#Vorath

[thelastgherkin]

LEGACY UNITED VS: G1 Universe Squeezeplay and Lokos

Squeeze me, squeeze me, never let me go...

More like this:

Buzzworthy Bumblebee Worlds Collide Fangry and Brisko

Titans Return Titan Master Class Terri-Bull and Crashbash

Collaborative Draculus

[transformers-mosaic]

Transformers: Mosaic #571 - "The Cassandra Effect"

Originally posted on January 10th, 2011

Story, Art - Richard Cookson

deviantART | Seibertron | TFW2005 | BotTalk

wada sez: Mindwipe forsees Scorponok’s gruesome death in issue #75 of the Marvel Comics series, “On the Edge of Extinction!”. The title of this strip is a little perplexing; Cassandra was a famous oracle from Greek myth, but her curse was that although her predictions were accurate, nobody would ever believe her. Italian translation by Franco Villa below, along with a preview of tomorrow’s strip!

[seharuuchan]

Bhaalspawn OCs but they are ✨siblings✨

Kaius and Vorath are Bhaalspawns, Kaius is the oldest and Vorath is the younges. Kaius' goal is to make his father proud, while Vorath just wanted to write poems and play music.

[cerebrosurgeon]

Initially, Cerebros followed Trojan's holoform, his HUD displaying a detailed overview of what needed to be fixed and how. He trusted Trojan, though, and stood his ground until he was given instructions. Cerebros could feel the deep scores in Trojan's plating through Grommet's fingertips, the oil coating Gasket's forearms as he blindly dug deep, seeking out the severed line with precision. It was awful. As much as the tension, the fear, in Trojan pained Cerebros, he kept his gaze on them steady, nodding an affirmative. What Cerebros lacked in electromagnetic perception, Max made up for, and it was him that could understand the extent of Trojan's terror. The information relayed to Cerebros late but was shuffled aside - It wasn't damage Cerebros could repair, not now, not when Trojan's life was endangered. Max reached a hand out, his own EM field tense but comforting, reassuring, hand hovering at Trojan's port side without touching them.

At the sound of the door opening, Cerebros spun on his heel and sprinted through the open door, only hearing his old friend's words once he was over the threshold, and he froze as soon as he saw the sparks housed in the surrogate forge. For a moment, he stood there, even his ventilation fans silent. Slowly, he removed his mask and visor from storage and slotted them back in place as he looked around. Max, outside, was equally shocked. Their biology was so different from Trojan's; Cerebros could stabilise a laser core, transfer mind engrams to CCVs, or operate on brain modules... But this? To save more sparks than his processor could log in a glance, when he'd never even handled one? A sudden slew of data slammed into Cerebros, staggering him as he held his helm; the other Headmasters had seen what he had. Highbrow and Arcana were the loudest voices in his head, Brainstorm and, most surprisingly, Vorath, close behind in volume. They were all telling Cerebros what to do in different ways, and it took Max enforcing command protocols to get them to organise usefully. Highbrow came in first, Cerebros's feet carrying him to the nearest display panel, hands guided into navigating the glitching UI behind the shattered screen, Highbrow seeking metrics readouts through Cerebros.

› Dont even look at the sparks. Look at the mechanisms of the forge. Repair it like anything else.▮

› 𝓣𝖍𝖊𝖘𝖊 𝕾𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖐𝖘 𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝕻𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 ��𝖆𝖘𝖊𝖗 𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖘. 𝓣𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖒 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝓝 𝖊𝖇𝖚𝖑𝖆𝖓 𝓗𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕭𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘.▮

Vorath's advice was both the least expected and the most helpful. Whatever Brainstorm had been trying to communicate via the Headmasters' telepathy was abandoned in favour of spamming Vorath and Mindwipe with endless questions regarding how, exactly, the fellow scientist knew anything about sparks. What readouts Cerebros could parse didn't look good; he was thinking of Galen, bloody and cold, brain activity undetectable. He was thinking of all these sparks winding up like that. Highbrow was piloting him remotely to the best of his ability - Open up this box, replace these fuses, find that chemical, replenish lubricants, swab rust away... Brainstorm's attention returned, destroying Highbrow's tenuous influence.

› ᴘʟᴜɢ ɪɴ!▮

The command was so confident, Cerebros didn't even question it, ejecting an adaptor from one wrist and sticking it in the first slot it fit into, hard wiring him into the surrogate forge's dedicated motherboard. The data stream was routed to Highbrow, course corrected, sent back to Cerebros, and uploaded back into the software. His processor was overheating, but it was working, Cerebros clumsy in his hardware repairs. Tubes needed to be patched, a rod needed to be submerged in a cooling station and replaced, half the sparks' vitals were unavailable due to damaged units, but they were still viable. Arcana patched in formally after pinging Max, presence soothing Cerebros as he settled into almost autonomous motions. This was what he was built for, after all.

› 𝓘𝓯 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝔀𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓭-𝓸𝓷.▮

"Trojan," Max murmured, leaning down towards them slowly, "does the forge need additional parts?"

Wincing at the loud squeak of Trojan's bay door, Max stepped closer to them slowly. He stayed quiet, not wanting to crowd or startle their friend at their most vulnerable; he was waiting for their team to advise his actions. Cerebros had no such reservations, carefully lifting himself up the steep step into their drop bay, crouching slightly to maintain his balance - Trojan was listing to one side where they rested. Visor dimming, Cerebros looked around slowly, still trying to obtain an accurate scan of the damage. Cog pinged him repeatedly, all but desperate to serve their programming and initiate repairs. Hesitantly, Cerebros granted them permission to separate into their individual parts and begin non-invasive treatment on Trojan's outermost frame.

Everything was... Desolate. Cerebros's chest felt empty, cold, and Max's attempt to soothe him was half-hearted at best. He was drawn to Turfwar's work station and stood where Turfwar once did, a hand hovering over the long untouched work table. Grief threatened to drown he and Max, the sensation strong enough to catch the attention of the other Headmasters - Highbrow was the first to request a status report from Max, followed closely by Gort and Hardhead reminding them they were always available in an emergency. Overwhelmed but unwilling to distract Cerebros, Max drew on his bond with Emissary, leaving the communications to him. He was thinking too much of Galen to move, blankly staring at a particularly nasty gash in Trojan's plating.

The voice behind Cerebros didn't startle him, not with his battle-ready HUD active and Max watching his back. Dragging his gaze away from Turfwar's old schematics, he turned around, looking up at Trojan's holoform. Funny, he didn't remember them having a holoform - Did anyone, back then? He thumbed the biolock on his faceplate and subspaced it in his forearm, followed closely by his visor. Usually resistant to showing his bare face without his transtector, the minibot was well accustomed to being vulnerable amongst Trojan and their team, and knew the value in shows of trust during trauma care.

Unshielded optics glowing the same dim, grey-blue they always had, Cerebros tilted his head to the side, wondering when Trojan changed their paintjob; he thought it suited them, actually, and the Decepticon emblem didn't come as neither disappointment nor surprise. The Autobots had lost the plot a long time ago.

"Guide me. What's critical? Gasket and Grommet are getting started outside," Cerebros replied, not wasting time asking questions. Trojan was familiar with emergency protocol. They'd understand there was plenty of time to talk when they were well enough to do so. He wished Galen were here.

[caniruineverything]

while you were saving your neck, i've been breaking mine for you

a 5+1 ben 10 fic

Summary:

"It took Gwen a while to notice it. In her defense, she had a lot of things going on in her life, and each battle blurred into the next. But once she did notice it, it was impossible to miss. She had known for a long time that her cousin was reckless, often running headfirst into battle without thinking twice.

Recently, however, he had been far too eager to sacrifice himself."

OR

5 times Ben tries to sacrifice himself for others and fails, and 1 time he manages to succeed.

read below or on ao3

Chapter 1: Vilgax

Chapter 2: Trat-ska

Chapter 3: Ultimate Kevin

Chapter 4: Rampaging Beast

Chapter 5: Vorath

Chapter 6: The Incursions

[cuddlesomeone]

i shouldn’t be allowed to make OCs because i want to give them names like Princess Trufflette Snuffletuff and Vicomte Vorath Vexshade von Veymoor of the Vile Voidspire

[1maverick3]

Big project Vice and Virtue

Who’s you’re favorite character mine is Zorn !！

[1776leo]

Wings of Betrayal

Part:2

Chapter 8: Gathering the Fragments

Back in Lythalin Grove, Sylara found the sacred forest nearly unrecognizable. The absence of the Luminal Gem had left the grove weakened, its once-luminous flowers dull and lifeless. The fae council stood in the central glade, their expressions as withered as the land around them.

When Sylara approached, the elders turned to her, their gazes heavy with judgment.

"You dare return after your betrayal?" Elder Voryn spat, his staff pounding into the ground. "The Luminal Gem is gone, and with it, the heart of our realm!"

Sylara stood her ground, though the weight of their condemnation threatened to break her. "I had no choice. Vorath took the gem and corrupted it. But I know where it is, and I know how to get it back."

The council erupted into murmurs, disbelief and anger swirling in the air.

"You brought a Kadrith into our grove!" another elder snapped. "You trusted a creature of shadow, and now you expect us to believe you can fix this?"

Sylara raised her glaive, its light flickering weakly. "I don't expect your trust. I only expect you to let me try. If I fail, then I accept whatever punishment you deem fit."

Voryn studied her for a long moment, his ancient eyes narrowing. Finally, he sighed. "If you wish to undo this catastrophe, you will need more than bravery. You will need allies—ones far beyond the grove."

---

Chapter 9: The Pact of the Pyronix

Sylara's first destination was the Ashen Peaks, home of the Pyronix—a clan of fiery elemental warriors who rarely involved themselves in the affairs of others. Their leader, Valtrix, was said to be as unpredictable as the flames she wielded.

As Sylara ascended the volcanic mountains, the heat grew unbearable. Her wings drooped, her strength waning. Finally, she reached the summit, where Valtrix awaited, seated on a throne of molten rock.

"Fae," Valtrix drawled, her flaming eyes narrowing. "You have ventured far from your lands. Why?"

Sylara bowed, her heart racing. "The Luminal Gem has been stolen by Vorath, and my realm is dying. I seek your aid to reclaim it."

Valtrix laughed, the sound crackling like a wildfire. "And why should the Pyronix care about your dying flowers?"

"Because if Vorath isn’t stopped, he’ll come for your realm next," Sylara said, her voice firm. "He won’t stop at the Luminal Gem. He’ll devour every source of power until nothing remains."

Valtrix tilted her head, intrigued. "You speak with conviction. But I am not easily swayed. What can you offer in return for our help?"

Sylara hesitated. The Pyronix valued strength above all else. Finally, she said, "A duel. If I win, you fight by my side."

Valtrix grinned, flames curling around her fingers. "Bold. I like it."

The duel was swift and brutal. Valtrix’s fire burned hotter than anything Sylara had ever faced, but she refused to yield. With a desperate surge of faelight, she disarmed Valtrix, her glaive pressing against the elemental’s throat.

Valtrix laughed again, this time with genuine admiration. "Very well, fae. The Pyronix will fight for you. But I hope you’re ready for the cost of war."

---

Chapter 10: Shadows Return

With the Pyronix by her side, Sylara returned to the Shadowed Realm. They stormed Vorath’s outposts, dismantling his forces piece by piece. Sylara’s glaive burned brighter with each victory, her hope growing stronger.

But Vorath was prepared. As Sylara and her allies approached the final fortress, a familiar figure emerged from the gates.

"Kaelvar," Sylara whispered, her heart aching.

He stood before them, his armor now etched with dark runes, his once-vivid aura consumed by shadow. His gaze locked onto Sylara, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of recognition.

"Leave," he commanded, his voice colder than she had ever heard it. "You cannot win."

Sylara stepped forward, ignoring the Pyronix warriors who tried to hold her back. "Kaelvar, I know you’re still in there. Fight him. Fight Vorath!"

Kaelvar’s expression darkened. "There is no Kaelvar anymore. Only Vorath’s blade."

He raised his sword, and the ground trembled. The Pyronix warriors rushed to Sylara’s side, their flames igniting, but she held up a hand to stop them.

"No," she said softly. "This is my fight."

---

Chapter 11: A Battle of Love and Shadows

Sylara faced Kaelvar, her heart breaking with every step. She raised her glaive, its light dim against the darkness surrounding him.

"You don’t have to do this," she pleaded. "You can break free. I know you can."

Kaelvar didn’t respond. He charged, his blade clashing against her glaive. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through the battlefield. Sylara gritted her teeth, tears streaming down her face as she fought against him.

Each strike was a test of her resolve. She refused to hurt him, but Kaelvar showed no such hesitation. His attacks were relentless, his shadow magic threatening to overwhelm her.

Finally, he knocked her to the ground, his sword poised above her heart. Sylara looked up at him, her voice trembling.

"Kaelvar, please. I love you."

For a moment, the shadows around him flickered. His grip on the sword faltered, and his expression softened.

But then Vorath’s voice echoed through the air. "Finish her, my vessel."

Kaelvar’s body stiffened, his eyes filling with agony. He raised his sword again, but this time, it trembled in his hand.

"I... can’t," he whispered.

Sylara saw her chance. She surged to her feet, her glaive glowing brighter than ever. She pressed it against his chest, pouring every ounce of her magic into him.

"Come back to me," she cried. "You’re stronger than this!"

Kaelvar screamed, the shadows writhing around him as Sylara’s light pierced through. For a brief moment, the darkness shattered, and Kaelvar fell to his knees.

"Sylara," he murmured, his voice raw. "I... I’m sorry."

But before she could reach him, Vorath’s laughter filled the air. The ground beneath them split open, and a vortex of shadow began to pull Kaelvar away.

"No!" Sylara screamed, reaching for him. Their fingers brushed, but it wasn’t enough.

Kaelvar was dragged into the void, his anguished cry echoing in her ears. The vortex closed, leaving Sylara alone on the battlefield.

---

Chapter 12: The Price of Hope

Sylara fell to her knees, her strength gone. The Pyronix surrounded her, their flames dimming in the aftermath of the battle.

"Is it over?" one of them asked.

Sylara shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. "No. It’s only just begun."

Vorath had taken Kaelvar again, but Sylara had seen the truth. He could be saved. The Luminal Gem could be restored. But the cost would be greater than she had ever imagined.

As the battlefield faded into silence, Sylara rose, her glaive still glowing faintly.

"I will bring him back," she vowed. "No matter what it takes."

Far in the distance, Vorath watched through the shadows, his sinister smile widening. The game was far from over.

[squidvetica]

Lunos Vorath - Ruler of Planet Xarion

So here's the first ever image of them alongside my brainstorming journal entry when I was trying to find a name for them! Very fun stuff we love to see it! 💖✨

[brutal-nemesis]

E&T: Caught in the Clutches of Lust

No im not sorry for any of this. cope and seethe

Btw I used a line from @painsandconfusion and @wormwriting's degradation starter list that I saved THREE YEARS AGO for this very moment. I am always playing the long game (⊙ˍ⊙)

←Previous - Masterlist

Ingredients: VERY creepy/intimate whumper, implied threat of noncon, a lot of noncon touching (unsexy but right on the edge), implied noncon kiss, unsexy nudity

Shiori?

No, it couldn’t be, she was a world away, she was human, he’d left her waiting by the fountain after the party and she’d moved on and forgotten about him, no reason to follow him here, into the depths of hell, looking exactly like she had the night of the party, jarringly out of place in her pretty dress, smiling at him like he wasn’t a blood-covered, unrecognizable version of himself.

And then he blinked, and all of a sudden it wasn’t Shiori at all, but Lythia, wearing the same yellow bandana that she always did while she was working in the palace gardens, the little black braids of her hair just as beautiful as he remembered. There was no pity in her dark eyes, like there had been the last time he saw her, looking up at him from the crowd while he was chained to that pillar, promising he’d be rescued after it was already too late. Actually seeing her hurt, and Erebus looked away for a moment, just a moment…

When he saw the woman in front of him now, his jaw dropped, eyes widening, his tense, burning hands finally relaxing.

“Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Her voice was just as he remembered, and she was smiling at him so kindly, her eyes soft, her gloved hand outstretched, she was here to save him, she’d found a way to bring him back, he was too tired and scared and stressed to do anything else besides surrender control to her once again, to take her small hand and follow her blindly towards the fate she’d chosen for him. She was squeezing his still-healing hand tightly in hers, but she could do whatever she wanted with him just as long as she got him out of this place.

“Well, that was easy.”

The voice wasn’t Shiori’s, or Lythia’s, and it certainly wasn’t Neteri’s.

Erebus jumped back, finally seeing the person next to him clearly for the first time. She-they?-smirked at him, bright purple eyes sparkling. Their white hair was long and wavy, partially braided back with impeccable precision. Gold jewelry and a low-cut black dress accentuated their natural beauty, seeming very out of place in this hellish world. Most striking of all, though, was their bright red skin, a shade that was very familiar to Erebus.

This was a lust demon, and she’d lead him right into her lair.

“You-how did-I-”

They laughed, deep and bright, obviously amused by his shock and confusion. “You only saw what your heart wanted you to see, darling. It’s not my fault you turned into a meek little lamb and followed me here.”

Erebus’s face grew hot. “Well I-I…” his wings sank behind him. He’d thought he was about to be saved. Like an idiot. She’d led him away from the bubbling pools and acrid air into a sort of cave, a furnished one at that. But now he was cornered in here, at a disadvantage in the cramped space. He swallowed and changed the topic, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”

“Apologies.” She bowed slightly, the sort of bow people gave when they were pretending to show respect during negotiations, but then declared war a few weeks later. “My name is Asmodeum, and really,” they gave him a disapproving look, “I’d rather not fight with you. I heard you’ve defeated Somiaken and Vorath already, but I believe you and I could work something out without coming to blows.” They held their hands up briefly, but the way they watched him made it clear that their guard was still up. “So, tell me your name, now. Unless you’d prefer I just call you darling?”

Erebus very much did not want that, so he complied. “Erebus. But you didn’t really answer my question. What do you want, if not to fight me?”

Asmodeum sighed wistfully. “Well, I can tell that you’re the sort of person who’ll never agree to what I really want, but I believe something can be arranged. You see, I’ve been stuck here for Akumo knows how long with no toys to play with. So, I was thinking-”

“I-I’m not gonna be your toy,” Erebus choked, his throat feeling like it was closing up. 

“Ah, ah, ah.” Asmodeum wagged a finger. “Let me finish, dear. I could have my way with you quite easily, you know. It would be oh so effortless to drag you back into my domain proper and throw you into a pool of boiling water or lava and watch the show. However, I think your forced cooperation would make this a little more fun, and it would be nice if you behaved for me. So, if you let me do what I want with you, barring the most intimate acts, I’ll let you kill me once I’ve had my fill.”

“What happens if I don’t say yes?”

Asmodeum casually examined their nails. “I will take you by force and I will defile you.”

“D-defile?! You don’t mean…” Erebus quickly glanced down, and Asmodeum smiled wickedly.

“Oh, I do mean. If you let me play with you, I swear I won’t do anything of the sort. Call it an incentive. So come on, Erebus, get rid of your sword.” Erebus just tightened his grip on it, weighing his options. As much as he didn’t want to let this demon…play with him...did he really have any other options? He was exhausted, and there wasn’t much room in here for him to try and put up a proper fight. And more than anything, he really, really didn’t want to risk being...Despite the anxiety building in his chest, Erebus unbuckled the sword belt around his waist, setting it carefully on the ground.

“Fine. But if you so much as touch me there I’ll-I’ll make you regret it.” How would he do that? He wasn’t sure. But he just-he had to make it clear that he wasn’t surrendering. He was just…agreeing to play along. Just to get a break from fighting. He was okay with this. He’d be fine. He'd been through so much worse.

He'd be fine.

“I promise I won’t cross that boundary, don’t you fret.” Asmodeum walked over to him, kicking his sword out of reach as they took his hand. “First things first, you’re absolutely filthy. Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

Erebus pulled his hand out of her grasp. “I mean, I-I can do that myself,” he muttered. Asmodeum raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure you can, but I want to wash you, dear. And right now,” she grabbed his hand once more, “I get what I want.” They pulled him along into a bathroom, and he followed reluctantly, feeling an odd sense of familiarity in just going along with this sort of thing. Their threat was certainly a motivator, but that didn’t mean he was going to roll over completely on every little thing, right? He had to make it clear that he wasn’t happy with this, despite agreeing to it. She started filling up the bathtub with water, turning to him with a smile. “Let me strip you now.” 

“I-I’d rather-”

“Shhhh.” She placed a finger on his lips, her other hand starting to undo the ties on his shirt. “None of that, dear. I can’t get you all clean if you’re wearing these dirty clothes, now can I?” He looked away as they tugged his shirt off, hoping that they’d-nope, now they were going to try and take off his pants, too.

“You said you weren’t going to-to do that to me.”

“I won’t. But that doesn’t mean you get to keep your clothes on the whole time, you shy little thing. I just won’t touch.” Erebus stifled a whine as she pulled down his pants, and his underwear along with them. “There we go. You can get in now.” He did so, almost jumping into the warm water and crouching down, hugging his knees close and spreading his wings around himself protectively. They gently pushed his wings back, stroking his face as he glared at them with wide eyes. “There’s no use hiding when I’ve already seen everything, silly. I think I’m going to need to get these arms out of the way, hmmm?” They pulled out a pair of manacles, and Erebus’s stomach sank.

“Wait, I won’t resist just-just don’t-”

“Too late for that, Erebus.” She clamped them around his wrists, twisting the chain securely around the faucet. “Besides, you look absolutely darling like that, all helpless. Now, keep those wings out of the way or I’ll pierce them together.” Erebus’s wings sank in defeat, slowly moving back until they were behind him. There wasn’t any winning here, was there? “Good boy.” She grabbed a cup from the countertop and started using it to pour water on him, rinsing away some of the pieces of flesh stuck to his bloodied skin. After she lathered a washcloth with soap, she began to gently clean the dried blood off his face. He screwed his eyes shut, fists clenched as he tried to think about anything else. 

Even back when he was a prince, he’d hated being fussed over, preferring to take care of himself when he could. Asmodeum, however, seemed to have no concept of personal space, or just didn’t care. She had to work hard to get through the blood caked over most of his skin, leaning in close, starting with his face before switching to his hair. Their hands slid in, tenderly working through tangled bloody mats and massaging his scalp. He hated how nice it felt, how much it reminded him of the way Lythia always used to play with his hair, forcing himself to open his eyes and look at Asmodeum, to remind himself who was…

Lythia smiled at him sweetly, and Erebus felt his blood run cold. That wasn’t her, no matter what he saw, no matter how he felt. She wasn’t here. She was back home, probably still tending the palace gardens despite the change in management. Did she still think of him as she looked at all the places they used to laugh? Or could she not get the image of him screaming and sobbing up on that podium out of her mind, unable to remember any other version of him than the one he’d left her with? Maybe that’s what he deserved to be remembered as, since he’d hardly thought of her since that day, the memories too painful. 

Erebus shuddered when Asmodeum moved to his horns, which were always far more sensitive than they had any right to be. She seemed to be able to tell, continuing to stroke them long after they were clean, and as much as he wanted to ask them to stop, he was afraid it would only encourage them. At the very least, the disconnect between Lythia and his horns was enough to push the thoughts of her out of his mind, and Asmodeum changed back to their normal form.

Her hands finally slid lower, caressing his neck, fingers slipping under his collar, making sure the skin underneath was clean, pressing down against his throat every so often as they did so. It wasn't enough to really choke him, but the message was clear.

They moved onto his shoulders, his wings, his arms, his back. He caught their smile as they saw what his right arm really looked like, and her fingers traced his whip scars as they were uncovered. Dread started to pool in his stomach as she moved to his chest, scrubbing away, revealing-

“Oh, well isn’t this pretty.” They marveled at his brand, stroking the lines of the scar, pausing over his rapidly-beathing heart. “Too bad you’re already owned by someone else, huh? But I suppose they’re not here now, are they?” Erebus just bit his lip, refusing to make eye contact. The thought of his…of Neteri not being here hurt, and, try as he might, he couldn’t help but think of her, of the way she’d always protected him. He wondered how angry she’d get if she saw what was happening to him, or if she could feel now that someone besides her was touching him. He could imagine her bursting in, yelling at Asmodeum to get their hands off of him, unchaining him and letting him cover up before pulling him into a hug-wait wait what was he thinking she’d been his captor she’d hurt him and ripped him into pieces and kept him locked up but she'd promised to save him and he missed her.

“What’s wrong, darling? Is even this too much for you?” Asmodeum brushed away a tear he didn’t realize had been falling with her finger, her skin no longer red, but brown. He couldn't look her in the eye. Not while she wore that face. “Such a sensitive little thing.” Hearing those words in that voice was already bad enough. Erebus tugged at his chains, wishing he could rub away those stupid traitorous tears, because he wasn’t crying about Neteri or Asmodeum or any of this. 

Their hands plunged beneath the surface of the blood-clouded water now, and Erebus couldn't stop himself from tensing up as they scrubbed his stomach, glad the parts of him that were previously under clothes weren't as caked in blood as those that weren't. Still, there was enough to clean that she had an excuse for her hands to wander lower still, caressing his hips, his thighs, and now he was trembling, fists clenched, tears dripping even more steadily into the tepid, cloudy water, no one had ever touched him there, at least she was wearing her own face now, but please, please stay away from there, you said you wouldn't touch me there and if you do then why am I here why am I letting you do this why do I keep letting people hurt me if I just stood up for myself more if I wasn't such a coward maybe I'd still be-

"You're rather pathetic, aren't you?" Asmodeum mused as they cradled his face, turning him towards them. Erebus blinked away tears, just now realizing that they'd finished cleaning him, the tub already drained. He couldn't exactly argue, crying and shivering like he was, so he just swallowed and gave the tiniest nod as he pulled himself together, hoping it'd be enough to get them to move on.

With a satisfied smile, she unhooked his wrists from the faucet, but left the manacles on as she pulled him up and out of the tub. He tried to cover himself as best he could as they toweled him off, hoping they’d stop touching him or at least give him clothes soon. Thankfully, they did, handing him a small bundle, and upon unrolling it he found...a pair of shorts that barely reached his knees, and that was all. Once he’d put them on, she dragged him into another room and let go, crossing her arms. “Kneel.” 

“I don’t-” Asmodeum raised an eyebrow, and Erebus stopped himself. They were expecting him to obey their every little whim if he didn’t want to be...he knelt, staring at the floor. She circled him a few times, and he clenched his fists in his lap, hating how much of his body was on display. Not that she hadn’t already seen everything.

“You were just made to kneel, weren't you? Absolutely gorgeous." Erebus's face burned even hotter than before. All he could hope was that they'd be done with him soon, but he'd never specified how long this would go on for when he agreed to it, so this might last…He was such an idiot, why did he just go along with this without any negotiation?

Asmodeum stopped in front of him. "Well, what are you in the mood for, dear? Pain,” her hand slid under his chin, tilting it up, “or pleasure?”

“Please just-anything but-” he choked, and she just laughed.

“Anything, you say? Then, I think...I'm in the mood for this.” They grabbed his collar, yanking him up onto the nearby bed. Before he could even try to sit up they were on him, wrapping themselves around him, worming in between his shackled arms, forcing him to embrace her back. A shudder ran down his spine as her skin came into contact with his, her arms pinning him flush against her body, her legs tangling around his. “Have you ever been this close to someone, darling?” she whispered in his ear, their fingers stroking his hair.

“I-I, um, a few times but-” 

“Aw, and you’re still nervous.” Her hand ran down the back of his head, stopping at his collar. “It’s so cute how you still wear this. I’m sure you could get it off if you tried, so you must like having it on, huh? Do you miss your owner?”

“She’s not-I don’t-I just-it’s…” he screwed his eyes shut, “I can’t take it off, alright?!”

“Such a dutiful little pet-”

“I wasn’t h-her pet!” 

“You’re so adorable when you’re in denial.” They stroked his back, rubbing around the base of his wings. Erebus just opted for staring at the wall, hoping they wouldn't touch his horns. “Do you know how lust demons feed, my dear?”

“By eating…?”

“Well, of course, but not the same way you do. We feed off of humans, more specifically, their bodily fluids.” She smiled widely, showing off her fangs. “And I haven’t had a meal ever since being locked up in here. I normally get my fix a different way, but, to be considerate of you, innocent little boy,” they shifted until their lips were right next to the base of his neck, fingers pushing his collar out of the way, “I’ll settle for feasting on your blood.”

Her fangs sank into his neck, and he couldn’t help but gasp at the sudden pain. He tried to breathe in calmly through gritted teeth as she sucked on the holes in his flesh, drinking his blood. Soon enough, his ears started ringing, and lightheadedness crept in. He gripped the chain between his wrists just too feel something solid, glad that he was lying down, at least. By the time Asmodeum pulled away, licking droplets of blood from their lips, a dizzy haze had settled over Erebus. He closed his eyes, tears leaking out as she snuggled back into him, just hoping that this would all be over soon. In fact, maybe he would just...let the blackness take him...just for a little bit...so he didn’t have to be...awake…

Erebus’s mouth tasted like dried blood when he woke up, and Asmodeum was still wrapped around him tightly. She smiled when their eyes met. “Did you have a good little nap, my darling? I hope you don’t mind, but,” she gripped his chin, her thumb stroking his lips, “I had a little bit of fun with you while you were out of it.” A bit of...wait is that why his mouth tasted like-

“W-you-you can’t d-do that to me I-I don’t-” his voice broke, and he couldn’t breathe all of a sudden, no matter how many fast little breaths he sucked in, just get away, get away from me stop touching me don’t do that to me please please I don’t want that you can’t do that to me you can’t you can’t I never wanted that not from you not from anyone and now now now I-I’m-I’ve been-

He felt something solid press into his hands, and he realized that Asmodeum was standing in front of him, and that was his sword in his hands, he was sitting up now and that was his sword and Asmodeum was smiling they were holding out their arms to him they were ready they were ready they were laughing they were coughing up blood they were on the ground there was so much blood how much of it was his he wasn’t sure he didn’t know they reached up and he backed away he had to get away he couldn’t stay here a second longer she was dead she was dead she was already crumbling away and he had to go he wanted to rip off his own skin he could still feel her touching him where where where were his clothes where was the key to these manacles he had to go he-

Erebus dropped his sword. He fell to his knees. He buried his face in his hands. 

And he screamed.

Tags: @dramaticcollapse @thehopelessopus @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @galaxywhump @as-a-matter-of-whump

@mnmlover2002 @tears-and-lilies @yet-another-heathen @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @starnight-whump

@unicornscotty @thebewilderer @kixngiggles @itallstartedwithharry @inky-whump 

@redstainedsocks @lonesome--hunter @his-unspoken-words @susiequaz12 @its-mysweetlittlesecret-blog 

@whumpasaurus101 @patheticlittleguy @jadeocean46910 @whumpinggrounds @pumpkin-spice-whump 

@suspicious-whumping-egg @befuddled-calico-whump @whump-in-the-closet​ @pumpkinsncoffee​ @aryox​​

@vampiresprite

[dez78]

🌺🩸I'm tired of being lonely🩸🌺

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

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Pairings: Syrus x Vanya (OC x OC)

Warnings: Angst, Syrus's emotions, agony, mention of past torture and abuse.

Summary: Syrus escapes from camp to break down, like he always had. His past as a vampire spawn, weighing heavily on him still even after a century of freedom.

Notes: A new detail of Syrus's background is revealed, the true intentions of his former master.

Vanya had noticed the shift in Syrus's mood, it was like a switch. She had barely seen him show emotions so openly before. She went to him and cupped his face gently.

"My love, are you alright?" Her voice was soft, but only for him. Syrus shifted his weight, he was clearly ucomfortable, Vanya furrowed her brows solemly.

"I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me." She reassured him gently, still holding his face in her hands. Syrus took a deep breath, he opened up to her and it shattered her heart.

"Often, I talk to myself. I'm scared of getting help. I feel like I have no one to talk to because I'm so closed off. No one cares enough to know, that I'm so bad at doing this. I never know what or how to say how I feel." Syrus poured it out.

He snapped his mouth shut suddenly, remembering what Vorath had said in the quiet hours when Slyus wasn't around and the young man cried and begged for mercy.

'No one cares about you, Syrus. Your twin and your other siblings, do not care. They don't want to hear you! Shut up if you know what's good for you!'

'Only the weak beg for mercy, you my son, are not weak. Not like your pathetic brother! Be a man, take the chain like a saint!'

'You are nothing without me! You hear me? Nothing! I make you what are.'

Vanya watched Syrus dissociating, she held his face in her hands still.

"Syrus?" She said softly, dragging him out of his thoughts, he looked at her with a look that absolutely broke her heart. His lips quivered violently, he was on the verge of tears. He withdrew from her touch.

"I'm sorry, I-I have to go!" He said as he closed her off again, he headed towards the woods. Vanya watched him leaving, a heaviness in her chest, she had seen his tears starting to slip.

She didn't know what he had been thinking about, but it clearly upset him. Syrus disappeared into the darkness.

When Syrus was far enough away and he knew for sure that he was alone, that he couldn't be heard. He let out it, he choked out a strangled sob. He stood with his back against a tree, he slid down the trunk, his tears blurring his vision.

He curled his knees to his chest as he sobbed violently, the horrendous memories of Vorath replaying in his mind. They had been free for a century, but Syrus still felt the weight of his former master's words.

His twisted outlooks, his wicked smiles as he beat and tortured him for many hours. And the worst part of it, was why Vorath did it, why he wanted Syrus so obedient and have a high pain tolerance. The night Vorath revealed his intentions was when Syrus started to fully train as a Cleric. He had healing gifts as a child, but he really focused on research after that night.

He wasn't going to allow that twisted reality come to pass, he wouldn't. It made his stomach twist and made him want to retch even now as he sat here, crying to himself. The words still lingered and it made him shudder with disgust.

'When you are strong enough, when you are able to take my wrath without flinching, only then will I make you my consort.'

Syrus let out a guttural cry as he placed his hands on either side of his head, his eyes squeezed shut while grabbing fistfuls of his white hair. He trembled, feeling nauseous, his wails echoed, raw and unfiltered.

His tears falling in quick succession, chasing each other down his cheeks as if in a race. Each gasp was a battle, each sob jagged and violent. His body trembling still as he broke.

He remained strong for his brother and his lover, but in truth, he often came out here to break down. They didn't know or maybe they did, but he didn't care right now.

All he wanted was for his pain to go away, for his memories to disappear, to have a fresh slate. He didn't want to be like this, weak, broken, and only half the man he could have been if his life hadn't been stolen.

That made Syrus cry harder, what would his life had been if it was still his? Would he be so closed off, so emotionless, so bitter? Would he have been a better man?

He threw his head back, holding his hand over his eyes, trying to stop the flood of tears. His throat was raw as his sobs ripped through him, wracking his body until he was curling into himself like a scared child.

He hiccupped as he tried to stop, to regain some control, but his body hadn't allowed it, he had been holding it back for a few days, it was coming back with a vengeance.

The more Syrus thought of his past, the more he shattered, he remembered how many times he had called for his deceased mother when he was being tortured beyond his body's limit. How many times he had wished Slyus would get courage all of sudden and stake their master himself.

He wanted desperately for his brother to save him, but he knew Slyus wouldn't be able to, he froze so many times because of his own fear. As much as Syrus wished for it, he knew he would have never allowed it to happen, to put his little brother in such a dangerous situation. He loved Slyus too much to ask such a thing of him.

These moments of raw emotion, Syrus felt so lonely, just him under the vast sky. Being pathetic and sobbing to himself. He wanted to talk, wanted everyone to know how he truly felt, but he could never bring himself to do it because he was always told, he wasn't important enough.

When Vanya first approached him and told him how she felt, he reminded her bitterly that Slyus was at the tavern, but when she told him that she wanted him, he was completely caught off guard.

All throughout their adult life, women and men alike always wanted Slyus, not him. Even though they shared the same face, people always wanted to bed him and court him. Vanya was Syrus's first everything, so he treasures her to the best of his abilities.

He worships her, gives her all of him, or what he can. He's been better, but he still shuts her out. He wished he didn't, he wanted to tell her everything, just to be held by her as she reassures him.

She does that anyway, but she doesn't know the extent of his grief and his agony.

Once Syrus got his composure back, he put his mask back on and stood, he went to the pond nearby. He splashed cool water on his faces, hissing at the sting of his under eyes.

He made sure to rid of any evidence of his break down before becoming his stoic self once more. He stood at his full height and headed back to camp.

Upon arriving, he pretended like nothing had happened, taking his place next to Vanya in camp. Slyus was serenading the camp, their eyes caught briefly as Syrus sat down on the log in front of the fire.

Slyus being the pest he was, glided towards his brother, annoying him as he sang to him while leaning against him. Syrus rolled his eyes and scoffed at him while the rest of the camp laughed.

Syrus didn't know, but Slyus felt his pain. He knew, he always knew. He only annoyed him because he wanted a reaction from him, more of a quiet reassurance that his brother was still in there under all the agony.

[transformers-mosaic]

Transformers: Mosaic #486 - "Looking Into The Abyss: 2. Dark Awakening"

Originally posted on May 25th, 2010

Story, Letters - Franco Villa Art - Ibai Canales Edits - Zac DeBoard

deviantART | Seibertron | TFW2005 | BotTalk

wada sez: The Knights of the Pit resemble the Acolytes of Unicron from near the end of the Marvel US comic. The strip plays on the idea that being Rodimus Prime left some permanent mark on Hot Rod’s body, even after returning the Matrix to Optimus Prime towards the end of the cartoon. Per Villa on TFW2005: “This is where finally some big ideas from the G1 Marvel comics come in: if part 1 was mostly about the cartoon continuity (with Paradron and Nebulos) and ideas from original profiles (by Bob Budiansky), now it's turn to celebrate one of the many clever additions that Simon Furman brought in his epic run.” On Seibertron, he added: “I wrote this version of Mindwipe with BW Tarantulas in mind. He is my favorite mad scientist in Transformers lore.” Italian version below.

[tallus76-photography]

Transformers Rebirth

Vorath - If I only had some energy sensing equipment, We could easily find which one of them has the key!

Mindwipe - What need have I for your scientific toys, when I have my, extrasensory powers? That one!

[doomed-jester]

If there's one thing that makes me unreasonably happy, it's when I find old (or even new) toys that just flagrantly reused the same mold for different characters

Like, I love when you find old Carnage toys and they're literally just Venom with different paint, so Carnage looks WAY too bulky

Featuring bonus inexplicably blue Venom figure and Carnage's green(??) tongue.

Also, Draculus, the official Transformers x Universal Monsters Dracula figure, is literally just Titans Return Mindwipe with a new head sculpt and chest plate, and a cheap fabric cape

My favorite thing about this is that Titans Return was a gimmick line, so the head was detachable and could transform into a smaller Titan Master figure (Vorath), but Draculus doesn't have this feature. So he has a vestigial cockpit where a Titan Master figure COULD sit, and his head has to be awkwardly hidden with his cape when he transforms because the mold doesn't leave any space for it after the transformation

[viskarenvisla]

Thirst - Chapter 1: Her Quiet Revolution There can be no real affection for the Damned, and the ravening Moon Beasts are doomed to tear the world apart around them...this is especially true for such forbidden things as romance between vampire and werewolf - both of them, predators after the same prey, respective boogeymen for the other...but what happens when they look past these things? Can there truly be love, or can monsters only descend into perversion and eventual bloodshed?

This tale is a semi-AU for my character Yusuf Mizrah, who features in Law of Blood. I decided to depart from Forsaken and use my own werewolf universe, but fill in the spaces for Vampire lore from Vampire: the Requiem...

Chapter One

Four nights ago, down at the river

By the standards of the normally rowdy syndicate, It had been a rather orderly gathering. Nobody showed up openly brandishing weapons or anything of that nature - both officially and within their still-beating hearts, Kindred blood shed on the balmy concrete, or bodies turning to ash were the last things anybody desired. She knew better, however, than to trust in the members’ individual senses of propriety, and that was why they’d concentrated their petty hopes and dreams onto Monroe Carter as their representative. Not that she was complaining.

The thirty or so Kindred who'd come together on this night were as motley and differentiated a band as could be expected from those whose only real ties were death and servitude. Despite the segregation and censorship imposed by their ‘betters’, their hunting grounds ‘leased’ to them at the edges of their masters’ domains and the loathsome blood tax they were forced to pay, they’d become a cohesive thing. The Cause had grown from little more than a whisper of rebellion, shared in near silence among those who lined up weekly to give Communion unto their dread rulers. Slowly it’d turned into secretive meetings where resistance to their individual vincula was slowly built among the gathered. Debates and lectures about "the Natural Rights of the Unnatural" stretching into the night forming the mental cornerstone that would become the fortress of their resistance.

Finally, it had come to this.

The bonds of servitude and death were surprisingly strong, enough to overcome divisions that had, more often than not, been purposefully placed there by their own Overseers. Vorath the Thricefold’s old rivalry with Manny Vaull was once fierce enough to set their teeth gnashing in the other’s presence; now they stood side by side. It was the same with Corra Wilson and Nettletongue; an unlikely jealousy between the two over a shared blood doll, given the scarcity of appropriate prey, had been replaced by something nearing as close to comity as could be found among the Dead.

Monroe stood at the head of the silent gathering of eclectic individuals, pulled from The City’s rusted shadows here to meet the Overseer Committee as they returned from conclave with their own elders. The Red River, flowing like a fat, wriggling worm through downtown, out to Ashland Port and into the wine-dark, thrashing waters of the Gulf, was usually reserved for shipping liners carrying refined gas, steel, and other byproducts of the state’s industrial blight. Such was the pull of the Overseers, however, that the waterways were cleared for their entry.

She was like a cold-forged, steel torch in the night, beat bright and unyielding against an icy anvil. A black bandana was tied around her forehead - something the syndicate's members all shared, whether worn on their arms or looped through a belt - holding her many-colored, gold clasped braids back in a complex knot. The dark green, midriff-length jacket worn over her torso was weighed down by the fire-hatchet within, her tool of choice in the regrettable event that negotiations failed and this became a violent confrontation; more than likely, given the difference in age between the Overseer Committee’s members and their own, it would be a savage rout. Still, seven against thirty was good odds, and they’d surely pull at least half the elders’ number down with them.

Monroe was confident in herself, in the strength of the Cause. It was a crossbow bolt with a red-hot iron head, pointed threateningly at the hearts of their oppressors; their message would be heard, and their demands met. 

For now, they were silent, waiting patiently. It wasn’t your typical protest or picket like she was used to, with marching and signs, slogans shouted for cameras…that sort of thing wouldn’t get through to the Elder Dead, who were beings of an earlier time. They intimately understood the balance of power, however, and the message would be entirely clear when the Overseers laid their eyes upon their servant-livestock, staring them down and wearing black, with Monroe leading them.

“Look,” breathed Harlowe, pointing down toward the bay when the first glimmers of the luxury yacht’s fog lights cut through the springtime haze of pollution and condensation. Although the gathered Dead barely moved, everyone felt it…that anxious pressure that preceded a confrontation with authority. That terror was understandable, though quieted by their unity and a certain understanding shared among The City’s common vampires: if anyone was going to take the blame and end up an example, it was Monroe Carter. Rhymes with martyr . An old lover, long lost to the years, had once said that, and that’s what she remembered instead of his (or her?) face.

To Monroe’s Spartan sensibilities, the garish festoons of the superyacht showed how the Overseers, in their vast view of time, laid the trappings of the new over the old and familiar; while the massive boat was smooth and white, sleek and covered with blaring, soulless lights, their servants had gone through the trouble of carefully interweaving Tatarian Honeysuckle across the decks in bright, purple petaled magnificence. Bright red silk ribbon was intertwined among the railing. By its streamlined form, it was the most modern boat that old, musty money could buy; its spirit was that of the old pleasure barges of nobility whose largesse had, since the time of the Egyptian Old Dynasties and the Kings of Xia, been supported on the backs of the masses.

Now…for the grand act. “William,” she called in her alto voice, muffled by the warm, foggy air. “You’re up.” She congratulated herself at resisting her inward giddiness; never had she sent a message of defiance such as this.

The hairless, fishy-fleshed man that hunched beneath his long, concealing coat obliged silently, stepping from the gathering and leaping into the river, barely disturbing it. When he emerged, he’d coiled one big, dripping end of the cold-forged iron chain fitted in Harlowe's Machine Shop around his torso. Its bright-green links were the size of a small box television, and in William’s skinny, yet stunningly powerful arms, they dripped with the chemical-rich flow of the Red Rock River. Little John, towering over everyone present with his gentle voice and boyish face; Melinda Arsanova, always dressed proper and presentable no matter the event; and Sherman, his arms thick like tree-trunks from feeding on this very dock’s workers. They stepped forward and pulled hard on the chain, secured on other side of the river with a great iron stake Harlowe had shaped himself, and soon there was a neon-green painted barrier of links presented before the superyacht. One might look here and see an impossibility, four bedraggled oddities attempting to cut off the passage of a yacht, but Monroe knew them as some of the strongest Kindred in the city.

She waited with baited breath. Here, based on the whim of a dead thing hundreds of years her elder, the Brujah’s whole plan could come tumbling apart…but there came the booming sound of a foghorn, and the yacht’s forward wake churned a crimson foam in the Red Rock River as it slowed its ponderous, floating bulk to a halt. Another shaking, drawn out howl from the foghorn, like an indignant cry whale’s cry.

The chain remained stretched taut across the river.

Minutes rolled by…nearly an hour, testing their resolve before the first of the Overseers deigned to make an appearance upon the deck. Monroe knew who it would be, before his over-long, pale fingers curled around the steel bar struck into the deckposts, fingernails clicking odiously against the side of the yacht. Vasco Isidoro was, in her view, the weakest of the Seven, and he reminded her of the guy from the insane asylum in Beauty and the Beast…you know the one. The man with the tonsure and stooped posture, the furry eyebrows. Vasco was also well dressed in his black, pinstripe suit, but he still looked like a bag of bones and spiders supported by its own conniving will.

His eyes were green like pea soup, and his voice had a similar wet quality. “A fine evening indeed to you, Siervos ,” Vasco called in a disarmingly cheerful tone, accented by his native Curitiba. His smile was entirely like that of some predatory lake fish’s, concealing hundreds of needle-sharp teeth. “You all seem to have misplaced your charming, green chain, directly in our path…perhaps you require assistance recovering said chain, that your betters might be on their way?”

Isidoro’s words were like a slow-falling, poisonous net; it was only after you looked behind his lips and saw the anxious malice squirming beneath that one felt uneasy. Monroe could feel the syndicate’s members stirring uneasily in the line…authority had been so beaten into them by blood-bond and fear that each defiance was an act of desperate will on their parts. Stretching a harbor chain across the path of the barge along the river was more than a mere defiance.

 “You ain’t wrong,” she answered, acting as their courage. Monroe Carter was loud enough to be heard above the din of The City’s night hum, as well as the idling of the barge’s engines. “We require your assistance but I’m afraid the chain stays until we’re done here.” She didn’t flinch or even squint as one of the ship’s lights swiveled down to shine upon her; if it was meant to intimidate and separate her, the spotlight had the opposite effect. Always had.

Vasco’s thin, shiny lips drew wider across his long face, splitting to reveal where his fangs had grown in place of his incisors. She knew he was enraged, a creature set a whole class above and apart from them, but the lowest of his kind - and now, facing disobedience called siervos ? Monroe could empathize, she also liked things to be orderly, and for that to happen all the moving parts had to work and obey . “My dear wards, certainly you understand the value of our time. Each moment’s value eclipses your combined years as we work to keep you safe…protect your posthumous rights. To waste such a valuable vintage as ours, surely you can see both the folly and danger inherent in such a thing. Now…Would you care to release your chain?”

To drive the point home, Monroe took note of the ten or so men that stepped up to join him at the edge of the deck, pointing loaded M4s their way; clad in faceless, visored black helms, moving in perfect unison, these humans - maybe even ghouls - were the preferred servant for the Overseer Committee. Unquestioningly obedient, tied by their own addictions and contracts, they still didn’t have what old vampires like Vasco and his ilk required: Kindred blood. That, of course, was their bargaining chip…if not her own trump card. “‘Fraid not Mister Isidoro.”

She smiled internally as he bristled; these older, dead things, they demanded the honor of titles even in this day and age from their Childer. “We tried your ‘official channels’; we were stonewalled. We wrote to y'all, we signed petitions, and we even sent y'all messengers that you returned to us in them little wooden boxes. ‘Member that?”

Behind her, Tucker growled under his breath. His best and only friend, the oldest member of his coterie, had been among those messengers returned to them as little more than finely ground ashes and bright, gleaming fangs. The icy lake of their fear cracked, thawed by memories of their own old resentments. Suddenly they weren’t quite as afraid of those white-phosphorous bullets.

“A regrettable misunderstanding and little more of course. We would all hate for similar misunderstandings to happen over the matter of a mere green chain, especially since, as you know, the Oversee Committee dutifully handles petitions - ” 

“Yes yes, on individual basis, we have heard before,” Old Vlacha gruffly complained.

“Yeah…you can think of this as somethin’ more like us filing a class-action suit,” Monroe put it out there in words that would disturb the corporatist in Isidoro. “That’s why I’m speaking for everyone here with one voice, make sure there ain’t no more ‘misunderstandings’ like there was, Mister Isidoro.” The young Brujah got a kick out of the way his face shivered under that smile every time she called him that.

She didn’t really need to say more for him to infer precisely what she meant; that they were prepared to enforce a blood picket, if their demands weren’t met. That’s what the consequence of ‘misunderstanding’ meant on their end, since they couldn’t really challenge the Overseers with force and hope to succeed. The Overseers were old enough that the blood sustaining them had become a concentrated, unnatural thing of arcane fusions reliant on the unliving force of other Kindred; human blood, though a heady draught for any vampire, no longer sated them. That’s why they kept the common Lick chained. Los Siervos . 

To Monroe, who’d always chafed at being born at the bottom and struggling against the weight of those saw fit to keep her there, the irony of their unlives was how the clock was turned back at the leisure of older, more powerful Kindred…as if the liberties people had fought and died for were illusions, like the ones they’d woven to keep the Kine ignorant of the monsters drinking deep from their veins and souls. She was as unable to keep her mouth shut in death as she was in life, and the unfairness had become simply intolerable.

Isidoro’s smile changed, leaving his eyes; the corners of his lips slackened. It gave him this leering, wild aspect, like a villain from a children’s tale in her eyes. Monroe expected fear from those gathered, or for the wiley old Nosferatu to turn the power of the Blood against them, but nobody broke from the picket and the chain remained taut. 

All according to plan . 

“Miss Carter, I would like to suggest once more…that Mister William, Mister Jonathon, Miss Arsanova and Master Sherman release their grip on their misplaced chain and make way.”

Isidoro raised a hand and the safeties were simultaneously clicked off on the pale-flame rounds pointed their way; international language of terror. A few gasps of reticence and sounds of hesitation rose unbidden from the gathered Dead, and they wavered. The seconds seemed to drag on during the standoff, just as Monroe planned, and at just the right time, before everyone’s eyes, she broke the tension.

“We’re tired of being your serfs,” she said, blunter than creatures like Isidoro were used to.

The phosphorus-loaded M4s remained pointed their way; she could feel one of the Overseers’ soldiers, looking down his reticle and pointing right at her heart, and although the Beast’s instinctive aversion to Final Death clawed echoing and squealing in the back of her throat, she continued. “We’re tired of you drainin’ us to the bone while we can barely get by on the dry, over-policed barrens you expect us to trough in.”

“I almost fell into torpor last week after Lady Shira took her tithe,” called little Samara Green, bedraggled and rain soaked slip of a thing. “You think it’s easy for someone like me to hunt out there ?” She pointed upriver, far back toward the smokestacks still working into the night. “They barely have enough people working third shift for me to feed on, and there’s something crawling in the gutters .”

“Yeah!” shouted Tucker, a fellow Brujah who had a loose grip on his Beast than she. “When you’re not ashing us for trying to talk to you, you aren’t even protecting us from the stuff in our hunting grounds!”

Monroe didn’t let herself smile, but victory stirred in her heart as their complaints filled the air, overcoming their collective dread for the Nosferatu. 

“Your friends shipped my job to Mexico and I got evicted!”

“I still haven’t gotten compensated for the storm damage to my haven, the roof is caving in - there’s a fucking beam of sunlight shining in the middle of my living room!”

“A pack of Lupines moved into my turf!”

Soon their voices were raised in a cacophony of rising anger, indignance at their lot channeled through Monroe and upward above the smog. The traditions of the syndicate were born during the French Revolution, when many pale lords and ladies the Overseers had once known personally were put to the stake just as readily as the guillotine; their fear was born from personal experience. Isidoro himself had come close to having his head stuck through a little window, and based on his better judgment lowered his hand.

Without a word he disappeared from the deck. The rifles were still pointed their way as the syndicate’s voice rose, a cacophony that signaled clear as the murderous light of day: there were only two choices here as Monroe had presented them.

The first, the most tried and true and obvious, was to simply fire upon the syndicate’s members and scatter the survivors back to their corners and miserable little havens. The truly, finally dead would be annihilated by burning rounds, atrophied organs turning to ash and scattering before sunrise. Bloody monsters’ tears would be shed both for their loss and out of despair for their unchanged state. 

The second was, of course, a far harder pill to swallow: to step down from the pedestal of exclusivity, of elite entitlement, and negotiate with lessers, for in the end Monroe held one truth over the elders’ heads:

The greater parasites required the lesser ones for sustenance, while the lesser ones required the protection of the hoarier, longer-toothed Kindred. Some of them were even their Sires, having sung the first notes of their Requiems in the wind. A great, dysfunctional family devouring itself from head to toe like a grotesque, rotten snake, dressed up in faded silks and tarnished ornaments. 

As before, the Overseers made them wait, this time under the threatening rifle barrels of their gendarmes. All eyes were on Monroe, waiting for her to flinch, but she simply stood her ground. Waited.

The minutes passed, tension dilating them into hours before, with a sound of grinding metal, a ramp was slowly lowered from the superyacht toward the concrete levies upon which Monroe stood. Isidoro reappeared, and with a wordless gesture, split his palm open. The red of his blood spilled into the river - a universally recognized guarantee of safety.

Although she never showed it, striding up the ramp, her converses clanking with each step, a relief greater than any she’d known drained the tension from her unliving muscles. I win…this first battle, anyway .

When she walked free, it would be carrying the prize she’d set her attentions upon, unwaveringly. Greater rights and freedoms…fuller bellies and warmer beds during the daytime. A revolution that would be won without spilling a drop of blood.

None that would be seen, anyway.

[caniruineverything]

while you were saving your neck, i've been breaking mine for you

Chapter 5: Vorath

Warning, I am bad at writing fighting scenes. Slightly more graphic depiction of injuries here, but it's still relatively tame.

By the fifth time, Gwen should have known it was inevitable.  It started as it always did: with the bad-guy-of-the-week screaming her cousin’s name.

At this point, none of them were fazed.  Ben, ever the picture of confidence, simply called back:

“Yeah?” The alien, a rogue Tetramand, and a large one at that, did not appreciate this.  He growled angrily before responding.

“I, Vorath, have come for-” “The Omnitrix, probably,” interrupted Ben, much to the annoyance of Vorath.  He stomped a bit closer; Ben didn’t flinch.  Nor did Gwen or Kevin.

“Yes.  The most powerful weapon in the universe.  It will be mine!” Ben just sighed, rather dramatically in Gwen’s opinion, then reached for said ‘most powerful weapon in the universe’, the brightness of the hologram lighting up his face even in the bright sunlight.

“Right.  Like that’s gonna happen.  Ben let his hand fall, and with a flash, the scrawny form of her cousin was gone, replaced by the hulking figure of Armadrillo.  Then he jumped right in, Gwen and Kevin falling in like clockwork, and for a while, everything went as it usually did.

Then it went to hell.  Gwen wasn’t sure how surprised she should feel, especially with how things kept going south lately, but she didn’t exactly have the time to figure that out.  The Tetramand - Vorath, he’d called himself - had an eighteen-wheeler held aloft, ready to toss it into the intersection below, an intersection bustling with people blissfully unaware of the looming danger.  Ben froze, as did Gwen and Kevin.  What else could they have done?

“Hey,” Ben began, voice shaking almost imperceptibly, “let's not do that.” “You will battle me alone, wielder of the Omnitrix.  To the death.” Vorath’s tone allowed for no arguing, nor did the semi still held up by two arms.  A third was pointing directly at Ben.

“Fi-” Ben began, but Gwen and Kevin cut him off, voices overlapping. “Ben, no!”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Quiet!” Vorath boomed, and Gwen and Kevin acquiesced.  They knew what awaited them if they didn’t.  Ben transformed with another flash, and he offered his teammates a tight smile.

“Guys, it’ll be fine.  Just let me handle this.”  Kevin gave him a terse nod, and Gwen let her mana flow back into her body.  Ben turned back to Vorath.  “Right. Could you put that truck down now?”  Vorath growled low, but he placed the semi back on the ground, and Gwen relaxed a tiny bit.  But the fear that had run through her veins for the people in the square only moments ago gave way to a slow-building worry for her reckless cousin.  She knew this wasn’t the hardest thing Ben had ever done, but her heart thumped painfully at the thought of not being able to fight with him.  Kevin didn’t look jazzed about that either.

But there was nothing they could do except trail helpless after Vorath and Ben as the latter led them to a more secluded place where they were less likely to accidentally injure someone.  Gwen knew the dangers of backing out of the deal now wouldn’t be good, so she really did just have to watch.  God, she loathed the idea of that.

Gwen boosted herself and Kevin into the air on a mana platform so they were out of the way.  Ben flicked through the Omnitrix’s catalogue before settling on one and slamming his hand down decisively.  Vorath and Big Chill faced each other, statuesque for a few seconds before Vorath lunged.  The fight had begun.

Ben managed to go intangible in time, letting out a subzero breath that froze Vorath in place for about four seconds.  Then he was moving again, fast and strong and confident.  Ben matched the confidence, and the duel moved so fast that Gwen almost got dizzy trying to keep her eyes locked on her cousin even as his entire figure flickered between solidly present and entirely transparent.  It was probably comical, the way Gwen’s head swiveled constantly like she was watching one of Julie’s tennis matches.  But Gwen couldn’t find any humor in it, not now.

She wasn’t sure what Kevin was doing, and she honestly didn’t care.  All of her attention was intensely focused on Ben, who was holding his own pretty well.  It wasn’t that she doubted his ability, but he tended to be reckless, and it had been her job to look out for him ever since they were little.  The urge to pull him out of anything even remotely dangerous wasn’t something that would ever go away.

The two duelers were evenly matched, both dodging most of the attacks, making the fight fairly uneventful.  This should have eased Gwen’s fears, but somehow every second her cousin grappled with Vorath augmented her anxiety.  There was no cryptic sign, no omen, but Gwen couldn’t shake the growing dread that settled in her stomach like a stone.

Her anxieties proved to be warranted when Vorath landed a powerful hit that sent Ben sprawling.  Gwen gasped, unable to stop the fear spreading through her veins.  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Kevin grimacing.  This wasn’t good.

In an instant, Vorath was on top of Ben, three arms pummeling him while the fourth held him down, as if there was any way Ben was getting up.

“Why doesn’t he just go intangible?” Kevin asked through gritted teeth.

“He’s too dazed, look at him!” Gwen knew she shouldn’t be yelling at Kevin, but there was too much emotion welling up in her, and it had to go somewhere.

“Shit,” was Kevin’s response.  Shit indeed, Gwen’s mind whispered sardonically.  “We need backup.”  His town harbored no hesitation, a sentiment mirrored by his stony expression.  Gwen wasn’t about to argue; Ben would want to finish this with honor, but Gwen was not about to lose him.  Not today, not ever.

Kevin punched his Plumber’s badge harder than was probably necessary to activate it, and he was barking demands the second the call connected.  Normally, Gwen would have berated him for being so loud, but there was no way Vorath was paying any attention.  He was way too busy with his fallen foe.  Whoever had picked up Kevin’s call now had several teams en route, so now all they could do was wait.  They didn’t dare attack Vorath before backup arrived, at least not while he was actively on top of Ben, for fear of exacerbating things.

Gwen didn’t want to watch, but she needed to have eyes on her cousin.  She flinched with every punch that landed, but she never glanced away.  Then, just as Gwen thought Ben had passed out, a bright flash forced her eyes closed.  When she opened them, blinking away the dark spots dancing in her vision, she saw that Ben, now back to his much smaller human frame, had escaped Vorath’s grip.  The flash had seemingly blinded the Tetramand, who hadn’t managed to grab hold of Ben again.

As Ben half-ran, half-crawled away from Vorath,  Gwen and Kevin didn’t hesitate.  Gwen scooped her cousin’s shaking form up with a mana bubble while Kevin donned a stone suit and began distracting Vorath.  The second the bubble was out of Vorath’s reach, Ben went boneless.  Gwen rapidly pulled him over to her, praying that he was merely unconscious.

When the bubble disappeared, Gwen got her first good look at Ben.  He looked awful.  Blood coated his face, pouring from his nose and seeping from his badly cut lips.  There wasn’t any bruising yet that Gwen could see, but she knew it would be bad.  His hair was matted with dirt and more blood, and his clothes were ripped, only slightly, but enough to see cuts marring his arms, chest, and legs.

Gwen leaned over him, nearly collapsing with relief once she felt his heart thudding against her fingers, tightly pressed against his neck.  Ben groaned softly, and she realized that he was still conscious.  She teared up at the sight of his swollen eyes cracking open, green meeting matching green.  He tried to sit up and sucked in a pained breath through his teeth.

“Shh, lay back down,” Gwen soothed softly, helping him lower himself back down to the ground.  “It’s okay, you’re safe.”  No sooner had the words left her mouth when Ben let out a breath and slipped into unconsciousness.  Gwen’s heart raced, but she calmed slightly at the thought that the Plumbers were on their way.

Sure enough, not even a minute later, several Plumber ships arrived.  One landed near Kevin, who was dodging Vorath’s enraged fists.  Another hovered above Gwen, and she had to remind herself that they were on her side as the agents carried Ben away from her.

After that, it was a blur.  Gwen couldn’t remember anything other than her ever-building worry and Kevin’s silent presence beside her.  The only noise between them was the tapping of Kevin’s shoe on the ground as his leg bounced anxiously.

When they were finally allowed to see Ben, Gwen nearly tripped in her haste, Kevin right behind her.  Ben still looked awful.  The blood on his face had been wiped away, revealing dark bruises around his eyes and re-straightened nose.  There were stitches in one of the cuts on hip lip, and his eyes were slightly unfocused, courtesy of the concussion he was no doubt sporting.  There were bandages on his arms and legs, and his chest was wrapped, but he was alive.

Gwen immediately took his hand in hers, both to comfort him and to reassure her that he was still there.  Kevin sat down, carefully laying a hand on Ben’s shoulder.  They didn’t talk.  Ben was pretty foggy, and Gwen and Kevin didn’t know what to say.  As Ben’s eyes slipped shut, Gwen took a seat and settled in, still holding his hand.  They were going to be here for a while.