#And yet leaving the symbol of those bonds behind until that desire is released and satisfied

[erisenyo]

Having thoughts about Blue Eye Samurai and desire, like this whole entire show is about wanting. Desire is presented as a means of self-awareness and self-knowledge. Who you are is someone who wants, and turning away from your secret lusts is an act of self-deception. It's turning away from your *self* and therefore putting you at war with yourself.

But we also see desire as a tool. Your desires wielded against you, your desires the means by which others can access and gain power, your wanting opening you up to be used by the object of your want. Knowing your desires means someone knows you in ways they can use, if your desires are overpowering enough to make you so singularly focused on them.

And yet muddled desires or misdirected wanting opens one up to aimlessness, to time and effort wasted, to being a piece in the game rather than a player.

Desire is a clarifying, motivating purpose. Recognizing your true desire gives you direction and momentum and moves you from passive reactivity to action, to agency. Singular, overwhelming, crystalline desire for revenge powers Mizu through every challenge. It is the source of Mizu's strength and when it is known it is what allows Mizu's enemies to set traps, to counterplan, to escape when otherwise they'd be caught.

Feel desire. Feel it strongly and deeply and powerfully and with overwhelming force. Feel your desire in every step and breath and moment, until it's all you are, and never show it until you absolutely have to, until you can't hold it back anymore and it explodes out of you.

This show is insane.

[grabthemhorns-old]

Obey Me! fic - Lucifer/MC NSFW

Hierarchy

Sub/Dom Restraint Lucifer/female MC Warnings: Blood Part One - Command

Lucifer and Ivy have had a quaint afternoon in the greenhouse planting roses, but in truth, Lucifer has been having a Bad Day, and craves the touch - and command - of his lover.

------------------------------------------------

“How old are you?” asked Ivy, pushing down the soil of her pot, careful of the delicate rosebud at its centre.

Lucifer paused, watching the dead leaf of his clipped rose, fall. “I stopped counting when I fell to Devildom.”

The words were simple, level, contained within the foliage of the greenhouse they’d spent the most of the afternoon in. It was warm here, and he’d shed his coats down to his black shirt, rolled to the elbows. They were hung up on a decorated peg by the door next to Ivy’s gold threaded scarf - a gift from Mammon.

Ivy lifted the pot onto the shelf with the others. All that was left was the rose bush in his hands. “I find that hard to believe,” said Ivy as she pulled off her gloves and leant against the counter, hip to wood. “Diligent, poised, perfect Lucifer doesn’t remember when he fell to hell?”

He plucked a leaf clean off its stem, casting its life aside. “The transition was...complicated.” He leaned forward on the table, claws pricking the wood top harder than he wished. “The war lasted years - years that merged into each other, that we don’t all remember individually - or want to. And the years down here haven’t all been...smooth.”

Nails gnawed at wood as he talked, picking deep, dark trenches to bury his words.

Ivy reached out, tentative, hand poised above Lucifer’s, before she touched lightly, the dim blue of the garden lights washing over the golden mark of her pact with Mammon.

They hadn’t told her about that part. That a mark would manifest on her skin upon creating a pact. It hadn’t been painful, just...odd. A tether to her demon, a brand of their bargain. Why didn’t they get one, she’d asked. “Because in the end, we offer more ,” Lucifer had said, simply. Proudly.

Sometimes she touched Lucifer’s when she was lonely, afraid...aroused.

Did he know? She never asked. He never told.

“You never talk about the war, the years that followed.” Her hand trailed up his exposed arm, indented with two large scars.

“I doomed my brothers, my sister, because of my pride, which became my definition .” Claws shredded the wood beneath his hand. Ivy held steady, held firm, feeling the demon beneath desperate for release.

“You don’t really believe that,” she said softly. “You stood against tyranny, and for what you believe in. It just-” It was hot where his wings spread out from at his back, Ivy could feel the heat burn through his shirt as she ran her fingers up, and down, braving the impending yawn of black feathers, sharp enough to cut. “It just...failed.” But they never came.

“I, failed.” His claws retracted, leaving behind shreds of wood at their tips.

Ivy said nothing. She touched one of his scars.

Lucifer flinched, a hazy memory yanked like a too long embedded thorn.

It’s not her fault.

He swallowed.

It’s not her fault you remember.

“I failed and what am I now?” Lucifer smirked. “Satan had it right, a glorified lap dog , with no mind of my own. All I do, I do for Diavolo.”

Ivy’s hand hovered above his arm. She’d felt that flinch, and she suspected. She was afraid to touch, afraid to unravel memories that weren’t hers to be unpacked. Lightly, she brushed his stomach, and looked up. “Is all you do, just for him?”

A growl, low and feral rumbled from his chest, a chest that pushed Ivy against the worktop, the wood biting at her lower back. She looked up, the red of his eyes a slit against the monochrome of his beauty. “Let me see my brand,” he demanded, fingers clawing down the front of her chest, already unhooking a button, and another. He didn’t wait for an answer.

Of all seven brands, Lucifer’s was the most elaborate. And it had hurt, unlike the others, when it was etched onto her skin with an invisible hand. Lucifer had watched, plucking apart her shirt - just like now - as the delicate lines formed, it felt like the times she’d gotten a tattoo in the human realm.

And as he watched, she wondered how much control they had in their brands. Enough that the symbolism represented each brother individually, but beyond that, they simply appeared on her skin with the unseen magic that held their bonds together.

Until Lucifer.

It was as if he guided the lines himself, by eye, as if searing the skin himself with just a look. Ivy had been too afraid to touch it until she felt the pain settle, afraid it might cut away her finger. But she’d watched, curiously, as his wings were branded onto her skin - one set black, the other white. The bottom wings spread across the top of her breasts, moving as she breathed.

Just like now.

Lucifer traced the brand with a painted nail, glowing red beneath its demon’s touch. “You never use your...gift.” He paused at his last word, catching her eyes as he spoke, making sure she knew that it was exactly that. A gift, he’d given.

Ivy tilted her head, spreading her hand on his stomach, pushing.

He pushed back, claws extending against her bare chest. “Why?”

“I know you enjoy being in control,” said Ivy, delicately, watching the quiver in his touch. “So why take that away?”

There was little warning before Lucifer hoisted Ivy onto the worktop, knocking an empty pot to the floor with a gentle thud. But after, he just, stopped.

“Use it.” The words licked against her ear, low and longing as he clawed a hand through her ruby rose hair, the restraint in his touch a whisper against her neck. “Take it away.” A claw, two, pressed against the nape of her neck. “Before I lose it.”

Ivy could barely breathe.

She turned, their faces so close his eyelashes kissed her cheek, as he waited. And waited. The tremor of his composure, waning, as their eyes met.

Her voice cracked, shaken with desire and power , as she spoke. “I command you, Lucifer, to fall to your knees.”

And he did.

Dust and compost smeared his pristine trousers as the brand glowed at her words, pulling on the tether in their bond, and executing her command.

Lucifer looked up, arms tightly held at his side, awaiting her command. A shock of hair stuck to the edge of his lips, parted, the desperation of an order tucked behind, wanting.

Watching, waiting, Ivy unhooked the buttons of her shirt. Lucifer’s arms twitched against his invisible restraints. Again. Again.

Click. The last button of her shirt, and it slid open, the soft cotton catching on the peak of her nipples as she leaned forward, a wash of red hair her veil, as she gazed down from above. “Can you speak?”

“Yes.” Simple, weak. The single word almost lost behind his lips, shadowed by the fury in his eyes. Ivy knew each of the brothers reacted differently to their seals commands - a reflection of their power, she assumed. And with pride, something like this must be a struggle, despite the circumstance. And she hadn’t yet begun to consider the impact of their emotional bond either.

Lucifer was inches away from the edge of the worktop, and her spread legs. His eyes followed her every movement as she leaned forward more, an arm reaching out to pluck the lock of hair from his lips.

He bared a fang. Ivy touched, rolling a thumb along the sharp tip.

Hiss.

He tried to bite down, but he couldn’t.

Slip. One finger, two, tugged at his bottom lip, pulling away.

A sharp gust of wind almost knocked Ivy back against the glass wall as Lucifer’s wings snapped out loud and wide, as his horns curved to a dangerously delicate point, as he trembled, weighted by the power of his demonic visage, succumbed to its knees.

Breathless, Ivy touched a horn, clicking a nail along the deep ridges, indented by the moonlight. “How long can it restrain your power,” she asked, a quiver of fear coiling around her trepidation.

Lucifer simply stared. Crimson tipped eyes, fearless, cloying. “Why don’t you try and see?”

A challenge. A goad. She dragged her nail deeper against his horn, remembering from their first night together how sensitive they were. And from the way his bound body quivered, the touch did not disappoint.

“Take off my trousers,” she said, watching his deft fingers slipping open the decorated buttons. “And careful of those claws.” Ivy chided, pushing back a falling lock of his hair.

“These?” Slowly, achingly, he rolled down her trousers as commanded, dragging the tips of his claws along her thighs, just enough to mark, to let her remember their true hierarchy.

It was enough to make her forget his leash, for her to relinquish a thread of control as she quivered beneath the claws, revelling in the spike of pain that he knew she loved.

But just, a moment. A moment he’d pay for.

Naked, but for her shirt, she snapped to his gaze, watching the red flare in his eyes as she gave her command. “Hands behind your back until I say you can move them.”

She watched him test the restraint at once. Unyielding, but for the quake of his wings, curling around his body, seeking hers like a maw. The tip of a feather touched her arm. Ivy moaned, pressing her thighs against the worktop, the wooden ledge biting into her thick flesh.

“You won’t last,” whispered Lucifer, shaded by the canopy of his wings, the moonlight broken through the stipple of ruffled feathers.

Ivy smirked. “I don’t need your hands.”

Lucifer licked his fang.

“I command you,” she whispered, brushing her fingers against his cheek-

“Careful with your choice of words, Ivy,” lulled Lucifer as he felt her touch his lip, so close to a fang. It whispered for the lick of blood. “Demons make a meal of humans, in more ways than one.”

Ivy bit her lip at his teasing, but she knew the seal would understand her command. This, is where their emotional bond worked . It understood on a level more primal than words. Shuffling to the edge of the worktop, Ivy leaned down, close, tilting her lover’s head up with a pinch.

He was ravenous, the ruby in his eyes eclipsing the white. It painted his lashes, singed with the power of hell. She wondered what colour they’d been in heaven.

“I command you,” she drawled against his ear, silky strands catching her curled lips, “to eat me.”

All Ivy heard was a low, raw growl, before her legs were spread, sharply. She braced herself, looking twice as the ebony feathers of his wings wrapped around her thighs and held her steady, as Lucifer leant forward, looked up, and bared a fang. Before the flash of his eyes closed, and he drew his tongue along her damp slit, achingly slow.

Snap. Her hands clamped onto his horns, fingers slip, sliding across the rough ridges, bitten by battle, and worn by war, she touched their memories as she head his head, a loose guidance met by a growl of resistance, resistance that tightened the feathers at her thighs, turning the skin around the ebony, ivory.

Ivy, sang. Her moans kissing his ears with every stroke of his tongue, with every brush of his lips across flesh he knew; he knew just where to touch to pluck the melody of her song, timed  to the beat of her heart, thrumming against the tips of his feathers.

Doing this beneath the seals command was...different. It was like a noose around his neck that would tighten in struggle with his power and pull him back down, down, if he stopped, and somehow, that made it better.

Lucifer paused, pulling back to simply watch. For a moment.

She was always so breathless. Loud. Void of shame. Her hands wrung with desperation as they twisted through his hair, his horns.

He shivered as he smelled blood drip, drip from her finger. She’d nicked it on the tip of his horn again. Lucifer licked his fang as he felt the noose tighten.

“You’re resisting it,” breathed Ivy, her staggered words delicious against Lucifer’s ears. She drew her hand along his horn. Lucifer could almost taste the blood as she smeared it across his horn, trickling over the moonlit ridges.

“You’d rather I comply?” he said against her thigh.

Ivy laughed, pushing him back down by the horns. He spread her thighs, more.

The floor bit into his knees, the cold forgotten from the heat of her flesh, of her thighs against his face, drowned in decadence. The earthy smell of the shifted compost was so distinct against Ivy’s familiar, heavy scent. Sweet, but tart - like blood.

Insatiable.

She moved, relentlessly. And the closer she got, the more his wings struggled to pin her in place, the sleek feathers imprinting her thick flesh. He felt his claws unsheathe on instinct the more she moved. Often, he’d latch on to her with a biting hand to keep her exactly where he wanted her. Her body was marked with his permanence, endlessly.

“Lucifer.”

A single whisper of his name slipped past her lips.

He curled his tongue, slowly, feeling every quiver of her body from lips, to lips. She tasted hot. Sweet. Decadent. There wasn’t enough time left to devour her whole.

Lucifer could feel her tremble, he could feel her thighs struggle against his wings, pinned to the wood, dimpled from the pressure. ‘Stay’ he mouthed against her slit. But what position was he in to demand?

She tugged on his horns once more, and he obeyed, feeling the breathlessness of the noose.

His tongue spoke his desire, locked away, untouched, and pressed tightly against his trousers  - begging.

Crack.

The noose frayed against a surge of his power. Ivy felt it too, felt it radiate from the brand on her chest, glowing a soft red. She trembled, with more than pleasure.

Another moan, another cry, another twist of his hair through fingers, stained with blood. Lips pursed around her bud, he pulled, feeling the surge in pleasure. She was almost there. Nails scratching - “ Lucifer! -

And with one last touch, she was there, a silent cacophony of bliss spread through her body, curling her toes, arching her back in a paint of opulence, as if she spread her wings like the angel she was, beside the angel he used to be.

“Release me,” he demanded against her trembling thighs, the ends of his wings pricking the skin.

Ivy, breathless, looked down through her veil of ruby hair, met with an unwavering gaze. “I-I release you, Lucifer-”

She hadn’t even finished saying his name when Lucifer flipped Ivy around and pinned her against the worktop, cradling her bare back against his chest. He lifted her bloodied finger to his lips, and licked, drawing a fang along the broken skin. A moan touched his throat, hungry, raw.

His wings spread wide, blocking out the moonlight to a trickle, before wrapping around Ivy like a claw, the tips grazing her arms, her hands and tangling with her ruby hair.

Lucifer stretched a hand along her spine, up, up. “Time to put you in your place.”

[reynesofcastamere]

Jagged Crowns(2/2)[β]

(A/N:As previously discussed, this is not a continuation , but rather a ‘same scenario, different circumstances’ deal. The primary difference between the two is Darksider!Ahsoka. So yes, this one is going to be NSFW *cough* for various reasons. Also, to reiterate:(since I mentioned this in the tags and not everyone has the time/inclination to read those), I have removed the previous limit and my inbox is open for questions, drabbles and prompts. Keep in mind that sometimes asks do get lost and that it is never my intention to deliberately ignore someone. That being said, warnings for: gore, violence, death, intrusive/manipulative thoughts, possessiveness, bloodplay, powerplay, biting, mentions of exhibitionism kink and...Look, if two people having rough sex directly after battle while there are still dead bodies in the room squicks you out, best to give this a pass. Now, on to the fic! Unbeta’d.)

The Sith are fools. Locking themselves into a cycle of a beast devouring its’ own tail, gorging themselves even as they lose their most vital components. Ahsoka and her Lord are strong, united in purpose and potency, the Dark Side practically leaping to obey their will: As they pull the Emperor off his throne, drag him through the blood and viscera of his loyal protectors, and cleave his decrepit body with their blades until he is so much burnt offal. A fitting sacrifice for his conquerors.  Scarcely are their weapons deactivated and holstered before she is upon him, lips and tongues battling fiercely as they negotiate a haphazard path towards their new place of power. Pieces of armour and clothing are nearly torn off in desperate haste until Ahsoka springs upwards. knees pressed against his thighs as he drops back onto the throne. Her hands slide from his shoulders, along his nape, to trace and tug at the base of his posterior horns, a gratifying purr vibrating deep in his chest.  She pulls back for a moment, just to bask in the image he makes; The terrible beauty of shadow and flame, crowned with sharpened bone. Now a sovereign in truth, not just appearance. Yet even in this moment of triumph, his ghosts will not be silent. Especially the old slime-snake.Their multitudes are known to each other, the recriminations, the reckless urges, the eternally-unsatisfied needs. And while they cannot remove them entirely the voices can at least be silenced for a time.

Ahsoka presses the pad of her left thumb to one of his horn-tips until it bleeds, then brushes it across his lower lip.His tongue darts out to taste her blood, even as she brings the cut digit to her sternum, tracing a rough copy of the symbol that adorns his own. Through their bond she coaxes his metaphysical hands to join hers in wrapping around the venomous shade’s throat. “He doesn’t get to have you anymore.” She snarls in protective fury, her own gaze infernal with the intensity of it as they choke the monster’s whispers down to nothing. One death is not enough. She will kill every trace of Sidious in her Lord, in the galaxy over and over again until nothing is left.  He loves her. For her spirit, her empathy, for being the one who stays when so many others have fallen or abandoned him. She knows this without Maul ever needing to say the words. It is branded in his eyes, on her soul, in every brush of their minds through the Force. She does her best to return the gift of that certainty, the assurance that she is his. There will never be anyone else. Her hips circle and grind against his as his hands sweep down her torso, stopping to squeeze her waist before fingertips hook into the top of her leggings. He eases them down, revealing her by slow degrees until the fabric pools around her calves. She claims his lips in an eager rush, tasting the faint trace of her own blood as she reaches down to press two of his fingertips deep into her soaked channel with her right hand. The other draws him out, anointing his shaft with crimson liquid. They pant in anticipation, trading bites and shuddering, deep moans, pelvises meeting in teasing slides even as their fingers work in frenzied rhythm.  “Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

“And who am I?”

“My Empress.”

“Yessssss.....” She removes his digits and impales herself on him, effortless and without shame. Ahsoka arches in sheer pleasure as she sinks down to the hilt, kept upright only by the hands that cage her hips. Her current perspective of the room is tilted and stained with carnage, but it is only too easy to envision the near future; Their own guards silent, still, and longing as their rulers writhe and rut together. She knows he can see it too, how the thought makes her gasp and squirm. When she meets Maul’s gaze again, it is molten with obsession and lust.  They’ve danced with the thrill of being caught before, though never quite like this. There’s little need to hide or wait now that they can fuck where-and-whenever they please, within reason. Ahsoka’s hips circle as her walls contract, keeping him embedded deep within. There’s a slight ridge near the base that’s absolutely maddening when it rubs against her clit, she has to fight not to press frantically against it. She wants this to last, after all. Maul has other ideas, though, one hand crushing her against his front as the other digs into her backside. He’s biting repeatedly at her throat, leaving a messy collar of bruises and leaking cuts behind, growling like a feral beast. She claws at him in turn, hissing and keening. It’s too much and still not enough until- “Come.” She cannot refuse the command, rough and possessive as it is; Dragging him over the edge with her and crying out in sharp ecstasy. But he’s not done, discarding her leggings and boots before turning them. Her spine is pressed against the back of the throne with him kneeling between her thighs, legs firmly wrapped around his hips. He is still hard, twitching and slick from their first climax as he re-enters her slowly. She welcomes the burn of the intrusion, the struggle of her overstimulated nerves adjusting to his girth.

He leads her on with shallow plunges, little nips of his teeth to her lekku. It’s deeply frustrating because he knows what she wants, yet when she tries to direct his mouth elsewhere he traps her wrists in one hand and pins them above her head. “You can do better than this.” Ahsoka points out, wriggling to try and get more friction, more speed, more anything to no avail. “Not until you beg.” Maul purrs, so close that he might as well be kissing her, eyes and tone heavy with promise. One that he, of course, doesn’t follow through on. Her heels press into his lower spine in retaliation, watching his eyelids flicker as his breath sibilates between his teeth. “You really think you can wait that long?” She hums, smiling as his hips buck in instinctive reaction. It is all a game to them. She could break free or stop him at any time, but she doesn’t care to. And he desires her resistance just as much as her submission. “Absolutely.” He asserts in a low growl, claiming her mouth with his. They lose themselves in this for some time: Her attempting to spur on his aggression while he toys with her lekku, neck, and breasts.

Finally, she decides to have some mercy on him. “Master, please.” Ahsoka sobs, sounding half-crazed and hoarse. “Harder.” She arches her body and ripples her core in a desperate plea. “I need you to break me.” It is enough to unleash the primal creature that lurks beneath his skin, and she cries out when he slams into her at last. Maul is all but violating her with each searing, forceful thrust and all she can do is plead for him to keep going.

An exchange of yes, more, please, mine, yours, always falls from their lips, teeth bared in pleasured grimaces. She loses herself in him, vision blinking between his face and his own view of her. Their tangled thoughts are no less scintillating, fragmented and chaotic as they are. But for a moment, there is a clear vision: An Empire free of the corrupt, the grasping, and the fearful. A galaxy at peace, its Emperor and Empress with heirs both of their blood and taken in by choice. It is beautiful, and she knows with every fibre of her being that they can make it a reality before it splinters into a dazzling ring of coloured light and she wails...

He is still pounding into her, triggering aftershocks that are rapidly building towards another climax.The throne is a mess beneath them, essence pooling underneath her backside even as their joining only grows more hurried and violent. Her hands are free again, nails raking his back, breath escaping in faint whines and keens while he growls and pants in off-key rhythm. Her cunt is in absolute agony from being forced to take this savage treatment so soon after release, yet she cannot bring herself to stop or even slow down. So close...He bites directly over where she had left a crude approximation of his markings earlier, and she whites out in pain-laced bliss as he roars. Ahsoka gulps down air when she comes back to herself, feeling warm wetness and hard muscle underneath her fingertips. She doesn’t need to look to know that she’s shredded his back to ribbons again. They’re both going to need bacta patches pretty soon, if only to prevent infection. Getting their clothes back on wouldn’t hurt either. But not just yet. Not while Maul is kissing her so very softly, approval radiating in the Dark Side and his thoughts. Because she loves him, she will give him this, and all of her, forever. (A/N: This...took a bit longer to type than I initially planned. Curse you, writer’s block. Going to try and get the next installation of my main series or the Mando!AU up next, though as usual I make no definite guarantees on that. The muse is veeeeery fickle at times. Cheers, everyone!)

[blubelyakova]

🎵 And I've got nothing to say

I just want to be near you,

And I, I'm losing my way,

Nobody else can save me. 🎵

~~~

"I'll be out for a while, don't wait up."

Blu hardly slowed as she offered that unconventional sort of goodnight, slipping through the front door and out into the darkness without so much as another word, or glance behind her. Heil would be leaving soon, she knew. All others were gone, off enjoying vacation and parties, and who knows what. And Blu, once more, would be roaming an eerily quiet house in the night alone, whenever sleep would decide so cruelly to evade her. If this chance was not taken now, there was no telling when she might be able to act.

She had somewhere to be.

"I just have one last favor of you Blu.."

How those words replayed in her mind whilst she walked steadily onward into the night. Heavy boots trudging silently through the underbrush of the forest, the hood of her coat drawn to hide the pale features set with furrowed brows and a brooding gaze. The corners of her mouth dragged down into a deep-set frown. And her hands, cold as they may be, shoved into her pockets. This task was bittersweet by default; one both necessary.. and entirely dreaded.

"I just don't know when to tell them...where to start."

"There is no right time."

It was the unfortunate truth which they both knew too well; there could be no -right- time to break the news to the family. No perfect moment to sit them down and discuss what it all meant. Yet, Blu's hands were tied. It wasn't her news to break. Not her secret to tell. So her tongue remained bitten to the point of pain, her thoughts guarded - which she did not wish to do. And her guilt, much to her dismay, as persistent as ever. Festering, and eating away at her insides.

Life, these days, was all full of secrets. Yet this was the only secret, presently, that she found herself truly struggling with.

A break in the trees served as a perfect distraction, no matter how brief. The scent of salt in the air alerted Blu that she had nearly reached her destination. And the breath which she drew in so deeply was not needed, but it was desperately desired. Perhaps, somehow, she hoped the act would be one soothing enough to ease her fraying nerves.

No such luck.

Finally, her heavy boots escaped the maze of debris scattered all along the forest floor, only for her to find her footing on something more.. solid. Stone. And the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffside would suddenly drown out all else. Her thoughts, her movements, all swallowed by the ocean's raucous greeting. As if the waves knew she came bearing them a gift. An offering, just as she had once before.

I just need it gone.

The silenced heart within her may no longer beat.. but it could certainly ache. A sensation which filled her now, weighing down her slowing steps, twisting violently at her insides. A once peaceful place feeling now far from it, for tonight. Yet no matter her reluctance, no matter her wish to turn back, Blu would carry on, and on, until she found herself balanced at a precipice; she glanced downward, teetering, then steadying her footing before admiring the white foam of the waves as they crashed against the jagged rocks below. How angry they sounded. Impatient, even. The sigh of defeat which expelled stale air from her dead lungs, then, would be heard by none. Not even herself.

Within the confines of a pocket lay nestled the gift she came bearing, curled delicately between her fingers. The necklace Bree had pleaded with her to get rid of. A symbol of devotion, of love, and commitment now long broken. She did not care how Blu disposed of it, only that she did so. And this was the first place which came to mind. The same place that, months ago, Blu herself had plunged one of her most prized possessions into the depths of dark waters, so as to let the ocean swallow it whole: her sapphire engagement ring, so aptly formed in the shape of a teardrop.

A lump took shape in her throat, making it difficult to swallow - to focus - as the trinket which Bree had charged her with was slowly pulled free. Leveled with her gaze as the waters beneath her roared, deafening her, and drowning out the sound of a staggered breath drawn sharply inward. It was for her loved one that she mourned. For the loss she had suffered and the pain she had endured unnecessarily. It was for herself, now, which she mourned for too. For a moment in time she rarely allowed herself to think back on. But so many steps had been taken as of late to move forward. To grow. To leave the past behind so that the present, and whatever the future may hold, could be seen clearly and without a veil of past hurts to skew her vision. There was no better time than the present, to do so again.

This act, now, was for them both.

"I hope you're too busy to feel this," she whispered into the air when her emotions became too overpowering, because she knew he could; he could always sense her if he was not preoccupied. Just the way she could sense him, when something was amiss, "but I truly wish you were here." If for no other reason than to have the pleasure of his company - the companionship and comforting presence of the single soul which, these days, she would call her best friend - to any who demanded a label. Even if no such label could ever encompass a mere fraction of all that he was.

What she did not speak aloud, was how she hoped she might be forgiven, for having kept Bree's secret from him for so long. How guilty it left her, biting her tongue. Even if it were not hers to tell, to begin with.

The words she spoke seemed to get no further than passing her lips before being silenced by her surroundings. And the chain wrapped about her fingers would be suddenly released, on impulse. Allowing that necklace to plummet, to rush past the face of the cliff, and to finally fall prey to the waters below. Giving Bree the last bit of true freedom she had hoped for. She was rid of that bond, now, for good.

It was there which Blu would sink to her knees. Quiet, and reserved. To stay a while and allow herself at the very least, one last night of mourning. One night to feel the weight of it all crash against her shoulders the same way in which the waves crashed against the shores, before the world around her - around her family - would inevitably carry onward.

[bbrandy2002]

The Fall of Cordonia

Chapter Three

Trigger Warning: Infant mortality mentioned, suicide, sexual assault and murder.

A/N: Im a little shook from writing this 😬

Word count: 2342

Characters belong to Pixelberry.

Thanks to my girls @burnsoslow and @emceesynonymroll for prereading snippets.

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Nikolas had not stopped crying since being placed in Marguerite's arms many hours ago. She sat on the edge of her bed with him, thrusting her nipple into his mouth, attempting to feed and soothe him;  disregarding the fact her supply dried up months ago. Each time he suckled desperately, his tiny mouth released into an erratic fit, fingers balled into tight fists, unsatisfied with his continuing thirst.

Her scent was different, the sound of her voice unfamiliar, and the beating of her heart did not have the same rhythmic tune that usually lulled him to sleep.

The Princess continued her attempts to feed and bring comfort to him, however, the baby refuses her breast. After the night she had, all the crying, Nikolas refusing to bond with her, sleep deprivation, she wasn't sure if her plan would be plausible, if this child would ever accept her as his mother.

She rose from the bed and gently laid him in the bassinet that sat directly next to her, staring at his swollen, bright blue eyes, that were full of rage and fear. Those same eyes were similar in color and form as her own newborn son, except his had been void of any emotion...there were no tears, no blinking, no pain, just stillness.

Her own eyes began to mist as she thought about that day,  privately delivering a stillborn child, two months before her due date. She knew the minute she saw the soft, downey hair of blonde that covered his small head, the father was not a current King, but, rather, a former prince.

Nikolas was the closest thing she now had to keeping her miserable reality a distant memory. Nearly the same blood that coursed through his tiny veins, was the also the one that burned with desire and passion for her almost a year ago. Would Leo ever accept this child as his own? He had been so relunctant to before, but, now, just maybe, if he held their baby in his arms, would she be able to entice him back into her world. Except, this wasn't their sweet baby, she wasn't his mother and Nikolas was making damn sure, without a doubt, she knew it.

Feeling depleted, she plopped back down onto the bed, the sheer volume of his ever continuous crying, driving her to the brink of insanity. She was positive, at that moment, all of Monaco could hear the weeping of the young prince of Cordonia; it was almost a symbolic gesture of his first duty, to share the downfall of his country and to share his displeasure.

Her hands began to shake uncontrollably and an intense pressure started to rise in her chest that caused breathing to become laborious.

She had to silence him somehow and quickly, to end the nightmare of her own enduring agony.

With her first real attempt at being a mother, seemingly failing, she called for her maid servant, unable to take it any longer. She hastily wrapped Nikolas in the blanket he arrived to her in, which bore a tiny phoenix in the corner,  the crest of his mother's house. Marguerite dropped the child in the arms of her servant, at which time, his crying began to subside. She made explicit instructions to rid her of the reminder, that once again, her failure to secure an heir and the man she lusted for, would be in vain.

The servant bowed and shuffled from the room with Nikolas nestled in her arms.

Marguerite turned to face the wall opposite of her, the one that held the sword of generations of Monacan monarchs, her tiny hands releasing it from its mount.

Gripping the pommel, she held it in front of her, and with a deep breath, thrust the blade into her gut and twisted. She fell back onto the bed as pools of hot blood flowed at her sides. The Princess ran a finger down the cool, shiny, silver blade, embracing her pending death and inevitable peace.

******

Liam directed Paul to take the remains of his step mother back her quarters and placed with dignity in her bed. He then ordered the other guard to lay the Countess with her, until proper arrangements could be made, if it ever could at this point.

With Regina and Madeleine's death happening within the walls of the palace, he was wrought with nausea, pondering who else had succumbed to this senseless atrocity. He wanted to believe Bastien's words that it was possible, Riley and Nikolas were safe, yet, the Auvernal army was able to breach the guard and protection of the palace. They had successfully taken out two of the most powerful women in Cordonia, the Queen and Prince was sure to be a bullseye in this sick game of wit and intellegence.

It was exactly one year ago yesterday, when against his better judgement, his new bride was beckoned by Queen Isabella, to visit with her in Auvernal, while they were in Texas. In a rather hostile move, Isabella, without hesitation, put on a troublesome display of the military might of her country, in what could only be construed as intimidation.

In a rather bold move, she tested Riley's ability to literally withstand the heat, a test he wasn't surprised she accomplished flawlessly. Would Liam really be able to outwit his opponent without his queen by his side? If Bradshaw was the man Isabella described him as during that trip, obviously weak and vulnerable, she could potentially be far more dangerous than he was.

When Nikolas was born three months ago, both Riley and Liam agreed their son would not be part of a marriage agreement. They both felt that what they shared and their experiences together, was far more important than any political alliance. A healthy relationship built on love made the monarchy stronger in their opinion.

They both knew the reprecussions of their decision, yet never expected an all out war for it. He presumed the greatest threat to Cordonia would be an embargo on trade with one another and political alliances, that he in turn would render economic sanctions against them. Would he have changed his mind had he known this would be the fate of that conclusion? He didn't know, not yet, it would depend on the personal cost to his family and his people.

Last night, Liam was sure that he had lost everything that truly mattered to him, but, something in his heart gave him a sense of peace. He had always told himself that he didn't exist without Riley, yet, here he was, living, breathing and feeling. Liam could sense her in his soul and he was prepared to move heaven and earth to bring her and their baby home to him.

He sat down at his desk, eagerly awaiting word from the Italian officials, to give him an update on the retaliatory attack. Francesco was already working tirelessly to gather other allies together and provide security and assistance for Cordonia.

Bastien found an unbroken bottle of scotch in the cabinet and poured two tumblers of it, handing one to Liam. They eyed one another, both in understanding of the calamity that would be ensuing, knowing it had to be done.

Bastien raised his glass to the King, gesturing for one last toast, in light of the situation.

Liam swirled the contents of his glass before tapping that of his head guard's.

"To my King and Queen, long may they reign"

Liam nodded in kind to Bastien, then downed the liquid, "To My Queen...".

*******

Leo dropped to his knees, clutching the hole that burned in his stomach, with a mixture of shock and remorse scrolling across his face.

"You were saying?", Bradshaw asked, before Leo fell face first to the floor, his head bouncing from the surface.

Bradshaw casually placed the gun back into the safe, pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket, and wiped the moisture and soot from the palm of his hand.

He strolled over to Leo, dropped to one knee and lifted his lifeless head up by the back of his hair. "Leo, Leo, Leo....it appears we both have something in common....we never miss our targets". He mused, thinking about Marguerite and her lost baby, that neither he, nor,  Leo wanted anything to do with. He releases Leo's head and it thuds to the ground.

The King's informant ushers into the room with fervor, asking permission to speak about grave information.

"Your Majesty....intelligence from Rome has informed me of an impending attack on our city by the Italian's in retalliation of Cordonia".

"How much time do we have?".

"Just under an hour, sir".

Bradshaw furrowed his brows, preparing to unleash his next plan earlier than anticipated, but, it was, afterall,  his ace in the hole.

Bradshaw leads his guards, dragging a bloodied Leo behind them, leaving a crimson trail out of the dining area. They walk briskly down the corridor and to the room where he is holding Riley hostage. He directs his men to throw her brother in law on the bed next to her.

Riley is barely conscious, she has a few broken bones and extensive bruising throughout her body. She watches groggily as they enter, then lets out a blood curdling scream as she catches sight of Leo's gunshot wound. Its then that she realizes she was a hostage. Recognizing Bradshaw immediately, she makes a concerted effort to move, to run, to fight back, however, the pain is too great.

Bradshaw orders everyone out of the room, his guards, the nurses and servants. He checks the video feed and when he is sure it is ready, he sends a direct link to Liam's email; time was of the essense.

As he waits for Liam to respond, he eyes Riley, admiring her petite frame and curvacous figure, just as he had the day she was first introduced to him at Valtoria. He licks his lips, as lustful thoughts take hold of him and he trails an unwelcome finger down the length of her cheek and across her neck. She was his prisoner, completely dependant on him and he wanted nothing more than to hear his name screaming from her lips.

He leans down, licking her face and across her tightly closed lips, feeling greatly aroused by her whimpers and powerlessness. He runs a hand across her flattened stomach, only covered by the thin white gown the nurse changed her into.

He grabs her cheeks with one hand and squeezes harshly until she can no longer keep her mouth closed; he immediately thrust his unwanted tongue into her own as she tries to pull away. His mouth catches her every groan with the deepest pleasure and he inhales her barely escaped breaths.

"Get the fuck off my wife!", an irate and panicked Liam yells as Bradshaw pauses his assualt.

He looks behind him at the laptop, set up for this particular moment, seeing the ire and disgust on Liam's face. Bradshaw curls his lips into an evil grin, this was more satisfying than he had anticipated.

"Riley! Love...can you hear me...I'm right hear...I'm right here", his voice cracking with relief at her survival.

Bradshaw lets out a small laugh, "And she is right here.....I assume you will be calling off your minions....or is it boom boom for...your love".

"Liam....I love you", Riley forces the words out of her lips with a horrendous sob.

"Sweetheart, oh god, I love you too....is Nikolas with you, is he alright?".

Bradshaw interrupted, rolling his eyes, "Oh please, spare me of the sickening declarations of love.....are you calling off the Italians or what Liam?".

Liam motioned for Bastien, giving him directions to contact the Prime Minister at once to halt their sssault immediately.

"What do you want Bradshaw?", he asked, while Bastien made his call.

"You know what I want."

"A political alliance and a marriage contract between our children...do I still have a child, Your Majesty?".

"You do....not that you'll benefit much from him".

Liam let out a shaky breath, closing his, thanking God for the knowledge that his son and wife were still living.

"I'll ask again, what do you want then?

"Surrender Cordonia to me".

"No Liam, don't!", Riley yelled out, before Bradshaw turned, smacking her harshly in the face.

"DAMN IT BRADSHAW!". Liam screamed in anger and frustration, feeling completely helpless.

"I give you your wife back, tell you where your son is, and all you have to do is surrender your reign and country to me".

There was no question what Liam's answer would be, however, it wasn't that simple, "I can't...not without consent from the council....this isn't something I can control alone and I presume half the fucking council is dead".

Bradshaw shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips, "Then I have no choice but to force your hand further".

"What do you mean?", Liam asked, knowing he did not want to know the answer to his question.

Bradshaw, still positioned next to Riley, reached over, gracing one of his hands up her thigh and the other cupping her breast over her gown. Riley began to cry out, begging him to stop.

Liam stood from his desk, watching the exchange, "I'LL DO IT....I'LL DO IT.....JUST LET HER GO!!!".

Bradshaw ignored Liam and Riley's cries, immensly gratified by his complete control over them...he was the puppetmaster.

Liam had both hands clutching his hair, tears streaming down his face, his whole body shaking, "You fucking peckerhead, so help me, I'm going to rip your throat out".

Bradshaw tugged on Riley's panties and he groped himself through his pants, slowly pulling down his zipper.

With Liam still screaming in the background, Riley turned her head, unable to look at her husband as Bradshaw prepared to defile her.

She stared at Leo, whose head was only a few inches from hers, his eyes starting to flicker open. She let out a fearful gasp, as her legs started to slowly part and Leo could see the trouble in her brown eyes.

Inhaling deeply against the pain he was wracked with, he bolted up, grabbing Bradshaw around the neck with such force, the King thought it would pop off his shoulders.

Bradshaw hit Leo in his wound, while trying to tear the powerful grip he had around his neck.

Leo took his other hand, placing it on the jaw of the man before him, and twisted as hard as he could., until he got the desired snap he wanted.

[laerethbloodhawk]

((Another anon poem for Laereth!))

Anonymous (Sinful, Serious Sunday)

This time, when he entered the post office to pick up his mail, the girl behind the counter did not flinch. Did not shove his letters at him and rush out of the building as if fel hounds nipped at her heels, to put as much distance between herself and him as she could manage. She only offered him her usual shy smile and kept her eyes averted like a Kaldorei who could not bear to look at the sun lest it blind her. The edges of her smile seemed brittle and the remnants of fear still lingered in her hunched shoulders and trembling hands, but she greeted him by name and wished him a good evening.

Only a single letter today, and rather than reeking of flowery perfume or bearing hearts drawn in a clumsy, girlish hand, this one looked like the sort of notice one might receive when being informed that a relative had passed on. The envelope–black as a moonless night–bore the following words in an elegant hand: FOR LAERETH BLOODHAWK, WHO HAS NOT MUCH TIME. Bright against the somber background, the gold ink flashed in the waning sunlight when he stepped out into Tranquillien’s streets, and the back flap had been sealed with black wax. No discernible symbol denoted a possible sender; only what appeared to be a thumbprint pressed down until the wax had cooled.

Upon opening it, he would find a sheet of parchment every bit as dark as its envelope and these verses had been written in the same steady scrawl:

“I want,” she said, “you to bleed ‘til you’re dead,” as her fingers, they combed through his mane. “At the same time, if you died, the tears I would shed fall like raindrops on a cold window pane.” She leaned in too close, drew him in through her nose, and shut her eyes with a soul-crushing sigh. “Still, when considering you, I must weigh cons and pros; sometimes, I only wish that you’d die and stop tormenting me–I am sure you’d agree that you are made wholly of malice. And yet, I find I’d be glad to invite you for tea, though I would surely poison your chalice.” With a tiny, wicked grin, she tapped her pointed chin, and cocked her head to one side. “Be certain, dear Beast, I would–with every pin– bury violent death 'neath your bronze hide.” A breath left her lips and she tightened her grip on the hair she had wound 'round her fist. Her claws tickled his throat. “Ah, one little slip, and, great Hunter, you would cease to exist.” His skin smelled of fire and amber perspired, and she resisted the urge for a taste of the blood that she knew would only inspire more want that would leave her disgraced. “But as much as I hate you and speak just to bait you, I find comfort in your stolid presence. And though I know women would die just to mate you, I would–with these hands–cause misfeasance.” She released him and snickered, bit her hand and whickered, and stepped back to give him some room. The ground still smoldered from where they had bickered, while the sun fell, ushering in twilight gloom. Plopping down to the earth, she stifled her mirth with scaly scarf in which she hid– for across his sharp face, she found a vast death of appreciation for her every quipped bid to put the fear of ruination and eternal damnation in the chill heart that beat in his breast. But he saw, in her eyes, her pupils’ dilation that belied the desires she had confessed. “Tell the truth, little Sandcat–I can smell the foul rat whenever you do your best to lie.” He leaned against the tree at the bottom of which he sat, and he smirked. “Do you want me to die? Do you want me to choke? Do you wish to provoke me, until I cross blades with you? Do you want me to croak? These flames, who would stoke them and ensure that your stories, they grew? Do you think you could take me? Think your threats shake me?” He shook his head and then snorted, quiet. “Do as you will, little Sandcat, but you cannot break me, though I welcome you to draw near and try it.” He reached out with one hand, his skin scarred and tanned, and he caressed the black fall of her hair. “Would you mourn if I could not touch one more strand?” She flinched and avoided his stare. And in her heart churned vile desires that burned and scorched her with orange flame so sweet. Success, she had learned, could only be earned by freeing oneself of conceit. Though he ransacked her memory, made her recall century she had lived, through the mud and the fire, she clung to each image when he entered her reverie every time he outed her as a liar. Like two beasts drawn by scent, using breath to cement the bonds they tried to build up between, she folded in on herself, a bitch who’d relent and with submission, she washed herself clean. “It would be a tough fight, standing against your proud might,” she admitted, and she wrung her small hands. “But I would relish the chance to strike and to smite– you are the only one I know who understands the thrill found in clashing, in running and thrashing like a hare caught 'tween the jaws of a fox and should we break free, our teeth we’d be gnashing, we are friends most unorthodox. Where other people send cards or they hire skilled bards to present, to their friends, a gift–” A half smile crossed her lips. “Customs we disregard. Stereotypical kindness would cause a great rift. So I deliver quick blows to cause, in you, throes of agony; on the ground, you will writhe. And I share with you shows and all my best prose. Around you, I need not be blithe.” She rubbed her face with both palms and envied his calm, while she sat there, tied up in knots. He sat straight and tall, a wall of aplomb, beaming the steadiness that she always sought. “I know what you meant–know that I am content with the truth I can read in your cracks.” He stood then. “Come at me if you wish to repent, we’ll see the power you claim your fist packs.”

They faced off together, his chain and her leather, like wild animals set free from their cord. They met in bright sparks and no one knows whether 'twas her sharp wire or his razor-edged sword that won the altercation; they both faced frustration when neither seemed to come out ahead. “We are two beasts, matched, in their greedy predation,” he said. “Do you still wish me dead?” “I would take your bones, with carving knife I would hone them until their edges grew keen,” she murmured. “For your death, I could not atone. If I killed you, I would only demean myself. I will leave you so I won’t have to grieve you, a shade, I’ll make myself disappear. And I know my scarcity will only relieve you, for I am fog, making vision unclear.”

He scoffed and he smacked her, and the quick pain, it wracked her with a taste of heaven’s undeniable joy. “Foolish little Sandcat,” he growled, staring where he’d cracked her full lip, “is this some pitiful ploy? I am bulwark and tower tall, I make lesser creatures bawl– to whom might I reach out and befriend? I would gut cowardly men and wicked women maul, yet you think you have the power to rescind this bond between us, new–where agony is the glue that binds us in deep camaraderie. I should split you wide open, my blade to stab through to teach you the follies of your snobbery.”

She looked up–she moved slow as if she didn’t quite know what to do or what words she should say, and she blinked. “Are you saying you want friendship to grow, that you’d accept this uncouth, straggly stray?”

He growled, “I’m saying you are daft.” She threw her head back and laughed, and landed on her feet when released.

“Perhaps I am mad,” she agreed, “but I know my craft, and you will make a fine hero, dear Beast, when I tell the tale of how we fought in this vale, and managed to reach an accord.” her smile was impish and she watched his face pale, when she added, “You will soon be adored by all those simpering women who love a good lemon; I’ll write you sweeping them off their feet.”

“You will do no such thing,” he said, “your tongue you will dimmen, or I’ll show you the true nature of defeat.”

“And what will you do?” she scoffed as the captain withdrew, and settled himself by the fire. He shrugged. “Of course–something you’re wholly unused to, 'twill be unlike what you’ve had prior.” His smirk was malicious–oh, this elf was vicious, and he folded his hands in his lap. She squinted and sneered, her eyes so suspicious when he said, “I will start with the strap that will never again kiss your unblemished skin, nor my blade taste your scarlet blood. And I will not give in, no, not even when you prostrate yourself in the mud.” She gasped; he persisted and all that he listed made her squirm and wrinkle her hem. “Oh, don’t get it twisted, you won’t be assisted, you’ll have only yourself to condemn. No ropes or chains to bind, no knots around you twined, no lash to split open your flesh. You’ll be left alone with only your own warped mind, 'twill be your hands that have to refresh the scars that mar you. I won’t even spar you, all you’ll get from me is bland conversation. No joy in pain. Still not convinced, are you? Then seek you my eternal damnation.”

She lowered her chin, drummed her fingers on shin, and considered the threats he gave voice. And gnawing on her lip, her patience wore thin, and she grumbled, “I suppose I’ve no choice. I’ll refrain from writing about all of our fighting, but you’re a bastard; your true colours show through. And because what you’ve threatened is harsh and it’s biting, I will dream of all the ways I could kill you.”

But he knew what she left unsaid with her deft dodging of her honest feeling. And he sniggered to himself–let her bear that heft for without burden, she’d find no healing. Sat the contentious pair–and with quiet swear, she oft broke the amiable silence. And though she shot him foul looks and fierce, stony glare, they were united in a shared love of violence.

[divine-identite]

                                                         xxviii. 

Name: Caius Ballad Age: Unknown appears to be in his late 20's to early 30's. Gender: Male Canon: Final Fantasy XIII Canon Point: Post-canon Lightning Returns History: Oblivion is the fate of all things. Personality: Immortal and stalwart with a high sense of honour and integrity, Caius is charged with the duties of Guardian to the Seeress Paddra-Nsu Yeul. He is driven completely to protecting her through her short life and rebirth. He is strong, steady, patient and stoic though he is also seen in private as attentive, caring and willing to do anything in his power to keep Yeul happy and safe while she lives. He takes his task as Guardian very seriously at the risk of his own personal safety which he exhibits numerous times. He had, at one time, gave his life to protect Yeul by doing the one thing that is considered taboo among l'Cie and that was by fusing with his Eidolon, Bahamut, through an act known as an incarnate summoning.

                 His love for Yeul runs deep and it's a long lived sort of caring that spans the course of time. He is seen more as a father to Yeul in some ways where he not only protects her, he also retells the prophecies from all the other Yeuls that he has watched over the centuries. He serves as a living record for Yeul and through these memories also leads to madness due to his immorality granted when he inherited the Heart of Etro which bestows him the powers to control Chaos. Unable to die, Caius stands as Yeul's eternal Guardian. He is not only powerful, but he is also intimidating with a merciless method of enacting his strikes with precision and force. He presents himself as cold, distant and cruel yet he is patient and willing to wait for the right time to strike. 

              On the other end of this chaotic spectrum, when it comes to Yeul, he knows her emotions through subtle hints that she gives either through her eyes, subtle changes in her speech and through her body language. Caius searches for each Yeul after she is reborn. By the time she speaks her first word, Caius is charged with taking her from her birth family to raise her as Seeress. He teaches her how to interpret her powers and learns about her new incarnation through her body language and speech pattern.               It is this subtle way they know each other that words do not need to be spoken harshly or with demand for him to listen. This can also be said for the people he comes in contact with should they speak to him in this way though he won't be able to pick up on the cues until he knows them better, or rather if he wants to get to know them at all. Strangers are kept at a distance while he is with Yeul. He is never far from her side which makes him a wall between Yeul and others to prevent people from getting close to her. This can also be said for anyone he chooses to protect, children especially, providing they can understand him and not just through speech. His actions are with a purpose and he chooses to make it clear that he will do whatever it takes to keep them safe until the time comes that Yeul has to leave.               In the novella Fragments After, Caius has been known to protect entire towns that Yuel is born into until she is old enough to speak even though he's seen as a bad omen and often chased out of towns. I suspect, at first, that such actions against him might have caused him to feel doubts but after a few rebirths and experiencing this sort of reaction from villagers, he grew to expect it and learns to adapt. He sees it as a sign of health, in a way. If an entire village does not wish to protect their children, or the reaction to his arrival seems passive, he sees this as a bad sign that the people may not survive long enough to endure any hardships that come their way.                Caius has a commanding voice that demands attention along with his presence. Standing at 6'4" (6′6″ with shoes), he's hard to miss. He speaks clearly through his pitch is a rich baritone with sultry notes. He doesn't generally speak much and is a man of few words unless he finds it necessary to say them. Usually, he is sincere when he compliments and he will even do so in battle even though his opponent may take the compliments as a mockery and react accordingly.                 He handles problems personally and will not fight any opponent that cannot defend themselves, although later he shows no mercy to anyone as time advances and his actions become more desperate with the decline of humanity. He rarely engages in verbal confrontations since he views them a waste of time when he has more important duties that require his attention. Caius is rarely distracted and is seen as single-minded. (In Lightning Returns, this single-mindedness gives way to a more cynical point of view and gives up entirely. He figures that his task is done and goes about his undead life as nothing more than a corpse rotting away, but it's more akin to his soul no longer being his but more to the effect that his soul is no longer human.) The moment he sees any weakness in his opponents in battle he uses it to his advantage and will strike them down. His only reason why he would engage in combat so that way he can be bested and finally rest as an underlying reason. The outward cause is to protect Yeul. If Yeul commands him to stop the battle, he will do so willingly and walk away, as seen in 200AF when he had a clear opening to press Noel and Serah hard after their first confrontation.                    Caius is a very proud warrior and it shows in the way he carries himself in his stance and in the way he presents himself when he chooses to make his presence known. He will not just fight by anyone's side when certain conditions are met. Lightning is a good example of one person he will ally himself with since she is equal to him in battle, and later in Lightning Returns he refuses to have his soul saved since he is merged with the Chaos and has no soul left. Noel Kreiss is another though he still views Noel as weak for not killing him when he had the chance. He will not ally himself to those that want to exploit Yeul or himself by any means. Blackmail, kidnapping or any cowardly show of force will bring the worst out of Caius in an instant and will kill the offender on sight.                      He is noble though his arrogance can be off-putting. He will not speak unless he is spoken to or if the subject matter pertains to him or to Yeul, or he feels the need to speak when the subject matter seems to jeopardise in any way. He will always be present at Yeul's side due to his bonded ties to her as her primary caretaker and through Etro's curse upon him. Every time Yeul is reborn, he spends his time finding her and has to remove her from her birth family the moment she speaks her first word. He is a traditional man with high values regarding life though this later becomes warped as the centuries pass that causes him to become obsessed and single-minded on his goal equating to death by seeking it.                       He views children as precious and will not harm them. Women are the same unless they show prowess in battle, in which he will treat them as equals on the battlefield. This comes from his Hunter's upbringing and his honour as a trained warrior. He is a brutal fighter when he does engage in battle meaning that he will use every tactic possible to gain the advantage. This also means running someone through from behind or using weaknesses against his opponents. While this act isn't seen as honourable, this action is mostly due to his madness. The reason for this is simple. A turned back to an enemy means death and a symbol of arrogance which is a quick way to irritate Caius.                       Caius doesn't make friends easy due to his ruthlessness whenever he is alone. Most of the time, his reputation precedes him through the legend of Caius of the Ballads, the man who had taken out legions for the sake of protecting Yeul. This a never ending cycle of death and rebirth for Yeul has left an indelible mark that his death is the only way to release them from their curse and taking his own life is out of the question, or so he thinks. He discovers later that another being stronger than himself has a hand in the world's change which brings about a series of circumstances that changes his views entirely about the gods themselves.                       At one time, Caius believed in Etro and defended her causes justly, which changes over time with each death and rebirth of Yeul. Once he had become l'Cie after defeating his predecessor and died through the incarnate summoning, he is reborn with the power of Chaos bestowed by the goddess herself due to his willingness to sacrifice his own life to save the Seeress. In time, he became embittered and hateful of the goddess for forcing him to stand by and watch as the child he raises dies over and over again. It's as if his heart has been ripped from his chest each time. He remembers every single Yeul that lives and there are hundreds of them. He remembers their hopes, their dreams, their hobbies, and even their desires along with her prophesies.                      As each parting happens, his rage takes hold and in some cases violently especially later on when the last Yeul dies. Even with his desire to die, he doesn't become suicidal until the last Yeul dies that drives him to become desperate in order to be with her again. If he's the last to live death will never happen for him, even if he were to throw himself at a monster. He has a manner of speaking that is eloquent in spite of his barbaric appearance. He is sometimes described as the calm before the storm, as said by Noel. In this, the meaning is constructed to paint the picture that he is often silent before he strikes with the force to level anything in his path.                     In Lightning Returns, he waits for the day that the world finally ends so he can take his place as a Sheppard of souls. For 500 years since his death, he loses his will to fight and stands watch instead over the countless Yeuls that reside with him in the Temple of the Goddess in the Wildlands of Nova Chrysalia. With another god in the shadows overseeing and manipulating mankind from behind a curtain, Caius is no longer driven to put an end to it but rather gives Lightning "permission" to finish what he couldn't. He even baits her to take his soul. At the end of the battle, which is generally around days 4 to 6, she notices that his soul has melded with the Chaos and no longer his to give.                       With Yeul keeping him as a sort of prisoner out of her own need and desperation, he instead watches events unfold from the temple, unable to step foot outside of it lest he's brought back by Yeul's will. By the end of the game, he's seen again with the many Yeul's he has watched and releases the last one into Noel's care but not without giving Noel one final order. To protect her with his life by swearing his life to Yeul. He releases her from her bonds as a Seeress which suggests that he has become a god of death and takes Etro's place. Yeul and Caius together become what Etro used to be. While Yeul grants life anew to the souls that wish to be reborn through judgement while Caius gathers them and grants the souls a choice; to remain with the Chaos never to be reborn or to return to be reborn.

from a great Caius rper on another site (x)