobs she started again. “They knocked me down in the mud and started hitting and kicking me as they ripped at my dress. That’s when I heard someone yell he’d been robbed and he came running over to the guard. They spoke in whispers and suddenly they were going through my basket. I just sat there with my knees pulled to my chest trying to cover myself where they’d ripped my dress while they dumped everything on the ground.” She looked up at Geralt with tear-filled eyes, “I watched him drop the bracelet onto the pile of things. He took it from his pocket and just dropped it. The guard saw him do it but he arrested me anyway.”

He wanted to go kill the guardsmen but he was pretty sure they were likely already dead. “Is that where you were tortured?”

“N..no. The man who accused me of stealing, the one who put the bracelet in my things, He requested I be turned over to him as punishment. Queen Calanthe agreed to his request and I was taken to his carriage and bound to it.”

“Do you know his name?” Vesimer asked.

“No. No one ever said his name in my presents. I don’t know how long he held me captive and tortured me. He would starve me until I was too weak to fight back then he would do all sorts of medical experiments,” she shivered at the memory. “When he got tired of cutting things and breaking my bones he moved to magic.” She looked at Triss, “It was nothing like you do. It felt,” she paused and searched for the proper words. “It felt wrong, like it was fueled by hate but I had never even seen the man. What did I do to make him hate me?” she questioned.

“Some people are just evil, girl,” Vesimer told her. “We witchers were made to fight monsters and protect humans but when they created us they didn’t consider that some humans were monsters.”

“It blurred the lines of what we do that’s for sure,” Geralt agreed.

She rested her head on his shoulder. All the emotions were draining her energy. “He cast all sorts of spells, forced potions into me, performed rituals, injections” she shook her head. “I don’t know what he did to me but I felt as if all the warmth from my body was turned to ice. I’ve never been warm since. I’m always weak and tired and it takes all my energy to just walk sometimes.”

Triss put some water in a cup and handed it to Naurel. She accepted it gratefully but her hands were shaking so bad that Geralt had to help her steady it to take a drink. Not realizing how thirsty she’d been till the cool liquid hit her tongue she drank it down quickly then blushed when she realized she’d gulped it down. “Were you always on the move like when Geralt found you,” Triss asked.

“No, I was kept in a dungeon most of the time. I don’t know why they moved me but one night, I guess it was night, I had no way of seeing the sky, they moved me and I was whisked away in some traveling camp. It was on the third day of being kept in the camp that the attack happened.”

“Do you know who attacked?” Vesimer asked.

Naurel hesitated unsure if she should tell them. She felt Geralt lift her chin and turn her head so that he was looking into her eyes. “Please, we need to know. You can trust us.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just,” she sighed. “It’s so unbelievable.”

“More than mutant warriors who fight monsters?” he smiled at her trying to ease her tension.

“He was about to kill me. I guess with everything going on it was too much trouble to keep experimenting on me. Just as he held the blade high to stab me in the chest, howls ripped through their air and he froze. I heard the soldiers screaming and then yipping and barking. The mage fled the tent to see what was happening and I forced myself to roll off the table and crawled out of the tent. I don’t know if I was just trying to see what was happening or hoping he’d come to finish what he’d started but I did not expect what happened next.”

“A wolf pack, three grays, and one huge white wolf had killed all of them except the mage. I saw him open a portal and flee. I lay on the ground unable to run as the white wolf stalked toward me. He stood over me and I was positive he was going to kill me but instead, he laid down and wrapped himself around me. We stayed like that for three days. He kept me warm and tried to feed me by dropping random chunks of the guards on me and when I refused he started to get upset. On the third day, he stood over me and tried to pour a mouth full of blood into my mouth. I curled up so that he missed and he gave a growl that terrified me before he howled loudly. It wasn’t long after that, maybe ten minutes, before you arrived.” She took a shaky breath, it felt better to get it out. Not having to hide her crazy meant that they could lock her away and be done with it.

They were all three staring at her but it was Vesimer who spoke first. “Geralt’s guide is a white wolf.”

“Guide?” she asked.

“When you become a witcher you go through different trials,” Geralt explained. “Some witchers find spirit animals that help guide them on their tests. My animal was a white wolf.”

“It’s a rare thing for a witcher to have a spirit guide, it’s one of a few things that makes Geralt special among us. Geralt was destined for something more and we’ve always known that but we just don’t know what it is. It seems that you are destined to be a part of that too,” Vesimer told her.

“I noticed something when I met you but I didn’t think anything of it until now,” Triss said. “The way the two of you interact is different. He says something and you lower your head and bare your neck to him, other times you look like you want to argue but you can’t.”

Naurel’s face burned red as she tried to hide behind her hair. “He has this rumbling growl that makes me listen even when I don’t want to and this scent that will almost make me enthralled.” There, now her embarrassment was complete.

“I find myself drawn to her, even before I knew her,” Geralt continued. “I can’t stand for her to be out of my sight and I’m so protective of her that sometimes even friends touching her causes a reaction. She smells,” his eyes close, “like safety and home.” He looked at her, his pupils blown wide, “I fight the urge to mark her every second.”

Vesimer and Triss share a look before the sorceress goes to retrieve a book. “Geralt was injected with a mutagen that had wolf DNA in it. He picked up the aspects of the wolf,” Triss said as she handed them the book. “He is an alpha, the strongest in his pack and you my dear seem his mate.”

“What? No,” Naurel shook her head. “He already has a mate. He’s bound to Yennefer, not me. I came here so that one of you could free me from whatever magic binds us and he can be free of me.”

“I’m not bound to Yennefer,” Geralt growled.

“Did you not wish..” she argued but he cut her off.

“I made a fucking wish that our deaths be bound. She was trying to kill herself by becoming host to the Djinn. It's the only reason she agreed to help Jaskier to begin with. She thought he was the one with the wishes. When I came for him she was trying to capture the Djinn in her body, to become the vessel. A Djinn can not kill its master so I used the last wish to bind our deaths.”

“But you… after,” Naurel waved her hands as if to signify what she wasn’t saying.

“I couldn’t fucking sleep!” he roared like that explained everything. “I was tense and frustrated,” he growled.

“You slept with Yennefer too?” Triss asked, petulantly.

“You whore,” Naurel snapped. Triss gasped but then saw the woman was looking at Geralt and not her. “I guess you have a thing for witches!” She stood and started to walk out but he grabbed her arm and stopped her.

Geralt glared at Vesimer who was not even attempting to hide his laughter before turning back to Naurel. “That was years ago before I even knew who you were! You can’t judge me on my past.”

She really wanted to argue but realized he was right and it made her sort of angry because he was hers. Wait, where had that thought come from? “Fine but what are you going to do about Yennefer? She thinks you are mates.”

“I will talk with her,” he promises as he pulls her close and breathes in her scent.

Wolf and flame tag list

@kneelforloki

@shellyshellshell

@warriormirkwood

Wolf and flame tag list

#witcher fanfiction #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill characters

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mzminola · 2 years

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Love Preboot Jason Todd being a narrative vehicle for the discussions of:

1. what vigilantism entails, the lines around different levels and kinds of violence, what’s the overlap between the Bats and the organized crime they’re up against, etc.

2. the ethics of having child sidekicks.

Like...with #1, the no-kill rule is vital and shouldn’t go away, but when writing normal humans fighting other normal humans, instead of metahumans punching robots or monsters, on a sliding scale of realism (yay different titles in same universe) asking “Should we deliberately kill?” leads to the question of “Should we be using violence that could kill?”

Robin 1993, aimed at a younger audience, asks “Should we be doing this at all?” when Tim causes the death of Young El; the other teen wouldn’t have died if Robin hadn’t chased him. It wasn’t a “fight that went wrong”, it was Tim giving chase and Young El fleeing into a structurally unsound building. The death causes Tim to re-examine if he’s doing the right thing as Robin.

Bruce Wayne/Batman is presented as hypercompetent most of the time, so his titles don’t lend as well to that kind of arc. Enter Jason Todd in Under the Red Hood, where Jason shoves questions about Batman’s ethical stances into Bruce and the readers’ face again and again and again.

A comic aimed at little kids with cartoon violence does not have to worry about the hero punching too hard and killing someone. Comics aimed at older teens and adult do. It can be an editorial decision that no, nobody is gonna die like that, but the characters need to be aware of the possibility (thank you Nightwing beating the Joker to death, for putting that on the table) and if the comics never have them wrestle with the possibility, never have them decide if it’s a risk worth taking, the character ethics feel disappointingly flat.

Jason works really well in this role of saying “Hey, your methods haven’t fixed shit, so why not change them. What’s the big difference between potentially fatal moves and deliberately fatal moves?” because Jason isn’t a random new character, he’s not a pre-existing villain just claiming to be working for good now, he’s Robin.

Jason is someone who was a hero, who did play by all of Batman’s rules, who did and still does desperately want to help people, and he saw how this plays out for the victims by being one.

Jason’s points can’t be dismissed out of hand. No one can say he doesn’t understand how difficult and complex the Bats’ work is, no one can say he doesn’t understand the stakes.

Which swings us around to #2, child sidekicks, because Jason’s death had two big factors which was one, he’s Batman’s sidekick so the Joker had it out for him specifically, and two, he was a child, which put him in a more vulnerable position than an adult sidekick would be in.

Jason was a fifteen year old kid failed by several parents and directly betrayed by another. A Gotham Rogue who Batman personally locked up multiple times and keeps escaping murdered him.

Jason’s death is on Bruce’s hands as much as it is on Gotham’s corruption.

If we take the interpretation* that Jason died again at the end of Under the Red Hood and went through further resurrections, that drives home the point that Bruce’s methods are lethally flawed.

Because Bruce fucking kills his son directly this time.

Jason sets up the confrontation, Jason arranges a no-win scenario where he insists that the only way to save Joker’s life is to end Jason’s (though he’d prefer his dad to kill his murderer for him) and Bruce tries what he thinks will get around it. Bruce throws a batarang at Jason’s gun hand, but the angle is wrong and it slices open Jason’s neck. He’s last seen curled up in a pool of his own blood right before being caught in the middle of an explosion.

This is the big ethical Bat dilemma written out in a very close, personal moment. If no one stops him, Jason is going to kill the Joker. There’s no back-up coming. Shit is way too personal for de-escalation to work. Bruce has spent years making violence into his primary tool. The only way he can stop a murder from happening in front of him is to physically hurt Jason.

So Bruce does. And because he’s a normal human with no powers, because years of training isn’t magic, it goes wrong and his son dies. He kills his son.

Jason has spent this arc insisting that Bruce’s methods don’t fucking WORK.

If Bruce had hit his hand, if like so many other Batman stories he Finds The Third Option, it would be a simple boring rebuttal of “Yes they do!”

Instead we get a batarang to the neck, and the question shifts from crossing specific lines of violence to “Is this worth it? Is the risk worth it?”

Because it was never a choice between “do nothing & someone dies” or “do something & everyone lives” it was always, always, a choice between “do nothing & someone dies” or “do something & risk killing someone yourself.”

Gotham’s justice system and city government is corrupt, there’s a fuckton of mafias, a growing number of costumed villains, and if everyone just keeps their heads down not only will things never get better, they’ll get worse.

The Bats do a lot of non-violent work; they do forensics, witness interviews, break into places for evidence, wiretapping, etc. They’re detectives. But they also, because this is a combination of noir and the caped superhero genre, do a lot of violence. They get into physical fights all the dang time.

Which means they’re taking the risk that Bruce did here all of the time.

They all have to ask themselves if that risk of someone dying by their hand is worth it to potentially stop other harm.

Jason driving the narrative to this question makes it as personally painful and impossible to ignore as it can get.

*Joker survived despite also being right on top of the bomb, but he also wasn’t bleeding out, so...

#character death #Jason Todd #Bruce Wayne #Red Hood #Batman #Under the Red Hood #comics meta #the Titans Tower beatdown kinda tried to address the child sidekick thing #but didn't really do it well and dropped the ball a lot #I mean COME ON Stephanie Brown had JUST died and Jason doesn't bring her up?#AT ALL?#DC #Batfam #narrative ghosts #temporary character death

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hamatoclan76 · 3 years

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Rise Splinter isn´t a very good parent and that´s okay.

Look, before someone starts throwing tomatoes i want to clarify something: I like Splinter from Rottmnt and i really like Rise of the Tmnt. People who have followed me for a while know i enjoy the series and i´m sad about it how was cancelled. I also want to say that i don´t think other Splinters are 100% perfect and they have their own issues too.

What i don´t like is how the Rise of the tmnt fandom often overlooks Rise Splinter´s character flaws and pretends that he is a perfect father figure because this is not something supported by both by the narrative and his character growth.

So, what i´m going to do in this post is to examine his character flaws, his role as parent and character arc in the series. The point of this is to bring up this flaws to light, this is not a ¨character critical¨ or whatever you want to call it. It´s supposed to be character analysis, okay?

Let´s start with the short Turtle Tots short:

Link to the short:

https://www.facebook.com/teenagemutantninjaturtles/videos/626074331524980/

This short is when the turtle brothers are still very young. We see that Splinter is trying to train them but he keeps watching a show he likes on TV. This short shows Splinter didn´t care about training his sons enough even when they were younger. He also leaves them with very dangerous weapons they don´t know how to use.

Splinter was already quite neglectful and careless since the start. He spend too much time watching TV rather than training his sons. It would more understandable if he was too busy working with something but here he is only watching a TV series. Later in the short he admits he should have paid more attention to the turtles and isn´t a good Sensei.

I have to say i didn´t like this short too much. I didn´t find funny the jokes of how Splinter ignores his sons for the TV series and leaves every 30 seconds. However, it provides some context for the characters and their relationship.

Now let´s talk about his characterization at the start of the series. (Season 1)

Splinter at the start of the series is usually seen watching TV, whatever is his old movies or shows that he likes. He is rarely seen training the turtles or talking to them. Sometimes their interactions are the boys trying to ask him about something while he is watching his series. Splinter either answers them or ignores them.

He is usually so caught up in his own world that he doesn´t seem to be aware of who are the turtles fighting against until it starts biting them back. The boys usually don´t tell him about their adventures on the surface. One could argue that he assumes that they barely get in trouble and they are just playing.

In the episode ¨The Fast and the Furriest¨ Splinter ¨steals¨ Turtle Tank and takes it for a ride without Donatello´s permision. The turtles go through a lot of trouble to get the Turtle Tank back. By the end of the episode its Donatello, his son,is the one who is putting a punishment on Splinter, who is supposed to be their father, for taking the Tank.

While Donnie getting angry at Splinter is quite funny,this episode shows that Yoshi can be very inmature at times, if not childish. He doesn´t ask his son to allow him use the tank, puts them in danger and is scolded like a child at the end instead of him being the ¨responsible adult figure¨.

Parents being cocky or careless isn´t something very new. There are parents that act as inmature or worse than Yoshi and would never admit they did something wrong. So, i take this episode as one of the examples that Splinter does this kind of things. He isn´t this selfish and reckless all the time, just sometimes.

Another aspect is that Splinter struggles with remember his sons´ names. He calls them by their color bandana instead of their real names. This sometimes can be funny but on the long run it becomes quite disturing,Imo. There is difference between ¨calling your son with an affectionate nickname¨ and ¨not remembering your sons´ name¨. There is a point that this it becomes sad.

The tmnt wiki describes Rise Splinter´s personality as a ¨Extremely flawed (albeit loved) father figure¨. This means that he has tons of flaws but he cares about his family: One clear example is when he helps Raphael with fighting his fear in ¨Mrs. Cuddles¨. He protects the big turtle a few times from the giant puppet monster and they defeat the monster together.

Splinter cares about April O´Neil like she was part of the family too. In episodes like "Always Be Brownies" he is seen hanging out with her and helping her. He also encourages April to believe more in herself since she has tons of doubts in that episode. (Season 2).

Hamato Yoshi / Splinter´s backstory

Lets say that Yoshi didn´t have the best childhood. His biological father was missing and he is not mentioned in the flashbacks. Splinter´s mother, Atsuko, left Yoshi when he was still a kid so she would be able to perform her family duty as protector in the Hamato family.

This terrible loss made Yoshi grow bitter with his Hamato duties and martial arts. He didn´t want anything to do with his family legacy since it was the reason that his mother was forced to left him. He had an argument with his maternal grandfather and sensei, Sho, and decided to use the skills he learned in during his training to become a superstar.

After many shenanigans involving his crush on Big Mama, a very powerful yokai, and Baron Draxum, Hamato Yoshi mutated into a humanoid rat and adopted the turtles, who were about to be used as soldiers by Draxum, like their own sons.

Splinter´s backstory explains a lot of his behaviour in the series: It´s implied his father died/left him, his own mother also left him to perform her duties and he has a very strained relationship with his grandparent. The reason of why he has so many problems when it comes to being a good father it is because he himself lacked good family support. It makes sense that he doesn´t seem to know what he is doing or why he is messy when he is takeing care of the turtles.

Speaking of that, this explains why he isn´t very involved in his sons´ training. Maybe he just doesn´t want them to carry the same burden that he did as a child or just dislikes the idea of training them because it reminds him of bad memories about his grandfather and his mother.

He also watches his old movies since it reminds him of the time he was living his life at his fullest and was doing something he enjoyed. It implies he has his mind stuck in the past, perhaps wishing he could still be human and live like superstar.

Splinter´s Character growth

Like i mentioned, Yoshi wasn´t very interested in training his sons at the start of the series. He was negletful and spent too much time watching his movies... This aspect of his character isn´t ignored.

When the turtles asked him to train him ¨The Evil League of Mutants" he put Lou-Jitsu films for them to watch, this made their sons think he wasn´t taking them seriously and decided to go out on their own. While Splinter´s intention was to show them the basics by them learning the moves from the movies, he came off as he only cared about watching said films to their sons.

After noticing how his sons lack experience and need his help, he begans training them. Splinter gets more involved with his Hamato destiny and starts being more honest to the boys about his past as human and protector.

One episode that´s really worth of mentioning is ¨Turtle-dega Nights: The Ballad of Rat Man¨: Splinter tricks Donatello and Mikey into going to a demolition center since he missed the old days he used to be a champion in the Battle Nexus. Donnie is very hurt when he finds out about this because he really wanted to spend more time with his father. By seeing this Yoshi realizes how his sons would like to do things together with him like hanging out. He apologizes to Donnie and tellshim that he may have lied but it is truth he wanted to spend time with him.

Along with getting more involved in his sons´s lives by teaching them and spending time with them, he lets Mikey hang out with Draxum because Mikey considers him part of the family too. (Draxum created them). He didn´t trust Draxum due to their mutual past but decides to give him a chance for Mikey´s sake.

In conclusion: In Rise of the tmnt, Splinter starts as somewhat a neglectful parent figure, sometimes acting childish and not being the best role model for their sons. Overtime he begins to understand the consequences of not training his family and gets more involved in their lives. He tries to be a responsible father despite he had tons of issues with his own family growing up. While very flawed, he has good intentions and cares deeply about his sons.

#tmnt #teenage muntant ninja turtles #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #Rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #splinter rottmnt #hamato yoshi rottmnt #rise turtles #character analysis #rise fandom #i think i´m going to get flamed for this #anyways if anyones wants to discuss send me ask or DM me

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years

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like a secret in your throat

y’all asked for whump. y’all got whump. title from “Vampires Will Never Hurt You” by my all-time favorite band, My Chemical Romance

whump, hurt/comfort with a happy ending!

tw: manhandling the bard, vampire transformations (side character), non-sexy biting, blood mention, canon typical injuries/violence

---

Geralt looked up from his mug of ale when he realized that Jaskier had stopped playing. Instead, the bard was chatting merrily away with a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark cloak. The hood obscured most of the stranger’s face but Geralt caught the reflective glint of a bead or piece of metal braided into his matted black hair. An instinct tickled at the back of the Witcher’s head but Geralt couldn’t quite place the feeling. Something was wrong about this little tableau but he couldn’t figure out what it was; his medallion wasn’t reacting to anything in particular and Jaskier seemed perfectly happy, lost in conversation with the dark-haired man.

Geralt returned his gaze to his mug and let his mind wander.

Jaskier did seem perfectly happy to be without him on nights like these, when they were back in civilization and the extroverted bard could branch out and meet new people. That was the problem, in Geralt’s opinion.

Lately the Witcher had found himself contemplating what life would be like on the Path if he decided to travel alone again. Winter wasn’t close enough for him to excuse himself and go North, but he’d developed a strange and uncomfortable dependence on the bard that he needed to be weaned away from. It wasn’t healthy for either of them.

It wasn’t safe.

If he grew too close to Jaskier, then…

Wouldn’t that be a weakness? Wouldn’t that be a vulnerability and a dangerous closeness? Geralt couldn’t risk forming a connection like that. He couldn’t allow himself to hope for something so organic and pure to develop between a half-monster and a youthful, bright-eyed bard; Witchers weren’t meant to get nice things. That was not his lot in life.

And yet…

Some mornings, when he only barely cracked his eyes open and used his heightened senses to peek across their campsite, he saw Jaskier looking back at him, a curious glint in those pretty blue irises. Geralt couldn’t pinpoint the emotion the bard’s face held; he was bad at that, and the uncertainty of the younger man’s feelings scared him. He could handle rejection, but acceptance? If Jaskier was as loving and openminded as Geralt thought him to be, it could prove to be a problem. Jaskier was too good for a Witcher. He didn’t deserve to be trapped by a life on the Path, dying too young because he was foolhardy and quick to fall in love.

The Witcher’s introspection came to an abrupt halt when the Jaskier in question appeared beside him, flushed and grinning. “Geralt, dear heart, are you ready to retire for the evening?”

“Are you asking me to bed?” the Witcher smirked, smothering the very real ache in his chest at the thought of curling up next to Jaskier like that. “Or do you need to borrow our room to entertain a guest?”

“Oh, no, I have no plans of that nature.” Jaskier’s already pink face darkened a shade and Geralt’s stomach flipped. “I’m actually rather tired. I was hoping to get some decent sleep tonight before we flung ourselves back into nature tomorrow.”

“Hmm. I’ll be along shortly. Don’t wait up.”

“See you in a bit then, dear heart.”

And Jaskier disappeared up the stairs.

Unfortunately, the Witcher didn’t realize he wasn’t the only one watching Jaskier slip into their rented room with a longing expression on his face.

---

“We need to set up camp for the evening,” Geralt announced, bringing Roach to a stop and sliding gracefully down from the saddle. Jaskier loved the way his Witcher looked when he did that, like some kind of fairytale Prince or knight errant. The way his long, silver-white hair shifted and fluttered against his shoulders in the dusky light made him look more like a fantastical painting than a century-old Witcher; even with his scars and his pallid skin tone.

The unconventionally enchanting sight made ballads stir in the most romantic corners of the bard’s busy mind. Words pooled and shifted behind his eyes, arranging themselves into neat rhyming couplets or quatrains.

Geralt of Rivia, tall and fair,

With golden eyes and silver hair;

Whose glare could even douse the sun,

And send a Gryphon on the run.

The bard barely kept himself from sighing aloud as he removed his pack from across his shoulders and unfolded his bedroll and thin travel blanket. The material felt fragile between his calloused fingertips and he sighed forlornly, “I’m going to need a new blanket soon.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it. And I’ll get Roach some new reins while I’m in town,” the bard waved his hand nonchalantly, as if spending money was no big deal. It really wasn’t, all things considered. They would be able to travel far more comfortably if Geralt would allow them to stop in Novigrad and access his University accounts more often. Alas, Witchers are stubborn creatures. “I see the way they chafe her poor muzzle, Geralt, so don’t argue. If you really insist you can pay me back by letting me write a song about the color of your eyes.”

“My… eyes?”

“They’re rather pretty, dear heart, and I think the world could do with a ballad about how they glow when you turn your face toward the sun.”

Geralt felt the back of his neck grow hot and he glanced away, “Hmm.”

“Well, let me know what you think in the morning. I don’t need an answer right away.”

Geralt finished setting up a decent pile of firewood and brought it to life with an efficient burst of Igni. He glanced across the flames to Jaskier and grunted, “I’m going to catch us some dinner. Make tea.”

“Yes, sir,” Jaskier saluted, smiling. Geralt rolled his eyes, grabbed his crossbow, and disappeared into the darkening treeline. Jaskier began to hum as he set up their tea kettle and filled it with water from the waterskin. The humming turned to quiet singing as he measured out two mugs worth of tea from the sachet of dried leaves.

Singing that was cut off with a sharp, sudden cry.

---

Geralt heard the bard scream once. Only once.

The sound punctuated the air before leaving an uncomfortable, grating silence in its wake.

The Witcher took off towards their campfire without a second thought, allowing his instincts to take over and guide him safely back, the potency of Jaskier’s fear hung thick and sour in the air, growing stronger the closer he came to their clearing. When he burst back into view, chest heaving from the sprint, he widened his eyes at the sight before him:

The cloaked figure from the tavern had Jaskier wrapped in his burly arms. One large, long-fingered hand had immobilized Jaskier’s wrists by pressing them into the dip at the base of the bard’s spine, forcing his elbows out and pressing his chest even tighter against the stranger’s.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt beseechingly through his dark, damp lashes. His mouth opened in a silent cry of confusion and pain when the man tugged at his wrists and forced his arms to bend awkwardly. The bard wriggled and strained against the stranger’s iron grip in an effort to escape but the man only snarled in irritation and jerked him back into place. “Bad bard. Stay put, little thing.”

Geralt took a slow step towards his swords, trying to reassure Jaskier with his expression that: Everything will be okay. I will get you out of this. I will protect you and keep you safe… somehow.

Jaskier needed Geralt to pay attention and protect him from harm.

Geralt had failed.

The Witcher watched with wide, horrified eyes as the hulking man keeping Jaskier captive shifted slowly into a far less humanoid form. The baubles braided into his hair jangled and clinked as his nose elongated and his eyes widened. His arms lengthened to form clawed bat-wings and his face thinned and covered over with a layer of grey fur. Fangs burst forth from his gums and slid over his previously humanesque canines. His voice, which had been rasping odd little sounds in the Witcher’s direction, faded into an terrible shriek.

A Katakan.

A Katakan that had snuck in and out of civilization without Geralt so much as smelling it; one that had Jaskier pinned against its chest, the claws of its unoccupied hand sharp and dangerous as they hovered near the bard’s ribcage, ready to pierce but unwilling to waste precious blood unless absolutely necessary. It screamed again, even more shrilly. “Want him!”

Geralt dove forward and pulled his silver sword from its sheath. He swung it in an elegant arc and narrowed his eyes, “Let him go and I might let you live.”

The Witcher’s words were a lie and they both knew it.

The Katakan twitched its long ears in annoyance and hauled Jaskier even closer. It wrenched his arms painfully and the bard whimpered, blue eyes filling steadily with tears. Geralt’s heart seized wretchedly in his chest and he tried his best to ignore it; he couldn’t let his feelings distract him until Jaskier was safe.

“I want him,” the monster rasped, readjusting the bard in its grip. It turned Jaskier around until he was facing the Witcher, releasing his wrists just long enough to pull his hands around to the front before capturing them again. It grazed its two long fangs against the column of Jaskier’s throat and trilled happily. “He sings so pretty. Talks so sweet. Bet he tastes sweet like he talks.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. “He does have a rather pretty singing voice. I suppose that’s why I can’t have you killing him.”

“But he will sing for me,” the vampire shrugged. It shook Jaskier like a toy and the bard’s tears finally fell. He whimpered again when the vampire leaned close and told him: “Sing, little thing. Let me pull lovely music from your veins.”

Jaskier shivered visibly. He gave a few panting, strangled sobs as he slipped into panic, too frightened to move with the vampire’s fangs so close to his neck. He wanted Geralt to finally swing that stupid sword and get this over with. He wanted to curl up in Geralt’s arms and never leave for the rest of his life. He wanted to be taken to Kaer Morhen and hidden away in safety, fuck his music career and the rest of the world. He wanted Geralt to stay in his presence forever, never letting him out of sight again. He wanted…

Before he could finish his thought there was a sharp, piercing, all-encompassing pain at the juncture where his neck met his shoulder.

A keening wail filled the air once.

The vampire bit down harder, its tongue sliding against the skin of the bard’s neck in an effort to urge the blood to exit faster.

There was another high, piteous cry for help and then...

The world went black.

---

When Jaskier opened his eyes again, the world was even darker than it had been before; mostly because the light from both the moon and their campfire was being blocked out by the broad plane of Geralt’s chest, which Jaskier found himself cradled against almost… lovingly. Above him, he heard the Witcher murmuring: “Jaskier, please. Please wake up, Julek. Come on, bard, I kn-”

“G-Geralt?” he managed to croak. He followed it with a very eloquent, “Hunh?”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher sagged with relief, pressing his forehead against the bard’s and breathing in deeply. He tightened his arms around Jaskier, pulling him even closer as his frown disappeared, “Melitele be blessed, you’re alive!”

“Should I not be?” Jaskier asked. He tried to sit up on his own and winced when a bright burst of pain flared out from his shoulder.

“The Katakan- You were bleeding so much and I-” Geralt was, as always, at a loss for words. Jaskier waited patiently, still feeling drowsy and half-alive, and allowed the Witcher to gather his thoughts. His neck ached and his left arm tingled fiercely every time he tried to flex his hand on that side.

“Did it… Am I a vampire now?” he asked. The absurdity of the question broke Geralt from his confusion.

“No,” the Witcher answered swiftly. “You’re still very mortal-” a hand swept through Jaskier’s hair, calming him further “-And unfortunately still very fragile.”

“Are you going to beat yourself up over this for the next week and somehow twist it around until it’s all your fault?”

“Hmm,” Geralt looked away. Jaskier was still being held so very tenderly in his arms, laid across the Witcher’s lap like some kind of swooning maiden. He rather liked how close he was to Geralt and hoped to stay that way for just a little longer. The Witcher surprised them both by letting a full sentence slip into the air between them, “I don’t like seeing you hurt, Jaskier, especially not when… when I was close enough that I could have prevented it from happening at all.”

“Your medallion didn’t give you any hints about this thing back at the inn when I was talking to him? He seemed completely normal, if a little monosyllabic. I’m used to monosyllabic, anyway,” the bard joked, trying to lighten the mood somewhat. It didn’t work; Geralt lifted his head and stared into the fire, his brow already furrowed as he slipped into his private realm of self-loathing. Jaskier was still laying across his lap, his neck and shoulder giving off pulsing aches with every beat of his heart.

Eventually the Witcher spoke again, his voice low and full of frustration. “Katakans are different, they don’t- they don’t set off my medallion the way other creatures do, and they can disguise themselves as people. They can move and talk like people; you saw it transform.”

“I did,” Jaskier grimaced. “And it wanted me to sing while it drank my blood.”

“You didn’t do very much singing,” the Witcher grumbled. “You screamed twice and fainted. It nearly dropped you.”

“If I remember correctly,” the bard smiled playfully, “Someone said my singing was too pretty for me to die.”

“Hmm.”

“It was you, Geralt. You said that.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier tried to sit up again and nearly passed out from the pain that screamed through the entire left side of his body. “I- Geralt, I-”

“What’s wrong, Julek?” the Witcher asked, adjusting the bard until he was more comfortably enclosed in Geralt’s arms, his back leaning against one of Geralt’s bent legs for support. Geralt’s other leg was straightened out before him and Jaskier let his calves fall atop the Witcher’s thick thighs. They looked like a painting, with Jaskier reclined as he was and Geralt looking at him like that.

“Everything hurts, dear heart. My whole left side feels aflame.”

“It’ll burn like that for a day or so,” Geralt shushed him. “You bled quite a lot, you were bitten, and you hit the ground pretty hard.”

“You didn’t catch me?”

“I was a little busy beheading your attacker and keeping you from becoming a member of the undead,” Geralt scoffed. “Pardon me for not carrying you to safety first.”

“Well since you let me get injured, you have to kiss it better to gain your pardon,” the bard insisted. Geralt’s eyes widened comically and his hand clenched where it was resting on Jaskier’s lower back.

“It’ll- It would hurt if I kissed your wound,” Geralt replied shakily, trying to escape while he still could. Jaskier wasn’t about to let him. Not again.

“Then you’ll just have to kiss my lips instead.”

“Jaskier?”

“Hush, Geralt. I know how you feel about me, and I feel much the same about you. Let’s skip the words bit, because I know that’s not your favorite, and get right to the kissing.”

“Oh, uh...” The Witcher allowed himself to smile. It was a soft, nervous thing but it made his eyes crinkle at the corners and Jaskier felt himself fall even further in love with his darling Geralt. “Alright.”

Geralt cupped the back of Jaskier’s head carefully, tilting his own chin down, and brought their lips together slowly. The bard’s lips were soft and plush and warm beneath his own, giving just slightly but not wilting beneath his touch. It was better than anything he could have imagined. When they pulled apart, Jaskier frowned.

“Was it bad?” Geralt asked automatically, more nervous than he had ever been with another lover.

“No,” Jaskier shook his head. “I just don’t think I’m healed yet. I may require another. Or several more.”

“Well, if the patient thinks it’s necessary,” Geralt grinned, leaning forward again. Jaskier pulled himself up a little to meet him, ignoring the lances of hurt in his arm. “I suppose...”

#geraskier #geraskier ficlet #geraskier fluff #whump and fluff #jaskier whump #katakan #yes i know they can also turn invisible #but that wasn't really gonna help the plot here so sorry #geraskier whump #whump with a happy ending #geraskier whump and fluff #bouncey's endless getting together fics #kissing #first kiss #getting together #jaskier in trouble #wounded jaskier #protective geralt

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vivid-wisp · 4 years

Text

You know how it be suffering from big brainrot being into FNF so I’ve compiled a list of ideas for the characters. This is more so for myself but thought I'd share some of my ideas. Take this as you will, these headcanons are based on educated guesses, actual lore, or just for fun. I also really like explaining my reasoning for some stuff so be ready for that. Long post. :]

Boyfriend / BF

- Is asian specifically Japanese, based on the idea how the dev team like to agree Hatsune Miku is BF’s canon sibling. Can also be asian American.

- Despite his appearance BF is actually somewhat physically strong and capable. If he can’t rap battle someone he’d be down to beat someone up, based on the idea how PA (Phantom Arcade) says he sucks at FromSoftware games and would rather throw down IRL than in video games.

- Him and Pico were exes, but they dated when they were WAY YOUNGER, and this was before when BF or Pico knew how to handle a relationship properly. Pico was the one to call things off. (more on Pico’s section) They may still get kind of flustered around each other.

- For most of his childhood, BF never really felt like he stood out. It leads into the reason why he likes singing since it ironically feels like he's being heard, despite not really liking to talk a lot. He was a very quiet kid back then. He'd always liked singing and rapping, he just wasn't put into a position of intense judgement until meeting GF's father and mother, rockstar and ex-rockstar. Training arc begins.

- BF took courses/majored in music design or sound design in college, but dropped out to spend more time with Girlfriend and practice his musical talent himself seeing as it felt more natural than doing boring classes.

- Despite what people think, BF doesn’t dye his hair. It WAS a different color but a shade, like a lighter blue color when he was younger. (Based on Ninjamuffin/NM's recent AMA answers)

- BF owns a dog, not specific but definitely a large breed of dog that stays at home and is taken care of by his parents. He loves a lot of pets and animals, especially anything blue.

- It’s no surprise BF isn’t the smartest, but this comes from a place of putting on the “bad boy” act and being told he’d never make it anywhere in life so he never tried. BF is really a soft guy who deep down has a good heart and just wants to show his appreciation to the person (GF) who makes him feel okay knowing you don’t have to be the best.

- BF actually CAN speak, but chooses to be selectively mute. More so because he’s not the best when it comes to words, and he’s never felt the need to talk. Don’t expect much because like in Week 6, it’ll likely just be random noises he makes or his signature “beeps!” He still reacts, just with noises. (we ignore the logic of him singing it just sounds like beeps to us the players while everyone in universe perfectly understands) [just saw NM's recent AMA I GODDAMN CALLED IT LET'S GOOOO]

Girlfriend / GF

- GF unsurprisingly, has a very wealthy background and in turn family too. So she’s no stranger to most expensive things. This doesn’t mean she won’t appreciate anything BF gifts her, in fact she’s more than appreciative of anything if it comes from BF her love.

- May or may not be a demon like her parents but she doesn’t want to scare BF, and also has slight appearance anxieties about it so she chooses to hide it by staying in her “human” form. She's self conscious of appearing like a demon, and doesn't want to scare people away just based on her look.

- So yes GF can and will in fact beat you up, a lot more than BF if she really wanted to. Especially if she went into her demon form.

- Also not the brightest, due to her extravagant background she’s been so spoiled to the point where everything is handed to her on a silver plate. Which also means her intelligence. They're both himbo/bimbo dynamic I don’t make the rules sorry.

- Actually really good at singing herself too, she’s a bit more wonky with rapping but she’s still good. Ties into the fact GF is the first to teach you how to rap/sing in the tutorial. If she really wanted to, she would destroy BF in a singing battle.

- Kinda aloof and can be apathetic, but more in the sense of “oh cool" instead of a "not caring" feeling way. Like moving on from something that was most definitely not cool like oh my god does that monster with bloody human teeth have a lemon for a head-

- Absolutely adores the large height difference between her and BF. She loves picking BF up suddenly and swinging him around. It’s cute and funny to her. (BF likes the height difference dynamic too but he'd never admit it)

Pico

- Pico never went to college nor finished, instead he takes up jobs from around the city as a mercenary. He's so skilled to the point it pays well enough he doesn't really need a job. He owns a small apartment.

- He likes spending time when he's not on the job, around BF and GF but this is more so at a distance. He does hang out with them, but don't expect him to show up automatically by their side. Like maybe once a week.

- Despite his original job to kill BF, Pico is very protective of BF and looks out for him albeit distantly. He knows BF can handle himself, but he will risk jumping into a situation if BF needs help. ONLY when he needs help.

- Pico still spends time with Nene and Darnell, but this is more so as an acquaintance thing. They're still friends, but all three of their jobs (as assassin and mercs) make things kind of awkward and distance from one another.

- Pico has a lot of untreated trauma, whether that be PTSD, schizophrenia, OCD, etc, a lot of it is very untreated. While Pico is aware he has some mental health disorders he's not aware of ALL of them. He frankly doesn't care nor does he really feel like dedicating the time to properly help himself, which stems from his upbringing in his childhood, "deal with it" attitude back then. He doesn't think it's a big deal, even though deep down he knows he should seek help. Especially after hanging out with BF and GF who, unsurprisingly, are (relatively) normal in the head unlike his friends Nene and Darnell. His disorders disrupt his everyday life and living routine, he can have a lot of very bad days.

- Pico is a wannabe DJ, he likes to sing and rap but prefers the latter and likes listening to music more rather than doing it itself. When he was a kid he liked BF for his passion for singing and rapping, and admired him in a way.

- BF and Pico went to the same elementary school, and were very much friends. After the events of Pico's School, Pico acted very different than how BF knew him, and somewhere along that path BF and Pico decided to date each other when they were in middle school (at 13-14). This was very much a hasty decision and didn't end well. Pico was the one to break things off due to knowing he couldn't handle the responsibility of another person, especially in a relationship. He had too much on his plate already from the trauma that still haunted him, and also was around the time Pico told BF he would be getting homeschooled instead after many years of decision with Pico's parents. It was best to end things before they'd spiral and get worse.

- While BF was heartbroken, he knew it was for the better even if he was upset for quite a bit. After Pico became homeschooled and left middle school, BF noticeably became more quiet until he'd meet GF near the beginning of high school. Pico and BF tried to keep in contact, but eventually naturally just fell out of touch with each other, both too busy with their own lives now. Pico never really resolved his whole feelings issues, which still show up when he'd meet BF years later again but knows those feelings are best left behind.

- While Pico was very surprised and shocked to see BF again despite being commissioned to kill BF, BF himself was too busy being caught up in seeing an old friend again. Whether that be BF was either too dumb to realize he was being killed or because he was genuinely very happy to see his old friend again, the two had a small reconcile after so many years and decided to rap for old time's sake.

#fnf #friday night funkin #fnf pico #fnf boyfriend #fnf girlfriend #idk how else to tag the rest and I’m too lazy to look it up so those yup #I just thought this list would be fun to make :]#picos school #this is a really long post im so sorry to any poor soul who actually read all of this #also i just read through a lot of NM's answers in his recent AMA and one of them has ruined me dhmu going dark

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failedintsave · 3 years

Text

I have something else for Favorite Character that I may post tonight if I can finish it, but just in case here's OTP!

Get a Hobby

A short drive from Mordhaus, tucked away in a drab, beige strip mall between a busy print shop and a quilting supply stood a small hobby store with only two dedicated parking spaces. The sign named it Valhalla's Gate, which had been sufficient to pique Skwisgaar's curiosity when Toki had asked if he wanted to tag along that afternoon. He was out of modeling glue, and Skwisgaar was just bored enough to need to get out for a while.

Though the shop was modest in size, the plate glass windows out front were anything but, plastered in bright posters depicting hulking barbarian warriors and scantily clad female knights with elven features. Their so-called armor looked ridiculous, Skwisgaar thought as he trailed Toki towards the door, what vital organs could a steel bikini possibly protect? Sexy though, he shrugged. That had to count for something, aesthetic was important.

The clear, tinkling chime of a bell announced their entrance as Toki led the way through the door, waving at the bored cashier and striding with purpose towards the back wall and its rows of tubes and tiny pots hanging from the pegboard. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Skwisgaar opted to meander through the aisles.

Boxes of modeling kits lined the shelves, stacked one atop the next; cars, planes and tanks in shrink wrapped cardboard. He browsed past a modest library of books, their glossy spines emblazoned with 'dungeons' this, and 'monsters' that, manuals and compendiums and indexes. Rounding the end cap brought him to a wall of board games in a prismatic spray of colors.

"You wants I should grabs you one of dese candyland games for baby dildoes?" Skwisgaar called out, the store small enough he was sure Toki could hear him. "Pickle wonts play Scrabble no mores cuz he t'inks we ams cheatingks. Pfff, racist."

No response. Fine, he didn't want to see what Cones of Dunshire was about anyways.

Continuing his wandering route, Skwisgaar followed the sound of voices and peeked around a curtained partition to where a group of school-aged kids sat at a long folding table, monitored by a second, harried-looking employee.

"My Stonehoof Chieftain has trample, so that's still five points to you!"

"You can't use it this turn, it has summoning sickness!"

"Right, sorry, got excited."

That string of words made no sense to him at all, and he withdrew, giving a carousel hung with tiny figures in plastic clamshell packaging a spin as he passed.

The last unexplored aisle appeared to be much like the others, decks of cards and gridded mats rolled up like tubes of wrapping paper. An entire length of shelf was dedicated to clear acrylic drawers full of many-faced dice in an array of materials and finishes. Further matched sets of dice were collected in glass bottles, arranged in neat colorful rows like potions at an apothecary. But the last stretch of the display was what finally caught Skwisgaar's eye.

A handwritten sign on neon orange poster board read "Bestiary: Adventurers Beware!" Beneath the proclamation lay a veritable menagerie of creatures, each formed in painstaking detail but lacking any pigment. He reached past the stony golems and rearing hydras, grabbing the largest figure from the back of the display.

The dragon's mouth was open in a roar, baring fearsome teeth and preparing to belch fire upon any who dare trespass his domain. The leathery wings were unfurled, aloft in an arc, the webbing tipped with bony spines and vast enough to summon hurricane force gusts.

He sensed Toki at his elbow before the younger man spoke, quickly shoving the toy back onto the shelf, knocking a few others onto their sides in his haste.

Toki peeked past him at the display, "Looking at minis?"

"You done? Dis store ams dildoes." Ignoring the question, Skwisgaar jammed his hands back into the pockets of his jeans. "Even de toys am borings, look dey's all plain gray."

"Cuz you gots to paints dem! Dey for tabletop games, you makes dem look however you wants."

"Tch, sound like a wastes of time. Could spends dat better pracksticing."

Humming noncommittally, Toki considered the model, leaning so that his chest pressed against the back of Skwisgaar's arm. He plucked the dragon from among its lessers and dropped it into the wire shopping basket hanging from his wrist. With a quick look in both directions, he craned his neck, planting a tiny, brief peck on Skwisgaar's cheek before moving off towards the register.

"C'mon, I gots some good paints at home you can use. We can makes him look real ferocious." He disappeared around the corner, the punctuated beeps of his purchases being rung up cutting through the quiet of the store.

Skwisgaar couldn't help the small smile that pulled at his lips as he shuffled off in Toki's wake, cheek still tingling. Maybe practice could wait. For today.

#kloktober 2021 #skwisgaar skwigelf #toki wartooth #skwistok #metalocalypse #dethklok

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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years

Text

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.II

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A second chapter for my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang with the wonderful @gen-syz-art as my artist ✨

_________________

When Geralt wakes up in the morning, the sun is already high in the sky.

The bed is wide and comfortable, probably the most comfortable out of all the ones he'd ever slept in. The soft furs are a pleasant warmth against his bare skin and when he opens his eyes, he feels the most rested he'd been in a very long time.

It's long past breakfast and he feels a stab of guilt somewhere in his gut, seeing that he'd promised Julian he was going to join him but as it turned out, he was much more tired than he thought. The long weeks on the Path, the hunt the day before and the wounds on his shoulder have all worn him out, and it's only now that his body had finally caught on.

Geralt stretches with a soft moan, careful not to disturb his shoulder, and turns to his other side, looking around the room with heavy-lidded eyes.

In the warm light of the summer sun, it doesn't feel strange anymore.

The golds and reds of the interior make the room feel comfortable, even though it's a little too much for Geralt's taste. The room feels luxurious and Geralt can't even phantom the cost of the heavy velvet curtains or the paintings in golden frames but yet, it doesn't feel like too much .

It doesn't feel like a bedroom in a castle, where its only real purpose is showing the guests just how rich the host is. It feels like a bedroom of a home that someone loves and decorates accordingly. It just so happened that said home is an enormous mansion.

Geralt counts twelve pillows and cushions on the bed, all of them a deep ruby colour and varying in sizes, and, against his own better judgement, burrows himself deeper into them, his entire body melting into the soft silk sheets.

It's the exact opposite of what he should do, he knows it. He knows that this is not meant for him, that he's not supposed to pass the time in beds like this, burrowed in what probably are the best furs in the entire region, but somewhere deep in his bones, his body still aches with exhaustion and stress, and if he can have this, just once in his life, he's going to take it.

He just doesn't have it in him to deny himself this opportunity.

And Roach, he tells himself, needs a little more rest, too.

The forest behind the giant arc-shaped windows is tranquil, the wind a soft, calming whisper through the treetops, and Geralt doesn't even notice when he falls asleep again, warm and comfortable.

***

The second time he wakes, the sun is at its zenith, so it must be around midday.

Cursing under his breath, Geralt makes himself sit up on the bed and then get out of it completely, though very reluctantly. He'd never really had problems with getting out of bed, even when he was still an adept in Kaer Morhen and had to get up before sunrise every morning, and now this unfamiliar gravity feels strange but not unpleasant.

As he dresses, there is a knock on the door, and when he opens it, there is a tall man waiting in the hallway. Geralt can tell that he is in his fifties but the formal suit and perfect posture make him look younger.

"Master Witcher," he greets. "I hope I have not disturbed you. Master Julian asked me to take you into the dining room once you have woken up."

The majordomo, Geralt thinks.

He nods, saying that he needs a few minutes, and goes back to his armour, tightening all the straps and clasping the buckles, once again feeling a little twist of guilt for not having joined Julian in the morning, as he'd promised. It was plain rude of him, really, and though there weren't a lot of things that Geralt hated more than apologising, he knew he'd going to have to.

After all, there was only so much he could do.

He fixes the swords behind his back and looks around the room just one more time before stepping out of it and closing the door. It's almost upsetting that he'd only got to spend one night in a bed like that.

The majordomo takes him through the corridors and with the warm light streaming through the windows, they don't look ominous anymore, though the witcher still finds them absolutely endless. There are paintings, sculptures and potted plants along the walls, and though Geralt tries not to, he still finds himself looking around a little more than he should.

When they do finally reach the dining room with a big oil painting hung on one of the walls right across from the table, Julian isn't there.

"He must be outside," the butler says, turning around. "If you would follow me, master Witcher."

When the man walks past him, Geralt can feel his medallion hum against his chest but it stops just as abruptly, so he frowns but doesn't pay it much mind.

They take one of what Geralt assumes are many doors to the garden and it's only now that he realises how big it is. What he'd seen last night was but a fraction.

The trees and neatly shaped bushes surround the mansion from all sides, keeping it separated from the forest behind the gates, and it almost feels like a world of its own, independent from the one outside.

Geralt's senses immediately fill with the scent of blooming flowers and ripe fruit, the sound of bird songs and running water somewhere in the distance. A fountain, he decides.

And then, among those sounds, there's Julian's voice.

"Geralt," he smiles, appearing from somewhere behind the corner, a hand over his eyes to protect them from the sun. "I see you've already met Arthur."

"I have," the witcher nods, realising belatedly that he should've asked the majordomo's name himself.

Fuck, he thinks, I am not made for this kind of life.

"I hope you can forgive me for not having joined you for breakfast," he adds and he feels ridiculous , talking this way, but in a place like this, he can't help but feel like he's at court. "As it turns out, fighting off monsters is easier than the gravity of a bed like that."

Julian's smile shines brighter and he laughs, narrowing his eyes at the sun.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I'm glad you've had some proper rest. But I’m afraid I cannot let you go with an empty stomach.”

It’s already past midday and Geralt knows that he should get going if he wants to get to the town he came from with no rush, get his coin and leave for the next one but he also knows that he can’t refuse.

“Come,” Julian says, brushing his hand over Geralt's arm and beckoning him deeper into the garden towards an arbour. “I’ll ask the stableman to get your horse ready while we eat.”

***

Without really realising, Geralt stays for a couple more hours.

Julian asks him about what’s led him to these regions - aside from the contract - and Geralt just… talks.

It’s easy, somehow - talking to him.

It almost feels natural and in the warm light of the day, Geralt doesn’t feel overwhelmed anymore.

He tells Julian about how he was headed to Oxenfurt when he’d heard about the contract that had led him here and then hums in agreement when, after a moment or two, Julian asks if he’s from the School of the Wolf.

“You seem to know the Schools much better than the majority of people I come across on the Path,” Geralt says, very dimly aware of how much time had passed.

Julian just shrugs with one shoulder, a smile on his lips, and gestures towards the library windows with a move of his wrist.

“I’ve read quite a lot about witchers, ever since the Academy,” he explains. “I’ve been friends with a medical student and one of her professors was rather… passionate about mutagens and the Trials. He would tell his students his thoughts on the matter every now and then, and she would then tell them to me, because we used to tell each other everything. I got interested and, before I really knew it, I’ve read everything the library could provide on the subject.”

An academic interest, Geralt thinks, watching the way Julian’s cornflower-blue eyes flick to the medallion on his chest and then back to one of the rose bushes that he’d been using as a distraction point during the entire conversation. When his gaze would linger for a little too long and he would notice, it would immediately snap to the rosebush.

It was almost… pleasant, the way he looked at Geralt with a glint in his eyes.

“And, well,” Julian goes on after a moment, meeting Geralt’s eyes again with an easy, relaxed smile. “My previous witcher guest was rather talkative. He stayed here for a couple of days and, once he learned about my interest, proposed that as a gratitude for my hospitality, he shall answer any questions that I might have about witchers. I took on the opportunity and, somehow, we stayed up until the early hours of the morning, just talking, every day that he was here.”

Geralt chuckles, reluctantly admitting to himself that maybe, if he was to stay for another day or two, they could also stay up and talk well into the night.

But, of course, that is not an option. Roach is well-rested, and his shoulder is bandaged, there are no more reasons for him to stay. After all, he was an uninvited guest, to begin with.

But even so, he almost feels sorry that he has to leave, because Julian just… talks to him.

Like they’re equals, like Geralt isn’t a result of Trials and mutations - a monster hunter, yes - but also a killer. He doubts that there is anyone in the North that has not heard of The Butcher of Blaviken, the white-haired witcher that had caused carnage in the middle of the town.

But Julian doesn’t smell of fear, doesn’t smell of hatred. He talks to him not like Blaviken had never happened, he talks to him like he knows why it happened. Like he knows he had to choose between two wrong options and not choosing at all was more than he could bear.

Don’t get lost in your illusions, Geralt has to tell himself quickly, cutting his train of thought short, He’s just abiding by the rules of hospitality, he doesn't even know about Blaviken.

“What did you say his name was?” he asks, just to drown out his own voice in his head. “Aiden?”

Julian hums an affirmative and it almost feels like that name is familiar to Geralt, but he can’t remember, how. Must’ve heard it somewhere, he decides.

“I’ve seen him a couple more times after that, actually,” Julian says. “Whenever he’s nearby, he comes to visit.”

When Geralt bites his tongue, it’s too late and the question had already been spoken:

“Just a friend?”

Fuck, he thinks, immediately.

Julian’s eyes snap to meet his, slightly widened with surprise and Geralt half-expects anger but the younger man just laughs, open and sweet, like a birdsong.

“Yes, for better or for worse,” he says. “There is another that owns his heart. Or, at least, so I’m told.”

Geralt has no idea on what he’s supposed to say to that so, instead, he chooses to stand up promptly.

“Well,” he says, controlling his voice carefully. “I’m afraid, I must leave now. The alderman must be expecting me.”

Julian stands up, as well, and, thankfully, doesn’t comment on the much more obvious reason for the witcher’s sudden desire to leave. And if he does take Geralt up and down once before stepping out of the arbour and leading his back towards the stables, Geralt admits that he deserves it.

***

“I hope the alderman pays you what he’d promised,” Julian says when they reach the gates, Geralt leading Roach by the reins.

He’s usually good at reading people’s emotions - either by smell or by the look in their eyes - but the shadow that slithers across the blue of Julian’s eyes when he looks at the forest beyond the gates is not something he can identify. His scent changes, too, an undertone of something that Geralt can’t describe in any way other than longing mixing into Julian’s own smell - something warm and almost familiar, like vanilla and dried herbs.

This time Geralt stops himself in time and doesn’t ask.

“Thank you,” he says instead, pulling himself up into the saddle. “For everything. Last night would’ve been a hard one if it wasn’t for you.”

Julian smiles at him, running his hand up and down Roach’s neck which, strangely, she seems to enjoy.

“My pleasure,” he replies and when he takes his hand away, Geralt has to tell himself that the way the tips of his fingers brush over his knee is accidental.

Julian opens the gates and steps aside to let Geralt and Roach through, Lucio and Asra at his side like they have always been there, even though the witcher is sure that they were absent back in the arbour.

“Travel safe,” Julian says when Geralt turns around to look at him and the mansion one last time.

It’s strange, hearing it from anyone other than his brothers or Vesemir, and though he replies with only a carefully guarded nod, it turns something over deep inside his chest.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier big bang #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

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kuiperblog · 4 years

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Feel-good “bad ends”

Movie protagonists are often breaking the rules. This is true even when our protagonists are on the right side of the law: after all, nobody’s perfect. (And if they were, we probably wouldn’t like them as much: after all, it’s hard for a character to have a “growth arc” if they start from a place of perfection. And making occasional mistakes reminds us that, just like us, they’re only human: they’re more relatable.)

But when our protagonists break the rules, it often leads toward one of two different endings: either they get caught and punished for their transgressions (which can make for a feelbad ending), or they get away with it scot-free. Most movies opt for the latter, but it can often feel unsatisfying, because there’s a real sense in which we want to see our protagonists reap the consequences of their actions.

Usually, it’s not a problem for them to suffer the consequences if their transgression is minor. For example, if the main character says something mean to his love interest, he can get a slap in the face -- and having paid for his transgressions, he can then immediately be rewarded with whatever feel-good conclusion the audience is in the mood for.

However, sometimes the protagonist’s transgressions are more dire, and demand more dire consequences. Recently, I’ve found two movies that manage to end with something that is, in an objective sense, a very bad outcome for the main characters, and exactly in proportion to what they deserve for their significant transgressions during the film, yet still allows for a “feel-good” ending. Naming those examples would by itself probably be a spoiler, so...spoilers for an Edgar Wright movie and a Pixar movie (and a Rocky movie) below the fold.

Heist movies are the classic example of a movie formula where the protagonists break a ton of rules and, in the case of a feelgood ending, basically can’t suffer any consequences. Either they get caught and it’s a moral aesop about how crime doesn’t pay, or they get away with it and we’re happy that our characters, who are really quite morally virtuous apart from their tendency to commit acts of robbery, are able to enjoy the spoils they’ve absconded with.

Baby Driver is a movie that I think strikes the perfect balance. In the end, our main character Baby doesn’t get away with his crimes. He’s committed a lot of crimes, and been involved in a lot of robberies. And not the non-violent kind, either!

At the same time, Baby was always “one of the good ones.” He was never the guy who held the gun; he was always the one behind the wheel. In fact, for basically his entire criminal career, he was blackmailed into it. Of course, the lazy method would be for the judge to have pity on him -- he was forced to commit crimes! But that would be ignoring the fact that the entire reason he got blackmailed in the first place is that he happened to steal a car from a criminal kingpin -- Baby was boosting cars well before a villain put a gun to his head and forced him to do it.

But as we see Baby marched to his prison cell, it’s intercut with testimony during his trial. Everything that we could have said in Baby’s defense is articulated by witnesses speaking in his defense:

“He got himself into a bad spot. I was just trying to get him out. I believe the defendant is of good character. He didn't deserve what happened to him.”

“It was the strangest thing. Before he drove off, he threw my purse right at me. Then he actually said ‘I'm sorry.’” (A delightful callback to a comedic moment earlier in the movie: Baby might resort to carjacking when he’s in a pinch, but he is the most polite carjacker you will ever meet. He doesn’t need your valuables; he just needs a getaway vehicle.)

“He made a mistake when he was younger, and it's haunted him ever since. When he tried to get out, he was pressured even harder. It was never his fault. He's got a good heart. Always has. Always will.”

Maybe it’s the fact that Sky Ferreira’s cover of Lionel Richie’s “Easy Like Sunday Morning” is the musical bed for this scene, but there’s something about the scene that feels incredibly cathartic. Baby Driver might be our protagonist, but he’s not innocent in all of this. His actions have consequences, and he gets sentenced to prison time for them.

At the same time, we’re left with the distinct impression that he has a life waiting for him on the outside. At the very least, Deborah is there waiting for him.

We can rest assured that Baby has no desire to return to a life of crime -- he and Deborah will be content with a modest life together. Indeed, a “modest life” is never something that either of them would need to settle for. Having a quiet simple life has been their aspiration for as long as they’ve known each other. Baby ends the movie knowing that he has years of prison time ahead of him, but also knowing that he’s on the start of a path to redemption. It’s enough to put a skip in his step as he walks across the prison yard. (Well, maybe not a literal skip in his step, but at the very least, it’s written on his face: he feels good about the path he’s on.)

Baby Driver came out in 2017, but I’ve already lost count of how many times I’ve watched it. I think the ending is a big part of what keeps me coming back to it. I love this ending -- there’s really nothing like the catharsis of seeing Baby held to account for his actions, while also having his virtues acknowledged. Those virtues might not be enough for him to avoid punishment, but in a way, his virtue its its own reward. It’s a heist movie that ends with the main character getting caught and spending years behind bars, and yet it’s an incredibly feelgood ending that just leaves you satisfied for all the right reasons. (After all, we’ve seen the fate of Baby’s confederates: we know that he could have encountered fates much worse than prison.) There’s really nothing like it.

Well, almost nothing. Last night I finally got around to watching Monsters University.

It’s a fun movie -- the central plot is the classic “underdog sports story.” Mike Wazowski has no talent for scaring -- according to the bigshot jock voiced by Nathan Fillion, the only way someone like Mike could end up working at a place like Monsters Inc is in the mailroom. Of course, because this is a prequel, we know that Mike’s story ends with him and Sulley being best buds together working at the Monsters Inc scream factory, so the odds can’t be that stacked against them, right? After all, the stakes are too high for them to fail: besides the fact that they need to be ready for the events of Monsters Inc, Mike is able to parley for a chance to get into the university’s scare program only because he makes an agreement with the Dean that if he fails, he’ll leave the school. With stakes that high, it seems only inevitable that Mike and Sulley will fulfill the classic underdog trope and lead a team of lovable losers to victory through sheer force of will (and the power of friendship).

Except, as we find out, force of will and the power of friendship aren’t enough to win you the big game when the thing you’re being tested on is talent and athleticism. Mike gets to experience the triumph of victory...but quickly learns that it only happened because Sulley cheated.

Mike and Sulley both bit off more than they could chew, and made a number of poor choices along the way. Sulley, unable to accept loss, cheated to achieve victory. Mike, unable to cope with experiencing loss, breaks into the university’s door department to mope around in the human world -- which is strictly verboten and extremely dangerous.

But...in the course of solving the problem that they’ve created themselves (combining their efforts to escape the human world by using scare techniques the likes of which have never been seen before), we learn that Mike and Sulley do have what it takes. The Dean recognizes it, too. It almost feels like she’s about to offer them leniency. After all, this is a prequel movie: we know that all of this has to end with Mike and Sulley working at Monsters Inc in the scare department, right? That means the Dean has to let them back into the university’s scare program! Surely their acts of daring and bravery show they have what it takes to make it in the Monsters University scare program!

And so it comes as no surprise when, at the end of the third act, the Dean comes out just as they’re about to depart. We see what looks like a smile on her face for the first time in the movie.

Except, of course, it would be crazy if they got off scot-free. Mike broke into the human world, which is about the worst possible thing a monster can do. And if the cheating scandal weren’t enough to sink Sulley, there’s also the fact that he followed Mike into the human world (his intentions were noble as he wanted to save his friend, but still extremely dangerous and just as verboten).

The Dean has nothing but kind things to say to them. But that doesn’t mean she’s going to rescue them from the consequences of their actions.

The two get no leniency. We feel an odd mixture of elation and defeat. On one hand, they got the validation that they craved: the Dean, who thought it was impossible for Mike Wazowski to ever be a scarer, now admits that she may have misjudged him. On the other hand, their lives are ruined. They must now reap what they have sown. What will become of their dreams now? And maybe more importantly, how the heck are we supposed to get from here to the events of the original movie that takes place several years later in the Monsters Inc chronology?

And then, Mike remembers something.

“You know, there is still one way we can work at a scare company. They’re always hiring in the mail room.”

Mike and Sulley start at the absolute bottom rung of the corporate ladder. But there are worse fates than doing blue collar work. After all, the entire theme of the underdog sports story that got us to this point was to show that Mike (and, with Mike’s encouragement, also Sulley) are the kind of monsters who will do whatever it takes to achieve their dreams, simply willing it to happen through sheer enthusiasm and force of will and, of course, the power of friendship. After all, anything can be fun when you’re doing it with your friends. As Sulley says, “This is better than I ever imagined!” They approach the job with an enthusiasm that tells us that they’re on their way up within this company.

The rest of their journey is shown to us in montage:

They’ve got that ambition, baby. This week they’re mopping floors, next week it’s the fries:

Of course, it’s only a matter of time before the company holds “try-outs” for the scare team, and from there, the rest is history. Plus, if the original movie is fresh enough in your mind, you’ll appreciate the easter egg references to the girlfriend that Mike met during this time (and the constant beratement he constantly got over needing to file his paperwork):

Over the course of the movie, they made some good decisions -- mostly the ones relating to the power of friendship and hard work. They also made some bad decisions -- mostly relating to playing fast-and-loose with the rules of their institution. Their college careers come to an unceremonious end.

And yet, even though the movie ends with them getting kicked out of college and spending “the best years of their lives” working blue collar jobs, it feels like an undeniably happy ending for the two of them. They reap exactly what they sow -- for worse, and for better. They don’t get to hide from the consequences of their actions...but that doesn’t mean things have to end on a dour note.

There’s something I really dig about that. It feels exactly like the first Rocky movie: Rocky is an athlete who trained and tried and fought as hard as he could -- and still lost. And yet, though he lost the big boxing match, there’s dignity in his loss. And in the end, he succeeded at the thing that really mattered.

In all three of these movies, it feels as though we as the audience are being set up for a specific happy ending. Of course Baby Driver has to end with the getaway driver getting away. Of course Monsters University has to end with Mike and Sulley graduating from the scare program. Of course Rocky has to end with our main character winning the big climactic boxing match. But in the end, we don’t get these “obvious” endings, because getting them wouldn’t really be a reflection of everything that led up to that point. And yet, we don’t walk away disappointed, because we somehow get something better. These characters may not get the “obvious” reward, the thing that they thought they wanted (and the thing that we, as the audience, thought that we wanted). But they get the things that really matter.

#movies #edgar wright #pixar

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kyber-kisses · 4 years

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I, Alone (Part 3)

Dean Winchester x Reader

Wanna start from the beginning? Here’s the masterlist!

Warnings: cursing, spn level gore, all that angst, THERE IS A TIME JUMP

Summary: two years after the reader erased herself from the Winchesters lives, the brothers continue on as normal. . . Until a hunting accident begins messing with Deans head.

A/n: I’m sorry this took so long! I have major writers block and I haven’t felt motivated at all lately. Anyways I hope y’all enjoy and feedback is appreciated!

The warehouse was almost too silent as Dean and Sam made their way through the massive structure, machetes in hand. After days of searching through almost every abandon building in the town, Dean had a feeling that this had to be the place. The body count for vamp kills in the past week had slowly been rising and they were running out of places to look.

Trying to silent his footfalls besides his brother, the older Winchester peeked around the corner, nodding his head once he knew it was clear. It was only a matter of time until they found the nest. He could feel it in his bones.

“Cmon, where are you, you fanged freaks?”

Almost as if on cue, three hulking figures lunged out of the shadows. The first two gunning for Dean while the third went for Sam.

There was a series of yells and groans as the brothers were tossed back, the strength of the monsters clearly underestimated by both. And before Dean could make his next move he was pinned back against the wall, struggling as he watched Sam fight off his own attacker.

Nothing could ever be easy for them, could it?

“You know- is it just me or did this use to be easier?” Dean huffed, once again attempting to swing at the other advancing vamp as he tried to catch his breath.

“It’s just you.” Sam was able to speak through harsh breathing, successfully wrapping his fingers around the machetes handle once more and severing the head of one of the beasts.

“Are you sure-“ panting, Dean tightened his grip on his own blade, mustering up a burst of strength as he threw the vamp off, separating its head from its shoulders in one clean swipe before it could advance once more. “Because I could have sworn this used to be easier.”

Taking down the second one, the jade eyed hunter momentarily paused, placing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“Maybe you could stop talking and help me!

“Right, right. I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Rushing across the cement floor, Dean quickly yanked the vamp off his struggling brother before sending its head rolling across the floor to join the others.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Letting out a sigh, Dean used the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his face, before extending it to help hoist his brother to his feet. “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m all good. You?”

Dean opened his mouth to respond but was cut short when another vamp came barreling into him from out of nowhere. He heard Sam let out a shout as his body hit the floor, skidding slightly across the cement surface, only to be stopped by the harsh impact of his skull hitting the opposite wall, the sheer force making his teeth clack together.

Luckily Sam raced forward before the monster could do any more damage and like all the other before it’s head was quickly detached from his body. The machete blade swinging trough the air in a deadly arc as it did so. Once the body hit the ground, Sam was racing forward, knees hitting the pavement harshly as a sudden wave of fear washed over him.

“Dean! You okay?”

The hunter let out a grunt, slowly moving to prop his back against the wall, his bloodied hands nursing his head as waves of pain racked his body, stemming from the point of contact. There was definitely a concussion. No doubt about that.

Slowly pushing himself to his feet, Dean wobbled slightly. The throbbing in his head only increasing as he tried to move. He closed his eyes, hand still planted on his forehead as he winced.

“That. . . Was not fun.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes Sam! I’m fine.” Dean grumbled, squatting down to pick up his machete. “Now can we go? Jobs done.”

As Dean started down the now empty hallway, Sam paused to watch him go, concern still heavy on his features. Even if his brother complained he was gonna make Cas check on him just to be sure. He had hit the wall hard- enough to the point where it had the younger Winchester worrying.

*. *. *. *. *. *.

“I told you! I’m fine!” Swatting are the angels hand, the hunter leaned back in his seat.

“Dean, just let me check. Sam said you hit the wall pretty hard.” Cas sighed. “I can understand his concern.”

Whipping his head around, Dean sent a sharp glare at his brother, saluting him with a middle finger. “You need to stop worrying. I’m fine.”

“C’mon man. Just let him check.”

Dean grumbled under his breath before nodding. “Fine! Fine. work your weird angel mojo.”

Once given the okay, Cas hesitantly leaned forward to place a warm hand against his temple, his eyebrows furrowing on contact. His facial expression immediately caught both brothers attention, Sams face falling into one of concern for what felt like the hundredth time in the last two days.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Swatting his hand away once more, Dean stared up at the angel. He wasn’t convinced. “What do you mean nothing? Your face ain’t saying nothing.”

“No Dean. What I mean is that I can’t find anything wrong.” Cas paused, looking past Dean to his younger brother. “How hard did you say he hit the wall?”

Sam let out a sigh, arms folding tightly over his chest. “I- I don’t know exactly. But I practically heard it from across the room. It was a cement wall Cas.”

“So I got lucky.” Dean shrugged, popping up from his seat in the library. “Sometimes that happens. Calm down.”

Unfortunately his steps were halted when a hand came down on his shoulder, stopping him from leaving the room. “Dean, if anything you should at least have a concussion.”

“Well, like I said before: I got lucky. Now if you both could stop babying me I would be eternally grateful.” He let out another sigh, raking a hand through his hair. And with that the hunter turned on his heel left the library, leaving two concerned people in his wake.

*. *. *. *. *. *.

It started with little things at first. For the first week Dean did nothing but try and nurse his headaches from his collision with the concrete floor back at the warehouse. Just headaches, nothing unusual about them. Nothing worth mentioning to his brother and Cas at least. But it was around week three that things started to shift. He didn’t catch them at first, the actions small enough to practically fly under is radar. . . almost.

It started last Tuesday when he came back from a supply run with a bag of candy he had no recollection of buying, and then quickly realized he didn’t even like that particular kind. He hesitated for a moment before ultimately deciding to throw it out. At first it caught him off guard but it only took a few more minutes before he shrugged it off.

Three days later he was doing research for a case in the library and turned to his left to ask a question only to find nobody there, his brother seated across from him, nose buried in a lore book. He stared at the vacant seat for a few seconds before passing over that as well.

Glancing at the lone clock hanging above the table in the kitchen, the older Winchester let out a yawn, trudging across the cold linoleum floors towards the coffee pot. His mind going into autopilot as he poured himself a cup, and then another, extending the second cup as if to pass it to somebody.

Halfway through his action Dean paused, eyebrows drawing together as he looked at his extended arm and the other cup of coffee balanced in it. Nobody else was here and he wasn't one to pour his brother coffee either.

“What the h-“

“Morning.” The sudden voice behind him slightly startling him, sending hot coffee splashing onto his hand.

“Jeez, Sam! A little warning next time.” Dean huffed, setting his own mug down so he could use his sleeve to wipe the dark liquid off.

“Sorry.” The younger Winchester mumbled, stepping down into the kitchen. “Thanks for pouring me coffee though.” Stepping forward he took the spare cup from his still outstretched hand, Dean arm staying in place for another moment as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.

“.. . No problem.”

“Dude, you okay?” Sliding into one of the vacant seats at the table, Sam sent his brother a questioned glare from over the lip of the coffee mug, Deans eyes fixated on his now empty hand.

“Yeah, yeah. Just had some serious deja vu.” Quickly shaking his head, Dean tossed the incident to the back of his mind, sliding into his own seat. “Nothing to worry about.”

Part 4 coming soon

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notapaladin · 3 years

Text

let that fever make the water rise

no one: absolutely no one: deafening silence: me: hey, you know what I think would SLAP? teocatl mermaid AU!

Anyway, this is that, and you can also read it on AO3

The house of Coyoacan’s lowest-ranking priest for the Dead stood nearly at the edge of Lake Texcoco. If Acatl wished it, he could have rowed into Tenochtitlan from his back door. Tenochtitlan was where his family was, so he didn’t. They didn’t want to see him now that he’d become a priest? Well, the feeling was mutual.

He sighed, studying the tamale he’d been picking at for what felt like the last hour. This early in the morning—or should that be late at night?—time was a blurry, formless thing. He hadn’t slept. He knew he should; Mihmatini would have wanted him to. But he’d been so busy. Quite aside from his normal duties of attending to funerals and laying the dead to rest safely, there had been a string of thefts he’d been called to investigate despite his repeated attempts to explain that his particular skillset worked much better with murders or curses. The magistrate had been unmoved. And so here he was, exhausted down to his bones, trying to eat something before hopefully catching a few hours of rest.

It wasn’t even a good tamale. His mother’s had been better. Duality, he could make better, and he was a mediocre cook. But it was food, and he was hungry. He ate.

Judging by the gray smudges to the east, the sun was trying to rise. He grimaced. Food. Clean my teeth. Give devotion to the gods. And then...gods, and then I can sleep.

He felt a little lightheaded, even with a fuller belly. Without really thinking about it, he started first to hum and then—softly, to himself—to sing. The words of a lullaby his mother had sung to Mihmatini came easily to his mind and his tongue. He couldn’t remember if she’d ever sung it to him. “Sleep, my precious silver, my precious jade, sleep...”

Oh. Right. He’d meant to do that, hadn’t he? Sleep was a good idea.

Before he could head back inside, something rippled in the water below. He held very still. It was too large to be an ordinary fish, but the dark shape hidden in the reeds had something of the tlilcoatl—massive man-eating serpents—in its movements, and the last thing he wanted to do was startle it. They could lunge much farther out of the water than it appeared. Slowly, very slowly, he crumpled his tamale wrapper in one fist and made to back away.

Deep breath. No sudden movements. He was far enough away to risk turning around, and they never went far on land—

A voice sounded behind him, low but with not an ounce of hesitation. “You sing beautifully.”

He spun back around, and what he saw made him drop the remains of his tamale.

Oh, everyone knew tlanchana existed, but there was never any agreement on what they really were. Servants of Tlaloc, some said; children of Serpent Skirt, said others. They were either monstrous fish with human limbs or seductive maidens that drowned young warriors. Acatl had, in the past, privately suspected a mixture of giant fish and far too much pulque on the part of the tale-teller. He’d never met anyone who could probe otherwise. But now there was one staring at him, and it was much too early in the morning to get drunk even if he’d been allowed. Dimly he thought, Oh, all of them were wrong.

Yes, the tlanchana was definitely beautiful—dark-skinned, dark-haired, with fingers ending in delicate claws and gleaming crimson gills like knife wounds in his throat. But he was also very definitely not a maiden; the lean, rippling muscles currently on display as he rested his elbows on the edge of the landing were decidedly male, and Acatl was ashamed to find that the sight of the water beading on them made his heart thump a little faster in his chest. And his face—the tlanchana had the face of a proud young warrior, all high cheekbones and elegantly curved, hawkish nose. Dark, dark eyes focused on him for a moment, and then cut away as the monster—the man?—murmured, “I’ve disturbed you,” and sank below the water again.

He yelped, “Wait!”

The tlanchana resurfaced, pushing hair out of his eyes and blinking up at him. Acatl’s last vestiges of fear fled as he saw the faint tinge of red in his cheeks. He hadn’t realized they could blush. “What?” Gods, it sounded almost sulky. He wondered how young he was.

“I,” he began, and stopped. Swallowed. He hadn’t planned for this. He didn’t think you could plan for this. All he knew was that there was something terrible and beautiful in front of him, and he didn’t want it to leave yet. “You didn’t...disturb me. I was just...surprised.” Understatement of the age. “I’ve never seen one of your kind before.”

The—boy? Acatl put his age at maybe a decade younger than himself, if tlanchana aged like humans—grinned brightly, revealing a large number of terrifyingly sharp teeth. “We stay hidden when we can. But when a pretty priest comes out in the morning and starts singing...well, I was curious. We always love human singers, especially ones with such nice voices.”

Now it was his turn to blush. “I’m not—I’m a priest for the Dead, I’m not...” True, he’d had admirers in his calpulli, but that didn’t mean anything. He was just a man.

The boy propped his elbows up on the landing again, lifting himself half out of the water. Rivulets streamed down his skin, and that careless grin grew warm and almost...oh, gods help him, almost interested when he saw how Acatl’s eyes unconsciously followed them. “You are. What’s your name, pretty priest?”

He swallowed again, keeping his gaze on the undisturbed section of lake. The lake was safe. The lake didn’t make his heart pound frantically from what he was resolutely labeling nerves. “...Acatl,” he muttered. He’d never been more glad to have such a common name.

Oh, looking at the lake didn’t save him. He could hear the warmth in the boy’s voice. “Acatl. A good name. I’m Teomitl, and it is an honor to—“

The conchs blared, and Teomitl vanished below the water so fast that his serpent’s tail broke the surface in a shimmering jade-green arc of scales. Acatl was left staring at the space where he’d been in utter bafflement, waiting for his brain to catch up.

I met a tlanchana. Who called me pretty. He bit his tongue, hard. The pain was proof he hadn’t just dreamed that. Storm Lord strike him, they’d been close enough to touch if he’d dared to take just a step or two forward. He realized he had a deathgrip on the edge of his cloak and made himself release it with a huff.

So his life had just been flipped upside-down. It didn’t change what he had to do. He went back into his house. He slashed his earlobes, paying his devotions to the Sun and to Lord Death. He cleaned the wounds, his teeth, and his face. He laid down on his mat.

But despite how tired he was, sleep did not come. He kept remembering Teomitl’s smile and that bright flash of his tail breaking the mirror-calm surface of the lake. He kept remembering, too, the warmth in his voice. Nobody had ever, ever spoken to him like that, at least not since he’d been a boy with Huchimitl trailing after him. Since becoming a priest of the Dead, his gray cloak and uncut hair had marked him irrevocably as one set apart for the gods.

I suppose tlanchana don’t care about that, he mused. Then again, they are the gods’ creations. It must be different for them. It was certainly different for Teomitl. His heartbeat sped up again; he stared blankly at the lightening ceiling of his room, but for once that didn’t calm him. He’d met a creature—no, he’d met a young man. A handsome young man. A handsome young man who paid him compliments, as though he was a man who was allowed to accept them.

He rolled over with a grimace, squeezing his eyes shut. I wish I could, came his last thought before sleep finally rose up like an ahuitzotl to drag him into dreams of shimmering scales and the tracery of sharp claws on his skin.

The rest of the day was utterly, depressingly normal. He woke eventually after not enough rest, judged the time to be around noon, and set to sweeping his courtyard and the area in front of his house until a very officious-looking assistant to the magistrate came to collect him. Another theft, stinking of magic. Another attempt to explain that unless it came from the underworld he probably couldn’t help. Another long trek halfway across town to view the scene of the crime, take stock of a rich trader’s wife’s missing jewelry, and pick up no trace of the underworld whatsoever.

When he finally made it home, the sun was setting, and the lake behind his house was calm. But there was a single, perfectly round stone sitting in the dirt, polished smooth by the water. He picked it up, rolling it over in his palm. There was no sense of clinging magic, but neither was it the sort of thing that would just come to rest in its position of its own accord. The tlanchana—Teomitl—had been here.

Hesitantly, he called, “Teomitl?”

There was no answer. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing when it caught in the tangles. He was here. I know it. And he...he left me a present. Because that was definitely what the rock was; it was sun-warmed and fit perfectly in his palm, a comfortable weight. Something he could roll around or run his thumb over, smoothing away worries with the motion.

“Thank you,” he said out loud, though he wasn’t sure if anyone was there to hear.

The next morning brought another gift, this time a chipped clay jug with several live, wriggling, irate lake crawfish. He stared at it for a long moment before deciding that food was clearly food, and not to be wasted. But generosity demanded reciprocation, and he had nothing to give.

He said he liked my singing. But embarrassment stopped his throat, and so instead he croaked, “Thank you,” again. A distant splash, rippling jade in the water, was his only response.

He had the crawfish for breakfast and set out on his daily tasks with a full belly, a light heart, and a tingling sense of—fear? No, not that. He thought he could call it nervousness, but that didn’t fit either. Anticipation, that was it. For the first time in a long, long while, he had something he could look forward to. Tonight. I’ll try to catch him tonight.

But the day brought a frantic chase through the city streets in search of a murderous Haunting Mother, which was at least something he was qualified for, and so by the time he staggered back into his own courtyard—exhausted, lightly bleeding, and dreaming of his own mat—he was almost glad to have missed Teomitl again. He just didn’t have the energy. Especially when a search of the pier brought not just a pretty stone or a cache of fresh fish, but a shining silver necklace with a broken clasp. It was tarnished, and the jade owl pendant it bore was loose in its setting, but it was still the finest thing Acatl had ever owned personally, and he felt his face burn just looking at it. “Teomitl,” he muttered, and now he felt eyes on him.

He looked up, squinting in the dusk. Nothing. But he knew that those dark eyes were out there, and suddenly it annoyed him. Clearing his throat pointedly, he addressed the water. “If you’re going to keep giving me things like this, young man, the least you can do is deliver them in person.”

Something splashed in the shallows, but no shining head came to greet him. Flushed and grumbling, heart lodged in his throat, he went to try and get some sleep.

When he staggered back home the next day, there was no sign of Teomitl. It wasn’t until he began to prepare dinner that he found his suggestion had been honored.

Teomitl broke the water’s surface almost soundlessly, but he was making no efforts towards stealth; the slap of his forearms landing on the dirt in what seemed to be his customary lean was as loud as a thunderclap in the quiet of the afternoon. When Acatl turned to look, he was greeted by a blinding grin. All those teeth were a little less of a shock now that he knew they were there. “Well. Good evening, Acatl-tzin.”

It took a moment to get his mouth working. The arrival, he’d half-expected; the respectful honorific, not at all. “Teomitl. It’s good to see you well.” There were gold earrings in his ears. Had they been there before? He couldn’t remember; their first meeting had been the sort to drive all thoughts of such details out of his head.

Teomitl hummed in acknowledgement, eyes gleaming as he studied him. “You look well. Have you been eating?”

“Of course!” Teomitl’s raised eyebrow said he doubted this; huffily, Acatl added, “The crawfish were delicious. Thank you.” He’d overdone them, as usual, but that was his own fault.

There was that tinge of red across Teomitl’s cheekbones again, and his easy smile took on a definite curl of pride. “I’ll catch many more for you.” He paused, head tilted like an otter’s as he sniffed the air. “I smell smoke.”

Even though he knew what Teomitl was certainly smelling, Acatl found himself casting an anxious glance in the direction of his burning hearth anyway. It couldn’t be ready yet. “Dinner.”

The water rippled, some underwater thrashing of Teomitl’s tail as his eyes lit up with curiosity. “Oh, what are you eating?”

“...Greens with chili sauce.” He has teeth like flint knives. Can he even eat them? But not offering would be the height of rudeness, and...well, Teomitl had fed him. It was only right to return the favor. “Do you want some?”

“If you’re making them? Always.”

Now that was undue flattery. “Teomitl!”

“What?” Teomitl’s smile was far too innocent to actually be innocent, even when Acatl looked past the fangs. “It smells good, and so far you haven’t summoned the city guards to drag me out of the lake with nets and sell me for a profit so I’m sure it’s not poisoned.”

There was so much he wanted to say to that that for a moment he couldn’t make any words pass his lips. He thinks I would summon the guards? People would dare blaspheme against Jade Skirt or Serpent Skirt and sell one of Their blessed creations for gold or cacao beans? That’s a well-known possibility? “I—that—I would never—can you even survive out of the water?!”

“Of course I can!” Teomitl huffed, and heaved himself onto dry land.

Oh. He’d thought he’d been prepared; he’d known he was dealing with a tlanchana, after all. But as Teomitl came closer, Acatl realized he hadn’t given a single thought to what that really meant. From the waist up—if you ignored the gills somehow—Teomitl looked very much like a handsome young warrior, all rippling muscles and faint white battle scars. But starting at his hips and a handspan or so below his navel (which was fascinating in and of itself; did tlanchana give birth like human women?) smooth brown skin gave way to even smoother scales, pale gold scutes on his front and a deep, vividly mottled jade green on the rest of his body and tail. A sort of net satchel was tied around his hips. He’d somehow been expecting fins, but there were none; instead, Teomitl’s tail was vertically flattened like a sort of paddle, such that he swam like the snake he resembled. In the light, his wet scales glittered like a pile of living gems. Acatl’s fingers itched to touch them.

He wasn’t sure he remembered how to talk. “That’s very...um. Well.” Beautiful. You’re beautiful.

Teomitl slithered closer, movements graceful as a stalking jaguar. Holding himself up like this, with the first third—no, Acatl did some mental math as that tail uncoiled, the first fourth—of his body off the ground, he was tall enough to look Acatl in the eye. It made the heat in his gaze devastating. “Never seen a tlanchana before?”

“No.” Gods, he sounded like a fool.

Now Teomitl was smiling again, with just the hint of a fang showing. “...Like what you see?”

They were definitely close enough to touch. Gods, they were so close Acatl could smell him, a scent like the fields after rain. His face burned as he turned away. “I’m going to check on dinner.” It would also give him a chance to bulk up the meal; the greens in their sauce wouldn’t be enough for two.

And if he all but fled into the safety of his little house, that was only his own business. He sat down hard once he was out of sight of the doorway, breathing as though he’d just run the causeway from the city to Tenochtitlan. I took vows. The last thing I should be thinking of is...is an attractive youth like that, even if he were human. But closing his eyes didn’t help, because those gleaming muscles and shining scales had imprinted themselves on the inside of his lids. He drew in a deeper breath, held it, and let it out slowly. He would add some maize kernels to the pot. They’d eat dinner. He wouldn’t think about who he was eating it with.

When he came back, Teomitl had curled himself into a ball, nestling his upper body into his own coils. “Your house is much nicer than when the last priest lived here,” he commented, and then frowned as he added, “But the walls are so blank.”

They were blank. The whiteness of the plaster was almost blinding in direct sunlight, but the stipend given to priests didn’t extend to hiring artists. “He was old. I am busy.”

Teomitl’s brows knit. Acatl had noticed a certain sulky tendency in him when they’d first met, but seeing it up close did something to his heart. “You should have pretty mosaics, like we do.”

Mosaics? The mental image was something lovely to contemplate—polished stone gleaming in the cool blue depths of the lake—but the thought of the cost made Acatl wince. Even if he sold his new necklace, he wouldn’t be able to afford that. “We...prefer paint, generally. Frescoes.”

Teomitl waved a careless hand. “Frescoes, then. Jade Skirt on that wall there, and ahuitzotls for a border...you don’t like ahuitzotls?”

Ah. Whatever his face had been doing, it must have shown his disgust clearly. There was no use being ashamed of it now, but his ears still felt hot. “No one likes ahuitzotls,” he muttered.

Teomitl blinked at him, gills twitching slightly. “We do. They hunt for us.”

Acatl stared at him. “They drown people.”

Now the young tlanchana looked abashed, which was unfortunately a terribly cute look on him. “...Hm. Yes. Right.”

He looked away, letting his gaze sweep over the dusty courtyard with its single tree and leggy, overgrown flowers that had once been the beginnings of his predecessor’s very sad garden. He wondered what Teomitl saw when he looked at it. “Besides, I am a priest of Lord Death, and if anything it would have to be a border of spiderwebs.”

“What do priests of Lord Death do?”

Acatl swivelled his head around to stare at him, but apparently it was a serious question; Teomitl’s eyes were wide and curious, and this close he could see that the pupils were slit like a snake’s. “They...” he began, and stopped. It would be a long answer, and he didn’t want to burn today’s dinner too. “I’ll tell you in a moment, I do believe our meal is ready.”

It was. They ate in the courtyard; after a few moments of fumbling Acatl told himself he was not going to be endeared by, Teomitl got the hang of using tamales to scoop up the sauce. The sauce he was apparently very unused to, if his sweating and wincing were any indication. In between bites, Acatl told him of his duties on land, and Teomitl listened with all evidence of interest. During an explanation of how priests of the Dead investigated crime scenes, the tip of his tail came to rest against Acatl’s thigh and stayed there.

“...so truly, most of my vocation just involves laying out bodies for burial or cremation—um.”

Eyelids lowered as Teomitl sank down, so he was looking up at Acatl through long lashes. “Hm?”

Teomitl’s tail was surprisingly warm, the scales dry and smooth. As it started to slide experimentally over his leg, he froze up, heart hammering in his chest. It was suddenly much, much too warm. “Ngh.” His tongue wasn’t obeying him; he had to take a larger-than-average bite of his meal and chew vigorously to remind his mouth it was supposed to do things. Time for a topic change. “Nothing. What do you do?”

Teomitl didn’t puff himself up, but Acatl took note of how he straightened, how the notes of pride rang through his voice. “I am a warrior; I keep my people safe from tlilcoatls and all the other things in the lake. When I bring back sufficient proof of my valor, I’ll be granted our greatest privilege.”

Acatl nodded, mind stuck on those things in the lake. His father had drowned, and he had been unable to face the vigil, but at least his body had been whole. He had lost other, more distant relatives who weren’t so lucky, and every year the tlilcoatls or ahuitzotls took at least one. And those weren’t even the worst creatures the lake had dredged up; he was amazed Teomitl didn’t have more scars if that was his vocation. Lost in thought, his eyes roamed over Teomitl’s lean form, half cataloging likely causes for those marks and half...well, he could admit Teomitl was an attractive youth, the dip of his spine where it gave way to scales seemingly shaped just for a hand to rest on it. And so he almost choked when Teomitl continued, “The right to take my place among you.”

He coughed, cleared his throat, and asked, “What.”

Teomitl looked down to their laps, tail sliding down Acatl’s calf in something like a caress. “...We can shed our tails for legs, if the need is great, and walk on land as humans. But it is...difficult. I haven’t mastered it yet.”

He was very, very glad he wasn’t eating anything; it was too easy to picture Teomitl as a boy. No—a young man, tall and straight-legged. His mind conjured up the shaved head and brilliant orange-and-black cloak of a warrior, cloth soaking wet and clinging to his skin because of course he wouldn’t be able to resist a swim on a hot day, and when his fine cotton loincloth got wet it really wouldn’t hide anything. He would have narrow hips and lean, strong legs, and if he was as graceful in motion as he was with the tail still caressing Acatl’s shins... “Ngkh,” he said intelligently.

Worse, there was a world of intent in Teomitl’s tone as he continued, “But I’ll have to practice if I’m to spend more time with you.”

“That would be...” He swallowed. He should say no. Saying no, turning him away, would be the logical thing. But Teomitl was close, and warm, and smelled like fresh water and green growing things even now, and Acatl wasn’t sure he wanted to be logical anymore. So he met Teomitl’s eyes and said, boldly, “I’d like that.”

An arm slid around his waist, slightly callused fingers digging lightly into his skin. The claws must have been lethally sharp, but now they just tickled; Acatl jolted at the unexpected sensation and oh, that was a mistake, because it pressed his side against Teomitl’s and gave him no choice other than to take in the heat of his body. Teomitl’s voice softened. “So would I. Very much.”

Oh. Oh. I could... His heart was beating so fast he felt a little dizzy with it. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he’d been close to another living person since his calmecac days, and none of them had been like this. From this distance, he could see the flecks of lighter brown in Teomitl’s dark eyes, feel the soft puffs of his quick breaths, and from there it was impossible not to notice the way his full lips parted slightly in anticipation. There were fangs. He’d seen the fangs. Right now, they didn’t matter.

They were so close. All either of them would have to do was lean in just a little more, and their friendly embrace would become something that would snap his vows like kindling.

“Teomitl.” His voice was the barest whisper, but it still flayed his throat raw.

Teomitl made a soft noise, a little trill in his throat—and then he pulled away, leaving Acatl bereft. While he tried to regain his equilibrium—they had not been about to kiss, surely, he must have been mistaken—Teomitl murmured, “I have something else for you. I wanted to give it to you in person.”

He blinked rapidly, mourning the loss of the arm around him as Teomitl rifled through his satchel. His limbs didn’t quite feel attached to his body, but the dry reed mat under him was a reassuring anchor, and he crunched the edge of it in his grip. He was wrong. They were friendly acquaintances, nothing more. They couldn’t be anything more than that. “Hm?”

“Here.” There was no mistaking Teomitl’s flushed cheeks for anything other than a spectacular blush, but Acatl made himself ignore it and focus instead on the gold bracelet Teomitl was holding out. It was a lovely piece engraved with birds and set with small pieces of red shell; the part of his mind that would never not see the magical associations of everything he came across judged it as a fine offering to Xochipilli or Xochiquetzal, but the rest of him felt warm from the inside out at the thought of wearing a gift from this man, even if it was so fine it made him a little nervous. It had been sized for a wrist maybe a bit more slender than his own, but he was sure it would fit.

He took it with hands that only shook a little bit. “It’s lovely.”

Teomitl’s smile outshone the sun. “I found it and thought of you. Let’s try it on! I hope it fits.”

That involved Teomitl touching him, a small agony, but he’d been right. The bangle fit perfectly. He stared down at it for a moment, marveling at how the pinkish-red and gold made even his skin look warmer. For once he looked like a man instead of something that made its home under rocks and shunned the light of day.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it with all his heart.

Dawn brought with it an unpleasant stench, and at first Acatl couldn’t place it. It was far, far too soon after rising to expect great detective work out of him; after Teomitl had given him that bracelet, they’d spent a long and wonderful time just talking until the moon had risen and he’d interrupted his own tale of his entanglement with the Wind of Knives by yawning hugely. Teomitl had laughed, not unkindly, and bid him goodnight with another one of those radiant smiles. It had been a very long time until he’d gotten any sort of sleep, and even when he’d taken himself in hand with something close to desperation his mind had been absolutely full of scales and sharp teeth and the long, elegant uncoiling of a body next to his.

But now he smelled blood, and those thoughts were very far away. Blinking in the gray light, he stumbled outside and stopped cold.

No priest for the Dead was a stranger to gore. In his years of service, he’d seen the remains of murders that had turned even his stomach. But it was one thing to scrape bits of a stranger’s viscera off the walls, and another thing entirely to have so much of it splattered across his courtyard. It being animal in nature didn’t make it any better. Someone—some thing—had ripped apart several large fish and strewn the guts around; he saw multiple sightless heads, the tattered remains of fins, a spinal column coiled like a macabre necklace. And that wasn’t the worst of it. A raccoon’s head had been placed neatly on the ground with its crossed paws in front of it; there was no sign of the rest of its body.

Something rustled in the tree. He looked up, already dreading what he’d find, and somehow wasn’t surprised when he realized that the little shapes in the lower branches were dead birds hung from twigs. He clenched his fists to stop his hands shaking. This was done to intimidate me. Someone...gods, someone hates me.

And the worst part was that he couldn’t figure out who. There had been cases he’d been forced to abandon, powerful people he’d found guilty of terrible crimes, but none who would do anything like this instead of sending more physical intimidation. Someone wanted him terrified.

Well, they wouldn’t get it. He squared his shoulders and reached to take the nearest bird down.

His hands never made it there. Between one breath and the next, he heard the most unearthly chorus of thin, reedy voices, all singing in unison.

In Tlalocan, the Verdant Land The blessed land of the drowned The dead men play at balls, they cast the reeds...

No. No. He knew those voices. He knew not to listen to them. He knew they came with scrabbling claws, needlelike fangs, that they would tear out his throat and his eyes and his fingernails. But his legs were carrying him forward, and he couldn’t stop—he was almost at the water’s edge, and he could see their yellow eyes—

Something large and wet and warm crashed into him, knocking him down; only his instinctively curling back saved him from a concussion or worse, but he was still disoriented enough that it took him a few panicky heartbeats to realize that he knew the hands pressing him to earth, and a few more to focus on the face inches from his own. “What—Teomitl?!”

The singing had stopped. Crimson all the way to his ears, Teomitl slithered backwards to let him sit up. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my brother—“

Oh, he’d been knocked into a string of fish guts. Wonderful. Picking it out of his hair, he favored Teomitl with a frown. Teomitl hadn’t volunteered any information about his family, and he hadn’t asked. He was starting to think he should have. “What about him?”

Teomitl grimaced, anger and shame showing clear as a painting on his face. “...He’s...the leader of my war band. He hates humans.”

Parts of their conversation the previous night had been extremely illuminating in regards to the myriad dangers with which the tlanchana contended daily. Acatl had no illusions regarding his likelihood of survival against the leader of a war band. “Ah.”

“He wasn’t happy to find I’ve been spending time with you,” Teomitl added unnecessarily.

“...Ah,” he said again, feeling a pit yawn wide in his chest. He was a disappointment to his family, spitting on all they had wanted for him, but Teomitl was a good and dutiful young man. If his elder brother and leader forbade him from seeing him, Acatl knew he’d obey. It was better this way, he thought dully. He’d miss him horribly, but...it would be better. He was used to being alone.

He’d made up his mind to accept the rejection gracefully when Teomitl grabbed his hand and continued, “But I’ll talk to him. This won’t happen again, I promise.”

An inarticulate noise escaped his lips. Teomitl was holding his hand. Abruptly, all his dreams of shining scales and long, well-muscled legs came roaring back. “I—you can’t—” Don’t damage your relationship with your family, your chances of proving yourself, for me. I’m not worth it.

But Teomitl’s dark, serious gaze locked onto his, and his voice took on an edge that said he’d inexplicably came to the conclusion that Acatl was. “I can. You should stay here where I can keep an eye on you. Tizoc’s not a brave man, but if he thinks you’re alone he might do more than leave a mess to clean up.”

Staying right where he was, maybe with Teomitl still holding his hand—Duality, he threw off heat like a furnace—was terribly tempting, but even as the thought crossed his mind Acatl knew he wouldn’t be able to indulge in the man’s company. Priests for the Dead didn’t get days off, and Tizoc had left a horrible mess. “I can’t. My duties...”

“Ah. Those.” Teomitl’s expression showed very clearly what he wasn’t saying.

Gently, he pulled his hand free and clambered to his feet. His cloak was a lost cause, but he had a spare, and in any case there was no point wearing it while he washed away all the...things that had been strewn around his courtyard. “I have to make my rounds today.”

Teomitl caught his lower lip between his teeth. For a horrible moment Acatl thought he was going to offer to accompany him, but all he said was, “I’ll be around. Try to stay on dry land.”

“I...alright.” The fussing should have annoyed him, but he knew there was no use complaining. Teomitl had already proved himself stubborn.

And then strong arms wrapped around him, crushing him in a bruisingly tight hug, and he let out an outraged squawk into Teomitl’s chest. Verbal protests died on his lips, however, because it was followed up by a soft, pleading murmur of, “Be careful.”

By the time he came up with any sort of response—who did Teomitl think he was, he’d been a priest for the Dead for nearly fifteen years, he was always careful—the tlanchana had released him and slipped back into the water, he was alone again, and there was no point in voicing them. Besides, he had to save his breath to draw water and clean up some of the carnage before even more flies found it.

He’d shoved the larger pieces into the canals and was working on the deeply unpleasant bird situation—really, did Tizoc have some sort of vendetta against doves? There were half a dozen of them strung up in the branches—when a slave in the cloak worn by servants of the Duality rushed in.

“Acatl-tzin!”

Given that he’d been distracted musing on whether the height of the birds he’d found represented the upper limit on how far upwards a tlanchana could stretch and still balance on their tail, it took him a moment to realize he had company. Carefully, he descended the rickety ladder and frowned at the slave. Someone important had better be dead or on fire. “...Yes?”

She didn’t make eye contact. An impressive feat, given that she was simultaneously avoiding looking directly at all the blood. An explanation was on the tip of his tongue, but before he could voice it she announced, “Mistress Ceyaxochitl requests your presence.”

He revised his earlier thought. Being summoned directly by the Guardian of the Duality in Coyoacan was much worse, or at least more irritating, than any mortal death. “...I’ll be right there.”

Of course, he wasn’t. Even after he’d washed himself and tied his cloak around his shoulders, Ceyaxochitl’s temple was a long walk, and he’d never been in the very best of shape. His best brisk, businesslike walk soon devolved into a weary trudge, and by the time he made it into the temple complex and was shown to the receiving room where the Guardian awaited, his back and knees were loudly informing him that they’d had quite enough of that, thank you.

Ceyaxochitl bowed to him the precise degree necessary for politeness and no more. He’d once saved her life from Tezcatlipoca’s shade, but that didn’t make them friends. At least she motioned him to a seat on the mat. “Acatl.”

“Ceyaxochitl.” He bowed, just as politely, and let his legs fold.

She sniffed, looking him up and down critically. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s good to see you.”

“...Mm.” He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. A skinny death priest, no longer quite so young as he’d been when they’d met. No longer quite so removed from the world, either. His skin still tingled with the memory of Teomitl’s arms around him. Battling back a swell of nerves, he asked, “Why have you called me here?”

And now she was frowning, never a good sign. “The magistrate’s favorite daughter vanished yesterday along with her boat. We haven’t found the boat or her body.”

“Are you sure she didn’t just...leave?” It was known to happen. Sometimes people simply had enough. He’d dealt with a missing-person case like that before; a wealthy merchant’s wife had packed her things and rowed to Texcoco without another word, and when he’d finally tracked her husband down he’d seen why immediately. He could easily picture a young maiden doing the same.

Ceyaxochitl shook her head firmly. “She was due to be married next week. By all accounts, she’s terribly in love with her intended. She wouldn’t have left him.”

He bit his lip, thinking. “Perhaps she simply drowned.” A shame, of course, but not his department.

“Perhaps. I would consider it a favor if you looked into it anyway.”

Ceyaxochitl owing him a favor was a powerful thing. Still, he was wary. “...And what do you expect me to do?”

“Well.” Ceyaxochitl’s eyes narrowed. “She was fond of wearing jewelry like that bracelet you have on. And you live by the shore, don’t you? Did it wash up somewhere?”

No. No, Teomitl wouldn’t. Tlanchana are...they don’t think like humans, but surely he wouldn’t. Surely he knows the value of a life to the gods. He swallowed roughly, barely able to force the words out. “...It was a gift.”

But his heart was turning to ice in his chest.

Afterwards, he wasn’t sure how he made it home. His memories of the journey were a blur, and it wasn’t until he reached his courtyard that he remembered he hadn’t finished cleaning the place. Another thing he’d have to deal with, but it would probably let him put off the confrontation with Teomitl he knew he was going to happen. It still didn’t seem real. Teomitl had smiled with him, held his hand, treated him like a man. He wouldn’t have murdered someone for jewels.

He didn’t smell blood or death anymore, but stepping into his newly spotless courtyard was still a surprise. Evidently Teomitl hadn’t been content with guarding the area and had decided to finish cleaning up after his brother’s little intimidation spree; though the ground was mostly mud from his efforts, he’d nevertheless washed away all the blood. He’d even, Acatl saw, finished removing the birds from the tree he was currently sprawled under, resting his head in one lazy loop of his tail with his eyes closed.

Admittedly, a napping Teomitl was a lovely picture, but he was in no frame of mind to appreciate it. He strode over, nudging the nearest coil of scales with his foot. “Teomitl!”

Teomitl jolted awake, blinking up at him in rapidly-clearing confusion. “Acatl-tzin, you’re back!” The first hint of a smile faded as he took in Acatl’s stony expression. “...Did something happen? Are you alright?”

He took a deep breath, settling one hand on the hilt of his knife. It gave him back some of his resolve. “Teomitl. This bracelet...”

Teomitl rose up, frowning from Acatl’s face to the bracelet he’d never taken off. “Yes?”

“Did you...” Duality preserve him, he almost couldn’t say it. He almost couldn’t think it. But he had to know. He took another breath, forced himself to meet Teomitl’s eyes, and continued, “Did you kill a woman for this?”

The reaction was immediate. Teomitl jolted backward, rearing up on his coils until he towered over Acatl, but Acatl didn’t have time to feel more than a flash of fear before he sank back down, staring wide-eyed at him. “What?! No!” He growled, fangs briefly bared. “I am no coward, to hunt such prey.”

Acatl dropped his gaze. The lump in his throat slowly started to recede. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I believe you, I just...I had to know.”

Teomitl tilted his head like an inquisitive ahuitzotl. “Why?”

On one hand, nobody had told him his current case was supposed to be a secret. On the other hand, it had been so very, very long since he’d worked alongside anyone else that even mentioning it felt strange. Words warred within him, but what finally came out was, “A woman vanished yesterday, wearing jewels like this.” You say it wasn’t you. I’ve chosen to believe you. But please...gods, please...

Teomitl shook his head, frowning in a way that sent a pang through his heart. “...I found it in the lake. I can take you to the spot, but I didn’t see anything but weeds and branches. Then again, I’m no detective like you.”

He made a decision. “I’ll get a boat from the temple and meet you back here. You can show me where you found it.”

It meant another trek through the city—his feet were going to be exceptionally unhappy with him later—but when he pulled the boat up alongside his house he had the pleasure of seeing Teomitl’s grin break the water’s surface before submerging again, boat rocking slightly in his wake. They didn’t speak as Acatl rowed, following the sinuous line of Teomitl’s progress through the water as best he could. Even with Teomitl obviously swimming slowly for Acatl’s benefit, he had to push himself to keep up. Here, the lake was fairly shallow and choked with reeds and other vegetation, the sort that was easy to snare a boat in. He wondered if that was what had happened to her.

At least it hadn’t rained recently, he thought. She wouldn’t have died the way his father did, trapped in the mud of a flooded canal. She’d been spared that.

Teomitl’s voice pulled him out of his reverie before he could spiral down into his own failure. “Here,” he said, lifting himself out of the water to point at a tree-shaded patch of tangled greenery. “It was in these weeds.”

Carefully, he steered the boat closer for a better look. The weeds were thick here, providing shelter for fish and a death trap to everything else, but within the dense leaves he spotted something else, something crisp and pale and manmade. Still careful, he used the tip of his oar to lift it up and grimaced. While it hadn’t been there for long—it wasn’t enmeshed deeply enough for that—there was no mistaking the bundle of reeds for anything else. “...That is definitely part of a boat.”

“...Tlaloc’s fangs,” Teomitl muttered.

“Indeed.” And now that he was looking, he could see more; while there weren’t enough scattered chunks to make an entire boat and it was therefore unlikely she’d run aground in this precise spot, the lake’s currents had nonetheless pushed most of the debris into the weeds. He squinted, trying to figure out if that brown thing was a piece of waterlogged wood or a human limb.

Teomitl swam in, skirting the edge of the overgrowth. He seemed reluctant to enter it, but Acatl supposed being entangled in pondweed wasn’t fun even if you could breathe underwater. After a moment, he muttered, “I didn’t see any human parts, but...well, sometimes ahuitzotls move their leftovers into caches for later...”

“...Ah.” There were times he cursed his imagination.

Teomitl flashed him a quick, brilliant grin. “I’ll check!” His dive sent a shimmering arc of water droplets into the air, along with an unnecessarily extravagant flick of his tail.

And so Acatl was left to wait. He stowed the oar and finally, finally sat down in the boat, groaning out loud in sheer relief as his muscles relaxed from the effort of holding himself upright for the entire morning. Any priest learned to endure pain and discomfort without complaint, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Especially on an empty stomach, which chose that moment to grumble audibly. Hm. He really should have gotten something to eat on the way back from the temple, but at the time it hadn’t occurred to him. He’d been too distracted with thoughts of gold and dead women and Teomitl.

Teomitl, who had cleaned his courtyard for him. The memory brought a tinge of heat to his face. And I never even thanked him.

Water slapped against the woven hull, and he looked down. In the dark water, a dark shape swam. Teomitl...?

No. There were two. Then three. Then four.

“Teo—!”

The boat lurched violently, and the ahuitzotls yanked him under. He barely had the presence of mind to clamp his mouth shut and fling a hand up to protect his eyes; there was no time at all for him to fill his lungs with air before he sank into the water, flailing amidst a morass of furry, sharp-clawed bodies and far too many horrible grasping hands. Claws scrabbled at his eyes and he frantically twisted his head out of the way, but more of them caught in his hair and cloak.

My knives. I have to reach my knives. But if he lowered his hands, they would tear at his face and the soft unprotected skin of his belly; already he felt lines of fire etched into his flesh and knew he was bleeding. And he couldn’t breathe.

One of them caught his forearm in its jaws. The pain was too much; instinctively he opened his mouth to scream, and precious air rushed out.

A sound like a hawk’s screech rang through the water, and the sensation of teeth in his arm vanished. Water churned around him, and he flailed in the direction of what he dearly hoped was the surface. The impact of flesh on flesh rippled through the water, but it wasn’t his and therefore, for the moment, unimportant. Black spots swam in front of his vision, and his limbs moved like he was swimming through tar. He was only vaguely conscious of the battle going on around him. I can’t. I can’t.

A pair of brutally strong arms grabbed him from behind, pressing him back against a lean chest. He struggled, but it was no use; he was not so much drawn as flung towards sunlight, breaking the surface with a choked-off gasp and coughing for breath until his ribs screamed. Dimly he was aware of those arms squeezing him tight, of the loose coil of a muscular scaled tail supporting his legs while Teomitl ran quick claws over his wounds. It felt like an eternity before his breathing eased and he went limp, floating in Teomitl’s coils.

Teomitl’s voice cracked. “Acatl?”

Right. That was his name. There were long scratches on his cheeks, bloody rents along his arms and chest, and what felt like one single enormous bruise over most of his right leg, but he was alive. He was alive, and Teomitl was holding him like he was made of quetzal feathers. “I’m alright,” he panted, “just—mmph!”

Yesterday, he’d thought his first kiss would be a slow, sweet thing. He was wrong. Teomitl’s mouth on him was rough and wet and almost biting; he was clearly trying to be careful with his fangs, but just as clearly wasn’t doing a very good job. Their mouths, mingled, tasted of blood and lake water, and when Acatl’s lips parted in surprise he tasted salt as well. The wounds on his cheeks stung, but he barely noticed. Far more worthy of his attention was the way Teomitl’s fingers wound through the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him in place as a remarkably dexterous tongue slid in. “Mmm...” Oh, that was good. That was very good.

And then Teomitl wrenched backwards, breaking the kiss with a gasp. Acatl’s eyes flew open to meet his, slit pupils dilated so far they were very nearly round. He was trembling, gills fluttering rapidly as he stammered, “...Sorry. I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry!”

“You...” But he couldn’t figure out how to finish the sentence. His vows had cracked like an egg, and the merest touch would shatter them, but he was wounded and still floating in what upon further examination was a patch of bloody water containing several dead ahuitzotls and an unknowable number of lake insects attracted by the free food. His injuries throbbed. He still had a case to solve. And Duality curse me, but I want him to kiss me until I forget all of that.

Another kiss did not seem forthcoming. Seeing that he could float on his own, Teomitl gently disentangled himself and muttered, “I found her. Er, most of her. She’s hidden pretty deep. I’ll bring her up for you—can you get back in the boat?”

He couldn’t. Teomitl had to lift him in. But at least the boat was in one piece, and he’d had the forethought to bring a net and a large blanket, so getting the corpse into it with him wasn’t a difficult prospect. A good thing, too, because Teomitl refused to let him help. “You’re hurt,” he said, with a pointed glare at Acatl’s freely-bleeding wounds and a follow-up mutter of, “And I know whose fault it is, too.”

That snapped him out of the dull fog of pain. “Hm?”

Teomitl shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll tow you to back to Coyoacan.”

The magistrate was pale and shaken, but he still managed to meet Acatl’s eyes. “Thank you, Acatl-tzin. For...for bringing her home.”

Teomitl had indeed found most of the magistrate’s daughter; the ahuitzotls had taken her eyes, her fingernails, and large chunks of her abdomen, and sitting in the boat with her corpse wrapped in a blanket had not been pleasant. At least Acatl hadn’t had to carry her, a dicey prospect with his injuries. When he’d made it to shore, the guards had taken care of that while the healers swore at his wounds, cleaned them with ointment that stung like a thousand wasps, and then cleaned them again as he’d told them what had attacked him. They still burned, and he was still weak, but at least the bleeding had stopped. He shifted from foot to foot, glad that the waning afternoon light hid his expression. He didn’t deserve thanks for doing his job.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured anyway. It was what you said.

The man shook his head decisively. “No. This way—we’ll be able to send her to her rest properly. Was it the ahuitzotls?”

He nodded, trying not to remember the sensation of claws reaching for his eyes. This is the second time Teomitl’s saved my life. If it hadn’t been for him...

Gods, he hadn’t even been armed. He’d slain two ahuitzotls with his bare hands. The blood had mostly rinsed off in the water, but it had still clung stubbornly under Teomitl’s claws, and still all Acatl could think about was the way they’d tangled in his hair.

The magistrate growled. “I’m going to have words with the priests of Tlaloc, I see. But you don’t have to concern yourself with that. Here.” He motioned one of his slaves forward, who bowed low to present a bundle of gold-filled quills.

He blinked at the riches. “My lord, you don’t have to..”

“Take it.”

He took it. It would buy food, and he was starting to realize he was ravenous.

Dinner—lunch? Breakfast?—his first meal of the day, at any rate, took the form of two enthusiastically spiced tamales from the nearest street vendor, which he ate as he trudged back home. Teomitl had vanished as soon as they’d reached the city, before any humans could spot him; he hadn’t said so much as a word to Acatl since settling him back in the boat. The memory of his stricken face almost ruined Acatl’s appetite.

I still can’t believe he kissed me. He’d taken vows of chastity. Up until now, they’d rested lightly on him. If he does it again...Duality, I want him to do it again. Soon. His lips tingled, and not just from the heat of the chilies. I need to see him.

But when he returned home, it was to a completely empty courtyard. He stumbled to the edge of the water and looked down; nothing. Not even a fish. He cleared his throat. “Teomitl?” It came out much quieter than he wanted, and even as he said it he knew it was a lost cause. He’s avoiding me. He has some nerve, after doing a thing like that!

He rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath—oh, his ribs hurt—and tried again. “Teomitl!”

No answer.

“Teomitl!”

His own voice echoed across the water. There was still no answer. He wasn’t fool enough to dangle his feet in the muddy lake, but he nevertheless sat down as close to it as he dared, feeling the pain of his wounds and a dull ache in his chest he knew he couldn’t blame on the attack. Teomitl either wasn’t within earshot or—more likely—simply wasn’t coming. The reaction Acatl had given him hadn’t been what he was hoping for, and he’d decided it wasn’t worth it. Acatl swallowed once, twice, but the lump in his throat remained.

He sat there until night fell. Nothing happened. Eventually, sick at heart, he went to bed. Maybe he’d get a few hours’ sleep.

The mat was cold and hard under him. It was always cold and hard, but tonight it felt worse. No matter how he tossed and turned, he couldn’t get comfortable. Laying on his stomach hurt. Laying on his back hurt and trapped the too-hot weight of his hair underneath him until he sat up to shift it aside. The night air was just cool enough that he wished for a blanket. Teomitl’s arms around him had been so incredibly warm.

As the distant conchs cried midnight, he rose, tied his cloak, and went out into the courtyard again. The lake was as still as an obsidian mirror. It had been a night like this when he’d met Teomitl for the first time, hadn’t it? When he’d been bone-tired and half delirious with it, shambling like a dead soul, and he’d opened his mouth and...

That was right. He’d been singing. He’d been singing, and Teomitl had called him pretty, had called his voice beautiful. The memory made him blush hard. At least in Teomitl’s eyes, it hadn’t been empty flattery. He knew that now.

Maybe it would work again.

“Sleep—” His voice cracked. He closed his eyes and calmed his breathing. He could try again. “Sleep, my precious silver, my precious jade, sleep...”

There was a splash. He opened his eyes, hoping.

Moonlight caught the jade-green shine of eyes he knew were dark, so wonderfully dark, in daylight. His mouth went dry. For a moment, he couldn’t speak.

And then he caught the curve of a shy smile, the faint flash of white teeth, and it gave him back his voice. “...Teomitl,” he croaked.

Teomitl made a soft noise in his throat, setting his hands at the edge of the courtyard’s tiles. There was something strange about them, and about his neck, but the vulnerable, hopeful look on his face was so much more captivating. “Acatl-tzin. Can I...?”

“Yes.” He didn’t know what he was agreeing to, but it didn’t matter. He’d say yes to whatever Teomitl wanted if it meant he’d look at him like that.

Muscles flexed as Teomitl heaved himself up out of the water. And up. And...oh. Oh.

Now he realized what was so different about him. Where his waist had tapered smoothly from something approximating hips into that long, powerful tail like carved jade set in gold, now the expanse of brown skin continued unabated. Acatl’s private fantasies had been right about the narrow hips and the long, lean, muscular legs, but somehow he hadn’t quite imagined the precise curve of his ass or the way water streamed down his naked body in the moonlight. His...very naked body.

“Gods,” he choked out. He’d really lost too much blood today to be dealing with this.

Teomitl crouched on his heels, which at least partially shielded him from Acatl’s eyes. “Impressed?” And there was that confident, sunny grin he loved, no less devastating for the bluntness of human teeth.

Very. He swallowed roughly, realizing belatedly that Teomitl was shivering; the chill of the night air must be uncomfortable on soaking-wet skin. Without a second thought, he undid his cloak and held it out. “Dry yourself. You’ll catch cold.”

Teomitl sniffed. “Tlanchana don’t get cold.” But he took it and toweled himself off anyway, and by the time he’d wrapped himself in it like a tamale Acatl’s pulse had returned to something very near normal.

“How...?” He gestured at Teomitl’s legs, careful not to look directly at them. A man had some limits.

Teomitl’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. There was something cold and sharp in it, his gaze flat where Acatl would have expected gleeful pride. “Chalchiuhtlicue was generous. And I lead my war band now.”

He swallowed. “...Then...your brother...”

“No longer a problem.”

“Ah. Well.” He dropped his gaze to his feet, taking some comfort in the sensation of solid ground under his bare toes. He had no problem remembering Teomitl’s angry mutterings of a few hours before, his certainty on who had sent the ahuitzotls after them. He did that for me. Whatever he did...that was to protect me. Partly he thought he should be horrified; Tizoc was Teomitl’s brother, after all. But instead all he felt was a bone-deep relief. His working life wasn’t any less dangerous, but at least he’d be safe from that.

Teomitl drew in a long breath, rising to his feet like a newborn fawn. Acatl made an abortive motion towards him but pulled back when he realized the man had it handled, even though his legs and voice shook when he met Acatl’s gaze. “I’m here now, anyway.”

Helpless to resist, he took a step forward. “So you are.” If he reached out—if he was bold enough—they could touch. He didn’t think he was bold enough. Not yet.

Even in the moonlight he could see Teomitl flush. “I thought...you wouldn’t want to see me again.”

It struck him to the heart, and all his resistance crumbled and fell away like dust. Oh, Teomitl. Oh, love. “...I will always want to see you. Come here.”

Teomitl jolted, eyes going wide; then, so hesitant it broke Acatl’s heart, he stepped forward. Scant inches separated them now. “Oh,” he said softly And then he reached out, laying gentle fingers on Acatl’s cheek a hairsbreadth away from the still-vivid scratches. “Acatl-tzin, can I...?”

Acatl trembled. This is it. There’s no going back from this. “Yes,” he whispered.

Their mouths met, and if Acatl’s expectations for his first kiss had been misplaced, his second was just as he’d hoped in his sweetest dreams. He all but melted into Teomitl’s arms, unable to bite back the noise that escaped him when a hand slid into his hair. His own settled at Teomitl’s hips, just where the scales would start; the skin there was deliciously smooth, stretched over lean muscle, and when he dug his fingers in Teomitl hummed in pleasure. It was intoxicating. A little clumsily, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss.

Teomitl broke the kiss only to breathe, “Mmh...” and the way he looked up at him—lashes fluttering, lips hazily parted—was entirely irresistible. Acatl had to kiss him again. This time it was hungrier, deeper, and for a dizzy moment Acatl didn’t want to stop. Teomitl was warm and still mostly, gloriously naked in his arms, and his mat wasn’t far. They didn’t have to stop.

...Except, apparently, they did. As he drew away for air and to wonder how it was that being very enthusiastically kissed—a lovely but undeniably wet activity—had somehow managed to make his mouth drier, he gave Teomitl’s hip a squeeze and murmured, “I’ll show you around the city tomorrow.” Not hand-in-hand, but they would be close. Teomitl would wear his spare clothes and walk the streets as a man, and Acatl would show him all the wonders of Coyoacan.

“Tomorrow. But until then...I just want to do this.” Teomitl’s eyes gleamed as he stroked down Acatl’s spine, the faint sting of nails enough to make Acatl shiver. “And besides, you should rest with your injuries, shouldn’t you? Maybe we can postpone the sightseeing.”

His blood was still pounding in his veins, and all his aches seemed very, very far away. He felt a wry smile tug at his lips. “Is that what you have in mind? Resting?”

“Well.” Teomitl grinned at him. “Mostly.”

Close enough, Acatl decided, and tugged him back in.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #teocatl #ceyaxochitl #paladin writes stuff

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magpiemorality · 5 years

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Older brother Remus protecting baby twins virgil and deceit and 5 year Roman.

I’m in a wingfic mood!!!

Warnings: stealing, implied homelessness, orphans

AO3

***

It was never meant to be like this, dodging through market stalls with an armful of stolen food, chased by the shouts of stomps of the local militia. Remus was meant to be helping out on the family farm, or bored in school, or chasing the cute boy from down the road in the hopes of winning a kiss, not stealing to feed his family.

And yet…

There was something so thrilling about the chase! Maybe it was a little immoral, yeah, but he was faster and smarter than any of the losers they employed to stand around and look mean. They were all out of shape and dressed in rusty armour. Remus was sure their swords weren’t even sharp!

He cackled, sprinting down and alley and leaping up a few low walls to get high enough to unfurl his wings and shoot into the sky where they had no chance of tracking him. They probably hadn’t flown in years either, and he was a sprightly, wiry teenager with adrenalin on his side. Remus was gone before they even reached the alleyway.

He flew straight and true, diving down and gliding over the tree tops of the forest until he spotted a little figure perched in the branches of a tall conifer. It stood up on the branch and waved enthusiastically, and Remus banked a nice, smooth arc around the tree while Roman whooped. It wouldn’t be long before little Roman would be able to fly properly too, and then they could have some real fun.

Roman clambered down and met Remus at the bottom as the eldest brother landed, jumping around his feet and grabbing at all the food there, helping carry bits into the den they’d built. He dusted off his hands and looked around their homely little clearing proudly. It wasn’t much but it was home, and it was pretty beautiful. They had a decent life, out in the wild- freer than anyone in town would ever be. He worried sometimes that the younger boys were missing out in some way, never meeting anyone new or learning more than what he could remember to teach them.

But then they’d smile at him and Remus would forget he ever worried.

As if summoned by the thought, two small blurs shot out of the den towards him, half crawling, half waddling and occasionally hopping with a little flap of their tiny, downy wings. He dropped to his knees and caught them as they arrived with twin squeals of delight, lifting them in each arm to blow raspberries into their cheeks as they babbled in their little baby speak, no doubt telling him about their day.

“Re! Re!” Roman shouted, coming to join them, knocking Remus over with his extra weight and laughing uproariously. “Didyou fight the bad guys again?! Did they try an’ hit you with their swords but they were too slow and old and you gotta ‘way?”

“Oh baby bro, you bet!” Remus crowed, setting the twins down and corralling them into his lap with a curve of his wings, crossing his ankles loosely in front of him. Roman settled down and tugged Dante into his arms, ignoring the baby’s grumble until he resigned himself to his fate and leaned back into the five-year-old’s chest, sucking on the tip of one wing. Virgil lay half in Remus’s lap, and all three of them looked at him with expressions of expectant adoration.

He thumbed some dirt off Virgil’s cheek absently, mulling over where to start.

“Okay, so there I was, innocently trying to find enough grub to feed you little monsters, when-”

#writepie #ts remus #ts deceit #ts roman #ts virgil #wing fic #fantasy au #ts writing #ts sanders sides #ts sanders sides aus #ts sanders sides fic #sanders sides #stealing #homelessness #possibly orphans

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vvakarians · 4 years

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World lore and Arc 1 Character lore from Melrose: City of Monsters! This world is a story that myself and my boyfriend @thecoffeerain

Maxime and Victor belong to my boyfriend!

Charlie’s Twitter | Charlie’s P a t r e o n

Info under the cut!

ABOUT MELROSE: CITY OF MONSTERS

Melrose is a city just south of New York City in America, it’s a small town that is unassuming at first but is filled with dark secrets. Vampires, witches, werewolves, and humans exist together, though in a vaguely dysfunctional way. The government broke the news about vampires and werewolves only five years previous, though they’ve lived in society for far longer than that. At this point people are getting used to them living among the human population, but knowledge about magic is still kept under wraps. Vampirism, lycanthropy, and magic comes from a disease that is both highly contagious and genetic. Once you have it, you have it for life, eternal or not.This information is primarily for the first arc. MC information will be updated with each arc.

MAIN CHARACTERS OF MELROSE: CITY OF MONSTERS

Father Charles ‘Charlie’ Larousse-Robineau

Pronouns: They/them

Occupation: ‘Priest’

Bloodline: Vampire, former Human, Crowley Lineage

Maker: Belladonna Crowley, the Duchess

Origin: New Orleans, Louisiana, USA

Love Interest: Victor Talbot

Father Robineau is a charming and well traveled individual, having been born in the 1860’s to a fur merchant and his musician wife. A tragedy struck the family in the early 1880’s when Charlie’s father snapped after a fight between them, and he supposedly killed both Charlie’s younger brother Jean Marie, as well as their mother, brutally with an axe. Charlie barely got out alive, killing their father in self defense. After getting medical attention they fled to England, hoping that their extended family would take them in.When they didn’t, Charlie settled in Whitechapel, hired by a brothel to be a charlatan, medic, and overall fluffer for the girls there. It is there where they fell in love with a woman named Lilith Brown, or Lily, as she preferred. They were best friends and messed around with each other, but Lily turned their courtship down. Sad but understanding, Charlie continued to work as a charlatan, only to watch as their friends would begin dying one by one. People suspected Jack the Ripper and would lend no help to the people affected. As we know, the killer was not caught, and unfortunately one of the last to be taken would be Lily.Whether it was Jack, or a copycat, Charlie was determined to figure out who it was. Driven near mad by grief, Charlie called out to anything that would listen while attending the autopsy of Lily. Who would show up would not be their savior, but their Devil. A woman calling herself the Duchess. She promised Charlie power to find the person who harmed their friends in exchange for a favor at a later date. Charlie was then sacrificed on an altar far below Whitechapel, but to what goddess or entity, they did not know. All they know is that they were opened up much like the corpses on the autopsy tables in the morgue, and then drained of all blood, turned into a bloodthirsty monster. Then abandoned on the streets. After becoming feral and accidentally slaying two people, Charlie turned themself in, though they were quickly turned over to the Vampiric Council of the United Kingdom. This is where they were rehabilitated by Delilah Ainsworth and her husband Aegis Stone, then allowed to return to the USA. Though it was still hard to find a food source and the only thing they could think of to get a large group, but not have to worry about too many people finding out -- was build a congregation. This of course backfired and they made more of a cult than anything, and one of their cult members developed an unhealthy obsession with them. His name was Cedric.When Charlie saw what they had created and tried to disband the cult, Cedric intervened, but a few weeks afterwards Charlie would poison his blood supply with silver, enabling them to flee. After that they never saw Cedric again and would go on to serve in World War II before settling down in Melrose in the 1940’s, creating the cathedral they now work in, St Januarius’, but making sure that a cult never happens again. Thankfully with blood bags it’s become less of an issue.Their life changes though when a man named Victor walks into their church…

Victor Talbot

Pronouns: He/him or they/them

Occupation: Sex worker / Artist / Cat Wrangler

Origin: Sussex, England, United Kingdom

Love Interest: Charlie Robineau

Victor is the only child born to a surgeon and an art lecturer. He spent quite a bit of time with his mother who taught him all about Hinduism and the ways of their culture. As a child and throughout his school life he was bullied for being larger than his peers; this made him quite shy and destroyed his self esteem. He did find a love of dance though when he would watch Bollywood films with his mother at home, and then at school he got involved in modern dance. Though it was in secret, as he did not want his peers to bully him further. As he kept at it, Victor lost weight and began eating better, becoming how he’s seen today. Which of course gained him attention and popularity where there was none before.

While studying medicine, as his father had proclaimed he would as all of the men of his family had, Victor found that he could help people by giving them the medicine they needed but couldn’t necessarily afford. He then began to sell narcotics to addicts to cover the cost of the extravagant lifestyle forced upon him by his peers. A tragic accident occurred when the man he was seeing stole from his stash and OD’d, then was brought to the hospital where Victor was doing his residency. Victor did try to save his life but the man ended up dying. Of course he came clean about it to his dad, who was the chief of surgery at the hospital, but Victor’s dad told him to keep quiet about it lest he lose his job. Unfortunately, the damage was done and Victor became haunted by the loss of life at what he believed was his hands. Unable to cope with what he had caused, he began to take the pills he used to sell and became hooked. After a severe mental break having spent too many hours on shift he was suspended and dismissed from the program, now having to deal with being haunted continuously with what he’d done.

He would then fall into a drug spiral where he stole his father’s script pad, implicating him in his stealing, which got his father suspended. During this time he began taking street drugs and getting involved in the party scene, all to whisk him away from the trauma he suffered. This cycle only stopped when a tragedy happened for a second time. Another man he had been seeing died while they were together, and he woke up to his lifeless body in the bed. It’s here that Victor blacks out and does not have much memory of, only remembers waking up in the hospital and being convinced to go to rehab.

After being released and having his parents hovering over him every second of the day, he relapsed, then was cut off by his mother and father. He would then sell all of his belongings, or what he could, and bought a ticket to America where he would be picked up by the infamous Red in Melrose, New York. It would be here that he’d meet Father Robineau at the St. Januarius Cathedral…

Hazel Coldbrook

Pronouns: They/he

Occupation: Personal Assistant + Receptionist

Origin: Manhattan, New York City, New York, USA

Love Interest: Maxime St. Martin

Hazel was adopted at the age of six by a Jewish doctor and a First Nations professor of linguistics at one of the universities in New York. He was put into the system after his father lost custody following a terrible car accident that killed his mother. He did have two younger siblings that were sent to different homes, he never saw them afterward. Hazel did have an older adopted sister named Morgan, who was often cruel and rude to him. She got him into a lot of trouble and often got him bullied by other children at school, more than he already was. It didn’t help that he was starting to have issues seeing and hearing things, on top of paranoid delusions.

His parents did their best to set him up as much as they could, and he did get better eventually. Therapy and medication got him on the right track, though his night terrors do plague him still. Once he went away to college, Morgan was cut off from the family around the same time after she was arrested for violent breaking and entering. They didn’t see her for a while after that, though at one point she did make a brief appearance. Morgan chased after him and one night broke into his dorms while he was with his girlfriend, Willow. She was killed after trying to wrestle Morgan away from him, and he was bitten by Morgan. Thankfully, he survived, but he did find out that his sister had been turned into a vampire.

Charlie found him in the dorm shortly after the attack, having gone hunting during a blood bag shortage. They took him to the hospital and then offered him a job as a PA at their church, helping transfer all of his college credit over to the local community college where he is now studying psychology and theology. During his time in Melrose though, he begins attending drag performances at a local club and comes upon a gorgeous drag queen...

Maxime St. Martin / Enzée Bytten

Pronouns: He/him (She/her, in drag)

Occupation: Club Owner/Drag Queen

Bloodline: Vampire, former human, Seraphim Lineage

Maker: Gabriel

Origin: Saint Martin d'Oydes en Ariège Pyrénées, France

Love Interest: Hazel Coldbrook

Maxime was born in a small, self contained village where he did not leave much until his late teens. Unfortunately, the reason why he left was not a matter of simply being sick of the small village life, it was due to a much darker purpose. A man named Gabriel had come to the village and infected the residents with vampirism, causing them all to turn on each other night by night. This was but one prong in a grand scheme to build an entire army of vampiric soldiers indoctrinated with Gabriel’s radical beliefs about humans and vampires. Maxime --being young and impressionable-- followed his Maker in his footsteps, having a sort of love for him that one could only have for a Maker.

As the decades went on, Maxime would turn people he met and attempt to sway them to their side of things, but became infatuated with human culture as he went. Eventually he saw the error of his Maker’s ways and began planning a rebellion against Gabriel. Maxime even managed to convince a human soldier who he had picked up during World War II, who he would then turn after he would get severely injured. You could say the plan went off without a hitch, though there were many casualties and a lot of fighting.

Eventually he would move on to the states where he steadily sunk into his trauma, though he would find a club to make his own in Melrose. There he would build a reputation of being cold and calculating, but as Enzée he is warm and lively -- or rather she is.Le Syndicat is where Maxime would meet Hazel, who had just come to the bar for a drink…

VAMPIRES:

Vampirism, lycanthropy, and magic all come from a single source. Different strains of diseases that all come from one person, who thus far has been lost to history, as well as the war that led to the werewolves and vampires becoming tense with each other. Vampires come from the strain that needs blood to survive, but also an undead host. It attacks all systems aside from the nervous, and shuts most of them down. They do process blood but not in the same way that a human would food. Their waste system is completely cut off and their stomach has become oddly misshapen, different. It ‘digests’ the blood and filters it back through the body so that the vampire can use it as a source of energy when healing, keeping them young, and making sure their body doesn’t rot from the inside out due to their functions being cut off. The disease is parasitic in nature this way, but eventually becomes symbiotic. Vampires need blood to survive and can be affected by blood born illnesses, though never die. At least usually. In the cases of aggressive cancers and autoimmune disorders, it can kill the host, but it’s very rare. Those with vampirism can only be turned after being fed on, drained, and then made to drink the blood of a disease carrying host; be born as a Stillborn, or be born as a fully fledged vampire. They are ever immortal, cannot eat human food unless it has blood in it and even then they cannot eat a lot of it, though this is not the same for liquids, and every bloodline has a ‘feral’ type that is different from another. Reproduction is a bit of an unknown for vampires. There are creatures called Stillborns that are the successful offspring of a vampire and a human, or are the human offspring of a vampire when the disease becomes recessive. Almost always the disease is terminal and it kills them, then resurrects them from the ages 19-31. Scientists think this could be the peak age range for humans healthwise, which is why the disease stops their aging as well at that time. Otherwise, vampires can have offspring with other vampires, however it is unsure how. It could be that their reproduction systems come alive when with a compatible partner, but no one knows for sure and it isn’t full proof. Even so most vampires, just as they will do with humans to prevent possible Stillborns, will wear protection when with other vampires. It is whispered that there are ways a vampire and a werewolf could also have child, but seeing as one is dead and one is alive, that is skepticism at best. Vampires who are born from other vampires age very slowly until that 19-31 age range and then suddenly stop. They can of course be created when one is fed off of or drained, then made to drink the blood of a host. These vampires are called ‘newborns’ and are often very attached to their makers. They acquire a Bond, which is crucial for a newborn, though they don’t always get that treatment from their Maker. A newborn without a Bond will have issues trying to feed and they often become feral. If they do form a Bond, they will feel drawn to their Maker for decades if not for life. Some may need extra care and attention, even touch when they’ve been turned. The stage when a newborn becomes a stable vampire varies from bloodline to bloodline. Becoming feral is usually something a vampire wants to avoid. It happens when they are too hungry and have been starved of blood for too long, or sometimes when they experience very strong emotions. The form of being feral varies from bloodline to bloodline, just as it would for werewolves. When being fed off of a human will feel the pain of the bite but then a euphoria will settle, which is dangerous at times. A pheromone is also given off that makes them smell and taste amazing to a human (such as saliva and skin, this is not a reference to cannibalism lmao), which was once so they could draw in prey to better feed off of. In Melrose, vampires and werewolves live together in a tenuous harmony. Again no one really can point out why they have tension but still that thought has lived on in more traditional, and older people of both kinds. They try not to encroach on the others territory and spaces, and their councils work together along with the human government when needed. Vampires answer to the Vampiric Council of their country when a crime has been committed or they need other governmental help. Currently the hub for vampiric activity is in two parts. St. Januarius’ Cathedral, and Le Syndicat, respectively a church and a nightclub. The church is a safehouse for all werewolves, vampires, and humans , and the nightclub is well...a nightclub. One is ran by a charming but seedy priest, and the other is ran by a cold, but sweet once you worm your way into his heart.

WEREWOLVES:

Werewolves, like stated above in the vampire section, come from one large strain. There was a war a very long time ago but no one really knows that anymore, and there’s just some strain among the more traditional folks. Werewolves can be born with lycanthropy, or they can be turned; though werewolves can have offspring with humans at the normal rate unlike vampires. Their children tend to be hyperactive and need a lot of attention to keep their instincts under control, much like newborn vampires. They burn off a ton of calories and usually need to be on a high calorie diet because of this as well as high in iron, which becomes worse during a full moon. Changing in and out of their forms, whether it be bipedal or all fours, tends to burn off a lot of calories and consume a lot of energy. Werewolf kids need that extra supervision so that they don’t hurt themselves during the night, but they will learn to cope as they get older. Pain management those nights is a must, a lot of werewolves keep a well stocked medicine cabinet. Being turned into a werewolf is not as a rampant problem as people used to think, it never was. Usually they can only turn someone during a full moon when their saliva has more kick to it and is full of the lycanthropic strain, which their body has on a cycle much like a period. However, they can turn someone on the odd night but it’s usually just before or just after a full moon, and they will not get the chance to turn someone during a full moon that time around. Werewolves also often experience PMS like symptoms close to the full moon, no matter what gender they are.

Their hair grows very thick and fast, usually covering their entire body in a peach fuzz and growing more prominent on their arms, chest, pubic area, back, head, etc. Sometimes the back of their hands and feet as well. They see exceptionally well in the dark, usually have the speed and strength to rival vampires, and are always on the taller side. Though there are some exceptions, especially for human born wolves, or those turned into one. Aging is slow for them, some can live up to three hundred years before they pass on. Werewolf society usually comes in the form of a pack, designating an Alpha and Betas (usually two to three) in their own way and coming to them for advice as well as governing matters. They have their own council and converse with the human or vampire government if needed. How they govern is really up to them however, just as it is for vampires. In Melrose there are smaller packs everywhere, and a bigger one out on the edge of town. This pack has recently elected (through a physical challenge of the previous Alpha) Dante Kāne as their Alpha, and he has two Betas : Serj Allgood, and Ty Hacon. The previous Alpha, a man named Gunner, is a very traditional man who put into practice not so great things (drug running, not so safe sex work, etc) but Dante is slowly trying to ease the pack into doing better things.

MAGIC:

Magic is an inherited trait, usually through a distant tie to the strain that gave the world vampirism and lycanthropy, or it is learned. Witches can be born to any human, werewolf, or vampire; though most humans still believe magic to not be real. It can also come in the form of anything, blood magic, rituals, soothsaying, fortune telling, necromancy, green magic, etc. It all exists all at once. Some believe in gods, some don’t, it’s all up to the person.

#vampire #werewolf #fantasy #melrose

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