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cheolism · 26 days ago

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DEVOTION (TEASER)

✰ — choi san x gang leader!reader ✷ — summary: after a year of fighting in a rebellion, san was tired of battle. like an angel, a goddess, you offered him peace. ✰ — teaser wc is approx. 1.8k ✷ — genre: nsfw, mafia/gang society, themes of worship, cultish, power imbalance. simp!san for his "rescuer". ✰ — warnings: violence and murder; mature themes. morally gray reader and san (san is the equivalent of a stray puppy you’re nice to once and then never leaves you alone ever again). ✷ — rating: 18+. ✰ — note: this fic draws inspiration from the roman colosseum and society with a mafia. the reader in this fic is the leader of a gang, or a “sect” that inhabits a city and she is referred to as “the empress”. FULL FIC TO BE RELEASED OCTOBER 25.

p r o l o g u e .

the city held its breath when you fall ill. it's a fleeting illness, your aunt, who was left regent in the wake of your illness, announced. the empress will return to her duties as quickly as possible.

and then nothing happened for six months.

rumors spread. you'd died and your death was kept a secret to prevent rival sects from trying to steal territory; you'd been kidnapped for ransom and the "sickness" is a smokescreen. some spoke of treachery, but that's quickly hushed up. for who would dare betray the empress, the sweet little lamb of a girl who crowns her citizens with flowers?

your aunt was found dead in a pool, and you began to get better.

the city let out a relieved breath.

you began to appear in public once more. the city basked in your attention. all seemed to thrive. you kept the city secure under your watch, each entrance and exit under firm surveillance, guards on the corners of streets with guns at their hips, politicians carrying suitcases of powder, corrupt men and women entering your penthouse and never seen leaving.

"it's wrong," said choi bada to his brother. "she'll run our sect to the ground."

and once again the city held its breath as choi bada blew up your favorite temple.

war had begun.

choi san had no choice but to stand beside his brother. surely choi bada was right; he wouldn't steer san in the wrong direction. he wouldn't do the wrong thing.

temples crumble; public buildings were desecrated with bullets and blood. san got used to the feeling of fighting, of bruised muscles and blood staining his clothes; he got used to the feeling of wrongness, of feeling as if he was walking a dark and dangerous path of sin.

then choi bada was killed.

the empress, it is relayed to san as he was chained to a wall, was giving him a choice: die beside his treacherous brother or fight in the empress's arena for her forgiveness.

in the end the choice was easy. after all, san had been fighting for the past year of his life. what was one last battle?

the final body striked the ground, face having turned a violent mixture of red and purple, blood staining his mouth and teeth, and the crowd roared with approval.

it was deafening. the screams and shouts of the crowd nearly drowned out the thundering of blood in san’s ear, his adrenaline shooting through his body like waves crashing down against rock. he couldn’t think. he couldn’t do anything other than stand there in arena, looking at the bodies littering the sand.

“our winner!” declared a voice, loud and booming even without a microphone. the overseer moved into the arena, his clothes a bright, clean stain against the bloodied sand. he effortlessly wove around bodies to get to san. “our champion!”

the overseer grabbed san’s forearm. the other man’s hand was spotless against san’s skin, dirt and sand and sweat molded to flesh. san protested for a moment, instinctively pulling away.

he had been fighting for as long as he could remember. touch meant hurt, and he had long stop expecting otherwise.

the overseer laughed at san, lips twisted thin and wide. he grabbed at san again. “keep easy, pup,” he hissed out. “you’ve won the fight. congratulations. but you won’t win the battle if you keep trying to bite.”

san wanted to punch this man. he remembered how the overseer had introduced him, the sanke in wolf’s skin, the brother of the traitorous subordinate to the empress. he remembered the overseer glancing over him, loudly announcing that he’d do.

san was just another pawn for entertainment to the overseer; to the crowd. he was just another puppy expected to sit and lay and play dumb.

he’d been fighting for so long. who would fault him if he were to swing around and throw a punch into the overseer’s face? who’d disapprove if he were to slam the man into the ground, if he were to fucking drive his knee into his stomach?

san made to draw back. he cast a wild look around, searching for something. instead of aid, his eyes caught on the large screen. for a split second he saw himself, feral and filled with hatred. then the screen switched, showing the empress.

the empress’s lips were split in a smile, showing off the white of her teeth. she had her chin resting on her hand, watching; watching san.

“our champion!” the overseer yelled out once more. “the winner of our empress’s victory! choi san!”

the crowd’s praise grew to a frantic roar, rabid with their adoration. he couldn’t see them, the lights of the arena bright. they loved this, san knew; loved blood, loved fighting. it was a performance to them. it didn’t matter who was in the arena. they were all dispensable.

what mattered who walked out.

“to the empress,” said the overseer, moving his hand to clap san’s shoulder. his nails dug into san’s flesh. “she was most impressed by your little performance.”

san let the overseer direct him from the arena. the crowd was alight with awe, despite knowing san. well: despite knowing san’s brother. despite knowing that for the past year san had fought alongside his brother, war replacing the blood in his veins, soft words replaced by venom.

none of that mattered anymore. none of it mattered now that san had won, had survived a fight against forty-nine others. he was blessed, the crowd saw now; blessed by the gods and to be blessed by the empress.

he had punched and murdered and shot relentlessly in the name of his brother for the past year. and as the overseer bid the guard to open the gate separating the sands of the arena from the crowd, san realized he wouldn’t be expected to fight anymore.

because that was why he had been fighting, wasn’t it?

he was bound by blood to fight alongside his brother. even as he realized it was wrong – fighting for the sake of it, fighting for the sake of power was wrong. he had to stand beside his brother.

and now he was stepping from the arena, stepping from the sands of war and leaving behind bodies he had injured with his own hands. he realized he could leave it all behind. he walked in a prisoner, was walking out a winner. he won the empress’s crown; would wear the flowers of victory.

his brother was no longer his ruler.

now it was –

“the empress,” the overseer began, speaking loudly into san’s ears as to be heard over the crowd. people reached out to press their fingers against san. he didn’t know why. he had been bathed before the arena, but it didn’t matter. he was covered in sweat and grime. he was bruised and scratched.

someone pressed their fingers against san’s bicep. he flinched back, inadvertently pushing back into the overseer. the other man gripped san tight. “when you see the empress, you won’t look the empress in the eye. kneel at the empress’s feet. both knees, hands on the ground, forehead between. the empress will say your name. you will announce your wrongdoings and beg for forgiveness. if she forgives, you will earn the empress’s victory. don’t look at her. don’t say anything beyond what i have instructed you.”

the overseer directed san up the stands. there were all kinds of people: some wore tattered clothes; some suits, hair greased back; some industry uniforms. they were all youthful and vibrant beneath the arena lights.

the empress and the empress’s court, as it were, were separated from the rest. the empress’s balcony overlooked the entire arena. only the elite within the gang – sect, san remembered, within the sect – were allowed to sit this far up, this near the empress.

and it showed. they wore polished suits and glittering jewels. the holsters of guns were bedazzled and glimmering. instead of cans of beer, they held crystal glasses. these were the ones the empress trusted most – no, san corrected again. the empress doesn’t trust anyone. these are the ones that have gained, in one way or another, the empress’s approval.

murderers and sellers; crooks and robbers.

san was directed up a short staircase. he stepped foot onto the platform. the metal was covered in soft, lush rugs. incense was lit, overtaking the dusty air of the arena with a fragrant scent. it was purified; they were purifying the space.

san’s eyes flitted over the rising smoke from the incense, and then he caught sight of the empress.

caught sight of you.

“eyes,” the overseer warned.

san fixed his eyes onto the ground. the overseer guided him with a hand on the shoulder, steering him towards the center of the podium where you sat. once the overseer adjusted san so his shoulders were square with you, presumably, he dug his hand down onto san. san went, obediently, to his knees.

his knees, bruised and raw from fighting, hit the soft carpet. san placed the palms of his hands down against the rug, his knuckles violently red from all the punching he had done, already swelling – and he placed his forehead down against the carpet.

something settled the crowd, silence taking over and reigning.

a voice broke through. “choi san,” you said, “younger brother to our dearest choi bada, of the formerly respected choi clan.”

your court tittered with laughter at the reminder of how far he had fallen.

“no worry.” your voice neared. you had risen from your chair – your throne. “the man you were when you walked into the arena is no more. now you are before me, clean from your sins if you so wish.

“tell me: choi bada spoke of treachery and murder, of annihilation of our precious sect; do you concur with your brother’s disastrous agenda?”

san spoke to the ground, but, he found, he was speaking from the heart. “no.”

two letters, one syllable.

that’s all it took to renounce his brother, to turn his back on his brother’s corpse.

“no,” you echoed. “yet you had fought alongside him. you had killed and burned alongside him. were you not his most trusted?”

san scraped his nails against the rug. “i was.”

you hummed. san thought he recognized the tune, but then it was gone just as he was able to reach out and catch the thread of it. “you could have chosen loyalty to this true emperor, as he proclaimed himself. my guard would have killed you alongside choi bada. and yet you entered my arena, fought, and won. you entered to leave your old life behind, yes? you entered to renounce your clan.”

“yes.”

“and so you will,” you said. “rise, choi san, and know that no hatred, no ill-will, will be held to you.”

slowly, as if you were a predator, a lion, and he were the prey, a mouse, san moved. he lifted himself from the bow. he did not stand. he remained kneeling, palms placed on the torn fabric stretching over his knees. san kept his face towards the ground.

“let me see you.”

san thought back to the overseer and his warning: don’t look. he wasn’t to look at you. yet you were asking, were telling him to look.

so san looked.

#🎞️ — teaser #ksmutsociety #cromernet #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez oneshot #choi san x reader #choi san fic #choi san oneshot

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sculptorofcrimson · 6 months ago

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The Long Vigil

Synopsis: Traitor!Valdor, and his endless exile.

Was it worth it? Was the powers he gained truly worth the price he had paid?

Once he served a god. Once he had served a king, when worlds had knelt before His words, upon which storms would rage upon His call and angels would fall from His command.

Now he walks alone, watching and waiting for a time that will never pass, standing a vigil that will never end. Meandering without destination, wandering without even expectation. His spear clicking like a crutch, the Apollonian blade crusted with frozen blood, his bulk wrapped in thick layers of furs and iron instead of glorious gold. The coarse cloth rustles with him against the raging wind, scarred iron armour beneath concealing nothing but his misericordia, and the half-dried remnants of the last Custodian who had tried to stop him. The blood of his former brother leaves streaks of crimson upon the snow as Valdor wanders headfirst into the storm, his cloak flapping behind him.

He tracks his brothers’ blood into his first steps towards freedom.

Maulland XVI. For its frost, its snow, its ice and its sole guardian, they would name the world hosting exile of the Lord Custodes after his first campaign. Only the Order could learn to appreciate the bitter irony.

When he exhales, his breath plumes out against his surprisingly slim features, unaided by rebreathers of either armor or technology, the frost-sharp edges of the cold bitter enough to freeze moisture in unaugmented lungs. He sinks into generations-old ice with every step, the storm battering at him at every turn, as if it had tasted his treachery, and wished to smite him down for its mere transgression. An explorer’s pack, long since neglected by the physiology of a traitor that had been sculpted by the Emperor Himself, cradled a book holding names he would never hear again, names he would never welcome from his master. The storm batters at him, rages against him, sinks its frenzied teeth into him with every jagged breath. He inhales, and the air tastes vaguely of nitrogen, the atmosphere lethal to any but perhaps one of the Ten Thousand. He limps onwards, leaning against the spear like a crutch as the ship once meant to take him prisoner burns behind him. The Custodes piloting the Ares Gunship had not been prepared to face him, in all his broken rage, in all his betrayal, with all the wrath of a servant betrayed. He had not expected to gaze into the eye of love-to-hatred-turned and see Constantin Valdor staring back, frenzied and mad and broken in his obsession, abandoned and betrayed and so utterly broken by the Emperor that not even He could piece him back together.

He had never wanted to unleash the traitors against his own brothers, he had never wanted to fling the Palace defenses wide open before traitors and welcome their hordes as they surged through gold and crimson, the defenders’ once great captain turned betrayer.

He had never wanted to flee the Palace under a guise of black and gold. He had once served a god, before whom oceans would kneel and mountains would tremble, but He had betrayed him. He had betrayed them all.

He had stolen dreams from his servants and bound gold into their minds. His master had stolen their love, their loyalty, their very ambition, and was it such a sin to recoil in horror when he had been granted just a modicum of humanity back?

When seas boil and stars fall, was it such a sin to merely want to live for yourself instead of dying for another? Another that did not serve His endless failure, another that had done nothing but beat obedience into his bones and break disagreements from his mind? To rip him away until he was nothing but the hollow ache of HIs dream, the echoes of His sacrifices screaming back at Him for eternity?

He could still feel the Ares Gunship’s burning firelight dancing against his furs. Constantin could still see the horrified eyes of his former brother as he had leaned in, face to helm with him now, misericordia lodged to the hilt in his neck, his face twisted in a broken snarl. Feeling his breaths, fast like a dying rabbit, beating slower and slower as blood gurgled out of his wounds and splattered over Valdor’s ragged robes. Watching as a golden guardian died beneath the gaze of a traitor, cursing him with his dying breath.

He had trained this man, Valdor had named him, given him his three hundred and sixty seven names, had sparred against him, had fought side by side with him when the Webway flooded beneath daemonic corpses. He had raised this boy when he was being turned into a Custodes, he had raised him and watched him die.

‘I cannot let them live,’ Valdor had thought then. Almost in desperation, almost in prayer, almost as if he was begging at the feet of a master he no longer had. ‘I know each of their names, I can name each of their deeds, I raised them, trained them, and fought them. They are my brothers, but I cannot let them live.’

He had twisted the blade of his misericordia, the knife meant to kill traitors now in the hands of one, lodged to the bone in the spine of his brother. It looked as if the Custodian was crying bloody tears. Yet he refused to die, squirming there, thrashing at the tip of the knife.

Blood. So much blood.

Here, at the end and the death.

Here, at last. Tanned skin gurgling and splitting open beneath his golden blade, fading eyes lifted to the featureless gold of the ship’s ceiling as if begging in reverence to his master. But the Emperor’s not there. The Emperor cannot save him. How he had twitched, trying to crawl away, trying to draw his own blade. Trying to raise his Sentinel Blade and twist it enough to dig into Valdor’s immaculate armor.

‘Damn you…’ his dying brother had whispered, still crawling towards his own sword.

‘Rest now.’ Valdor had spoken then, gentle in the same way he had been gentle when he had sunk in the blade. He had not wanted to kill him. But they had pushed him to sink in the blade. ‘Rest now, in the shame of your failure, knowing you have served well. Rest now, and sleep, knowing you have served Him.’

His blade was finally tilted against the edge of Valdor’s throat. He wore nothing more than primitive armor, barely any better than the Thunder Warriors he had slain. A singular push from the dying warrior and he would take him down to death with him. So close. So close to avenging his Emperor and his Order. Yet he will die before he even reaches that far. He was dying, laced with his traitor captain’s blood.

With brotherly kindness, Valdor lays him down, and plucks the sword from around his neck. He begins to withdraw the misericordia from the Custodian. He could feel him dying, spasming around the shaft of the blade. ‘Rest now, knowing that I take no pleasure in this.’ he says. ‘I take no pleasure in what I have done.’

He had expected to be hated. Loathed. Or perhaps simply raged at, anger, pure and blinding, for one that had betrayed the Emperor. But instead that ruined thing that was once his brother laughed, coughing out a final, dry chuckle.

‘Served?' he rasps. ‘Served Him? You were supposed to be the greatest of us. The first, and the only. Above the ordinary. Golden.’

The Custodian grins through blood-laced teeth. He was a corpse, yet he bit off each other with burning, bleeding clarity. ‘We are not meant to take pleasure. We are His tools, to be used and cast aside. To trade our lives for His. Because there’s nothing left for you, Constantin. No life, love, no joy, no death, no rest. No respite from the endless crush of your duty. There’s nothing He can take from you that He hasn’t already, nothing left for us, Constantin, if not for Him. We are nothing.’

Nothing but the living dead wrapped in gold, waiting to be returned to the grave. The galaxy can burn, the world itself can drown, wonders and madness can eat the fabric of time itself and stars can plummet from senseless skies, but he would never change, never yield, never love, never rejoice, never feel anything but the endless crush of a vigil that will never end.

The Custodian spasms. His spine cracks as Valdor pulls out the blade. Yet, he spits out his last words through failing organs, gurgling out blood from bleeding lungs. ‘You were supposed to be the greatest of us all. You were supposed to be His favorite. But look at you now. Look at what you have become. Honorless and disgraced. Scorned, pitied, and hated by the masses. Unnamed, erased utterly from the history books, cursed by the names of those you were supposed to lead. No better than Horus now. No better than the traitors.’

The chains have broken. The master’s throne has been usurped by the master’s slaves. The treachery has unfolded, and the most loyal of His dogs has abandoned Him. The cycle ends where it began, beneath frost and winds, so alike Maulland Sen.

No better than the traitors now. As he walks away into the frost and the snow, knowing he was no better than the first heretic. Perhaps worse. Treachery was only human nature, after all. But for one who had no human nature at all, what excuse can he make but his own moral failings?

Valdor stops, dragging the spear in a close circle to him, closing tired eyes and feeling the storm whip itself around him. His breaths come jagged now, slow and painful. He welcomes the cold. For a moment he could delude himself into remembering the first campaigns, how he had soldiered through the storm and basked beneath the praises of his master. The thunder and the iron, almost enough to deceive his perfect mind and almost remember what it felt like to dream. What it felt like to feel human. To dare to dream, if only for a few seconds, before the Emperor’s obsessions sink in again and he could only soldier on through the storm. Inhuman, disgraced, and exiled, limping his way through a world without warmth.

What else could he do? What else could he do, when the only other time he felt human was when he killed?

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #sculptor of crimson #constantin valdor #adeptus custodes #warhammer #wh40k writing prompts #emperor of mankind #traitor au #traitor custodes #traitor!valdor

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thedreamlessnights · 6 months ago

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Objection's First Bath

This is my @bg3-apprecimaytion submission for several of the prompts, including fight, swimming, home, and cuddles (AO3 link here if you prefer). It is dedicated to the lovely, wonderful @cinnamontails-ff and her incredible, stunning fic, Magistrate's Advocate.

This fic is truly one of the most amazing things I've ever read. Astarion's character development is just so well written that you almost forget how far he's come, until you go back to reread it - only to go on the fantastic journey once again. His and Zoraya's relationship is everything to me, and I'm so, so thankful for this beautiful tale and the hard work you've put into it, Cin! Have the most incredible birthday ever, and enjoy this silly little tribute to our favorite kitty, Objection!

When Objection had been nothing more than a mewling kitten, he’d vowed that nothing in Faerûn would ever make him admit defeat.

After all, he’d always known that he was meant for greatness, and greatness required a certain amount of gravitas. The pitiful followers he would inevitably gain on his rise to power would grovel at his feet at the sight of his immaculate fur, impeccable mannerisms, and flawless composure.

Until about three days ago, everything had gone to plan.

He’d quickly risen to a position of power among the other idiots who lined the streets of the city. Soon, everyone had looked to him for everything from which rats to hunt to which shopkeepers were acceptable to rob – and, as he’d sworn to himself, he’d never admitted defeat. The very premise of defeat was for weaklings, and the Baron of the Lower City’s West End was anything but.

Still, one had to allow for exceptions. Especially when one was lying in a ditch, covered in filth, and starved down to the bone.

Perseverance was an admirable trait, but Objection did not feel like being particularly admirable at the moment. Especially when no one was around to see his failure.

Even then, as shallow breaths scraped through his ribs, he could see the events of the past seventy-two hours flashing through his mind.

Mutiny. He wanted to claw himself for being so foolish. How had he not seen it coming? It was a common thing among cat districts – he should have been prepared! But several years of being the Baron had made him too comfortable, and he’d let his normal defenses slip. His set of rules, meticulously crafted to keep him safe, had been ignored, and here was the result.

Betrayal. Failure. And he, the mighty Objection of the Lower City’s West End, had no strength to do anything but the one thing he’d promised he would never do – admit defeat.

But what was the use? He wasn’t stupid enough to deny the fact that he was dying; his other eight lives had been used up in extremely courageous and majestic circumstances, and he was on his last one. He’d been reckless, and he was paying for it. Perhaps he even deserved this treatment.

No, he thought suddenly, his tail flicking in irritation. He’d kept the imbeciles alive, and this was how they repaid him? Treason? Treachery? Of course he didn’t deserve this ridiculous treatment! He was born for greatness! He deserved to be gazed at in awe, admiration, and a healthy amount of fearful respect!

The simpletons would surely pay for their idiocy. Rat populations would be overhunted, and the nitwits would soon starve. Shopkeepers would cast them out, leaving more and more dangerous traps for them to fall into. Other cat districts in the city would turn them to ash. As they deserved.

Perhaps he would even see it happen. Perhaps he’d become a ghost among the streets, wreaking havoc on his wrongdoers. If that was the case, he could die happy.

But even Objection could not see what was coming next. For, as he closed his eyes to allow death to take him, he suddenly found himself cruelly disturbed. Footsteps rudely disrupted his intended passing, and grating voices soon cast themselves over his ears.

A gasp. A halting of footsteps. A grimy hand, palpating his body.

“Is he alive?”

The voice of a woman. Tolerable. It carried the sweet, mild fragrance of a perfume he could not recognize.

“Barely,” came the reply.

This voice, he hated. This voice came with the smell of metal and oil and sweat, assaulting his senses even halfway to the grave. And, to his horror, the owner of the voice was the one who picked him up by the scruff like a godsdamned kitten, and wrapped him in a filthy cloth, cradling him like an infant.

Unhand me, imbecile! he hissed, wildly batting his paws out around him. But, to his horror, he found himself being ignored.

Being carried like that was humiliating. Disgusting, even. And yet, as he soon discovered, it was warm. Even in all his pride, Objection could not resist that.

After all, perhaps this was a sign. An opportunity to get revenge on those who had harmed him. If the gods were providing him a second chance, who was he to deny them? Yes – the fools would personally receive his fury. What a sweet sight it would be.

So, he allowed the fool and the woman to carry him away from the ditch and treat him like the royalty he was.

As it turned out, the woman’s name was Zoraya – or, at least, that was what the foul-smelling one called her. He didn’t bother learning the imbecile’s name. He wasn’t important.

No, Zoraya was the special one. She was sensible. Quick-witted. The type of woman who’d clearly worked hard all her life. He admired that quality in her.

But more importantly, she was the one who scratched him under the chin, the one who looked at him as if he was something special (which he was, of course). She was the one who retrieved a high-end feast for him, cuts of meat, cheese, and bread that only the nice shops carried. And she was the one he allowed to scoop him back into a clean blanket and bring him to his new home.

It wasn’t much. The paint on the walls was chipped, there was a foul, nearby scent of soot, and the yard was overgrown. But, it was warm, and all the walls were intact. The rest could be fixed once he’d fully recovered.

Inside, the area was equally sparse, but it would do. He was, unfortunately, in the role of a beggar, and he could not afford to be a chooser at the moment. The poor girl had clearly done her best to decorate.

As the night waned on, Objection decided that Zoraya was turning out to be a perfect fit as a roommate. She pet his head when he gave her permission, fed him delectable treats, and set up his new, comfortable bed in the main bedroom. It was the respect he deserved, and he was very much enjoying it.

“You know… I think I’ll call you Objection,” she said as she carried him to the kitchen, feeding him another treat as she gently placed him down.

She was smart enough to call him by his name, and that was when he truly decided to keep her.

A sentiment which changed very quickly when he saw the bin of water she intended to use on him.

As a rule, Objection despised water. The only time he touched it was to allow it to nourish him, to quench his thirst. Nothing else. If she truly meant to subject him to this horror, then she would learn of her mistake very quickly. He was quickly recovering his strength, after all, and even her big, pitiful brown eyes would not dissuade him from a silent kill.

“Come on, Objection,” she said, tapping her hand on the counter to urge him closer. When he stayed where he was, she placed a treat halfway between where he stood and the bin.

The insult of it all. As if he, the Baron of the Lower City’s West End, would fall for tricks like that. In response, he flattened his ears and hissed.

Her face fell, and she stepped closer. “I’m really sorry,” she said, “but you’re covered in… I don’t even know what. Not to mention the fleas. We have to clean you off, alright?”

Fleas.

Fleas?

Like some disgusting gutter cat – he, Objection, having fleas?

It was preposterous. Inconceivable. Even the notion of it was so incredibly offensive that his entire being froze in place, allowing her to seize the opportunity to snatch him up and coat him in a horrid, foul-smelling substance up to the neck.

And thus began their battle.

She drenched him in water; he scrambled to get away. She lathered him up; he let out a deafening yowl. Again and again, she tried to get him to remain still for her – compliant, like an idiotic servant.

Instead, he splashed, hissed, sloshed water on her counters, crawled up onto her shoulder and dug his claws into the skin, and even released his secret weapon: a terrified, heartbreaking meow that could melt the hearts of even the fiercest creatures.

Yet, apparently, Zoraya held some form of immunity to it. Was she a warlock? A paladin? Did she have a secret connection to the gods that allowed her to contain this evil?

He had no answers. Clearly, whatever supernatural powers she contained gave her an advantage, and for the second time that day, he found himself admitting defeat.

So, he was given a bath. Scrubbed from the neck down. Humiliated. Enraged. Exhausted.

But the subjected torture did not stop there. No. He found himself fluffed by a towel, ruining his perfect fur and making him look absolutely ridiculous. How dare she subject him to this treatment! She would pay, along with the rest of those who had betrayed him. In fact, he would destroy all mankind for their crimes against him! Elves, humans, tieflings – the lot! All would be desiccated!

Once she had finally finished, she offered him another treat. Oh, how she had erred. He hissed again at her ridiculous peace offering, his tail swishing violently, and she sighed.

“I know, I know,” she said, scooping him up into her arms. “I’m sorry, Objection. I had to.”

He felt the immediate urge to bite her for her lies, but at the memory of her supernatural abilities, decided it was safer to lie low for now. He would plot out his revenge, and attack when he was sure he could defeat her.

At the very least, he was warm again, and his belly no longer ached with hunger. The state of his fur would take ages to correct, but she hadn’t committed the ultimate misdeed of cutting it. And, when she brought him into her bed, she laid him down in a soft, comfortable blanket, and he fell into the most fantastic sleep of his life.

Overall, it could have been much worse.

Two months later

Generally, Objection liked to think of himself as a merciful ruler. There were exceptions, of course, but he could turn a blind eye to mistakes every now and again. No one was perfect, not even him, so how could he hold it against his lesser subjects?

So, with this fact in mind, he had recently decided to forgive Zoraya for her crimes.

It was true – he had spent the last several weeks plotting out revenge. But over time, he’d softened to her. She was a good housemate. She brought him a number of delicious treats. She was reliable, tidy, and hardworking. She’d apologized multiple times for her misdeed.

So, in all his grace, he had chosen to put all memory of the bath behind him.

After all, the state of his fur had been quickly repaired, and there were much more important concerns than exacting destruction on all elvenkind. In fact, there were still the nitwits out there who had betrayed him. Really, truly betrayed him, unlike Zoraya.

At least she’d meant well in her attempt to clean him, flea insinuations aside. The idiots who roamed the streets had only wanted to destroy him. He could not allow himself to be distracted from his true goal – the traitors had to receive exactly what they deserved.

And thus, once he’d fully recovered from his brush with death, he began to plot his revenge.

He’d learned from his previous mistakes; there was no room for error. One misstep, and he would find himself just as he’d started: on death’s door, laden with regret. No – any softness or comfort was unacceptable, and every detail needed to be plotted out with meticulous precision.

Patience, he told himself. All good things to those who wait.

With Zoraya near, it was easier to bide his time. He liked to stretch out on the windowsill that faced the street, his immaculate fur growing warm under the golden rays of the sun, purring as Zoraya scratched behind his ears.

Mostly, he watched. He watched day and night, observing everyone and everything that passed by, from the orange butterflies that flitted across the yard to the crickets that sang in the evenings, chirping their nightly lullaby.

He watched the crowds that milled by during the busiest hours of the day, when Zoraya went to work, and those that returned in the evenings on their way home from their various occupations. He knew the bakers, and the healers, and the tailors. He knew the children that ran past, squealing in delight as they caught sight of him.

Most importantly, though, he watched the other cats. Some of them were out of his jurisdiction, but the others he knew all too well. His once-loyal subjects, prowling the streets. They never noticed his watchful gaze through the window, nor saw his silhouette on the outskirts of the yard, but he saw them. He saw the patterns of their movements, the rats they hunted, the orders they followed.

At night, when Zoraya was asleep, he snuck out of the house and roamed the streets. As he did, he made mental lists, noting every difference that had followed in the months since his attempted murder. The fools hadn’t even bothered to move the main den, and the careful defenses he’d put in place to keep them safe had all fallen.

Most insulting of all, the cat who’d taken his place as the leader was an idiot named Mittens. From what Objection could see, Mittens did absolutely nothing – aside from lounging around and preening, of course, like one of the peacocks Objection had once seen in the Lower City.

It was a repulsive sight. Revolting. And yet, it was an opportunity.

Never, not in all of his life, had Mittens raised a paw to another one of his kind. He knew nothing of the wit nor the strength it took to rule, nor of the ferocity it took to stay alive in a position like that. He’d be completely defenseless without the guards stationed nearby.

They would be easy enough to deal with. As Objection had predicted, without someone clever keeping them in line, the nearby rat populations had all been overhunted. Soon, there would be no rats left to find, but for now, the cats were overfed and softened in their comforts.

So, as with everything else, he watched. Studied their movements. The alleyways where he could pick them off one by one. The lapses in patrols.

Piece by piece, night by night, his revenge slotted into place. He perfected it; ran the situations through his mind over and over, determined to account for every possibility. And, when it was finally ready, he acted.

It was a clear, moonlit night. Zoraya had already gone to sleep, leaving the bedroom door cracked open for him to inch through when he was ready to join her. He would happily do so later, but not until he had finished his work.

One of the windows never liked to close properly. It was jammed open, and Zoraya had remedied this with a large bundle of rags to keep any stray insects out. As he had done so many times before, Objection crept over to it, careful not to disturb any of the papers on the nearby counter, and used his fangs to tug the cloth barrier out of the way. When he had enough room to press underneath, he snuck through, pawed the rags back into place, then gracefully leapt into the yard.

The outer walls were easy enough to scale, and it wasn’t long before he found himself back in familiar streets, this time stalking his prey.

The night lay silent. The air was balmy and sweet, and his heart thrummed steadily between his ribs as he moved, the sound deafening in his ears. It was all too easy to slink down the streets toward his goal, and that unnerved him. He had planned, yes, but there was always the risk of execution going awry. No plan was completely foolproof, no matter how polished.

The anticipation was unbearable.

When he finally arrived at his first location, he stretched out among the shadows and waited. It didn’t take long. Along came one of the guards on his patrol, sniffing at the stone as he passed through his route. Objection’s paw silenced him before he had even the chance to cry out.

The other three guards went just as quickly. One slap of the paw, a quick tussle, and then, only the sound of their breathing.

The next part of the plan was more difficult. Guards had consistent patrols, nightly routines he could count on, but the locations of the other cats were anyone’s guess. And, unfortunately, the other cats were the most important part of his revenge plot.

On the night of the mutiny, three cats had been the ones to orchestrate his downfall – Ollie, a grey tabby with a clipped ear, Tilly, a calico with a missing eye, and Luna, a black and white shorthair. If anyone needed to pay, it was them. Regaining his respect as their leader was just a bonus.

What this meant was that he was forced to climb up onto the nearby roofs, hoping he’d catch sight of them before it was too late.

Ollie, luckily, seemed to have found a puddle of some wine outside the Elfsong Tavern, and was licking it off the stone. By the time he noticed Objection, he had a pawful of claws to his neck.

His eyes went wide. Objection? he asked, his voice slurred from the wine. Are you a ghost?

Not quite, came Objection’s reply. His paw moved, and the deed was done.

Tilly was next – bragging loudly outside of a bakery about a fat rat she’d recently managed to catch.

The cat next to her, Snowy, flicked her tail in annoyance. Fat rats are the easiest rats to catch, Tilly, she hissed. Then she hopped up the window, slinking away into the shadows.

Felines these days, Tilly grumbled to herself. Really. You try to make a friend…

Objection didn’t bother with the formalities of a conversation. Clearly, the stupidity of his subject would ruin it. He struck fast, struck quietly, and left the evidence out of sight.

Undoubtedly, Luna was the most dangerous of all his prey. She was the one who’d first attacked him, and the one who’d left him for dead in a ditch. She was almost certainly the one who’d first dreamed up the whole endeavor, and she was the one he wanted most to pay for what she’d done.

As it turned out, she was also the only one who heard him coming. Her ears perked up at the sound of his steps, and her back tensed. Despite that, she remained where she was, calmly cleaning her paw.

Objection, she said.

In the flesh.

He stepped closer, allowing his fur to shine in the silver moonlight. He knew well how he looked – nothing like the starved, injured cat they’d left in a ditch. Strong. Powerful. Ready, this time, for her betrayal.

I didn’t think you’d be foolish enough to come back, she told him, casually inspecting her paw. What do you want?

He arched his back, flattening his ears and hissing. What do you think? he asked.

Very slowly, her eyes narrowed, but she kept them fixed in front of her, still focused on her paw. Oh. You’re here to fight? she sighed. Fine. I’ll finish the job properly this time.

And, with a flash of black fur, she pounced.

He was ready for it. He leapt out of the way of her blow, claws skidding on the stone as he caught himself. As she whirled around to face him, he darted forward and clawed her in the side, dodging back as she hissed in pain.

My, my, she drawled, a little breathless, circling in front of him. You’ve improved, Objection.

Before he could answer, she barreled toward him, her claws drawn and her lips curled up into a snarl. Another dodge. Another strike. The fight became a deadly dance, balanced with blows, accompanied by hisses and heavy breaths.

She was fierce, but so was he. She was nimble, but so was he. Every move she made, he knew like the back of his paw. Perhaps it was how the moment of betrayal had seared its way into his mind – he recalled her tricks far too well, and it was clear that her pathetic tricks were all she had.

Finally, in the middle of a dodge, she stumbled. He took the opportunity to strike, sweeping at her legs to break her balance, and she landed on her back with a loud yowl.

It was perfect. The moment he’d been dreaming of for months. And yet, just as he was about to land the final blow, one of the doors to the nearby houses opened.

Panting, Luna stayed where she was, clearly hoping the shadows would conceal her.

“What’s all this noise, then?” the woman asked. She stepped out of her doorway, caught sight of Luna, and gasped. “Oh, goodness!” she exclaimed. “Don’t worry, little darling! I’ll get you fixed up in no time!”

With careful hands, she scooped Luna up into her arms, clinging on tighter as the cat tried her best to get away.

Release me! Luna cried. Put me down, you fool! I’ll make you pay for your crimes!

“Just you wait,” the woman cooed, not seeming to notice the cat’s protests. “We’ll be thick as thieves, you and I! I’ve always wanted a cat, you know. I’ve just started sewing, too – I can make you little dresses, and you can wear them all around the house! How does that sound, little kitty?”

No, Luna cried. No!!!

As the door closed, her cries fell silent. All things considered, Objection thought it was an apt punishment: eternal humiliation.

Now, there was only Mittens.

He was right where Objection had expected him to be – lying back on his throne, surrounded by fish bones and rat corpses, purring up a storm.

Mittens, he said.

Eh? Mittens grunted, not bothering to move. Who disturbs me?

Your rightful ruler, you idiot, Objection hissed.

That got him to move. He jumped three feet in the air, landing on his feet and gazing down at Objection with wide eyes. It can’t be, he said. You’re dead!

Objection sat, his tail flicking against the cobblestone as he observed his replacement up close. It was a pitiful sight. Mittens smelled of ale and rotten cheese, and he was already trembling like a leaf.

Well? Would you like to test if I’m real? Objection drawled.

Mittens took a step back, hissing. Don’t come any closer! he warned. Guards? Guards! Kill this intruder!

Objection tilted his head. No one is coming, Mittens.

After a moment, Mittens seemed to realize that Objection was right – no one was coming to his rescue.

Wh- What do you want? Mittens asked. Leave me be!

Step down, and never return.

It was a calm, simple suggestion, but Mittens gaped at him as if he’d just assigned an advanced calculus problem. You can’t mean that! he exclaimed. You - you can’t make me!

Objection flattened his ears, narrowing his eyes. I most certainly can, he said, flashing his claws. Would you like to see?

For a moment, Mittens hesitated. Then, with a reluctant yowl, he ran into the shadows, bounding away as fast as he could.

Revenge never tasted sweeter than it did then, watching the so-called ruler of the Lower City’s West End running like a coward, abandoning his throne.

When he had disappeared, Objection turned to see his old friend, Barsik, observing in the distance.

Still alive, friend? Barsik asked. I thought you might be. It’s good to see you.

And you, Objection replied. I couldn’t stand by while these fools created a mess in my absence.

You’ve done well, Barsik told him. You aren’t staying?

It was a nice thought, but there was a warm bed waiting for him. No, he responded. I must return to where I belong.

Barsik blinked slowly, bowing his head. I understand, he said. What shall I tell the others?

Objection thought for a moment. Tell them that the true Baron of the Lower City’s West End has retired.

And with that, his tail held high in success, he headed home.

It didn’t take long. The streets were mostly empty, and the path was clear. Finally, he would be able to rest knowing that he had executed his plan – and rather perfectly, at that.

Once he had finally made his way back inside, he licked himself clean, crept through the bedroom door, and leapt into Zoraya’s bed.

She stirred at his movements, blinking at him through heavy eyes. “Objection?” she asked drowsily. “What have you been up to?”

In response, Objection curled up next to her chest, closed his eyes, and purred.

#bg3apprecimaytion2024

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cherubchoirs · 1 year ago

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One thing that comes to my mind is overtime Fallen!Gabriel coming to terms with his slow transformation and more hellish traits, maybe abandoning his swords at times and just claws at what comes in his and V1's way. Or maybe even him falling into despair after these instances happen and V1 bringing him back to reality idk all my thoughts are jumbled and *incomprehensible sputtering noises* ILOVETHATSDHITOH MYGOD

YES YOU GET IT.....gabriel's fall is a quick process initially - he dies, from the remains of his light burning out or in a final stand against v1 to resolve what little he can in the time he has left, but he doesn't fade into nothingness like he believes he should. he is brought back in the depths of treachery greatly disoriented but instinctively understanding his cosmic position, the punishment seeming swift and fully realized upon his resurrection - he is torn from all the other angels, feeling mentally and physically isolated in a way he has never known, his body is racked in the cold even from within and his wings are ruined so that he may never aspire to heaven again. this is what falling feels like, this is what it looks, and he believes the process to be complete as it gives him more than enough to grieve. but his halo is still intact, still fully luminous if not slightly dimmed compared to the other archangels, and only when it starts to crack and fall away does he realize he was mistaken.

upon waking in his tomb, gabriel doesn't have any weapons - his swords aren't with him and he can't summon any light to use his spear or axes. however, he's far too confused and pissed off to really notice too much - this fight is basically meant to play out much like a prime soul, where gabriel is using the sheer brute force of his body to relentlessly engage v1 (although i do imagine he tries, through habit, to call his weapons to him...and when he can't, it just enrages him. he self-enrages lol) he gets brought back to his senses with enough pummeling though, having to consciously now accept that his death resulted in his fall instead and then forced to acknowledge several punishments in quick succession with a clearer head. no flying, no teleporting, no light to aid him, and total isolation of the self. he despairs QUITE loudly for awhile but, like i mentioned in my last post about gabriel, he is now a character moved to action and since he has more time, he must learn to use it. gabriel had just been mourning the work he would leave undone so he wants to find a way to bear this weight...and perhaps action will keep him occupied. and he'll need weapons for that.

so v1 (gleefully) helps him steal from his own tomb, needing to wrench his swords free now buried into bodies of flawless marble in a way that sees them break. they are heaven-tempered blades and so gabriel knows they shatter by design to show the fallen angel that he has no claim to them anymore, at least not in their perfect state, but he knows too he needs to work with what he's given. no free passes ever again. and so he learns to fight entirely on his feet with broken swords, fresh anguish snapping at his heels but kept at bay by his natural inclination as a warrior, v1's now constant presence (as well as how they learn to fight together rather than against one another), and the ultimate peace he has with his decision. he did what was right, and he wishes to accept the outcome as it is, something he can manage to maintain until his halo starts to crumble. it sets into motion the true decay of his heavenly traits and the acquiring of demonic ones which he, being pretty much ignorant of fallen angels, had no idea to expect.

the horns on his helmet grow significantly and his nails fully sharpen to take shape into claws while he increasingly loses his ability to speak in the holy tongue, the words twisting themselves in his throat and making him sick until he can say them no more. his swords begin to burn in his hands while his still instinctive calls to the divine light start to instead attract massive amounts of hell energy to him through prayer now made infernal. and with all of this, he begins to forget himself in battle. his body, once airy and ethereal despite being solid, is growing hard, his own flesh like cold marble and just as difficult to pierce regardless of armor, allowing him a recklessness he would have never considered before. and so, in expedience, in anger, in something that's feeling increasingly natural, he abandons his weapons and tears into husks, machines, (other?) demons with horns and claws, and he revels in the visceral feel of it. he distinctly senses how he rends their flesh or their parts without the distance of a blade and he sees each time how v1 darts in to soak up the blood he spills, euphoric in the moment of abandon but horrified when it ends. his swords lay cast aside and the traits he has agonized over, that have caused renewed despair and that he has, quietly, tried to vainly and pointlessly pray over, are becoming a part of him. they are his new self, and something in him is accepting them.

he absolutely does fall apart more than once over the idea and over the inevitable, that he will become this no matter how he resists. but v1 understands his fear, all of it in its own way - it's error-riddled, its software is corrupted beyond recognizability and if humanity had ever seen it in such a state, it would have been destroyed. but this is itself, this is what it is now and what it now wants to be despite how terrifying it once was to know that it was warping far from the model it was meant to be. but humans aren't here anymore and neither is god. they make themselves now. which. probably also initially hits gabriel hard with how pointed it is, but he's much more accepting of truth than he once was and still, despite everything, he wouldn't have changed the choices he made that got him here.

#THIS WAS LONG YET AGAIN!!! im spiraling over him always #he's somewhere halfway between anger and acceptance when he corrupts his swords with hell energy #they're becoming unusable for him in their still divine state #and he knows for awhile he could use hell energy to temper them #but he's stubborn about it until he gets to the point where he can just say fuck it #those aren't heaven's or god's swords anymore. they're his. and he should be able to wield them #when he's not just tearing guys apart with his bare hands lol #cake answers #gabriel

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trehontin · 1 year ago

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" I told you--! I asked you to stop killing when you are here! When you are around me! " " Didn't you mention that they are discardable? That they should be punished? " " Yes... yes, I did! But --- "

At times it didn't need more than a simple little push. At times it didn't want, didn't desire anything else but that driving over the edge. That hair-thin, razor-sharp margin that was - in the here and now - far too much to get to what was truly and direly desired. Sometimes this mentioned little push, as one might want to say, was nothing else but the vision of a possibility bestowed by unknown means and for unexpected reasons. Whatever it was, when he looked back at it [ or did he look in from the outside? ], now that mere two hours had passed, it had been worthwhile this whole endeavour to tear out these fine and flimsy strings, ready to be snapped.

This menial train of thought had set in just when stepping into this crude warehouse, but it was nothing similar yet nothing outright unknown to what he had encountered before. Sat far off at the edge of this small city, to be called nothing more than a very den of monsters for those that would dare to enter it. Broken down and broken open. Like a skull that was ready [ that was already completed? ] to be cracked so that the insides would leak out the moment someone would shove their hand in and scoop all that mindless grey matter, discardable as much as this maybe passable little get-up would have been. What a strange thought to be had, conceivably just watching in from the outside would do that to him. Looking from somewhere off at exactly that scene that could be called grizzly and brought up for the Shinigami no sentiment, no movement in his mind past the realisation that this had been nothing other than a barbaric little job that had to be fulfilled.

There could be the question uttered why he was even here [ but was that not clear? ]. The stammering words, tumbling over one another, why he had followed him here, why he had taken it all up to indulge in 'labour' that was surely none for him [ but did they not know? ]. When undoubtedly both men caught in this scene of rehearsed tragedy knew the truth to prodigal desires. Wanting more and more [ to never stop? ].

" I can kill them for you. " " I told you I don't need your help! I told you--- " " Is that so? "

Repetition of the same statements, over and over again, the very phrases falling in frantic, overwhelmed candour time and time again nothing else but like the ticking of a clock somewhere in the back of one's mind, similar to an illusion, for no time could be counted, so that none would pass. When only the surrounding's buzzing amalgamation of white noise and screaming sounds had finally stopped the droning disunity. It was always the same: once humans had been left to scramble for their last bits of life before they had meant and made to throw it all away in that 'heroic' throwaway act of the last embers of a burning flame that could be extinguished with the snap of fingertips - it was always just the same. How those heroes amongst villainous treachery had turned into a ghastly pile of dirt. Crying and yelling over each other, clawing at each other, to prove that either of them is not worth the kill, not worth the discarding of this pile of bones, clad in worthless meat, folded into a suit of skin.

But Sōsuke knew; even when watching all of this still out of sight and out of their possibility to feel, that Suguru would not extend the finishing blow as he so rightfully, so well-deserved should. In that burning feeling of anger that coiled around his core, something so brilliantly shining, singing amongst those thousands of souls housed in the depths of a being that should be called a human still - yet was so much more than that. After all, a Shinigami would hold little to no interest in anything random, anybody arbitrary to wallow in pity and sorrow and the sheer indignant feeling of pain brought forth and installed by nought else but discardable norms, standards, criteria - it was such a quixotic thing to uphold [ but had his world not be the same? ]. Yet, despite all those thoughts lingering and mingling with his currently hidden form to give that one needed little push that would happen once he came into view of those crushed to dust by his mere presence - he waited.

Wanted to watch it. Wanted to indulge. This man was so beautiful in how raw his suffering was--- in how pure his ache, his longing to unleash more and more of all he held in. Thus [ but not for this reason alone? ] he had decided to be but a mere bystander for however many frantic heartbeats he could hear beating in his ears as if it were his own nearly ready to burst.

That was because he could hear them. The countless entities churning and turning, waiting to be released in their craving to be unleashed and take the reign over someone's sanity that seemed so brittle while it was truly not. He could not help but wonder at times, while being capable of catching these fine strings, nearly like fibres of a leaf strung out and torn off sole if one were to strip the green and leave nought but the fine net of structures, every single one of those ends - they showed one of them.

Infuriating. That absolute feeling of helplessness. Regardless of how much power was around them, no matter how much incoherent rabble had gone on and on and with each twitch, with each movement, there wouldn't be anything else but worthless heaps of trash remaining that could be discarded at any moment's notice within the nearest bins and dumpsters. At least that was, what he thought. Eyes rising towards the last scraps of roof where the swirling mass of power had gathered; something so slowly unleashed, countless more and more breaking free over that understandable wrath that would cloth the Sorcerer like a fine veil. And they were talking, still, they had the means to speak and talk and proclaim unnecessary words strung together into nothing. Snipped off and discarded, the end of a thread reached for every single one of them to fall to the ground in sounds and tones similar to beads of porcelain hitting tiles before they break apart and shatter.

What an interesting show this all had been so far. Within this dilapidated building that was nothing more but a human's farce to former power and wealth.

" No, I... I can't do that--- Please, stop. " "Your hands would be clean." " Please, stop talking---"

That fine sound of silk, dark in all its tones of velvet. Something that could envelop a broken soul in the way it struggles and tries to break free once more. He had watched this comical display for a margin too long and decided just that he had enough of watching mortal peril up close like this [ perhaps he should get even closer? ]. From his place in the shadows, sitting patiently on some crates blocked and out of view by numerous beams of steel and debris to turn from stone to ash, he would finally move. Those crates were inocuous, inconspicious in the way they were placed and lined up. Just perfect to make a fine position for a watcher, within it's raddling sounds and simple wails. Within the way they would creak just enough to alert the discardable scum of this city to the next round and set of this fight. A fight of a difficulty not meant to be won.

Finally, crossing that distance between his target he had followed for maybe half an hour [ did he now know that he was here? ], whose voices would have run out in his mind and still blinded by sheer rage, there was not a single sound leaving his lips upon realisations shut off behind bulwark of disbelief. There was a game to be played between them, and the Lord desires to play it to its fullest extent. Discardable. Discardable were all of those that had raged and argued, slammed to the ground by creatures of grotesque proportions. And yet it was the Death God's very self that startles him--- had Geto not realised it?

Within in widened eyes, nearly scared of a glance to throw his way, a voice is forming, where no words would leave him - why is he here? What was he doing here? Those and even more linger in the back of his mind, where they would find no outlet past the stunned silence of obedience forced where none was expected. He minded it not, the way this man behaved when their mutual presence would intermingle in being so close, in being that bone-chillingly near. He knows well enough that they all could see him. That their moment of regard that they could have been left off and could have run away from this place [ anything was better, was it not? even prison by now? ], this sheer second of relief was shattered like nothing but fine glass. Out of some reason, when only laying eyes on him, on the man now standing next to a Sorcerer that had raged, drowned in a whirlwind of spiking madness that had yet not overcome him whole, they knew - this was all over.

" No, please--- " Very aware of the mind-shattering delirium that no matter what they would now try and say and bring forth to finally sway someone who had held it all together so beautifully [ such a gorgeous display it had been? ], it would truly not matter anymore. But how can they know? How can they truly know about the possibility behind his presence? If not seen in the unadulterated shocked terror of Suguru's reaction, the deliberate knowledge that this was, now and forever - out of his control? " No what? " As if to tear out the truth that there was nothing to be done anymore, patience hair-thin nearly lost and nearly snapped within the confines of this disgusting little creation of humane audacity. " You---, you can see I have this under control, there is no need for your help--- " Like the splattered remains of whatever victim had been a plaything of those that could be seen as nothing else but undomesticated dogs in tearing limb from limb, tendons exposed, disjointed sinew and bones like a brittle reminder of how fleeting life could truly be.

In that conversation of near unholy proportions, he would move and reach - it was a tease if nought else, watching that lovely partner of his soothe himself in brushing away an invisible ache. Trying to discard the watcher's presence as if it was nought but a phantom, a spirit. So caught was that movement with his own, wrapping fingers around Geto's wrist; of that hand that had cradled his thoughts, his wants, his wishes. He didn't need any help, yet would speak like that wasn't anything else but a lie.

"I would be your tool." " I ... I think... " " Completely at your disposal, for whatever you want me to do. "

And then it cracked. There was something inherently breathtaking about the power to control those of will lower or even higher than one might want to account them for. The very knowledge that, with the snap of one's fingertips, whatever or whoever might count themselves of freedom to behold, it would lead to the complete opposite. Forced and pushed to relent and follow, they are in someone's complete control and dance to their every tune, to their every whim. But right now?

It was a nightmare's worth. The blinding realisation that no matter what had been spoken in the here and now [ and had it even been in this reality? ] was nothing any more but the growing, drowning sound of countless souls unleashed in what could only be accounted for as ease for the Lord to behold. He had always wondered, in a sense, about the similarities between Hollows and Curses, and was just left to realise that they are alike in some ways, but other than that not at all. All defective, all to be used as tools in this grand scheme of a plan that was too much for anybody to understand but ---

---him? What a regrettably obvious choice. When he raises a hand [ the one that had formerly reached for the Sorcerer? ] to swat at one of these numerous little souls now enveloping them both whole, like a whirlwind of abstract creations and wishes and dreams, finding no solace in how ridiculously simple it all was. The curse disappeared with a scream of sheer agony and was so silent in how it was drowned out by the blanket of hundreds, maybe thousands, and yet loud enough to reach those that had desired to avenge their master's dismay in the presence of a God. Like moths to the flame - an everlasting visual engrained and burnt into his mind, like nought else but these beings in shadows and silhouettes, had been burnt into the carcass of a building that would turn soon enough with all its strings and beams and interlocked little planes and pieces into another, a better coffin for those that deserved it.

" What is wrong? You just have to say it. " Down and down and down. The way this all had brought forth nothing but the searing memories of something that should be so long forgotten, so long left behind. Nothing else but a cruel display of wanted desire.

Nothing else is this breathtaking exhibition of someone's shattered mind. He hadn't even done much, past just being there. As one was to say: ' be at the right place at the right time ', fostering and festering a possibility that had been absent in how all those in charge had handled it. Handled him. Crouching down in front of one who had now tried, tried and ever tried to push Sōsuke away from the edge of his perception, hunched over, hands pressed to ears with eyes closed tight in an attempt to break sounds to bits and pieces, more and more so that they may be gone [ or maybe could be understood? ]. It was an amalgamation of humming, droning, screaming, crying - something so obviously unwanted and undesired, he grew tired of the fact that he needed to still listen to it.

But all in time, when he bends and tilts, moves to try and get a good glimpse at someone sitting there like a forlorn little boy in the eye of the storm, continuously above them raging on and on and still appearing as feeble as someone's sanity, so easily these curses would be gone one by one. He could not even say how often the sing-song lullaby of their screeching halt had interlaced itself with a soft and low hum of his own. Didn't care for it. Didn't want to care for it. It mattered little when strings as fine as hair torn and pulled upon were plucked from the Master's plaything one by one.

" I... can't... " "Wouldn't you like that?" " It should be okay... I guess---? " [ I should be okay? ]

What even had brought that all up? What even had happened to bring them now into this stage set of a grotesque magnum opus strewn about with blood and viscera, these rmaisn of the weak now laced around and tracing the outlines of figures brought to light where it all had come down. As far as Sōsuke was aware? A mission, given to free those that had not meant to be caught, now huddled and hidden and hushed in their little cages, the very crates he had sat upon when all this deliberate destruction of one's already hurt mind drew the most outlandish integrations and compositions of this or that soul that he had yet to see. They kind of reminded him of his experimentations [ failures, truly? ] and yet held a stark contrast to them he could not deny. Thought of before. Brought to no conclusion.

Shivering. Trembling. Those small little someones he knows are children, he knows are caught to be sold or to be sacrificed. How quaint to think that a man that could kill with the snap or a blink would find his breaking point of having waves crash above his head, in those who could not and would not be able to defend themselves. Alas, in a sense, the Lord could understand that - but it meant little for this current predicament, meant little for the vortex that was yet to be halted in the sheer contrast of what himself would show and what Suguru was only able to bring forth. Something that reminded him of an endless spiral. An everlasting turn of events engaging with each other over and over again.

Once again: it mattered little.

So he does push himself to a stand again, leaving the momentary display of misery and distress just steps behind, drenched and drowned in the woefulness of sprayed blood. As it was right now, the Sorcerer had not touched a single soul, all those clamouring for forgiveness splayed apart and torn open from head to toe had been his own doing. Ripping apart teeth and bones as if they were as brittle as only sticks breaking in a stronger breeze, and what a breeze this all not was---? Despite it all, these little pets of his still came far too close. Would tear and tug and rip at the seams of this reality [ why would they try so hard to get a grasp on him? ] before disappearing like the last strands of sanity in a blazing glory of bliss. " Please... " And pleading and crying was the currency paid. Was the offering given to halt a God from a forsaken trial to be conducted upon those that were so useless? So trifle in their existence. But enough to have him halt it was. Turn and glance. Finding who had spoken out an echo of a prayer.

" To use someone as powerful as me? " " Yes, to make you my tool. My hands would be--- " " --- clean. "

Clean, as if the scarring and scorching feeling of burning power would do nothing to stop him in his agitated and angered state. All down to nothing when they hadn't been alone any more [ had they ever been? ], now with loud voices ringing out through whatever rubble had remained of this despicable prison of the innocent and pure. It was just that. A group of little girls captured and taken and Geto had been sent to retrieve them, being alive in a state of nought now fighting out his little quarrel with death. Perhaps, he could be glad that Sōsuke's favour did lie with him - and him alone. " Tsk, tsk. Why so mad? " He could feel a hand fasten in the collar of his attire, could hear the fabric stretch and barely tear beneath a grasp that grew tighter and tighter the more Suguru desired to keep him in place, to make him stop this 'charade' that truly was none.

Infuriating, the way he still smiled through all of this incriminating pain. " You wanted them dead, I just did what--- " It was enough. " Stop! Stop talking already, I don't want to hear anything! " And what a breathtakingly marvellous fury it was. They were far off and away from those that now lingered. As far as he knew, students and teachers and staff from various places allied with the man he so coveted enough that even display of disobedience [ did he even know? ] and disrespect [ did it even matter? ] would be not enough to unleash a bout of well-needed and well-deserved punishment. Not yet, at least. Mayhap, as it was, this penalty was brought forth in the laced sonorous tone of voice, in the way his eyes were glazed with a feeling of something else. With the knowledge of something so temptingly salacious that he could not want it - should not want it.

But what else was there to do? What else was there to say? Keeping a God in his grasp was all well and good, and yet within that fine tremble of malicious intent, it all came down the moment the Shinigami would tilt his head to the side. He had accepted enough of that wallowing in self-pity and had permitted enough of his power to be used without getting anything in return past rebuttal and discardable need. He wanted so much more. And for all that there had been, for all that there was to come, his patience had finally snapped.

Thus a mark had been left on the sorcerer's hand. On his arm. And it was a perfect mirror image to the blood strewn around behind their backs. Like he had taken inspiration from his former work and therefore desired to paint it once again, to stigmatize the one so dearly claimed and make him know - that this was only the beginning [ when would this ever end? ]. It was enough of a sudden lashing of power that would finally push the other man away, eyes wide in shock, pain probably barely recognized, realised, in the way near invisible fire would burn in the depths of deep, black eyes. He wouldn't let him get away, had already moved to wrap fingers around his - lover's wrist. Had already claimed him once again just like he had done before when this whole little dance without a fitting song had started mayhap not even half a bell ago. Could see it well enough, the twitch of a sting shooting through the other's otherwise still shell-shocked gaze. A moment's notice of danger to come down that if he wouldn't act fast - so incredibly fast - whatever amicable tendencies implored between the both of them could be null and void.

What an irrational terror to be aware of this. Flickering to quickly look over his shoulder, see and watch all of those he was meant to protect, now that the charges had been secured, lead out of the building and away from a massacre he had yet to decidedly explain to superiors who would question and prattle on about something as disposable as monkeys clad in human disguise but---

--- " Pay attention to me. " It was all he could do. When that low whisper chimes out to him. As quickly as he had seen everybody set to leave, craning necks to figure out where their teacher had run off to with that 'friend' of his that had just come to aid, as quickly he would be focussed once more. Only him. Only on him. Nobody else. He was not allowed [ did he even want to? ] to stray from a target, a prize as beautifully offered as this one once more [ no this seemed so wrong? it all seemed so reversed? ]. " My apologies. " In that voice as soft as silk. In that lullaby breaking through a frazzled mind when he could feel it all melt away. It all be taken up by someone who was so far beyond his expectations, beyond the corpses strewn about, still gasping over the moment someone only steps into this cursed hall, it should have all --- " That was a bit too far. " --- but for who?

Then he couldn't say that anything mattered anymore. Anything at all. All attention, every single little shred of it, like the fine strings of his sanity, now glued to a sensation he had - admittedly - thought about. Dreamt about. Hoped for. Wished for. Lips upon his pulse, tracing up the burnt tissue of skin as if it were a fine offering, the most delicious sacrifice to pacify a deity in his grasp. And this whole display made his own lips feel so dry. So unknowing of whatever thought he should spin, now that all choices had been taken from him. Now that he could feel his heartbeat beneath that gentle and benign touch that threatened to drown him with how deliberately euphoric all its calm and inertia would feel now that it was so close to bursting and breaking open. More and more just on his mind, filling his gaze with the subterfuge of superficial margins. Suguru wanted so much more than only this little bit and he could feel it just when twisting his hand and arm so carefully in Sōsuke's grasp, trying to see if he could free himself - while not wanting it at all.

Allowed as much until he couldn't help but chose to not hold that fine hiss of pain in the back of his throat. All of the world has narrowed down to only each other and only them alone. Whatever voices there would be, whatever eyes there would follow - no matter. No regard. Not with that blood spilling from fine cracks of wounds brittle and spread open like the skin had been charred down to paper, was a perfect gift for one so coveted as him. There was no worry, no denial, no regard that this was else but an engagement of wants and desires - and how much would, indeed, the Sorcerer not desire to return it all, tenfold? It's enough for the Death God's smile to follow. Careful and drawn against the inside of his palm, as beautifully crafted as the shining crimson masterpiece just behind his partner's back. As if it all would be destroyed like the ticking sound accompanying any second unknowingly in his mind. Slower and slower, while the time had stopped between the both of them.

And the next thing? The next second passed? Devoured whatever word he could want to bring forth in their little hunt for a master and leader of this unequal game of power [ but that, was it not what made this so exciting? ]. Blood oaths and blood pacts were just that. Sensations of a kiss feverish enough to close eyes just gluttonous to feel more and more and not let it go anytime soon, for time itself was not of the essence anymore. After all? Who should be gone was long gone. And in their own world's perfect creation, only they would matter. || @kuraikyu ♡

#kuraikyu #☆ [ drabble ]#☆ [ kuraikyu | geto ] one of the deepest longings of his soul may to be seen by me #long post //#[ ramona u don't say? this is a long post? would not have guessed!#i exist in ridiculous thought processes only #HELLO HERE HAVE THE THING 💕 i hope you like the thing ; v ; ! ]#blood tw #gore tw #death tw

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fanfic-phoenix · 1 year ago

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Naptime: Chapter Two, 7954 C.R.C

Masterpost

Read on AO3

“Obi-Wan,” said Bant, quiet and soft in her sympathy. “It’s only the flu.”

“I know.” He looked down at Anakin, at his sweat-sheened brow and flushed cheeks, at how he twitched and mumbled in his sleep. He remembered having the flu himself - a bit older than Anakin, granted, but still - and how it was nowhere near that bad.

“He’ll be alright.”

“I can hardly leave him,” he said, knowing what she was aiming at. Bant gave him a look and he blushed, but didn’t relent. “He asked me to stay.”

She gave him a critical once-over. “Have you eaten today?”

“Of course,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. He’d eaten at breakfast, fruit and a little bread, with Anakin sat beside him with his cereal. And then, in morning lesson, Anakin had collapsed, burning hot, despite the fact he’d been completely fine all day so far, and Obi-Wan hadn’t left his side since then.

It was approaching dinner now, but Obi-Wan wasn’t hungry.

He just kept… Going over things in his head. Things he hadn’t seen, but perhaps should have. Anakin had eaten at breakfast - eaten everything, Obi-Wan had seen - but had he eaten with less enthusiasm than usual? Obi-Wan didn’t know. Hadn’t been paying enough attention.

A thousand other thoughts, possibilities - Anakin had taken a while to wake that morning, but was that abnormal? And he’d been quiet, but sometimes he was in the morning, struck by the crowds of the refectory - floated endlessly around his brain. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and sank deeper into the hospital chair.

“I don’t want to leave him,” he confessed.

“I know,” said Bant, not unsympathetically. “But you’re going to. I’ve called Luminara.”

This was not a bluff. Luminara arrived not five minutes later.

(Treachery, Obi-Wan decided.)

He found himself in the refectory, still scowling, a bowl of fruit in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure where it came from; he supposed Luminara must have fetched it for him whilst he was distracted, looking for an exit strategy.

“It’s not that I’m not glad to see you,” he said, honest even if he was a little absent. “I know it’s been a while…”

“You’ve been busy with your Padawan,” she said. “I understand.”

She gestured at his bowl and he ate. The faster he complied, after all, the faster he’d be back where he was meant to be, even if the thought of eating made him vaguely nauseated.

“I remember Barriss’ first illness,” she said, picking at her own food. “It was dreadful.”

Obi-Wan blinked. He knew better, of course, to assume that any Jedi had perfect control of their emotions at all times, but Luminara had always seemed a little closer to that perfection than anyone else. He ought to remember any break in her calm, and yet…

“You were off-world,” she said, absolving him, “and I didn’t like to discuss it afterwards. I think part of me was afraid to, as if it would happen again.”

“How…” He swallowed, let his eyes fall from hers to the tattoos on her chin. (Still polite, just about, but far easier to manage.) “How did you stop being afraid?”

“She got better. She was ill again, she got better again. The same as you, the same as I, the same as countless other beings in the galaxy.”

Obi-Wan took a too-shaky breath, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. It was that simple. That logical. That impossible.”

“Obi-Wan,” she said, horribly gentle. “What are you really afraid of?”

“Failing him.”

It left his mouth without hesitation and he realised he’d never known that before. And that he’d always known it. And that he didn’t know who ‘he’ was. And that he knew exactly who ‘he’ was.

Luminara, blessedly, did not ask.

“It is not your failing,” she said. “It’s nobody’s fault. The flu is indiscriminate.”

“I know,” he said.

“Bant is a wonderful healer. Anakin is in good hands.”

“I know,” he said again.

“This isn’t helping, is it?”

“Not really.”

She stood, taking their bowls. He was surprised to notice that his was empty, too.

“Come,” she said. “We’re going for a walk.”

This was not the first time one of Obi-Wan’s friends had forced him to go for a walk. It had, in fact, happened on so many separate occasions that he sometimes wondered if he’d been mistaken for a massif. Usually, the walk was to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. It was Obi-Wan’s favourite room, so his friends tried to take him whenever he was stressed. The sound of rushing water was an excellent soundtrack for meditation, and the Living Force was strong there, reminding Obi-Wan a great deal of his Master.

(For Obi-Wan’s part, he greatly preferred visiting the fountains when in a good mood, lest he attach negative memories to it.)

That was not where Luminara took him.

Luminara took him to the Temple doors and then beyond them, breezing easily past his protests. She led the way through winding roads he didn’t recognise, and that was when he realised this really was a walk, not a euphemism for a short stroll followed by enforced meditation.

He’d never been more relieved in his life.

“I did not think meditation would be helpful,” she said. Apparently he’d been projected.

“It wouldn’t have been,” he said. “I’m too…”

“Wired?”

“Anxious.” He might as well call it what it was. “When Anakin’s better, maybe then I can, but right now…”

She hushed him, but it was gentle, kind, slightly amused. “Don’t think. Just walk.”

He obeyed. This was Luminara, after all. She was easy to trust. Easy to follow.

She took him through the mid-levels of Coruscant, but kept them distant from anywhere he knew. Likely wanted to keep his brain from latching onto something familiar to dwell on. Instead he let himself drift amongst the smells of the city - the engines flying above, the shops and carts of the streets below - and focussed on the sounds of footsteps, his and hers, doubled over each other, and his and Qui-Gon’s, which would never meet again, and his and Anakin’s, that sometimes seemed to stretch out ahead forever, setting the path Obi-Wan would walk for the rest of his life.

“I worry about attachment.”

Luminara’s footsteps did not falter. There was a flicker in the Force, a quiet triumph, smothered quickly by the blanket of her shields. Obi-Wan did not begrudge her that.

“I know that one day he’ll be knighted and I’ll have to let him go,” he said, because he did know that. “And it’s not that I want to keep him from that. It’s just…”

Still they kept walking. He stared down at the floor, neon lights reflected and distorted in puddles of something that wasn’t rain.

“I think that losing him would destroy me.” The truth of it damn near choked him. “Whatever came out wouldn’t be Obi-Wan anymore.”

There was heartbreak in Luminara’s eyes, but her voice did not waver. “Is that how you feel without Qui-Gon?”

He was already shaking his head before she finished the question. “It was hard, but I survived it.”

“Then what is the difference?”

“He’s my Padawan. It’s my duty to protect him. To raise him to knighthood.” He tugged at his fringe. He’d decided to grow his hair out, but right now it only frustrated him by failing to be as grippable as his braid had been. “I swore to him that he would be a Jedi.”

Luminara nodded. “And?”

Damn her. Damn her for knowing that wasn’t it, damn her for knowing better than Obi-Wan did what was bothering him. Probably she’d known it even before coming to fetch him. Probably she’d been trying to draw it out of him this entire blasted time.

She was good like that, even when Obi-Wan really wished she wasn’t.

“I promised Qui-Gon that I would train him,” he said at last. “So failure doesn’t just hurt Anakin, it betrays the last thing Master Jinn ever asked of me.”

“I am proud of you for seeing it,” she said. She also began leading the way home, which confirmed Obi-Wan’s theories. “Now I wonder, are you attached to Anakin, or to your promise?”

“I…” He considered it. The thought of failing his Master was devastating. The idea of hurting Anakin was… impossible. “I don’t know.”

Luminara nodded like she’d expected that, and looped her arm with his. “A question to be worked through with a mind healer, perhaps?”

It was a hint about as subtle as a smack to the head. He bowed his, with a rueful smile. “I think you may be right.”

She smiled right back. “I often am.”

They reached the Temple suspiciously quickly. Obi-Wan suspected a shortcut.

(He resolved, on a less emotional day, to have Luminara teach him the route.)

He stopped at the door, and she stopped too. It was hard to meet her eyes, but he forced himself to. “Thank you,” he said. “For-”

His comm beeped urgently and he frowned at it, losing his train of thought. Luminara gestured for him to answer, so she no doubt had an excellent view of his face going pale, of the guilt flooding back in an unholy rush.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I have to-”

“Go,” she said simply, and Obi-Wan ran.

From: Bantling (Work)

A’s awake, asking for you.

Cannot settle him.

Sorry to ask, please come back.

“Master!”

Anakin’s eyes were wide, and his bottom lip was trembling, and his skin was pale and clammy, and Force, Obi-Wan never should have left him.

“Padawan,” he said, trying not to show his emotion too plainly. “How are you feeling?”

“You said you’d stay!”

“I know,” he said, going to Anakin’s side, taking the familiar seat. “I know, Padawan. I’m sorry.”

Anakin settled a little as Obi-Wan ran a hand over his forehead, brushing the fringe back from his sweat-sticky face. He still, however, looked perfectly miserable. “You left me alone.”

Somehow, Obi-Wan sensed that mentioning Bant’s presence would not be the right move.

“I won’t do it again,” he said.

“I had nightmares without you.”

“I’m here now. You can go back to sleep.”

“You promise you won’t leave me?”

Bant tried to catch his eye. Obi-Wan steadfastly ignored her. “I promise.”

#Phoenix_Rose #kittonafoxgirl #swbb2023 #star wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #luminara unduli #padawan anakin #sickness #(it's the space!flu and not really described)

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senatushq · 1 year ago

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Beelzebub

NAME/ALIASES. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. Prehistoric+ & Unknown SPECIES. Archfiend GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him or He/They AFFILIATIONS. N/A OCCUPATION. UTP

history

Son of Ulthar; if Lucifer was their father's most beautiful creation, Beelzebub was one of the most vile. The Great Old Ones came to call him the Lord of Flies, wherever the seraphim went there was a cloud of pests in his wake. A nuisance and a liar, even in those early days Beelzebub had a penchant for deception. Beelzebub, like so many others, was promised a realm that was to be his own; he would be free to do as he pleased, and in the garden that would come to be created the Blessed Children of Ulthar would hold dominion. Beelzebub was a liar even then and could see the falsehoods that Ulthar spoke, but he listened to the gospel, watched it all from afar. The seraphim was never meant to be a leader, he was too mistrustful, too hated even among his siblings. For countless years he fought beside the same family that looked down on him, the same that would come to betray him; Beelzebub watched them fall and stood over the mutilated bodies of his family. He'd known as he'd always known that lies were powerful indeed. When victory was his, it was short lived: Eden rose amidst the ruins of a dead world and Beelzebub watched no surprise as the elves planted their seeds and grew their great trees. The keys to the kingdom would never come, so Beelzebub got his kicks sewing lies and frauds where he could.

Years in Eden trickled by as Beelzebub was made a sentinel, a glorified babysitter and scarecrow; the people despised the Lord of Flies but he never cared. He wanted what had been promised to him and in quiet discontent he waited for Lucifer to come to him with the grand scheme and the great plan. Patience won out, Beelzebub was resolved to follow the Morningstar wherever he led them. In due time, Ulthar acted predictably, he commanded his legions of seraphim to kneel at the feet of Adam and Eve. Michael took a knee, but Lucifer refused and Beelzebub took advantage of the anarchy that ensued. The seraphim that would come to be called Fallen, revolted, and lunged first at the Gods’ precious trees. A rebellion of angels that lasted centuries saw Beelzebub's Grace torn from him, in the eight level he was confined and there the Abyss seeped into his essence and took root over where his Grace had once been. Rot that was more rotten than rot, lies and treachery twisted his cruel shape into something unrecognizable to what he'd been. An archfiend crawled its way inside and down Beelzebub's throat, a beast he chewed, swallowed, and consumed with eager greed. Inferno’s gates came crashing down and Beelzebub charged alongside the archfiends to take the kingdom of Ulthar: Elysia. The monarchy of Hell at the head, Lucifer was declared the new King of Elysia, and Beelzebub stood just left of his brother's bloody throne.

connections

Seraphic Archfiends: Confined together, they're siblings that dominated archfiends and subjugated the powers of the Abyss to become what they are today: the Monarchy of Hell.

Seraphim: Siblings who fought together and stood beside one another in Eden, Beelzebub was hated by many and loved by very few.

Eden: Once a mistrustful protector, Beelzebub looked down on the people of Eden but did his duty up until he had no choice but to rebel.

Psyche: They shared a history and time together in the Garden, but when Beelzebub rebelled with the others, Psyche departed for Elysia and was not seen again. He now holds Eros prisoner.

abilities

Fraud: Absolute lies, it's impossible for anyone to tell if Beelzebub is telling the truth or not.

Esoteric Illusion Manipulation: Can manipulate the mind and all five senses as he sees fit, Beelzebub is able to cast spells through his illusion manipulation, creating weapons and curses that others perceive to be real.

Lord of Flies: Where Beelzebub goes, insects follow, their presence denotes his proximity.

Immortal: Ageless, Beelzebub himself will never grow old.

weaknesses

Human: However durable Beelzebub's vessel is still mortal and needs to eat, sleep, and carry out basic bodily functions.

Witchcraft: A coven is able to trap or confined Beelzebub for a period of time, or release him from his vessel.

Corpse: Graceless, Beelzebub can only possess the bodies of the dead.

Seraph: An angelic blade through the chest will destroy him, and kill him.

this skeleton is currently closed.

#beelzebub #closedaspect #aspectskel

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liloinkoink · 2 years ago

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Wooden Mausoleum

Ren, for all his talk of valiant violence and brutal bloodshed, is not a man meant for the battlefield.

He could act the part, certainly, with a deep and steadfast sense of conviction and pride. He looks the part, too, the way his smile gives way to snarling, wolfish canines, or the way his brow is always smudged sticky, wet, and red beneath his gleaming crown.

However, when the Red King first rose, it wasn’t Ren with his hands dirty. It was Martyn, the green Hand, standing red-handed on the altar.

Ren’s crown dripped as he picked it up, but for all the terror the bleeding gold invoked, the flood always came from within, soaked into the gold at Ren's own execution. Ren is an excellent shot with a bow and vicious with a blade, but he still sobs in Martyn’s arms after one too many of his blows land their final, decisive marks.

Ren’s thirst for blood is theater. A wondrous and powerful show, but acting all the same.

Martyn, on the other hand?

Blood was never really what Martyn was after, not in the way he'd seen in the rest of this server. Chaos is more his speed, but Martyn isn’t afraid to make someone bleed to sate his hunger for it.

He wonders if that was why they took an interest in him. Discord is so similar to chaos, after all, and Martyn’s hands are already dirty. He’s sure they must think that it would be nothing at all for him to feel Ren’s blood under his nails again.

Must not have been paying attention, then, when Martyn went down to the river at Dogwarts's edge and washed his hands until the sun was high above the horizon.

Martyn is a lot of things. He’s trouble, by his own admission. Reliable, by Ren’s. He’s not particularly serious, except in the things he vows, in which he is deadly serious. He listens, even when he wishes he wouldn’t—listens when Ren puts the axe in his hand, listens when they whisper into his ear with demands for treachery and spring.

In that list of things which Martyn is, “traitor,” he once believed, would never find a home.

Then Cleo launches into Skizz’s blade. Scott stumbles in the forests as Ren hunts him down. Even a pack of wolves cannot save Joel from the jowls of the Red King. Etho’s persistence finally rewards him with a cannon capable of crumbling the Crastle and its stubborn, solo occupant. Tango topples without his allies. Impulse’s turncoat tendencies twist a blade in his back. An arrow shot off Ren’s bow dispatches Scar, sinking him into the sand.

Grian had been the hardest to be rid of, with how jealously he’d guarded each and every one of his lives, but he’d become sloppy after being forced to bury his reason for living under the desert’s blistering sun.

They lose some of their own as well, of course. Skizz flies too close to the sun and burns for it. Martyn himself sinks rapidly to red in short order, followed none-too-closely by BigB. If it weren’t for the fire resistance potion Etho had been lucky enough to carry on him, they probably would have already lost him for good.

Each and every one of the Red Army’s foes falls before them, and as their enemies dwindle in number, Martyn becomes more and more aware of an ugly truth.

Ren, he knows, believes that with their enemies vanquished, they’ll be able to return to peace in Dogwarts.

Martyn knows better.

Whatever it is that orchestrated this event, whatever those whispering creatures are that placed them here… They won’t be satisfied with four winners.

BigB doesn’t really seem the type to sink into bloodlust, but Martyn has no idea what he’ll do when his back hits the wall. Etho, Martyn hasn’t truly trusted since the start. Ren...

Ren's bloodlust is theater.

Ren loves Etho and BigB both, just as surely as he loved Skizz, just as surely as he loves Martyn. He was crushed to learn Impulse a traitor. He’ll be shattered to pieces to realize the truth of this game's ending, to hear their audience bray for him to spill the blood of his bannermen.

To take the life of one you love is an agony Martyn understands far too well. It’s not something he’d wish on anyone—not on his worst enemy, and certainly not on his dearest friends.

Least of all would he wish it on Ren, who wept even when covered in the blood of Scott and Joel, blood which he’d gleefully drawn himself moments before.

To win this game would fracture Ren beyond repair, leave him stranded without a single soul to help him pick up the pieces. To walk alone over the bodies of his friends would be a fate worse than death to Ren, one Martyn knew his King did not deserve

And, well.

After every Winter, that awful voice had said, there comes a Spring.

Were this a better world, Martyn would have gladly followed Ren to the ends of the Earth. In this, he’ll follow Ren to the end of the world.

As it stands, all Martyn can do is be happy he spent any time with the man at all.

As it stands, all Martyn can do is repay the man in the only way he knows how.

Martyn’s hand hovers over his sword, dripping red at his waist.

Their final battle, fittingly enough, lands them just outside the walls of Dogwarts. There’s still a hole in the door, but their home stands, mostly unscathed. Certainly, it’s made out better than Monopoly Mountain or the Crastle, both of which are more crater than structure by now.

When Martyn finds the rest of the army, they're clustered together a dozen paces from Dogwarts's front gate. BigB sits with his back against the mountain under his home, watching Martyn's approach with a smile and a wave. Ren has his arm around Etho’s shoulders, grinning with all his teeth. His smile hasn’t been the same since his head came off—the rolling and reattachment, Martyn suspects, must have shaken some tooth loose and left it all forever altered, forever off.

It unsettled Martyn at first, up until he realized Ren still laughs the same as always. That Ren’s wicked smile now softens on the edges, appearing almost like before, when he looks upon any of his men. That this is especially apparent when that man is Martyn, a privilege Martyn cherishes, has lived and died to be worthy of.

The edges of Ren’s smile soften, even now, as Martyn finds his way towards their little victory party. Martyn returns BigB's wave, Etho smacks Ren's back behind them, unhooking his arm from Ren with some happy send-off Martyn doesn't hear. Everything about Martyn’s job becomes instantly harder, yet all the more necessary, as Ren pulls his arm free from Etho and staggers over to Martyn’s side, tail wagging behind him.

“My Hand!” Ren’s hands are on Martyn’s shoulders immediately, and he feels Ren’s shaded eyes checking him up and down more than he sees them. He knows he looks worse for wear, but he also knows not all the blood is his own. “You’re all right? No grievous injuries we need to worry about?”

He feels Ren's eyes linger on a gash in his armor, his smile tugging down into a frown. Martyn pats at it with one of his hands, effectively covering it from Ren's view. He'd got it from Impulse, he thinks, wielding a sword enchanted with far more power than his battered chest plate could withstand. It had bled, but not enough to kill him, and a bite from a gleaming apple had cleared it right up.

“No. No, all good here,” Martyn says. "I had a couple close calls, and my armor needs some repairs, but I'm alright."

Ren’s smile returns, and it is all teeth, and Martyn would do anything to keep it all his life.

This, he thinks, will have to be the next best thing.

“Sweet. You had me worried for a bit there!” Ren laughs, squeezing Martyn's shoulders, only to remove his hands from Martyn entirely.

Then Ren leans forward, his arms out in a gesture Martyn has seen before. Martyn wants to let Ren sweep him up and hold him one last time, but he knows he won’t get a chance like this again. That he won't get the nerve again.

Martyn steps back, yanking his sword free from his hip and thrusting it upward, allowing Ren, trusting and open and rushing to meet him, to toss himself onto the blade.

It embeds itself eagerly through the front of Ren’s throat, threading under the scar Martyn left there just weeks before.

Ren chokes around diamond and blood, and Martyn thanks anything and everything that might be listening he can’t see Ren’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, m’lord. You have to understand,” Martyn says. His voice is even, compensating for hands that shake. Though his voice doesn’t sound it, he pleads for Ren to understand, “There could only ever be one winner.”

If Ren understands—if Ren even hears—Martyn will never know.

He rips the blade from Ren’s neck and, with a wet, gurgling cough, Ren collapses. Martyn doesn’t—can’t—look down, and with Ren out of the way, he sees Etho and BigB staring back at him. BigB has leapt to his feet, though there's nothing that either of them can do for their King now.

“Martyn?! How could you?!” BigB shouts, Martyn, mechanical, allows his sword to disappear from his hand, replacing it with his bow.

Etho’s eyes widen. His own shield, blood-red with Ren’s banner, materializes in his hand. BigB's hand hovers over the sword at his waist, but he hesitates.

“BigB, your shield!” Etho yells.

Neither of them are holding their weapons, not yet. Even now, they hesitate to draw any weapon on their friend.

Martyn loves them, and so, as his last gift both to them and to Ren, he won’t make them.

He draws back his bow.

Martyn is nowhere near the shot Ren had been, but his skills are nothing to scoff at, either. He looses an arrow, and perhaps luck is on his side, after all, as it sails between BigB’s eyes.

BigB sags against the stone behind him, smearing a line of blood on the rock face as he drops to the ground.

Etho lunges, shouting, sword in one hand and shield in the other. Martyn jumps back, calling forth his shield to block Etho’s second swing. He shoves it outward, throwing Etho off himself.

Martyn switches the shield to his left hand, freeing up his right. His axe appears, and with a practiced ease Martyn slams it down on Etho. Etho raises his shield, for all the good it does him.

Wood, Martyn finds, cracks far easier than bone, splitting the red banner straight down the center. Etho’s shield splinters apart with a loud, damning creak, revealing mismatched eyes burning with rage.

If looks could kill, Martyn is sure he would be dead.

As it would have it, axes are far more lethal.

Martyn swings again, slicing the axe through the side of Etho’s neck. It’s no clean, clear-through cut, but it doesn’t have to be. It only has to be enough.

And enough it is, but not quite. Raising the axe leaves Martyn vulnerable, and Etho is no amateur. He takes the opening to thrust his own weapon forward, pushing all his strength into one last blow.

It’s not clean, but it doesn’t have to be. It only has to be enough.

Etho's blade, clear and true, finds the gash in Martyn’s armor, sinking deep into the flesh below.

Etho slumps under the weight of Martyn’s axe. Martyn doesn’t bother to try to take it back as Etho falls, the blade embedded too deeply in Etho's flesh. He flails, releasing his sword, but the wound is fatal, even if Etho's razor-sharp eyes haven't noticed yet.

"I'm sorry," Martyn tells Etho. He hopes Etho will carry it to Ren and BigB, wherever the lot of them go.

Etho tries to reply, but his tongue seizes on the words, expelling blood rather than sound. Martyn gets the message.

Etho's sword comes loose from Martyn's stomach with barely a sound, save the involuntary suck of air that whistles between Martyn’s teeth. He drops it, then his chestplate, clattering against the sword when it hits the ground. Martyn rolls up his shirt, though he suspects what he’ll find even before he sees it.

The cut isn’t terribly wide, but it's deep. Without anything obstructing it, it bleeds easily. If Martyn isn't careful and doesn’t treat it soon, he’ll probably bleed to death.

Martyn doesn’t look down at the man fading away at his feet, though suddenly, Martyn is unbelievably grateful to him.

Perhaps Etho had understood. Perhaps he’d just wanted to make sure Martyn had no time to enjoy his victory. Martyn will never know, but whatever Etho had been thinking, Martyn can’t thank him enough.

Not that Martyn has time to. If he’s only got minutes to live, then Martyn has something far more pressing to tend to.

Holding one hand over his wound, Martyn turns, making his way back to Ren. The fight hadn't carried him far, at least, but with it over, adrenaline pumps less freely through him. Martyn already wants to rest, but he can’t afford it, not when he has no idea how long his strength will last.

Out of everyone in this world, Ren, he thinks, most deserves a proper burial. Failing that, Martyn can at least bring him the rest of the way home.

Martyn doesn’t look down as he trudges to Ren’s side, unwilling to look at his handiwork. Thankfully, he doesn’t need to. All he has to do is close his eyes and reach down, scooping Ren up into his arms.

Ren isn’t light, but Martyn isn’t weak, either. On a better day, he’d have been able to carry Ren… perhaps not effortlessly, but he'd certainly have managed it alright.

In his current state, Ren may as well weigh as much as the sky itself. Martyn shoulders him anyway. This is the closest thing to an apology he can offer Ren, and he refuses to compromise it. Besides, Ren is not the heaviest thing he has carried today.

Martyn stands, Ren in his arms, and he walks, one shambling foot over another.

The journey from the little field to Dogwarts’s half-destroyed door is not a far one, but with the adrenaline in Martyn’s blood leaking out of the gash in his side, each step Martyn is a greater trial. The idea of lying down tempts him, but he doesn’t dare entertain it. He'd shake it out of his head entirely if he had the energy to spare to twist his neck.

Martyn can’t even look down. To do so would be to look at Ren, and that, Martyn cannot do. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the familiar cobblestone walls closing in ahead, and he walks, one laborious foot over another.

Ren’s body has been cold to the touch ever since he went red, winter taking up residence in even his bones. Martyn had, in his own head, likened the feeling to that of a corpse, though he hadn't then known what that felt like.

As Ren’s head lolls into Martyn’s neck, Martyn realizes he’d been wrong. Ren had been cold, but it had been nothing like this. Ren’s cheek on his neck is like ice, a sharp, burning cold, taking accusatory snaps at the heat of Martyn's skin. Martyn thinks that Ren reaching up and slitting the skin there would hurt less.

He wouldn't know, of course. He fancies the idea that such a death would be so quick, the victim would never even feel it.

He can't ask, obviously, and so he walks, one trembling foot over another.

The gates of Dogwarts are a crater. They have been for weeks, though not since Grian first blasted it open has Martyn resented this fact quite as much as he does now. If he trips into the hole, he knows he won’t be able to pull himself back out, let alone Ren, and he has no desire to let Ren rest here two times over.

Martyn picks his way around the crater as best he can, staggering and stumbling over dirt and stone, balancing his way across the skinny shelf hanging over the crater’s edge. Sweat beads on his brow, but the tie in his hair keeps it from moving any further down his face, a small but wonderful mercy.

Martyn's legs shake. One of Ren's dangling legs bumps his thigh, and through the boot Martyn imagines shocks of ice rocketing up and down the meat of his leg. He squeezes Ren just a bit tighter against himself, bracing his hands against the ice of Ren's flesh, and he soldiers on, one shuddering foot over another.

Stepping over the threshold with Ren in his arms is all the cue his body needs to give up. Martyn's arms sag against his will, then seize with the effort to regain control. He can't hold Ren a moment longer—he barely has enough control of his limbs to allow Ren a semi-graceful descent into a carrot patch rather than just dropping him into the dirt.

Martyn sinks to his knees, bent over Ren, and he closes his eyes so as not to meet his King’s. They're so close, so close, his legs can't abandon him now.

Ren spent a lot of time tending to his field, sure, fond and diligent, and Martyn can think or worse places to leave the body of his King. But this it not where the Red King will rest, not if Martyn has the ability to stand, not if there's anything left in Martyn's body to do about it.

Ren isn’t a carrot, for crying out loud. He's a King!

Without standing, Martyn shuffles over to Ren's head. He hooks his hands under Ren’s armpits. He braces himself, closing his eyes and taking just a moment to double over, pressing his forehead to Ren's below him. The chill he feels against him this time is, mercifully, that of Ren's crown, the cold metal still sticky even now.

Martyn takes a long, steeling breath, in his nose and out of his mouth. Ren's hair smells metallic and salty, mixed with blood and sweat, and as Martyn exhales, he can picture the way Ren's ears would twitch under the affectionate, ruffling hand of a strong breeze.

His heart aches, his side throbs, his eyes burn. His shoulders sag, then hitch, the movement catching on something thick clotting up his throat.

Martyn is so very tired.

He forces himself to his feet, his knees wailing in protest. The cut in his side spits furiously at being strained. He's tired, but more than that, he's close. He's crossed this lawn a thousand times, and he won't let a bit of blood loss keep him from crossing it one more time.

Thus, Martyn begins the arduous and undignified process of dragging his King across their lawn.

Martyn watches over his shoulder as their final destination draws nearer and nearer. One foot, another foot, over and over, Ren weighing behind him.

When Martyn's heel catches on the first step, he thinks he could weep with relief.

Martyn drags Ren’s body up the short stairs, to the doors of what had once been Renchanting. It’s empty now, save for a few chests and a crafting table, as well as a third of its roof, splintered across its floor.

More than that, though, it’s home. It’s the place he had first met Ren, the heart of the Kingdom that Ren had built with his own two hands. From inside Renchanting's fence-post walls, Martyn can see all of Dogwarts. Every rolling carrot-top field, all the stone walls and spruce pillars, every dirt path and gentle podzol pocket. He can see the little campfire over the hill, and the iron golems loitering around it, cracked and limping.

Beneath it is their base of operations. Their stores and their treasures, their secret rooms and winding mines. Below him he can hear the muffled humming of villagers at work, the eager bleating of Ren's sheep. They'll look after each other, he hopes, though it's out of either of their hands now whether or not it actually happens.

Renchanting is the center of everything the two of them worked for. If Ren must rest, Martyn will make sure he does so inside—where everything started, it too shall end.

For only a moment, Martyn releases Ren with one hand to shove the doors open. Pressure plates click beneath them as he drags Ren across the threshold, shutting himself and Ren inside their wooden mausoleum. He lies Ren down in the center, in a clear patch, and finally lets his King go.

All his energy finally spent, Martyn drops once more to his knees at Ren’s side. His vision is swimming, draining in the corners, and all he wants to do is collapse. With nothing left to keep him upright, he does, pitching to the side. What little control is left in him he uses to guide his descent, resting himself beside his King.

For the first time since Ren fell, Martyn looks into Ren's face.

Ren lies on his back, his head tilted toward Martyn. His crown is coming loose, and though it hasn't yet fallen off his head, it's slid enough to mess up Ren's already-rumpled hair. One ear droops lamely over the crown, revealing the clean white fur underneath.

Blood smears all down Ren's neck and chest, across his flesh and staining the shirt below it. The red fabric does nothing to hide the blood, bright red contrasting sharply against wine-dark. The cut on his throat still dribbles a viscous, clotting stream onto the wooden planks below him, but it's slow. It'll stop soon, Martyn thinks, but he won't live to see it.

Ren's sunglasses are gone, though Martyn has no idea when he lost them. Their absence reveals wide, red eyes. By some small miracle, whatever look he’d had when he’d died has slackened off his features. Martyn reaches one trembling, feeble hand across the space, closing Ren’s eyes.

He pulls his hand back, glancing down at the space between them. One of Ren's hands lies, palm down, by Ren's waist, and Martyn allows himself the small comfort of using the last of his strength to chase it down. Martyn locks his fingers in Ren's, squeezing once, and closes his eyes.

Ren’s hand, he notices, drifting away, doesn’t feel quite so cold.

#inthelittlewood #rendog #renthedog #renchanting duo #third life #third life smp #third life fanfiction #ethoslab #bigbst4tz2 #(briefly)#dogwarts #lew writes #renchanting #lew library #tw graphicish violence and character death. its third life fic idk what you want #will be rb'ing this w an ao3 link in. a few hours #top hits #red king

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cosmicjoke · 2 years ago

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Alright, alright, finally, I watched episode 7 of IWTV and... well...

I’ve got to say I’m not entirely convinced of the fan theory surrounding Armand mind controlling Louis, though there’s definitely evidence of something strange going on.

One thing that strikes me as odd and not entirely lining up with the theory is that Armand says to Daniel that he’ll be ashamed of himself for berating Louis the way he is once he hears the whole story. I can’t figure out exactly why Armand would say this, or what he means. Does he mean Daniel will be ashamed for telling Louis that he doomed Claudia by choosing Lestat over her? If so, why? I suppose it could have something to do with a “redemption” arc for Lestat. Maybe he ends up saving Claudia from death. But then, considering what we know about Armand and his direct hand in Claudia’s death... I don’t know.

I’m also still not convinced that Louis’ memories of Lestat as being abusive toward him and Claudia are unreliable, or meant to be seen as unreliable. And after watching this episode, I can see where the fear I’ve seen expressed by some fans is coming from, that Lestat is going to be the one to kill Claudia in revenge. Because Lestat in this episode is fully ready and willing to kill Claudia by forcing her to drink from the dead twin who he thinks is poisoned. This is... so out of character, and so wrong for Lestat. The entire depiction of Lestat as some master manipulator, ten steps ahead tactician is ludicrous. The whole reason Lestat falls into Claudia’s trap to begin with is because he’s the exact opposite of that. He’s impulsive, childlike, driven by emotion and, in a very real sense, has a quality of innocence to him which blinded him to Claudia’s more deceptive and treacherous intentions. Of course Lestat senses danger from Claudia. He’s shown in the book being paranoid and fearful of her. He isn’t an idiot. He can feel her hostility. But it’s his artless and innocent nature which ultimately makes him believe her when she tells him she wishes to make peace. Why he accepts her “gift” with open arms and doesn’t think twice about trusting her. He doesn’t even for a moment fathom that she’s tricking him, or planning to poison him. So the very notion of him being hip to her’s and Louis’ plan here is... not right. It’s not who Lestat is, it’s not what he’s even capable of.

Further, and just as absurd, is that in his knowledge of her treachery, Lestat tries to turn the tables on her and kill her instead. Again, totally out of character. Lestat never shows any, genuine malice or revenge driven mindset toward Claudia. He never wanted her dead, he never planned on her getting murdered, he never wished her harm of any kind. But here, he’s just like, welp, let’s kill the bitch and replace her with Antoinette. Another bastardization of Letat’s actual actions and ideas from the book, in which he’s thinking of making Antoine into a vampire so that he can have a friend, because Louis and Claudia have basically started to freeze him out and ignore him. Lestat is lonely, that’s why he’s thinking of bringing Antoine into the fold of their family. Not because he’s planning on murdering Claudia and replacing her with another vampire.

So with this shift in his character in the show, with him clearly ready and willing to kill Claudia without any, apparent qualms, I can see why people are afraid Lestat is going to be the one to kill her down the line, and that would just be egregious to the point of making the show unwatchable. It’s already pushing it with making Lestat into a domestic abuser and not letting us know with any sort of clear cut answer whether it’s intending to maintain that depiction, or reveal it to be untrue.

Also, Louis being in on Claudia’s plan to kill Lestat, and actually delivering the final blow was all kinds of wrong and out of character too. Louis’ entire character, early on, is driven by his passivity, and it’s that passivity which ultimately contributes to driving a wedge between him and Claudia, and why he blames himself for her death, knowing if he’d just stepped in and stopped her from trying to kill Lestat like he knew he should have, she never would have died. And worse yet is having Louis say that he “wanted Lestat dead”. Like, WTF? No, he didn’t. Louis NEVER wanted Lestat dead. The thought of killing him never even crossed his mind, and he agonized for weeks over knowing Claudia was going to try it, knowing it was wrong and unjustified, but was paralyzed once again by his indecision and lack of self-confidence. Louis, if he had the capability to act enough to draw the blade across Lestat’s throat himself, as he does in the show, never would have LET Claudia “kill” him in the first place. If he had the strength to deny her burning Lestat’s body as he does in the show, again, he NEVER would have let her attempt to take his life in the first place. Louis, in the book, is absolutely horrified and disgusted by Claudia after she kills Lestat. He’s sickened by her act, and initially refuses to have anything more to do with her, telling her he’ll only stay with her because she can’t take care of herself. He’s horrified by it all. He knows it was wrong. But they conveniently explain that away here by telling us that he wanted Lestat dead. And this is why I’m not totally convinced of the theory that Armand is altering Louis’ memories of Lestat being a domestic abuser. Because Louis’ depiction of Lestat here is of a viciously controlling tyrant (Claudia even compares Lestat to Hitler, for fucks sake) who rules over him and Claudia both through the threat of violence, who’s so ego-driven and devious, and who has such an intolerable strangle hold on the two of them, that the only way to escape him is to kill him. This is all self-delusion in the books. Lestat never hurts Louis OR Claudia in any significant, physical way in the books, but Louis fears Lestat anyway, even though Lestat’s never even shown him he’s physically stronger than him in any way, and convinces himself that they can’t escape him more out of a lack of belief in himself and an apathetic acceptance of his situation, and so he just sits there is ineffectual indecision while Claudia plots away. His hatred of Lestat is born entirely from finding Lestat an insufferable, uncultured, unthinking buffoon. He never is consciously aware of any feelings of love for him in the first 65 years of their lives together. He just feels stuck with him, for no real reason at all. He’s just passively accepting of his life circumstances, and that passivity is born entirely from Louis’ own nature, and actually has nothing at all to do with Lestat. Louis’ entrapment is a prison of his own making. He could’ve taken Claudia any time and left, which is also why Lestat never tells them about the vampires in Europe, because he knows it and he’s afraid they’ll ditch him if they know about others of their kind. He already feels rejected by the two of them, locked out of their little circle. Claudia of course perceives, accurately, this passivity in Louis, and decides to take matters into her own hands because SHE wants to leave, but needs Louis to do so, and so she decides hey, I’ll kill Lestat because then there won’t be any excuse anymore for Louis to stay locked in his self-imposed stagnation. He’ll be freed from his own, made up limitations. We see Louis realize this about himself after what happens to Claudia, and he finds finally the strength to make choices for himself, dictating his and Armand’s travels before finally deciding he’s had enough and telling Armand off and refusing to stay with Lestat even after Lestat begs him to.

But here Louis apparently has grown to hate Lestat after initially loving him because Lestat proved to be a horrible, abusive asshole who wouldn’t hesitate to use his power to hurt him and Claudia in order to keep them with him. Louis’ own, passive nature no longer has anything to do with it. It’s all Lestat. It’s all Lestat and his horrible, evil, domineering ways. He’s literally keeping Louis and Claudia prisoner, and has shown them his incredible, outrageously greater strength, which he’s willing to use on them without compunction. And so now, Louis wants Lestat dead, and actively participates in Claudia’s execution of the plan to kill him.

If Armand is messing with Louis’ mind and making him remember Lestat as a tyrannical abuser, then why did Louis ever “want him dead”, as he says here? Unless that’s also a lie, and the entire memory of him and Claudia “killing” Lestat is a false memory too. Or if Louis was just pretending to be in on Claudia’s plan, and instead tried to save him through that? It’s so convoluted. And what does that say about Claudia? Does it mean she was just manipulating Louis, that she wanted to kill Lestat so she could force Louis to come with her like in the book? But then, what’s the point of that? Claudia in the show has proven plenty capable of taking care of herself and being able to leave on her own, so why exactly would she need to kill Lestat if he wasn’t actually keeping her prisoner?

I don’t know man. I hope the theory is right, and that Lestat hasn’t been turned into this, when he’s meant to be a little bit of a thoughtless sweetheart.

It also forces Armand into a more villainous role than he would otherwise ever occupy. Even though Armand does some jacked up stuff in the books, and is definitely manipulative and controlling, and even physically abusive at points, (him pushing Lestat off a tower in the books really tying in I think to the theory that Armand is implanting false memories into Louis’ mind) he never is shown exerting the kind of control over another being which this theory is suggesting, keeping Louis a prisoner, both physically and mentally. So, yeah, I don’t know man. We’ll have to wait and see.

Also, as dramatic as the death scene with Lestat was, it’s infinitely more so in the book, and even the movie. Lestat cries again and again for Louis to help him in the book, but that’s undercut here by Louis BEING IN ON the plan, and by Lestat KNOWING about the plan. It’s heartbreaking in the book, because Lestat didn’t have a clue, he’s totally blindsided, and in his sudden fear and desperation, his aloof and blase attitude is exposed and his true feelings for Louis come through. He looks to Louis for help, he needs Louis, he reaches out for the person he loves and trusts most in the world, and Louis, tragically, can do nothing, once again, because he doesn’t believe he can. He lets Claudia kill someone he loves too, even if he doesn’t realize it yet.

I really loved some of the moments from this episode, especially the scene between Lestat and Louis on the balcony, when we genuinely see Lestat’s humanity, how he’s on the verge of tears talking to Louis. Sam Reid’s acting here was superb. And the show itself is stellar in terms of production values and acting. I just wish they could have stuck with the actual story from the books, cause this ain’t it man.

#amc's interview with the vampire #interview with the vampire #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #claudia

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cryopathiic-a · 1 year ago

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The reward had already been given. Those meager droplets of ancient blood were almost powerful enough to rival those of their Master. And of course, Upper Two's gaze shone brighter upon tasting it. It wasn't the gleam of elation though; but the twisted excitement of addiction. Dōma, after all, had fought many of those during his life as a human, in pointless efforts to escape his hollow nature. And as a demon, all their vices were pronounced; so one could only imagine the lengths he'd go to for another fix.

A fix of sacrament; and a fix of this power high. It was invigorating.

That devious curl had been plastered on his lips all up to the point of contact; when he leaned a bit too close and noticed — and sensed it. He had just put up the finest performance, with a blood art that was so unique and refined it had earned him a pass from their Master's cruelty many times, proving himself to be worthy of a seat at the grand table, humbling him — and all Upper One did... was muse about some human? Some hypothetical human that did not even necessarily exist for him to fight - and even if it did, it was a human!

He nearly felt his own touch growing colder. So abrupt was the drop in temperature that it nearly froze over his own fingers as they clenched, gripping the other's face - which he knew, from their intimacy, was more sensitive than the rest of him. The restraints tightened to contest what little resistance his rival was beginning to put up; because he'd recuperate, eventually. Which meant, Dōma had to increase the damage now and buy himself some time.

With another vine. One that could snake under his clothes. He pulls back, to allow Kokushibo a full view of its blossom; from a droplet of frigid blood on the wooden boards, to a thick stem, to thinner leaves that embraced his corporeal form under the fabrics, frozen and stiff and flexible as snakes. Small buds grew from some of them, as if, even in that moment, Upper Two could not resist the urge to flex and adorn his creations in opulence, to make them beautiful as extensions of himself.

❝ You do the same with my actions. Do you believe I've mistreated you tonight, at all? You're the one who forced me to fight you, you know. With treachery as well— which you are really good at, by the way. ❞ He says it like it's a compliment. His hand hovers over the other's face, ready to claim the aforementioned prize for himself. But not before he gives him another humbling poke on the nose, toying. Soon, his body temperature will begin to drop. Human or demon, none is impervious to that. His limbs will become rigid as the blood coagulates. That will make him stiff, yet pliable in the Lotus' hands.

... But why is he smiling like that? Why is he thinking about other things instead of, oh, he doesn't know, being angry or whatever? That's so... It's so frustrating.

Naturally, that spurs the second moon to become more aggressive with his advancements. Nails dig into pale flesh, restraints mold to force the other into looking directly at him and nothing else. What else would he want to be looking at anyway? The land, again? For someone who never particularly cares to respect others, Dōma sure does not take well to being disrespected. Or talked down to. Especially not when the blood drops he took have put him on this delusion of total control over the other.

❝ You know, maybe if you spent some time watching me instead of stupid humans, you'd learn a thing or two about enjoying life as a demon~ ❞ He muses, then licks his own lips once more in anticipation for the harvest. And his claw digs in. And gouges the orb out; fleshy and raw and the nerves drag behind it and fall on the other's chin like little colorful threads. Dōma holds it up into the artificial light. The golden iris within is still moving; and he knows it's functional. Just how he knows that squish to the other's jaw probably hurt more than removing the goddamn thing.

❝ ... Huh? You think I'm not asking for enough in return? Well, I don't want all six of them. Six eyes on the wall all the time... that's kind of creepy. One will do just fine! Don't worry about it~ Heeh! Forgive me, but I believe you should be content that your friend is so humble. Someone else, say, someone more greedy than me, would have asked for other parts as well. But, hey, I already have so much. It's more of a memento for me, if I'm honest. Something to remind me of this night~ ❞

There's a complacent smile... and then he hums. And pouts, thoughtfully. His own vivid irises traverse back to Kokushibo's mangled visage.

❝ Actually, you know what. I think I'll take this one, too. I don't know, something about the placement bugs me. Sorry! ❞ And he plunges it right back, only to move for the top right one instead. Which would meet the same fate. And if he tries to close his eyelids and deny him, his claws will shred through them.

❝ You know I'm not putting that in my head, right? You got me once, back there. Not happening again, pft. ❞

#(( douma :shake_hands: koku using all pronouns for muzan at the same time ))#(( they're the TRUE allies!!! saved the gays good guys everyone-- ))#fallesto #forbidden tw #gore tw

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 2 years ago

Text

Ascension

https://www.patreon.com/empyreaniris?fan_landing=true

https://starr-fall-knight-rise.tumblr.com/post/182501791735/master-post

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jzEIdDAB4omdO2JcQVMObfrhLJ5kX4ONmSsLypM1ks0/edit?usp=sharing.

Maverick knelt, head bowed, and hands clasped before her offering her soul prostrate to…. something . Once, she might have called it god, but after all she had learned, she wasn’t so sure. The architect was certainly like a god, creator of all things, ‘architect’ of the universe, but was it a god in the sense that it could hear them. Did it see all things? and know all things?

That she wasn’t so sure of.

Certainly there was something to the idea of a god. All her life Maverick had found sanctuary before the alter, hidden away in the bowels of the earth, where only the dark memory of civilizations past reamined. There she had found both comfort and horror in the halls of churches, some whose walls could keep out the dark, and some whose walls could not. She understood it now to be her own sin that dogged at her heels, the very void creature, with which she had once made a pact, before her Anima had a body.

Though she understood the reason for her lifelong terror, that knowledge did not make her feel better. It was her own sin that nipped at her heels, her own treachery that dogged at her. All her life she had run from the very thing she had sold her soul too: a creature of the void. It was both liberating and heartbreaking at the same time to know why she had suffered.

But still there was some truth to the idea of holiness, otherwise she never would have found sanctuary in the walls of select churches. She could feel the difference in her, a sort of light that began in her chest and spread outward. Though religion was not as she once understood it, it still held power in some way weather it be in the name of the Architect or something else.

Upon her moment of possession by the void creature, Maverick had come to fear she would never be able to set foot in a church, almost wondering if she would go up in flame as she passed through a doorway. No such thing happened, of course, but certainly the void creature did not like it.

Even as she knelt now, in the mostly unvisited chapel of the Arcadia hospital, she could hear the creature whispering.

Her relationship with the being was not all together easy to understand. Most times it felt like her foe, she feared it, felt her skin crawl and was afraid to look in mirrors in case she would see it staring out through the windows of her eyes. She trembled in the dark, unable to fight the thing that rolled around inside her head whispering horrible things to her in the night. But other times, it seemed as if their wills were aligned, like the void creature was less and agent of the void and more of a symbiotic power she could twist to her will.

But even that made her feel sick and guilty choosing void power over anima power.

She rubbed her temples, as if that would stave away the chattering whisper in her mind.

‘Join our cause. Be what you were meant to be’ it repeated, over and over and over again.

But still its voice was quiet, bearable.

She bowed her head lowerm falling into the familiar paths of prayer, and soon the voice had faded and then ceased.

There was some power in faith, though she couldn’t have said how.

She lifted her head in response to a knock at the door, and turned to find Ramirez standing in the doorway. He tried to keep his expression light, but she could see the worry that cast a pall on his handsome face. He reached up and ran a hand through his loose curls. “They’re ready for you.”

She stood, and nodded to him, unable to find her tongue.

Ramirez didn’t like this idea, not even a little. They had talked it over for hours, going back and forth on the matter until both of them were horse, their mouths robbed of moisture. Ramirez had once confided in her his reason for never taking on any augmentation. Adam would gladly have made him an SE soldier if he asked, but Ramirez had no intention of corrupting his body with either Anima surgeries or metal exoskeletons.

“If I must put my faith in something, I want it to be on myself, and not in some machine. When I die, I will do it knowing everything I did and accomplished was under my own power.” Of course he had made no argument with her when she chose to take up the mantel he would not, but he had argued about this, worried about the potential for death, the loss of her soul, what the void creature might be able to do when her strings were cut.

Maverick walked forward and stopped some distance from him. She did not reach out to touch him, and neither did he reach out to touch her.

Maverick knew that she loved Ramirez, but she couldn’t help but think it wasn’t right somehow. She was still trying to work out what it was that bothered her so much, but articulating was difficult. Maverick had never seen the draw of romantic relationships, at least not the way they were portrayed. She cringed at the idea of being soothed, or protected, or held, and she had some minor aversion to being touched by others, she disliked the idea of soft touches and gentleness, but she did find a draw to the way Drev understood love, an equal to watch your back. To often to Maverick, it seemed that relationships between two people were unequal, a protector and a protectee, and she hated the idea of having someone to protect her or wanting to.

Even now, suddenly pondering her draw to Ramirez, she felt her lips twist with distaste at the idea.

He sensed the look and raised an eyebrow.

She waved him off.

It had taken her a while to be able to articulate her distaste, but Maverick finally understood that she hated the dominant/submissive nature a lot of relationships took, but she was also too unsure of herself to take a more aggressive position. As far as she knew Ramirez was the only person that had ever been interested in her like that, so she had little experience, and no way to take control in the way she wanted, but the simple idea of being less confident was, she felt, what held her back.

Even to herself that explanation seemed convoluted and difficult to understand and completely stupid.

And even now she wasn’t quite articulating it right.

‘Are you ready?” Ramirez asked.

“Is this the part where you ask me if I really want to do this/” She said to him, raising an eyebrow

Ramirez paused and then shook his head, amber eyes fixed on her, “I’m not stupid. You’ve made up your mind, and I have as little chance of changing it than I have chance of ascending to godhood right here and now.”

“That I would pay to see.”

She would have reached out and taken his hand if she were a normal person, but even the thought of such a thing didn’t give her any satisfaction. She had never liked handholding or hugs. She never understood why they made other people feel so good. Didn’t matter who hugged her or held her hand, but she got nothing from it other than emptiness. A hug was no more thrilling to her than a wave, though handshakes could make her feel something in the way hugs and hand holding could not.

Another frustration.

Instead she hopped up, and to Ramirez’s surprise wrapped one arm around the back of his neck, dragging his head towards the floor and forcing him to hunch to her level. She ruffled his curls with a hand as he protested. In return he tried to do the same, and what followed was a partial struggle as they crab-walked their way down the hall.

She would win, of course, SE enabled as she was, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Wrestling, and partial combat would have to do where hugs and hand holding could not because in them she could actually feel something.

She paused, just outside the pre-op room and made a decision. There was a possibility she could die in the next few hours, her soul lost to the void, and if that were the case there was something she needed to do at least once.

Maverick didn’t pretend her feelings worked like other people, and didn’t plan to start now.

WIth her superior strength, she shoved Ramirez in the chest causing him to stagger back and bump, not painfully, into the wall. He seemed startled, but not upset. Making sure to carefully read his reactions, she reached up with one hand and took him firmly by the face.

Maverick had never kissed anyone, not in her life, but she tried, and forced herself to keep control though she had absolutely now idea what she was doing.

This was the only way she could.

His lips were simultaneously soft and hard against her own, and he didn’t try to take her control away from her, leaning back against the wall.

She broke it off quickly, glowering at him when she could find no other expression to give.

He grinned at her, and, again, ran a hand through his hair, “I have a few notes, but I’m sure we can work on it later.”

And then she punched him lightly in the stomach. Still it was so out of the blue, he doubled over with a surprised gasp, and stood there gawping at her as she walked past him and into the pre-op room.

Dr. Krill, Dr. Katie and several nurses were already waiting for her when she entered. Katie smiled, but Krill was all business, “Are you ready/”

She nodded once.

“Good.” SHe only partially listened as he explained the procedure, stepping behind the little curation to dress in the scrubs and slippers that were provided. She had cut her hair short for today, so the surgical cap they gave her fit snugly over most of the stubble, leaving the back of her neck open and ready for the operation. Then, on Krill’s instruction, she lay down as the anesthesiologist stepped forward.

“You understand, with the nature of this procedure we can’t put you to sleep, so we will inject a paralytic and operate under a local, which we won’t need much of since the brain has no pain sensors in and of itself. Still, the sensation will be startling, as an addition we will add something to keep you relaxed.”

She nodded, “Alright, Let’s get this over with.”

With a nod the medicine was applied, and slowly, maverick felt her body began to lose control of itself. It was indeed a difficult sensation, one she didn’t like in the least, but she didn’t mind it so much as the other medicine took effect. She watched herself as if in a half trance as she was moved, her body manipulated by others, carried this way and that, and eventually placed into the operating suite covered by blankets all except for her head which remained.

“We begin.” Krill announced

And from there she felt as if she was floating through a dream, the hours passing like minutes or the minutes like hours, the light overhead swelling in her vision and then receding like the waves of an ocean.

Voices filled and swelled in the room around her ebbing and flowing like a tide.

And eventually, through the hazy fog she heard Krill say “There it is.” There was a puse in the room, as even Krill’s steady surgeon’s hands had to pause.

And then.

Blackness.

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zuko-always-lies · 3 years ago

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How does Iroh talk about Ozai vs How does Iroh talk about Azula

Iroh only discusses his brother and his niece a few times in the series, yet I believe we can detect patterns which reveal how he feels about them. Much more under the cut.

How Iroh talks about Ozai:

“Avatar Roku”:

Zuko: I have no choice, Uncle. Iroh (angrily): Have you completely forgotten that the Fire Lord banished you?!?!? (With a look of anguish and worry) What if you're caught? Zuko (turning around from the spy glass): I'm chasing the Avatar. My father will understand why I'm returning home. Iroh: You give him too much credit. My brother is not the understanding type.

“The Storm”:

Iroh: After Zuko's outburst in the meeting, the Fire Lord became very angry with him. He said that Prince Zuko's challenge of the general was an act of complete disrespect, and there was only one way to resolve this... Lieutenant Jee (horrified): Agni kai. A fire duel. Iroh: That's right. Zuko looked upon the old general he had insulted and declared that he was not afraid. But Zuko misunderstood. When he turned to face his opponent, he was surprised to see it was not the General. Zuko had spoken out against a general's plan, but by doing so in the Fire Lord's war room, it was the Fire Lord whom he had disrespected. Zuko would have to duel his own father.

later:

Iroh: I looked away. (The spectators are illuminated by flame, Zuko's scream of anguish is heard in the background, and the camera zooms to a close up of Iroh. The flashback ends, but Iroh's face in the present is in the same pose as it was when Zuko was scarred. It is clearly an unpleasant memory.) Lieutenant Jee (abashed): I always thought that Prince Zuko was in a training accident... Iroh: It was no accident. After the duel, the Fire Lord said that by refusing to fight, Zuko had shown shameful weakness. As punishment he was banished and sent to capture the Avatar. Only then could he return with his honor. Lieutenant Jee: So that's why he's so obsessed. Capturing the Avatar is the only chance he has of things returning to normal. Iroh: Things will never return to normal. But the important thing is, the Avatar gives Zuko hope.

It’s interesting to note that, given the story Iroh is telling here, his tone and wording is shockingly non-judgmental, mainly expressing sadness over what happened.

“The Avatar State”:

Zuko: (dejectedly) Three years ago today I was banished. I lost it all. (He looks up suddenly.) I want it back. I want the Avatar, I want my honor, I want my throne. I want my father not to think I'm worthless. Iroh: (with exaggerated optimism) I'm sure he doesn't! Why would he banish you if he didn't care? (Zuko gets up and walks away. Cut to Iroh's surprised face with the attendants in the background.) Iroh: (negatively to himself) Erg... that came out wrong, didn't it?

Later:

Zuko: (o.c., happily) We're going home. After three long years. It's unbelievable. (Zuko walks behind a thoughtful Iroh, carrying some folded clothing. He walks off to the right of the screen.) Iroh: (skeptically) It is unbelievable. I have never known my brother to regret anything. (Cut to a close-up of Zuko. At first he sounds surprised, and then forceful.) Zuko: Did you listen to Azula? Father's realized how important family is to him. He cares about me. Iroh: I care about you. And if Ozai wants you back... well, I think it may not be for the reasons you imagine. Zuko: (defensively, turning his back to Iroh) You don't know how my father feels about me. (He stiffens) You don't know anything. (Cut to the scarred portion of Zuko's face in the foreground with Iroh talking over his shoulder.) Iroh: (gently) Zuko, I only meant that in our family things are not always what they seem.”

Sozin’s Comet Part II:

Zuko: [Voice-over.] Uncle, you're the only person other than the Avatar who can [Side-view of Iroh with Zuko sat next to him. Toph sits to Zuko's right and Katara has her back to the camera opposite Toph.] possibly defeat the Father Lord. Toph: You mean the Fire Lord. Zuko: [Angrily.] That's what I just said! Iroh: Hmmm ... Zuko: We need you to come with us! Iroh: [Close-up.] No, Zuko, it won't turn out well. Zuko: [Aerial view of the group.] You can beat him! [Turns to the others.] And we'll be there to help. Iroh: Even if I did defeat Ozai, [Close-up.] and I don't know that I could, it would be the wrong way to end the war. [Aerial view of the group.] History would see it as just more senseless violence, a brother killing a brother to grab power. The only way for this war to end peacefully is for the Avatar to defeat the Fire Lord.

It’s hard for me to fully capture Iroh’s words, since his tone of voice tends to be a big part in this, but he seems remarkably non-judgmental when discussing his brother. His words seemed to colored by a great deal of sadness and regret.

How Iroh talks about Azula:

Bitter Work:

Zuko: So uncle, I've been thinking. It's only a matter of time before I run into Azula again. I'm going to need to know more advanced firebending if I want to stand a chance against her. I know what you're going to say: she's my sister and I should be trying to get along with her. Iroh: No, she's crazy and she needs to go down. (Zuko nods. Iroh grunts as he stands up.) It's time to resume your training.

This goes without much comment, other than to note that Azula is “crazy” for doing things that Iroh and/or Zuko did. The only interesting thing to note is that Zuko didn’t just passively “run into Azula” the previous episode; he actively sought her out to fight her, as he does, to one degree or another, in many episodes this series. I’m not sure if Iroh totally understands that, but, if he does, it says interesting and not flattering things about him.

Later:

Iroh: Lightning is a pure expression of firebending, without aggression. It is not fueled by rage or emotion the way other firebending is. Some call lightning the cold-blooded fire. (Iroh takes the tea kettle off the fire and pours it into another pot. He then begins to pour two cups.) It is precise and deadly, like Azula. To perform the technique requires peace of mind.

This is actually a pretty neutral comment. Interestingly, Iroh seems to almost be encouraging Zuko to at least partially adopt Azula’s mindset, or at least Azula’s mindset as Iroh understands it. Still, the way he talks about her seems almost dehumanizing.

Later:

Iroh: I have another idea. I will teach you a firebending move that even Azula doesn't know, because I made it up myself!

Iroh actually (likely inadvertently) encourages Zuko to stake his self-worth on how his firebending compares to Azula’s firebending prowess!

“The Crossroads of Destiny”:

Azula: I expected this kind of treachery from Uncle, but Zuko, Prince Zuko...you're a lot of things, but you're not a traitor, are you? Zuko: Release him immediately! Azula:It's not too late for you Zuko. You can still redeem yourself. Iroh:The kind of redemption she offers is not for you. Azula: Why don't you let him decide, Uncle? I need you Zuko. I've plotted every move of this day. This glorious day in Fire Nation history. And the only way we win is together. At the end of this day, you will have your honor back. You will have your father's love. You will have everything you want. Iroh: Zuko, I am begging you, look into your heart and see what it is that you truly want.

No real comment here, other than to note that Iroh doesn't bother addressing Azula directly in this scene.

“Sozin’s Comet, Part II”:

Iroh: Yes. [Close-up from over Zuko's shoulder.] Zuko, you must return to the Fire Nation, so that when the Fire Lord falls, you can assume the throne and restore peace and order. [Extreme close-up of Zuko.] But Azula will be there, waiting for you. Zuko: I can handle Azula. Iroh: Not alone! [Frontal view of Iroh from the side of Zuko.] You'll need help. Zuko: [Extreme close-up.] You're right. Katara, [Frontal view of Katara over Zuko's shoulder.] how would you like to help me put Azula in her place? Katara: It would be my pleasure.

Let’s just say the contrast with what Iroh moments earlier said about Ozai is quite palpable.

Overall, Iroh tends to be nonjudgmental, regretful, and sorrowful when he talks about Ozai, even after what Ozai did to Zuko. You get a sense that he still deeply loves his brother and wishes things had turned out differently.

By contrast, Iroh tends to be much more hostile when he talks about Azula, and even when he’s not, he seems to discuss her as an obstacle to overcome rather than a person. There is no hint of past affection in the way he discusses her.

#Iroh #anti-Iroh #Zuko #Ozai #Azula

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love-archon · 3 years ago

Text

A Poem For You

Fleeting romances in the court of the Raiden Shogun, whose reign stands eternally still...

Spring - 春

"In Naniwa Bay, now the flowers are blossoming. After lying dormant all winter, now the spring has come..."

-Wani of Baekje

• The old tales warn of kitsune: yokai that take on forms of handsome men and beautiful women to play tricks on the unsuspecting humans. When they are careless, however, their disguises slip, and one can see a tail or two poking out from under their robes.

• Or, in the case of your soldiers' archery instructor, Gorou, a pair of large, fluffy ears emerging from his hair.

• There are whispers of a general in the rebel army far in the mountains, who has the features of a fox spirit and the slyness to match. Thankfully, the army lacks valuable intel to proceed, and cannot move forward without the use of spies.

• You blink and, in a shimmer like dust on sun-baked earth, the ears are gone. The gentle afternoon breeze rustles the leaves, and he nocks his arrow and lets it fly.

• Perhaps you were simply imagining things?

• Gorou, who guides his trainees with a strong, reliable hand, steady as stone,

• Gorou, who splits arrows in half as they fly, vowing to protect you always,

• Gorou, who smiles fondly at you as you walk through the gardens of your estate, holding your parasol to veil you from the sun, would never betray you or the great shogun. Would he?

• One warm spring night, where the dew still drips from the sakura flowers, he sits with you on the rooftops. His round lazuli eyes meet yours, and he tells you, truthfully, that he'll be leaving soon. Won't you join him?

• Your heart stirs to agree, but you respond that you cannot abandon your duties to your family, or to the shogun. He looks disappointed, but gets up from his seat, telling you that he accepts your decision. “If you ever change your mind,” he begins, but stops when the look in your eyes makes it clear you can’t.

• But you didn't know that "soon" meant now.

• Papers stolen from your family's most secret rooms are rolled up in his hands. His plain clothes melt away to reveal the uniform of the rebel army. The foxlike ears you thought were a dream now rest on his head, clear as day.

• Most striking of all, however, are the nine tails shimmering behind him- the mark of a fox spirit that’s accumulated centuries of magic.

• Your eyes can’t quite catch the way he leaves, and you’re not sure exactly when you became alone in the night with the flowers.

• Or if you’d imagined the saddened way he said goodbye.

Summer - 夏

"The spring has passed, and the summer comes again;

For the white robes are spread to dry on the Mount of Kaguyama."

-Empress Jitoh

• You do not know who keeps sending these letters, despite your best efforts. Only that they must be a refined noble of high status and excellent taste.

• Each cut of paper, beautifully bound, is dyed the right color to match the season. They are appropriately adorned with fresh sprigs of plants from the sender's garden, or tied with a luxurious ribbon of patterned silk. Lavish scents drift off the pages in a perfume that's sweet and light.

• Oh, and the words.

• The appearance of these gifts pale in comparison to the contents. The mysterious admirer has learned the alphabet borrowed from Liyue, and the complex brush strokes are applied with just the right deftness that each kanji character shines.

• Your beauty is eternal, they proclaim, like unmelting snow on summer mountains, and strikes the heart like a bolt of lightning. In your luminous eyes, the ideal of your god has been met- a thousand times over...

• As dizzyingly romantic as it is, one thing gives you pause, as you lift your own brush to write your reply.

• "Your god," it says. Not mine.

• Who would know the secret etiquette of the court so intimately, to the point that other suitors' letters paled in comparison... and not worship the immaculate Raiden Shogun, much less take an interest in you?

• Then you are sent in your clan head's place to deal with the troublesome Fatui that have slipped past your nation's defenses, and you find your answer then. Their leader wears the traditional attire of a traveling nobleman, and wields his weapon with aristocratic grace.

• His underlings fall rather quickly under your hand, but he himself is annoyingly persistent. He darts out of the way of your attacks, but it takes all your power to stop his from striking true.

• You do not get his name, only his face- fair and clean and luminous, with delicate features twisted in cruel amusement.

• It’s a shame that you must marr it with your blade, but what can be done?

• Then, he glides past you, close enough to whisper in your ear, and completes the poem no one has seen but you.

Autumn - 秋

"Even in the age of almighty gods unheard of;

The waters of Tatsuta are dyed in crimson red."

-Lord Ariwara-no-Narihira

• It is time for the great procession- an event of fanfare and decadence, where you and your family must travel from your ancestral home to the domain of the immortal shogun to display your wealth.

• Despite the excitement surrounding the occasion, you know quite well it is nothing more than a way to maintain control over the lords of Inazuma.

• But no expense must be spared if it means preserving your reputation. If it means that no other family dares question your wealth. Not in travel, not in housing arrangements, not in entertainment, not in the hired guards to protect you on your long and arduous journey.

• And so, after you pay the Kaedehara clan the exorbitant sum they demand, they give you twenty able-bodied samurai under their command... including Kazuha, their youngest son.

• The servant girls- and some of the boys- traveling with you blush when he passes, observing his lithe form and gentle eyes and striking, pale blond hair. One streak of red is visible there, calling to mind a sole maple leaf in autumn.

• Kazuha does not join in the other samurai's revelry. While they cheerfully indulge in the food and drink provided to them on the journey, and boast of their prowess when the time comes to fight bandits hiding on the path, he remains silent and alone, his eyes only on his collection of handwritten poems.

• (And, when you aren’t looking, they shyly flit to you before looking away.)

• In the end, however, Kazuha is the only one who actually bests a bandit in combat.

• Late at night, when the others are sleeping off the wine, large shadows flit past the trees. The bandit clans in the area thrive during this time, like hunters when beasts migrate in droves. They're confident that this traveling party will be easy prey.

• But one thief approaches too rashly, too quickly, and one crimson eye opens to meet him.

• Kazuha drifts from one opponent to another like a leaf falling from its branch, carried by strong winds. And yet, none of them can touch him. One after another, each man collapses with a sharp cry, only their silhouettes visible in the darkness.

• In the morning, the traveling party awakens to see fifty-some criminals tied up and piled up in a heap, and bursts into laughter. As the other samurai are still hung over, it’s clear who was responsible for this.

• Yes, Kaedehara-kun is a wonderful samurai. Skillful, composed, brave. And an excellent companion to have by one’s side, if one is lucky enough to have met him.

• It was quite the shock to learn that he would later flee the islands, sailing onward to the Land of Contracts aboard the ship of a pirate lord.

• But if anyone had the strength of mind to defy the gods- wouldn’t it be him?

Winter - 冬

"In winter, the early mornings. It is beautiful indeed when snow has fallen during the night, but splendid too when the ground is white with frost..."

-Sei Shonagon

• Lady Ayaka is one of your closest friends, with your families being in a partnership for centuries. You have fond memories of playing together in the snow, with cranes flying overhead in the white sky.

• You know her secrets, and she knows yours. Nothing is kept between you- this is how you survive in a court of treachery and lies.

• So when she passes by in a sunlit hallway, you hear a whisper that shocks you to the core. Smooth silver hair floats past your sight, quiet as snow, and just as fleeting. But you must collect yourself quickly, for spies may lurk behind any silken screen.

• You will be betrothed to Kamisato Ayato, your dear friend's older brother, in ten day's time.

• As close as you are to Ayaka, Ayato has always been a shadow flitting in the corner of your sight, being too busy with his duties to see you. So his visage- to you- is as featureless as a field of snow.

• After all the romance novels you've read, it's difficult to accept marrying a man you've never spoken with, but... what can be done? You can only hope that Lord Ayato is kind and treats you well.

• But... what if he isn’t?

• Lady Ayaka would never speak ill of her brother. In fact, no noblewoman would even consider such a notion, even if it were true. Good appearances, on every level, are more important to nobles than gold.

• But all the same, you’ve seen the ladies of the court who are trapped in loveless homes like birds in cages. How their smiles are painted on, how their laughs ring hollow and empty, how they glance longingly to the world outside, beyond the lavish court that hides them here.

• Your gaze drifts towards the harbor, where the water shimmers with light. You could run away, too. To the eastern mountains, where your former archery teacher hides with his fellow rebels- although to do that would invoke the shogun's wrath. Or, riskier still, follow Kazuha's path to the harbor, and chase him on to Liyue...

• “Young Lord Kamisato is waiting for you,” a servant says, breaking you from your thoughts, and bowing hastily before you can meet her eyes. The servant across from her does the same as the paper doors slide open, and they do not rise as you walk through.

• This room is airy and spacious, of course. Wind from opened windows seems to sigh as it passes over you and beyond, and you can smell flowers from the garden carried in from the breeze. How strange... even a garden that you played in countless times seems completely new and unfamiliar.

• Gracefully, soundlessly, Ayato emerges from behind his ornate screen. Power and elegance flows from his every movement. And at last, you dare to look at what you have never seen before.

• You look at his face, finally revealed before you, like translucent ice giving way to the land beneath the white...

• And gasp.

_______

Author's Notes

Wani of Baekje: Each opening quote is a poem by a famous Japanese author, but Wani was a scholar visiting from Ancient Korea!

Great procession: Known in Japan as sankin kotai. Powerful lords were forced to spend massive amounts of money to travel from their homes to the shogun's castle and back; in this way, the shogun was able to keep them on an efficiently tight leash.

#genshin impact x reader #kazuha kaedehara x reader #scaramouche x reader #gorou x reader #inazuma

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demcnsinmymind · 2 years ago

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therebekahmikaelson:

“Well, that’s new…” Rebekah’s eyes lingered on the doorway in a haze. An ability like that was unexpected. What bloody else could the man do? “You’ve been holding out on me with that little party trick.” She whooshed through the open door at great speed, returning milliseconds later with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Now that Lance was sated by way of a natural feed, he could still enjoy the good stuff. The finer things in life.

Pouring him a generous glass, Rebekah downed her’s entirely before refilling it and taking a seat on the armchair that beckoned. “Bottoms up. My heartbreak belongs to a man called Marcellus. I believe I’ve alluded to him in past. The one all gussied up about the Quarter. Has a million minions. Is always caught up in the politics of the city. Occasionally, I fall back into my old ways and pay him a visit, but we are not meant to be. He would never wish for a cure or a quiet life. His true loyalties lie with his power and it’s no doubt due to the ways I let him down in decades past. Always chose my family over him.”

Offering Lance a small smile, the Original’s finger traced the rim of her glass. “See, you are not the only one whose let down a person you adored. I still pay the consequences. I believe I committed one too many treacheries and thus, Marcel will never truly be mine. Only… what do they say these days? A booty call.”

“Meh. It’s pretty old by now” he replied, smirking at her back because he considered the joke funny enough. “And yes, I most definitely have. Just the tip of the iceberg, really” That was true and most certainly sounded ominous, maybe because he wanted it to be so. But also because he really didn’t have a clue what the whole iceberg actually consisted of either. He just knew that his brainiac friend and thus he himself could do a truckload more. Things that he didn’t want to try with her though. Or scare her with. He just wanted her to stay.

For a few milliseconds she was gone though, and Lance was this close to rushing after her, but then she was right back. Bottle and two glasses in hand, turning his smirk into an outright huge grin. Because fuck yeah...he had her on the hook. Only bad part being that he had to drink the stuff now, too, even when he didn’t even like it, but thanks to the vampirism it tasted a little less like shit at least. So he listened and drank as she shared her reasons for her previous talk and heartbreak.

“You have. And I have seen the guy around. Klaus won’t stop talking about him either. Keeps yapping on and on about him having stolen his city. Yada yada” he replied with a bored eye roll, and the grin on his face did take a little hit when she once again mentioned the people he let down. He snorted softly, shook his head and then drank, the whole glass, then thought fuck it and made the bottle fly into his hand so he could pour himself a second one. It was starting to become great fun to do this little party trick, the way she’d called it. Certainly a time safer, and he didn’t have to bother getting off the couch. Or asking her for more. It was also a great outlet for his anger and loss.

“Ahhhh, I see. The good old booty call” Lance repeated and took another sip, grinning into his glass again as he studied her face a little closer. “Didn’t take you for that type. Y’know, since you’re looking for true sweet love” he teased, then lowered the glass again. “Good on you though. No shame in it if you ask me. It’s all I’ve ever been, and I’m still alive. Well. Technically not, but you get the picture. Still kicking in that department at least” he joked and gave her a wink, intended to cheer her up a bit. Soon enough, he let out a soft sigh and got more serious again, still trying to cheer her up.

“Isn’t forgiveness and the good times, bad times deal the whole point of the true love schtick though” Lance went on, looking at her questioningly. “If he’s the guy and really loves you the way you do, he should find it in him to forgive you instead of making you pay for it, right? If he doesn’t? I say fuck the guy. He doesn’t love you the way you need him to. Find the one who can. People are more important than power and a set of bricks on swamp land. But that’s just me. If he doesn’t see it that way, fuck him. And I don’t mean literally.” He drank some more, smiled some more, because he liked this a lot more. Dishing out advice. Trying to solve things that could be solved because they didn’t involve him or dead people. And mistakes that couldn’t ever be fixed anymore. Like the ones he’d made, and had the audacity to give out advice on, advice he himself had never adhered to.

“I mean, you do you I suppose. Keep doing it if you can’t ditch the guy. But trust me. Even if you keep sleeping with him, it’s not gonna change him. Not going to make him love you differently one day. There’s some guys you can’t change. Even with sex. You’re just gonna keep hurting yourself with it. Sometimes it’s better to just end it. For everyone involved.”

Shit. So much for not talking about her. Or himself.

#text post #therebekahmikaelson #rebekah tag pending #keep on trying I'm not dying so easily : hybrid #I'm just LOLing at him dishing out relationship advice #and that one being fuck him lmfao

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