#Knife's Aftermath

[insilentruin]

The King of Loneliness ?

| 🗡 | It used to be, that the long silences inside the Ark were filled with calculations, plotting his next move, contemplating the demise of the human race, keeping track of his machinations that his chosen few carried out.

Lately.... The silences were nearly maddening with cyclic thoughts and questions. Fears reawakened that he could not force to perish again. What was this need he felt? What was it for? His inability to answer those questions made it worse. It was a desperate longing for someone to guide him, take this burden from him, give him the answers he needed to fix whatever was wrong with him.

But. Of course. The pain of that need did not produce someone who could give him those answers, show him how to fix it. No. It just left him feeling empty, and alone.

I did this.

And knowing it, wanting to own that fact and decide to change it, did not ease the issues the desire propagated. It also didn't rid him of the realizations of what would have happened if he was been like Nai, and gotten to carry out more things until he'd either killed Vash and humanity, or been defeated. Either way, he lost. Either way--he lost. Either way. He. Lost.

It echoed inside him endlessly. Until he thought he would scream from it. It was then that he felt her calling to him. The song growing in distress for him, piercing the miasmic thoughts inside his mind until he couldn't ignore her. Alerts were sounding on the consoles that monitored her containment, and he sucked in all of the sensations with a physical deep intake and got up to see to her.

He stopped the alerts, to avoid anyone else coming to check on her, and dropped down to the walkway that would put him level-most with her emerging from the inner sphere. He wondered for a breathless moment, watching her move with her feathered appendages and and long limps and the beauty that all of his sisters possessed in that otherworldly way, that she may be one of the oldest Dependent Plants still alive. And yet, timeless all the same. It was at that moment that he felt what a burden his own freewill truly was. The ability to choose, and having chose wrongly. If only he were taken care of, as she was. Or used, and discarded. What a fickle and strange place for his mind to have gone. Was it--easier, to not have to choose?

Her song within his mind called him back to her and he pressed his whole front to the barrier between them. One cheek flattened against the barrier and he felt the warmth of her closeness through it and close his eyes to listen and feel her mind. The somewhat comfort she could offer. Their communication was a sophisticated tangle of images, emotions, and intensions, with no room for falsehoods. His delusional beliefs of before had endured, but not now. Not since the disillusionment of his entire supposed purpose.

It had been a line of thought lurking in the back of his mind for a while, and she eased it to the surface, did not let him turn away from it now. For all the knowledge he ever held of the humans and all of their flaws, he had thought himself above them. Even as he succumbed to the same mistakes himself. Possibly the first Independent Plant to become no better than the worst of humanity in all its history.

Except you have not. Not yet. And not anymore. No so much words, as a complicated radiance of emotions and images. She was right, but he didn't believe it himself. She saw everything he experienced of the other Nai, the things the other had done, and planned to do, the things that he may have resorted to--

But NOT now. Change now.

A disgusted snort escaped him, and covered the near-sob that wanted to tear from his chest. He was so tense he was shaking, holding onto the heated barrier between himself and his sibling as his only lifeline, the only thing keeping him upright.

But how!?

The question echoed in his mind. She did not have a solution for him. None of them did, none that could hear their connection. How indeed. He still hated the humans as a whole. Filthy things, more often twisted and cruel than not, from his own experiences. His own fears. His inability to see the good in any of them... except... NO. He recoiled from that line of thought immediately, he was definitely not ready for where his mind would go there.

His sister eased herself back into the open-most parts of his mind, and filling it with warmth and all the reassurance the Plants near him could muster. They supported him, and they knew who could help him. Their Red Brother. The one who could see the best in humans, even at the worst of times.

Not yet. I can't. Not yet.

She released his mind gently and Knives sank physically to the corrugated walkway, still able to touch the bulb, as close to comfort as he could willingly reach for from anyone. And, of course, inevitably, the thought that he no longer deserved such comfort. Not when he thought there was no going back from who he was meant to be.

[starliight-whump]

Stitches

Augustofwhump day 22: stitches / robbery / insects

James is forced to stitch the cuts on his own again, but the extent of the damage yo his hands is starting to become apparent.

contains: aftermath of torture, stitching of wounds, nerve damage.

“Come on, James. You really should do it. You're better at this than me, it’s part of your job, after all.” Harrison smirked and leaned back in his chair as he watched him.

This was very different from his job, much more difficult than his job but James didn't argue, instead he looked down at the needle. All the pain, especially the stinging pain from the fresh cuts made it incredibly hard to focus, James really wanted to just pass out so he didn't have to feel all of it. With a shaky breath James tried to pick up the needle but his hands trembled so badly that it was really difficult, and the partial numbness in his fingers didn't help. James let out a frustrated groan and tried again. Eventually he managed to get the needle up but that was just the first part, no matter how hard he tried to keep his hands steady they just wouldn't stop shaking. Even though he had noticed it before James hadn't realized just how serious it was and that caused a sinking feeling to settle heavily in his chest.

“I- I can't do it.” James stammered with tears in his eyes, afraid that it would make Harrison angry. His captor often didn't take kindly to not doing as he was told.

Harrison rolled his eyes. “Just calm down, take a few deep breaths and try to get your hands to stop shaking.

James shook his head. If only it was that easy… It wouldn't have been the first time his hands were shaking from fear, but that wasn't what this was; James knew that. The numbness and that prickling in his fingers that wouldn't go away proved as much. It wasn't something he wanted to tell Harrison, but lying would be worse. “It's not that, I-... Something’s wrong.”

Realization seemed to flicker in Harrison’s eyes and a smirk settled in his lips. “Oh, is it? Well, I guess I’ll have to do it, and then we’ll examine this further.” James hated how pleased Harrison sounded and all he could do was to look away and try not to scream at the pain as Harrison dug the needle into his skin and stitched the cut together.

---

taglist: @augustofwhump, @darkredrevolution, @uvanuva

[serickswrites]

It's Over

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

This has been requested by @celestialsoyeon

Warnings: captivity, torture, blood, knife, stabbing, med whump, restraints, mcd, bleeding out, rescue, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hospital

Sweat poured of Seokmin's face as Jisoo loomed over him. "This certainly is fun," Jisoo said as he waved a scalpel in Seokmin's face. "Isn't it?"

"Pl-Please," Seokmin begged. He knew that Jisoo had been carving into him for the better part of an hour. He knew that his blood pooled on the floor beneath the operating table he was strapped to.

"I always wanted to be a doctor," Jisoo said with a wicked grin, "guess this is the closest I'll get." He raised the scalpel once more. "I think I'm going to cut out your heart last. So that leaves me with some choices to take now."

Seokmin's heart froze. He couldn't endure having an organ cut out. As far as he was aware, Jisoo had just been cutting and stitching him back up. If he took an organ...Seokmin wasn't sure he would survive. Clearly Wonwoo wasn't getting here to save him any time soon.

Jisoo unbuckled one of the wrist straps. "I just need to adjust--"

But Seokmin seized his chance. He snatched the scalpel from Jisoo's hand and blindly swiped at Jisoo, hoping to at least get Jisoo to back up enough that he could free his other wrist and run. He had overestimated just how close Jisoo was to him. As the scalpel sliced through the delicate flesh of Jisoo's neck, parting the skin like water, blood poured from Jisoo's neck.

Jisoo's eyes were wide and wild as his hands went to try and stem the flow of blood from his throat. He stumbled, only managing to make choking sounds as he lunged for Seokmin. But Seokmin didn't stop. He slid off the table, sliding in both his and Jisoo's blood. This was his chance. "It's over," he exhaled as he slipped once more. Darkness edged his vision. "It's over," he repeated.

Seokmin was suddenly on the floor, uncertain of how he got there. He blinked. He didn't remember the darkness over taking him. As he looked around, he saw Jisoo also lying on the floor. However, Jisoo was dead, his eyes empty and blank as he stared at Seokmin.

Seokmin tried to rise, but his shaking arms couldn't support him. He had no strength. He looked down the length of his body, his mouth going dry. Jisoo had cut him more times than he could count. And he was covered in blood. Suddenly he knew why he was on the floor.

As his vision swam in and out of focus, Seokmin lay back. He could only hope that Wonwoo would find him soon. And get him help.

***

Wonwoo feared he was too late. There was so much blood. Jisoo was already clearly dead, the gaping wound in his throat was like a second smile. But Seokmin? He feared for the worst as he dropped to his knees next to Seokmin. "Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead," he murmured as he stared down into his friend's face. Seokmin's features were lax and peaceful, his skin ghostly. Wonwoo tried not to think about the cuts that covered Seokmin's body as he pressed two fingers to Seokmin's pulse. "Please," he begged.

Slowly, painfully slow, Wonwoo felt the faint beats that let him know that Seokmin was still alive. For now.

"Let's get you out of here!" Wonwoo lifted Seokmin carefully into his arms and began to run. He had to get Seokmin to help and fast. He wasn't sure how much longer his friend could last.

"Stay with me. Just stay with me. It's not over yet."

***

Seokmin was amazed when he opened his eyes once more. He truly believed when the darkness consumed him, that would be it. That Jisoo had succeeded in killing him. And so to wake in a hospital bed was truly a miracle.

"There you are," Wonwoo's deep voice came from his right side. "I was beginning to wonder how much longer you would make me wait."

"S'rry," Seokmin rasped. His throat was impossibly dry. "How?"

"Drink this," Wonwoo gently held a straw to Seokmin's lips. "You were out for three days. And with Jisoo for another two days before that."

Five days. Five days of his life had been stolen. But as he stared up into his friend's face, Seokmin realized that he would get those five days back. Get them back and more. Because he lived. Jisoo didn't. His pain, his torture, it was finally over.

Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as his heart swelled with emotion. "Th-Thank you," he whispered.

Wonwoo gripped Seokmin's fingers tightly. "Thank you for staying with me. I was...I was worried I was too late."

Seokmin smiled. "I'm glad you weren't."

Wonwoo returned his smile. "Me, too."

[tildeathiwillwrite]

What's Left of the Draigo

The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure Chapter 3

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

Fandom: Original Work

WIP: The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure (Tales from Valaria)

<- Previous Chapter | Next Chapter ->

Words: 3100

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west @libraryofcirclaria @syncopein3d @galactic-dragon-pathex @ashirisu

@writingphoenix

CW: panic attack, mentioned attack, mentioned fire, mentioned death, mentioned blood, held at sword-point, swearing, self-deprecation, mentioned magic whump, distrust

A/N: Sort of lore and worldbuilding-heavy, but fantasy lives for this kind of stuff, y'know? Octavian does get held at sword-point so there's that for you whump lovers too.

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Ten years.

Give or take a few months, but still. A full decade.

Ten years and the stench of smoke and ash still hadn’t fully faded. Octavian could smell it as he emerged from the swampy woodlands surrounding the Draigo stronghold. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Ten years was a long time, even for elves and Draigo and their long lifespans, a lot could change.

Draven had mentioned that the Draigo had barricaded themselves in their stronghold shortly after the outbreak, so Octavian had hoped, prayed that this one would be no different, that the damages from the explosions in his foggy memory had been repaired. That there would be solutions within its walls. Perhaps they had withdrawn to find the cure for the plague, to devote all their efforts to the research.

He should’ve known such hopes were baseless.

Octavian’s breath caught in his throat his eyes fell on the ruined stronghold. The once-majestic walls had crumbled, the stones not covered in ivy and moss blackened from the flames. With the walls gone, he could confirm that time had taken its toll as he walked between the destroyed buildings on shaking legs.

The Council Hall, which he vaguely recalled having sustained the worst damage in the attack, was little more than a pile of rubble with a sapling peeking out from between a pair of stones. The other buildings weren’t nearly as destroyed, but they all had been abandoned long ago.

No sight, sound, or scent of another living person. 

Just dust. 

And smoke. 

And ash.

Octavian fell to his knees, his entire body shaking, as the blurry memories assaulted him.

Graves. A supposed Draigo from the far east stronghold. Nothing more than a liar, thief, and arsonist.

The dead devar in the archive explosion. The injured and dead Draigo in the Council hall.

The mission.

Maelyn.

Oh celestials, Maelyn.

She’d trusted him, and he’d failed her.

Lead her straight into a trap.

He had no choice.

No choice….

Did she even survive? Everything right after the enchantment broke was a blur. Maelyn had the pendant, it was in her hand. He didn’t know what happened to Graves, but if the thief had survived Octavian would take it upon himself to hunt him down for what he did. As for the Watchers….

He didn’t know. He hadn’t even returned to the stronghold before being intercepted by Kenta. And then….

Octavian reached into his bag and pulled out the slim metal object. A ‘gift’, as the Draigo had put it, before shoving Octavian into the lake. “You will see the world broken beyond your comprehension,” he’d said, closing Octavian’s fingers around the object. “See that this message is delivered.”

Octavian never had time to ask who the recipient would be. He flipped the metal object between his fingers, thumbing the carved symbols. Much of the archives had been salvaged after the fire was put out, he remembered that much, even if the memory itself was about as clear as a muddy puddle. Perhaps the books and scrolls had clues to deciphering the strange language?

It was worth a try.

Wasn’t as though anyone was around to stop him.

Taking a deep breath, Octavian rose and started towards the archives, one of the only buildings still mostly intact, although ivy had attempted to take over its walls. The outer doors were torn off their hinges, a mess of splinters now covering the marble floor inside. The elements had taken their toll on the immediate interior, the shelves and pedestals, devoid of their contents, rotting and worn away by time and water.

The faint noises of small, skittering creatures reached Octavian’s ears as he stepped inside the dim building, the only light coming in from the door and the high windows. Much of the light had been magical in nature, stemming from a certain artifact. Without an archivist to maintain them, they had long ago winked out of existence, the artifact stolen or destroyed by now.

Octavian wandered methodically throughout the depths of the archives, from the highest levels of empty shelves to the lower storage spaces, searching for something, anything, that could aid him. Eventually, his search evolved into one for anything left behind. Had the Draigo fled and taken everything with them? Or had they all been killed, and the archives sacked completely?

The longer he scoured the archives, the more certain he became that the latter was far more likely. Especially when he stood before the storage rooms. He’d ventured down there rarely, only once or twice in his memory to retrieve something for Skylyn when the rest of the archivists were busy, so he only had a vague idea of the sorts of items kept in the maze-like rooms below the archive.

The door, just like the entrance, had been torn from its hinges, and everything beyond was veiled in darkness, the natural light unable to reach. He hovered on the threshold, uncertain. The debris he could make out hinted that the door had formerly been barricaded. 

Barricaded against whom? Who killed them all and took everything? Kenta? The humans? The lycanthropes?

Something else?

And the faint scent in the air… it was partially hidden under the cloying smell of wood smoke and burning paper, but it was unmistakably metallic, coppery. He shouldn’t be able to smell blood, not after so long.

Octavian’s stomach churned and he turned away, unwilling to investigate any longer. “Coward,” he muttered to himself disparagingly as he stalked back through the archives to the entrance. “Damned coward.”

“‘Damned coward’, hmm?”

Octavian jumped and whirled around, drawing his borrowed knife, and found the point of a sword centimeters from his throat, wielded by someone dressed in dark clothing, their face veiled. Their voice was unfamiliar. Not Kenta.

“What have we here?” The veiled figure, teased, cocking their head. “You’re far from the border, elf. Are you an exile, come to seek sanctuary? A seeker of knowledge? A… traitor?”

Octavian swallowed, fighting the urge to back away as the sword lightly touched the veins on his neck. One thrust, and he would be dead. “My… my name is Octavian de Silv,” he forced out, heartbeat hammering in his ears, “I am… I was… a messenger for the Draigo, but I have been in captivity for the past ten years.”

The figure’s hand tightened on their sword. “A messenger?” they repeated, “hmm… your name is familiar to me, why is your name familiar to me? Are you perhaps a devar messenger?”

“I am, yes.”

“Ah! I remember now! You were sent on that mission to capture the thieving Draigo with Maelyn Sorro, correct?”

Octavian hesitated, but he suspected lying would do him little good here. “…correct. Is Maelyn…?”

The figure shrugged. “You both disappeared during the mission. But I would assume if you survived, she had as well. The question of her being still alive, however….” They rotated their wrist, the sword point turning, a constant reminder of just how quickly they could end Octavian’s life. “Everyone assumed you turned on her. Or, at least, that was Kenta’s theory when he left to hunt you down for treason.”

Octavian’s eyes narrowed. “The punishment for treason is execution. That is what I expected him to do when he found me wounded in the Fells, mind and will shattered by a magician’s runes.”

“Oh? And yet here you stand.”

The memories of Kenta were clearest. Octavian could almost see him standing before him, helping him to his feet and leading him to shelter. He could almost feel him bandaging the mutilated runes on his back, listening to Octavian’s side of the story. He had seemed disappointed when Octavian mentioned that he didn’t know where Maelyn had gone. “He did not kill me.”

Octavian slowly held out his hand, revealing the metal object. An artifact, perhaps? Whatever it was, he suspected it had been instrumental in implementing his stasis in the ice. “He gave me this, right before leading me over a lake and shoving me in. I remember the water freezing over, and I thought I passed out for a few moments before waking up and breaking free of the ice. Except Kenta wasn’t there.”

The figure slowly moved their sword away from his throat and sheathed it, but kept their hand on it as they examined the object. “May I?”

He nodded, and they picked up the object, running their fingers over the symbols. “A human lycanthrope hunter was nearby,” Octavian continued, “and he was kind enough to allow me a place at his fire in exchange for aid in tracking down his target. It was through him that I discovered ten years, not a few moments, had passed in my time beneath the ice.” He gestured at the ruins around him. “And so much has changed.”

“Much has changed, indeed,” the figure agreed, handing back the object. “This could be one of our artifacts, but I do not know enough about the inventory to confirm. It put you in some sort of stasis?”

“Yes.”

“And clearly it protected you from the fate of the other devar.”

Octavian’s mouth went dry. “I… what?! What happened to the other devar?”

The figure glanced around, an air of sorrow about them. “How do you think there are no Draigo here? We cannot be infected by the plague, little good that did us.”

“They… they attacked you?”

“…not of their own accord. Please, at least allow me to show you some hospitality. It’s not often I encounter other survivors, even if you missed the turning. Wish I had that luxury.”

The figure turned and walked back into the archives. Octavian hesitated, but soon followed, his curiosity outweighing his apprehension. They threatened me with a sword, he reminded himself, slowly sheathing his borrowed blade. They haven't shown their face, but I don’t think I know them. How can I trust them?

They already know what any Draigo would know. And yet even Graves somehow knew that. But I don’t think anyone would play at being Draigo now. Not when there’s no one left to fool.

“Your voice is unfamiliar to me,” Octavian said softly as they moved back through the archives, “you know of me but I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Sounds about right,” the figure agreed, pausing before the door to the store rooms. They clicked their fingers twice, and light suddenly erupted from inside, a small fabric ball not far from the door lighting with an inner glow. The ball illuminated the dark corridor, revealing branching rooms with doors similarly destroyed and dark brown streaks staining the walls and floor. “To be fair, you got incredibly famous shortly before the attack happened. The Council made a big deal about your ‘trial’.”

The figure continued down the corridor, the fabric ball fading as they passed, but an identical one illuminated further along. The unmistakable script of runes decorated the surface of the paper balls. Octavian frowned at the artifact. “‘Trial’?”

“A mockery of justice is what it was,” the figure clarified, stepping through a doorway into another hallway illuminated by another paper ball. How many of those did they have? “They took your and Maelyn’s disappearance as confirmation of a traitor within the ranks, the person who admitted the thief who somehow caused the Council chambers and many of the other buildings to spontaneously combust. Kenta insisted that you were behind the whole thing, and murdered Maelyn on your mission.” 

They stopped outside a door. Nothing remarkable about it, except it was the first Octavian had seen intact here. “He similarly insisted on being the one to go and exact justice. I suppose the stasis you describe is what he decided. He never clarified, everyone assumed execution.” Opening the door, they waved Octavian inside. He entered to find a surprisingly cozy hideout, decorated with glowing paper balls and a multitude of other artifacts lying amidst tattered blankets, carpets, and scorched cushions.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home, despite the… conditions outside,” he remarked as the figure closed the door.

“It’s not much, but it’s the only home I got left,” the figure agreed, unbuckling their sword and setting it on a nearby crate. “I don’t think anyone tried to hide here, otherwise it would’ve gotten similarly destroyed. Please, sit.” They followed their own instructions, plopping down on a cushion and unveiling, revealing a woman, younger than Maelyn, with dark skin and braids tied up elaborately to keep them from her face. Her markings were a light blue, almost white shade, scattered across her face like freckles.

She stuck out her hand in the human greeting. “My name is Aster Kyr. I was on retreat south at Loch Vika when the attack happened.”

On retreat. Loch Vika? Oh…. Octavian hesitantly shook her hand and seated himself on the cushion opposite her. “You had only just come of age?”

Aster nodded sorrowfully. “I was there with two other Draigo, Kassia and Leon, and a devar, Dorian. That night… my dreams won’t let me forget when Dorian started acting strangely, like he was in pain. Kassia was talking to him, trying to figure out what was wrong, when he suddenly transformed into his other form. His was an owl. But that time… it was certainly owl-like, but it was all wrong, like someone who only had a vague idea of what an owl looked like had tried to put one together and gotten some parts mixed up with a savage bear.” 

Aster took a shaking breath.  “She… she didn’t even have time to scream. Leon was the next closest, and the… creature… thing… pounced on him. He couldn’t get to his knife, but he was always better with his fire anyway…. I had to put it out of its misery. It was the only thing I could do. And Leon… Leon died in my arms as the sun rose. The moon turned red that night. I think that might be what had caused Dorian to… to….”

Her voice broke, and she turned away, tears glistening in her eyes. When she spoke again, her tone was harsh. “I buried them all overlooking the loch and returned here. I hoped… I hoped that whatever happened with Dorian was a fluke. I was incorrect.”

“What happened to the devar?” Octavian asked softly.

“Some of them had died while transformed, their bodies remaining in that cursed, twisted form. Some had managed to change back in the sunrise, I assume, and succumbed to the injuries by the Draigo fighting for their lives. The rest… from the clues I gathered and the garbled stories from the survivors, they ran off during the night and attacked the nearby villages. After that, I don’t know. We found out later that whatever curse befell them was transmittable to the humans. And thus started the plague.”

Octavian drank all the information in, his heart pounding. All in a single night? Transformed into some sort of monster? “There were other Draigo survivors?”

“Yes,” came the shaky reply, “all in varying states of injury. We regrouped, buried the dead, cared for the wounded the best we could. Since then, everyone else drifted away, keen to escape the reminder of that night. I stayed. Sometimes I go to Valdove for supplies.”

“What happened to the archives?”

“I don’t know. Vulir had his theories, that someone in the chaos stole what they could and fled using one of the artifacts. Whoever that could be, though, I can’t—”

“Kenta,” Octavian interrupted, hands closing into fists, “He knew something like this would happen, maybe he caused it.”

Aster gave him a quizzical look, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Octavian sighed and shook his head. “I can’t do anything about him anymore. I don’t know where he could have gone after imprisoning me. Some of the artifacts were left behind?”

“Yes,” Aster said, pointing to the paper balls. “Those, a few I can’t figure out that I keep in crates, a scattering of scrolls and books. I don’t think any of the archivists survived, none of us could make heads or tails of what was left. Part of the reason I stayed is to guard the ruins from potential looters and thieves, but when the others scattered they spread rumors about the stronghold being on lockdown, and that kept the humans away for the most part. The rest…” she waved at the sword absently.

“…may I look through them? The chance is small but they might hold clues about the object Kenta gave me.”

Aster indicated one of the crates leaning against the wall, a blanket and a paper ball resting on its surface. “Everything’s in there.”

Octavian rose to his feet, but before he could move over to the crate, Aster jumped up and grabbed his arm. Her gaze was hard, almost accusatory. “Wait. What happened to Maelyn Sorro if you did not kill her?”

“I…” Octavian remembered the moments after the runes had been disrupted by the Watcher’s hand, remembered when he finally came to himself after what felt like years of enthrallment when it couldn’t have been more than a couple weeks. It was all a foggy blur, he wasn’t fully awake until after Kenta found him, but one thing was certain. “The last I saw of her, she was alive. After that, I do not know. The runes the magician used on me caused my memories to be uncertain, but she was alive.”

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

Octavian hesitated. “…yes. It would take more than a magician and a thief to kill Maelyn Sorro.”

“What about the devar?”

“You said she disappeared before the attack? I think she either went somewhere to lie low or she just hadn’t arrived back when it happened. And after that, it doesn’t really matter. She could be anywhere.”

Aster glanced at the door. “If you’re so certain…” she let go of his arm. “I must apologize. I wasn’t sure if I was going to arrest you for treason or not. My people are… I must try my best to uplift their legacy. You understand, right?”

She’s so young. He nodded. “We are what remains of our peoples.” He glanced down at the artifact in his hand. “I do not know if I should stay for long. There is much I must investigate.”

“Of course,” Aster recognized, settling back onto the cushion. “I will welcome your company for as long as you choose. I can’t offer much, but I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you. For not arresting me for treason.”

She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

[trevisos]

beneath the cut is a xarrai/astarion wip i’ll probably never finish but still stands alone as a nice little piece. please enjoy :)

His heart beats in his dreams. It always has, as long as he can remember dreaming - as long as his reverie has been stripped from him, the whole breadth of his unlife. He hardly notices it, the thrum of life beneath his skin, this aberration born of a mind that still aches for life centuries after its end. His heart beats and beats and beats until he opens his eyes and finds it stopped. When he wakes from nightmares like the one he’s had tonight, a twisting mess of shrill voices and red eyes and collapsing stone, the sudden stillness still sends icy panic down his spine. For a moment he lies motionless, unbreathing, until the dream recedes and the last orange embers of the firelight burn through his eyelids and, slowly, he lets the cool mountain air fill his dead lungs.

“Bad dreams?”

Astarion nearly jumps out of his skin at the unexpected voice. He sits up, and there Xarrai is: perched high on a rock, cutting an unusually graceful silhouette against the star-drenched sky. He manages to compose himself, pushing his curls back out of his face and mustering his best indignant huff. “What makes you think that?”

The near-dead fire casts just enough light that his vision can’t properly adjust, and so Xarrai is more phantom than man sitting above him, one knee pulled up to their chest, the other leg dangling off the rock next to their swaying tail. “The thrashing was the first clue.” He doesn’t have to see their expression to know the smug tilt of their lips. “And you look dreadful.”

“I do not!” He reflectively snaps. He starts to turn away, but then they laugh and his eyes are dragged back toward them of their own accord. Even this far apart, the perfume of their skin is overwhelming, all salt and wood and dark vanilla, tempered by the earthy smoke that clings to their hair and the sharp metallic tang of blood. His first, his senses remind him again and again, his first.

“No, I’m just fucking with you,” they lilt. “Come sit a while, if you’re not going back to sleep.”

A glance at the state of his bedroll, with its twisted covers and crumpled pillow, tells him they are not, in fact, “just fucking with him.” He scowls. “You’re just lying to make me feel better,” he sniffs, but it doesn’t stop him from clambering up the stone to sit beside them in the moonlight. The valley below opens up impossibly wide, washed blue by the night air. He kicks a pebble and watches it bounce and roll until it finds the lip of the vast maw and disappears into the blue night.

“Of course I’m lying,” Xarrai says, flicking open the little black and gold case sitting on the stone and retrieving a cigarette rolled in black paper. “But it’s bold to assume I’m doing it for your benefit, sweetheart.” Astarion watches perhaps more closely than he should as they clamp the thing between their lips and light it with a lick of blue arcane flame from their hand. They meet his eyes with a knowing smile. “Maybe I’m just incapable of telling the truth.”

“Oh, that’s not in question, '' mutters Astarion, tearing his eyes from the scar across their cheek, silver in the moonlight. The memory of his heartbeat still buzzes in his chest, and he tries in vain to rub a little warmth into his frozen fingers. Despite the summer heat in the lowlands, the night air is cool and crisp this high into the mountains. “What are you doing up this late, darling?”

“You want one?” They nudge the gilded box toward him and glide past his question. “These ones are only tobacco, I’m afraid, but it’s better than nothing.”

The game the two of them play, this endless dance of deception and seduction, demands Astarion press them for an answer. It demands he chase the lie and pretend it is the truth. And perhaps he would if the sun were up, if his empty chest didn’t ache, if he weren’t so godsdamned cold, if there wasn’t a tadpole in his head and the smoldering ruins of a monastery filled with charred corpses behind him, if, if, if.

He takes the last cigarette without a word. They conjure another arcane flame to light it, leaning in close and resting their other hand on the back of his neck. In the blue light, he sees nothing but dark circles under bright eyes and a dusting of freckles across scarred skin.

This is more honest, anyway.

[mariocki]

Funny Games (1997)

"Why are you doing this to us?"

"Why not?"

[theramblingvoid]

Number 6, for Hallowrove!

Okay this is the fun one I'd hoped someone would pick because the thing is it's happened so many times in canon already that there's just NO question about the answer

Hallowrove's List Of Who She'd Go To If Badly Injured, by preference:

- Fluorine Scaleflats, a Rubbery friend with a great skill and interest in Shapeling Arts who can be relied on to piece her back together in (mostly) (if asked nicely) the right order

- Haarsink, who also knows shapeling arts and can probably apply them in a much less biologically creative manner in a medical setting, but is second on the list because showing up bleeding at his place would stress him the hell out (ask me how I know lol)

- Oversol, who although being a deeply trusted safe place to go has no particular medical knowledge or skills and will probably just call a very expensive doctor and/or pick Hallowrove up and sprint her to a hospital, while being VERY stressed either way

Hallowrove's List Of Who He'd Go To If Badly Injured, by what inevitably actually ends up happening:

- Oversol

- Haarsink that one time

- But other than that it's always Oversol

- Good lord Hallowrove you are going to put this poor man into heart failure we have got to stop letting this happen so often -

[caroline-nighthunter]

It's past midnight and I gotta be up early tomorrow but my mind just cannot rest about this conversation prompt about Necromancer Wizard and a Cyrus and the whole Malistair fiasco (Context of the dynamic is basically the whole thing became a taboo subject and the Young Wiz and Cyrus take what happened in Dragonspyre to their grave which was prob their least prefferred way to be knitted together in such a personal way):

"I thought it was easy. Death didn't scare me. Killing didn't either. It had to be done. But... Cyrus, the catch is.... I think I was wrong. The thought of death didn't scare me. The thought of killing neither. Nobody could have ever prepared me for the actual thing. Not a hundred... thousand... rehearsals."

b y e

[sunshiline-writes]

Rainbringer #5: Warm Tea and Blankets

Some comfort for poor Whumpee Kyler.

CW: mention of past torture, knife mention, fire mention

tooth rooting fluff Previous | Masterlist | Next

Kyler shivered under the covers, eyes closed, he could still feel the knife in his back. Carving into skin. Blood flowing down. He could still hear the blood dripping on the ground. Claire’s fingers ghosting over his skin. Pulling the blankets closer around him, he shivered again. He’d taken a shower when he got home, scrubbing himself raw. Until the blood was gone and his skin was red from rubbing so hard. 

He’d been curled here for about an hour now, unable to move. The flashes of what happened to him are still cornering him in his own mind. Kyler didn’t cry though, his eyes were dry. Perhaps he’d cried all of them during the session with Claire. There was a bright side however, she gave him the rest of the week to recover. It was Thursday and he had until Monday to gather himself. Put himself back together slowly. Putting himself back together was something he was good at. He’d been doing it for the past twenty or so years. Ever since the fire. There was something about it that seemed to not only burn him, but burn something inside him too. Kyler was so caught up in his own mind he didn’t notice Irvington walk in the room. 

“Oh Ky, I’m glad you’re home. It started to rain as I walked back from the market,” they said, euphoria lining their voice, “can you believe that I can say that? I walked home in the rain!” Irvington let out a giggle. Like a child. Kyler just shivered harder, knowing that rain was made through blood. His blood. His blood. His screams. 

“Ky?” Their voice was filled with worry now, “Ky, are you okay?” 

He lifted his head from the blanket, frowning at Irvington. Hair sopping wet, expression concerned, shirt off. “Yeah..” He whispered, “I think I caught a cold or something.” He faked a sniffle. Irvington’s frown deepened, “I’ll get some tea and I’ll get you more blankets.” “No no, I don’t-“ 

Irvington had already put on a dry shirt and grabbed their cane and walked out of the room. Kyler sighed softly. He didn’t deserve them. Turning so he was on his back he stared at the ceiling, he didn’t want to close his eyes. Everytime he closed them he saw Claire and he saw the knife. He waited for a moment before deciding that it was okay to sit up again. There was still phantom pains, phantom soreness. He shouldn’t feel like this, but this was a tiredness that was deep in his bones. Kyler felt like he ran a marathon. His body shivered so violently, he decided it was best to lay down again. 

As he did so, Irvington came in again, warm tea in one hand, a blanket draped over their shoulder. “I made chamomile again, added some mint, and some honey. It should help,” they said. Going to the side of the bed, and handing him the tea. Then they sat down, taking the blanket from their shoulder and laid it on top of Kyler. “You were feeling fine this morning,” they said, frowning again. 

“You’re going to have permanent frown lines if you keep frowning like that my love,” Kyler mused, sipping his tea with a weak smile.

Irvington scoffed, crooked grin coming back on their face. Yes, that was the smile Kyler loved so much. “You better stop giving me reasons to frown then, you’ve been so tired lately after prayers.” 

Kyler sighed softly, “I was thinking.. I would just do my prayers here this weekend.” 

Irvingtons smile went wider and they rubbed their hands together excitedly. They were so excited, the cane that was leaning on the bed, knocked over with a crash. Both of them giggled. 

“Does this mean.. I can spoil you?” Irvington asked. 

“No-” 

“Breakfast in bed,” 

“Irv” 

“Reading to you,” 

Kyler couldn’t help the laugh that escaped from him, “No!” 

“Maybe i’ll even play the violin for you.” 

“You’re ridiculous you know that?” 

“I know. It’s only for you. May I?” Irvington asked, his hand hovering over the covers. 

“Dry your hair first! Then you can come in. You’re sopping wet.” 

Both of them laughed and Irvington picked up their cane, walking to the bathroom. Kyler placed his tea on the bedstand. He pulled the covers to his chin, relishing in the warmth. Relishing in the temporary peace that came with the thought that he wouldn’t have to get up and see Claire tomorrow. Yes, he could live with that. For a few days of peace. He could live with the pain. As long as Irvington kept being here to welcome home, with warm tea and warm blankets. 

TAGLIST: @devourerofcheesecake @for-the-love-of-angst @whumpinthepot as always! ask to be added or removed!

[fishisvibing]

I don't want my pretty dazzling good looking face to have scar what do I do??? I have surgery in a month and I'm scared, helpppp I'm so nervous my heart is jumping out rn. What if that scar ruins my look, I'm too fucking pretty to have a scar, do you have any tips to make those scars look less noticeable? Make up? Or facial cream IDK??? IM PANICKING

[bespectacled-bookwyrm]

2023 Whumptober 28

Summary: The house is never this quiet.

Written for the 2023 Whumptober event!

[moonlight-blue-rose]

Summary: Favorite story/Journal & “You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest”:

He could have never escaped from his ‘Fate’, he thought as he gazed at Yoo Joonghyuk’s twisted face, the dried blood flaking at his scrunched eyebrows, at the creases of his mouth.

It’s fine not to, he thought as the thrum in his chest finally spilled over and pulled at his lips, stretching them wide.

(Thirteen years of love danced to the rhythm of his heart.)

[aveloka-draws]

Wait…..I just realized something.

In the cotltober “eyes” post….WAS IT SUPPOSED TO BE THE AFTERMATH OF THE “you are what you eat” DRAWING?!?! CUZ LAMB IS LITERALLY HOLDING THE SAME FORK AND KNIFE IN BOTH DRAWINGS

[crow-ffended]

I think my heart just skipped a beat at how gorgeous this is <333

"Crows remember human faces. They remember the people who feed them, who are kind to them. And the people who wrong them too.[…] They don’t forget. They tell each other who to look after and who to watch out for." (The Crooked Kingdom) -

[misswynters]

A Stark’s Fury

Cregan Stark x targ!wife! reader

[warning: blood, you getting cut in the arm

[synopsis: You are the wife of Cregan and younger sister of rhaenyra. You get cut in the arm and your son, Eddard, also gets hurt. Which makes cregan furious.

[note | here’s a lil something while i write the final chapter for winters embrace, just a short drabble :) also instead of rhae getting cut it’s you.

[requested: by anon

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting an amber glow across Driftmark. Laena Velaryon’s funeral was a somber affair, filled with the mournful silence of the assembled nobles and the soft lapping of waves against the shore. Among the gathered were you, the younger sister of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, your husband Cregan Stark, and your son Eddard, who clung to your skirts, his wide eyes taking in the solemnity of the occasion.

Your silver hair flowed down your back, and your violet eyes glistened with unshed tears as you stood beside Cregan. His strong arm encircled your waist, offering silent support. Despite the warmth of the setting sun, a chill hung in the air, a reflection of the grief that weighed heavily on your hearts.

As the ceremony proceeded, you noticed the tension simmering among the children. Your son, Eddard, stood with Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, trying to comfort them in their shared sorrow. Your heart ached for them, especially for Rhaena, who had just lost her mother.

When the time came for the family to pay their final respects, you and Cregan approached the bier. You whispered a prayer for Laena’s soul, your voice barely audible over the sound of the crashing waves. Cregan squeezed your hand gently, his presence a solid rock amidst the turbulent sea of emotions.

After the funeral, you found yourself in the grand hall, where the tension between the Blacks and the Greens was palpable. You kept a watchful eye on Eddard, who was playing with the other children. However, the peace was shattered when a scuffle broke out between Aemond and Jace. The sight of Aemond taunting Jace, and the resulting fight, sent a shockwave through the hall.

Eddard tried to intervene, but in the chaos, he was struck and fell to the ground, crying out in pain. You rushed to his side, your heart pounding with fear and anger. Cregan was by your side in an instant, his protective instincts flaring as he assessed the situation.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

“Aemond taunted Jace, and then the fight started,” you explained, your voice trembling with emotion as you cradled Eddard.

Cregan’s eyes darkened with anger. “This has gone too far.”

The confrontation escalated when Alicent Hightower, her face twisted with rage, advanced on Rhaenyra, who was defending her sons. You stepped between them, trying to defuse the situation, but Alicent’s fury was uncontrollable. She drew a knife, lunging at Rhaenyra, but you intercepted the blow.

The blade sliced across your arm, and you cried out in pain, clutching the wound. Cregan’s roar of fury echoed through the hall as he moved to shield you. He grabbed the knife from Alicent’s hand, his face a mask of rage.

“Enough!” he bellowed. “This madness ends now!”

King Viserys, looking frail and distressed, tried to intervene. “Peace! There must be peace!”

Cregan turned on the king, his eyes blazing. “Peace? Look at what your family has done! My wife is injured, my son is hurt, and for what? Petty squabbles and insults?”

Rhaenyra, tears streaming down her face, reached for you. “Sister, I’m so sorry.”

You managed a weak smile, despite the pain. “It’s not your fault, Rhaenyra. But something must change.”

As the maesters attended to your wound, Cregan kept a protective arm around you. He glared at the Greens, making it clear that any further aggression would not be tolerated. The hall was filled with a tense silence, the air thick with unspoken threats and unresolved grievances.

In the aftermath, Cregan insisted on returning to Winterfell with you and Eddard. “We’ll be safer there,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I won’t risk your lives any longer.”

You nodded, grateful for his unwavering support. “Thank you, Cregan.”

He kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your cool skin. “I love you. I will always protect you.”

As you prepared to leave Driftmark, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the family you were leaving behind. You took a moment to say your farewells to Rhaenyra and her children.

“Please, take care of yourselves,” you whispered to Rhaenyra, holding her hands tightly. “We’ll be in touch, I promise.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes filled with worry. “Be safe, sister.”

With a final embrace, you and Cregan gathered Eddard and boarded your ship, setting sail for Winterfell. The journey was long, but Cregan’s presence and Eddard’s innocent chatter kept your spirits high.

Winterfell welcomed you with open arms. The cold, crisp air and the familiar sights brought a sense of comfort. As you settled back into your home, the events at Driftmark seemed like a distant nightmare.

Cregan, ever the doting husband, ensured you had everything you needed to recover from your injury. He personally oversaw the maesters’ treatments, and his protective nature brought you solace.

A few hours later, as you sat by the fire, Cregan wrapped a warm blanket around your shoulders and handed you a cup of hot tea. “How are you feeling?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

“Better,” you replied, taking a sip. “Thanks to you.”

He smiled, sitting beside you. “I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

You leaned against him, finding comfort in his strength. “I know. And I’m grateful.”

Life in Winterfell slowly returned to normal. Eddard resumed his lessons and playtime with the other children, while you and Cregan focused on the responsibilities of ruling the North. Despite the distance from Driftmark, the shadow of that day lingered.

Later that night, as you lay in bed, you turned to Cregan. “Do you think things will ever be right again between the Blacks and the Greens?”

Cregan sighed, his brow furrowing in thought. “It’s hard to say. The wounds run deep. But we must try, for the sake of our family.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “I want Eddard to grow up in a world where he doesn’t have to choose sides.”

Cregan’s grip on your hand tightened. “We’ll do everything in our power to make that happen.”

Many moons have passed, and your wound healed, leaving only a faint scar as a reminder of the confrontation. The bond between you and Cregan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity. Winterfell thrived under your joint leadership, a beacon of stability and strength. In the morning, as the first snow of the season blanketed the ground, you stood on the battlements with Cregan, watching Eddard play with the other children.

“He’s so happy here,” you remarked, smiling at the sight of your son’s laughter.

Cregan wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Of course he is, this is our home. He’s meant to be here.”

You nodded silently, feeling a deep sense of peace. Your eyes went to the scar on your arm, being reminded of what happened. You looked at your husband, with sadness in your eyes.

“I hope my family will stop this infighting, i wish for all of this today end” Your thoughts began to wonder of all the possible outcomes this conflict can end with. This could very well mean that death will linger in your family. Something no one will ever be prepared for, war costs everything.

The quietness of Winterfell enveloped you as you drifted into a fitful sleep beside Cregan. The room was cold, and the memory of the somber events—the funeral of Lady Laena Velaryon, the sharp sting of your wound—still weighed heavily on you.

In your dream, the landscape was bleak and foreboding. A storm raged over a desolate battlefield, its fury tearing at the very fabric of the sky. You wandered through the chaos, a spectral figure in the storm’s heart. Amidst the destruction, you saw a vision of a great dragon, its scales a dim and faded silver, bound by chains of ice that slowly constricted around its body. The dragon’s eyes were filled with a profound sorrow, as if it sensed the end drawing near.

A shadowy figure emerged from the storm—a man cloaked in shadows, his face obscured but his presence undeniably menacing. His voice cut through the tempest, speaking directly to your mind, “The chains of fate are not easily broken. A great loss is coming to your house.”

As you reached out to free the dragon, a dark prophecy formed in your mind, clear as day. “Cregan will face a treacherous choice,” you heard yourself say in the dream. “A betrayal will come from within. Death will follow.”

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream lingering like a cold shiver down your spine. Your breathing was rapid and uneven, and a profound fear gripped you. You turned to Cregan, who was lying beside you, his face furrowed in concern.

The sudden movement and your distressed state had startled him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep as he reached out to steady you. His hand found yours, his grip warm and reassuring against your icy fingers.

“My dream,” you managed to stammer, your voice trembling. “I saw... I saw something terrible. A dragon in chains, and a warning about you—”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed with concern, but he quickly sat up, his arm wrapping protectively around you. “What did you see? Tell me everything,” he urged, his voice steady despite the worry etched on his face.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I don’t know all the details, but it felt so real. I fear that something dark is coming, and it will bring pain to us and our house.”

Cregan nodded, his expression resolute despite the alarm in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling you closer to his body. “For now, try to rest. You need it” He cradled your body as you leaned towards him, the warmth of his body bringing you comfort.

As you lay back down, you could feel the storm of fear inside you slowly ebbing, but the weight of the dream’s prophecy remained heavy in your heart.

taglist: @benjicotblckwood @travelingmypassion @shoxji @thornsandtulips @spn-obession @giovanna-hyt @r-3dlips

banners: @cafekitsune

[sunshiline-writes]

Rainbringer #2: Say That Again

Kyler starts regretting his decision about making a deal with a goddess. Claire finds out she likes it when Kyler begs.

CW: begging, aftermath of choking, noncon touching (nonsexual), begging, fear of choking, fear of death, brief mention of a knife at the end

Previous | Masterlist | Next

His head hurt. There was a deep throbbing ache on the front of his skull. It took a moment to realize that someone was touching him. Stroking his hair, playing with it. He groaned and tried to lift his head. Then he opened his eyes. Ah, he was still in the temple. Claire was stroking his hair. Oh, she was stroking his hair and his head was in her damn lap. No, no, he didn’t like that. But he felt so heavy. His eyes felt so heavy, he wondered for a moment if she was playing a trick. The gentle, soft touch. He didn’t expect this from her. 

“I passed out,” he mumbled, looking up at her. His brain was foggy, like everything was in slow motion. Even his tongue felt heavy. 

“Yes you did,” she agreed, smiling gently, “I went too far. I always forget..” 

Kyler didn’t say anything, he just started to push himself to sit up. Claire didn’t stop him. His hair had fallen out of its neat low ponytail and he groaned slightly when he righted himself. He brought a hand to his neck, suddenly remembering the feeling of her hands around it. Squeezing, letting go, squeezing. Suddenly he felt like he couldn’t breathe again. 

“I healed the bruising,” she stated plainly. 

Kyler sighed slightly but it came out more like a wheeze. It was the panic, not the damage. He knew he could breathe normally again but it was the memory of it that was making him feel unwell. Holding his head he groaned again. 

“Wow, thanks for that. Really helped me out there,” Kyler said sarcastically, grabbing onto a bench in the temple, and pushing himself into an awkward standing position. He stood half bent over the bench, eyes shut tightly. This headache wasn’t going away was it? No no, this was a different headache. 

“I thought we learned a lesson ten minutes ago about disrespect,” Claire said, her voice right next to his ear, breath hot. She was always so close. Did she need to be that close? “I figured I would get rid of the bruises as a favor. For when you go home tonight. Anyone waiting for you?” 

Kyler winced as he stood up, turning to face her. Lying would be met with punishment so he answered as vaguely as he could. “Yes.” 

“Who?” 

“Knowing my personal life was not part of this agreement,” Kyler said warily, gauging her reaction. 

“True, but knowing makes you more interesting for me to play with.” 

“Great, I definitely want that for me.” Her eyes turned cruel again, and he raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry,” he mumbled. 

There was a pause in the room. Like even the air itself stopped moving. 

“Say that again,” Claire said, a bit giddily. A child. Why did she act like a child when she was the most cruel? 

“What?” he asked, licking his lips slightly. 

“You heard me Kyler,” again her eyes were lit up in childlike wonder at the way she was forcing him to apologize again. 

“I don’t-” 

She shoved him on the bench and he grabbed the front of it to stop himself from falling. He really should have just apologized in the first place. His sarcasm was getting him into trouble here. As per usual, but this was different. This was a goddess. As long as she didn’t put her hands around his throat again. Anything but that. 

“Don’t be stubborn, just apologize. Or I can keep you here for longer. I can make you pass out again. Worry whoever is waiting for you at home.” 

Kyler bit his lip and balled his fists. Step one to getting through this deal alive and not worrying Irvington: get over his pride. 

“No.. I’m sorry..” he finally said, swallowing hard. Picturing her hands around his throat again. “I’m sorry.. Please.. Please just let me go home.” 

Claire sighed contently, gently running her hand through his hair, moving it behind his ear. Always touching, always. What was with the touching? It took everything in him not to slap her hands away. 

“I love how sweet you sound when you’re begging. I’m going to ask for that more often,” she mused, running her fingers over his ear, tugging playfully on his earlobe. He stood up and she took a few steps back. 

“Can I leave now?” 

“Yes Kyler,” Claire said with a pout, “But we are going to have so much fun tomorrow.” 

So much fun, he thought to himself, as he started to walk past her. 

“Bring a knife tomorrow, I want to try something.” 

His heart stopped. 

Started again. 

He left the temple without another word. 

Kyler was starting to regret his deal with the goddess. Was the pain worth the rain? The answer was still yet to be answered.  tag list: @robinbugbanned @devourerofcheesecake @whumpinthepot @for-the-love-of-angst