#and not blood line magic which seems like the more instinctual thing to do

[garbean]

This was mentioned like once during the Walter park arc but anyways basically it's that young demons who go through something traumatic might make it their obsession in the future and can affect evil cycles. I'm mentioning this because I like how it's been actually shown through the characters and not just forgotten. For Kirio it was when his only friend was suffering and he failed in successfully keeping her accessory from being lost. This was like his awakening for returning to origins which I find interesting. Balam's trauma was almost dying to a bird trying to protect it's young, and it made him want to pursue botany and research. For Sabro I feel like he wants to pursue being a demon king because of his older brother who failed at something. I do believe it's because he thinks it's cool but there can be more than just the one reason. Iruma is kind of a special case? He copes with trauma like a human but during the first evil cycle I think that's where it somewhat comes out. It's not as drastic in terms of how it's shown but I think it started with him asking for things (the royal one). Iruma at that point had goals but I don't think he outwardly asked to have something tangible and when he was younger he lacked basic items and utility. So I feel like him being greedy during his evil cycle could've been attributed to that, though I think I'm probably pulling stuff out my ass because his personality change is just being more bold which I'm not sure can be caused by his childhood.

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

this is complex for me because I do love Karen as a character and she definitely deserves more attention--I've mentioned before how interesting she is as a rebel girl who is allowed to grow up and mature, for better or worse, and I love how kind of fucking nuts she can be. I appreciate her sacrifice by going to prison, even if didn't really work (and people have noted it kind of gives her an out re motherhood), and I fucking love the church fire.

However, I don't think any of this means Sean "would" forgive her. He can, it's possible for him and it could fit an interpretation of his character, but that doesn't mean it's the only option for him or that he's obligated to do so in any way. Just because she came through for her sons, sort of (she kind of just stands there while Sean gets beaten up, which is hilarious), doesn't magically erase the years of psychological damage she inflicted on them, or her inability to show up in the first three eps. It can't, no matter how hard she tries, and she and Sean are both painfully aware of that. It's also hard for me to to tell how much Daniel forgives her and how much he just clings onto her in his nonstop search for an adult figure to look up to (Finn, Lisbeth, Joan, etc).

Personally I guess I have a few pet peeves about her--she has a habit of blaming her parents (who are admittedly fucked up in their own way) or "society" as a general concept for her decision to not contact her children for eight years, and that always felt kind of hard for me to swallow. Her description of having kids as "breeding" in her letter to Claire and Stephen is always kind of a what-the-fuck moment, even if she does scratch it out. Her line about how she came "as soon as Daniel was alone" in the church is also interesting--Daniel and Sean have been alone, on the run, for months now, and it's hard to tell if Karen has been instinctually adultifying Sean the way most adult characters in this game do, assuming her sons didn't need her help quite as much until they were separated. None of these are, like, unforgivable of course, that's just stuff that always comes to mind when I try to understand if I like her.

Re the blood brothers thing, I do personally think that's kind of a toss-up. She's (understandably) horrified when either Sean or Daniel kills Lisbeth in the church, and while she takes them in no matter what and doesn't express any fear of them, she also doesn't say she's proud of them except in routes where Lisbeth is spared, even if she does acknowledge how rough a time they've had of it. Not to mention that there's a gap between impulsively killing a personal abuser like Lisbeth and slaughtering a more impersonal threat like those border cops, and I think Karen would be keenly aware of that difference, so it feels up in the air how she would shake out in a blood brothers or lone wolf ending. honestly I feel like Chris "perfectly happy to launch a police car into a snow bank" Eriksen or drifters like Finn or Hannah would be a bigger shoo-in for side characters who support the blood brothers route.

I definitely like how the fandom overall seems more forgiving towards Karen, especially considering how lis fans as a whole seem to treat flawed female characters (*cough*Chloe*cough*). She's not really a good mom and possibly not that good a person, but she's far from a monster, and I love the inherent tragedy of how her pushing to be better can't stop her sons from being pushed into being worse. It's rare for a middle-aged female character to get so much agency in lis games and it's fascinating to see what she does with hers. I don't know if I can quality for stanhood, but I always wish there was more content about her, so I guess that counts for something.

So ive already stated that in a Karen stan. I hate that she abandoned the boys for 8 years of their lives but honestly i think sean would forgive her. And shes the only side character i can definitively say would accept every endings version of the boys. I know she only shows up in redemption and partings ways but she wanted the boys to get to mexico and find their own freedom no matter what. So even though we dont see her, i know she’s keeping in touch with them in the other endings too and you cannot and will not change my mind on that.

That being said i am curious about how other people feel about her. I just watched a play through where they tried to open up to her and did hug her in the end but then didnt actually forgive her or like her even a little bit. Which is like the first out of like the 5 that ive watched.

So im curious, do yall like karen? Did yall forgive her? Why or why not? Did you hug her? What kind of letter did you write? if you wrote one.

[ask-fantasy-sanders-sides]

So, wait, toes Remus know that Virgil is a dragon too?? if he does, did Virgil tell him or did he just figure it out?

It wasn’t too long after their escape from the prison complex that Remus got irritated.

He didn’t regret dragging the strange assassin along — after all, Remus probably wouldn't have been able to escape without him — but he was getting more and more frustrated with his lack of response to...well, anything.

Remus has attempted more than once to scare and/or gross the stranger out with diatribes of gore and violence, but that hasn't phased him at all. Really, Remus thinks he probably should have expected that response from a dark-elven warrior, but it was a little jarring to have his usual monologues accepted with little more than a cursory glare. It didn't help that he had to speak to the soldier in the goblin language, which neither of them knew well enough to share many complex ideas.

Then, there were his rages. Remus wasn't really himself in that state, and he knew he was quite the sight to those who had never heard of a barbarian. He's pretty sure that if he had some foggy awareness of the assassin being disgusted or even mildly intrigued by his berserk mode, he would have remembered them. As it stands, nothing.

Then, there was his trump card: The first time Remus let out his true form and went berserk on a few guards, the assassin barely even noticed the difference. Remus dismissed it at the time, assuming they had just been busy doing their thing and hadn’t seen him do it. But, as they were sneaking away from the castle spires the next day and he had to dispose of some noble-looking witnesses, Remus definitely saw the assassin look at his wings.

Still he made absolutely no reaction! He doesn’t seem to react to much of anything, unless he’s being mad at Remus for yelling too loud or missing a swing. Admittedly, being able to spark annoyance in the stuck-up soldier is a little fun, but even his moments of anger are few and far between.

This is the first and only time someone has seen Remus’s kick-ass undead angel wings and not had a damn thing to say about it, and Remus can honestly say he hates it.

So, now that they’re finally outside of the Colony walls (and Remus doesn’t have to worry about the assassin chewing him out for making a scene,) Remus smirks deviously at the unsuspecting drow.

“Hey! Watch this,” Remus shouts, then closes his eyes to focus.

He reaches deep inside himself to connect with that boiling mass of discordant energy — a frothing core of divine light that’s spoiling rotten and necrotic, burning away the mold, healing, and then spoiling again, over and over with each beat of his two hearts. As he’s practiced ever since he was a child, Remus grabs that energy and pulls it out, dismissing a weight in his stomach that he hardly notices until it's time to let go.

The instinctual protective glamor that hides his true form dissolves in the firelight of his true essence, as bone-like angel wings, void-like eyes, and a tidal wave of smoke pour out of Remus like air from a popped balloon. A sickly green glow outlines his irises, his scars, and emblazons the emblem of a sword over his chest. He can feel it as the energy unfurls, how the world spins and sears into focus, how his senses grow sharp and breathing is suddenly so much easier than it’s ever been before. This is what he truly is, how he really looks, and it is a figure that strikes fear and awe in every creature who has the misfortune of seeing it.

All except one. Apparently.

The assassin simply stares at Remus, stone-still as Remus’s whole fucked up magical girl cutscene plays out point-blank in front of him. The fear-inducing necrotic gas rolls past the assassin's feet and into his lungs, but nothing happens. A few seconds pass, and he still hasn’t moved, but he’s clearly not gone into shock or anything of the kind.

Eventually, the assassin gets the impression that Remus is expecting a response. So, he cocks his hip out to one side and folds his arms, mimicking the facial expression that he’s gathered humans make when they’re confused: a pointed eyebrow raise.

(Given his usual glowering expression, it comes across more like sass.)

The minute passes, and though Remus feels the smoke dissipate and his eyes and scars return to normal with a sinking feeling in his gut, the wings remain. Instead of dismissing them, Remus throws his arms out wide with a growl,

“Seriously? That’s it? You’re not scared!”

“Scared?” The assassin parrots lowly.

A wide smile stretches across his lightly-freckled face. In the space of a blink he’s behind Remus, gently peeling the barbarian’s tattered shirt away to get a better look at the base of his wings.

He lays one ice-cold hand against the divot between them, touching him clinically, like he’s trying to figure out how solid Remus's wings are. His hand smooths gently across the stump where flesh gives way to semi-transparent bone before Remus's brain catches up. He shrieks and jumps away from him,

“What the shit are you doing?!” Remus squeaks, eyes wide as saucers. He would be more embarrassed by how absolutely unthreatening he sounds right now if he didn’t still feel the shape of that hand on him like a brand.

(He decides that this is more because of the supernatural nature of his wings, and not because Remus hasn't been touched that carefully by another person since he was like eleven. He doesn’t have time to unpack that feeling whatsoever.)

“You told me to look.” The assassin teases, openly laughing at Remus’s expense.

Then, — and Remus could swear he’s doing it slowly just to make sure Remus sees him — the soldier takes a deep exhale, and his purple eye flashes a soft glow. Suddenly, his body evaporates until he is a cloud of shadowy smoke. This smoke quickly blends in with the surrounding darkness of the cavern, and before Remus can get a word in edgewise, the assassin has re-solidified and is poking his back again.

“StoOOP TOuching me!” Remus yelps and spins around to face him, face red as blood and hands up in a defensive position, “Since when could you do that?!”

The assassin rolls his eyes at this, his hands falling to his sides. Now he takes a moment to think, before reaching down to untie his dagger belt and pull his tunic loose.

“What are you doing?” Remus protests louder, covering his eyes with his hands.

The assassin doesn’t respond.

Though he’s reciting curses in his head and trying very hard to respect this stranger’s privacy, Remus’s curiosity quickly gets the better of him.

He peeks out between his fingers to find the soldier shirtless, his white hair parted and pulled over his shoulders. He looks up at Remus with a completely unimpressed stare.

The assassin reaches out to grab one of Remus’s hands, then turns to show Remus his back.

Remus stares for a moment, eyes tracing the thin, ragged lines of a latticework of scars. They stretch across and around the assassin’s back, some older and some deeper. Most seem to have been inflicted by animals or monsters rather than weapons.

Remus feels no sense of pity at the display — he’s got his own patchwork of scars and his own complicated relationship to them, but over all he sees them more as a mark of survival, as stories to tell. But, he is definitely curious, and his mile-a-minute brain is already spinning outrageous tales to match each and every mark.

Then the assassin guides his hand up towards the top of his back, just alongside his spine. The skin there feels leathery, and significantly warmer than the skin of the elf’s hand, though the heat seems to be emanating from someplace lower on his spine. It’s also slightly off-color, a bit lighter than the skin around it. Whatever this is, this scar is old.

Remus traces the outline of it up, then off to the side as it tapers to a thin line between his shoulder and the base of his neck. The assassin’s ears twitch at the gesture, and Remus’s hand flinches away.

He turns to look at Remus over his shoulder, his neutral grimace returned.

“We are the same. Shadow and wings. You are kitrye'maelthra, right?”

“I don’t know what that is.” Remus frowns, always frustrated when the assassin sneaks an elven word or two into their rare conversations,

“I’m not super good at reading energies, but you don’t feel like an angel… You have wings??”

“No.” He frowns, his gaze becoming soft and distant, “Not anymore.”

“Oh.” Remus sighs, now reeling at the possibilities.

What sort of dark elf grows wings, and how can they be removed? He winces at the phantom pain to his own wings as he parcels through every guess. Did a monster tear them off? The scar was so smooth, it seemed more like they had been burned away with acid. Did he fall into the pit of a living ooze, or maybe it was a punishment from some cruel cultist—

“Yours are broken.” The assassin pries, still staring at him while Remus zoned out.

“Broken? No they're not!”

“You have no skin.” The assassin remarks, like that should have been obvious, “And you look like a ghost.”

“Wait, skin? Like a bat?” Remus laughs, imagining it. He shakes his head, “I’m not supposed to have skin! —Well, I mean, I am, but also feathers. Y’know, like a bird?”

“Bird?” The assassin repeats, like he doesn’t understand the word. He probably doesn’t, goddamn Underdark.

“...Ehh, forget about it. I’ll show you one when we get up there.” Remus shakes his head.

The assassin pulls his tunic back up and re-ties it. While he waits, a sudden thought knocks Remus out of his gruesome imaginings.

He thinks he probably shouldn’t ask, but it takes him all of three seconds to snap and say it anyway,

“Hey,” Remus hums offhandedly, like he’s not extremely invested in knowing the answer, “If you could ‘go ghost’ or whatever this whole time, why didn’t you just poof yourself out of that cell?”

(“And why did you stay to help me?” Remus refuses to add, because he is not that attached to his little stray-criminal monsterboy, goddamnit. He refuses.)

The assassin doesn’t answer or turn back to him, simply staring off in the direction of their path.

Remus huffs and rolls his eyes,

“Fine, damn, keep your secrets. Bet you just can’t hold it that long~”

“Don’t xhandal me, lotha mal'dhalaruk. Usstan orn da'urzotreth dosst et'zarreth.”

“Again, I do not know what the fuck that is.”

[agent-cupcake]

yuri with yandere prompt number eight? i feel like thats the most accurate for him

This ask is old but I’m never gonna quit these yandere prompts. Try and stop me. (aka, here’s 5k of unhealthy pining and Yuri “I want to confess my love but I don’t feel like I deserve you” Leclerc)

//

A sharp, frightened gasp was what pulled you awake. Terror gripped your thoughts as a memory overrode all rational thought —the scent of tread packed filth and chalky, tangy, sharp stone filling your nose with each shallow, bloody, gasping breath. Cold, cutting gravel scraping against your cheek, your scalp, the sharp pebbles embedded into your skin with the force with which you had hit the ground. You couldn’t move, couldn’t fight your collapsed chest into expanding for air to fill your lungs. Escape, you had to escape, that was the only real, solid understanding in your dazed brain as you struggled against the blankets.

But then you blinked a few times, your eyes rolling as you focused them, and realized that was nothing more than a dream. You were safe. Sore, uncomfortable, in an unfamiliar bed and wearing unfamiliar clothes, but safe. And confused, still entangled in the cotton fog of unconsciousness.

You had been… Where had you been? Your head was foggy, your thoughts blurry, almost enough to convince you that you were dreaming. If only you weren’t so uncomfortable. Something was wrong, more than just being sick. There had been… Blood? Pain?

Agony. A blunt, overwhelming ache that had slammed against the entire right side of your body when you hit the ground. A whine had escaped your mouth alongside a glob of bloody saliva. The pain was all-consuming. You could remember that in the same second the pain registered so did the panic of knowing that you were going to be sick right there on the street. Nausea had seized your stomach and you had been helpless to its violent, urgent, undulating undertow. Rocks cut into your palms as you wrenched yourself up to avoid choking as you sputtered and heaved and coughed out the acidic bile. When you blinked, your sight clearing from a dozen fragmented frames into a single dizzy, tear-blurred picture, all you saw was blood. Blood in the watery puddle on the ground, scarlet staining your side, oozing up between your fingers as you pressed a panicked hand against the slash across your ribs as if that would force the blood back where it belonged.  

But there was no blood now. No wounds to validate that terrible living nightmare.

Everything came flooding back into your mind as your thoughts cleared up. You remembered accepting Lev’s offer to ignore Yuri’s orders and perform a secretive strike on an opposing gang. You remembered going along with the plan and taking the dangerous role of getting everyone into the Vanargand base despite the risk. You remembered nearly died in the escape.

You remembered thinking that you were dead. In that moment of laying on the street in a puddle of your own blood, you had clung to the pathetic thought that you didn’t want to die. Even though you already had, you didn’t want to betray Yuri in this way, too. He didn’t want you involved in any of this, he did everything he could to keep you out of it. He promised your brother, he made a vow. But even that tragic, horrible thought had become cloudy as cold disseminated ice throughout your body, piercing all the way into the marrow of your bones and numbing your limbs, pulling you closer into the creeping void. That was the last of what you could remember.

Now, the only remaining evidence of your brush with death was the bruised shades of puce plum and rotten currant covering the entire right side of your body. Someone had used white magic to heal the direst of your wounds. Presumably, the same someone who had saved you. You were pretty sure you knew exactly who that someone was, too.

Your hero.

Yuri Leclerc with his violet eyes and smiling mouth and sweeping, dramatic cape who came to you after your brother’s death and told you of the promise he’d made as his boss and friend. Yuri Leclerc, the nearly mythical Underground Lord, the unaging Savage Mockingbird. Your hero, your knight in armor of shadow and subterfuge. He promised that he would protect you. And he had saved you. Again.

With a soft groan, you turned from laying on your back to your mostly uninjured left side. The bed was comfortable enough, better than your own. The room was smaller than yours, however, easily lit up by just a single lamp. By all standards, it was far from lavish, but you were covered in a thick comforter with two pillows plumped beneath your head. The four-poster frame was made of an attractively dark solid wood that matched the bedside table, writing desk, and chair. It looked an awful lot like the impersonal room of an inn, although there were clear signs that someone lived in here. Books and paper and feather pens were stacked on the desk, a glass rainbow of bottles lined up on the shelf above, a colorful swath of clothes on the rack.

Most telling was the way that the room, the bedding, and the clothes you wore all smelled like Yuri. An intoxicating embrace of spring rose and lilac, plush amber musk, and heady sweet vanilla. Achingly familiar, desirable, wonderful. Now it just made you sick. While the previous day’s actions could make a case for your intellectual deficiencies, it didn’t take a genius to figure out where you were. You groaned softly, closing your eyes.

Yuri was going to be mad. You had justified following Lev before by telling yourself that if the job went off without a hitch, Yuri would be so impressed with your skills that he would have no choice but to recognize you as a member of his gang and stop coddling you. Now you realized that it was and always had been an act of petty rebellion. Yuri would never respect your reckless disregard for his orders and your own life, not even if it had gone well.

Which it hadn’t. You had no idea what had gone wrong, you had performed your task without any problems, getting the small group of men into the compound without alerting any guards. Your brother had done well in teaching you to sneak around. But then there was complete and utter chaos and they all came running back as the compound was eaten up by flames, your so-called friends leaving you stranded on the top of the wall with a group of Vanargand men. So you jumped.

Even your vague recall of that particular agony made you wince, your stomach churning unhappily.

The sound of someone outside the door made your heart jump, your eyes instinctually closing to feign sleep. Maybe if you seemed like you were sleeping you could spare yourself a lecture. Or worse, his disappointment. The doorknob turned, the wood creaking, the metal hinges making the faintest squeak as they were pushed. You held your breath.

But nobody came in, stopping in response to the approaching sound of another, heavier set of footsteps. “Glad to see you back in one piece,” Yuri greeted whoever it was. With the door cracked the way it was, you could hear him quite clearly. His voice was friendly, matching the smile he must have been wearing, but it was sharp, too. You knew that tone, recognized the danger it hid. “I figured it would be you who led this little rebellion.”

“Rebellion?” Lev asked. “I acted for all of us. The Vanargand boys won’t be an issue anymore.”

Yuri laughed. Although the sound was oddly genuine, nobody could miss the fact that he was making fun of Lev. “You really believe that?” he asked, his voice lilting with disbelief.

Lev grunted, you could imagine his scowl. He scowled a lot. “If you knew what we did to them, you wouldn’t laugh.”

“All you did was kick the hornet’s nest,” Yuri said, unimpressed, “while ignoring my orders to standby.”

“I came here to tell you that I think things should change around here, I think-”

“I don’t actually care what you think,” Yuri said, cutting him off calmly. His tone was deadly smooth, dripping with the unique threat of his friendly malice. “I expect you to be out of here by the time the sun rises. That gives you, what, four hours? Plenty of time.”

“What?” Lev asked, his bravado faltering.

“Leave my city,” Yuri told him. “And pray that I never see you again.”

“You can’t kick me out,” Lev said. “Not after all I’ve done for you, for the gang.”

“No?” Yuri asked. “You directly disobeyed my orders and put my men at risk for the sake of your own ego. I’d say that’s a pretty good reason to lose any and all trust I ever had in you.”

“The Vanargand Street Gang have been a pain in the ass for too long,” Lev told him, his tone growing combative. “I decided to do something about it.”

“I had them under control,” Yuri said. “without stooping to such boorish and dangerous methods.”

Lev responded with a mocking bark of a laugh. “Nah, this is about the girl, isn’t it? You should know that she all but begged me to take her along. If you wanna talk about trust, maybe consider why your precious little pet would disobey you.”

You froze, a cold, nervous sweat beading up at the nape of your neck, anxious nausea once again closing in your throat. Either unfortunately or fortunately, Yuri breezed right past that comment as if it didn’t affect him in the slightest. “This has nothing to do with her,” Yuri said without missing a beat. “If you don’t think I’m a fit leader, challenge my authority directly. But I’m warning you. Think carefully about what you do next. Right now, I’m relieved enough that nobody was seriously hurt by your incompetence that I’m willing to let you go with nothing more than a warning.” His voice lowered dangerously, forcing you to strain slightly to make it out. There was no playful teasing injected into these words, no way to interpret them as anything other than naked intimidation. “Don’t mistake my benevolence for weakness, you won’t live to regret it.”

A long moment of tense silence passed between the two men. You could imagine Lev’s storming rage, Yuri’s cool demeanor. You didn’t dare move, afraid that either would hear and unsure which was worse. The moment was broken only by another set of thumping, rhythmic footsteps cresting up the stairs. There was only one man who could possibly make that much noise.

“I heard shouting. I’m not missing the party, am I?” Balthus asked. While there was nothing directly antagonistic about the man’s voice, there was no mistaking the threat he posed. There was a reason he was Yuri’s right-hand man.

“No,” Yuri said. “Lev and I are simply having a… Disagreement.”

“Oh yeah?” Balthus asked. “Anything I should weigh in on?”

“That depends,” Yuri said. “What do you say, Lev?”

“Damn you, Leclerc.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Yuri asked, a hint of a smile in his voice. “I’m already damned.”

There was another moment of silence, almost long enough to make you wonder if the trio had somehow disappeared, before Lev swore under his breath and retreated past Yuri and Balthus, his feet pounding a cadenced thump, thump, thump as he stalked down the stairs.

“Balthus,” Yuri said when Lev’s footsteps were completely lost. “Would you mind making sure our friend makes it out of the city without doing anything reckless?”

“Think he might?” Balthus asked.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Yuri responded, his voice was more honest than with Lev. He sounded tired. “I sure as hell didn’t think he would make a move like this just yet.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him.” Balthus paused. “What, uh, should I do if he tries anything?”

“Take him to the Vanargand. I’m sure they’ll be hunting him down regardless.”

Balthus whistled. “That’s pretty cold, boss.”

“It’s far better than he deserves,” Yuri said, his voice dark. “If she died, I…”

“No need to explain. I get it, pal,” Balthus said, saving Yuri from having to continue. As badly as you didn’t want to know what Yuri was going to say, you very desperately did, too. “I’ll make sure he stays in line. You look like you could use some rest. Or a drink.”

Yuri laughed, the sound a bit lighter than before. “You might be right about that.”

“Of course I am,” Balthus said. “You don’t live as long as I have without catching wise to these things. I’ll be off, then.”

“Good luck,” Yuri said, “and don’t do anything stupid. There’s only so much I can handle in one night.”

“Hah!” Balthus called, trampling right back down the hallway. “That big brain of yours will burst into flames if you keep on worrying about everything, pal. Better call it quits before you ruin that cute face with wrinkles.” Yuri laughed.

Realizing that Balthus leaving would mean Yuri would finally enter the room, you threw the blankets off of yourself and sat up. It hurt like hell, it felt like every single inch of your body was bruised, right down to the bone, but it was doable after the sickening dizziness passed.

You didn’t particularly want to get up, but you didn’t want to stick around and have the conversion you knew Yuri would start, either.

The way Yuri worried made your chest clench. You didn’t dare name it discomfort, but the feeling was awfully close. It was Yuri’s growing intensity that you noticed first. The way he’d get when other men got too close to you, the pointed questions he’d ask about your interactions with other people. How he worried when you had to travel or interact with people he didn’t trust, insisting that you tell him every single detail about what you were doing. Worse, the times when he seemed to know things he shouldn’t, things you didn’t tell him.

It was because of the promise he had made to your brother, he said, to keep you safe. Yuri valued the men under his command, and your brother had been a close comrade of his. And you bought it at first because your brother had always been protective, but Yuri’s behavior was different. He wasn’t your brother, but neither did you get the impression you were friends. Friends weren’t suffocatingly overprotective. Not friends, but not anything more, either. He never flirted with you as he did with everybody else, as he had before. Not even in a playful, teasing way. The tighter hold he kept on you, the more and more he maintained a distance.

Lev called you Yuri’s precious pet, and that struck too close to home. You hated it. You weren’t a child —you weren’t even a teenager anymore— and yet Yuri acted like you were made of glass. Like you couldn’t be trusted to look after yourself, like you were… Like you were a pet.

That’s why you had agreed to Lev’s job in the first. You wanted to change the dynamic the two of you had. You figured that if he saw that you weren’t as weak as he feared, that you were just as capable as the men in his gang, that he’d stop being so intensely and oppressively protective. But if he was willing to give Lev up to the torture the Vanargand gang would inflict on him for the sin of endangering you, you didn’t think it had been at all effective. Actually, it made sense that your near-death and horrible failure would have the opposite effect.

Steading yourself, you searched the room for your shoes. Someone, and you didn’t dare to think of who, had changed you into what you were pretty sure were Yuri’s clothes. While it made sense considering your own were probably nothing more than blood soaked rags, you weren’t incredibly comfortable with wearing his things. The smell alone was nearly overwhelming, but the level of intimacy it implied was something you didn’t dare consider. Even worse that you should wake up in his bed. His bed that was obviously big enough for two people, a bed that he had probably had company in because he was attractive and desirable and… And you couldn’t find your shoes.

“What are you doing?” Yuri asked. The door shut behind him, the metal latch clicking.

It occurred to you that while you’d been having a micro-meltdown, Yuri had probably been standing there watching.

“Leaving,” you responded, trying to maintain a neutral expression despite the way your voice cracked. That brave attempt fell apart with the way you burst into a coughing fit a moment later, hacking up sharp bursts of air against your scratched up throat, each breath sending aching pulses of pain against your bruised side.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Yuri scolded, rushing to the bedside table to pour you some water. So considerate, always. Guilt rose up within you. After he saved you, how could you be so rude and ungrateful? You knew he cared. He was your hero.

You averted your streaming eyes and took a few slow, careful sips from the cup as Yuri took a seat on the desk chair, sitting the wrong way with his arms draped over the chair’s back.

“Drink this, too,” he said, handing you a vial. You uncapped it to take a sniff it, wincing at the astringent scent.

“What is it?” you asked.

“It’ll help with the pain,” he said. You nodded, grateful for the idea of that, and pinched your nose to down the vial. It was exactly as disgusting as it smelled. At the very least, it wiped the smell of Yuri from your head for a spell. “You should lay back down,” he recommended. “Magic can only do so much to heal your wounds. Not to mention that you’ve had a hell of a shock. Honestly, after what happened, I’m surprised you managed to get upright. You’re full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?”

The implication, the reminder of what you’d done in such a banal tone, made you wince. Guilt or shame or embarrassment, you didn’t know. “I’m fine,” you said, staring at the floor rather than meet his eyes.

“It’s cute that you can say that with a straight face,” Yuri said. “Seriously, you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled sarcastically, an instinctually petulant reaction to the way he treated you, “But I really am capable of taking care of myself.”

He didn’t even grace that with a serious answer, rolling his eyes. “Obviously.”

“I can’t stay here,” you said.

“You can,” Yuri told you, “and you will. You’ve lost a lot of blood and I don’t need a dead body on my doorstep. It’s bad for business.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Yuri said. You met his eyes, frowning as you tried to figure out what he was thinking, what he was feeling. He sighed, likely reading the further arguments you were going to make in the way you looked at him. “I’ve had a long night dealing with your mess. Stop being a fool and do what I say.” “Or what?” you muttered, looking away again as you fought against the guilt. He didn’t own you, you weren’t even one of his men. He couldn’t order you around.

“Or I’ll make you,” Yuri said bluntly. “I doubt that’ll pleasant for either of us.”

That answer sent a shiver down your spine, whatever complaints you had been trying to maintain drying up on your tongue because you kind of believed him. His cold, cruel tone of voice when dealing with Lev was still all too clear in your mind. Besides, he was right. He was usually right. That didn’t help the terrible sensation of being treated like a child, like an invalid.

Avoiding his eyes, you set aside your cup and did what he said, tucking your feet back under the covers, leaning down against the pillows. It was a lot easier on your aching side, better for the splitting headache gathered up behind your right temple.

“Did you save me?” you asked after a moment, staring at the quilted pattern.

“Yeah,” Yuri responded, his voice unreadable.

“And you healed me?”

“What do you think?”

It had been a dumb question. You couldn’t imagine Yuri letting anyone else see that much of your bare skin to heal those wounds. All the same. “You don’t have to be rude, I was just clarifying,” you told him with a frown.

“Right, right, sorry. I just about forgot myself,” Yuri said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “What I meant was that I was the one who rushed to your rescue and healed your wounds, fair maiden. Is that better?”

You frowned, refusing to be amused by his antics. Despite the joking tone Yuri took, those words set you on edge. He hardly ever teased you like that anymore, now it just felt off. “Who changed my clothes?”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Yuri asked. Was there amusement in his tone? At your embarrassment? You could feel that your cheeks were hot and hoped desperately that he couldn’t tell. “Well,” he shrugged apologetically, “it’s not like I had much of a choice and I couldn’t put you to bed in dirty clothes…” Yuri looked up to meet your horrified eyes, smiling. “Kidding. I do have some honor. I asked the landlady to help me out. Your virtue is intact.”

Virtue. You swallowed hard on that word, drinking the last of the water. Your thoughts were beginning to fuzz, becoming less clear. It made it harder to refocus after being caught off guard by his teasing. The pain wasn’t as crisp, more of a background ache rather than an insistent thud. That was distracting, too. You knew that, for some reason, he wanted to fluster you. But you couldn’t let him distract you, nor could you let your embarrassment deter you. So, clenching your fists, you looked up and met his eyes.

“Thank you for saving me,” you said carefully. “I’m… I’m sorry for inconveniencing you.”

Yuri didn’t answer right away, staring you down in his unnervingly piercing way. The intensity of his eyes was uncomfortable, but it was undercut with the swirling storm of concern amidst the individual strands of purple pigment, the void-like pool of pupil. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he said carefully. And that was honest, genuine. He looked so tired. He sounded tired.

“I owe you. Twice, for saving me and healing me,” you said, forcing the words out in as business-like of a tone as you could manage. They were slurred, slightly. Had he given you a sedative? Or was this just normal exhaustion finally taking you out? “So tell me how you would like to be repaid, and I’ll see that it’s done.”

Yuri’s head fell to the side in confusion, like the question threw him off guard. Good. “Excuse me, what?”

“That’s how it is in your world,” you replied. “Our world. Right?”

“Our world?” Yuri asked, his expression retreating into a mask.

“The real world. Altruism doesn’t exist. When someone does something for you, there’s always a price. If I want to be taken seriously, I can’t keep being naïve about that.”

“That’s pretty cynical of you.” Was it just you or did he sound sad about that fact?

“You taught me well.”

“Not well enough,” he said, frowning as his eyes lingered on the bruises. He sighed. “So, I take it that that’s why you went? You want to be taken seriously?”

“Yes,” you said slowly, surprised that he’d be able to cut to the heart of it so quickly. Then again, it shouldn’t have been that surprising. Yuri was all too good at that.

“Word to the wise,” Yuri told you. “Never act unless success is guaranteed. If you want to be taken seriously, you have to have results to show for it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said.

“And another thing,” Yuri added. “Never give out open ended favors. Not even to people you trust. You might not like it when they call to collect.”

“But I know you wouldn’t want anything bad from me,” you said, frowning and unsure if he was implying what you thought he was. He couldn’t be, not Yuri. Not to you.

“Is that a fact?” he asked. “I could be helping you simply to get one of those incredibly enticing open favors. Now I’ve got two of them, I wonder what I could ask for…”

“I’m being serious,” you said.

“You think I’m not?” Yuri smiled at you like he knew all the secrets in the world, like you’d never catch him without the trickster’s mask or even guess at what he had hidden beneath. But then your reply was eaten by a mostly stifled yawn that tugged hard at your sore jaw and all pretense fell away to the concerned expression you knew so well from him. “Alright, enough of that. You look like you’re about to pass out. Get some sleep. I’ll watch over you, yeah?” he offered, flipping the chair around so he could sit directly at the bedside.

You couldn’t argue with that, yawning again. It hit you all at once, it seemed. You were passing out, the need for sleep becoming more and more pressing with each breath. “Next time,” you told him, your words slurring like a drunk as you settled further down into the bed. Your body felt so heavy, the colors of the room smoothing out like butter, the smell that clung to the bedding and the clothes filling you with warmth. “Next time for sure, I’ll show you. Then I won’t owe you-” you yawned, again. This time you just gave up. He definitely had given you a sedative. Unfortunately, you were too far gone to be mad. Sleeping would be nice anyway. You were so tired.

“There won’t be a next time,” Yuri told you. There was something absolute in his tone, a hard edge that wasn’t to be questioned.

“Why?” you asked, trying to clench your fists to remain lucid for a moment longer. This question was important, important enough for you to fight against your heavy and scattered thoughts. “Why do you care... so much?”

“I don’t know,” Yuri said, his voice threadbare and exposed. He really looked so tired, so beautiful. He had more masks than anyone, but right then you didn’t think that it was a mask.

He didn’t know either.

Where did that leave you?

Floating, it seemed. Lavender and milk and shadow blurred in your vision, the colors of Yuri. Your eyes fluttered shut, filled with a kaleidoscope of him. The pain was gone, you couldn’t even find the passion to argue or to be mad or afraid or upset. It was enough to be safe, to be with him, to be warm.

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow you would get answers.

“You remind me of something I lost a long time ago,” Yuri said after a moment. It would have been too much to open your eyes or respond, so you just listened, marveling at the way his voice created the words, the way it caressed them. Had you really never noticed how delicious his voice was? You could lose yourself in it, you thought. “Something even I can’t steal for myself,” Yuri continued, “something more precious than a Heroes Relic. As long as I can preserve that, I can live with the consequences.”

You didn’t fight when he grabbed your hand from where it had fallen on the comforter, pulling it up into both of his. Yuri’s hands were rough, his fingers narrow and long and nice. They were scarred and bloodstained. They held yours gently, tenderly.

“Heh, maybe I’m a coward to tell you now. I doubt you’ll remember this by tomorrow.”

“I’ll remember,” you mumbled mindlessly, your eyes remaining closed. How could you forget this warmth? The beauty of the colors in your head, the feeling of his touch.

Yuri pressed his cheek against your hand. The skin was soft, warm. “Maybe you will. You certainly deserve my honesty. But after tonight... Maybe it’s too late to anyway. I tried so hard to protect you, even from myself.” He laughed, a humorless puff of air against your knuckles. “Especially from myself. Sometimes I can’t help but think that it’s inevitable that everything and everyone who becomes close to me will be stained by the association. I didn’t want to see that shine in your eyes become dull. This cruel, cynical world destroys everything of value, but not you.” He paused, thinking. You drifted, the words rolling over you without sticking, without meaning. His voice was so lovely. “But you’re wrong, you know,” Yuri continued after a while, pulling you back. “Things done out of love don’t have a price. You don’t owe me anything, you never have.”

Yuri’s lips brushed over your knuckles, a kiss over each ridge, before one of his hands untangled itself. You leaned into the feeling of his calloused fingertips on your warm cheek, pushing your hair out of the way as they caressed your face. Even in your vague stupor, the touch was enough to make your eyes open. Half-lidded, your sight hazy. Yuri glowed in the candlelight.

A smile tugged at the corner of his pink lips, a melancholic expression. So sad. Did he always look so sad? So beautiful? It made your heart ache, a hollow, faraway feeling.

“Hey,” he said, meeting your eyes. You attempted a smile in return, a dozing, drunken, delirious smile. “If I told you tomorrow that I loved you, would you take me as I am?” You hummed. A yes, maybe, no. He was still stroking your face, holding your hand. You couldn’t recall the last time you’d been touched like this. Not since you were a child, you didn’t think. So nice, so soft. “That’s the problem, I don’t know. And I… I don’t act unless victory is assured. If I make a move and lose you for good…” He squeezed your hand, his eyes closing. “I don’t want to lose you. Not to the whims of the cruel world and not by corrupting you with my black heart.” Your eyes closed again, his words becoming lost in your fascination with his voice. Yuri’s fingers left your cheek, returning to wrap around your hand. “Even if can never have you,” he said, a soft resolution in his voice, “it’ll be okay as long as you’re safe. And I know that you’ll be safe as long as you stay with me.”

[imagine-loki]

Everyone's Problem

TITLE: Everyone’s Problem CHAPTER NO./ONE-SHOT: One-shot AUTHOR: fanfictrashdump ORIGINAL IMAGINE: After the Chitauri attack on New York, imagine Loki being sentenced to public service on Earth, specifically in aiding people who got hurt during the attack. His magic has been limited to only be enough to aid keeping Odin’s spell in place so he wouldn’t turn blue. His task is to help people with special needs, to do house chores, help them get around, do their grocery and keep them company while they recover. He is assigned to a girl who ended up blind after one of the Chitauri shot at her. + Imagine HYDRA has been quietly watching Loki living a quiet life on Earth. They decide it’s finally time to bring him into the fold. It doesn’t exactly work out the way they intended. RATING: T

NOTES/WARNING: Hi, y'all! I haven’t written in a fair while, so I did a quick little one-shot with Charlie to get myself back into shape. It’s probably rough, but cut me some slack! If you’re interested in reading other Charlie stories (there’s a bunch!), you can find them on my masterlist here. Language, mentions of violence, attacks and blood, one v angry human, and typos probably.

XX

“Loki, it’s a stomach ache. It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.” Charlie remarked for the fiftieth time that morning as she gently shoved the darling Asgardian she called a boyfriend away from her.

Loki huffed for about the same number time. “According to your interweb healers, it could be an autoimmune disorder, an ulcer or gastric cancer! Forgive me if I’m a little worried about–”

“WebMD is not a qualified physician, Loki Odinson! Settle. The fuck. Down!”

Though her tone was no-nonsense, a smile was tugging at the left corner of her plump lips, evidence that she was not nearly as cross as she portrayed herself to be. When she brushed past him, Loki circled his arms around her waist and tugged her into his body, peppering her face with kisses as she made noises of weak protest. Despite his best advances (and really, he was doing his best work here) her laughter began to trickle down and out of existence.

“Loki, stop,” she said firmly, though he was only half listening.

“Stop!” The Prince froze, holding her loosely in his arms. Her tone wasn’t exactly what had caused her to stop his affectionate attack, though. It was the fact that her whole frame had stilled, and her eyes danced from spot to spot as she concentrated on something. “Can you hear that?”

Loki tilted his head and focused. It took a moment, as out of practice in paranoia as he was, but eventually he heard the very distinct pounding of military-grade rubber on linoleum. “Boots.” Quietly, he righted himself, taking silent, measured steps around the furniture, leading Charlie along with him. “Come on. Bedroom. Quickly.”

No sooner had he gotten those words out, the front door slammed open, leaving Charlie to yelp behind him, a handful of his gray heather t-shirt keeping her anchored to his frame. As Loki saw it, there were three men in the immediate vicinity, waving odd-looking guns that bore the signature of the Chitauri. These were not aliens, though. They were humans, who somehow found a way to retrofit the technology to make more powerful weapons. Many had been foolish enough to try it throughout the years, but only one entity bore the skull and tentacled monster on their insignia.

HYDRA.

This was definitely not a great time to still be without magic.

At once, he tried to school the rhythm of his heart, knowing that Charlie was distinctly in tune with the beat and would worry if it seemed like he was in a panic. With delicate fingers, he stroked at her curls, intending to burrow into his side. “Put your arm around me, tuck your head in, don’t let go. Got it?”

She offered little resistance to the order, humming her consent and wrapping her arm tightly around his torso. The feeling gave him comfort, funnily enough, that he was still the warrior that he had trained to be in his youth, despite having lived like a spoiled house cat for the last couple of years. Where in his youth there was glory and blood to be won, today there was only one objective–keep Charlie safe. Loki moved the second the intruders set their scopes on him. Reaching to his left, he grabbed a handful of kitchen knives which would have to do in this pinch and engaged with a growl.

Charlie whimpered, her legs struggled to keep up with his. She could not anticipate his movement and was mostly just being pushed and pulled around the floor while Loki seemed to be skillfully weaving like he was dancing. It also didn’t help that with every jerk of her body and awkward moment, there was the sickening sound of injury filling her ears. In one very distinct occasion, she could feel the breaking of some sort of bone reverberate through her own hand as Loki delivered a blow. Surely, it would be a lot easier for Loki to fight if he didn’t have to worry about Charlie behind him, and the awkward shuffle he had to do to make sure she was never exposed to any of these intruders took significant mental acuity.

When the three in the room had been dealt with, Loki reached for one of their weapons and Charlie’s mobile. He wasted to no time in moving them back through the bedroom door and locking it. Surely, more men would come.

“Stark!”

“Loki, I am, er, dealing with something right now!” The sound of bullets and flying mortar filled the line along with FRIDAY’s voice in the suit. “I’ll need to call you back!”

“Loki.” Charlie’s voice was small and trembling beside him.

Sighing, Loki wrapped his free arm around her and pulled Charlie into his chest. “I have you, love. Don’t worry.”

His lips pressed into her crown. A little bit of battle had shaken away the rust of his instincts and he could feel the distinctive prickle of enemies closing in. He prayed quietly to any entity that would bear to hear his prayers that they would be left alone. There was more noise beyond the door and Loki was left to coo Charlie into silence. He understood her fear, everything to her was a surprise, doubly so when she was scared and couldn’t bring herself to concentrate on her surroundings.

“I’m going to need you to run to the bathroom and lock yourself there, dove.”

Her hazel eyes zeroed in on him with rage-filled acuity. “You’re insane if you think I’m leaving you.”

“Darling, I cannot protect you if I’m busy minding you from getting hurt!”

Her eyes widened. There was panic in her empty gaze if the fidgeting of her fisted hands was anything to go by and it pained him to think that he could not even offer her an empty promise. “No, please! Please, don’t leave me. I–I can’t deal with it if you’re not with me.”

Loki smiled, sighing at the sweet ache of her words on his heart, and cupped her cheeks, dusting them with speckles of others’ blood. “You are braver than this, Charlotte Camden.” His thumbs brushed over her bronzed cheekbones affectionately. “I know you are. So you go and keep yourself safe and I will–”

The bedroom door rammed open with a deafening crash of cracked wood and rained splinters over the couple.

“Go! Go now!”

Charlie reluctantly disengaged, taking a running leap towards the bathroom door and slammed it behind her. Her ear pressed up against the wood to hear the scuffling. It sounded like a bigger force had come in and Charlie swallowed the panicked yelp threatening to bubble up her throat. Loki was a great fighter, but without his magic there was little for him to do if he was incapacitated. All she could do was hope that he was faster, stronger, better than these intruders.

And that’s when she heard it.

His voice.

Screaming.

Screaming like he did when he had a nightmare.

Screaming like when he remembered the blood and gore that he caused and the damage he had done.

Screaming like when he discovered that the extent of his monstrosity went beyond a lineage he had been lied about and the fickle lies he had been fed by a tyrant.

And then she heard it again.

And again.

And again…

And just when she thought her heart could take no more, she heard a body thud onto the ground and the shuffling stop and she feared the worst.

And then her bracelets activated.

Nearly a year of having the damn things on her and she had forgotten that they served any purpose other than setting off the metal detectors everywhere she went. The nanites built up around her in one swift wave. It took Charlie a moment to orient herself back to the seeing world. The colors on the screen still gave her a headache, her eyes still were unfocused, but that was due to her nearsightedness more than anything else, but it was still usable. And the updates Tony had made to the AI over the years made it easy to navigate through the controls.

She kicked the door open at once. Five figures turned back to her while another three were trying to get Loki’s annoyingly heavy body onto a cot to wheel him away. There was blood on his shirt, wounds seeping the dark treacly liquid from stab wounds used to subdue him, he looked pale, but his chest was still moving air and he was muttering deliriously under his breath.

He was alive.

So every one of them now had to die.

The gauntlets whined as the blasters charged and knocked them clean out of their boots. She supposed Tony didn’t think she would ever try to blast anything at full power, but lo and behold her rage was transcendental. They tried to restructure, protect the ones trying to take Loki away while fighting her off. Bullets ricocheted off her armor, letting her forge forward, blasters pumping out energy and leaving a trail of crumpled bodies. Taking a run, her body propelled off the ground, landing with a loud thud just in front of the door and cutting off their escape.

“Put. Him. Down.”

Rifles came up to point at her. Seven in total. They fired in unison, and she raised her arms, flinching instinctually from the projectiles that were intent on ripping into her armor. Charlie’s teeth grit tightly as she waited for the jolt of bullets to knock her backwards. They never came.

I thought it might be helpful to unlock Loki’s magic from the bracelets, the AI spoke into her ear.

When she blinked up, a blanket of green held the bullets in place, swirling in the ether of his magic. Her breath caught. This was definitely not something Tony had mentioned the last time she went in for a tune-up. He had failed to mention that the dampener Loki wore, implanted just under the skin of his bicep was feeding directly into the nanites or that there was any way to access the power. What was stranger was that the magic even listened to her, in the first place. By Loki’s tales, it was untamable force and most sorcerers never got very far without proper instruction. This was most odd.

Guns cocked and reloaded, breaking her out of her reverie. With a flick of her fingers, the bullets turned and resumed their trajectory, delivered back to sender. Another flourish, she disposed of the ones carrying the medical backboard with Loki in it and he fell to the carpeted ground with a groan.

Headache in full swing, she ran to his side, pushing away bodies to fall to her knees beside him. Nanites receded from her hands to touch his cheek.

“Loki. Babe, look at me.”

A wry smile curled his lips. “I am. I’m just very tired.” He chuckled, ending it with a cough and a groan. “Well, that answers the question where has my magic gone all this time?” He blinked a little longer each time as the darkness threatened to drag him down.

“Don’t close your eyes. Please. I need to get you to Tony’s.”

He giggled a little deliriously. “Magic suits you, petal.”

“Jesus, I really do need to get you to Tony’s.” Nanites back over her hands, she pulled his long frame into her arms and heaved. Even with the armor, he was decidedly heavier than any human she had ever met. For a second, she debated going out the front door, but seeing as her apartment was pretty much totaled, anyway, she burst through a window and into the New York skyline.

X

Loki blinked awake to the sounds of Charlie berating someone to within an inch of their life. He smiled, settling back into the covers with a grin despite the obvious pain radiating from just under his ribs and the dull ache in his skull. He peeked an eye open to see Stark, actively cowering backwards, away from her tone, narrowly avoiding her walking cane whenever she gestured wildly.

“It would have been nice to know how to activate the damn thing before Loki got fucking stabbed or I felt absolutely sure that he was dead because you put in a life or death trigger on the damn suit! And don’t get me fucking started on the fact that I’ve been carrying Loki’s magic for the last year and had no fucking clue about it!”

“I’m sorry! I was trying to keep you from playing with the suit for funsies instead of–”

“WE ALMOST DIED AND YOU WERE BUSY WITH YOUR OWN HYDRA ASSHOLES! WHAT WERE WE SUPPOSED TO DO? WAIT FOR YOU TO GET YOUR ASS KICKED BEFORE–”

“Charlie, love,” Loki hoarsed, and the tirade immediately quieted. Charlie rushed over to the bedside, briefly tripping over a chair leg before clambering onto his cot and covering his face with kisses. “Dove, I’m bound to be disgusting at the moment,” he protested weakly, but still pulled her closer by the waist.

“I don’t care. I love you.”

“I love you, too. My savior.” He cupped her face in his hands, absorbing the warmth from her beaming smile. “Glorious. Truly glorious.” He ran his fingers through her curls, bringing them back into shape from their crumpled form. Clearly she had been sleeping here with him and not necessarily keeping up with brushing–that was usually his task, anyway–but her crumpled clothes and dark circles under her eyes belied the worry she felt for him. It made his stomach warm several times over.

“I found your magic.”

He chuckled. “I recall. You can keep it safe for me.” He looked briefly at Tony who was pretending not to smile in the corner. “Do we know what happened?”

“Looking for you, buddy boy. They were a little disappointed you couldn’t do the hocus pocus stuff, but they caught onto the problem pretty quick.”

“I’m the problem,” Charlie muttered, snuggling into his side.

“Mmm, what a lovely problem to have,” he whispered before kissing her crown.

“Look, I’ll talk to your old man and see if we can’t get your sparkles and pixie dust ban lifted–”

“Don’t bother. I can teach Charlie how to use magic if you give her access. He said I couldn’t use seidr, not that I couldn’t teach someone else to wield it.”

Tony looked apprehensive, wincing slightly at the suggestion. “You sure you want to give Live Wire there that kind of ammunition?”

“Oh, if they don’t want to allow me to use my power, that is fine. But I am making her everyone’s problem. Aren’t I, sweet?”

Charlie simply snickered, leaving Tony to groan loudly as he stepped out of the hospital room.

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Mages Don’t Meddle

Rating: M

Genre: Angst/Mild Fluff

Word count: 16091

Summary: In a world where magic users must fear each other, Baz Pitch, a British born hex hiding in the 19th century American southwest, is just trying to stay alive. But when he meets a fellow British hex, his world is turned upside down in the most awful, amazing ways possible. PLEASE READ FIRST AUTHOR'S NOTE!!!!

Read on AO3

AN: Alright some of you may know that my favourite book series of all time is The Hexslinger Series by Gemma Files. It’s a gory but brilliant horror/dark fantasy weird western trilogy about gay cowboy wizards fighting Aztec gods. (It's also where my AO3 username comes from). I've been writing this AU on and off for like two years now lol. So when I saw this event, I saw it as motivation to finally finish it. And I did! Idk how many people are gonna like this, considering the obscurity of the books. The mythos is a bit complicated so here are the basic rules of the Hexslinger world:

1. Magic users exist, called "hexes" or "hexslingers” by most English speakers. They’re commonly known of and feared by some humans because of their immense, usually unstable power. Their magic is usually called "hexation" and a common descriptor for anything to do with them is "hexacious." Being a hex can either be passed down from parent to child or appears randomly. Most are children of a hex man and a human woman as pregnancy for a hex woman can be very risky to mother and child, but it's still possible.

2. Hexes aren’t usually born having magic. Their powers manifest at some point later in their lives except in very rare circumstances. For women it usually appears after their first period, while for men it’s usually after some sort of grievous bodily harm, e.g getting hanged or beaten. Before manifestation, some hexes show no sign of magic at all, while others have hints like perfect aim or weirdly good luck. It depends on the person and their power level.

3. Hex magic varies between people based on personality, culture, family history, and power level/type. For example, an experienced Chinese born hex with refined power will have a very different kind of magic than a newly manifested American born hex with more chaotic power. (That’s literally just from the original books lol.) Even hexes similar in multiple aspects can be completely different in the way their magic is expressed.

4. The only universal trait between hexes is that they all have the urge to feed off each other’s magic. They’re like magic vampires (wink wink). If they get too close to each other, they have the immediate urge to absorb the other's power and kill them. It’s completely instinctual and very hard to resist. Hence why hexes can’t be around each other. Or, to use the common phrase from the universe, “mages don’t meddle.”Okay that's the basics. There's A LOT of other stuff but I think that's all you need to know for this fic imo.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: So there's some period typical racism scattered around due Baz being brown in the 19th century American south. It's not too harsh imo but I still want to warn people. I hope I handled it alright, considering I'm a white af Canadian Irish-Jew, but if I didn't I'm very sorry. There's also a bit of period typical homophobia at the start. The closest I get to slurs is the use of "red" and "Indian" in reference to Indigenous people, "queer" in a negative context, references to sand because Baz says he's Egyptian, and Baz being called "darker folk." I felt it would be disingenuous to not include bigotry of the past and pretend things would be all okay for a queer POC like Baz. Especially since Hexslinger itself has major themes of homophobia, racism, and not being accepted in the majority of society. A few mentions of suicide, self harm, and torture too in relation to hex powers emerging too, which is also major in Hexslinger. The series itself is pretty brutal and dirty with lots of bigotry, blood, guts, and death. So those elements have gotten in here. There is some flesh burning stuff but I don't think it's that graphic, feels pretty typical for Carry On imo. Hopefully this all works well/makes sense.

As always, big thanks to Raegan of @carryonmylovelies Now with that all out of the way, enjoy!

———————————————

I gingerly take a sip of my whiskey. It's a horrible rotgut shite, but there’s worse stuff out in the wild west. This Slipfoot Joe’s seems to be okay by my now very, very low standards for this area.

“Well well, if it ain’t a pretty red boy,” the man behind me croons. His voice makes evey inch of my skin crawl.

I let out a deep sigh. I’ve been expecting this, but I’m still not pleased. “Piss off, arsehole.”

“Oh! Didn’t know Indians could sound English!”

“I’m British Egyptian, you twit.”

The man leans on the bar, smiling wide. It’s easier to count the few teeth he has than guess how many he’s lost. “What brings your sandy ass to our great country?”

The Call. The unending Call that signals all of us to come here.

I take another long sip. “Your gorgeous face, obviously. How much do you charge? I’ve heard American men are cheaper here than in England.”

The man reels back scowling. “You think I’m some queer?!”

“Well, I assumed so. Considering you were just flirting with me, a man.”

He snarls, whipping out his pathetic little pistol. The barrel shakes nonstop. “You got some nerve, boy!”

I finish the whiskey and delicately place the glass rim first on the filthy bar. “And you’re a racist bastard. You don’t see me getting all pissy.”

The gunshot happens in slow motion for me. I don’t even need to turn. I simply hold one hand in front of me and let my magic pour from me like a dragon’s breath. It curls out in front of me, a circle of blacks and charcoal greys and burning scarlets. Every hex’s magic is different. Mine is like a constant roaring fire, always threatening to consume me.

The bullet hits the shield with a tinny clink. Racist Man is frozen with wide, terrified eyes. I turn to him, orange and red reflecting in my grey eyes.

“You- You’re... a hex?!” He splutters.

“Thought that was pretty bloody obvious. Now go, before I drink your blood.”

Racist Man and his buddy scamper out of the tavern. I let the force field dissipate, crackling and popping in the air like a dying campfire. Joe, the bartender and eponymous Slipfoot, sighs as he cleans another glass.

“You know,” Joe says, “I’ve met other hexes. They’re stupid reckless assholes but they ain’t ever drank blood. Just suck each other’s magic.”

I chuckle. “Well they don’t know that, do they?”

“No, lucky for you. What’s a Brit like you even doin’ here anyway?”

My mouth presses into a thin line. I envy him. He can't hear The Call from that damned Hex City. I heard it all the way in Washington, and before I knew it I was on a train southeast. The only reason I haven’t actually gone to the horrid place is sheer stubbornness.

“I’m a hex. Where else would I be going?”

Joe freezes. He stares at me with more concern than fear. “I’d be careful, son. Those hexes I met? One of them was Reverend Rook himself. He’s beyond bad news, ‘specially with that heathen goddess by his side.”

“I know.” I trace my finger on the old wood, trying to focus on that instead of the ringing in my head. “But what choice do I have?”

———————————————

1867, two years after America’s bloody civil war, and it seems they’re about to be plunged into a new one. Except it won’t be slavery versus abolition this time, but humans versus magic. 

The news has spread like wildfire. In the final days of the war, a confederate soldier and unofficial chaplain named “Reverend” Asher Rook was sentenced to hang for abandoning his regiment. But he survived, and the suffering of the ordeal caused his hex powers to emerge. Rumour has it one Bible verse from his lips can level an entire town. Rook decided to use his new powers to steal and murder his way through the west, aided by his ruthless gunslinging lieutenant (and rumoured lover) Chess Pargeter.

He should’ve been just another hex outlaw for those American Pinkertons to take down. But somehow, a mere month ago, Rook made a pact with an Aztec goddess. And together they’ve created New Azteclan, or Hex City to the common man. According to the magical homing signal I hear, that every hex hears, it’s a place where hexes can lose their insatiable urge to feed off each other’s magic. We’ll no longer have to be loners by nature, picked off one by one by humanity. We could be together. We could be safe.

But at what cost? Nothing in life comes without a cost. I know that too well. My magic cost me my home, my family, and a good part of my sanity. I’d do anything to not be a danger to others anymore. And the possibility is right there. All I need to do is go further south and cross the border into Mexico to reach Hex City. But once I do that, there’s no going back. The temptation of the Call will be too strong. And whatever price The Reverend wants, he’ll get it from me.

I sit at the fire, chewing on some absolutely horrific jerky. I’m trying to focus on the flames instead of the voice in my head. I’m not sure whose it is. Maybe Rook’s, maybe his witch goddess’. It doesn’t have a discernible tone, just sort of an indistinct everyman sound, or a thousand voices speaking the same thing. Either way, it’s very annoying.

Come, it whispers. Come seek out Ixchel, the Mother of Hanged Men. Come stand before Her priest-king, to offer up your service. Come to build the First City of the Sixth World- the world of wonder, the world of power. Come, and join New Azteclan.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I shout into emptiness, slamming the side of my head with my fist.

“I haven’t said anything yet,” someone replies weakly.

I bolt up. My magic roars to life inside me, a fireball forming in the palm of my hand. “Who said that?!”

The man slowly steps out of the darkness. He must be no older than myself, with his young, round freckled face. He has curly bronze hair, capped by an old second hand cowboy hat. His brown leather coat, plaid shirt, riding boots, and jeans are all filthy with desert dirt. A horse with saddle bags stands behind him. His blue eyes are wide and nervous. I notice a smell on him. Like green fire and smoke, with a strong scent of something brown and sweet. He smells like something I would gladly eat.

He’s a hex.

“Don’t you dare come any closer, you prick,” I say between gritted teeth. “I won’t hesitate to burn you to a crisp.”

The other boy shakes his head. “I’m not here to drain you. I...I just wanted to ask for some help.” He sounds British like me, but more rough and nervous, stumbling over his words.

“Yeah, right. Do I look that gullible? ‘Mages don’t meddle.’ We’d all drain each other dry if we were given the chance.”

He sighs heavily. “Well, of course I want to by instinct, but I’m not going to. I was just wondering if you had any food. All of mine got stolen by some angry humans.”

I consider just turning him away, or draining his magic and leaving his dried out corpse for the vultures. But he looks so desperate. How long has this young man been out here alone? My aunt had always warned me to be wary of all other hexes. We’re a bloodthirsty species, Basil. Never trust another hex, ever. Not even me. But I’m not my aunt.

I sit down again. “Fine. You can have some jerky. Just don’t come too close alright? I’d like to keep my magic and soul where they are, please.”

The man smiles (he has a nice smile) and sits opposite me at the fire. I throw a bag of jerky, and he catches in one hand. He shoves it in his mouth like a ravenous animal.

“So,” I say, “what’s your name?”

“Simon Snow,” he rep;ies, mouth still half full. “Your’s?”

“Baz Pitch.” Simon chuckles a bit, and I frown. “What’s so funny?

“Well, Baz Pitch is a pretty ridiculous name.”

“No more ridiculous than Simon Snow,” I snap. “What, were you named by circus performers?”

“Maybe. Not sure, actually.” Snow looks at the fire, but it feels like he’s looking right through it, his gaze very far away.

“Why’s that?”

Simon shakes his head. “Hey, are you going to Hex City?”

I huff, blowing some loose, dirty hair out of my eyes. I’m too tired to stop him from changing the subject. “I don’t know. Are you?

He shrugs. “Maybe. So far I am. The stories and Call do make it sound so wonderful.”

I scoff loudly. “Of course they do. Rook wants people to come. Then we’ll get there and be sacrificed to his bloodthirsty goddess. That’s probably what happened to Pargeter. No one’s heard from him lately, according to the locals.”

“But we’ll lose the hunger! What if the Reverend just wants us to be safe? Y’know, as a kindness to his own people.”

“No one does anything out of kindness, Snow. Least of all hexes.”

“You gave me food out of kindness, didn’t you?”

I glare at him over the flames. He shrugs with a faint smile. Fuck. He has a really nice smile.

 “I’m going to sleep,” I mutter. “But I’m putting a shield around me. Touch it and you’ll be burned alive. So don’t get any ideas about taking my magic.”

Simon throws his hands up in innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I lay down on my pallet, throwing up my force field. The crackle and hiss of magic around me distracts from the beautiful mage no more than seven feet from me. Whom I’m not sure I want to kiss or kill. Maybe both.

———————————————

I wake when the sun's centre in the sky. I’m breathing, so this Simon Snow hasn’t drained me dry. That’s good, I guess. 

I sit up bleary eyed. Snow is passed out on his own cot, drooling profusely with his mouth wide open (mouth breather). He’s put up his own shield, of course, (at least he’s somewhat sensible). It sort of looks like an electrical explosion, white bolts constantly combusting around him in bubble form. He smells so powerful. It’s taking all of my willpower to not hurt him. To not submit to my basic hex desires.

I take my sweet time to pack my things and douse the fire pit, secretly hoping Simon will wake up before I run out of excuses. Luckily, with a very loud snort, Snow bolts upwards. There’s terror in his eyes, and his breath is uneven and shallow. I know that look. I’m no stranger to nightmares myself.

“A good morning to you, Snow,” I say.

Simon lets out a long breath, waving a hand to dissolve his shield. “You didn’t kill me.”

“And you didn’t kill me. What a miracle.”

“I’ll say. Are you leaving?”

“Obviously.”

“Where to?”

I sigh heavily. “Well, my map says, there’s a town southeast from here. I haven’t been there before but it probably isn’t too bad. I was going to hide there for at least a bit.”

Simon picks at his nail beds, even though they’re already ragged and bloody. “Can I...can I come with you? I haven’t been around anyone in so long, y’know. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to”

I look at him with the most neutral gaze I can muster. “Are you going to kill me?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t killed you yet, have I?”

“There’s still time.”

Simon stands up, brushing the dust off his pants. “Alright, then I’ll make myself very clear. Baz, I’m not going to kill you. I’m not going to fight you at all, alright?”

I must admit that I’ve been lonely these few months in the desert. Hell, I’ve been lonely for the past few years. I’ve actually missed the company of others. But it’s not like humans or hexes want to be around me. Except for this one, it seems. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. If we don’t kill each other first that is.

“Alright, fine. Just don’t try anything or I’ll burn you from the inside out.”

Simon keeps smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

We mount our horses and ride off. I try to keep my eyes ahead instead of on Snow.

———————————————

“I can’t believe the food here,” Snow says. “It’s so much more spicy than in the North.”

“We are closer to Mexico, Snow,” I reply. I’m trying to figure out our route, while also listening to Snow when he’s more than six feet away. The hunger is manageable from this distance. Mostly.

“Well, yeah, but it’s so insane! Why can’t the north people get some spice from here? It would make their chicken more tolerable. London street food was awful but at least it had some flavour!”

That makes me snort out a laugh no matter how much I try not to. Snow grins at me, and his face is literal sunshine. Why must he be so perfect? It’s not fair. “London street food? You mean fish and chips? Those aren’t half bad, if I’m remembering correctly.”

Snow’s tawny face gets a little pink. He rubs the back of his slightly sunburnt neck. “Y-Yeah, they weren’t too bad. Just...other stuff was terrible...”

“Like what?” It’s not late at night now. I’m less inclined to let his dodging go. Call me crazy, but I’d like to know about the man I’m travelling with.

“Um...” He looks down at his horse’s neck. “I-I lived on the London streets, literally, until I was old enough to work for room and board. Finding anyone who would house a hex though, that was a challenge.”

His laugh is tinny and hollow. My heart, or what dark horrible mass we hexes have in place of one, twists at the words. I wish I was surprised. His story is all too familiar.

“You don’t need to be ashamed,” I say firmly. “We all have our own rough pasts. It’s practically required for hexes, in my eyes.”

Snow doesn’t look up, but his (pretty) plain blue eyes flick over to me. “Really?”

I nod. “Yes, of course. Hexes are usually shunned and harmed. Finding one who hasn’t been in a dire situation is more rare.”

“Have you met a lot of hexes?”

“Some. Mostly, I’ve heard stories. Far too many are like your’s.”

“Is your’s?”

My grip on the reins is so tight my knuckles are going pale. Memories rush through my head no matter how much I want to stop them. The darkness, the pain, the fire, then the stench of burnt human flesh, all capped off by years of trying to survive on my own.

“Unfortunately, ye-”

“What the fuck?!”

Simon’s screech is ungodly in volume and tone. His horse lets out a similarly panicked bray. She bucks up, but can’t get very high with the red vines tangled around her legs.

“Oh fuck,” I hiss. I try to pull back my own horse, but his legs are similarly wrapped up. The vines circle up and around us. I kick and stamp them with all my might. The blood red flowers look like the gaping mouths of monsters.

“What the fuck are these things?!” Snow bellows. He tries to rear his horse back, but nearly throws himself backwards off his saddle instead. “Fucking shite!”

“Don’t do that, Snow, it won’t help!”

“Then what should I do?!” 

“Just stay still!”

Thankfully, Snow does as I say. Not thankfully, I’m not sure what to do. I know that human blood gets rid of the Weeds, but even if I count as human in this regard, you need a relatively large amount of it. So unless I want to pass out, I’ll need to think of something else. But what else can curb evil bloodthirsty Aztec plants?

“Baz!” Snow’s horse pancis the more the weeds wrap around her, which makes Snow panic in turn. He looks at me with desperate wide eyes. “Baz, do something!”

Oh, fuck it. I’ll solve this the way I solve my other problems.

I reach deep within myself, down to the flames that burn in what’s hopefully my soul, or at least what hexes have instead. I grab that power and let it out through my arm. Fire roars to life in the palm of my hand, and I unleash the full force of it on the Weeds. A tidal wave of blackened-red flames engulf the plants.

“Jesus Christ!” Simon shouts. The plants don’t burn per se, I’m not sure they even can. But they still shrink away from us. I keep pushing more magic out until they Weeds a good distance away. 

“Run,” I say, “now!”

Snow and I both wrench our horses 180 degrees and run like the wind. We ride fast and far with no destination, but we keep each other in sight. Only when my pulse is no longer hammering in my ears do I start to slow down. Snow follows, and eventually we stop near a large tree. All four of us are breathing hard.

“Bloody hell,” Snow says. “W-What the fuck were those?”

“Red Plague Weeds,” I reply, dismounting my horse. “They’ve been popping up all around here. No one knows where they come from, but we’re all pretty sure they have something to do with Rook and his witch goddess. Just like every other bizarre thing nowadays.”

“How come I haven’t seen them before in the towns?”

“Because the way to get rid of the Weeds permanently is blood, Snow.”

Snow’s eyes go wide with horror. “Blood? Any blood?”

I sadly shake my head. “No, only fresh human blood. I’ve heard a bowl full collected from the townsfolk is good enough. I don’t even know if hex blood counts. No one’s ever tried, as far as I know. We’re extremely lucky we got away.”

“So I gathered,” Snow sighs. “Now what? We’ve gone a good way backwards now, if I had to guess.”

“Agreed. We’ll have to try and move around the Weeds. If we’re lucky, the town will still be reachable.”

“No one has ever called hexes lucky.”

We both laugh a little. Sometimes laughter is the only way to deal with our horrible existences. I pull the waterskin out of my bag and take a deep, long drink. “Let’s stay here for a moment, though. That blast took a lot out of me.”

“Y-Yeah, that makes sense. Um, I’ll just...”

He turns his horse to the side, trotting away from me. My stomach drops out. Where’s he going? Am I going to be alone again? I’ve only been with Snow for one day. That’s nothing compared to the last two years I’ve been on my own. But now I can’t imagine going back to that crushing, never ending loneliness.

“Heading out, Snow?” I keep my tone neutral, holding back the desperate tremor that threatens to bleed out. “Suppose I’ll see you around, then.”

Snow whips his head around. If I were a more hopeful person, I’d say he looks even more panicked than when we were tangled in the Weeds. “W-What? No, I was just gonna go a little further away...”

“Do I smell that bad?” I probably do. Hygiene is not a priority in these parts.

“No! The opposite, actually...” Snow looks to the side, a little red on his face. “You used a lot of magic before. I can still smell some of it. I, uh, want to keep my promise...”

Oh. Right. I should count myself lucky that he didn’t drain me the minute we stopped. “Yes, yes, of course, makes perfect sense.”

“Unless...you want me to go...”

I gulp down the massive lump in my throat. “Do you want to go, Snow?”

Snow scratches his neck. He points his thumb to the side. “I’ll be waiting over there, until we’ve both cooled down. Alright?”

I would never admit how much relief that brings me. “Alright. We’ll set off again in an hour or so.”

“Okay.” Snow trots over to a good distance away. His brown, sweet smell still lingers in the air, but it fades just enough for me to rest properly. I sit back against the tree, drinking a good portion of my waterskin. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Snow doing the same. I try to not watch him. But it’s very, very hard.

———————————————

Nightfall hits before we reach the town. Snow can’t ride very fast, and I’m still more than a bit drained. So once again, I have to sit opposite the man who will most likely kill me soon.

He fidgets endlessly, picking at his nails and sleeve. It’s infuriating. He gnaws on the jerky like a crazed cat or something. I huff and shake my head. Snow looks up at me.

“What?” he says through a bite.

“Do you ever stop moving? We’ve been sitting here for over an hour and there hasn’t been a single moment of stillness from you.”

Snow snorts. “I don’t see how that affects you.”

“It’s annoying.”

He snorts again, but there’s a small smile now too. “Maybe this is the real reason hexes don’t interact. We're all arseholes.”

“That is hardly a hex thing, Snow. I’ve known humans and hexes alike that I can’t tolerate.”

“Am I one of them?

I hope my face doesn’t flush too hard. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

He chuckles quietly and goes back to eating his jerky, with far less fidgeting this time thankfully. We sit in silence for a while. I keep sneaking looks at him, then tearing my gaze away every time. The firelight makes Snow’s tawny skin almost glow and his bronze hair sparkle gold. He’s a constellation of moles and freckles. He’s a gorgeous mess. Just looking at him, I can almost forget that we’re supposed to be enemies.

“What part of England are you from anyway?” Snow asks through a mouthful of dried out meat.

“Hampshire. Though if you asked the people here, they’d say I’m from Buckingham bloody Palace.”

Snow throws his head back laughing. It’s a ridiculous, wonderful sound. “Damn true! I’ve lived on the streets of London for the past ten years and an American asked me if I’m related to the bloody queen! They have no idea about accent differences. They think every Brit is royalty.”

I freeze. Snow’s laughs slowly subside. He must notice the utter panic in my eyes. “You lived on the streets of London for a decade? That long?”

He pulls in, curling his thin body in on itself. This Simon is a hex like me, a terrifying being filled with unimaginable power, yet right now, he looks so...small. “Well, not the whole time. It’s been on and off. I found some places to live for a bit but they never lasted. Thank God for magic. Or thank the Devil, if the humans are right about us.”

He chuckles nervously. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, trying to hide the way his laugh makes me face heat up even more. “I guess so. It’s taken care of me since-”

There’s a crack. It’s small, far off, almost indistinguishable from the regular sounds of the desert, but it’s there. My aunt always said I have the ears of a bat. I swing my head around.

“What is it?” Snow says.

“Hush! I think I heard something.”

Slowly, I stand up, crouched over with my fists clenched. My magic sizzles and sparks inside me, begging to be used. I see Snow stand too at the edge of my vision.

“Die hex scum!”

The man launches himself out of the darkness, jagged knife in hand. He knocks me flat down to the ground. All the breath is forced out of me as my back hits the sand.

“Fuck!” I wheeze.

I push at him with both arms, thankfully keeping my pretty face out of his slashing range. He writhes and struggles like a rabid wolf. His dirty crazed smile, missing most of his teeth, looms over me. I recognise him.

“You,” I growl. “Did you really follow me all the way here from Slipfoot’s, you pig?!”

“Die!” He says that like it means absolutely anything, like I haven’t heard it a hundred times before.

Racist Man has no technique. He just screeches and flails with his knife. Aunt Fiona’s words come to my mind immediately. “Every self respecting hex needs to know how to defend himself, Basil.” She said just before pinning me to the ground in one move. I hook my leg around his and flip him onto his back. He gasps and lets out a rattling cough. I hover over him, knee on his chest, pinning his knife hand to the ground.

“You don’t deserve to live, you sand demon.” He spits at me, splashing against my cheek. I flick it off with ease.

“Such an original opinion.” I feel the fire blazing in my gut, threatening to consume myself and everything around me. “I should scorch off all your skin.”

“Course you would. All you hexes, just filthy murderers. No wonder y’all are fleeing to Rook’s heathen paradise. Your kind don’t belong around civilized folks.”

I growl again. First he despises my skin colour, then he thinks he knows anything about hexation. This bastard, so stupid and ignorant. We’re only monsters because we have to be. Because men like him come at us with knives and guns and nooses. There’s no holding the fire back. My hand heats up around his wrist. He screeches as his skin sizzles under my fingers. He drops the knife, but I don't stop. All my rage pushes out through my hand and onto his increasingly scorched skin.

“Get off me!”

I turn to see Simon, struggling against another man. His fingers spark and sputter uselessly as he pounds against the guy with a hand around his throat.

“Better save your man over there,” Racist Man hisses.

I give him one last good death stare. I see him shiver just slightly. At least he has some good sense. “Run fast and far. If you come near us again, so help me God I’ll melt through your entire brain.”

The look of terror in his eyes is enough of an answer. I jump off him and run towards Snow.

“Oi! Off him, now!” I roar.

The other man turns to look at me. He has the same crazed look as his friend. “Or what, you piece of devil shit?!”

“Or this.”

I turn to the fire. With only one hand outstretched, my magic wraps around it, and pushes my power into the very core. The flames shoot nine feet upwards, illuminating the vast dark in blinding light. I turn back to the terrified human. With one swing of my arm, the pillar slams into him. He’s sent flying in a shower of flames and skids on the ground, tossing up a cloud of dustin his wake. I start to march towards him. But Snow throws up his arm to stop me.

“Let me,” he growls.

The tone of his voice stops me in my tracks. Simon stomps towards him, his entire hand now covered in tiny sparks like fireworks. His assaulter sits up, panting heavily.

“You better run now,” Snow says.

He sneers. “Don’t tell me-”

“GO!”

Snow’s magic explodes like a fucking bomb. It’s a bolt of violent and powerful energy that hits the assailant square in the chest. He flies back even farther. I stumble from the sheer force of it. The magic disperses as quickly as it appeared. Snow is panting, bronze curls still staticy with stray sparks. The human scrambles and runs away into the darkness.

We’re left there, breathing hard in the darkness, the embers of the now dead fire our only light. Simon tries to pull out the crackling electricity still clinging to his hair. It curls around his fingers and won’t dissipate no matter how much he shakes his hand out. Finally, I find my voice again.

“That was...”

“Awful?” Snow mumbles. “Yeah, I know. Half the time my magic doesn’t work, the other half it explodes. Pretty fucking annoying.”

I turn to look at him properly, still trying to dust off the little sparks. “No, it was incredible. I’ve never seen magic that powerful, or beautiful.”

Oh fuck, why did I say that? I’m going to explode myself any second. Simon freezes, then turns to me. His lovely plain eyes are soft. Half of his mouth pulls up into a smile. My pulse is pounding in my ears. “N-No one’s ever called it beautiful before. And...no one’s tried to save me either.”

He starts to reach out to me with his spark kissed digits. I see the little bolts pulling towards me like I’m a magnet. My own magic flares to surface, reaching back towards him. Tiny flames from my fingers curl around the lightning. And a part of me, that horrible instinctual part, desperately wants to grab his hand and add his beautiful, terrifying energy to my own until his body is nothing but an empty husk.

I take a large step away, hands behind my back. Simon does the same. His eyes are wide with terror now. We both know how close we came to giving into temptation.

“We should go to bed,” I mutter.

Snow nods furiously. I speed walk to my side of the dead fire. We both lay down and pull the blankets to our reddening ears. The only sound for ages is the desert wind whistling through the cacti. Until Snow decides to speak up again, God help me.

“Baz?”

“What, Snow?” I snap. I can’t talk to him anymore, it’s too damn painful.

“Have...Have you ever actually fully drained anyone?”

Oh. I wasn’t expecting that. The question hits me in my heart. All that comes to mind is my aunt’s face as I saw her for the first time in weeks. Her happiness turned to utter horror in seconds. The memory still aches deep inside me. I can almost feel that horrible hunger when I first manifested. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. “No. But I’ve come close. You?”

Snow pauses too. I can hear his shaky breathing clearly. “I had a hex friend back in London. Penelope. She was really good at magic, like you, so she tried to help me. We could only see each other for an hour a day for safety’s sake, and it worked for awhile. But one time, my magic got so out of control that I came this close to draining her.” He makes a loud sniffing noise. I hate imagining the tears I know are rolling down his face. “She told me it wasn’t my fault but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to hurt her. Next day I got on a boat to America. That was almost a year ago. I’ve been alone ever since, and it’s awful.”

“Is that why you want to go to Hex City?”

“Yeah. I mean, I just want to be able to have some choice, you know? Not make choices because of this power I never asked for. Don’t you feel like that?”

I think about my mother, who lost her life because of what we are. Or my six weeks of torture by that madman. Or how I had to run away from my family in fear of what I’d accidentally do to them.

“Yes,” I whisper, closing my eyes, “all the damn time.”

———————————————

We ride leisurely under the blistering sun. The desert has melted into more of a hot, grassy plain. Surprisingly, the climate and terrain actually gets less tortuous the further south you go in this awful state. I’ve only gone this far south once before. The Call somehow gets even stronger here. It threatens to fill every nook and cranny of my brain, but I beat it back. No disgraced Confederate chaplain or Aztec witch woman gets to decide what I do.

Snow is mumbling to himself about it being too hot. My head is whirring with a terrible, awful idea, but it won’t go away. My eyes keep drifting towards his beautiful face, and my mind keeps thinking of his beautiful magic. I got only a taste of the endless, consuming feeling of it, and it was exhilarating. If only he could control it.

I groan. “Snow, stop your horse.”

He looks at me confused, but does as I say. “What is it?”

“Get off. I’m going to help you with your magic.”

His eyes bug out of his skull. “What?! Why?”

“Because as incredible as your magic can be, I’d rather not have you explode when you sleep ten feet away from me.” 

It’s a convincing lie. Honestly, I want him to be able to protect himself. I don’t know exactly how long it will take to get to the south, or what could happen before then. Simon might’ve been killed if I wasn’t there. And I don’t know how long I will be with him.

I swing off my horse and Snow follows. We walk out into the empty plateau. He shuffles his feet nervously, chewing at his nails.

“Stay here,” I say.

I walk out and place my old empty flask on a cactus (it’s rusting anyway). Snow looks at it confused. I gesture to the metal bottle, then put my hands behind my back. “Hit that with a blast but avoid the cactus.

“O-Okay...” I watch his throat as he gulps. God, I want to touch that throat, I want to touch everywhere. But I’ll kill him if I do. It makes me hate my magic even more.

Simon raises his hand and takes aim. Small sparks dance between his fingers. One by one, they begin to increase. A small ball of lightning collects in his palm. Snow curls his fingers in, but they seem to be struggling. The ball starts to grow larger and Snow clenches harder. With little to no warning, a lightning bolt shoots out and hits the side of the flask. A blackened mark is left in its wake, but that’s nothing compared to the cactus. A massive chunk has been blown out of the top. It’s charred remains lay strewn on the gras.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Sorry, I was losing control, I had to let it go. Would’ve been much worse if I didn’t.”

“That’s alright, Snow. You technically did hit the flask.”

Snow scoffs, running a hand through his beautiful, sweaty hair. “Sure, I guess...”

I pluck the flask from the half destroyed desert fauna. Another horrible idea is coming to my mind, and I just might be mad enough to do it. “Maybe you need a greater motivator for staying in control.”

“Huh?”

I place the flask on my hand and hold my arm out to the side. “Hit the flask, but not me.”

Snow goes wide eyed again and inhales sharply like he’s been kicked. “A-Are you serious?! You just saw what I did to that cactus, right?”

“Well, you’re going to have to be accurate, unless you want me to end up like said cactus”

He pulls at his curls anxiously. The tiniest of parks fly off the ends. “I don’t know, Baz. I don’t want to hurt you...”

I try to ignore my rapidly beating heart. It’s been so annoying this past week, trying to get what it can’t have. I just flash a smirk at him. “Well, I believe that you won’t. Care to prove me right?”

A red colour spreads across his face. Part of me hopes that’s not just the sun affecting his pale, freckled complexion. “Alright, I’ll try.”

He rubs his hands together. His skin simmers with magic once again. It smells intoxicatingly good. Snow holds his right hand out, palm flat. The electricity builds on the surface. He keeps his hand clenched, but the energy threatens to spill over his fingers. I resist the urge to run in as fast as I can. I didn’t lie, I do trust him. But living on my own for almost three years has given me quite the self preservation instinct.

Sweat prickles Snow’s brow. He uses his opposite arm to keep the other one steady. “C’mon, Simon,” I whisper. “You can do it.”

The jagged white bolt shoots from his skin, far less formless than the last one. It zigs and zags, but in the end hits the flask straight on. The bottle explodes in a shower of jagged metal. I throw up a makeshift shield just in time. When I look at Snow, he’s flat on his ass, panting hard.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“‘Holy shit’ is right,” I respond with a chuckle.

He looks at me with a wide grin. It shines brighter than the midday sun. “I did it! That’s the most controlled my magic has ever been! Thank you, Baz.”

I nod. “You’re welcome, Snow. My aunt always said danger is a great motivator to learn. Especially when it comes to magic.”

Snow lays down on the grass, panting hard. It seems he’s not going to get up any time soon. “Your aunt, was she the one that taught you about magic?”

I kick at a piece of rusted shrapnel, my back to the resting Snow. “Yes, before it manifested, obviously. She wanted me to be prepared just in case. Her whole side of the family has a history of magic. It only appears every few generations or so. We both drew the short ends of the bloodline straw I guess.”

“You’re lucky with that, y’know. I never had anyone to teach me properly. Penny tried, but we never got far enough to make a difference. When I first got magic, this guy called the Mage offered to help. But it turned out he just wanted to drain me. I killed him by accident when he tried. I really didn’t mean to hurt hum, but he wouldn’t stop...”

I turn to him. There’s far too much pain in his eyes. “You had every right to defend yourself. Don’t feel bad.”

He lifts his head up. His smile is sort of sad, but it’s still gorgeous. “Thanks, Baz.”

I smile back as best I can. “You’re most welcome, Snow.” I place my hands in my pockets, desperately clenching my fists in hopes to keep my emotions at bay. “Unfortunately, I’m out of flasks. But we do have an oversupply of fauna. Want to try and not destroy a cactus this time?”

“Okay.” Snow nods, breathing steadily. “Okay, I’ll try.”

Snow takes his stance across from another unfortunate cactus. I watch him and give advice, but slowly have to back away as Snow’s sweet scent permeates the air. I try not to imagine being close to Snow, not having to fear him, him not having to fear me. Oh, what a life that could be.

———————————————

After another week of dodging the Red Weed, we finally get to somewhere. Covent Gardens, a town I suppose is named after the London borough. It’s sizable enough to have a slightly good inn; as in none of the panels are falling off and the sign is missing only a single letter. That’s practically a palace in these parts. I walk in with gusto, making the shutters rattle, Simon following behind me with his head.

Everyone looks at us. I’m not sure how obvious our hexation is, but I suppose we look enough like trouble. Plus my skin tone isn’t an asset here. Or anywhere, honestly. So I sneer and most turned away.

“They’re afraid of us,” Simon mumbles.

“As they should be,” I reply deadpan. I go straight to the barkeep, a bulky white man with truly horrific mutton chops. “I need two rooms.”

The man crosses his unnaturally large arms. “We don’t serve... people like you.”

I grip the bar lip, nails digging into the half rotted wood. “Like me how? Hexes or brown people?”

He sneers at me. “Neither.”

The fire blazes in my eyes. Wood blackens under my skin. “Now listen here, you stupid bastard, you better rent us a room or-”

“Now, now, Basilton,” a familiar voice says, “no need to be so rude. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

“Hello, Nicodemus.”

Nico moves to stand next to me. His suit is cheap, the stitches fraying at the seams. He’s still got that sort of menacing look, but he looks tired too.

“Fancy seeing you here, Pitch. How’s your aunt?” He smiles, showing off his missing eye teeth. It makes me want to punch him in his stupid face.

“Why would you care, Petty? You’re the one who left her after everything she did for you.”

He hangs his head back with a groan. “Still defending your family’s honour, I see. Ain’t my fault I wanted to realise my full potential.”

“What, by getting your teeth pulled out so you could get magic? Even when my aunt warned you what a curse being a hex was? You’re still an arrogant idiot then.”

Nicodemus growls and grabs my wrist. His magic reaches out to clash with my own. It’s slick like oil, wrapping around my fire like a snake. But there’s a roughness to it. A sort of mangy, wild energy that I remember all too well from the hex duel with my aunt. Now, I can smell the acrid tang of it too. It leaves a sour taste in the back of my throat. I’m not surprised his magic is as disgusting as he is.

“Looks like you went through some shit too, Basilton,” he hisses. “You’ve got the same fire as dear old Fi. What, the guilt of letting your mum die finally get to you? Try to end it all? Too bad, you just became the monster she never wanted you to be instead.”

His power gnashes at mine, trying to rip it apart and eat it. But Nicodemus has made a fatal assumption; that he’s more powerful than me. I push back against him hard. The fire rushes through my every vein. I revel in the way Nico’s eyes go wide. My hand shoots up to his throat and I shove him down so hard his back bends against the wooden bar.

“You bastard,” I growl. “After all these years you still don’t know how to keep your bloody mouth shut.” I hold his throat even tighter. His eyes bug out of his skull. “Maybe I should shut it permanently.”

I open the gates within, and his magic begins to pour into me. It’s the world’s greatest adrenaline rush. I’m invincible, powerful, a bloody god. Nico gasps and tries to push me away. But I’m still stronger. He could never stop me.

“Baz!” Snow shouts. “Stop it!”

I turn to him with burning eyes. Everything I see is cloudy, like a smoke screen or rippling water. “Why?!”

“Because,” his voice is desperate, and maybe even caring, “we shouldn’t be the monsters they think we are. Just look at them, Baz!”

I still have enough sense to hear what he says. The patrons cower in fear, eyes wide with terror as they look at me. It’s not an expression anyone wants to be subjected to, or cause. And though I hate him, Nicodemus is right. My mother never wanted me to be this. Another terrible, murderous, evil hex.

With all my strength and good sense, I find the will to let Nicodemus’ neck go. His power rushes back into him with a sputtering gasp. I glare at him as I pull away, fingers still trailing with flames.

“Leave,” I say flatly. “Now.”

Nicodemus runs faster than I’ve ever seen a man run before. I take a few deep breaths. It takes a moment for my magic to balance out. It still yearns for Nicodemus’ power, but I beat it back into submission. I won’t let the hunger control me. Then I walk towards the now terrified barkeep.

“Rooms still not available?” He shakes his head frantically. “Good.” I slap down some American money. “Two rooms, please. Also throw in some whiskey. I need a drink after all that.”

The man picks two keys out of a box, then a bottle and glasses from the shelf. He shoves them both forward on the bar and takes two large steps back. I snatch them up with a tip of my ridiculous cowboy hat.

“Cheers, mate.”

Snow and I take a table in a corner. No one dares to look at us. I pour drinks for both of us and shove his glass to the other side of the table. We’re as far apart as we can be but it’s still risky. My power is still hungry. And Simon still smells delicious. But I won’t hurt him. I can’t.

“So,” Simon says, vowel drawn out, “who was that?”

I throw back the whiskey. It’s sour and burns my throat, but it's better than Slipfoot’s at least. “His name is Nicodemus Petty. He and my aunt Fiona were friends growing up. They bonded over their mutual family history of hexation. But when my aunt and his sister, Ebb, manifested magic as teenagers, Nico was jealous. Fiona and Ebb both tried to tell him that hex magic was far more of a curse than a blessing, but he never listened. He wanted the power. When I was about nine, he finally succeeded in activating his own latent magic.”

“By having two of his teeth ripped out...”

“Mhm. First thing he did was stumble all bloody mouthed to my aunt’s flat.” I clench the glass so hard I nearly break it. “The bastard attacked her by surprise, and tried to steal her magic. He almost killed her, but Fiona got a lucky shot and threw him out the window.” I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “As you can guess, I was there. It wasn’t pretty.”

“I can imagine.” He pulls in, picking at his nails nervously. “Um, if you don’t mind me asking...w-what was he talking about? With your mum?”

I pour myself another helpful shot of whiskey. I want to drown my brain in the stuff, honestly. I’ve never talked about my mum, it’s too painful, like ripping out a fingernail. But Snow has shown so much of himself to me. It seems unfair to hide. “My aunt and I aren’t the only hexes in our family.”

His eyes go wide as the revelation hits him, “Your mum is a hex too?”

I nod slowly, then drink the alcohol in one gulp. The warmth tingles in my veins and loosens my tongue. I stare at the glass, watching the light refract through it’s bends. “She was, but my father is human. They loved each other enough to not be scared, I guess. They never meant to have children. I was an accident, but my mother wanted me in spite of the risks. My father said she cried with happiness when she saw I was a boy. She thought if she kept me safe, I’d never become a full hex.” I flick a paint chip off the table with more force than necessary. “Then she died protecting me, doing what she promised.”

“How? Was it another hex?”

“Even worse, scared humans.” 

Snow’s face falls even more. He takes a long sip from his own drink. “So they tried to kill her?”

“They tried to kill all of us. Someone heard of my mother’s hexation, and they rallied a group together to fight our family. It wasn’t a real fight though. The cowards snuck in and tried to stab us. My mother killed almost all of them quickly” My fists clench so tight it hurts. “The last one nearly got me, but my mother stepped in front. He burned to ash just after he stabbed her through the throat.”

“Oh. Not even a hex could come back from that kind of wound...”

“I know,” I say between gritted teeth. “I know that very well, Snow.” I delicately place the glass down with a strained hand. “I...I tried to stop the bleeding but there was nothing I could do. I had no magic then. Even so, I doubt my powers could’ve helped.” A little flame pops up in my hand with barely a thought. Making fire is more natural than breathing for me, after all. I watch the scarlet snake dance between my fingers. “My family’s abilities have always been better at destruction.”

Simon takes another long sip, polishing off his drink. “I don’t know what my family’s like, but I hope they’re not like me. This power...it’s too much for anyone to have. I’d give it up in a heartbeat.”

“We all would, Snow. That’s what the humans don’t get. Most hexes are just as scared of themselves as humans are.” I pour my third drink. It’s been awhile since I’ve drank so much in one sitting, but if I’m going to get sozzled, tonight is a good time. “But that’s not up to us. We’re born like this. Nothing we can do but try to survive.”

“Believe me, I know that. All I’ve ever done is survive. In the orphanage, on the streets, here in America.” He lets out a small, sad laugh. “Hexation is how I ended up on the street, actually.” Snow looks directly down at the table. “When I was 11, I, uh, had a dream that I was exploding. When I woke up, the entire orphanage had been blown to pieces. Luckily no one was hurt, but the matron couldn’t very well keep a hex among other children.”

“So she thought sending you to roam among other humans was safer?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think she cared as long as I was far away from her.”

I scoff, swinging the glass between two fingers. “Sounds about usual for humans. What made you manifest? A particularly bad paddling from the matron?”

Snow chews on his bottom lip. His fingers drum the wood slowly. “I, uh, actually didn’t have to suffer. I’m one of those rare cases of sudden manifestation, apparently. That’s what Penny called it anyway. She said it was rare but possible.”

My grip on the glass gets even tighter. A sudden jealous rage consumes my mind. So Snow just exploded one day at eleven. That’s awful, of course, I’ll never deny that. But all I can think of is the coffin. The endless night of being trapped in that box, waiting for a relief that wouldn’t come, until I finally broke and became the last thing I ever wanted to be. I went through absolute hell. Of course I assumed Snow had to, like all other male hexes. But he didn’t. He’s never had the acute kind of torture I did. It’s not fair.

“Excuse me,” I say more harshly than I mean to, “I’m tired. I think I’ll turn in.”

Snow’s pretty plain eyes go wide. “O-Oh...okay. Good night, then.”

“Night.” I snatch the bottle up and leave the key for his room. Then I stomp up the stairs with irrational anger still burning me up. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t get past it. Male hexes get their magic through suffering. It’s a well known fact. How could Snow be like me without the same kind of pain? How could he ever fully understand me the way I thought he could?

The second my room door is closed, I drink down the last of the whiskey bottle. I’ve tried to avoid alcohol over the past few years. It would be far too easy for me to drink away the pain, the memories, the horrible guilt. Eventually, I’d drown myself in a bottle. That’s not a way I want to go. But one night of indulgence will be fine.

I wobble towards my bed, shedding my outer layers as I go. I collapse face first onto the old mattress. Whiskey clouds my mind. And when I finally pass out, all I see is empty darkness. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than the nightmares.

———————————————

“...safe?”

“Out cold...”

The voices stay patchy as I slip in and out of consciousness. I try to force my eyes fully open, but the pounding in my head is too much. Indistinguishable figures move on the edges of my blurry vision. There’s little to no light. It must still be night, maybe only a couple hours since I passed out.

“Is..right thing?”

“Hex...Rook and Pargeter...dangerous...we...safe.”

“Fine.”

Something grabs both my wrists and my ankles. I try to struggle but I must still be too drunk. I can’t get my limbs to move save for some squirming. I try to summon my magic, but my mind can’t concentrate. It’s no use. Bloody hell, I’m trapped.

“Night night, hex,” a horrible voice says. Something soft is pressed hard against my face. I can’t take in air, I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe. It’s like the coffin. No, I can’t do this again. I try to thrash harder and scream but it’s still no use.

Oh Lord, I’m going to die here. I wonder if I’ll see my mother on the other side. I wonder if I even have a soul to go to the other side. And I wonder how if Snow is okay. Christ, my last conversation with him ended in anger. If I had known, I would’ve said everything I’ve wanted to say this past week. But the first thing would be ‘I’m sorry.’

I’m sorry, Snow, for everything I said and thought. And I’m sorry for leaving you alone.

“Hey! Get off him, you bastards!” That voice is familiar even in my half drunken state. Thank whatever gods are listening that he’s okay.

“It’s the other one!” one of my assailants shouts. “Wasn’t Garth supposed to take care of him?!”

“That damn idjit fucked up!”

I hear the telltale signs of punches and kicks thrown about. One of the hands on me pulls off. All this excitement has thankfully sobered me up some. I kick some stupid bastard right in the stomach.

“Fuck!” they wheeze. The other humans are wise and let go of my wrist. I’m on my feet in a second.

“Bloody humans,” I growl out, still slurring slightly. “You can’t even let me fucking sleep?!”

The burly barkeep scowls at me. My would be murder weapon is still in his hand. “Eat shit, you demon.”

I scowl right back at him. “Oh, you want a demon? I’ll give you a fucking demon, love.”

The fire blazes up in me, all shining black and scarlet, and I make little effort to contain it. I let the flames fly out and encase the man almost completely. He screeches as his skin bubbles and burns under my powers.

“Stop it!” a woman yells. She comes at me with a knife raised. A whip of fire forms in my hand instantly. With one crack, it wraps around her wrist. She screams in the exact same way and lets her weapon clatter on the floor. She goes to her knees, clutching her blackened, blistered skin.

“You bastard,” she cries. “How could you?!”

“How could I!?” Even more fire plays over my hands. “I could ask you the same thing, human.”

“We’re trying to protect ourselves, monster!”

In that moment, in her eyes, I see every human who’s hurt me. The people who mocked me, who killed my mother, who turned me into this. All sense leaves my mind in an instant. “I’m a monster only because of you!”

With one wave of my hand, she’s thrown against the wall hard enough to make it shake. I spin around to see a man trying to crack Snow’s skull open with a butcher’s cleaver. One well aimed blast sends him flying as well. Another casts two aside. They don’t move much afterwards, but I find myself caring little. Let them die like my mother did.

“Baz, stop it!” Snow shouts. I ignore him as I send the last assailant against the wall, listening to their screams as I burn their chest. “Baz!”

“Fuck off, Snow!” I roar. “I- Ack!”

Pain rips through my shoulder. I clutch it and my hand becomes wet with what I assume must be blood. I fall forward. My nose cracks against the floor. I scream in pain and flames roar out of me in a massive plume They hit everything, including my shooter and the walls of the room. I can feel the whole space burning around us.

“Baz!” Snow’s voice is beyond panicked. I hear his footsteps rush toward me. His hands hover over me but won’t touch. He can’t touch me.

“Get out, Simon,” I rasp , turning my head to the side to look at him. He’s covered in bruises and ash. Yet he’s still so beautiful. “Run before more of them come.”

“Shut up, arsehole! I haven’t turned my back on you yet, and I’m not going to start now!”

If the world weren’t literally on fire right now, I’d find that touching. I close my eyes. At least my dying image will be of him. “Don’t be an idiot, Snow.” Surprisingly, the bastard fucking laughs. My eyes snap open again. The bloody back of his hand is pressed against his mouth as he giggles. “What the fuck is funny about this?”

“You,” he laughs, “called me Simon before.”

My face heats up, and it’s not from the fire. “No I didn’t.”

“We’re fucking dying and you can’t admit you used my first name?”

“I’m dying. You’re being an idiot and not running away like you should!”

“You’re too stubborn to die, Baz, and we both know it.” He jumps to his feet. “Get up, we’re getting out of here.”

“Snow-”

“Or are you too much of a yellow belly to get up and try?”

Oh, this bastard. In only two weeks, he’s learned me too well. I scowl at his stupid pretty face as I push myself up on my good arm. At the same time, thundering footsteps can be heard from the stairwell.

“That route is out of the question,” I say. “Where are we to go, Snow?”

“This way.” He holds his hand and in a mere two seconds, the opposite wall is blown to pieces in a rain of spark. “Now let’s go!”

“We’re on the bloody second floor!”

Snow runs towards the gaping hole and throws himself out. I rush to the edge, blood pounding in my ear. No, Snow cannot die, I can’t let him die. But to my utter shock and awe, Snow is floating his way down to the ground. He stops and starts and still hits the ground in an uncoordinated roll, but he���s okay.

“Oh, Snow, you brilliant moron,” I whisper.

“They’re probably still in there!” someone shouts from the hallway. I take a few steps back, breathe deep, and run off the splintered edge just as the humans burst through the door.

Instead of sending my fire outwards like usual, I keep it within me. I will my body to rise high like flames from a candle. My legs move slowly like I’m running in the air. Fuck, this is actually working. Slowly, I let my flame flick and die down, lowering myself along with it. I reach the ground with my own thud but stay on my feet. Snow grins at me. In all this horror, that is the greatest thing to see.

“Let’s get the horses and get out of here, Snow.”

“Agreed, Pitch.”

We sprint to the stables and thankfully find our steeds unharmed. I count ourselves lucky that our attackers didn’t consider them demonic too. Mounting is difficult with my left arm fucked up, but let it never be said that a human bullet could stop Basilton Pitch. I hold the reins with one hand as I spur him into a dash.

The wind whistles in my ears. Snow and I run even faster than we did from the Red Weed. Our kind is always good at running. It’s our natural state.

———————————————

Snow and I ride until it’s nearly dawn. The sky turns purple then crimson with the rising sun in front of us. When I see orange, my horse finally starts to tire out. Snow’s does the same. We slow down then stop.

“Think we’re far enough away?” Snow asks, breath short and strained.

“Yeah,” I reply, sounding the same. “I think they would’ve caught us by now if they were still after us.”

“Good point, good point.” Snow leans forward, putting his forehead on his horse’s neck. “God, I’m fucking knackered. I barely slept.”

“Me too. We should both sleep.”

“What if someone comes after us?”

“Point. Sleep in shifts?”

Snow nods. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Good.” I slowly dismount my horse, but get my footing wrong and start to fall. I grab the reins with my left arm and practically scream in pain.

“Baz!” Snow rushes towards me, but stops when I raise my good arm.

“Don’t...” I pant, “don’t come any closer. I’m injured, Snow, and my self control is severely weakened. So unless you wish for death now after just barely escaping it, back away.”

“Oh, yeah, right...” Snow backs far away just as he should, but my heart still aches. “What are we going to do about your shoulder?”

“I can fix it, but I’m going to need your belt”

Snow’s brows shot upwards. “My belt? What for?”

“Just throw it to me, Snow, for Christ’s sake.”

Thank God he doesn’t ask another stupid question. He just unbuckles the belt and does what I ask. I try to not let my hands shake as I fold the belt in half. The last time I did this was three years ago, when I sat in a London alleyway after a drunkard broke my leg, a mere four days after fleeing my home for good.

“Baz, what are you-”

“Snow,” I say firmly, “I need you to do me a favour.”

“Okay...?”

I sit on the ground, belt held tightly in my hand. “I need you to stay right there no matter what. Don’t move, don’t try to help. The best way you can help is to stay fucking still.”

“What the fuck is-”

“Promise me you won’t move, Simon.” I look him right in his blue eyes, my mouth a thin, serious line. “Promise me.”

Snow gives me a once over, then thankfully nods. “Okay, I promise.”

“Good.” I put the belt between my teeth. When I check on Snow, he looks beyond panicked. “If it makes it easier,” I say clumsily between the leather, “you don’t have to watch.”

“Baz-”

I slap my right hand over my left shoulder, and it feels like I’m burning from the inside out. My magic scorches my body as it wraps around my injury. The buck shot is pulled through my muscles and skin, ripping and tearing as they go, and I can feel every bit of it. I can also feel as my tissue and bone stretches to knit back together piece by agonizing piece. It’s an indescribable kind of pain. It’s what I imagine hell must feel like. I scream, I can’t help it, but luckily the belt is muffling as well preventing me from biting off a chunk of my tongue. Snow gasps in horror but he doesn’t move. He keeps his promises. I knew he would. He’s a far better man than me.

The burning fades as the skin finally seals shut. I cautiously move my hand, shaking off the shrapnel and gooey viscera that trails between my fingers. God, it's a nasty scab, mangled and uneven and horrifically inflamed. I can only hope the scar won’t be too bad. The one on my calf has faded overtime.

“Are you-”

“Not yet,” I say, cutting off a frightened looking Simon. “This one won’t take as long though.”

I touch my nose, feeling for where the breaks are. I squeeze my eyes shut, and with a horribly painful crack, I move it mostly back into place. I let out a short yell, but just pant and seethe as the bone and cartilage knit back together. I try to wipe the bloody snot from my hand but it's no use. Disgusting, but better than a broken nose. I feel around to make sure things are okay. Well, the tip is a bit crooked, but I can live with that. Right now, I’m thankful to be alive at all.

“Okay,” I sigh, finally taking the teeth mark covered belt out of my mouth, “now I’m done.”

“What the fuck was that?” Snow’s voice is somewhere between fascination and absolute horror. In short, a proper reaction.

“Something my aunt taught me. Hexes are essentially manipulators of energy and matter. And what are bodies but living energy and matter? With practice, you can fix any part of yourself.”

“But isn’t it painful?”

“Was that not obvious?” I snap. But Snow’s genuinely worried face softens my demeanor. “Yes, it’s excruciating. Hence why I try not to use the technique as much as I can.” I massage my still aching shoulder. “Today it was unavoidable, unfortunately.”

Simon runs a nervous hand through his dirty hair. “Fuck...”

I cough out a small laugh. “Yes, that sums it up pretty well.”

He laughs too, just as shaky and sad. “Sums up the whole night.”

The two of us keep chuckling softly in the wee hours of the morning. The ascending sun hurts my tired eyes. Using so much magic has taken everything out of me. I let out a long, deep yawn.

“You sleep first,” Snow says. “I’ll keep watch.”

“No, no, I can-”

“Baz.” He sounds firm, but also tired, and maybe even a little fond. I’m probably imagining that last one though. “Go to bed. I’ll wake you up in about eight hours.”

If I weren’t sleep deprived, magically drained, and recovering from grievous injuries, I would protest more. But Snow is damn lucky today. I simply sigh and stand up to get my cot from my saddlebags. I count our lucky stars we didn’t bring in too many of our supplies to the inn. Maybe God hasn’t completely abandoned us heathen monsters.

“I don’t have the energy to put up my shield,” I say, hoping my tone conveys enough.

“Okay,” Snow replies, “I’ll stay away, don’t worry. I keep my promises.”

My pulse flutters involuntarily. A smile creeps across my face no matter how hard I try to stop it. “I know you do, Simon.”

Snow gifts me one of his sunshine smiles. That’s the last thing I see before turning over and letting myself rest.

———————————————

Snow lets me sleep longer than eight hours. I’d be more mad if I wasn’t so exhausted. In return, I let him oversleep too. We’re both passed out by the time it’s dark again. Even hexes with all our inhumanity need to rest sometimes. Snow and I are lucky we get the chance this time.

In the morning, I reluctantly go to the next closest town. We did leave some of our things behind sadly, including most of our clothes. I’m damn well not going to keep roaming around the south of Texas in my bloody socks, and neither will Snow. I get us some new jackets, boots, and hats, ignoring the strange looks I get from the lily white shopkeeper. 

I grab us some more of that disgusting jerky too. If only good food could keep in these horrific conditions. When I reach the counter, the shopkeeper frowns at the things I lay out.

“You can pay for all this?” she asks. I scowl deeply. I’m too tired for this shit.

“Are people like me not allowed to have money here?” I snap.

“Ya can now, but in my experience, y’all darker folk are better at stealing my stock than paying.”

Bloody hell, I’m too tired for this racist shite. I slam two bills on the counter. “There. Hope I didn’t dirty these up too much for you.”

She glares at me hard. As she reaches for the money, I deliberately brush my finger on hers, and she yelps loudly. The edge of her index is red and inflamed. An undeniable burn mark, but far too small for anyone to believe it came from an evil, bloodthirsty hexslinger.

“Oh dear,” I say deadpan. “Your register must have gotten in the sun. Do be more careful.” I shovel the supplies in my bag as she looks at me wide eyed. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

I can feel her scared eyes on my back as I leave. I get on my horse and ride out fast. No reason to stay in this shithole any longer. And I need to get back to Snow, where I belong.

———————————————

“Everything okay in town?” Snow asks.

I toss the bundle of clothes at him, along with a bag of jerky. “No one attacked me, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t get made for a hex. But I did get some flack for my skin tone.”

Snow’s face falls a bit. There’s something far too close to pity in his eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t, Snow. You’re in no place to apologize for some racist American bastards, it’s not your responsibility. Sorry from you means nothing.”

“But-”

“Would you accept an apology from me on behalf of all the rich men who have treated you like trash before?” Snow’s gaping mouth slowly closes. “Exactly. Now get those on. They’re slightly less dirty than our current garments.”

Snow nods and does what I say. I unbutton off my bloodstained shirt and wince as the tacky fabric peels off my skin. The scab has gotten a little better. That’s something I suppose. My eyes slowly move over to Snow without realising it. I steal a glimpse of his broad, bare back, golden like the rest of him. There are some jagged pink scars but they take nothing away how brightly he shines. I look away before I’m too tempted by what I can’t have.

“Much better,” Snow sighs as he slips on the new boots. “I’m surprised my feet haven’t been ripped to shreds yet.”

“Me too. I’m glad though, I didn’t want to do any more healing.”

“I don’t want you to either, fuck.” I hate how his concern makes me feel so good inside. “I’ll start setting up the fire. It’s going to get dark again soon.”

“By all means, Snow, do all the work. I won’t stop you.”

Snow snorts out a laugh, giving me a cheeky smile I can still see at this distance. Christ, I’m on fire, and for once it’s not from my magic. It’s so much better. I have to look away again before I do something ridiculous and deadly.

By the time the sun is down, Snow has made a wonderful small fire for the two of us. We both warm our hands from opposite sides. I don’t need to do it too much. My magic has almost fully replenished, for better or worse. And I’m so hungry that I actually enjoy the extremely salty bison jerky. Bloody hell, I’m turning into an American.

“Where are we going to go next?” Snow asks, mouth still full. “I’m guessing we should avoid any more towns.”

“Agreed. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not jump out of another building.”

“We certainly agree there. Christ, I was worried I was going to die.”

“Me too, Snow, me too.” I nervously fiddle with the string on my cloth bag. The words are coming out, and I can’t stop them. “I’m sorry, Snow.”

His brow adorably furrows. “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for the way I acted that night, before I went to bed. I was very rude to you and I deeply apologize.”

“Oh...okay. Thanks.” He looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. “I-I was confused. Did I do something bad?”

“No, Snow,” I sigh, “you did nothing wrong. It was all me being stupid.”

“Okay...”

I sigh again. God, I can’t dance around it anymore. I have to tell him. After putting up with me for this long, he deserves to know.

“I was angry and...somewhat jealous of you.”

His eyes get very big. “Jealous? Of me?!”

“Yes, in a way. Because...you didn’t have to go through the same kind of suffering I did when I manifested. Which isn’t fair, because you lived on the streets while I grew up in a bloody mansion. It’s just not the same suffering I had, and I was angry I had to go through it when you didn't. Which is absolutely ridiculous, and I’m sorry I pushed that on you.”

“If you don’t mind me asking...what happened?”

I stare at him for a long moment over the fire. He holds my gaze, eyes round with worry and care. It hurts me in the most exquisite way. “It’s not a pretty story, Snow.”

His mouth pulls into a sad, slight smile. “Weren’t you the one who said that all hexes live through hardship, and we have nothing to be ashamed of?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Using my words against me, a tactic of a true devious hex.”

He shrugs, still wearing that little smile. “What can I say? I can live up to our reputation sometimes.” Snow’s face falls again. “So what happened?”

With a deep sigh, rubbing my forehead, I start the horrid tale.

“My family always knew there was a chance I could be a hex,” I say. “But since my aunt couldn’t sense any magic on me pre manifestation, we assumed that I wasn’t too powerful, and manifestation could be avoided if we were careful. So I lived in the aforementioned secluded mansion all my life and I was never allowed to leave the grounds. All my time was spent reading, doing school work, or learning about hexation from my aunt, just in case. Everything in my life revolved around my mere potential to be a hex. I could never do or see anything. I felt like a prisoner. And when I was 18, I had enough.

“One evening, I snuck out of my room and went into the nearby town. I just wanted to see what was outside my home. But I was a naive sheltered kid. Of course I got lost on my way there and went into an area I never should have. Someone had knocked me out cold, and next thing I knew, I was in a cramped, dark box.”

“A box? What do you mean a box?”

I clench my fists tight until the shaking stops, then slowly let go. “It was a coffin, Snow. I had been trapped inside a coffin.”

I can almost feel the way Snow’s stomach must drop out at those words. I know, mine did the same when I realised where I was that night. “W-Why?!”

“It was hard to hear him through said coffin, but I got the main idea. He came from some old witch hunter family but had never caught an actual hex, until me. He’d heard the stories about my mother and had been secretly spying on me for months. When I escaped, he took his chance to kidnap me.”

“So he took you just to taunt you from outside a coffin?”

“I wish that was all he did,” I grumble. “He told me that the coffin was a test. There was a chance the hexation had skipped me over. If I was a hex, being stuck in the coffin would make me manifest, then he could kill me in good conscience. If I wasn’t and didn’t manifest, well, as he put it; ‘there are always casualties in the war for righteousness, boy.’”

Snow’s jaw drops to the grassy ground. “So even if you were human, he would’ve killed you anyway?”

“Mhm, mad bastard.” 

“How long did he keep you there before you escaped? A few days?”

I take long, steady breaths, beating back the old fear that creeps up my throat like bile. I can almost still smell that unique rotten scent from the coffin. I’ll never forget it. I never can.

“Snow,” I say slowly, “I was in that coffin for six weeks.”

And I thought he looked horrified before. Snow drops his jerky bag, hands shaking. I want to grab them, hold them still, comfort him in whatever way I can. The urge is almost stronger than the Call.

“S-Six weeks?! How are you still alive?”

“Thank the witch hunter,” I grumble. “He drilled very small air holes in the lid, and gave me enough food and water to keep me alive but starving. I think, hex or not, he wanted me to suffer because I was my mother’s son. A hex’s child was just as guilty of sin in his eyes.” I rub the bridge of my nose. It aches with the pain of my past. “At the time, I had no idea how long I was in there. It was just one endless night of torture. I begged and pleaded with the hunter to let me go, but he only laughed and called me pathetic hex scum. After six weeks, well, he finally got what he wanted.”

“You manifested.”

“Almost as violently as you did.” I trace the lines of my hand, the skin rough from my fire. I remember my mother’s hands being the same. “The details are blurry, but I remember enough. It started as just a tingling in my gut, but soon it became a burn. And then it spread as quickly as a forest fire.”

“Is it always fire with you?” The corner of Snow’s lip quirks up. The bit of teasing lilt in his voice makes me feel a bit lighter. I can't help but smile back a little.

“Usually, yes. It's always run very strong in my family.” I bounce a flame between my fingers. The movement is strangely calming to me. “I quickly learned I was no different. Before I knew it, I let out a massive ring of fire in every direction. It blew the coffin apart, of course, and turned my captor into a charcoal husk.”

Snow scoffs, a surprisingly vicious expression on his face. “Better than he deserved.”

“Agreed. I have no idea what happened to his body. I left almost immediately, though I wasn’t fully conscious. Six weeks in the coffin had deprived me of most of my mental faculties. Luckily, he kept me not far from home, and I could wander back on pure muscle memory. But going home turned out to be a terrible idea.” I grab the small fire and snuff it out in one go. But my fist stays clenched. “My aunt had been staying there while everyone searched for me. The second I walked through the front door, I could easily smell her. She was overjoyed to see me, until she smelled me too. And as I said, most of my mental faculties were gone.”

“So you attacked her on instinct.”

I chuckle sadly. “Quick study there, Snow. I didn’t even know what I was doing. I was just so bloody hungry all of sudden. I can’t even describe it.”

“You don't need to describe it to me, Baz.” He brings his knees under his chin. “I’ve felt hex hunger too. It’s...awful when you’re in the middle of it.”

“And when you’re not, you try to drown it out or distract yourself. But deep down, you know one day you’ll give up and listen. Then it will take over.”

Snow nods, looking at me in the eye. I’ve seen so much profound sadness in a person’s face. “And you’ll hurt someone, no matter how much you’ll regret it later.”

If I have a soul, it’s aching horribly. How could fate be so cruel as to give me Snow? So wonderfully brave and kind to a fault, and who actually understands what my life is like. The perfect man. And someday soon, he’s going to kill me. There’s no doubt I’ll be the one to die. I won’t kill him, not ever. I’d let him take everything from me before I’d kill him.

“Did you hurt your aunt?”

Thankfully, I can shake my head to that. “No, not at all. She was an experienced magic user, while I was a starving, half crazed newly minted hex. She took me down in seconds. When I woke up again, I was cleaned up and in my room. It took a second to regain my bearings, but I soon remembered what had happened...what I had become. There wasn’t any debate in my mind. Within an hour, I had packed my most practical clothes along with any small valuables I could pawn. Then I ran away and never looked back.”

“Which is how you ended up in America.”

“What better way to protect my family from me than by putting an ocean between us? At first, I stayed in an empty little corner of the American frontier. I just wanted to live out my lonely hex existence as long as possible. I didn’t expect the Call or this looming hex war.”

“No one did,” Simon sighs. “Hexes working together has never been possible before. Who could’ve imagined some American preacher would team up with an Aztec goddess to do just that?”

“Fair point. But now he’s made our existences much harder in a way. Look what those humans tried to do to us at the inn. They were even more scared because of Rook”

“Yeah...”

I groan, pushing my face into my hands, rubbing it up and down. “I never asked to be like this. I tried my hardest to avoid being like this. Then that choice was ripped away from me by some madman. Now I’m trapped between murderous humans or a bloodthirsty witch goddess. Why am I here? Why do I have to be here?!”

“Baz-”

“I don’t want this,” I choke out through my building sobs. “I want to see my family again. I just want to go home!”

I breathe hard and fast, holding back tears with all my strength. No, I refuse to cry. I swore to never cry again after the coffin, because I wasn't sure I could survive falling apart again. Yet here I am. I thought I had shed every tear I have there. I’m so pathetic.

“It’s okay,” Simon says. His voice is far louder than before. “Whatever you’re feeling is okay. It’s...it’s okay if you’re not.”

Slowly, cautiously, I lower my hands, blinking away the tears that had collected. I inhale sharply. Snow is less than two feet away from me. I can count the moles on his face, see the golden highlights in his bronze. But worse, his unbelievably delicious scent fills every cavity of my nose.

“You really shouldn’t sit so close, Snow,” I whisper. My eyes fall down and become completely fixed on Simon’s plush lips.

“I know,” he says under his breath, “but I don’t care.”

He touches my hand, and I feel his magic run through me. That explosive sensation pulses through my veins so hard it almost makes me gasp. The instinctual part of my brain goes fucking mad. It wants me to grab his throat and drain every drop of his magic, his essence, his very soul. My breathing gets shallow and laboured.

“Simon...” I say.

And then he kisses me.

It’s cautious and shy. His lips barely brush against mine, but I feel it everywhere else, especially in the way our powers rise to meet each other. The magic collides, but doesn’t clash. They meld and twist together at our points of contact, desperately needing to connect.

Snow opens his mouth, turning the kiss into one of pure heat and hunger. I gladly do the same. He grabs either side of my face and shoves his tongue down my throat. I grip his collar and push back against him. My entire body is filled with endless energy. I’m a star going supernova. And I want to explode with Simon. My nails scratch viciously across his neck. He clenches his fist in my hair, pressing our faces closer. I shudder as Simon bites hard on my bottom lip. I’m wrapped in cold heat, wrapped up in him. I feel so alive. It feels so right. But it’s wrong.

With all the strength I have, I shove Snow off me. We both fall back on the ground, breaking our closed circuit of feeding on each other simultaneously. Simon scrambles further away panting. I’m similarly out of breath. Both our lips trail white smoke, like they’ve been singed by ice. My magic readjusts after being sucked away and added to all at the same time. A bit of Snow’s explosive energy still sits in me, swirling around like a miniature star. We just stare at each other wide eyed for a long time.

“Shit,” Simon whispers.

I sigh heavily, running a shaky hand through my hair. “Well said.”

“We nearly killed each other.”

“Mages don’t meddle, Snow. We both know that.”

Simon groans, clutching his hair in his fists. “I know, I know. I almost killed Penny last time and I swore it would never happen again. But look at me now. Of course I fuck up.” I can see tears forming under his eyes. “What’s the point of being an all powerful hex if it means being alone forever?! I can blow up a building with my mind but I can’t even bloody kiss you! It’s not fair!”

I pick at my shirt sleeve with shaking fingers. “Maybe God is punishing us.”

“We didn’t ask to be like this, Baz!”

“That doesn’t change what we are, Simon! We’re freaks of nature, cannibalistic monsters!” I nearly rip through the fabric of my shirt. I'm so angry and so fucking tired. “Maybe we truly are devil spawn or something, like all the humans say. Maybe they’re right to be scared of all of us...”

I turn away from him, just staring at the fire. The sting of the smoke keeps me from sinking too low into my self loathing. Snow moves in my peripheral. We sit side by side. My skin prickles as he hovers his hand over mine. It takes every bit of my will to not try and drain him again.

“There’s somewhere we can go where we aren’t 'Devil spawn,'” he says.

I tense up. “Simon, that’s risky. It could all be a farce.”

“I don’t care if you think it’s just a farce, Baz! It’s still a chance. For you and me, for us.” He lightly brushes one of my fingers. I have to rip my hand away before I hurt him again. His pretty eyes are filled with pain. “See? Wouldn’t you like to stop doing that? Isn’t it worth the risk?”

I’ve been running for most of my life. I ran from my mother's legacy for as long as I could. I ran from my family when I feared my own hunger. And I could run now, from Simon and the fear of killing him. But I’d also be abandoning the chance for some sort of happy life. It may not be perfect, but it would be far more than my ancestors ever had before. Can I sacrifice that for fear?

“I’m tired, Snow,” I say weakly. “We should both get some rest.”

“But Baz-”

“Let me sleep on it, alright? Please?”

Snow takes in a deep breath, and lets out a long sigh. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

I want to kiss him so badly right now. Just grab his gorgeous, sunshine face and kiss him goodnight. Since I can’t, I smile as genuinely as I can at him. It’s not easy for me, but I mean it with him. “Goodnight, Simon.”

Snow stares at me for a long moment. But slowly, a smile creeps across his face too. The fondness threatens to melt me, “Goodnight, Baz.”

We keep our eyes locked for as long as we can. When I finally lay down, putting my crackling shield around me, the image of Snow’s wonderful face relaxes me into sleep.

———————————————

I bang my fists against the wood over and over, ignoring my already numerous splinters.

“Help!” I yell. “Someone help me! Please, get me out of here!”

All my pleas fall on deaf ears, as usual. No matter what I do, no matter how loud I scream. I’m stuck in this damned coffin. I scratch at it until my fingernails tear from their beds. Blood drips into my mouth, leaving an iron taste in the back of my scream sore throat.

“I’m not a fucking hex! I just want to go home!” I sob so hard I nearly choke on my own breath. “Just let me go home.”

My aching arms finally fall. I curl in on myself as much as I can within my confines. I close my eyes, but there’s little to no difference in the endless pitch black. Tears run hot down my face. They leave small trails in the dirt that’s accumulated over...however long I’ve been here. I don’t know anymore. Time is meaningless where there’s no sunrise or sunset. Life is meaningless in here.

“Baz?”

His voice is far away, but it still rings clear. My eyes slide open. “Simon?”

“Oh lord. Hang on, Baz! I'll get you out!”

I can only hear as Snow desperately tugs at the coffin lid. It should be impossible, the thing is nailed shut, but somehow Snow rips it open. The light is dim yet still hurts my eyes. I can't help but hiss at the pain.

“It’s okay, Baz,” he says in that unbelievably soft tone.

His hand reaches to me through the blinding light. Slowly, I reach back. And when I hold it, I know I’m supposed to be in pain, but I’m not. Instead, I’m just calm, happy, safe. Snow slowly pulls me out. His arms snake around my back, holding me up. He looks me over, taking in my decrepit, decayed state from ages in that damn box. And miraculously, he smiles. Even like this, he looks at me with such care.

“You’re alright now, Baz. I’m here.” He cups my face. “I’m here for you.”

Emotions clog up my throat and tears run down my cheek, but this time they’re for a good reason. I put my own shaking hand on his golden face. He’s so warm. “Yes, you are. And I’m here for you too, Simon.”

He’s still grinning as I lean forward, pressing my lips to his. But this time there’s no fear I’ll kill him. There’s just the utter joy of being with the one who understands me best, the one I want the most.

Oh, how I want this.

———————————————

I blink awake slowly. The morning sun is just rising over the horizon, turning the grassy landscape violet. I sit up and see the now familiar body on the other side of the fire. Snow sleeps in a knot, arms and legs pulled in. The furrow in his brow says he’s in the middle of a nightmare too. Though mine wasn’t one by the end. Not when he was there.

My mind is made up.

Once again, I’m packing my things lowly, waiting for Snow to wake. Luckily, he stirs while I’m only halfway through tying up the cot. He rubs the sleep from his eyes in such a terribly adorable way.

“Morning,” I say.

“Morning,” he yawns. “Are we going now? Or...are you?”

My heart seizes, but only for a moment. He’s right to be concerned. The fact that we’ve travelled together for two weeks without killing each other is a miracle among hexes. After last night’s close call, a sensible man would leave and never return. I was once a sensible human man. But I’m a deranged, bloodthirsty hex now. Why not act like one?

“You should get up and start packing, Snow. If we’re going to make it to the Mexican border before nightfall, we’ll have to ride fast.”

His eyes go rounder than a full moon. “You mean...”

I pull the pack tie tight. “We’re going to Hex City.”

“What changed your mind?

I sigh heavily, then walk over to him. I stay at a safe distance of course but Snow’s magic pulls me to him, my body begging me to take it. Instead, I simply hold out my hand to him. Snow stares for a moment but does catch on. He offers his own to me. Once again, our magics reach out to each other, wisps of fire and lightning twining together. It sends a faint whisper of that explosive adrenaline through my veins. So incredible and so wrong.

I snap my hand away, fists clenched hard. “Because of that. If I were a more selfless person, I would simply leave, but unfortunately I’m not. Are you?” Snow looks me over. His eyes pierce me in a way no one’s ever has before. He slowly shakes his head. “Exactly. I may be scared of Rook and his goddess, but I’m more scared of hurting you. There’s only one place where I won't.”

“Hex City.” He chews on the corner of his bottom lip. “What if you’re right though, and Rook’s price is too high?” 

“Then at least we’ll pay it knowing we tried to have a real life, instead of running like we’ve always had to.” I stand straight with my head held high. No matter the fear, I’m sure of this. “I think we’ve both suffered long enough, Simon.”

The way Snow’s face relaxes means the world to me. I love seeing that, seeing what he looks like without the heavy burden of hexation on his shoulders. Maybe I’ll be able to see that more in Hex City.

“It’ll probably be nice there,” he says. “I mean, a city made for hexes by hexes is going to be weird, but I bet it’ll look amazing in it’s own way.”

I chuckle and nod. “Agreed. Buildings and roads made by magic will certainly be interesting.”

“Penny would probably want to study them.” He sighs, but there’s a lightness to. “Maybe Penny will come one day, and I could see her again.”

“Maybe. I would love to meet her. I might be able to see my aunt again one day, too. I could introduce you to her.”

He beams so bright at me I fear I’ll get sunburnt. “I’d like that a lot.”

“Me too, Snow. So let’s get going.”

We finish packing very quickly. Snow gets on his horse as clumsy as he usually does. I snort at the way his American cowboy hat nearly falls off his head. The death glare he gives me has little impact, what with the way he’s grinning. He hasn’t stopped grinning almost since he woke up. I can’t blame him. I have trouble controlling my smile either.

“Ready?” he asks. As if he even has to. I’ve made my choice, and I’m sticking to it.

“Ready,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Snow and I both send our horses into gallops. We soar across the grassy plain, the Texas sun illuminating our way. The impending hex war still looms over us. But I will fight until my last breath to keep any happiness Simon and I can find.

I can almost see our future. Soon, we’ll reach the terrifying and wonderful Hex City. Rook will ask for his price, and we’ll pay, because it’ll mean a freedom we've never known before. We’ll be able to hold hands, kiss whenever we want, sleep in the same bed, simply be around each other with no fear of our hexacious hunger. It’s more than I could have ever dreamed of even a few months ago.

For once, I’m going to run towards something good, instead of away from the darkness inside me. I cannot wait.

———————————————

AN: And that's all folks! I hope people enjoyed that, even if y'all have never read Hexslinger. If you wanna read the books, I highly recommend them, tho be warned they require trigger warnings for all the stuff here and more. Almost anything that usually needs a trigger warning is in those books. I'm okay with reading it, but I also completely understand others not liking that shit.

In the positives, it's an extremely interesting and complex series dealing with survival, discrimination, identity, the pain that can come with love, and the unlikely bonds formed between people. The world building is amazing and the magic system is super cool. What I love the most are the characters, who are all very interesting and complex. No one is 100% good or evil, they're just people trying to find ways to achieve their goals or simply live. What actions they take are up for moral debate, but a lot of the time they're at least understandable. There's a lot of period typical bigotry, and it's much more vicious than what I wrote here, but what I love is that there a lot of diverse characters who say "fuck that" and fight back against the shit they get. You've got queer, Indigenous, black, latinx, Chinese, and Jewish main characters in a wild west story who are all well rounded and interesting. That's pretty awesome imo.

Okay enough gushing about Hexslinger lol. Hope this story was good. No guarantee when my next fic will be out. Work and school are killer. Until then, see you later!

[thefracturedmosaic]

Routines

mentions: @synric-silversong​ @divergent-lines​ @veyka-sythan​

Pushing back the curtains of the inn room, Nairus watched as the hooded figure fade into the crowd. After a short minute more, he slid the curtains further open and began his daily routine of picking pieces of leaves off the many different plants. Afterwards, Nairus attention turned to the comatose man in the bed, as he cupped a handful of leaves ready to do their job.            How long has it been now? Nairus wondered as pieces of leaves were set upon the man’s body. A few weeks now? Almost a month? Nairus hand rested gently on the temples of the man. The magic flowed easily and without resistance; there always was resistance. People always resisted the first initial few seconds.

           As his magic worked, all Nairus could really take in was the skinny, thin muscle along the man’s face and neck. The way his arms looked like sticks; the withering form of a corpse not yet sure if it should step into the next phase of death.

Death made people look different. Even so, something continued to eat the edges of Nairus mind.

He knew this kid.

           Kid. Nairus sighed as the man’s body seemed to change deep inside. The magic stopped, and Nairus turned towards the dust particles left by the petals that were once scattered across the man’s body.

Kid. Did I know him as a kid?

           He cleaned the man off.

Mey’s child. Nairus stood up and began working muscles; no amount of magic could replace physically caused sores and aches and atrophy. As he worked, Nairus’s mind conjured the mage who had spoken those words of being this patients’ adoptive family.

But Mey’s biological child.

           Nairus shook his head, feeling a headache growing. He rubbed at his own temples to edge the pain away.

I wonder…. Nairus began and then laughed at the foolish image that his mind conjured. A woman going through labor was a chore he absolutely hated. No amount of pressure would get him to do it, unless…

           The headache struck him harder as he was rubbing the man’s arms.

           I should stop. He finally thought as the headache began to subsided. You know they weren’t lying about it.

           Narius soon fell into silence as he finished the last bit of his work on the man for the time being.

Once done, the patient was back under the covers, sleeping undisturbed, unaware of what was going on all around him.            Nairus moved the chair by the window and let the warmth radiate upon his back. He took out his book from his bag, and fell into a distant entertainment as he pushed out the voices and footsteps of people coming and going from outside.

           “Stop…” The voice snapped Nairus awake. He fixated his gaze on the door, but no one was there. No one, only the now fading footsteps of children and the single holler of a woman “…Running!”

           Silence fell again in the little room. Back to how it was before. No. The small clouded dragon had slithered its way on top of the man’s chest, forked tongue tasting the air by the wall where the kids had ran by earlier.

Nairus left Kal’sin to stare at the wall as his gaze drifted outside. The sun was no longer directing hitting him, and the shadows had taken to the roads as the sun began to sat.

She’s not back yet?

Nairus pushed himself up, collected his fallen book on the ground and placed it back in his bag.

           “Should I be concerned yet?” He jested towards the little dragon; its small head pivoted towards Nairus, a tongue snaking out only to disappearance instantly. “How’s your partner doing?” He asked as Nairus set his fingertips against the man’s head.

           His magic told him everything; dehydrated, lacking minerals and vitamins, some iron, and fiber.

           Nairus turned back to the arrange of plants and shifted through leaves until he found the right ones for the job.

           The routine followed as he had done earlier that morning. The little dragon nestled at the corner of the man’s head and as Nairus did his work. Once he was done, the room was bathed in a dim yellow light from the street below.

Night had settled quickly.

Nairus closed the curtains, and took in the darker room.

           I wonder if she got caught in something. He wondered turning towards the bathroom. He took the water bucket with him and began filling it up. Good if she did. She needed the break away from this. At the thought of Mey, he took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

           She was simply too much. Too closed off. Too sensitive. Too emotionally unstable.

           Nairus walked back out and began watering the plants little by little. Some plants got more water than others, and others were rotated from the window sill and into the shadier area of the room. A smile sat on his lips before he was done.

           Once the plants seemed happy with their new arrangement, Nairus turned on a lamp, took out his book, and flipped open to the last page he had finished.

           He had no plans on falling asleep the second time.

Mey would eventually walk through the door, and he didn’t want to be caught sleeping with her believing he was being the ever-watchful dog.

The dragon’s doing a better job at that then me. He mused as he watched Kal’sin settled himself back on the patient’s chest. Little small sounds escaped the dragon. A sad serenade, he guessed.

Once Mey came back, satisfied that the man was alive still, Nairus would dismiss himself and go grab something to eat himself before going back into the forest too recover. The next morning, his magic would be filled and ready for another long day.

Unless she brings a healer with her tonight. He felt an unease creep into his gut at the mere thought of a spirit healer messing with things they didn’t understand. He decided. He would stay if she brought back a healer.

           Nairus let his thoughts dwindled away, satisfied with his decision, and turned to the pages of his book talking about the new discoveries and applications of old plants in combination with new ones.

Slowly, the book began to bore him. The book eventually found its way on his lap, while Nairus stared out through a small crack in the curtains to the milling of night time people.

           It’s getting late. I suppose I might be staying the night either way. Nothing going to be open for food at this time of night. He grimly frowned at the thought. Maybe I can check on the elf sanctuary by the farm…

           Nairus shivered at the thought of running into Priestess of Elune. No, it was better to starve then risk that chance.

           As his thoughts milled on ideas of food, the door unlocked. Finally…

           He turned slowly, and for each turn, his eyes grew wider, and by the time he was fully around the chair he had been sitting in had been knocked down in his sudden rush to stand up. A man, not a female elf, was standing in front of the door. His eyes glowed blue in the darkness, and a piece of paper was pinned behind him which was now burning away slowly leaving a mark on the frame.

           He heard the dragon begin to hiss and snarl.

           “Jacorek,” the name came to Nairus instantly, as it had almost done with Mey. And like before, no memories came with the name, but emotions flared in a startling fashion. First confusion, hope, then last an unsettling fear. A deep instinctual fear.

           The man grinned. “Nairus.” Jacorek took a step towards the bed.

           Nairus threw himself forward, between the man and the patient lying motionless; the sound of the dragon was growing heavier and more threatening.

           Jacorek attention seemed to grow slowly more amused as he stopped. His hand lowered to a hilt at his belt. “I’m glad you remember me. I thought maybe you would have forgotten the man who saved your life.” His voice filled with mock intrigue.

           Life? Nairus fingertips bubbling with magic at the ready, faded at the casually remark of saving his life.

           Jacorek managed two small steps, before Nairus came back to his senses.

           “You should leave.” Nairus voice came out low and deep, and he let a snarl touch his lips. Don’t let the words distract you.

           An eyebrow rose at the reaction, before a sharp laugh followed. “Mey found a good one. She always does…” He said as a sharp blast of light cut through the darkness.

           Nairus winced and shied from the sudden brightness, his mind cut off in that short second of disbelief. His magic…

           He could feel it coming back to him, bubbling to his aid in an instant, the shield starting to form around the tips of his fingers when it simply all stopped.

           Where magic should have conceled him in a light warmth, instead, he felt a cold shiver rush through him, followed by a sudden sharp, horrible pain radiate through his gut. The pain pushed further, causing him to heave forward despite his racing mind wanting to pull away. His stomach rolled at the pain, and his legs wobbled, but the pressure kept him up for a second more before it was pulled away in a sharp, easy movement.

He stabbed me. How, why… Nairus legs gave out beneath him and he struck the floor, catching himself only for a second before collapsing entirely, feeling a warmth run through his hands.

           Finally, the light began to dim, and the shadow returned in the room focusing on Jacorek’s leather boots and the bed frame.

           The magic that had faded came back to his rescue. The wound began to lessen in pain. The blood flow slowing, his body finding an extra moment of strength, and he could hear the short curse and shout of the man and dragon.

           He pushed himself half-way up.

If I could get a ward down around the bed…

           He was struck in the head by a flying flash of golden scales. The dragon kept going, sliding, and leaving a trail in the darkness, before coming to a stop at the wall. The creature remained motionless.

           “Why?” Nairus hissed the word as he pushed himself up too his feet; the wound at this side screamed.

           Jacorek back was towards him, standing in front of the bed, “Ready,” Jacorek said tonelessly.

           “Why are you doing this?” Nairus reached out finding the plants around him, pulling at their energy.

Jacorek gaze shifted over his shoulder to Nairus, his eyes dancing in the shadows with a brilliant azure glow. “Why?” He said and laughed, spinning in an instant.

The druid magic flared to life for a single brief moment; it did nothing to dim the sharp fresh pain that gurgled through his wound and was sent flying back and up against the wal where the dragon laid.

“You should focus more on yourself druid, and worry less about others.” Jacorek replied as he and the man in the bed began to vanish.

           No.

           Nairus pushed himself up, his eyes turning to the door expecting someone to come from all the ruckus. Someone at least to help.

           But Jacorek and the patient were gone, and there was sound in the hallway.

           Only silence. A spine-tingling silence that did not feel right in any sense.

           Nothing. An empty bed before him, and dying withering plants all around.

           He couldn’t believe it. Refuse to believe it. He was dreaming? The pain, it wasn’t real.

           Yet, as he moved to prove his point, the pain had him reeling back on the floor. His magic was already working to seal the flow of blood once more. As he did, his eyes fell on the dragon.

           A thin life strand hung around the creature.

           Nairus shifted his weight and placed a hand on the little dragon, pouring the rest of the collected magic from the plants in the room.  When she finally comes, you can at least help her more then me. He thought softly as he watched the little creature began twitch a claw, and then a leg. He wants to live. Finally, a patient who does. Nairus almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

[nelllraiser]

mori | montgomery & nell

LOCATION: Deep in the Woods

TIME:  7:19 PM

PARTIES: Montgomery de Ville and Nell Vural

It was just a regular evening for Nell. The sun was just beginning to set, and it was the start of her prowl for the night. Not yet having a particular target in mind, she’d lingered close to the house, not drifting all that far into the Outskirts just yet. But maybe tonight’s hunt for something to bring into the Ring would be short, and she’d be able to turn in for the night sooner rather than later. It’d been something like thirty-six hours since she slept, having been on the trail of a monster that’d bring in big cash the day before, and being unwilling to lose out on such a victory. So tonight would be quiet, and easy. Or at least she hoped as much. Ever since Morgan had mentioned the Tenome that has chased her and Blanche, Nell had been hoping to find it. She walked on through the forest, aimless at the moment as she readied herself to cast a tracking spell. Not for a moment did she think that the hunter might become the hunted. After all, these were her woods, her home territory. These dense branches and enormous trees were practically a second home by now. 

Montgomery hadn’t forgotten everything that they had been meticulously learning about their target. The hunt was something they relished, but when you were hunting for money and a human at that, the pleasure was somewhat diminished. At least in the build up. The pleasure of the kill was intricate and more importantly absolute. The one thing in the universe that Montgomery could always keep faith in. She was collecting creatures again, her skill was undeniable and she moved like an expert. Montgomery would’ve enjoyed hunting alongside her but clearly that wasn’t an option. Creeping forward, they moved parallel to their prey, keeping down wind from her and out of sight. Their opportunity would come soon enough, patience was a virtue for a reason after all.

For a moment, Nell stilled, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. It was the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Honestly, she should be used to it in woods such as these, with all sorts of creatures roaming the undergrowth, and even the trees above. Maybe tonight would be over sooner than she’d thought if something blood-thirsty was already nearby, making her hunt much shorter and less tiring than it needed to be. Already she could envision the smell of the freshly baked bread Bea had been making when she’d left the house, and Nell was all too eager to get home and chomp into it with little regard for manners or anything of that like. And then...sweet sweet release and she’d lay her head down to rest. Another night passed, finally able to close her eyes to rest and recharge.

Pausing for a moment, Montgomery sniffed the air cautiously. He wasn’t sure why he did it, it didn’t achieve anything. But it had become a habit and he was too stubborn to change it now. Creeping forward through the undergrowth on all fours, he stayed as low as he could. Moving with an athletic ease that had come from years of hunting game. This was just a different kind of hunt. Pulling the tranquiliser rifle from his shoulder he slid it through the grass alongside him. Positioning himself with a clear line of sight, Montgomery was pleased with the altitude they’d gained and took a second more to really settle in. There would only be one shot needed. Settling the rifle into his shoulder, Montgomery popped the cap off of the lense and peered through the telescopic view. Taking account of distance, wind, and of course natural projectile drop, Montgomery took his time, calmly taking a breath, his index finger slipped the safety off and curled around the trigger, pausing once more to make sure everything was perfect- he fired.

The longer this creeping sensation gripped Nell...the more foreign it felt. Rather than simply being watched, she almost felt...like prey. Like a vampire was going to jump out at any moment in an attempt to chomp down on— her neck. At the same moment the thought passed her mind, something else hit her, as if the universe had set her inner thoughts into motion. A sting in her neck, and a hand was automatically darting towards whatever had struck. What the fuck? Instinctively, she pulled the projectile from her neck, looking down at what appeared to be a tranquilizer nestled in her hand. Shit. Fuck. Adrenaline began to race through her veins, magic already sprouting to her fingertips. Her time was limited now. The chamber in the dart had been empty, and who knew what might have been in it. Anger, pure and hot shot through her as she yelled out. “Show your fucking self, coward!” Stomping her foot into the ground, the spell went out from there, designed to detect any living creature within a thirty foot radius. There, not too far from her in the tall grass. Without holding back, she sent an instinctual blast of magic in the direction of the body, summoning it towards her whether they wanted to face her or not. Her other hand had already drawn a dagger from its hiding spot, slicing a sizeable cut along her arm in preparation for her next move.

Would’ve been nice if Montgomery had been able to work out that was an option for Penelope Vural. Having literal magic at your fingertips must be convenient. Montgomery was sure that it would make his job much easier. “It wouldn’t be called hunting if I just showed myself now would it,” he protested in his Afrikaneers drawl as her magic dragged him towards her, but they knew that it wouldn’t be long now until the tranquiliser really started to take affect and then it would be all that much harder for her to really do anything. Then it would just be a matter of doing his due diligence, taking a trophy and confirming the kill for that little shit of a man August Thompson. Honestly Montgomery was almost tempted to let her live, almost. The money on this job was too good and this really wasn’t an inconvenience. Montgomery struggled against her magic, pulling their revolver out alongside the large hunting knife that he had strapped to his upper right thigh. “Are you sure you want to play this game little girl?” he asked smugly as he waited for the sedatives to take effect.

A sneer marred Nell’s features as the voice reached her. It would be impossible not to recognize that accent and tone. It only made the fight in her rear its head more passionately, knowing it was Montgomery that had come after her. What the fuck was his problem, anyway? Who the hell just hunted for sport? At least, that’s what she’d assumed. Why else would he be after her? Though...it was true she’d made plenty of enemies in her past. But surely he wouldn’t know any of them, right? Already she could feel herself becoming sluggish, her reactions taking longer to manifest than they usually did. Vainly, she pushed a bloodied thumb to the summoning tattoo on her arm in an effort to bring forth her three favorite hellhounds. Nothing happened. Looking down, she realized that with the world beginning to spin, she’d missed the tattoo, a finger’s swipe of blood now running just below the ink she’d been aiming for. “I’ll kill you first,” she spat out, trying her best to figure out which of the fuzzy Montgomery’s she was seeing was the real one. She threw her first knife, magic behind it’s throw to help it hit its intended target, both supplying assisted aiming in a time like this, and putting more force behind the dagger.

The irony in Penelope Vural’s logic was one of the most ironic parts of all of this. Normally Montgomery hunted for sport. They did it for the pleasure of the kill, they did it to make their blood rush and to feel the visceral pleasure of hauling a carcass back. He was an expert now, he’d clean it themselves and make trophies, sell what they could and he would eat what he couldn’t. His dogs got the rest. If it was edible of course. Montgomery was cruel but he wasn’t a cannibal. Not yet anyway. But today he had been forced into this position by a large sum of money. Perhaps forced was a bit of a stretch, perhaps he should simply accept that he could’ve walked away. But that was no fun. The dart was one of his own special creations. Years of studying medicine had made it easy to mix natural and supernatural sedatives and if Penelope died from the weird cocktail of magic and sleeping drug that was rushing round her system then who was Montgomery to complain? She seemed to be realising the predicament that she was in and as she pulled a knife and hurled it in his direction Montgomery side stepped it easily. His right hand snapped out and caught the handle of the blade as it sailed roughly near where his face had been. “Naughty, naughty,” Montgomery said wagging his finger and loudly tutting like a concerned nurse as he looked at the bright and shiny blade sighed, “such a beautiful creation, such a shame it’s user is so … unfortunate.”

A nearly animalistic snarl rang out from Nell as her knife was caught, wasting no time as she drew another knife as quickly as she could, though it was much slower than she normally moved, the tranquilizer still doing its work well. Pure spite was what was keeping her going, and her simple refusal to go quietly. She’d take a part of Montgomery with her or die trying. That was her only thought as she let the next knife fly, fueled by magic in the same way the first had been. As it grew nearer, it duplicated, spurred on by her magic to create an illusion that was meant to keep the intended target guessing as to which was the real knife. But to Nell it wasn’t all that different from her current vision, the world still taking strange shapes as her awareness ever so slightly began to flicker in and out. “Piece of shit!” she gasped with as much anger as she could muster, trying to remind her lungs how to draw air normally. “You fucking cunty-ass sad excuse for a human!” When was the last time she’d felt anything this strongly? Did it make sense that in her possible last moments, those would be the ones she felt the most emotion? “Shut your fucking mouth!” Each word was punctuated with effort as her magic burst forth once more, closer to the lines of instinctual now that things were getting down to the wire. She wanted him hurt. She wanted him maimed. She wanted him dead. To bring him to his knees.

Montgomery ducked beneath the shower of daggers that went flying in his direction. She was creative, he would give her that much, after all who would’ve thought that this is the way that she would choose to do things. He had always imagined that if he had been fortunate enough to have magic that he would be much flashier and creative with it. But each to their own. “If it makes you feel better to call me all of those things th- th- the-” Montgomery couldn’t finish his own sentence, looking down at his arms he found his veins bulging as the blood seemed to stop flowing around his veins and arteries. Suddenly his entire body was on fire as agony lanced through him. He couldn’t move. At least, not without it being agonisingly painful. His eyes raced around, what the fuck was going on? It took less then a second for them to train on Nell, she was doing something, it had to be a trick. Magic. Something that was stopping him from being able to move, being able to truly fight this. With a visceral, primal grunt of pain, Montgomery took the final three steps that spanned between him and Penelope Vural. The agony was almost too much. They cursed themselves for not using a higher dosage of the tranquiliser as his entire body screamed in pain. Grunting once more, Montgomery drew all their effort into one strike and with the butt of their pistol he clattered into Penelope’s temple. There was a sickening crunch as the metal contacted the bone and cartilage of her skull. 

Nell watched as Montgomery paused, sleepy brain unable to truly process what exactly was going on. All she knew was that she’d done something, expended some magical energy and suddenly he'd stopped. As the magic left her, Nell fell to her knees, a combination of the effort she’d exerted and the tranquilizer finally finishing it’s job pushing her to the ground paying no mind to her fighting tooth and claw against it. No. No. This would not be how she went. This would not be how she died. All those times she’d escaped by the skin of her teeth, all the near misses who’s tales she’d lived to tell. Being shot in the neck by a tranquilizer via a coward who hid in the bushes wouldn’t be her last stand. Her last stand. In truth, part of her had believed she’d never had one, the invincibility of youth and confidence lending her their strength when it came to the endless path that had seemed to unfold in front of her. Even though she’d seen so much more in her life than most did, there was still so much more she’d wanted to see, to touch, to feel.  She looked up as Montgomery readied the kill, biting down on any part of him she could manage to find hold of. Would this really be her last sight? She met his eyes, glaring at him even now as something glinted in the moonlight. Whatever he was meaning to kill her with, no doubt. She wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of watching her eyes close, anger and defiance still burning in their depths.

Montgomery had to admit that as they watched her collapse, as he observed, the tranquiliser really begin to enter her blood stream and start impacting her organs and functions. Montgomery could’ve given a whole lecture just on how it all worked. He was Doctor Montgomery de Ville for a reason after all, but now wasn’t the time. He had to admit that her magic had been something new. He had never felt that sensation or anything like it. It was like his very blood was boiling. Stepping forward, Montgomery reached down and drew their hunting knife once more. A wicked blade with a razor sharp edge and even serated towards the base of the hilt. Perfect for decapitation. Oh how it shone in the light, the reflection glinting off of the sheen of the blade. 

Luce. Bea. Winston. Jared. Blanche. Countless others Nell had met and loved since coming back to White Crest. It wasn’t her life flashing before her, but the faces of those that had made it all the better in the past months and years, even those she wouldn’t have expected to etch a place in her soul. Nic. Morgan. Adam. Remmy. Her father. Her mom. God, her mom. She was going to die without so much as ever being a point of pride to her own mother. What would her legacy be? Did she even have one? Did it fucking matter? The dead were dead. Even now she still struggled, as if somehow her weak attempts to break free would find some way to be successful, that she’d find a way out of this like she always did, always had. Nell had never once stopped fighting in her entire life, and she wasn’t going to start now simply because it was coming to a close. She was going to leave this world the way she came into it, yelling, kicking, screaming as much as she could. Montgomery tensed behind her, that silver flashing once again and suddenly all she could see was—

[war-sword]

Could I request one where Draco finds the reader badly hurt while they are trying to hide during the battle of Hogwarts and they get scared and panic because they think that he'll betray them or kill them but he stays with them to protect them ? ( maybe they used to have a thing but with the war and everything things got complicated and the reader is confused and doesn't know who she can trust anymore )

a/n: thank you for the request! i hope this is along the lines of what you wanted.

warnings: blood, injured reader, angst

words: 1,144

bandages for the body & soul

You stumbled through the corridors, trying to put as much distance between yourself and the sounds of battle as possible. But every excruciating step was making you more and more dizzy, and after a few more feet you collapsed. You pulled yourself into a dark corner of the hall and examined your leg.

One look down was enough to send your stomach lurching, and you nearly lost the dinner you’d had a few hours prior. A curse had hit your calf while fighting. You weren’t sure which one it was, but your leg was bleeding more than you’d ever seen a wound bleed, and dark tendrils were crawling across your skin from where it had it. You looked away and tried to calm down.

Holding down the bile that was trying to rise in your throat, you considered your options. You could get up and try to make it to the infirmary, but that was two floors down and also near where most of the fighting was taking place. You could try and use a revealing spell on the curse that was spreading through your leg, and heal it. That seemed like a good plan.

You raised your wand and pointed it vaguely in the direction of your wound, trying not to look directly at it. You started to cast. “Specialis Rev-“

Then you heard footsteps, even over the sounds of battle far in the background. You froze, listening. They seemed to be coming closer, moving quickly. You looked back the way you’d come, and your heart clenched up in your chest when you realized you’d created a trail of blood with your stunted running. Shit. You wiped off your lower leg below your wound with the edge of your sleeve, which ended up being so painful you had to contain a scream. As quickly as you could, you stood up and began shuffling down the corridor as quick as you could making sure not to leave a trail this time.

The pain was nearly unbearable, but you made it around the next corner which was darker than your previous hiding spot. You hid yourself behind a column and attempted to slow your breathing, listening.

But the footsteps were still there. You held your breath as they stopped just around the corner from you.

Your leg was in even worse pain now from walking on it again. You squeezed your eyes shut against the throbbing, and you heard the footsteps start up again. Please don’t come over here, please don’t come over here.

And yet, they did. A feeling of resignation came over you, and you looked up to see who had come finally finish the job.

It was the very last person you would’ve hoped it had been.

“Y/N?” Draco looked down at you, his brow furrowed.

Involuntary tears sprang in your eyes. “Just make it quick,” you choked out, hugging yourself and looking away.

You feel him crouch down next to you and you suck in another ragged breath. Draco reaches out a hand to touch your shoulder but then thinks better of it. “It’s not what you think,” he says softly.

You look up at him, surprised. His familiar grey eyes make your heart hurt. He breaks eye contact quickly and looks down at your leg. “Can I?”

Not knowing much else to do, you just nod. Draco lifts his wand— no, that’s his mother’s wand, you recognize now— and mutters an incantation under his breath. The black tendrils that were making their way up past your knee recedes. The pain lessens, and Draco casts the bandaging charm over your calf. You can see a red patch being to form underneath the cloth, but the magic will prevent it from getting soiled or the wound from worsening.

“Can you move?” Draco asks. “It’s not very safe here, if we can get you to a closet or a classroom you’ll be much safer.”

Safer? Since when did Draco care about your safety? And yet, he was there, offering his hand and helping you. It made you want to trust him again.

You insisted on standing up on your own, and gritting your teeth you were able to walk a little further down the hall where Draco opened a door to a dusty classroom that was no used as storage. Cloths were draped over tables and stacked chairs, and you settled against the wall, truly exhausted.

“You should rest. You need to be able to walk if the Death Eaters come looking in here.”

“I think it’s a little late for that.” You can’t help the distain that paints your words.

Draco stiffens at your reply, but simply locks the door and sits down across from you, putting a few feet of distance between you. “I never got to tell you how it was,” He mumbled.

“Does it matter?” You sigh.

“Maybe,” Draco says. “To you, it might. I guess I wouldn’t know anymore.”

Now it was your turn to cringe. “You can’t blame me for freaking out, Draco,” you say, softer.

“I never did.”

You get quiet for a moment. “Tell me then. No time like the present, I suppose.”

Draco rolls the thick handle of his mother’s wand between his palms. He always fidgets when he’s nervous, the instinctual part of your brain reminds you. “After father was sent to Azkaban, the Dark Lord was ready to kill me and mother as punishment for my father’s insolence. He offered to spare us if I’d do something for him.” Draco started.

When Draco was finished, you felt horrible. Your poor, sweet Draco. He’d been going through so much, and you’d just left him alone at probably the worst time of his life. He was a Death Eater still, of course, something he could never change now. You pushed off the wall and leaned a little closer to him.

“I’m so sorry, Draco. I… maybe I shouldn’t have-“

“Don’t say that.” Draco cut you off. “It was the right thing to do, Y/N. If you didn’t do it, then… then I probably would’ve had to. I don’t even want to think about what would’ve happened if you’d stayed.” A tiny, yet visible tremor went through his body.

“Maybe. But I shouldn’t have left the way I did.” Kicking and screaming and calling him all sorts of filthy things.

Draco shrugs. “You’re not the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry, too, though.”

“I considered you forgiven a long time ago, Y/N.”

Your heart does a flip. “Well, consider you forgiven now.” You reach out and gently take hold of his fingers. “You should go, back to your family.”

Draco moves so your fingers are laced, and squeezes your hand. “No. I’m not going to let you die here, Y/N, if it’s the last thing I do.”

[pikelanette]

The Wake of Vox Machina (chapter 2)

Chapter 2 is finally here! Sorry for the wait, guys, it wasn’t working for me for a few months. But here it is! Much pikelan, with a bunch of Grog! 

Pairings: pikelan, vaxleth & perc’ahlia Words: 2621 Rated: M Link: ao3

a multi-chapter godlike vox machina reunites AU - chapter 2

Even before she opened her eyes, Pike was struck by the smell of the place. She had been in a fair share of battles in her time, ones where countless lives were lost and entire cities were levelled, but she had never gotten used to the way the rest of the world seemed to disappear on a battlefield. Places like this, they were black holes – they sucked in all the light and life around them. Their energy spread like a cancer. They oozed despair like the Shademirk Bog had oozed in the Feywild before they cleansed it.

The smell was one of blood and metal, fire and gore, fear and piss. Human remains in every sense of the term. She gripped Scanlan tighter in the moment before she opened her eyes to face the carnage.

It was past midnight where they were now. They were standing in a field that was covered, covered, in bodies. There were remains of creatures of all races, together with mounts, discarded weapons, banners, keepsakes, rags… Bodies were piled together like rocks. Whatever battle had taken place here, it had been recent, and it had been huge.

Pike felt the weight of every single lost life come down onto her soul and it almost sent her to the ground. Her knees buckled, her stomach lurched, and she remembered that right before they came here Scanlan had said something about the place being nauseating. He had been absolutely right. It was horrible.

Scanlan was gripping her as tightly as she was holding him, but he was looking around analytically, scanning the landscape around them. Pike followed his gaze and now noticed that there were still people moving around over the field. Some of them were walking regally, their hands up in the air, magic coming from their fingers tips. Clerics, she knew instinctually. They were performing after-battle rites. Probably trying to help the souls of the lost move into the next world – or at least keep their bodies from being taken into un-life. She had performed those rites countless times. She had carried their burden. Her heart ached for those who were carrying it now.

There were also skulkers, though. Creatures that were stealthily making their way through the area, reaching down and grasping for things. Collecting things. Looting.

Another wave of nausea hit her and she felt the anger rise in her chest. Disrespectful, vile, horrible people. This was not a place to gain favour from. This place should not be fertile ground for anything.

Before she could do anything, though, Scanlan tugged at her and nodded towards a small group of creatures a couple of hundred feet away from them. Four skulkers, it seemed, with one of them in a very precarious position – two feet off the ground, held up by the scruff by a man far larger than him. A man whole-heartedly familiar.

Pike’s heart cried out for Grog the second she saw him, but she also realised that he was about to make a mistake.

No more death, something inside her lamented, this place needs no more death.

Pike and Scanlan glanced at each other and then set off running, as fast as their gnomish legs could carry them.

It was hard – between the body parts they almost tripped over and the remains they had to swerve around, their way was far from straight and simple. Grog’s hand had moved from the skulker’s scruff to the base of his skull.

“Grog!” Pike yelled out, putting all of her breath and power behind the word as she shot it out into the darkness.

Grog’s head turned towards them at the sound of her voice, but Pike could tell from his stance that he was just so angry, and it was hard to get through to him at times like those. Hard to break through that red-hazed tunnel vision.

Pike pointed at him as she ran, panting. “Put that down!”

Beside her, Scanlan led out an astonished chuckle at her shout and she was brought off balance by it for a moment as well. It was so simple to yell for Grog to stop acting like a doofus. It was so familiar. Like they’d spent no time apart.

“You heard her Grog!” Scanlan followed up her shout with his own, “Put down that disgusting creature! You don’t know where it’s been!”

Grog’s face, which had been twisted with rage, smoothed out into something of a blank slate before his lips formed into a trembling pout. He dropped the man he’d been holding and turned his back on the three others around him without concern.

“Pike!” he roared out across the field, capturing the attention of some of the clerics that were a little ways away and making them jump, “Scanlan!”

He started bounding towards them, showing next to no care for the despair he trudged through. He was too focused on his two favourite people coming towards him. He ran so fast he almost tripped and Pike choked back another sob as she sprinted towards him. Soon enough, they were upon each other and Grog dove to the ground to sweep both gnomes into his arms and up to his face.

“Buddy!”

“Grog!” Scanlan said with a big grin, “Oh, I’ve missed that handsome mug of yours!”

There was something painful about having this reunion in the middle of this field, with the smoke still rising from small fires and the souls of the lost soldiers hardly across the borders of the afterlife. This place needed no more death, yes – but this felt strange as well. This happiness.

But how were they supposed to be anything but ecstatic?

Scanlan laughed, but Pike said nothing and just cried into Grog’s shoulder, hugging him tightly to herself. She was emotional to an extent that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Too much was happening. She couldn’t keep up.

“I wasn’t sure where you guys were,” Grog said, sounding slightly out of breath, “I went looking for you, but I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m sorry, Grog.” Pike sniffed loudly. “We were a little ways off. We went to sleep in different places, remember?”

“To sleep?” Grog frowned at them, looking confused.

Pike felt like a trickle of ice water ran down her spine. She just stared at him, speechless.

Scanlan was a little more put together. “You don’t remember?”

Grog looked them over for a bit and then shrugged his shoulders. “I know we did that spell or whatever. To kill Vecna. Little bitch. But then I was here, in the ground.”

“In the ground?” Pike asked, her voice trembling.

Grog nodded. “Yeah. I woke up in the dirt.”

Panic rushed through her as she tried to imagine what that would be like – waking up disoriented, in the ground, in a place like this, with no sense of time or what had really happened, and no one around him. It must have been horrifying.

Scanlan was just nodding. “Yes. We were trying to put him to sleep, remember? We put all of the gods to sleep, and that way they’d never fuck anything up again.”

Yes – that had been the plan. It was a good plan. Solid. The right thing to do. The heroic thing. The only catch was that they’d had to go to sleep as well. And that was a sleep… a sleep they weren’t supposed to wake up from. It was like death. They had died for this.

Pike was struck again by how they probably didn’t deserve this kind of happiness – this reunion. Their family, together again. That was not the deal they had struck.

Grog nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I remember. Did it work?”

“It looked like it,” Scanlan said, “But if we’re awake now, then who knows. Vecna might be too.”

That was a scary, scary thought. Could all of their work really have been for nothing? Was Vecna just… back? Had he broken through?

“I don’t… feel like he’s around,” Grog said.

Pike blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

Grog shrugged again, jostling the gnomes in his arms. “You know. It doesn’t feel like he’s up, is all.”

Scanlan nodded slowly. “Yeah, I… I think I get what you mean.” He looked at Pike. “I don’t feel his presence here. I used to – before we went to sleep. He always had this sort of stench around him.”

Pike frowned and thought about that. It was true that when Vecna was around, there had been this… fear in the air. Something almost tangible. But if no one knew he was back then it made sense that no one was scared of him. He was probably no more than a story to the people who were alive now. Although that was underestimating the life span of a lot of creatures, maybe. Gnomes could live hundreds and hundreds of years. Keyleth was supposed to too, originally. There might be people who remembered to be afraid.

“We can’t be sure,” Pike said finally, “There has to be a reason we’re awake. It might be Vecna.”

“It could be anyone.” Scanlan bit his thumb again. “If one God wakes, they all do, maybe. Then we’d wake up with them.”

“But then Vecna is awake, isn’t he? By that logic?”

Scanlan hesitated. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe we’re just the first line of fire. Since we’re the ones who put them all to sleep, if one of them is waking up that would undo our feat of power and un-godify us. That could be why we’re up. Doesn’t mean all of the gods have to wake up immediately. We could have just been demoted once there was a crack in our system.”

Pike tried to wrap her head around that. It didn’t seem right, but she couldn’t put her finger on why exactly. It was hard to think of herself as a god, but still, there was… There was something fundamentally different about her. There was a part of her that she didn’t recognise – something new. If that wasn’t godhood, then what was it?

“I have no idea what you just said,” Grog told Scanlan.

Scanlan shook his head, clearly still thinking about it. “Let’s just find the others first. They might know something we don’t.”

That seemed unlikely to Pike. If Scanlan couldn’t figure it out, she doubted whether any of the others could.

But… She did want to see them. So very badly.

She was about to agree and tell Scanlan to take them to the next place when her eyes fell on one of the bodies on the ground. Very briefly, from the corner of her eyes, it had looked like it had moved.

Pike froze in Grog’s arms and stared at the limp remains on the overturned earth. Nothing moved.

Suddenly, she felt this need to do something. She wasn’t entirely sure what, but her body was itching to make something happen. And she thought she’d better let it.

“Can you let me down for a bit?” she asked Grog, “Before we go?”

Her brother seemed reluctant to let go of her, but he did as she asked and put her down on the ground. Now she was out of the comfort and warmth of his arms, she could feel the icy cold of this place again. Their shared happiness had been a moment’s respite – this place was too full of agony to sustain it. But… maybe she could do something.

She closed her eyes and reached out with her mind to the places around her. There was light, still, hidden in the wreckage. There was always, always light. And where it wasn’t, she would bring it. She would gift it to this place.

The time of dying was over. The healing started now.

Light gathered around her small body. She pulled it out of the ether – she dragged it out of her own soul. She took some from Grog, and from Scanlan, and from the clerics walking the grounds. She took some from memory and some from hope, and she made it all into a little sun that she carried inside of her chest. From there, she let it shine – she let the light pour out again and touch the world.

She was a vessel. She was a star. She was a conductor.

Pike felt spectral wings of light sprout from her shoulders and she wasted no time before lifting up into the air. From that position, the light could touch even more space and she put everything into making it as strong as possible.

There would be no death here. No un-life. This was the start of recovery. This land was for the living – or it would be again.

She breathed in the darkness and breathed out light, and once she was satisfied, she came back down to earth.

She became aware that some of the clerics had stopped to stare at her. A few of them had gone to their knees. The power that flowed through her was intoxicating, but she felt clearer-headed than she had since she’d woken up in her tomb a while back. She felt, strangely, like she knew what she was doing.

Or she did, right until the moment she saw Scanlan and Grog again.

Grog was merely grinning and gave her a thumbs-up when he saw her looking. He looked at her like he always had when she did something cool – just like she did something cool and he thought it was cool.

Scanlan, though, looked at her like she had just put the sun back into the sky after an age of darkness. His gaze was bright and awe-filled. His entire focus was on her form as she slowly drifted back down to them and she noticed that his third eye had peeked out again, as though he hadn’t had enough eyes to see her with. As though he needed to become more just to grasp what he was seeing.

She was a little self-conscious by the time she touched the earth again and she wiggled on her feet for a moment, trying not to look at Scanlan but finding herself unable to look away for long. She kept glancing at him and seeing her own power reflected in his eyes, and it was strange, and exhilarating, and she wanted more of it. She wanted to look at him until the dawn of another age.

Finally, Scanlan cleared his throat. “Still gods, then,” he said hoarsely.

Grog nodded like that made perfect sense, and Pike felt a blush rush onto her cheek. She felt a little proud  of what she’d done – she knew this place needed no more rites after this. She had cleansed it entirely in just a few minutes. Deep down, she knew that what Scanlan said was true – no mortal could do the thing she had just done. They were still gods. At least she hoped they all were. It would be incredibly lonely to be the only god amongst them, now.

But one more glance at Scanlan’s third eye and she thought she knew better than to think herself alone. None of them were mortals now.

Scanlan shook his head for a moment and then clapped his hands together. “Alright then! Time for another magic trick. A bit less impressive, of course, but we can’t all be angels of light and healing.”

He wiggled his fingers and, around the three of them, the arcane runes started appearing in their sparkles of golden and purple light. His hands went through the somatic motions of the spell and Pike quickly turned to Grog.

“We’re jumping,” she said quickly, trying to prepare him, before they blipped out of the world in a spark of magic.

[worstfruit]

GOBLINS

Ok-- this setting focuses on a small continet, a bit smaller in width than australia, but longer (think the stretched greenland we see on globes). To the north, past a mountain range that crosses the land, lay and endless expanse of pete bogs and moors and thick, thonry shrub forests: here live the greenskins and barbaric humans of lore: free creatures and beasts and even men, who pay no mind to the settled empire that exists just south. Focusing on one of these races, I will be talking about my favourite! The goblins (sometimes called the ‘Moors Goblin’ bc i published this on dnd beyond so i could use it as a homebrew race). I’ve borrowed a lot from Warhammer and 40k but as I work on world building I hope to separate these fuckers from both dnd and warhammer.

What differentiates your Moors Goblin from their more classic fantasy cousins is primarily their culture and disdain for sunlight (ok since writing more...unsure if i want them to be light sensitive!! will have to stew on this). Even Moors Goblins who live outside of cave networks don't see too much direct sunlight due to the cloudy and rainy climate of the northern highlands, and so they're prone to sunburn and blindness during prolonged exposure. Likewise, dryer climates greatly weaken their immune system, and so they rarely travel far enough south to mingle much with other races. The Moors Goblin is unique in that their genetic makeup is closely linked to that of fungus, making them incredibly hard to kill despite some of their more glaring weaknesses. They bleed viscous, green blood, thick with spores that, when the time is right, allow for the birth and growth of new goblins. While they do possess many organs similar to most mammals, like cold blooded reptiles, Moor Goblins can survive seemingly impossible amounts of tissue loss and internal damage, as their green bodies generate oxygen through photosynthesis and their central nervous system operates as a networked inlaid along their vascular lines. For this reason, many tribes take to the belief that it is actually impossible to kill them without the aid of fire or acid, and will chant some iteration of 'no burial mound can hold me' as a warsong. Even if a goblin is crushed beyond recognition, a new goblin may soon crawl from the dirt below the sight of his death due to the spores released upon his body's destruction.

Your typical cave Goblin may not know how to swim very well or see all too well in the sunlight, though some tribes do make a living off fishing the river ways in which they reside or travelling large, flat plain lands during daylight hours. Your average Goblin lives a simple lifestyle with a group of their own, and while some clans may be open to trading and friendly relations with other native races such as orcs or humans, Goblins are known for being isolationists and rather...tricky. They've had many altercations with more southerly dwarves and wood elves(? -- unsure if ill use elves in this manner as ive yet to expand on them). If asking any Dwarf about them, you'll likely hear that they are all cutthroats and petty thieves (largely in part due to land disputes within the mountains), whereas an Empire Elf would likely have little to no experience with them whatsoever.

In general, the world does not know too much about Moors Goblins and the inner workings of their society, as the race enjoys keeping to itself, and for the most part, other, more dominant races tend to likewise keep away from goblin controlled regions.

Older Goblins hold no higher rank in society, though they are allowed more relaxed roles due to their age and resulting feebleness. What does elevate their standing is their outward apperance: namely height and scars. A goblin tends to form welts, pockmarks, bumps, or discolorations after being wounded. Goblins who don’t see much warfare or even friendly sparring tend to be smooth, and as a result, assumed inexperienced, whereas more seasoned goblins tend to be more disfigured or even missing limbs (this implies that they have reached the age and status to breed, though sometimes old goblins may be smooth skinned, and young goblins with a rough early start may appear older than they are). Though more muscular goblins may bully their way through the nest, this doesn’t affect their social rank, though muscle build tends to correlate with height, and height a prized trait within Goblin society. The tallest Goblin is the defacto leader, but this tends to lead more diminutive individuals to ‘augment’ their height through unnatural means (stilts, hats, and even magic). The chieftain of a tribe often wears some sort of elaborate mask made of animal bone that helps to augment his height, and also represent the clan's culture through color, symbol, etc. If a tall goblin is entirely smooth, he must rely on his wits and magic knowhow to gain a reputation worthy of leading. If a very muscular but short and scarred goblin arises, he may fight for the title-- though this is rare. It seems instinctual for these creatures to flock to the tallest.

The Moors Goblin generally has very large ears, useful for detecting sonic frequencies within the earth.

They tend to have more angular facial features, larger noses and chins, hollow cheeks, and large, eyes with yellow sclera and slit pupils. Irises vary in color, from those ranging normal to humans, as well as rarer shades of red, purple, black, or even white. Goblin eyesight is exceptional in the dark, making them adept at living underground and scavenging for food at night, but making them poor day time hunters. Their sense of smell is keen like that of a dog, helping tunnelers to seek out anything from fungal food sources to rare minerals and dangerous sulfur deposits. Claws are large and thick on both hands and feet, and the front teeth are sharp, with pronounced incisors and canines and a set of flat, crushing molars at the back of the jaw.

Cutting open a goblin will reveal a startling lack of any apparent major organs! They possess spider-like booklungs, a network of bladder like muscles that have thousands of little capillary rivulets expending from within and connect the tissue to itselve. Cutting into muscle reveals a sort of crystalline pattern, made of a meat like, gooey substance similar to the consistency of what inside an aloe leaf. These fluids range from a watery, yellowish-green, to more viscous forest greens and even dark browns. Although any surgeons in this world would not be able to discern this easily, the goblin does posses a CNS, it is simply spread through the entire body. Likewise, there is no apparent heart organ, but it seems that electrical impulses force a reflective twitch from this network of innards that compels the goblin body forward. The closest thing to a brain can be found along what resembles a spinal column, where more obvious veins stem from to attach to the eyes, booklungs, and multiple small stomach like sacks. Their skeletal system is composed of a highly resilient and flexible cartilage made of keratin, similar to beetle shells. The goblin’s capacity to heal is astounding and quicker than that of your average mammal, though their springy ‘bones’ and soft flesh do make for easy wounding. Some older, stronger goblins develop a thick callous and scar tissue that makes for excellent, natural armor, and is sought after as a source of leather by some dwarvish tribes. 

Eating goblin meat is ill advised, however. It appears to be toxic to pink skins, and no known predator relies on these creatures as a food source.

For this reason, as well as their reproductive nature, goblins are seen as a plague amongst some northerly dwelling empire races. Cut one down, multiple eventually appear. Many have learned to burn goblin bodies rather than cutting up their remains; the more green blood spilled, the more likely they are to return from the earth! Infant goblins can be surprisingly strong and viscous towards perceived threats, and in a great number, they can do a lot of damage.

To an outsider, it may appear that all Moors Goblins are male. In reality, there is only one sex, or rather, in goblin terms, there is no sex or /really/ gender. Moors Goblins have no native terms for 'he' or 'she', though in Common they are typically just referred to as male due to their physical features. Moors Goblins have no need for more telling indicators such as breasts, but do coexist with races that do recognize a binary sex and gender, so they are somewhat familiar with the concept and may navigate it according to their preferences, if they have any. Many are fine with just being labeled an it, a they, or a he/she, though some more involved with humans may chose a set of pronouns.

Moors Goblin society is collectivist at its core; this may be confusing to outsiders however as Goblins are extremely easily distracted by anything they might consider valuable–– be it shiny, aromatic, tasty, dangerous, or just large and heavy. While this kleptomaniacal behavior may seem individualistic on the surface, Goblins operate similar to a termite or ant mound, or even beehives in that they collect food and goods to add to a collective hoard. It’s an animalistic sort of instinctual partnership a Goblin has with their clan, wherein they gather and fight as a collective, for the collective good, in exchange for food and protection. It could be looked at as a primitive form of taxation, but don’t let their demeanor fool you. Many aspects of Goblin society differ so greatly from human culture that it would be easy to mistake the creatures as mere beasts.

Their written language only exists in pictographs and simplistic glyphs, though someone unlearned in their ways may not be able to decode their cave scrawlings. If something must be written for delivery, Goblins utilize clay tablets (much like ancient Sumerians) and rarely take part in record keeping or history. Only the immediate now, and the looming future, really concern the Goblin folk. Oral tradition is common though mostly for religious purposes, and the orator role seems to be taken by older Goblins who have survived wars and skirmishes to tell the tale. In spite of this, Goblins are highly intelligent; though they lack long attention spans and tend towards the hyperactive and impulsive (and greedy) nature, they are adept magic users as well as rogues, druids, rangers, barbarians, and fighters, even bards, and a few exceptional individuals often leave their home to pursue training with other races. Goblin clerics, wizards, monks, and paladins are almost nonexistent, though it is certainly possible for exceptional individuals to arise and take on these roles...just, unheard of. Medicine men are often looked at as Shamans and revered as mystics. If a Moors Goblin has the capacity to learn, or the natural ability to use magic, he will often become a Shaman; as such many 'Shaman' are either sorcerers or clerics, though goblins do not differentiate between the two much, aside from designating some shaman as healers and others as battlemages. Healer shaman are typically alchemists and herbalists.

Religion is not at the center of Goblin culture, though it does play a significant enough role that it merits mentioning. A Goblin may worship any number of deities from a polytheistic pantheon of old, elemental gods; they take their beliefs from oral traditions passed on from generation to generation. Mining and tunneling act as the fulcrum for many folk lore and urban legends, using cautionary tales of careless tunneling practices and unearthing unspeakable evils of the deep. Mentors will often tell these tales to their charges to keep them in line, mostly. As creatures composed of plantlike matter, Moors Goblins tend to feel a kinship with the earth, moss, lichen, and the sort. Shaman, like clerics, draw their powers from the elements and deities who represent them, and on occasion may use their abilities to aid in battles, though primarily reserve them for healing and supplementing their oral tradition.

Goblins will pair bond with one or multiple partners throughout their lifespan, though a coupling for the sake of childbearing is useless in their society. A single goblin may have multiple litters of children in a lifetime, depending on anything from the availability of food to a need for more goblins in a clan. The collective cares for newborns, with a little focus on the biological parent as authoritative figures, though many young goblins may bond with a particular elder and chose to spend more time around them. Many older goblins may mentor or teach younger ones in their trade if they take an interest, though rarely is a goblin forced into a role. It varies among tribes, but is generally a very organic process where any given goblin simply does whatever he is good at. This is how names are given: first names are mostly what matter and are derived from telling characteristics that arise as the goblin child ages. Surnames exist as well, however, and are assigned later once a trade is selected or perhaps a deed done that awards merit. This helps differentiate goblins with more common names, from seperate tribes, or from a proud lineage: fore example, let’s say two Dweezles exist in the same clan for whatever reason. One may become a hunter, the other may become a bard of some sort. The hunter may be named Dweezle Lantz whereas the bard may be called Dweezle the Yox, or in common, Dweezle the Merry. (I am using a very bastardized patois as a basis for a lot of goblin names simply bc i like the idea of Goblle being derived from Orc lowspeak, which I base off a very bastardized French! For no reason other than shits and giggles).

Goblins are often 'born' as twins or triplets, though the mortality rate is somewhat high due to disease and accidents. Goblins share a distant ancestry with that of fungus, and as such their reproduction involves a gestation stage wherein the parent blood lets beneath mushroom caps in a central breeding chamber within the cave networks he may inhabit. From here the spore-filled fluid takes to the dirt and develops into fetuses, which gather further nutrients from the rich soils and the other fungal and plant life found in the cave floor. It continues to grow until a full formed Goblin baby is ready to crawl free from the earth. Infants will possess exemplary motor skills once unearthed and instinctively know to crawl towards older goblins and the scent of food. 

Your typical Moors Goblin dwelling is found around the base of a mountain, rolling hills, or within the nooks and crags of a cliff. The tunnels are narrow and warren like but lead to a number of different caverns, both natural and goblin-made, that are much more open. The central chamber has many interconnecting tunnels and can range from large to massive in size. The larger the tribe, the larger the atrium. Often, tribes will seek out pre-existing caverns to make as their atrium, which is similar to a plaza or the town centre of a human village. Here, cave paintings and banners decorate the walls, Shamans will set up shop to offer medical aid or entertainment and education in story telling, the chieftain will make his rounds or sit atop a central throne and hear reports from foot soldiers or settle disputes amongst tribe members, and children will run about and practice battle or play. Beneath the atrium lies the food storage, and below there lies the brood.  If a cave network has lava, blacksmiths and cooks may conduct their business around these pockets of magma, but will otherwise carry on outside the tunnels. Individual goblins may seek out and dig their own rooms for sleep, though many will seek others to sleep in piles. Goblins live both within these tunnels and on the surface around the outside of the area. They guard the territory around the mine for miles, sending out patrols of hunters equipped with war horns and using wolves as watchdogs to alert them to intruders.

The Moors Goblin spoken language is quick and sharp on the tongue, spoken in fast fragments meant to quickly convey information. Moors Goblins of old were purported to operate as a literal hivemind, not needing verbal language to communicate with one another, though the modern Moors Goblin has lost this telekinetic ability. The influence of such can be seen in how they work in groups. Pheremone signals and bodily gestures (such as ear twitches or stance) carry nonverbal information throughout the entire brood; attacking one goblin in or near their mound can result in a full fledged, hive-wide retaliation. For this reason it is highly advised to isolate enemy Goblins, or to use crowd control measures when dealing with multiples.

Goblins will align themselves with orcs and humans in times of war, making them an intimidating force to be reckoned with. Even a single tribe can be difficult to battle, though, as they attack in droves and rely on their sheer numbers to viciously bring down any enemy. Shamans and bards will aid a fight using berserker elixirs and spells, AOE heals and buffs/debuffs, and providing chants that both invigorate their soldiers and deter the enemy. Bards typically play animal bladders fixed with a series of tubes, much like the real world bagpipes, war drums, or brass oboe-like instruments that sound off a deep resonance (similar to a didgeridoo). Hunters and rangers will lead a charge on wolves or other tamed beasts, while the chieftain leads the foot soldiers. Tribes at war have a high turnover rate for their leaders.

When teamed with orcs, it is common for goblins to serve as a replacement for pack animals, even during hunts, however it should be noted that goblin slavery is not a common practice among the northern orc tribes and seems to be a willing symbiotic relationship between both races.

The Goblin diet consists of local fauna and flora that is relatively easy to hunt or gather. Goblins don’t participate in much agriculture aside from a few species of mushroom and various moss or lichen, and do not partake in domestication or cattle rearing of any sort, though a variety of rats, bats, small reptiles, amphibians, and insects coexist alongside the Goblin people in a similar manner to humans and domestic dog and cats. Granted, these creatures are also often on the menu. Many rangers will capture wolves and ride them to hunt, as well, though this is less common for goblin groups that live deep within cave systems.

Due to the lack of sunlight, Goblins get their vitamin D through both photosynthesis of available, diffused light and a hearty diet of fatty meats and protein based foods, supplementing it with small rocks and precious gems, nuts, berries, roots, grasses, and leafy greens. Some minerals may actually imbue a Goblin spell caster with certain heightened abilities for a short while, ranging from increased sensory capabilities to hallucinogenic effects. Contrary to popular beliefs, Goblins do eat a number of root vegetables and fruits, gathered and bartered from surrounding forests and towns. Shamans enjoy brewing powerful elixirs and even moonshine that aid in battle or serve as poison to coat their weapons in.

Relationships with other races are mostly dependent on trade, though due to border conflicts, Goblins have an adversarial relationship towards Dwarves. The Goblin’s inclination towards stealing and eating gemstone and ore, as well as collapsed tunnels and collisions have put the two races at odds with each other.

Many tribes align themselves with Barbaric human clans or nomadic tribes of neighboring orcs, and will fight or even live alongside these different races in relative harmony.

i think that’s it for now!!!!

[yaboylevi]

Hello! I find your theories very appealing. I would like to ask you what do you think about bond between Levi and Eren from the perspective of recent informations? Eren said that Ackermans form that kind of relationship "in order to protect Eldia`s king" on subconsscious lvl. Do you think that Levi dismissing the idea of killing Eren almost immidiately while having a hedache means that he is influenced like that? Thank you for your time!

Hello everyone, I was surprised to receive so many questions about this topic. This meta has become massive, as I analyzed some interactions throughout the whole manga. Feel free to add your thoughts on it.

Disclaimer:

I’ve seen people argue that Mikasa’s actions make sense even if she wasn’t controlled by her blood, and I agree (112!Eren was probably exaggerating, anyway). And it certainly stands for Levi’s actions as well.

The chances of Levi being bonded to Eren are very slim, in my opinion, and I don’t want him to be, if I had to be honest, but for the sake of answering these questions, and because the most recent chapter is purposely asking us to consider it, I will now ramble about it.

More under the cut.

My experience with ch112 has been me reading the Japanese script first. I was crushed by the EMA talk, then I expected the worst even from Levi’s part, as the page that first leaked seemingly had Levi losing faith in Eren. So I read the soldiers announcing that the plan was to feed Eren to someone, then Levi starting wondering if it even had been worth it to protect Eren, considering all the sacrifices humanity had made. Then it shifted to Levi completely shutting down the idea. No, he said, he would have none of it. He didn’t even care if Eren was controlled or not, he would not kill him. He would kill someone else, feed it to a random person and then titanize Historia. I was blown away. Because I thought Levi to be very opposed to this titan-Historia plan. And I always knew Levi cared about Eren, but it was crazy to read Levi so explicitly confirm it.

Then the chapters images dropped. Mikasa held her head because of a headache, just when Eren was challenging her about it. And right after that, when Levi was debating if he would allow Eren to be killed, he held his head in seemingly (emotional) pain and/or frustration. An Ackerman holding his head just when Eren has just finished talking about Ackerman’s headachesーWait what?!

Images of Mikasa softly placing her hand to the side of the head came immediately to mind. I think it was intentional on Isayama’s part. The coincidence was too obvious to ignore.

So I started thinking about all those times I made fun of Levi for being overprotective of Eren, starting with one of the most recent examples, with Yelena. There is, of course, a logical reason for it, but…But.

What about that time in the Forest of Giant Trees, when Levi was way too much in synch with Eren, just like Mikasa.

This one always felt weird. I loved this parallel. I always attributed Mikasa’s reaction to her overbearing protectiveness, plus she had actually heard Eren’s roar once, in Trost. But Levi had never heard it, as far as we know, he had barely known Eren for a month. It just looked weird and funny in my eyes, and I often joked around with my friends about it, like “Levi, you fool, you’ve known him for like 10 minutes, why are you acting like Mikasa”. But now…I’m reconsidering every interaction Eren and Levi had, from the very start.

Curiously enough, Levi’s first thought when thinking about Eren in 112 is also the very first time he saw him. Eren, so vulnerable. It’s a sweet memory. Levi had found EMA at just the right moment and saved them. When hearing about Eren’s most recent deed, Levi thinks of Eren’s face in a moment of weakness and confusion, instead of, like, this other panel below. Once, the first thing Levi thought about when talking about Eren was this:

Now it’s this.

I feel like Levi’s opinion of Eren has subtly changed over the years, from someone who inspires power and fear, to someone who inspires protection. 

The panel above could be attributed to Levi’s next line of thoughts about all the times he had to save Eren, but that time in Trost is the exception because no one had ordered Levi to save Eren. Yet, he still somehow found him. Mikasa says her bond “wasn’t born by chance”. It’s because it was Eren. Now I wonder if it wasn’t fated that the two Ackermans would find Eren.

This put aside, their next meeting is the famous one, in the courtroom prisons. It’s the first time we see one of the most stoic character, as stoic as Mikasa, show such a strong, impressed reaction to someone. Even before Eren proclaims his intent, his vision we could say, Levi is shaken. 

He decides he will protect him. Erwin probably had already decided this, but I feel Levi was kinda opposed to it before this moment. Levi chose to do so only when hearing such strong-willed words from Eren’s mouth. Words that seem to match Levi’s own vision, as he had just proclaimed as much just hours before on the battlefield.

I’ve always liked this interaction, but I’ve never really thought about the meaning it had in the story. It could simply be a means, like in any other shonen, to show the protagonist’s efforts and value be acknowledged by a not-so-easily impressionable character. Here, Levi’s decision is based simply on Eren’s will, which is Eren’s main trait. But there could be more. Every panel seems to always convey something specific in this manga, and as time progresses and more info are revealed, the meaning of certain panels changes.

Particular focus was put on Levi’s reaction in the anime, too. Could be a strategic move to stir female fans, but the manga focuses on it, as well.

Then, some other interactions have a kind of weird feel when it comes to Levi’s behavior in regards to Eren.

Levi stands in the middle between people who might decide to kill Eren (Zackley, and in 112, it parallels to Pixis, who is in Zackley’s place now) and Eren himself. No need to mention that Levi’s beating was merely a farce, due to Erwin’s orders with the goal to save Eren. Levi, in the visual novel, says he didn’t like it, but it was necessary to save his life. In this occasion, Eren screams “Bet on me!” and I idly wonder if this could be the order an Ackerman needs.

Currently, Levi is totally betting on Eren still being their only hope for freedom.

After that, a totally unjustified gut feeling tells Levi to protect Eren, even if he was absolutely pissed just mere seconds before and he has no reason to trust Eren with his titan.

Then, in the forest, again for no reason at all, he jeopardizes Erwin’s plans when he gives free choice to Eren. If Eren had decided to fight the Female Titan, it would have never reached the point where Erwin and the other soldiers were waiting for it. Levi has always given precise orders to his subordinates. But he left free choice to Eren.

The same happened in the Reiss cave. They were about to die, and instead of thinking about a solution himself, or giving some orders, he recognized Eren’s will and left him a choice. They could’ve died, but he decided to trust Eren. These could simply be ways for Isayama to let the protagonist grow and gain experiences that will shape him in the future, but usually, the characters act for very specific reasons. I’ve always believed it was because Eren and Levi are fundamentally really similar and Levi understood this and respected and accepted Eren because of it. It could still be it. But now I am reconsidering Levi’s reasons for trusting Eren so much in the first place, since the very beginning. 

Now, when it comes to Erwin’s orders conflicting with protecting Eren…

In Stohess, Levi, upon Erwin’s orders, couldn’t participate in the battle, and, when hearing Eren’s roar again, he looks like this.

In the Forest of Giant Trees, when Erwin prevents Levi to get to his squad and to Eren, it very much looks like Levi wants to oppose it, but he trusts Erwin, his current liege.

In Shiganshina, the same happens.

Towards the end of that battle, when Levi sees Eren again, he looks distraught. 

Then he recomposes himself and comes up with a half-assed plan that would cause his own demise and that of everyone else, but Erwin and Eren would survive, and that’s all that matters because they are the hope of humanity for Levi. Sounds familiar? Yeah, it sounds like the plan in chapter 112, a pretty bold plan that goes directly against orders ー its faults clearly pointed out by othersー and is based on sacrificing important people in order to protect “hope”.

The timing of Levi clutching his head in the latest chapter was suspicious. It might not be a headache, but I think Isayama wants to make us wonder, of course.

I…honestly don’t want Levi to be ackerbonded to Eren and he probably isn’t, as I said before. I want every one of their interactions to be nothing but genuine, between two people who understand and trust each other on a basic, instinctual level, without even an ounce of magical and/or scientific stuff in the middle.

But Eren has the Founder and it looks like Ackermans were made to protect it. I wouldn’t find it farfetched if fate, or “Paths”, whatever, brought all the Ackermans to be around Eren. Mikasa and Levi specifically, both with the self-appointed mission to protect Eren. Levi’s has never made us suspect anything because it was also his official mission in the SC. But both Ackermans are making the same pained expression when finally confronting Eren in Marley, and it can’t be a coincidence.

The images are so painfully similar, they overlap (my friend checked lol).

I am aware Ackermans can still have independent feelings for their host. If Kenny’s granddad’s story taught us anything, it would be that the Ackermans can ideologically oppose their host’s decisions. I am unsure if they can, physically, but I bet they can. Eren seems to think the bond works both mentally and physically, like a twilight imprint, minus the romantic aspect of it. But I don’t think the Ackermans’ most inner feelings are influenced, albeit the bond possibly forming during an “extreme situation” when the Ackerman (or the Liege?) is in life-threatening danger is certainly worrying. You know, trauma and bad coping mechanisms.

About those knee-jerk reactions Eren called Mikasa out on, I’d like to point out Levi’s punch to Eren in Shiganshina (possibly in response to the instinct to protect Erwin) and Mikasa’s subsequent violent reaction to Levi (possibly in response to her instinct to protect Eren). 

But there’s another instance, in Levi’s visual novel “Burning Bright in the Forest of the Night”, that happens when Levi hears Eren’s roar.

“Facing that conclusion head on [that Eren is in danger], he flies like a released arrow. His heart - it is as cold as ice.”

I have no idea what will happen next, if Levi will survive or how he’ll react to Eren’s new…personality. But not even Eren using the SC to attack an entire nation could make Levi lose faith in him, not even knowing that Eren is working with Zeke and most probably asked Levi not to kill his brother, not even hearing Eren has escaped from prison and he’s leading a coup. Just like when Levi found out Erwin’s dream was more important than humanity’s survival, even if shocked, Levi has decided to accept and trust the man. 

I can’t wait to see Eren and Levi meeting again. A mentor-mentee relationship surely calls for more, even if Levi’s headache in 112 isn’t really a headache. I don’t think the story requires a new Ackerbond with Eren when there’s Mikasa’s already, but it would be interesting to see Levi protecting Eren once more, in spite of everything. It might be the last time, too.

[moowcowlol]

A Chance Encounter

HitsuHinaDay2019 Theme: AU

A/N: Ahh, I missed the actual day!! I feel so bad for coming in a lil late, hope this is fine!

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. Bleach belongs to Tite Kubo.

She looked outside the window of her small room. The sky had been immensely cloudy and gray and the weather cold and harsh, far more so than the autumn season warranted. Many in the village had suspected the worst and she couldn’t help the fear she herself felt. But the day was looking much better, still no blue skies but the clouds white and safe. The girl smiled to herself, hopeful that this day was the first step to the villagefolk feeling better.

She rushed out of her room and into another one, slightly bigger in size and belonging to her grandmother. The elderly woman looked at her and the girl saw her smile widen.

“Granny! The weather’s so much better!” the girl exclaimed, jumping up and down. “I can go out now? Please? Pleeease?”

The grandmother laughed softly and patted the girl on her head. “Yes yes Momo. It seems the danger has passed on. I think it’s safe enough for you to hunt now.”

“Yes!” Momo yelled, before bounding out of the room and back into hers. She hurriedly changed from her sleeping wear into clothes fit for the outdoors. Before she could run out her grandmother called out to her.

“Do remember to be careful Momo!”

“I will!” Momo called back. With that, she ran for the nearby woods.

Or, “nearby” more like. While they encircled the small village it still took one an hour to truly be in the woods, which was the case for Momo despite her house being on the edge of the village lines. The time it took to get there gave her a chance to calm herself, let the nerves and adrenaline of the hunt and the joy of being able to do something she does well fade away into a need for food for her small family. Once she was well into the trees she crouched down and watched for any animals to pass by, watched for any change in the rough terrain of the forest floor, kept an ear out for any noises, whether from her or from a foreign source...

...

...

...There!

“Byakurai!”

Said in a harsh whisper, and a lightning bolt followed after. The four legged creature fell with a thump, and the sounds of nearby animals frightened by the unseen threat of the girl filled the air for a moment before silence filled the air again. Momo breathed out a sigh. For just a few minutes, she had some time for herself, with no worry for other animals possibly charging her. Byakurai was a simple spell, but still quite bright and loud. It tended to scare off the surrounding animals away from her and gave her a brief time of relief. 

She went over to the dead animal; a particularly big stag. Her eyes filled with sadness, Momo looked at the creature. She knelt down, closed her eyes, and offered a prayer for it, as she and the other villagers always did, giving thanks for the food it will provide and asking forgiveness for ending its life.

As she was about to get up, perform the Horin spell to lift the animal and bring it back, she heard something. A rustle, in a bush near her.

Her head snapped towards the sound, alert and tense. An animal, coming back so soon after Byakurai? She’s never seen such a thing happen, but that could mean this would be her first time. She crouched back down, preparing herself to launch another spell, waiting for the noise to happen again though she was sure she knew where it came from. Momo stared at the spot, waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen, something to move.

And something did.

From the patch of bushes, in front of her to her left, she saw something come out of them. A thick, dark liquid, slowly making its way across the uneven grounds. Blood. Something was bleeding. Still living, still moving.

Momo felt panic set in, and she tried her best to push it back and think. An animal that was here before she was? No, no, it would be trashing about, crying out in pain. At least, in her experience. Perhaps this was different? It couldn’t be another person, right? Surely they would call out for help? She swallowed down the lump in her throat and slowly made her way towards the patch. An animal, she puts it out its misery, offers another prayer, brings it home with the stag. A person, she helps to the best of her ability. Simple, right?

She takes her hands and forced the twigs and leaves apart.

“----!”

She jumps, bringing her arms to her face and squeezing out a Seki spell instinctively. She could feel a cold wind wrap around her thick pant-legs and saw her small  barrier covered in frost before it cracked and shattered. 

Momo could feel herself shaking. She looked down at the now-exposed figure.

A small boy. Even in the dark of the woods his hair shone bright white. His sea green slitted eyes glaring at her in desperation and fear. He was breathing quick, quiet, shallow breaths, and Momo’s eyes traveled down from his head to where his tense arm was clutching at a gaping wound in his leg.

“Y...You’re hurt...” she sputtered the obvious, unsure of how else to react. She went to come down to his level. “I-I can help you-”

“----! ----!” he swipe his hand and bared his teeth - his fanged teeth - and screamed something she couldn’t understand. He hissed in pain at the movement, and she could hear his breath hitch and hasten even more.

‘What do I do?’ She couldn’t get close to him with him lashing out at her, and they don’t seem to speak the same language. Something, there had to be something she could do to show this... boy, that she was trying to help. ‘Think, think, think...! That’s it!’

He wouldn’t keep his eyes off of her and she used that to her advantage. She took a deep breath and produced a small flame at her fingertips and put it against the skin of her arm. She winced at the pain, but the look of shock on the boy’s face meant that what she was doing was working. She put the flame out and started performing healing magic, the soft green glow taking over her hand as she put it over the small burn.

“Help.” she said slowly, hoping to get the word understood as her burn healed away. The boy’s eyes were wide now, the look of fear replaced with a sort of wonder.

She held her glowing hand out, slowly, hoping she wasn’t threatening. “Help.” she said again.

It felt like an impossibly long passed before the boy moved his bloodied hand away from his wound. He was still tense, still eyeing her with those large, cat-like eyes, but he made no move as she went closer. The better look at the wound nearly made her gag. It was horrible, a gaping gash running down the side of his calf, the muscle of the leg peeking through the oozing blood. Momo could feel her stomach lurch and she swallowed back the urge to vomit and she placed both hands on the wound and injected more of her magic into the healing spell. Slowly, slowly, far more slowly than her small little burn, the wound was closing up, muscle coming back together and skin finally closing.

Momo slumped over, completely drained. She had never had to heal something as bad as the one this boy had. She tried to stand but couldn’t even gather the strength to get to her knees, falling to her side instead. Was it even worth it? This “boy” wasn’t human - one needs no training to tell, no human could live that long with an injury so severe. And what brief display of power he showed in an instinctual moment was even more worrying.

She felt herself be moved side to side. Momo looked up to find those strange eyes look down on her, the young boy’s face now overtaken with worry. His face, so human, so genuine, did it really matter if it wasn’t? She felt a small surge of energy run through her, enough to sit up. The boy was awkward, clearly not knowing what to do, so it was up to her to get out of this.

She tried hard to think, exhaustion making her thoughts slow and foggy. He couldn’t stay here, and she needed to get home. Why not kill two bird with one stone?

“Home.”

She watched the boy tilt his head in confusion. “H-o-m-e?” he repeated back to her. Nodding her head, she tried once again to stand. She got much farther, nearly a slouched stand, but faltered. Momo braced for when her face hit to hard ground but felt herself be caught. She felt her arm get wrapped around the smaller boy’s shoulder. It was awkward, but she could move.

And thus they walked, slowly but steadily, the young inhuman boy following the pointing finger of the girl towards her home. Nothing was said between the two - what could be said between two people who only shared one word? It made the time pass by so slowly, and Momo looked up in slight horror to find the night sky greet her as she looked up once the canopy of the woods cleared.

She never thought she’d take for granted how short an hour truly was. The hour long trek between the woods and her village transformed into something that felt like days on her tired mind and body. Momo could see it was having its effect on the boy as well with his constant adjustment of her body weight and his own slouching figure.

But finally, finally, she could see the little house she shared with her grandmother, lantern light still on and a huddled figure on the back doorway.

“Home,” she croaked out, looking at the boy. He looked back, relief clear in his eyes.

“Home?” he repeated back, the relief pouring into his voice.

Momo couldn’t help but nod vigorously, life coming back to her at the thought of sleeping in her bed and hugging her grandmother.

Speaking of her-

“Granny!” she yelled. The boy jumped at the sudden life that’s rushed back into her.

The elderly woman’s figure moved, possibly asleep from waiting but certainly awake now at the sound of her voice. Momo pulled away from the boy and ran sloppily forward, and she could him yelp before his footsteps followed hers. She soon crossed the distance and fell into her grandmother’s arms, lax and crying.

“By the Gods Momo!” Granny chastised, but Momo could feel the small hand caress her back in comfort. “You’ve had me so worried! What in the world-”

Momo heard her grandmother cut off mid-way, and she looked up to see why. The elderly woman’s was tense, looking behind her, and Momo followed her eyes to the young boy with white hair and slitted sea green eyes.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between the three of them. Momo tried to think about what to say to her grandmother, to convince her this inhuman boy needed somewhere to stay if only for a little while, but in her panic and exhaustion nothing would come to mind. It seemed an eternity passed before the boy started to back away, clearly trying to leave.

“Wait!”

It came out before she could think. The noise made the two of them look at her, both with shock on their faces.

“Momo-”

Please, Granny!” she pleaded, clutching onto her granny’s clothes with the little strength she had left. “He helped me make it back here! I-I healed him a lot and-and it made me really tired but-but he helped me come home! He didn’t have to do that, Granny, please let him stay! Just for a little while, please!”

She could feel tears tickling her eyes but she kept her stare solid on her granny, hoping she could convince her. Her grandmother opened and closed her mouth, trying to come up with something to say Momo was sure, but she eventually just sighed. Momo felt a smile spread across her face, and she turned towards the boy, standing there by himself. Not anymore.

She waved him over, and he did, slowly and with uncertainty. Once he was close enough she hugged him. He tensed immediately at the action, but didn’t reject it. She pulled back, looking him in his strange eyes, and she realized something in that moment. 

She pointed to herself. “Momo.”

He took a moment. “M-o-m-o?” 

She nodded. “Momo.” She then points to him. A brief moment of thinking comes across his face before she sees the moment he figured out what she was asking.

He points to himself. “Toshiro.”

Momo, so happy to learn this strange creature’s name, goes to jump as she usally does. But that was the straw that broke her back and she stumbled forward, unable to keep upright by herself anymore. She’s once again caught by the bo- Toshiro. Caught by Toshiro. And he follows her grandmother inside. It was sometime during this walk that she finally passed out, a smile on her face.

[starfaring-princelotor]

Thinking Ahead

Summary: Lotor realizes that the feelings he has been harboring are not what they seem. 

Pairings: Lotor x F!Reader

★ Disclaimer: I do not ship Lotura and I kindly ask that this story to not be tagged as Lotura. This is a Lotor x Reader/Self-Insert OC story which is in no way related to Allura at all. Please be respectful of my chosen pairing. Thank you. ★

Warnings: Dirty thoughts, underage drinking.

Future Sight___Historic Significance___No Time Like The Present___Thinking Ahead ___Best Friends

“Here you go, two cups of black tea.”

Romelle, bright eyed and equally bright haired student of Hufflepuff, placed two dishes of tea in front of you and Lotor. Professor Trelawney’s reasoning for “switching up partners” is so people would not be too familiar with each other. That way, everyone could get a true taste of variety amongst their peers. Unfortunately for her, she was oblivious to you and Lotor’s growing friendship.

“Ugh, this tea is so bitter.”

“Yes, I will admit, this is not one of my more preferred flavors.”

Black tea was too strong on your palette, but at least the temperature of the drink was perfect. Not too hot, not too cold, and you couldn’t help but grin when Lotor sent you a pointed look the second you started sipping loudly. Where are your manners? You had none, not for some tea leaves fortune telling crap.

“Have you ever had sweet berry hibiscus tea?” you asked out of the blue, peeking at him over the edge of your tiny cup.

“I have. The fruity flavor is delightful with a side coconut jelly,” somehow, this meager chitchat made the bitter liquid bearable, “I took a trip to Maui one summer. Oh, so humid, but not as hot as I would have expected. The locals were, ahem, generous and kind beyond measure. Of course, after they accept you, the ridicule for being a tourist never ends.”

You smiled at hearing that, finding some sort of cruel glee in his suffering, “Yeah? They call you old man because of your hair?”

“Oh, come now, surely that insult is as old as time itself,” he chuckled then grinned at the challenge, “No, no, they playfully poked that I am a fish when it comes to surfing. I quote, ‘Floundering and wiggly.’”

Now, the two of you laughed, and unbeknownst to either of you, Allura’s attention was not so subtly focused on the happy duo. Or at least, how happy Lotor seemed. Romelle took her seat across from her, tilted her head when she received no recognition from her close friend, then followed her line of sight. A mild annoyance began creeping up her spine then she gently slid a hand to cover Allura’s dainty ones, a show of support and a way to garner her full attention.

“Allura?”

The Princess stayed silent for a moment more before tearing her gaze away, offering Romelle a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “Yes? Pardon me, ready for some tea?”

The concerned look reflecting Romelle’s eyes did not go unnoticed. Nor did the soft way her thumb was gently rubbing over the Princess’ knuckles out of instinctual comfort. They talked about this before, talked about her and Lotor’s previous relationship several times over when she felt those feelings creep back up in her heart. You were right when reading her palm: Allura had an insecure heart, even a year after her relationship with him took a turn for the worst.

But that was not why she was intently watching you two right now.

“Are you alright?” or rather, will she be alright?

“Yes, I am quite fine, thank you,” the Princess picked up her teacup and rest her mouth on the lip, “...Actually, I think I am just...concerned.”

“Concerned? You know he can not hurt you anymore, Allura.”

“Not for me, no. I mean for her.”

A spark of jealousy welled up in Romelle, but she quickly tampered it down before it could be known. You and Allura were not friends. Acquaintances, perhaps, but even so, she could understand the Princess’ bleeding heart for others. Especially in situations that didn’t include her, or need to include her at all. She only wished for the safety for everyone and the blonde girl couldn’t blame her. She cared too much for people and it did get her hurt more than once.

This was not new information to Romelle.

She sipped from her cup then glanced at Lotor, taking keen interest in him when he drank from his own cup, “Allura, do you think he’d hurt her? Maybe we should talk to Shiro about this…”

The Princess finally took a gulp of her tea, hoping it would relax her nerves, “No, that won’t be necessary. I’d rather not involve anyone else unless he - Unless I start to notice something. I really am trying to take your advice into practice.”

As in, don’t get in too deep in other people’s lives, ex’s included. It was just hard to do so when the man you once loved is giving someone else that same exact look she felt for him. Or at least, she thought she felt. A year later and it was still so very confusing for her fragile heart. Allura gently squeezed her friend’s hand in sincere apology.

“I am sorry for making you worry,” she continued, “Let’s enjoy this tea, yes?”

Romelle doubted the enthusiasm plastered over Princess Allura’s face, but she knew no words would soothe her troubled mind right now.

Lotor laid in bed with Kova perched on his shoulders, his tail loosely wrapped around the Prince’s neck. The cat would have rather been laying in his lap, but it was already preoccupied with an open book. There were words scribbling fast across the page, yet they appeared not by Lotor’s hand. No, the writing was too big, too loopy to be his.

I nearly threw the book into the fire when you wrote back. You should’ve told me at the dance! Nearly scared me to death. Thought one of the ghosts possessed it or something.

He reached over to his bedside table and picked up his quill. The nub was wearing down. Soon, he would need a new one.

You would willingly traverse into the Forbidden Forest past midnight, but a two-way journal scares you?

I’m a Ravenclaw, not a Gryffindor. Bravery is not in my blood.

Lotor grinned at that. Yes, curiosity and bravery were not of the same definitions.

Did your tea reading spook you of the future?

Why would I believe soggy, yucky leaves telling me I’m going to be attacked?

Maybe it is a sign. Watch out for puddles.

After that, the Prince drew a surprisingly detailed puddle, but then added a stick figure to represent you. There was a frown on your face and he could already imagine the indignant noise you’d make once seeing his creative masterpiece. To his surprise, ink started sketching as an image of, what he could only assume, was HIM appeared over the water. Was that... was that him on his broom? Lotor chuckled in mirthful amusement.

My ears are not that big.

In response, you drew his hair longer. Excessively longer. Rapunzel length longer. Then, the moon appeared. Full, just like that night, and little stars dotting the vacant sky. Lotor’s heart softened at the image you were drawing, not at all thinking about how he was connecting the dots and making constellations here and there. It wasn’t until he saw a single, long line stretch from the bottom of the page to the top and stop there did he tilt his head in confusion.

No more words? Ah. You must’ve fallen asleep on him. It was well past midnight anyways. You had a good idea. Before he decided to snuggle under the comforter in search of dreamland, he wrote three little words. Three little heartfelt words that he knows you’ll see come morning.

Good night, darling.

Lotor’s brows scrunched up in offense at watching you read. Well, he was trying to read, but his eyes caught such a despicable act to nature he had to put his own studies on halt just to make sure he was not dreaming a horrid nightmare. He cleared his throat softly, just enough to catch your attention.

“I had no idea you lick your thumb before turning pages.”

Almost comically, your tongue was still stuck out just as you were about to wet it, “I know, it’s a disgusting habit -”

“Very. Remind me to never lend you any of my books.”

You had to suppress a laugh at his squinty face, almost like he found a fly in his five-star bowl of clam chowder. This time, instead of using your thumb, you swiped the page with the tip of your wand. It seemed this pleased him more than your gross saliva tainting the books and spreading unknown germs to others. Or even to yourself! Who knows how many people have touched these books?

“And remind me never to touch any of your books, too.”

You rolled your eyes yet kept a playful grin plastered on your lips, “One of my favorite stories is World War Z. Have you read it?”

“The one about zombies? Really? That one is the best book you can think of?” Lotor arched his brow, attention focused on you now instead of his own reading, “You know zombies can never really happen.”

“Shh! It could totally happen, y’know. If science can go wrong, why can’t magic? They wouldn’t’ve made reversal spells if magic was perfect.”

“Pardon me, did you just say…” he squinted at you even more, “W...wouldn’t’ve?”

Now, he was baffled at yet another phenomenon you showed him. Unnecessary contractions. Lotor blinked like you just grew another pair of lips on your face, which nearly made you chortle a bit too loud in the quiet library. No other students would even consider staying this late in the archives for fun, yet good company was all you two needed, location be damned.

“You have been hanging around Keith too much, darling,” he reprimanded, yet you didn’t take it at all seriously, “Next thing I know, you will be a brooding jar of angst who mopes in bed all day. Oh, wait, that DID happen.”

It was your turn to scoff in mock offense. How dare he grin that catty grin after openly poking fun at your expense? You almost wanted to retaliate by flicking a paper ball at him. Almost, and you only decided against it when you saw his eyes shine in delighted mirth, half his face hidden behind a book. It was...nice. Not his weak insult, no, but rather the friendly familiarity was quite refreshing between you two.

“Oh, yeah? Well, at least I don’t...I don’t…”

“Hm? Yes? You do not what? Use your words, dear.”

“Hmph, at least I don’t...Gah, I can’t think of anything!”

Lotor wasn’t flawless, but it was kind of hard to think of one, singular trait you could joke about on the spot. And he knew this. He reveled in making you fumble over your words because, although you were smart, you still needed at least a day warning to come up with a worthy insult. Meanwhile, the scrutinizing observer he was, he could pick at you till the sun comes up.

“It is alright. Take your time,” he nonchalantly turned a page, that air of victory surrounding his smug self, “You can say it tomorrow when you are ready.”

“Quietly. You do not want us to get caught, do you?”

As silently as you could, you lifted your foot and gently tapped the stone with every step you took. How Lotor could pull off being so stealthy, you had no clue. Magic, probably. He was leading you up many flights of stairs in a part of the castle you were not familiar with. Was this the Slytherin wing? No, there weren’t even any pictures on the cobblestone walls. Where exactly were you?

“Ugh, wait, let me - “ you knelt down quickly, slipping off your clunky shoes and allowing the cold stone to seep through your socks, “Okay. Okay, where are we going?”

One hand in his, the other now holding your scuffed shoes, Lotor decided against giving you a firm answer. Instead, he turned over his shoulder, sent you a quick wink along with his signature trusting smile. You stumbled gracefully, blaming the uneven stairs for fault, yet he was strong enough to still prevent you from kissing the floor.

“We are almost there...if you would stop tripping,” cue smile transforming into a playful grin, an excited grin, like a boy ready to see the fireworks start.

“Well, maybe if someone didn’t have mile-long legs, I wouldn’t have to sprint to keep up,” you huffed, that is, until the two of you came across a large gap.

The chasm below, oh stars, how high up did you two travel? This was at least 50 stories high. It was a miracle the stairs were even holding up at all, as decrepit this building was. But...there, across the death hole, was a door which you could only assume was where he was planning on leading you. Before you could even ask him a question, Lotor released your hand then effortlessly leaped across the gap, landing calculated and ever so majestically.

And maybe a little smug when he met your slack-jawed face.

“That is so unfair.”

“Jump. I will help you, do not worry. The gap is not as big as you think.”

You were half nervous and half...excited? It must be because of your curiosity peaking at the sight of the ornate curved door. Surely, no one else would even consider venturing forth with the prospect of a very long drop right in front of them. But Lotor said he would help. Lotor said not to worry. Yet, you shuffled in spot, calculating how much of a running start you would need to make it across.

Meanwhile, the Prince was way too amused seeing you hesitate. He held out his arms as if offering a hug, trying to lure you in with the trust he carefully built with you.

“You drop me, I haunt you for the rest of your life.”

“Duly noted, darling.”

That gap...was it just you, or was it getting bigger? Before you could let your nerves get the best of you, Lotor sent you a nod of encouragement and you exhaled a heavy breath. Shaking your arms, you backed up a bit then took a running start, leaping with all the strength in your legs. Don’t look down. Don’t look -

Oh, fuck. Too late. And now, you realized your jump wasn’t nearly as far as it should have been. One foot landed on the edge and Lotor’s instincts immediately kicked in, his strong arms winding around your midsection to pull you close for security. You weren’t sure who made the “eep” noise, no, certainly not you, but you definitely heard him chuckle when your hands clung onto him for dear life.

Your heart was beating so fast. If you were listening closely, you could hear his, too.

“See? That was not so difficult, now was it?” Lotor took a few cautious steps away from the hole, noting your legs were shaking like a newborn foal, “Come, you - ah - dear, your nails…”

You stubbornly shook your head, refusing to let go of your hug as he guided you through the door, “Forests, fine. Flying over a lake? Fine. Leap of death? No. Next time, give me a piggyback ride. I’m not doing that again.”

The door closed behind you two and it was Lotor shrugging you gently to pull your face out of the safe confines of his chest. A dead fireplace, cushions, some thick blankets, half a ceiling missing. This place was in shambles, but it did make you feel more lax, more safe, more secluded. Lotor’s arms fell to his sides to let you explore the humble room, moon missing tonight and sky shimmering with distant stars.

“Here,” the Prince picked up a folded blanket, spreading it out and over your shoulders, “It is only going to get colder and we will be here for a while.”

“Oh...it’s…” the view from up here, so close to the clear sky, you almost felt like you could pluck a gem or two from the night, “You brought me here to stargaze? They look so much clearer tonight.”

Some more shuffling and Lotor wrapped his own thick comforter around his body then sat on a chilled cushion. There was no wind tonight, thank goodness, otherwise this trip he carefully planned might have ended prematurely. Footing your own cushion closer to his side, you also plopped next to your tall friend while tucking your blanket tighter in your chest. Neither of you minded that you two were, as they say, attached at the hip.

“Not only that. Just wait. Give it a few minutes,” Lotor angled his head upwards, nebulous eyes reflecting those twinkling stars and anticipating the phenomenal show to start.

You mimicked him, orbs searching for something in the sky, anything other than those countless dots swimming in the night. Lo and behold, you saw something flicker. And another, this time longer. A shooting star? Many! Many shooting stars blinking in sight, and just like that, you perked up in amazement, in the awe Lotor witnessed that night at the moonstone lake. Lips parted, iris darting across the sky to catch each falling star, you saw 10, no, 12 pass by in the mere minutes you were sitting here.

The cold didn’t bother you anymore, “That’s...that’s like, 12 wishes!”

16 now and soon you would no doubt lose count with how frequently they appeared. You couldn’t keep up with his freckles, shooting stars even less.

“I can’t...think of more than 3 wishes,” your mouth scrunched up in a corner, “I wish tests weren’t so hard.”

“That, my dear, could easily be handled if you studied more,” he reached to his satchel and pulled out two green mugs, “If I recall correctly, the Muggle world believe wishes can be granted by magic, no?”

Your attention diverted to the cup he placed in your lap, fingers deftly picking it up and noticing it...empty. “Yeah, they believe that if you blow a dandelion in the wind, your wish comes true, too. Other things like, uh...something about ladybugs? And eyelashes? A bit silly, isn’t it?”

And yet, he has a suspicious feeling in his gut you tried every possible wishing device at your disposal. Lotor pulled out his wand then gently tapped the rim of his cup, warm dark liquid instantly filling it to tipping point. The steam wafted in the air and you noticed a few mini marshmallows floating in his drink, clumping together in the sea of sweetness. No sooner were you able to voice your question of “How did you do that?!” did he use magic to fill your cup, as well. Less marshmallows, but no complaints from you.

“Well, magic does not have to make sense,” Lotor spoke with a hint of cockiness and, after taking a sip of his drink, he hummed in thought, “Needs a bit more of a...kick, no?”

“A...kick?” you raise da brow, carefully drinking a small portion before smacking your lips together, “Peppermint cocoa? Didn’t take you as a sweets kinda guy.”

“I adore sweets. Chocolate frogs are one of my favorite delicacies,” he admitted, hiding the fact that he also...collected those cards in the package as a hobby.

Lotor pulled out a bottle. A dark bottle, label unreadable in the dim room, then he popped the top off with one strong flick of his thumb. He poured a generous amount of what looked like milky coffee in his cup before offering the tip to you. Whatever it was, there was a whiff of sugary sweetness and, oh...that was alcohol. Faint, but it was there, and you shot a bewildered look at him.

“The Prince drinks alcohol? What would the Slytherin housemaster say?” you feigned shock and, even in the dark, you could see his glowing eyes roll at your words.

“Hush, you. Alcohol is commonly referred to ‘liquid courage,’ no?” to his delight, you held your drink up and he poured a small amount for now, “After seeing your...flawless bravery over that hole, I think some liquid courage would somewhat embolden you.”

You sipped. You sputtered. You stuck out your tongue, somehow thinking it would help get that ghastly bitter burn off your palette.

“Oh, this is - this is disgusting!” and yet, you took another sip, maybe the second time around wouldn’t taste as bad, “How can you drink this stuff? Blegh…”

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. Yes, this must’ve been your first drink, but in his mind, it was not strong at all. Still, seeing your blatant dislike of it, he brought his wand up and prepared to magically whisk away your drink and give you fresh hot cocoa. It was you who cradled your mug away from him, holding it like you were preserving a precious, rare golden apple.

“Oh? So, you DO like it, I see,” Lotor’s eyes cataloged the blush gracing your cheeks, either from embarrassment at playing keep-away or from the drink warming up your body.

“Now, I didn’t say that,” you leaned against him, placing all your weight on the sturdy Prince, “I should try it...a third time. And fourth. And fifth. Then I will give you my five-minute review of your peppermint hot cocoa.”

This was so dangerous, sneaking out this late, drinking alcohol, but it was giving you a sense of acceptance, of fun, hanging out with Lotor with no judgement from anyone. No student roles under a teacher’s gaze or homework to be done before noon or responsibilities other than caring for each other in the most spirited of company. Goodness, was he always this warm? You lifted his arm and tucked yourself against him, figuring double blankets would keep you two cozier longer throughout the night. .

“If you fall asleep, do not drool on me. I will wake you, dear.”

Your eyes scanned the page, mouth silently reciting the spell so you could memorize it by heart. Though, with your previous attempts that came out for naught, you knew this was going to be difficult. It was almost as if your wand was purposely refusing to work with you. While the rest of the class was practicing with success, you glared with determination at the potted plant in front of you. Unblooming. It looked nearly dead, to be honest.

“Morning dew, nightly rain

Bring this rose to bloom again.”

Three flicks of your wand, each punctuated at the end of a verse, yet all the plant did was...wilt. And with it, so did your spirit. To your right, before you could even see his smarmy grin, Lotor hummed in amusement at your failed attempts. Rude. You saw out of the corner of your eye that his potted plant, well, blooming was too nice of a word. It was flourishing. Practically a mini rose bush now, orange of all ugly colors.

“Don’t laugh,” you pouted, trying not to take his mockery at heart and knowing this was just him being a little shit again, “I’m trying.” “Maybe if you said it correctly, it would work. Here,” Lotor faced his already beautiful plant then cleared his throat, voice clear and loud, “Morning dew, nightly rain, bring this rose to bloom again.”

It grew twice its size, nearly tipping the pot. You grumbled, a low “show off” muttered from your lips.

“Now, your turn,” he faced you, watching your every move, from the flick of your wrist to the posture you held, “Your voice must be loud and clear.”

Again, you mumbled, both at his instruction and this dumb plant that wasn’t listening to you. The Prince tsk’d, your behavior and discouragement making him cross his arms. This was stern Lotor now. Not quite the same from the forest, but close enough that if you didn’t heed his advice, he would definitely leave you to fail over and over again.

“Sit up. Do not slouch,” he watched you do as he commanded, “Hold your wand at a 45 degree angle near the plant’s base. Now, LOUD and CLEAR.”

“I don’t like raising my voice,” you finally admitted...stubbornly.

Lotor narrowed his eyes slightly at the excuse. He reached over and scooted the plant closer to you then lifted your chin up with a finger. His eyes didn’t miss the way you stiffened in your seat nor how you easily surrendered to one of his slender digits. For a quick second, his mind flashed to what else he could do to you with just a single finger.

“You do not have to be loud, then. Clear. How will your wand hear you? How will the plant hear you? Now, try again.”

“Tch, now who is the pushy one, huh?”

“You could fail and lose house points. Your choice.”

“Bah! Fine, fine, just - don’t watch me.”

He wouldn’t watch you directly, but he was listening intently now, just to make sure you spoke the spell clearly. Or blow up your plant on accident. A few minutes passed and when you cheered a “Yes, finally!” under your breath, he knew you got it to work on the 6th try. By HIS guidance, no less, but still, it was the results that mattered in the end. A nudge at his side and he raised a groomed brow at you, eyes obviously waiting for a sign of gratitude.

“I don’t like yellow roses. Can I change the colors?” you flipped through ahead of the book, going to the more advanced spells, and he had to stop himself from rubbing the headache forming at his temples.

Fool. Mumbling idiot. You were going to accidentally change the color of your skin if you weren’t careful.

A strange thought crossed his mind then. Were you always this...imbecilic?

Lotor felt sick today. A cold, no doubt, or a fever? He wasn’t sure, but the tonic the nurse gave him only helped temper his body a little bit. The drapes were pulled together to keep his entire room dark and a thick layer of blankets covered his form. Oh, but he was breaking out a sweat now, his least favorite part about being ill. Aside from the migraines, of course.

The journal glowed a faint blue hue by his bedside, the light actually intensifying his headache. You were writing in it, most likely waiting for him to reply, but he was too aching to move any of his limbs. The sick Prince knew that a distraction would help him avert his mind from focusing on his soreness, yet part of him just wanted to...ugh, that brightness was getting on his blasted last nerve.

With all the strength he could summon, he grabbed the book and stuffed it inside the drawer. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. Sleep and silence were his best cure for his shut-in self. Eyes drooping slowly, he buried his face into the lush pillow then willed his mind to shut up. For five minutes, just five, let the comforting arms of sleep embrace me. Wish granted.

Though, he roused at the soft rapping of knuckles on his door. He had no idea how long he was knocked out. Could be an hour, could be a day. He wanted no visitors, so who dared…?

A turn of a knob and your face, as well as the hallways blinding light, leaked into the room. His silver brows knotted in annoyance and, with a peek from one eye, he tried to dig even more into his pillow to avoid you. Sick Lotor was an unhappy Lotor. A warning from Ezor when they had reluctantly let you in their wing and led you to the grumpy Prince’s private room. Your footsteps indicated you were right besides his bed, probably just looking down at him in pity. The thermos in your hand suddenly felt a little worthless, but you stood firm in your wavering thoughts.

“Hey, Lotor?” a rumbling grunt as a response, not the friendliest, but you understood his frustration, “Figured you were, uh...y’know, under the weather.”

“I am not sad. I am sick,” came his muffled reply, followed by a cough, “...And tired. Very tired.”

Yes, you know the wretched side effects of being sick. You may be going to a wizarding school, but illnesses still affected everyone. Why couldn’t magic whisk it away? Taking a seat at the edge of his bed, being mindful of his space and the fresh scent of mint wafting in the air, you offered him a soft pat pat on his elbow. Instantly, he cringed into himself, the touch both welcome and a little uncomfortable. You had intended to come and keep him company, perhaps tell him about what you learned in class today, yet all his body language pointed to one option: he wanted to be ALONE.

“Alright, alright, loud and clear,” you weren’t offended by his brusque words, well, maybe a little bit, “Here. Don’t know if you ate anything yet, but there’s some chicken soup in this. Generosity from the kitchen staff after they booted me out for sneaking in.”

You at least expected a chuckle, a quip of “I am surprised they did not turn YOU into soup,” but nothing came. Placing the thermos on his bedside table, you headed for the door and, with one last glance back at him, you offered a soft smile.

“Get better soon.”

The illegal Love Potion was finished and a majority of the class was excited, rightfully so. Everyone was eager to know who their loved one was, their crush, and possibly even sneak a portion out to use on the object of their desires. But not him. He was here for the grade. Lotor adored the dark arts and, although not officially part of the curriculum in his other class, this was just another step into understanding why Love was the strongest curse of all.

And yet, you were shifting nervously in your seat. Hands neatly folded on the desk, knee shaking up and down insistently, and your eyes couldn’t even focus staring at ONE thing. He didn’t understand. The two of you use the same ingredients, so you must be getting the same perfect grade as him. Or perhaps...you, like the others, were curious about what the potion would reveal to you if you took a small whiff.

“Did you...y’know,” you asked vaguely, motioning to his simmering potion.

“No. Did you?”

“No.”

A moment of silence. You knew you had certain feelings for him, but pinpointing them to love or anything stronger than love was what really kept you uncertain. Friends? Best friends? Maybe...something more? Should you ask him? Part of you wanted to, yet another side of you was actually happy with where you two were at now. You trust him. You trusted him quite a bit.

“Wanna do it together?” you asked, knowing there was a few minutes to spare before class started.

Lotor’s silence made you hesitate even more. Not because it was a yes or no answer, but because he was thinking about what he was going to experience. It was no matter of the heart that he already heavily desired you since that mirror showed him what the two of you could be. His thoughts were invaded with you before, yet he couldn’t differentiate between him being a horny adolescent or an actual fool in love.

The Prince sent you a side glance, “Yes. Let us try.”

Both of you gently swept the smoke rising from the cauldron to your noses, preparing yourselves for the answers to the unknown.

Peppermint cocoa. Old library books. Fresh laden snow. Chicken pot pie. A...rose?

You brought a hand up to cover the lower half of your face, immediately knowing where all these scents were coming from. Or rather, who. You...love him? No. That couldn’t be. You didn’t even realize it! How could some liquidy goop know you better than you? But...maybe on some degree, it was true. You love him enough to be such close, vulnerable friends with each other. Enough that you wished his sickness would erase completely from his body that one night. Enough that you willingly leap into his welcoming arms, despite the fear clouding your mind.

The realization...well, it brought you two things. One, a peace of mind now that your question was answered. And two, you found that the damn beating organ in your chest wanted to ask him about these conflicting thoughts. You swallowed a thick gulp lodged in your throat, sparing a meek look at your partner sitting idly besides you. Did he smell...something foul?

Lotor’s face was twisted in utter disgust.

Yes, he knew what his nose would pick up. Chicken noodle soup, white carnations, misty lake water, oak trees, and finely-ground powdered moon stone. With every scent, a new memory flashed in his mind, from that dangerous adventure at the forest lake to the soup he gratefully consumed shortly after you closed his bedroom door. The memories...it made his heart fond, his heart yearn to hold you again, but the smell. All of it mixed together?

It made him want to puke on the spot.

Lotor covered his nose with his hand to block anymore of that potion from reaching his brain. He knew you were staring at him, waiting for an answer, anything, and he knew you were not blind. The growing friendship, the late night cuddling, the hugs, the sentimental time spent together. You must’ve suspected something between you two, some fine line between the moments of vulnerability you shared with each other.

“Lotor, did you - “

Yet, he turned away from you, avoiding looking at you in the eyes, just as the professor waltzed into the classroom. Maybe the smell was too strong for him? Yes, yes, that was a logical conclusion. The potency, when taken too much, can cause nausea. Right? You swear you read that somewhere in the book. It must be the cause of his sudden reaction.

Because if it wasn’t that, then everything else pointed to the other option, and you weren’t sure if you were ready to accept that.  

Lotor didn’t speak to you for the next few days. Sometimes, you thought you saw a glance of him turn a corner. Sometimes, he was hastily shoveling his food in his mouth to leave abruptly. Sometimes, he would spare you a quick, stoic glance before turning his attention to his books. Either way, there was no right time to talk, no perfect moment with his odd evasiveness lodging between you two.

Then again, you tried to see this as openly as possibly. Perhaps he was just busy. Tests and finals were coming up and you, too, were preoccupied with other studies.

“Hey, Lotor, wait up,” you called out to him this time, jogging to catch up before he entered his class.

“Hm? Yes, dear? What is it?”

“Did you wanna head to Madam Puddifoot’s this weekend? After tests and everything. Figure we could use a break, eat some cake, the good stuff!”

Lotor didn’t meet your gaze nor your enthusiasm. Instead, he glanced off to stare at the floor, internally debating something bouncing around that cluttered skull of his. He was a man of few words, even fewer when concerning personal emotions, yet lately he couldn’t even organize his thoughts in a coherent order. There was something bugging him, something deep in his skin, and as your friend, part of him realized it would wedge an awkwardness between you two.

“Ah...no, I apologize,” eyes still glued to the floor, Lotor missed the downtrodden dip of your smile, “Perhaps another time, hm? When things have quieted down and students have gone home for break.”

Yes. Yes, a good diversion, one he didn’t quite think all the way through.

“Oh, yeah! Sure, good idea. Less people would be overcrowding the shop. Just...y’know, the journal. You know where I am at.”

Were you always this...this easy to push around? Odd. He never really noticed it before.

A nod of his head, he turned and left you standing there alone. Not even a goodbye? He really must be stressed.

Lotor was feeling...angry. Frustrated, and not in a way he could relieve himself through some private time alone. Yes, in the confines of his dutiful patrol across the Slytherin wing, he still thought of you, of forcefully kissing you against the wall. Biting your delicate neck with little control until he had his fill of moans and screams. Even pinning your wrists at your lower back as he fucked you from behind made his groin stir in want.

All these images distracted him, but there was something...missing. He didn’t feel love. It was just lust. Just a need to climax, to dump his load into you over and over again. Knowing these thoughts only got worse over time left a bad taste in his mouth. He never wanted to use you for anything, least of all sex. His body wanted you, but his heart...his heart was unsure.

What changed? When did the line between lust and love divert? And why, when he thought of you, did he feel...nothing anymore? 

He would even go as far as to say there was a smidgen of contempt. That’s what was making him irritated. His heart was slowly beginning to dislike you, dislike your stubbornness, your pushiness, even your clumsy nature was grating on his nerves. All those times of you being a fool were true, through and through. You were oblivious to dangers. Not at all patient. Too dim-witted to see your true self, so you relied on others - relied on him - to bring it out of you.

It was annoying, yes. He was not someone to seek attention from. Yet, he couldn’t just say this to you. You’d get upset, cry about it, no doubt. Lotor just didn’t feel the want to deal with your wayward self again. He felt as if he was spending TOO much of his time catering to you and it no longer left a good, fluttery feeling in his chest. In fact, it left him feeling emotionally drained.

What he thought was friendship, or something more, was actually neither of those.

Perhaps that was why he still hasn’t taken that journal out from the drawer.

The two of you were drifting apart.

You finally managed to have at least a few minutes with him. Albeit, yes, it was by pure chance that your curious exploring led you to the same secretive balcony deep within the castle grounds. But, now that you were here, it felt a little awkward to be staring at his broad back. How do you start this? It hurt to realize you were hesitating talking to your best friend.

You were concerned for him, deeply concerned, but how do you say this without saying it?

“Did you follow me?”

The timber of his voice was a little deeper than you remembered. Taking careful steps, you walked up besides him and leaned on the stone railing with your hands hanging off the edge. Stiff, you were both stiff, or maybe it was the trick of the chilly night. The air didn’t feel as warm as it did before.

“No way, how do I know you didn’t follow me, huh?” the accusatory tone didn’t fall on deaf ears, but Lotor didn’t return the usual amusement.

“You should not be out this late. It is past curfew hours.”

It was hard to keep your mood from turning sour at his terse answers, but you had to remind yourself that this was Lotor. Your best friend. You missed him, even this moody side of him. Perhaps another joke would help? Maybe some light hearted teasing?

“Oh, c’mon, classes are over. What’s wrong with a little midnight adventure? Last one too exciting for you?”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

“I know what you are trying to do,” Lotor’s shoulders slumped and finally, he looked at you straight in the eyes, “I suggest you stop while you are ahead.”

The words spilled out of your mouth faster than you could stop them, “Lotor, I’m just trying to help.”

“Did I ask for it?”

“No, but - damn it, you helped me. Why can’t I do the same for you?”

Annoyance. That was all you could see flit across his face and it stung deep within your chest. You tried to put on your best pleading expression, something to show that you really were worried about him, about his distant self, about his walls being rebuilt brick by brick. This wasn’t like him, not at all.

“People usually help out of the goodness of their heart, not as some sort of debt to repay. ”

“That’s not what I meant. I just - you’re acting different.”

Again, wrong words to say. You knew it, you felt the sudden shift in the air. Saw the way his jaw clenched in restrained control and how his eyes hooded low in a paralyzing glare. Pushing, you were pushing too much, and Lotor was getting very uncomfortable. And, as usual, with his discomfort came the need to...protect himself. Retaliate with words to disarm you completely.

“Oh? And you are unhappy with this ‘different’ side of me? Is that why you seek to help change me back?”

“No! Of course not, Lotor. When I wasn’t myself, you showed me - look, I don’t know what’s going on with you - “

“No. You do not. Perhaps you should have been more observant,” he sneered at you, hitting hard at the fact you were an airhead most of the times.

You brushed off his comment, but it left a lingering ache in your heart, “Or you could just - WE could just talk. Just one night, get whatever it is off your chest and I’ll do the same.”

“No.”

You anticipated the answer before even offering the suggestion, especially knowing deep down that neither of you would be comfortable with speaking so openly about emotions. Foolish, you weren’t thinking ahead, thinking about what you were saying before letting it slip from your tongue. Talking to him like this was insufferably frustrating. It was wearing down your patience, HIS patience, but your stubborn persistence is what would tip the breaking point. You were never aware of this.

“Then what do you want to do, Lotor?”

“Is it not obvious?”

Again, his voice was being degrading and part of you wanted to scoff at him.

“I came here by myself for a reason.”

You could at least piece two and two together, even if the sharp edges left biting wounds on your skin.

“...You want to be alone,” you finished for him, sad you had to say those words out loud for both of you to hear.

Lotor needed time to sort out...whatever this was. And, judging by the way he averted every single one of your questions, this had nothing to do with you. Nothing you COULD do, except give him the space he needed unless you want to find yourself facing the brunt of his cold shoulder and burning words again.

You hated this feeling, this feeling of being rejected. Shunned.

“Fine. I’ll give you your space.”

“Thank you.”

Lotor sure didn’t sound truly thankful, but at this point, you didn’t much care. If isolation was his way to handle things, then you would let him do it. Even if it cost you the friendship and whatever feelings evolved between you two. Something that neither of you got the chance to further explore. That revelation made the pit in your stomach sink in sadness.

The hot, angry tears of frustration wouldn’t stop falling down your cheeks as you turned and marched away from him.

[athenril-of-kirkwall]

Happy DWC! How about "This isn't goodbye" for f!HawkexMerrill?

Two Hawkes too many? We’ll see! This is the angsty one, sorry :(

f!Hawke/Merrill, “This Isn’t Goodbye” (AO3) [Mature]

When she comes into the shack that theycall their house, Hawke is leaning over the table, poring over a note scribbled with a scrawl she recognises as Varric’s. That alone is already enough to make her halt in her tracks.

She hears her voice, but barely recognises it. “Hawke…”

Hawke slowly turns towards her, eyes heavy with emotion. She can’t find the words to say.

Merrill tries. “It’s Varric, isn’t it?”

Hawke nods her head, breath catching in her throat.

Eventually, she says, “Yes. He wrote from the Inquisition. It’s about Corypheus.”

Merrill’s heart skips a beat.

“No.”

“Yes,” Hawke says, shaking her head. “The Inquisition was attacked at Haven. They know who caused the Breach. It was him.”

“You killedhim, Hawke!”, Merrill exclaims. “He’s dead!”

Putting her weight on her palms, planted on the table, Hawke murmurs, “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? And still…”

Sighing, she seems to sink even further into the desk.

“This is my mess. Myresponsibility. The Inquisition needs me, Merrill.”

She steps forward, clutching onto Hawke, not daring to let go.

“Ineed you, Hawke.”

Hawke’s hands find hers, gently grippingher knuckles with her palms, callused from so many battles, so many slashes and strikes with her sword against so many opponents, and now she must go into that hell again, and maybe this time, maybe her luck’ll finally…

Breaking into her thoughts, Hawke tellsMerrill, “This isn’t goodbye. I’ll come back. I always find a way back to you, Merrill. If Meredith and Orsino couldn’t tear us apart, nothing will.”

Words. Words meant to comfort her. Wordsthat ring so hollow in their cabin. She can’t bear to address them. She changes the topic instead.

“When do you have to leave?”

“Immediately,” Hawke says.

Merrill lets her go, her big blue eyes glistening in the candlelight. “Immediately?”

Hawke blinks, turning from the desk to take Merrill in her arms again. “Not immediately.”

Their lips practically crash together as theyclutch to each other, and Hawke feels the tears streaming down Merrill’s face, rolling down hers too as she breaks the kiss against her better wishes, and they press their cheeks together, staring past each other into the opposite ends of their home, eyes bleary. It’s Merrill who speaks first.

“Stay, Hawke. Stay tonight. Stay for me. Please, Hawke, please…”

She breaks down, weeping into her shoulder. Hawke strokes the back of her head, gently whispering hushes into her ear. Releasing her, Hawke looks her in those brilliant blue eyes of hers, raw and red with tears. She gently wipes the newest of Merrill’s tears with her thumbs, tenderlykissing the shorter woman on her forehead.

“I’ll stay. But I need to leave first thing in the morning.”

Merrill nods mutely. She looks up, trailing kisses along Hawke’s cheek and jaw, until their lips find each other again.

“Please?”, she asks, eyes darting to the bed.

Hawke nods in return, pulling at the claspson her gambeson, letting it slip off her shoulders into her hand, where she drops it onto the waiting side-table. Merrill’s already dealt with her coat and cloak, which form a small pile on the floor, and is undoing her smallclothes even as Hawke’s undoing her belt, which releases the top of her trousers.

Hawke bends down to loosen the puttees binding their pant-legs to her boots, and when she looks up as she undoes her laces, Merrill’s now as bare as the day she was born, minus a few lines of vallaslin on her face and…elsewhere. She leans towards Hawke, looking down at the normally taller woman.

“Hey there.”

She looks up. “Maker, you’re beautiful.”

“You’re not too bad yourself,” Merrill replies, nearly giggling in that girlish fashion which Hawke could’ve listened to all day in another, simpler time. But she can’t, so she smiles.

Hawke draws herself up to her full height, and the two lock eyes for what feels like an eternity, held still in time with just the lamp’s flickering in the room giving any indication of the here and now. Eventually, they kiss once more, moving to the bed. There, Hawke kisses Merrill behind her hear, down her neck, down the cleavage between her pert breasts, down her chest and lingering on her navel before she starts massaging her mound.

Merrill doesn’t know it, but Hawke has one goal tonight, and one only. She wants – she needs – to give Merrill the night of her life. She wants Merrill’s last memories of her before she makes that voyage across the Waking Sea to Orlais, then up the Frostbacks to this “Skyhold” of the Inquisition’s to be nothing but bliss, and ensure that she sleeps so sound that she won’t notice Hawke leaving tomorrow.

She doesn’t get it at first, but by the time she’s come thrice and any attempt to reciprocate is rebuffed by Hawke, who even between her peaks snuggles up close, playing with her breasts, tracing circlesalong her ribs and making her laugh as she tickles her sides, their ankles hooked around each other as she massages those well-worn soles with the tops of her toes. The two women shuffle and writhe on the bed, maximising the contact between their flesh, as though that will keep them together for that much longer.

The sensation is so overpowering as Hawke goes down on her yet again that sheclamps her eyes shut, her gasps of pleasure catching in her throat and her hips bucking instinctually so hard she’s afraid she’ll slam the back of Hawke’s head on the wall or the bedstead, all the way up until the magical moment where she’s seemingly held in the air by Hawke’s mouth and hands, and her eyelids fly open, her pupils dilating wildly as a primal peal of ecstasy escapes her lips. The moment is stretched out by Hawke’s expert thrusting and licking, and she rides the wave of her own orgasm as long as she’s able to, before collapsing into Hawke.

Everything is so heightened, so stimulated, that when Hawke’s hands come towards her again, she shakes her head, gently brushing them aside, and the last thing she feels is Hawke tender kissing her along her neck, gently guiding her to sleep.

When Merrill wakes up after a rest far sounder than she deserves, sunlight streaming in through the blinds, Hawke’salready left for Cumberland, with nary as much as a note. This isn’t goodbye, after all. So she said.

As Merrill gathers her clothes, she notices an amulet she thought she’d lost carefully draped over them. It’s valuable, red gems embedded in gold, and supposedly enchanted by a blood mage just like hers. Just like every gift Hawke had ever given her, it’d been scrounged up from some dusty chest somewhere – Chateau Haine in this case, or so she recalls.

She wears it under her scarf every day as she waits, continuing to shepherd elvhen refugees from Kirkwall around the Planasene Forest into Nevarra, where they might find some shelter in the Alienages there, coming home every night to an empty cabin, with that amulet, so heavy around her neck, serving as the only trace of Hawke left in it.

Days turn into weeks, those following eachother until it’s more than a month since that last night, and the voice in her head whispering her worst fears becomes depressed resignation. She’s no longer surprised when a Fereldan dressed in a green headscarf and a Chantry tabard comes up to her shack bearing a scroll sealed with the Inquisition’s mark, with nothing to say except that he was sorry – as though it was his blame to burden.

Even folded up and sealed shut as the letter is, she spots Varric’s unmistakable handwriting upon it, and clutches that amulet as she tears the wax off, weeping into her scarf.

“This isn’t goodbye.”

It’s the only promise of hers to Merrill that Hawke’s ever broken.

I’m so sorry ):

@dadrunkwriting

[klanced]

Lotor meta post I guess?!

For a long time, I thought Lotor was motivated by greed and desire for power. But I’ve realized now that it isn’t control he wants- instead, it’s quintessence he’s actually after. Which is an interesting and important distinction. 

Obviously, quintessence can be used to help him consolidate power. It can grant him longevity and is linked to magic, putting him far above other Galra abilities wise. Quintessence is associated with Voltron, and also his mother’s legacy. Both of which are things Lotor is obsessed with getting closer to.

I’m not entirely sure where I’m going for this. I just know that Lotor’s fixation on the gathering and usage of quintessence is making an alarm in my head go off. 

Everything he does is towards his goal of acquiring “unlimited amounts of quintessence.” He spent all of Season 3 and 4 working to that end, dabbling in his mother’s work and exploring alternate dimensions. And unlimited quintessence is what he claims will quell the Galran Empire’s blood lust in Season 5.

His relationship with Allura is also influenced by his need for quintessence. Lotor spends quite a bit of time earning her trust and favor. On the one hand, it makes sense; Allura is the Princess of Altea and the Heart of Voltron; she’s the most powerful person in the room. Of course you want to be on her good side.

But I’m watching Season 5 right now, and these lines from Episode 5 have really piqued my interest:

[Lotor: Quintessence. Unlimited amounts of it. And, Allura, you are the key to getting it.]

Lotor’s fixation on quintessence is highlighted here. But what’s really telling, is the way he connects it to Allura. She is the only person who can access the quintessence Lotor covets. She is the key to his plans. This, coupled with the way Allura has to look up to him, and the open (naive?) expression on her face, suddenly casts their interactions in a different light.

Before, Lotor emphasized how he and Allura were partners; he asked Allura for permission before doing things, he deferred to her opinion, he compared them to their parents- He always made sure to treat her as an equal. And maybe, in his mind, he genuinely did think that.

But now, with this line and interaction, he reduces Allura to a more passive role in their relationship. No longer are they equal partners; now, Allura is just another useful tool for him, albeit one he highly regards.

Lotor is a confusing character. He’s significantly more complex than any other character presented on the show, so hats off to the writers. It’s hard to discern what is “real” and “fake” when it comes to him, as so many of his actions and interactions seem to contradict each other.

This is where we get into the “reach theory” part of the post. Like I said, Lotor confuses me. His ability to plan ahead allows him to react in ways that sometimes seem completely opposite to the situation, which makes him very hard to read and predict. This talent becomes even more impressive when you realize this talent for scheming and planning has become second nature to him, if he wasn’t doing this subconsciously to begin with.

Which makes me wonder: If he’s so good at misdirecting others, could he end up deceiving himself?

Throughout the show, Lotor has followed many similar courses of actions. He’s tried to reinvent the Galra Empire. He’s worked to consolidate power by exploring new and experimental paths unknown to others. But what’s interesting to note, is that the theme of quintessence can be found in every scheme. Sometimes, it’s a means to an end. Other times, harvesting vast amounts of quintessence would just be a nice side-bonus. And okay, if we assume Lotor just really, really wants quintessence, whatever. That just makes sense. 

But what if Lotor doesn’t consciously want quintessence? What if this crusade, isn’t actually all him?

I’ve seen many posts in the past that contain the words “Lotor” and “void creatures”, so maybe I’m just reinventing the wheel and saying something that someone’s already said. Oh well. 

Lotor was born post-zombification for Haggar and Zarkon. We don’t know the exact timeline (or maybe that comes up later in Season 5, in which case, lol) of Lotor’s birth, but judging by Haggar’s flashback (assuming she’s a reliable narrator), he was born after Zarkon and Haggar entered the rift, “died”, and came back to “life.”

Lotor was born of the void, either directly or through inheritance. It’s possible that this so to speak “family history” is influencing his behavior and goals. It could be that contained within Lotor is a small sliver of the void that wants to return home (hence Lotor’s obsession with his mother’s work, crossing between realities, using Voltron, reaching that space of unlimited quintessence), or perhaps Lotor himself is technically a void creature of sorts and requires/desires quintessence to thrive.

Ultimately, my theory boils down to this: For all his mastery and talent when it comes to manipulation, Lotor himself seems to be influenced by some kind of innate or outside force that pushes him to pursue quintessence. At the moment, I believe Lotor is unaware of his instinctual “need” for quintessence. It’s hard to diagnose something so rooted in your sub-conscious, and it doesn’t help that this seemingly innocuous desire has integrated so seamlessly with Lotor’s preexisting plans.