#does ichor make you gain weight?

[chernabogs]

` I wish I never met you.. ` but with general lilia and a human reader... 👀

this took a turn lmao

Mead & Ignicolists

Inc: General Lilia, human reader (GN), Maleficia, Meleanor, Levan, platoon of soldiers, 1 barmaid. Warnings: War, mentions of death, mentions of political strife, possible graphic description of conflict (village burning), alcohol mention WC: 4.7k (help) Summary: Repeated meetings in conflict can sometimes lead to interesting terms, and debts must always be paid.

Hate does not appear immediately. It’s a slow brewing concoction, crafted from a myriad of ingredients that bubble and broil in one’s guts like a black ichor until it’s all that your body becomes knowledgeable of. Lilia did not hate the humans when they initially arrived. In fact, he’d say he never knew hate in his life at that point. Their arrival was heralded more as a vague notation in the bottom of the meeting agenda—a ship spotted on the shores, with a crew of people clearly not of the fae race.

He doubts anyone batted an eye at the comment. He knows he certainly didn’t, nor did Meleanor, whose mind was too preoccupied with important matters pertaining to the swell in her stomach beneath her dress. Perhaps out of everyone present, it was Levan who paid the most heed, as it was Levan who asked the valuable question of— 

“What is it they seek?” 

A question glossed over until the intel unit could gather more information. Lilia remembers not missing the concern etched in Levan’s body language, nor the way he leaned close to murmur in Meleanor’s ear. Her brow had arched slightly, her lips turning to a frown, but then her gaze had gone back to the court at hand and the matter was dropped until further notice. 

It’s two weeks later—a mere sigh for a fae—that Lilia and Levan are both called to a private meeting. It’s not Meleanor who has summoned them, but rather Maleficia, with her ungiving gaze that held a weight so great that Lilia still finds himself unable to meet it nearly 200 years later. 

“Resources.” She explains, her black nails tapping an indiscernible rhythm on the desk she sits at. “They seek resources. Which resources we remain unsure of, but they have been lurking about the mountains and the valleys to our east. They even have a camp.” 

“They were not authorized to harvest,” Levan murmurs, his golden eyes wide in surprise. “Is it not protocol to gain permission from the royal authority before digging into foreign land? I do believe that to be a standard for human culture… or perhaps what I read is outdated…” 

“It is a standard, for both humans and fae. You would not see us digging into diurnal lands without permission, hm? Lest we wish to have a multitude of curses from their court upon us.” Maleficia’s voice drips with some wry contempt as she slides a paper forward. “I have spoken with Princess Meleanor. We will send scouts to the nearest camp—Lilia, you will be the authority for that.” 

Of course, he would be. Levan is being put on house arrest—palace arrest? —as Meleanor’s pregnancy progresses. He’s as valuable as she when it comes to the life of the egg they had sired. Lilia takes the paper and skims over it, memorizing each pattern and coordinate, before rolling it up and pocketing it with a bow. 

“With pleasure.” 

—

He doesn’t go alone, nor does he go with a small unit. Lilia prides himself as a man who, when he commits, truly commits to what he’s tasked. He travels to the nearest human encampment—on the very fringes of the dark woods—with a platoon. He had tried to persuade the royal family to allow an entire company, but Meleanor had rendered that idea null with a single lightning bolt to the floor. 

A rather dramatic reaction in his opinion. 

The ride is silent, mainly because Baul wasn’t assigned to attend, which means it’s also a terribly boring journey as well. Lilia’s gaze continues to dart from tree to tree as they move. His breath rattles against the mask that sits snug on his face, making him far more intimidating than his appearance may give. Intimidation is the tactic here. Levan wanted this done democratically—but Lilia is aiming for results. He can feel his body nearly itching for some kind of confrontation as he hears the hisses and snarls of the platoon that accompanies him. 

They don’t need to wait long. Within a few hundred yards from the campsite, they’re swiftly confronted by a unit of humans adorned in armor that glistens under the sparse light. It’s silver, and gaudy, and could get them killed within minutes in these woods with the way they look like tiny beacons in the night. He can feel his lips curl under the mask. 

“Halt!” One voice command. He looks at them—looks at you—impassively. He cannot discern your gender, as you wear a helmet that partially covers your face, and your armor looks the same as everyone else that emerges around you. “State your name.” 

Another rapture of snarls emerges from behind Lilia, which he silences swiftly with a single raised hand. He then takes a step back with one foot and sweeps into a mocking bow. “General Vanrouge, of the Thorn Court. We are curious of our unexpected visitors, and so we arrive with a request for answers to our inquiries.” 

He thanks the stars that Levan forced the human language down his throat in the form of too many tomes to count. You observe him—or so he thinks, as he cannot see your eyes—before looking back to the others. “Inform the captain that a representative of the Thorn Court has arrived. With company.” 

There’s already tension brewing. He can taste it on his tongue, and it takes the form of a wavering grin beneath his mask. He shouldn’t want a fight, but he has enough pent up energy to do so, and he could tell that the presence of these humans has stirred up stress within the court now, including with Meleanor. 

In her condition, she doesn’t need the stress, and that puts him on edge as well. 

Your head turns back to look at him, and his masked face tilts up to look at you. No words are exchanged—the conversation between unseen gazes says it all. 

—

The Thorn Court doesn’t progress in communications past the sparse camp that Lilia visits, which he learns is nothing more than a scouting camp designated to establish perimeters—basically, a group of low, low ranking soldiers wandering about. They send a unit to the main camp, and that unit vanishes off the face of the earth. 

So, they send another, and another, each unit resulting in the same outcome of nothing but vague wondering and whispered words regarding their whereabouts. The assumption is that they’ve been killed en-route. With a forest full of dire beasts and humans, Lilia wagers that to be quite accurate. 

He doesn’t run into you again until those tensions have mounted higher, and this time, he’s alone. It was more by fluke than anything else—he had simply wandered too far into the dark woods, his mind fraught with concerns regarding the barrage of meetings he had earlier. Another village burned; another valley stripped bare of resources. The depletion was already beginning to impact the Valleys financial standing—by a fair amount, considering how close to tears the royal accountant looked giving his updates. 

When he spots you, you have yet to see him. You’re without your blinding armor and standing at the edge of a lake, a rag in hand and a furrow in your brow. You remain blissfully unaware of the monstrous fae that’s laid claim to that lake, as well as the way that very creature is watching you now from the reeds just a few feet ahead. 

Lilia see’s It. He’s quite familiar with It, as the same bastard had tried to drown Levan when they were younger. His lips curl into a grin again. He has half the mind to let It pull you under. That would be one less human to concern himself with, after all. Until, like some horrible divine intervention on your behalf, he hears Levan’s voice whispering in his mind. 

Democratically.

He tries to ignore it, but he can so perfectly picture his friend's disappointed face in his head, to the point that he feels a cold chill up his spine like the man is watching this from afar. Knowing Levan, this isn’t too outlandish of a fear. 

“Niftehn,” he hisses, his native tongue slipping through as he steps forward from the shadows and—rather than announcing his presence—fires a rock into the nearby reeds. There’s a gaudy screeching sound as the fae—a cross between a scaled beast, a horse, and a man—launches forward in a bid to grab you before Lilia’s next move. 

It’s fast, but Lilia is much faster. He has his sword tip against the beast's forehead in seconds, halting It in Its tracks as It tenses, snarling and drooling in hunger and rage. It’s starving and for a moment Lilia feels sympathy. Thanks to the humans, they’re all starving as of late. 

“Zyln-imna.” He coos, a shit-eating grin on his lips as he and the creature square off. It gives him one last filthy look before sinking back down into the mud and reeds, until only bubbles indicate Its presence to begin with. He lowers his sword with a sigh and turns back to address you—

Only to find you well and gone. 

He stands for a moment, up to his calves in mud, and then scowls as he shoves his sword into the sheath on his back. How ungrateful of you to not even thank him for such charitable heroics. 

—

After that encounter, you cross paths several more times, to the point that he’s beginning to wonder if you’ve placed a tracking spell on his body. He even checks his supplies just in case—a childish action. The two of you don’t converse much between the multitude of squabbles that seem to break out as your scouting unit runs into his platoons. He doesn’t kill any of your men—but he certainly guarantees that you’ll all be carrying the message to your superiors, and you return the favour as well. 

This back and forth continues for months as the summer season weens into winter's embrace. The first snowfall is cutthroat, as it often is in Briar Valley. The platoon he guides cannot move until the unexpected squall dies away by mornings light, and so he makes the tactical decision to have everyone bank in a nearby village in the meantime. 

Unfortunately, as fates would have it, you seem to be doing the same with your unit as well. 

It takes a lot of dancing around for him to make sure his men don’t know about your men in the village. He doesn’t want a battle—he wants a drink, which is how he finds himself slinking into the town tavern with his hood up and his face tilting down. As a fae, he should be quite welcome here—but he knows that some villages have declared neutrality, and others in favour of human occupancy. This village he can’t get a read of quite yet. 

He does manage to get a drink without much hassle, and he’s settling down in a booth in a dark corner when the sound of another pint slamming on the table snaps his attention up. He hopes it’s one of his men—instead, he sees your scowling face looking back. 

“What a sunny greeting.” Lilia mumbles wryly as he narrows his eyes. You sit down across from him and proceed to make yourself quite at home. Months of repeated interactions appear to have made you quite bold. “I could kill you right now.”

“You don’t have your sword.” You counter as you take a swig of your drink. It seems like this isn’t your first one, with the way your sharp tongue is in full effect. “Are you going to strangle me across the table instead?”

“I should. It might teach you manners for once.”

Despite the threats, he has no intention of doing anything like that right now. Instead, he takes a swig of his own drink, watching you from over the rim with interest. He vaguely recalls a quote about ‘feasting with the enemy’ that he likely read during some tutelage session many years back. How ironic that he would be living it tonight. 

“You age yourself with comments like that.” You set your mug down on the table and observe him back. Despite the pouring drinks, your eyes remain sharp and alert—eyes he’s become quite familiar with as of late. “People here will catch on that you’re not human.”

He chuckles, giving a flash of white fangs against the dark. “Oh? You think my people will be so quick to rally against me? There must be a reason your unit is dressed in plain clothes, with your weapons and armor well-concealed from curious eyes.” A click of his tongue, and he leans close. “At least the lamb is aware of its place amongst the starving dogs.”

He leans back again as a beat of silence follows. You seem unaffected by his words as you take another drink. “Quaint. Is that your default line for those you meet on tavern nights?” 

For a second his mind doesn’t process your words. Then it clicks, and his brow furrows deeply in annoyance. “Disgusting. Your implications are souring my drink.” 

“Implications? I implied nothing of sorts.” You touch a hand to your chest and grin a little. “You were the one who put those implications in place.” 

He feels red hot irritation for a moment before he stifles it by downing the rest of his drink. Fae mead is meant to be savoured—but with your presence, he has a feeling he’ll finish the barrel by the end of the night. He waves a hand for a refill before his expression softens slightly into one of mild annoyance instead. 

“Why is your unit passing through here, anyway? You have already scouted these hills—months ago, in fact. I do recall our encounter then.” 

“Quite unforgettable,” you grumble back, grimacing as you do. You’re probably remembering the clash between you both, and perhaps you’re remembering the spirited banter that also occurred. Lilia wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you have the honour of being the only enemy he’s tried to have a conversation with mid-conflict. “We’ve been sent to scout again. I haven’t the faintest idea why, by the way.”

Your quick explanation silences his next comment. He bites his tongue and leans back. There’s a passage nearby that leads through the forbidden mountains—it’s only mildly less treacherous than crossing the mountains directly. He already knows this is what Heinrich seeks in sending your unit here. “How drab.” 

“Drab?” You wave a hand for a refill as well before fixing him with a glare. “My apologies that I don’t have exciting news of espionage and murder plots to keep you amused.” 

“Oh, I dare say you’re doing wonderfully right now without the murder to boot.” He pauses as the barmaid sets down two new drinks before departing. He tugs the hood a bit lower before taking a drink. “If you’re merely scouting out the passage within the mountain, then that’s hardly worth a full-scale confrontation between us, no?” 

Your gaze snaps up to him quickly when he relays your units plan, only for you to see the cheeky little grin he wears. Then your expression falls flat again, and you sigh. “Why do I even try?” 

“Because you like trying to play soldier. It’s quaint. I tried hard to do the same when I was still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed too.” He hums. Silence falls between you both once more as drinks are poured and emptied. There really is no need for conversation, and yet by the fifth pint, he finds himself growing restless once more. 

“Why are you still sitting here?” He finally grumbles as he sets the half-empty pint down. “I’m starting to believe you’re plotting something.” 

“Can I not have a drink with an acquaintance?” You counter, not budging from your position across from him. He narrows his eyes again. 

“Acquaintances? Is that what we are?” Another sharp grin. “And how do I get the term ‘companion’, then? Is it a promotion by dual, or do I just need to drop you on your ass a few more times?” 

Your leg shoots out to kick him underneath the booth, making him hiss in pain as his hand comes down to rub his knee. “Brat. I should have you dragged out for that.” 

“Delarynn surith.” The words that leave you are pronounced so poorly, it takes him a minute to process what it is you said. He doesn’t even recognize it as his own native tongue until you repeat it again. 

Delarynn… lord. Surith… 

Lord. 

Lord bitch. 

Lilia can’t help the cackle that escapes him, loud enough to draw a few gazes their way as he slouches over in the booth. Perhaps its the fae mead, or perhaps it’s the scowl on your face when you said those words with such confidence, but the whole situation is coming across as the funniest shit he’s heard in a while. 

“Who taught you that pronunciation?” He gasps between laughs as he wipes his eyes. “I’ve heard infant fae speak better!” 

“Oh, shut it. At least I’m integrating with the culture here!” You counter, scowling still as you take a drink. Then your expression starts to crack a bit as well, and soon your shoulders are shaking with chuckles. “God, I did butcher that…”

“Delarynn is not del-rye-win. It’s deh-lahr-rin. Surith, though, you did quite well. I suppose it’s a word many who come to the Valley learn quickly.” He muses as he chuckles a few more times before falling silent. The barmaid brings over another pint. “I should teach you some more before you piss off every villager you meet.” 

“That would be nice.” You murmur as you take a drink. It doesn’t occur to either of you until a few seconds later that such an occasion would, in all reality, likely never happen. When will you two meet amicably after tonight? Perhaps there’s a thin chance, but you’re more likely to encounter it in dreams than anywhere else. 

This seems to dawn on you slowly as you set your pint down. He watches your face, watches the thoughts flit by, before you sigh. “... I wish I never met you; you know.” 

His eyebrow arches at the comment. “The feeling is mutual. Never meeting you would mean none of what we are living would have ever happened.” 

No war, no death, no conflict day in and out. He would still be working at the palace by Meleanor and Levan’s sides, poking fun at courtiers and assisting in the arduous process of nursery planning. He wouldn’t be leading platoons, spending cold winter nights alone in taverns, and feeling an ever present sense of doom about what was to come. 

A curious expression crosses your face. It’s a mix of both contemplation and conflict. You seem to be fighting yourself for a moment before you finally clear your throat and lean forward. “The lake. When you stopped that thing from attacking me. I never thanked you for that,” you begin. 

“No. You scurried off into the bushes like a scared little lamb.” Lilia shoots back with a smirk. “Are you thanking me now? You can always do so by covering my tab.” 

“No. A tab wouldn’t be enough.” You lean close then, close enough that he feels your breath on his skin. It smells sweet, like the mead you’ve both been drinking tonight, and he tenses at the proximity. A part of him wants to grab your neck and slam you on the table for having the audacity to come so close. Another part, which confuses him the most, wants to grab you there and do something entirely different. “A life for a life.”

“What?” His voice sharpens as your words quickly sober him. You hush him and glance over your shoulder. 

“Ten kilometres east. Tomorrow. There’s a unit moving into the village there. It’s a supply stocking mission.” You then lean back and take a swig of your mead, like nothing ever happened at all. He stares at you blankly as you rise from your seat and push the empty pint aside. “Do stay warm, General.” 

Before you can move away, his hand snaps out and wraps around your wrist in a vice grip. You look down at him in shock and frustration, and he returns that expression tenfold. “Why tell me this?” 

“Because I owe you. I don’t want to be in debt to a fae.” You hiss back, looking towards the rest of the patrons in concern. He remains unwavering in his approach. 

“Really? You could have just paid the tab, not inform me of crucial information. Why tell me this?” 

“Because I owe you,” you double down, and he hisses at those words. 

“Do not lie to me.” 

You twist back, leaning close to his face once more. There’s that sweet scent again—although this time he can’t be sure if it’s from the mead or not. “Because I am tired of death, and I have been reconsidering where I stand.” 

There’s a pause. Lilia isn’t a gambling man, but in times of conflict, sometimes a gamble is all that one can do. He squeezes your wrist once. “The birch tree, just beyond the village line. Seven sharp. If you are reconsidering, then reconsider fast.”

Then he releases you and turns away with a wave. You watch him for just a moment before you finally slip back into the crowd of patrons that now fill the tavern. He feels that sense of doom in his gut once more as he nurses his drink just a bit closer.

A gamble.

He hopes this doesn’t flip on him. 

—

The snow lets up in the morning and it is with this revelation that he changes the course their platoon is moving. Rather than return directly to Black Scale Palace, they would divert ten kilometres east—to avoid drafts, he explains. The platoon moves steadily towards the town line, and it’s at the birch tree that he spots a familiar figure ahead. His stomach turns as the platoon begins to whisper and hiss.

They know you. 

“At ease.” Lilia orders them sharply as he approaches you—alone. You observe him with a blank look. You have no weapons, but he searches you anyway. 

“I don’t know if I consider you wise or foolish,” he mumbles as his hands pat you down. You could be a valuable asset for the information you know—and that’s how he’ll pitch it to his unit. “Forgive me for the next moments.” 

You hiss as he yanks your arms behind your back and binds them tight. “... I think both foolish and wise are correct.” 

He says nothing further beyond the explanation of your surrender as the platoon sets off once more, with you now trailing by his side. He considers that he should have blessed you last night—it may have done well to ease the tensions from the others in the group. Perhaps this is something he can do when the two of you are alone next.

The walk through the dark woods to the village you revealed is a silent one filled with a sense of dread on his part. He can feel your unease as well, and it’s beginning to affect the rest of the soldiers. The snow muffles all sound around them, save for their footsteps as they move. They only stop for a moment to recoup before he demands that they push on. 

A supply stocking mission is a common mission the humans embark on, and one that his soldiers have dealt with many times. It’s a simple and petty way to disrupt business for the Silver Owls—so he doesn’t expect much of a hassle. 

Which is why he’s rendered to a halt when the first faint scent of smoke reaches him. The other soldiers soon draw to a pause as well. Fae are blessed with senses far more advanced then humans, and so the confusion on your face is easily written off. 

“General…” one soldier begins slowly, his mask tilting up towards the treeline above. Lilia follows his direction. 

There’s a light in the distance. It’s an orange haze, and as he continues to watch, he sees the first tongues of flames begin licking at the sky. A plume of smoke rises—black, as dark as the clouds swirling above—and then grows. 

That sense of doom Lilia has felt since this began suddenly ignites to a full blown inferno in his abdomen. He rattles off orders to the platoon before his mind has even caught up with his tongue, and within moments the unit is dashing through the forest at a breakneck pace. He grips your arm in a vice-like hold as he drags you along, snarling with every step.

“A supply stocking?” He spits as he yanks you closer to the clearing. The village you had informed him of was a small plot, consisting mostly of fae families that work the surrounding fields for the grain harvests each year. It’s a picturesque place that Lilia visited a few times on royal tours. 

It isn’t picturesque right now. Orange and red clash to create a painting of chaos. Buildings now stand as silhouettes against the great blaze that’s being fed by the grain, and the wooden structures, and the many trees that used to line the village streets. Lilia’s breath hitches as he observes the scene before them. 

“This wasn’t what I was told!” You gasp as you look on as well. He can see the abject horror in your gaze, the genuineness behind the fear in your voice. This wasn’t what you were told. Something went wrong, or something else was planned the entire time. 

Someone lied. 

Someone lied, lied, lied. 

But of course, they did. 

This is a war, isn’t it? His kind against yours, those who want versus those who have. You both should have assumed that others would take note of your encounters over these past few months, of the banter you’ve had and the grins you’ve exchanged mid-conflict. Perhaps someone set you up to be at that tavern, where he would be that night as well. Perhaps someone put all the pieces in place which would lead for you both to share a night, to whisper words, in hopes that you would tell him what was to come. 

He says nothing to you, but the look he gives shows that you are not accountable for this as of right now. He waves a hand for you to be taken somewhere safer than here—after all, it seems you’ve been marked as an aid to his side anyway. He may as well make you one.  

Then the scent hits him. Scorched earth: there’s a lingering aroma of charred something. The crackle of buildings crumbling from the heat and the high pitched whine of glass shattering under pressure. His men rush around him, ripping into the village and shouting for backup, for water, for survivors.

And he stands there. He stands there, drinking it all in, his eyes wide yet unseeing, his pupils dilated with adrenaline. Until a laugh bubbles from his lips. A wry, tiny chuckle, which quickly grows into a hysterical cackle, which somehow evolves to a scream of fury that tears apart his throat as it leaves. It cuts through the smoke and the ash and the snow that he can hardly see now from the burning tears—not from soot, not from soot—that blind his gaze. 

Families. Children. People who have done nothing but simply exist. He can visualize tiny forms charred black, their limbs stiff and curled in a last effort attempt to shield themselves from the heat they’re consumed by. He can see mothers holding children, husbands holding wives, lovers in their last moments.

Hate does not appear immediately. It’s a slow brewing concoction, crafted from a myriad of ingredients that bubble and broil in one’s guts like a black ichor until it’s all that your body becomes knowledgeable of. Lilia did not hate the humans when they initially arrived. In fact, he’d say he never knew hate in his life at that point.

He knows it now as he bears witness to fire, as he smells burning memories, as he hears history crumbling to its foundations.

He knows what it feels like to hate. 

[cast-you-dxwn]

“You have gotten further than most, little brother.” Michael squints at the light that envelopes Lucifer in this moment, eyes narrowing as it fades, his brother now standing tall with his robes mended and the worst of his injuries closed, no longer shedding ichor into the thirsty dirt. “You misunderstand. I want you to succeed, but I am bound to ensure that you do not.”

His armor holds at Seras strike, yet even as the tip of her sword scratches only at his armor, he feels the weight of her grip pull at the haft of his spear, holding it fast. His sword raises, intent on dislodging her, on cleaving her hand from her wrist if that is what he must do.

Another flash of light, and little arms circles about his neck and shoulders, the diminutive weight of Emily’s body not a physical burden, but one that stills him mid-swing nonetheless. His sword-hand curls inwards, fingers catching in her robes, his arm tensing as though he means to rip her away from himself.

But the movement does not come.

“Emily. Come away.” He murmurs, his eyes wide, hand balled into the collar of her dress as her tears fall onto his armor, hissing and evaporating as soon as they make contact with the holy metal.

“This is how it must be, sweetling. As I have done for time before even the stars of this cycles blinked to life. Please, do not make me strike you.”

Michael has passed his turn. Sera and Lucifer gain advantage on their next attack against Michael, but beware: They have a chance of hitting Emily, instead.

The earth quakes before them,

The heavens tremble;

The sun and moon grow dark,

And the stars diminish their brightness.

The LORD gives voice before His army,

For His camp is very great;

For strong is the One who executes His word.

For the day of the LORD is great and very terrible;

Who can endure it?

Joel 2: 10-11

The Heavens crack open. The sky shatters into pieces, Creation reflected in countless jagged fractals of the very fabric of its own reality.

The patience of the Lord has limits, and His wrath is mighty. That which has bathed nations in fire, which has filled the valleys and canyons of the earth with the dead, which has covered the lands in rushing water.

A finality in purification.

A Creation made clean.

A star falls, and the very pillars of the universe tremble with its terrible impact. Heat, pressure, and a light so terribly radiant that it threatens to eclipse the very rays of all the suns of all the realms.

Metal to slag and stone to magma, all to dust and ashes in the face of the crater that now dominates the battlefield, a destruction only seen in Creation as the humans had clumsily learned the power of splitting the atom. The very threads of reality weep and whimper, and from the largest celestial body and the smallest atom come the words that herald the final doom of all things.

Revelation.

Retribution.

Judgement.

Michael.

“Awake. Awake. Rise up, O Jerusalem.”

The words drift through the smoke and dust, and the haze parts with one swift movement, as though the very particulates are commanded to make way by the voice that drifts through them. Like the Red Sea to Moses, a corridor stands now clear between the center of the crater and its observers, with walls of dust and ashes.

“You, which hast drunk at the hand of the LORD the cup of his fury; thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, and wrung them out.”

There stands an angel.

His armor gleaming, his robes white as snow, as though untouched utterly by the destruction that swirls about him. Dark-striped wings fully unfurled, their massive expanse touching from edge to edge the deep depression that his entrance has struck into the solid ground.

His helmeted head does little to hide the light that burns in his eyes, supernovae unto themselves, scything across the battlefield with judgement and intent of reprisal.

In his right hand rests the hilt of his blade. The Blade. That which has no name save for those given by its foes. Nay. Its victims.

Foebreaker.

Daemonsbane.

Anathema.

His left, so it seems, is empty. Raising slowly, pale and calloused fingers curling in to his palm save for one. Pointing. Accusing. Condemning. All at the three who dare to stand before him. To stand against him.

They who had once been the most beloved. Not just to their Father, no. But to himself. But what, pray tell, is love in the face of duty? How stands fondness in the face of bitter betrayal? A trajectory following of days long past, when the eldest son had been called to take into account his brother.

“O Brother of Mine. Merry in rebellion. What now, has it cost you?”

He does not look to Lucifer as he speaks. His words not only his, but of the many. Countless voices that rise up from his throat, the cries of the faithful accusing and damning, even as he takes in the two who stand at the Fallen Kings side.

“O High Women of Heaven. One so burdened by duty, as we all must be, why now have you shrugged your shoulders? Why now do you strain against the yoke? Another, light and love incarnate, such tenderness given flesh and feather. Do you not now understand the joy of destruction? The holy uplifting of a righteous cleansing?”

His lips curl bitterly, his teeth bared in anger, and he gestures widely. To the destruction that mars their home, to the blood that spatters the street. When he speaks, his words are an echo, the same as he had spoken when he had once driven his blade into an unruly siblings chest.

“What have you done?”

@high-seraphims @hells-greatestdad

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

His Blood Runs Gold I

Percy is a God: Part I

Masterlist for the next part and more of my stuff

Y’all already know what this is!!!!!!!! But if you don’t then click this to find out. And i hope you enjoy Percy as a god cause i definitely do ;) *shivers*

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We were warm and shivering,

and young and ancient,

and alive.

-We Were Liars, E. Lockhart

Time is non-existent anymore. Percy should be twenty this year but now that he has ichor flowing through his veins, he can be 102 or 5. He has done things Homer would write epic poems about. If he were around at the dawn of time Ovid would have happily dedicated the Metamorphoses to him. But today Percy Jackson has been a god for three years and he has never felt more mortal in his life.

“Percy my boy, what are you doing here?”

“Hello Father, Camp Half-Blood is throwing a campfire in my honour and I thought it’d be rude not to show my face.”

“Very noble of you son. I remember back in my day the Greeks–“

Percy zoned out, tired of hearing how people bowed down to all these stuffy Olympians. The camp threw a celebration every year on the day he got immortalized and in return he reinforced the borders and blessed every demigod before they leave at the end of summer. He doesn’t know if he’s doing a good job, he doesn’t even know if what he does is making a difference, but he doesn’t know how else to give back to the camp and the people that saved his life again and again; who loved him and fought next to him and oh gods followed him into battle.

He’s never had the chance to talk to Chiron, who’s always busy with this demi-god and that satyr, and this nymph. He barely gets the chance to talk to all his old friends– between the new campers wanting to hear his stories and the general chaos of end of summer camp-life. He thanked the powers that be–what a jarring thought that he was one of those powers now– that he managed to find days in-between to see Annabeth and Grover.

He smiled to himself as he remembered the last time he saw Annabeth. She had been moving into her own apartment to start her third year at the University of New Rome. To his unsurprised delight she had chosen archaeology as her major but somehow slipped Latin and Ancient Histories into her schedule. He had helped carry bags and bags filled with books up to her room and they spent the day setting her up and making sure everything was in its place before she started the year.

Their relationship had progressed so softly, so slowly, Percy sometimes felt like he had imagined the year they had as a romantic couple. After he became a god they managed to go on a few dates, some interrupted by hothead immortals and revengeful monsters, and some blissfully alone. But once Annabeth started university and Percy was called again and again to help with this problem and that, it became a hassle to set up dates and figure out when to meet. They didn’t grow apart, so much as grow between. And although he missed the softness of Annabeth, he had gained a friend who knew him more deeply than any being alive– he was eternally grateful for that, and he couldn’t hate what they lost out on.

“Son, are you listening?” Poseidon pulled him from his thoughts.

“Yes father, it really was a great time for you. I have to go now, but Iris message if you need me.” And without waiting for a reply Percy strode out of Olympus and into the streets below.

He considered snagging a car but decided against it, since you couldn’t very well drive into Camp Half-Blood. Instead he walked into the ocean and let the current take him all the way to Long-Island, till he could smell the strawberries on the ocean wind and hear the echoes of camp games and reedpipes.

He stepped onto the beach, loving the soft sinking impressions he made in the sand. After his blood turned gold he realized he could walk on the sand and make no footprints whatsoever. The idea scared him so much he sunk under water and cried for three hours. How could he leave nothing behind? How could he have no imprint? It was Tyson, riding on his rainbow hippocampi who found him and showed him how to balance his weight; showed him how to step into the sand and not on it. When his footprints reappeared once more, he hugged his brother so hard if Tyson weren’t a cyclops his ribs might have cracked.

So Percy walked up the beach and through the strawberry fields, taking the time to breathe in the forest air, the fruit breezes, and ah the smell of chaos.

“JACKSON!” Connor Stoll yelled.

And with that single announcement Percy was home.

The day was spent in good spirits: racing with various campers up the wall and avoiding every deadly thing it spat at you– even if he couldn’t really die; then eating in the dining hall and getting to travel between tables without getting glares from various houses or Chiron; laughing as all the food turned blue just for him.

When it was time Percy walked with some of his friends; Clarisse who grew to be a steady, if raging fire, by his side, and Connor Stoll who is now the oldest of the Hermes kids since Travis left for college, and of course Will who above everyone reserves the right to make sure his friends were protected.

In a moment of vulnerability, he broke down on Percy’s immortal shoulder and wept. I don’t want to bury anymore of my friends Percy. I don’t want to be tending to them as they die in my infirmary. I can’t do it anymore. For him, Percy double, sometimes in moments of obsessiveness, triple checked his border defenses.

Now the little group walks around the perimeter of the camp and talks softly and contentedly as Percy knocks against the shimmering force, leaking power into the hollow spots.

“How is everyone at camp?” He asked.

“Fine, nothing has changed much. Ever since the Giant War it feels as if everything has calmed down to a lull. I’m wary it’s the eye before the storm but gods-dammit we deserve a break.” Connor answered.

Percy hid the rage of that truth but let the ache of those words settle in his bones. He simply nodded at Connor and turned to Clarisse.

“Are there any new campers who need to be protected?”

“Only a few, a lot have moved to New Rome over the last years.” There was a bitter edge to her words, caused by the sting of loss.

“You cannot blame them for wanting a life that is not concentrated to three months of safety.”

“I know,” Her nostrils flared, she kicked the rock in front of her. “I know. It just sucks that there’s so few of us now.”

“Maybe we can see about hosting annual games at each camp over the summer?” He suggested, careful to not step where the cracks spidered underneath him– even if the labyrinth had collapsed there was still the chance something tunneled beneath.

“I think that’s a great idea.” Will piped up, “Maybe then I can convince Nico to stay for more than one week.” He rolled his eyes, but the glimmer of happiness in them gave away his annoyed pretense.

“I will talk to the Praetors over there and let you know.”

“Thank you, Percy.”

They turned to face him.

He stared at them for a moment, studying their faces. Even now, all these years later it was jarring to see the signs of growth in their make-ups. He couldn’t say aging, they were barely hitting their twenties, gods Will was still a teenager, albeit not for much longer; but it was weird to watch as they grew up, watch as time changed their features, changed them.

Clarisse, who used to be a spitfire of rage and fierce protectiveness was now, more a well-kept hearth. She was still full of flame, but it was contained, and her fierce was warm instead of scorching.

And Connor, who had been attached to his brother at the hip, was all grown up. Travis was three years into a degree and Connor, although a prospective honours student, had forfeited college until he could figure out what he wanted to do. He was the sole head of the Hermes cabin, but somehow, he kept up the mischief as if the two were still together. The shenanigans are some of Percy’s favourites to hear around the campfire.

And Will, who is dating Nico di Angelo. The two were often running between the camps, though Nico more than the child of Apollo. It was Will, Percy thought, who brought the camp together, more than anyone. And Will, who in the process had lost the most. For him, Percy would continue to be here every year, would continue to help if they called when they were in trouble. Because he too was tired of seeing his friends die. Tired of seeing his friends mourn.

“It’s almost time for me to go but I wanted to say,” He fought to choke back the rising wave of emotions, “I wanted to say thank you. For keeping my home safe. And thank you for being my friends.”

Their hug lasted many moments, ribbons of friendship passing between them. And when Percy walked back into the sea, he was glad no-one could tell the difference between tears and ocean.

Friends, the word echoed in his head. So few and far between since he became a God. It was not that people feared him, they just became… wary. They fell into that space in-between, where one wrong move could plunge them into fear. When he first turned divine, he counted on his fingers how many friends he had, and if he didn’t have enough digits, he deemed it a good day. Now he can count with aching clarity all the people who loved him, and still have fingers to spare.

Annabeth asked him once if he regretted taking up Zeus’ offer, if he regretted turning his red blood gold.

He hadn’t answered her till three weeks later, over a three am phone call.

I don’t regret it, he had said, because I know I can help this way. I know I can protect my family and friends better this way. And when the phone had gone dark, he had whispered into the void of his room– an alcove of coral far, far, far underwater– I don’t regret it, but I’m so lonely. The tears at that admission did not stop flowing for many hours.

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

Tags (If you want to be added to the tag list just let me know, all my channels of communication are open):

@thepersonyourparentswishyouwere

@lesbian-peanuts

How are you feeling?? Cause i got 6K words for this fic and i don’t see myself stopping any time soon. Give me your thoughts young ones!!!!

[sondepoch]

Can we please get more of the Solomon stealing memories aftermath

Part 1 here~ (am I having a field trip with these asks? fuck yes. no shame.)

“It was you,” Lucifer seethes, immediately shifting into his demon form. He bares his teeth, growling, ready to pounce and tear Solomon to shreds in an instant—but another question takes precedence: “Why? Why would you destroy MC’s memories? Are you that jealous of their magical abilities that you resorted to such measures?”

“Jealous?” Solomon asks, laughing softly as he crosses his legs on his bed, staring calmly at the demon standing in his room. “Hardly. I certainly did have my reasons, though.”

“I should have killed you the day I saw you,” Lucifer growls, jumping forward, wrapping his fingers around Solomon’s throat. He’s just about to begin squeezing when the sorcerer speaks up, abruptly halting the demon.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrow immediately, and though it kills his pride to do so, he leans back just the slightest, sensing the threat in Solomon’s words. 

The white-haired mage grins the moment he sees Lucifer withdraw, eagerly pushing motioning for the demon to go around the room—to venture into the side hidden. 

“Do you really think I am so foolish?” Lucifer asks warily, crossing his arms. But when Solomon grins, deciding to show the way instead, he does indeed follow, and Solomon grins. 

The sight that greets Lucifer makes him sick to the stomach.

“Do you like it?” Solomon asks, smiling broadly as he steps forward into the casting circle, walking behind Simeon, where the angel remains tied to a chair, mouth gagged. Solomon pats the angel on the shoulder. “I considered tying a bow around his neck, but I couldn’t find any ribbon.”

Lucifer’s expression darkens immediately, and within seconds the demon’s long legs have carried him into the casting circle, about to wrangle Solomon’s neck and send him to the Grim Reaper after centuries of evasion, but the way Simeon thrashes immediately makes the demon halt.

“What...?” Lucifer questions, not understanding what’s going on as the sorcerer shudders, dropping to his knees, while Simeon looks to be screaming through the gag, his body shaking wildly through his restraints, eyes shouting for Lucifer to step back.

The demon takes one glance at his lover and does so, withdrawing from the casting circle, and immediately the two men inside relax. 

A dry chuckle spills from Solomon’s lips as he stands once more, fixing his shirt as he blinks the remnants of pain away.

“This is a soul circle, Lucifer.” The sorcerer smiles, an eerily calm expression for one who was writhing in pain not seconds earlier. And the weight of his words’ revelation stuns Lucifer. “So unless you wish for your lover to die with me, I’d recommend not taking a step closer.”

Horror suddenly wraps itself around Lucifer like a thick blanket that he cannot shake off. Solomon’s words from earlier bounce around inside his head: soul circle. A circle where only those whose souls are bound may enter—causing immense pain to those inside should an outsider enter.

But more alarmingly: they two men are contently remaining within a soul circle. Meaning that Solomon and Simeon’s souls are now bound, and one’s death will inevitably result in the others.

Checkmate, Solomon seems to be saying with that cruel grin of his. And indeed, it is a checkmate. Because now, any pain Lucifer inflicts on Solomon will be simultaneously felt by Simeon—and should the demon kill the human, the angel will perish as well.

But most alarming is Solomon’s primary revelation.

Your lover.

“How did you...” Know? Lucifer seems to be asking with his eyes as he gazes at the sorcerer incredulously. The only person in the world who knew was MC, and their memories are long gone.

“You said earlier that I destroyed MC’s memories,” Solomon says, smiling once more. “A more accurate statement would be that I stole them.”

And then it all makes sense.

“This one has a particularly nice orgasm face,” Solomon remarks casually, tilting Simeon’s cheek upward as the angel does all he can to avoid his eyes, looking almost as if he is about to cry. “Interestingly enough, so do you, Lucifer.” Solomon grins, recalling everything from the memories he had stolen from MC: summoning forth every ounce of knowledge that will help him right now.

“What do you want?” Lucifer spits, glaring harshly.

“What I’ve always wanted. A pact with you, Lucifer.”

The demon scoffs. “Your soul being bound to Simeon’s merely means that I do not have a way to kill you yet. You are hardly in a position to be demanding that I make a pact with you.”

Solomon sighs, quickly understanding that Lucifer is going to be stubborn about this.

But perhaps a few words from his lover will do the trick? 

“Simeon, tell Lucifer that he should make a pact with me, alright?” Solomon pulls the cloth he had used to gag Simeon’s mouth out, the angel barely taking a second to breathe before a flurry of words are coming out of his mouth, none of them quite what Solomon asked of him.

“He tricked me, Lucifer! He said he wouldn’t hurt you if I bound my soul to his! He’s a liar, don’t trust him and don’t—”

Simeon’s words quickly turn muffled as Solomon abruptly stuffs the cloth back into his mouth, the latter sighing in disappointment as he smacks the back of Simeon’s head disapprovingly. The childlike form of admonishment is a stark contrast to how dire the situation is, and Solomon wastes no time in pulling a knife out from the edge of the soul circle.

“Such a troublesome angel, you are.” Solomon waves the knife in disapproval, patting Simeon’s cheek with it. “You know, Lucifer,” The mage draws his attention back to the demon hovering just six feet away. “Every injury I sustain, Simeon will also feel.”

Solomon grins, dragging the knife along his own cheek, watching with glee as a corresponding cut opens on Simeon’s own skin. The mage leans forward and licks the ichor off the angel’s cheek, smiling contently.

“Even more interestingly, the arrangement of the human body and the angel body is quite different. I could stab myself here,” Solomon gestures to a spot on the center of his chest. “And miss all my major organs. But at the same time, Simeon’s heart would be pierced. It’s hardly enough to kill him, but it would be...” The edges of Solomon’s lips curl upward. “Very painful.”

He lets the threat hang in the air, playing with the knife, casually cutting himself every now and then and watching with glee as Simeon is immediately injured in turn .

After a certain amount of time, though, the sorcerer grows bored of Lucifer’s silence. 

“Make a pact with me, Lucifer,” The sorcerer encourages, setting the knife firmly against his own chest. Neither Simeon nor Solomon misses the look of instinctive fear that surfaces in Lucifer’s eyes as he watches. “And I won’t hurt myself. I won’t hurt Simeon.”

But the demon remains silent.

“You leave me no choice,” The mage sighs, beginning to apply pressure to the dagger at his chest.

He’s nearly one-fourth of an inch through his own skin, Simeon shouting muffled protests, when Lucifer shouts at him to stop, that he’ll make a pact with Solomon as long as the vile mage just stops what he’s doing.

Solomon drops the knife.

“That’s all I wanted,” He says, smiling. 

Behind him, Simeon thrashes wildly as Lucifer internally prepares himself to make this pact, the angel toppling the chair he’s been tied to. But the other men seem to ignore him entirely, Solomon extending his hand out cautiously for Lucifer to bind his essence to, quietly reminding him that any pain he feels will also be sent to Simeon.

“I know,” The demon scowls, and then the familiar sensation of power—one Solomon has felt seventy-two times before—rushes through his veins, and Solomon’s grin is vicious as he realizes that he has finally obtained what he has been seeking out for so long.

“Kneel,” The mage commands, watching Lucifer struggle against the pact. Unfortunately for the demon, Solomon has significantly stronger magical control over his powers than MC, so the demon inevitably cannot resist as he drops to his knees, glaring.

“Lick my shoe,” The sorcerer commands, and he knows that this is cruel, that he has what he needs and this is entirely unnecessary, but he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face as Lucifer glares and heeds his command.

And Solomon smiles. 

The final step to his ultimate plan is complete. 

He only needed a pact with Lucifer so that he could harvest the demon’s power and use it to conquer the human world. But with Simeon’s soul bound to him, the angel is equally forced to heed Solomon’s orders until the day the sorcerer dies—and with the pact, both men are now obligated to obey Solomon’s every word.

And as he gazes upon the two men, both glaring at him—one in rage and one in disappointment—all the memories of being ostracized come flitting to Solomon. How the demon brothers isolated MC from him, how Lucifer warned them to be wary from the very beginning. Even Simeon had a tendency to favor the other little lamb more, evidenced by the fact that they were the one invited to the nightly threesomes rather than Solomon himself, and a sudden distaste possesses the mage’s heart. A quiet irritation blooms inside, one cultivated by the fact that these two men have done so much to make the sorcerer’s life so difficult. 

Of course, they were right not to trust him. But there’s no denying that it hurt to see them wary from the start, long before Solomon revealed his true colors.

And suddenly, Solomon realizes that he wants to make them hurt. He wants them to feel the pain he’s been through, he wants to show them why it was a poor idea to get on his bad side. And though Solomon’s only initial goal was to secure a pact with Lucifer so that he could use it to gain power among humans, he suddenly realizes that he wants to hurt both Lucifer and Simeon, make them regret ever holding him at a distance.

Countless thoughts rush through his mind: various ways he could torture and humiliate them.

What would be the worst? Forcing them to fuck each other, give in to the love they’ve tried so hard to conceal, with the sorcerer watching and mocking them? Or perhaps Solomon should fuck one of them and force the other to watch, humiliating both as he has his way? Maybe it would be most amusing to force the two to confess publicly that they have committed the unforgivable—to announce to all of RAD that they are in love. Or might it be even more painful to both to completely isolate them from each other, forcing them to rely solely on Solomon and his whims should they ever hope to unite again?

But as these thoughts run through Solomon’s mind, a new one pops up.

And the mage considers it, carefully weighing the pros and cons to this particular command, but then he decides that it is truly perfect. Painful for Lucifer, agony for Simeon, entirely torturous but wondrously amusing to watch. 

And Solomon decides that this will be his next command to both.

He steps back, cold eyes flitting to and fro between the lovers that remain pressed against the floor, who are now no longer watching Solomon but instead looking at each other, and Solomon steps forward, his feet standing in the way of their gazes.

“Rise,” He orders Lucifer, whispering the command into the demon’s ear.

“No,” Lucifer murmurs, a strange mix of fear and pain setting in: something Solomon has never seen in this prideful demon’s eyes. “You said if I made a pact with you, you wouldn’t hurt him.”

“I’m not hurting him,” Solomon says, grinning. And it suddenly strikes Lucifer that this human sorcerer is more demonic that the Avatar of Pride himself, with this god-awful command he just whispered into Lucifer’s ear. “You are.”

Solomon steps back, withdrawing from the magic circle, suddenly feeling incredibly comfortable. At last, he has everything: a pact with one of the most powerful demons in the Devildom, a way to keep the man from turning on him, and everything else he has been arranging for centuries, in preparation for this day.

But the command that falls from Solomon’s lips is an improvisation from his original plan, something meant more as payback for being treated so poorly by the demons in his time here. And so there is no regret in his voice as he repeats it, watching Simeon’s expression carefully as he says the words aloud.

“I command you to hate Simeon.”

[shardminds]

silver for monsters (1/?)

pairing: emma swan/killian jones rated: e for extra (in later chapters) wc: almost 5k ish

No matter the truth, he carries the weight of her corpse like a shadow. 

also available on ao3! ♠

it's my cssns submission!

firstly, a thank you to the wonderful mods for organising and facilitating the event! where would we be without you? and also the cssns discord — you lovely humans are just fantastic.

secondly, i owe my wonderful partner-in-crime, beta and artist (this fic has art, people! coming soon!) my life. she deserves more than i could ever give her. love you, salem! give killy a cuddle from me!

now, a note about the fic. this is a witcher au, using inspiration from the witcher games, books and TV show. i have pulled inspiration from all 3. just a fair warning, considering the nature of the witcher universe, there will be gratuitous violence in some scenes. i will be adding characters and tags as they appear in the work to abstain from spoilers but i will let you know in advance that there is no major character death.

happy reading!

“Fuck!”

The cockatrice rears up, flapping its enormous wings and lunging straight for him, talons poised for attack. At full height, it’s almost three times his size—an intimidating sight, but not an unfamiliar one. Killian dodges at the last second, rolling beneath the dirt-encrusted claws and narrowly avoiding the beak that follows to impale him. If he hadn’t thrown out his palm to cast Quen in time, he’d have been thrown across the sewer, probably landing in one of the many questionable pools littering the place. The beast rights itself, elongating its sinuous throat to prepare for its next attack but Killian is faster, springing to action in its short reprieve. His blade strikes true, the sharpened silver slicing from neck to navel through leathery flesh. A choked shriek pierces the cavernous echo around them but it does nothing to hinder his attack. Killian twists his weapon deeper, severing the thick sinew in its throat with a precision only gained from decades of practice.

The draconid oil he’d prepared had done well to weaken the monster, each touch of his sword against tough hide was met with a harrowing screech, each one emanating from its maw with a sickening gurgle as Killian’s coated sword seared its innards. Good. At least the ergot seeds used in its creation hadn’t gone to waste. The common weeds don’t grow this far east of Misthaven.

One final twist is all it takes, tearing out the creature’s windpipe in all its bloody glory, falling to the filth below, darkening the murk beneath its claws. It shudders, struggling for breath, but continues to advance. The guttural gurgle of its demise falling hollow in the dank expanse. Power simmers in Killian’s fingertips as he throws out his palm to cast Aard, shunting the beast backwards and knocking it off balance.

With a heavy thud, the cockatrice falls—

Right into a puddle of shit.

“Oh, that’s bloody lovely.” He grits out, wiping the sludge from where it splattered on his trousers. He’d been planning to start the ride back west, to the familiar place he was reluctant to call anything but that. He’d been planning to take rest between contracts, among the hamlets of Velen, stopping only to deliver the head of the beast and collect his bounty before taking to the path at full speed.

Now he’d have to fork out for an inn.

And a stable.

And a drink.

Bloody lovely, indeed.

Slipping the dagger from his boot to take his trophy—evidence of a job well done—Killian kneels next to the beast’s shredded neck and begins to cut. It takes a couple of minutes, the toughened hide of the beast proving more difficult than expected, but Killian manages to decapitate the thing without too much protest. Despite being smothered in excrement, both human and ornithosaur in origin, Killian wraps up the head in a linen sheet he’d acquired from the last inn he’d visited, slinging the thing over his shoulder to attach to Smee’s saddlebag for the ride into town. It’s hefty, already seeping dark ichor through the fabric, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Nothing he hasn’t handled a thousand times before.

Shit-stained or not, there’s little people love more than dead monsters.

In his periphery, there’s a shimmer of something long and thin and sharp beneath the ooze of the dead heap.

Feathers. Golden Feathers.

They’d sell for a fair price at any market but, with a wry smile, someone else comes to Killian’s mind. He plucks the protruding tail feathers with a delicate hand and slides them in his scabbard for later. Robin will be pleased.

Smee lingers by the sewer’s decaying entrance, chomping on the greenery of a shallow blackberry thicket without care. Seeing him brings ease to Killian’s bones. The walk to Camelot would be a lot more arduous without him. The dimming sunlight brings out the russet in his hide and he snorts as if to acknowledge the presence of his master. Smee has seen him through so much, his steed for over a decade now, and even as a colt he had stayed true to his commands. He rears his head, giving a soft huff in greeting as Killian reaches out to rub his muscular neck.

“Hello to you too, lad.” He soothes, securing the trophy with thick leather straps to Smee’s saddlebags. It thuds against his hind leg as he shifts to accommodate for the extra weight but Killian talks him through it. “You can rest tonight. We deserve it.”

Smee, ever the conversationalist, responds with a snort. Something Killian would translate as about damn time.

The hunt for the cockatrice had taken longer than he'd anticipated, the cursed beast leading them astray for days before finally returning to roost in the sewers of all places. The sorcerer in these parts—Merlin, he’d said his name was—had informed him it would. They’d sent hunters, knights, even mages to deal with their pest, but none had returned; either fleeing from the beast or succumbing to it.

With the head of the monster firmly attached, Killian steps up into the stirrup and mounts his steed, heels tapping against his belly to spur him forward, back towards the city. With a reluctant snort and a slow start, Smee carries both the Witcher and his cargo to their destination.

It’s long past nightfall by the time they reach the oaken gates and marble paved roads leading to Camelot. It’s a damn sight better than the gravel paths back in Misthaven. The approach to the city is announced with sconces attached to grand flags bearing the sigil of the king, inlaid with gold detailing. A gaudy display of wealth if ever there was one.

Up ahead, before the city entrance, Killian can just about make out the silhouette of a man in robes of purple and gold. Power radiates off him and it trembles in the wolf head pendant resting atop Killian’s chest, even from over 100 yards away. Smee trots closer, almost lazy in his approach. He doesn’t halt until they’re stood before the man who greets them warmly, with a kind face and a gentle smile. Merlin, the sorcerer.

Killian doesn’t trust it.

“I see you’ve dealt with the beast, my friend.” Merlin starts.

“I see you don’t intend to let me in.”

The sorcerer nods at the assumption, as if reluctant to do so and holds out the pouch of coin. Killian lets it thud into his palm. It weighs about right so he doesn’t bother to question it before tucking the payment into Smee’s saddlebag. It’s more than any common contract would afford him.

“The King has requested—”

“The King can go fuck himself.” With a flick of his knife, Killian cuts free his cargo, letting the head of the beast slip to the floor. It cracks on impact, spilling the crimson gore inside, smelling only of death and decay. Iron and rot. Merlin doesn’t recoil, instead choosing to step around and inspect the shattered mass. Mages like him, in positions of power beside volatile Kings, tend to be more accustomed to such displays.

If the stories of King Arthur’s conquests are true, it’s no surprise.

“With your reputation, Witcher,” He starts, prodding the bloodied heap with his foot. It lols to the side, mottled beak clacking against the path. “Do you really think Arthur would take such a risk?”

Killian could not give less of a shit about the opinion of Kings. Especially not ones of lands that dictated their monarchy based on whoever could yank a sword from the sodden shit coated earth. If that were the universal basis for royalty, he’d be King three times over. Merlin waves his hand over the mess of brains and bone, vanishing the mound into nothing and leaving only pristine stone behind. Smee stiffens, sensing the otherness of the man so close to his rear.

With unnatural grace, Merlin steps back to his place between them and the gate, unwavering in his resolution.

“Rumours of the Golden Bride have spread further than you think.”

Of course. Ravens travel faster than horses these days. What happened back in Kovir—

People tend to trust Kings over Mutants, no matter the truth. Killian grunts, the only sign of the tension in his bones in the way he grips the worn leather reins, knuckles taught and surely white beneath his gloves.

“Next time,” He grunts, not flinching at the mention of his past. “Pay upfront. Spare me the journey back.”

Merlin opens his mouth to respond but it’s too late. With probably more force than necessary, Killian kicks Smee into action, turning him to ride away from the white brick barrier that separates him from a good night's sleep before the sorcerer can protest. His work here is done. His contract ended. If they won’t let him into the city, he has no reason to stay. Bath and a bed be damned.

There’s nothing for him here.

They ride onwards.

Killian slows his steed to a gentle trot as soon as they cross the border into Temeria, a silent apology in the calm stroke of his palm behind Smee’s ears.

Moonlight bathes the vast fields of wheat in an ethereal glow. Nekkers peer through the tall sheaves to watch him pass, following him as far as they dare. His medallion thrums with their proximity, the pendant rattling against his mail. If it were any other day, he’d have torn through the harvest, taking down the bastards with broad swoops of his blade. Not today, though. The cockatrice had drained more from him than he initially thought. There’d been no time to brew potions to remedy his weariness, and his supply of dwarven spirit was alarmingly low. The next apothecary along the path would take a beating from his coin purse, that much is certain.

Midnight comes and goes before the path widens into the well trodden roads of more populated areas and more hours pass before they even stumble across an inn shrouded in forest. It’s decrepit and musky, but an inn all the same. It’ll have to do. Killian can tell by the bray of his travelling companion that he won’t last until the next one. There’s water and hay in the mossy overhang out front, its ancient wood almost rotted through but still secure enough to attach Smee’s reins to the post. An old silver mare secured closest to the inn takes one sniff at Killian and sneezes.

“That bad?”

Smee nudges him in response. That bad.

The inside of the inn is as ancient and forgotten as the exterior; thick stone walls, cobwebbed beams, a bar made of mottled oak with ring stains of old ale covering its surface. Upon Killian’s entry, the landlord nods, his pallid skin as thin as paper. The sickness he holds will kill him, it lingers in the shadows beneath his eyes and the pale flesh of his gums as he smiles, with too much joviality.

“Room for the night, is it?”

He will not see the summer.

Killian drops fifteen crowns on the bar, watching the old man’s eyes widen at their shine. “Along with a bath and a bottle of your strongest.”

“Right away, my friend!” He shuffles along, reaching for a slender greying glass bottle that he places on the bar top, before disappearing altogether. The other bar patrons stay quiet, lulled to the edge of listless sleep by the fire crackling in the hearth and the ale in their bellies—gwent games unfinished, tankards half full. Not wanting to follow their lead in sleeping on the hard benches, Killian waits at the bar. He takes a swig, letting the liquid coat his throat in its familiar fire. There are better ways to cope. There are better ways to fend off the dark that threatens to swallow him whole but nothing works quite as well as the burn alcohol leaves behind. Well, usually that’s the case.

Minutes pass and his thoughts, however reluctantly, stray back to Merlin’s earlier words.

The Golden Bride.

Killian had killed her. Killed her, raped her, tortured her, ate her liver, stole the unborn child from her stomach as a payment to the eternally damned gods of old, used her blood for his mutations—the stories change depending on where you are. Nilfgaardians prefer the gory stuff whereas, up in Kovir, they favour the lighter tales. She was their Queen, after all.

The one he couldn’t save.

Each burning gulp helps less and less.

When the dying barkeep waves him over, brandishing a rusted key and an armful of tattered blankets, the burn has gone and only Killian’s thoughts remain.

No matter the truth, he carries the weight of her corpse like a shadow.

The room is barely bigger than a broom closet and the old man has the courtesy to look ashamed of his meagre offerings. It doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, a bed is a bed. Along the way, Killian has learnt not to make attachments to the materialistic.

In the centre of the narrow room, manoeuvred between the end of the dusty four-poster bed and the fireplace, stands a solid wooden bath. The water, lukewarm to the touch and stagnant, comes to life with a flick of his palm and a whisper of “Igni”. Killian doesn’t even bother to be neat, letting his weapons, armour, potions, and coin fall to what little floor space there is available before letting himself sink naked into the warmth. The agitated boil helps to shift the stubborn muck customary of weeks on the path.

How long had it been since his last? A few days, maybe? A week? He’d taken a brief dip in the river just outside Camelot before embarking on his quest— had it really been that long? No wonder the mare had turned her nose up. No wonder Merlin had regarded him with such polite distance.

He’d been wandering around smelling like a Necrophage’s anal gland and no one had bothered to tell him. Not that anyone could tell him. That’s the thing with always being on the path—the only things to talk to are your horse or your hunt.

Monsters aren’t always the best conversationalists.

The waters lap away the aches set deep in his bones, settling each worn muscle with its tender embrace. It’s a luxury he can nary afford, but it’s worth it when he can. When he exits, smelling of old soap and lavender, there is only black silt left behind. A dark mirror on the liquid’s surface. He won’t be able to use it again. He takes his underclothes to the small basin by the bedside to soak instead, too tired to even consider spending any more time away from the clutches of sleep.

For the first time in a long time, he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow. The exhaustion of the weeks passed weighing his bones like lead, as if they’d sink straight through the mattress and into the nether below. He wishes they would.

“Killian.”

He jerks awake—no, not awake. Further into the embrace of a dream. Oppressive darkness and silence surround him, his keenest senses rendered useless in their wake. Beneath him, a plush leather armchair. It’s painfully familiar. Precious, somewhat. Worn and comfortable and moulded to him as if he’d spent a century sat only here. This dreamscape. This void.

Oneiromancy. Perfect.

“Killian.”

A woman’s voice— her voice.

“Emma.”

“And I thought you’d forgotten about me.” She smiles, suddenly appearing in his lap, hips straddling his thighs as if it hadn’t been almost five years since they’d last parted. Five long, arduous years.

“Impossible, love. You’re not so easy to forget.” Killian can feel the steady beat of her heart as his hands take her waist. Soft, so soft.

And centuries old.

“You never thought to stop by on your travels then?”

“The path is—”

“Don’t lecture me. I know,” Pouting, she brings her arms around Killian’s neck. The thin swath of lace she’s wearing does nothing to hide her figure but its intricacies marr the details he wants very much to focus on; the blush of her breasts, the swell of her arse, what lies between those slender legs. Each time he tries to take her in, see past the veil of fabric, it shifts, obscuring his gaze once more. Fucking magic. “But I have missed you terribly.”

“Emma Swan, legendary sorceress and advisor to the throne of Misthaven, missing but a lowly Witcher?” The pale expanse of her neck calls for his kiss, so close and yet so far. “People will talk.”

With a violet flash, Emma winks. “Noise complaints, hopefully.”

His eyes slip shut, trying to maintain what little composure he has left. As disconcerting as dream magic is, he doesn’t want the spell to end. The feel of her so close is maddening. Waking to an empty bed will be torture.

Words he can’t possibly say nor mean jump to his throat, aching to be whispered against her mouth, passed to her tongue by his own as they had longed to so many times in the past. They burn.

“Come see me.”

“Emma—”

“I need you. I can’t tell you why—not here—but I need you.” There’s a silent plea hidden in her words, behind the typical bravado she always favours. He almost doesn’t catch it. She adjusts herself slightly, sitting back on his knees and letting her hands reverently trace the scars across his shoulders and chest. Ones she’s seen before and ones she hasn’t, long healed but still raw to her touch. It’s been too long. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and it takes every modicum of restraint he has not to kiss her there and then. “Come to King David’s court in Misthaven. There’s a tourney one week from now.”

“I’m sensing I don’t have a choice.”

“Of course you have a choice. It’s in your best interests to make the right one.”

Killian sighs, letting his palms slide from her middle to her thighs, taking in the phantom warmth he’s missed so greatly. Emma Swan is an enigma. She’s centuries of power wrapped in mystery and untold sorrows and it lingers beneath her skin. She’s the first kiss of morning sun, the dark chill of winter, the wild lilacs that grow along the dirt roads of Misthaven. She’s true love’s first kiss and the denial of destiny. She’s nothing and everything, the beginning and the end.

And, occasionally, his.

“One week?” He muses, hyper focused on the way her nails feel against his skin, as if she were there, as if it were real. Her eyes, green as woodland moss, captivate him in the way they always used to, but they’re not the same. A mere mimicry. Beneath his fingers, the dream begins to fall away.

There’s no depth, just a glimmer of magic below the surface.

Everything’s hollow and when he finally presses his lips to her fading visage, all he tastes is ash, dirt and the absence of all things.

“One week.”

It echoes around the cramped room, a whisper in the darkness not yet reached by morning’s soft first touches. A reminder.

Killian almost missed it. Misthaven. It’s rolling hills and wildflower meadows, deep green forests free of ill fated fiends. Well, mostly free—wraiths and rotfiends are everywhere these days, especially after the war. If they weren’t, he’d be out of a job.

In the five days on the path, across the forgotten poppy-filled battlefields and open plains of Temeria, Killian didn’t encounter much trouble. The first two days were monotonous, non-stop riding through the day and night, brief pauses for food, water and rest.

The day after that saw a kikimora rear its ugly maw as Smee cantered past its roadside hovel, swiping out with its blade-like limbs in an attempt to take out the horse’s legs — it took three swipes of his blade to take it down, the starving queen letting out a defeated whine as glinting silver pierced through her armour and into her brain. Killian left a bomb in his wake, making sure none of her spawn would see the light of day.

Day four drove him closer to the ruins of Vizima, it’s grand stone walls now bleak and crumbled. Killian had been around when it fell, only a few years beneath his belt on the path as the Nilfgaardians withdrew their tyranny. They razed the city, with fire and blood, so that the North would remember what the clutches of Emperor Emhyr var Emreis. The self-proclaimed white flame dancing on the graves of his enemies sputtered and faded just like everyone else on this mortal coil. The flames had kept him warm one night, decades ago, as the fallen city smouldered.

Misthaven greets the horizon on day five. It’s unperturbed woodland gracing his path with an archway formed of two entwined enchanted oaks, their magic forms the base of the wards that surround the city and the sheer power of it is a familiar thrum of energy that has his medallion singing as Smee trots over the border. In the thick bramble bushes beside the sheltered road, fairies shield themselves from view, their sugar plum scent hangs on the air as heavy as horse shit. There’s something he hasn’t missed. After half a mile or so, the rattle of his medallion becomes barely noticeable, a gentle simmer rather than a raucous boil.

Instead of taking the northern road at Lake Nostos towards the bustling city and the castle of King David, they turn to the east, along a too familiar, although far less trodden, path.

Smee huffs at his choices, resisting the tug of his reins.

Killian rolls his eyes. “Don’t you start.”

The Rabbit Hole is, in Killian’s eyes, better than most. Being just outside the city, tucked up against the eastern entrance’s vine smothered portcullis, not many people stumble through its doors by accident. However, with its vast stone hearth, sturdy oak beams and a half decent cellar, the place could weather the harshest Skellige storm with nary but a draught. Ale, food, music and good company. It’s… nice, for lack of a better word.

And, despite the nature of his work, it’s somewhere Killian keeps coming back to. Regardless of the years between his visits.

Smee, ever the dramatic, saunters over to the water-filled trough cemented to the tavern's stable, eagerly eyeing up the hay-filled feedbag beside it. At least, he’ll get a chance to rest as Killian gets his own fill. Haphazardly, he knots Smee’s reins to the hitching post, leaving just enough slack for him to be able to reach his amenities and socialise with the unsaddled gelding tied up on the other side of the post.

Killian pulls his coin purse from his steed’s saddlebags, knowing full well he’ll spend it one way or another. The door swings open before he can even tap the shit off his boots.

“You took your time, Captain.” Will Scarlet, with his signature troublesome smirk, is upon him in an instant, arms thrown around Killian’s shoulders, squeezing tightly as his skinny arms allow. He’d never been one for heavy lifting, more interested in wielding a lyre than a sword, and it shows in the way he greets his old friend as if it hasn’t been almost five years since Killian left him in Toussaint in the bed of a baroness whose husband had not been best pleased to find him there. The stench of Mahakaman mead on the bard’s breath permeates the air. The half-decade has barely touched him.

It hasn’t touched Killian either but, then again, mutations will do that to a man.

“Is that what they’re calling me now?”

Will peels himself away, stumbling back into the oak door frame that knocks the air right out of him with an oof. His brow furrows ever so slightly and someone from the other side of the dimly lit pub chortles at his discomfort. Will throws an obscene gesture his way before coming to Killian’s side instead.

“Just roll with it mate, you wouldn’t like the alternative.”

Killian shrugs. Murderer, Mutant, Devil— “I have been called worse.”

The bard nods in agreement, letting Killian step over the threshold and into the dark innards of the inn. They both have. Back when they travelled together, there was nary a day that insults weren’t hurled their way. Killian never had the chance to apologise back then, and it doesn’t seem right to bring it up now.

Will looks… happy.

“Anyway,” He starts, falling back on his chipper tone and catching Killian off guard as he hops over the bar top with ease, grabbing a tankard on his way. “To what do I owe the pleasure?

“I’m not too sure of that myself.”

Will places the tankard before him, full of a sweet smelling dark ale. “No contract?”

Killian knocks back the mug in one, letting the slightly soured brew flavour his tongue. It’s better than the pig swill he’s settled for along the Path. Then again, Will always was one with good taste; always the finest inns, the grandest company, lining his pockets with the gold of diplomats and dukes alike. Despite all that, The Rabbit Hole suits him, dust and dirt be damned. He hum’s, considering how to answer, before settling for the simplest one. “No.”

“No valiant quest?”

Killian shrugs.

“Ah,” Eyeing him knowingly while taking a sip from his own cup with a smug smile, Will hums. They’ve known each other long enough now for him to be able to read between the lines. “A summons then.”

“Can’t I just stop by and visit an old friend?”

“Theoretically, yes. But that’s not in your nature is it, mate.” There’s a pause. Someone laughs from the other side of the room, lit only by a handful of candles to fend off the dark even in the daylight. Will doesn’t even blink, drumming out a rhythm on the countertop, wearing an ever present smile. “Especially knowing that there’s a certain sorceress within the city walls.”

Killian had no idea what he was here for, not really. One dream and he’d come running like a well trained dog, a pet. He can’t even feel shame about it. Emma could’ve asked him to pick daisies in the grand gardens of King David and he’d have come running, a prisoner to his emotions. His mutations should have rid him of them decades ago and yet—

He lets himself be seen, letting his posture slip to a slouch. The ride was harder on him than he’d anticipated and his limbs call for sleep, the ache of it weighing him down. Will is, above all else, his oldest friend. If he can trust anyone, it's him.

“What’s going on, Killian?”

Lilac and gooseberries, touched with cinnamon and the undeniable scar of power. It singes the air with its grace and sets Killian’s medallion ablaze with activity before he can even register the draught behind him hadn’t come from the door. Will looks up, eyes rapidly widening in a mix of familiarity and surprise, but Killian doesn’t have to. He knows. She must have sensed him when he passed the kingdom's wards, followed the sing of his own power to find him, greet him.

Killian turns and lets a smirk tug at his lips as silence hangs like a criminal, the whole inn rendered mute by her entrance. In awe. In fear.

Emma.

Time hasn’t dared touch her. It hasn’t in aeons. In the years Killian has known her, she has always looked this radiant. Hair curled loosely over her shoulders and a dress of lace laid over silk, bright and beautiful and absolutely incredible. An aura of light surrounds her, bringing illumination to the dim room. From her very core, she is beautiful.

Killian has missed her.

She smiles, knowingly.

"I haven't told him yet."

[bastardsunlight]

HC Dump Raiden

Raiden is, if you hadn’t already noticed, a rule-follower. He is a rigid sort of man with a very strict code of honor. His constant consultation of the Elder Gods (however ineffectual) is testament to this and it is because

from his creation, he has been taught that his brother’s “failings” (leaving the sky temple to cavort with mortals, not being the guardian they wanted) fall squarely upon his shoulders. He feels keenly the immense weight of the guardianship of earthrealm that has been placed upon him and can only maintain sanity and order by also maintaining strict discipline.

He bleeds gold ichor in places where his divinity can be more fully expressed. Earthrealm, netherrealm, and outworld are not equipped to handle his full, divine form and the physicality of it turns his ichor to something which looks like blood, but still kind of ISN’T? Because he’s not a human being. Gods demand blood sacrifice, because gods do not bleed, is the saying…

He’s got OODLES of really nice white hair just like Fujin but keeps it hidden under the hood and hate as a symbol of his dedication to his duties, his chastity, and to keep it out of the way during kombat. Unlike his brother, Raiden never learned how to fight with his hair down. 

Raiden is aware that many earthrealm champions consider him a father-figure. This both frightens and flatters him. Gods (who have not reproduced COUGHARGUSCOUGH) do not have as clear a sense of fatherhood/motherhood as humans do, having cast that out eons ago in favor of their more aloof nature. Titans, who are beings of feeling as well as logic, understand, ironically, which likely propels Cetrion’s loyalty to her mother, despite being the goddess of virtue and order, an Elder God herself.

He is a cat person. Cats like him. He likes them.

Raiden’s relationship with the Elder Gods is not what you’d call healthy. His constant need to consult them comes directly from their insistence upon his inadequacy as the guardian of earthrealm—this, in turn, stems from his first act of true defiance, WAY back at the beginning when he refused to “fuse” with Fujin, to create the god of storm. He loves his brother too much to take his autonomy.

Fujin may or may not know this, but it is the reason Raiden fought so hard to keep him at the Sky Temple, knowing the Elder Gods would look with displeasure upon his refusal to act at least as Raiden’s partner in guardianship. Fujin still considers himself a protector and of course arrives when he is needed, but prefers to live among humans to better sympathize. Raiden understands the sentiment, but fears the consequences.

There is much the Elder Gods do not tell Raiden. He is the dutiful son, bound to half-absent/half-authoritarian parents with no light at the end of the tunnel. He rushes to obey, even harming himself in the process, to gain favor that he may never see. It is an eternal struggle.

Despite his aloof air, he loves his earthrealm champions and friends. Due to his constant need to please the Elder Gods, however, it is difficult to express this affection, so when people like Johnny Cage approach him and slap him on the back, or hug him, he does not know quite how to respond.

Raiden also loves Fujin more than life itself, treasuring his brother even when he feels Fujin is making foolish choices. In the end, the man does understand humanity better, because he has immersed himself in it, but their affection toward mortals is essentially equal.

He is genuinely unaware of how attractive he appears to mortals and gods alike. It isn't a false humility; he simply does not think in those terms. It is therefore shocking when anyone points it out.

Raiden is Shinnok’s son, but not in the human sense of reproduction, although Elder Gods are more than capable of doing so, as are the gods beneath them, like Argus of Edenia. It’s more like Raiden and Fujin were simply formed, as elements, one day in the grand scheme of kreation. 

Shinnok’s very act of creating him and Fujin was a defiance against the other Elder Gods, as he seems deliberately to have separated wind and lightning. It also means Raiden is an aspect of destruction which is anathema to his character as he has chosen to protect. The fact, therefore, that he can heal is nothing short of miraculous and speaks highly of his character. 

He is about seven feet tall and built like a brick shit house, though surprisingly fine-featured for all that. He keeps himself wrapped up like a nun as a symbol of his chastity and dedication to the protection of Earthrealm. (yep I’m aware of his deadly alliance getup, but given that a vast majority of his skins/costumes have him pretty much completely covered, I’m keeping that aesthetic)

Which also means Raiden is a gazillion year old virgin. Have fun with that.

Shang Tsung was his chosen champion in the very first tournament. The Great Kung Lao came later. As such, he very much feels Shang Tsung’s rise to power rests on his shoulders, but it was a strategic choice. They needed the win and Shang Tsung was (IS) ruthless as all fuck. The Elder Gods take Shang Tsung’s soul in punishment, not for stealing the soul of the man he defeated in the tournament, but to punish Raiden for having feelings for him. 

The reason Raiden is nerfed in the netherrealm is because he believes he should be. The realm of his father favors chaos and suffering and he wants no part in it. As a recursive being, that is, an elemental who defines HIMSELF, the phenomenon occurs in any realm other than earthrealm. The reason, therefore, he is able to slaughter hordes of demons in the assault on the cathedral is that he has begun, slowly, to embrace the aspect of him which is a god of destruction, hence the red lightning.

Much like Fujin, Raiden bears the marks of his divinity upon his skin, with his true name written thereupon, surrounded by intricate, glowing forms. The extent and position of it is unknown.

Raiden bleeds ichor, god blood, the stuff of deities. This is gold, like pure shining gold in any spiritual space, like the chamber of the Elder Gods. In more physical spaces it resembles blood shot through with gold. It is toxic to humans, but once it is shed, it solidifies VERY quickly and becomes an extremely rare substance known as Orihalcon. This can, with magic, be worked into fantastic weaponry or what have you, but if you’ve got that much blood, it’s bad news bears for the god whence it comes. When he says “then you know it overwhelms you” to Skarlet, he literally means it.

His tears fall in a quicksilver-like substance (technically it, too is ichor, just a different form) which is also quite toxic to mortals. In its solidified form (mimicking Orihalcon), it is known as Mythril and is an extremely light, metallic element which can also be fashioned into powerful weaponry. This is even more difficult to obtain because it does not spill as readily—you can’t cut tears out of someone.  

Taking a physical form is mildly taxing to deities, so most don’t do it on the regular. Raiden and Fujin are strange exceptions to this rule. They would rather be a presence in the lives of the people they have come to know and to love (not only to protect, at this point), than to be unreachable balls of energy. Shit’s lame; this is way more fun. What could possibly go wrong???????

[spideywhites]

If you’re still taking the prompt thing, how about Kakashi x toshiro with Au 12, Sit 1, and Sentence 14? Also I can’t believe I’m late to your tumblr I just took note of it because of ur latest chapter sorry 🙃🙃 BUT WHAT A CHAPTER HOO BOY.

In the mid-morning rain, the colosseum screams. Crisp white walls, inlaid with marks of the wild hunt, tower over an empty, muddy field. Empty of all life but one, a not-quite-man with the blood of a beast, ichor gold and slick across broken skin. Silver hair gleams, limp and plastered to his head, lightning crackling around and around like a halo. Muggy, damp air presses down on the lungs.

Toshiro swallows it.

Clasps his hands tight before his chest, mouth trembling with relief. On his feet he remains, high above the field and the Lightning Beast who stands in a mockery of a battlefield, knee deep in gore and gold. Toshiro’s throat is sore from yelling, just another cry among the millions in the colosseum. They who stamp their feet, hooves and tails and scream to the Great Heavens for more violence, more blood, more death. 

The Lightning Beast looks up, so distant that it’s impossible to make out where his mismatched eyes fall. But Toshiro knows, can feel that steady gaze on his flesh as clear as the rain that soaks his clothes. It steals his breath, flushes his sun-kissed skin to shades of rose and summer evenings. Vines creep along his legs, twining and blossoming shimmering petals of deep rouge and electric blue. 

“You have fought well, Lightning Beast.” The rumbling voice of the Great Sage booms across the air like cracking thunder, silencing the howls of the crowd. Ringed eyes peer in grandfatherly compassion down at the silver-haired man drenched in rain water and power. “State your prize. Whatever you wish, within the known parameters. As victor, you shall have it.”

Eager eyes press upon the lone man, who walks through the downed monsters he’s gored to approach the walls. Toshiro does not know him. They’d passed on the way in, where Toshiro had been bashfully captivated by smiling eyes and steel-colored hair, wild with static. He’d pressed Sweet William’s into the man’s hands and bounded away, the bundle of small, boldly red-white flowers clashing with the shades of gray and blue the Lightning Beast swathed himself in.

Barring that, Toshiro has never met the man—if he can be called such. A tall, lithe body, two arms and legs; built in a humanoid shape, but radiating the kind of godliness that mortals do not possess. From his soaked, slick hair stands two equally soaked ears befitting a wolf. The mask covering the lower half of his face is intricately carved to replicate the snarl of the very same canine, inlaid with metal and splattered with gold and red blood. He wears his status in the quality of his clothes, the glimmering gems sewn into his overcoat and the beautiful sheen of tempered, ethereal ore his carried weapons are crafted from.

A Hatake. Of the Godly Clan of Wolves that wield lightning as easily as one breathes. 

Very few look upon them in battle and live, as proven by the overwhelming victory displayed below.

“The Summer Druid. The one who bears the crest of the Swamp Lands, with eyes the deepest shade of coral rose.” The Hatake says, his voice smooth as a bubbling brook over sanded stones. A clawed hand rises, nails black and dangerous. Gesturing. At Toshiro. “As my bride.”

A gasp at Toshiro’s side, a hand against his arm. Inoka trembles in excitement but does not speak. Cannot, until the Great Sage completes the Gifting. His own tongue is stayed by his shock, by the blooming of lavender roses across his flesh.

“As you wish.” The Great Sage slams his staff upon the carved white stone, standing from his throne. “You there, Summer Druid, descend to the gates.”

Toshiro jolts, movements slow and uncoordinated. Inoka pushes him, urging and eager, her azure gaze wide with delight. To all, this is an honor. To be chosen as a prize. He dashes from the stands at her insistence, bare feet slapping against the rain-slick stone. His summer robe swirls around him, the deepest of reds to the honey-rose hues of sunset, impervious to the drizzle. (He is of the Swamp Lands, used to the damp.) He takes a breath as he descends the stairs, the rejuvenated cries of the crowd at his back, as are the gazes of all who can make him out. The vines and flowers sink back into his skin as he calms himself. In their place, a tangle of thoughts make their home in his head. 

Me? Of all the Druids, of all those who attended the Games today. Why me? 

He has many suitors, but all within the scope of his home. As a Druid, he means nothing to Godly Creatures of higher standing. He means nothing to a Hatake Wolf, a beast of legend, of war. These skeptic thoughts do not stop the blossoming hope and curiosity, the delicious weight of caramel-sweet desire seeping into every atom of him.

The stairs end. He finds himself before the gate that separates the viewers from the tunnel leading to the colosseum grounds. From the gloom strides the Hatake, the snarling mask glinting in the flare of torch light. It sends shivers down Toshiro’s spine. Rain slides down his cheeks, wets his cherry red mouth. 

The Lightning Beast steps through the gate, tall and looming. From him rises the metallic scent of blood, twisted with the honey-salt of godly ichor. As Toshiro noted before, one of the man’s eyes is dark as obsidian, while the other blazes red—pinwheels. The eye of the esteemed Uchiha, children of the Great Sage himself.

“I won, because of you. I won, because I have you by my side, cheering me on and driving me.” The Hatake says, voice mellow and kind, the very opposite of his feral appearance. His cheekbones are soft pink, fingers trembling. “I am Hatake Kakashi, of the Storm Lands. May I know your name?”

Oh, Toshiro thinks, oh. 

Across his freckled cheeks bloom the lavender roses he’d thought he’d gained control of. “Aikawa Toshiro, of the Swamp Lands.”

“Will you accept me as your husband?” Kakashi asks, though he need not. Isn’t expected to, rather. For Toshiro is the prize he claimed. “I’m ignorant of the laws of Druid courtship.”

His arm is offered, wet with rain and gore. Armor gleaming under it all, gifted Uzumaki seals painted in lightning blue. 

“That’s okay,” Toshiro takes it anyway, and vines curl around their connected limbs, peonies spilling from his flesh. “I shall teach you, husband.”

[astrogone]

* ﹙✧﹚  :    ❝   @godbanes​  ❞     /      . . .

all donovan can do is listen as sobs wreck jack’s body,     as he slowly begins to control his breathing,     eyes melting into donovan’s.      softness and an unnamed feeling glaze his own as he keeps wiping away the tears,     his own heart beating rapidly in his chest as the claw of anxiety reaches in with its poisonous thoughts:     you made him cry,    you’re at fault,    you’re disturbed,    he’ll leave you now,    he’s sick of you.      even as jack kisses his hand,    as he repeats the word never,     donovan doubts it.     he’s ready to retract within himself and begin to ignore the overwhelming emotion that takes over;    unlike anxiety,    it actually makes him sick.     relief.   he’s overcome with relief.    jack’s kisses on his skin feel cold and refreshing and donovan wants to feel them with his own,   wants to wrap his arms around jack again and hold him there and make him promise to never fucking leave.

“  the world— ? ”      confusion takes over before he can pull jack into his arms.    he doesn’t expect the rage,    the loss in control.    complete stillness controls him and he’s left staring at where jack was sitting next to him,    barely hearing his steps as he exits the garage.      again,   the claw wins and his heart begins racing once more as his thoughts run wild,    faster than the rain hitting the ground,    faster than the lightning colouring the night sky in silver tendrils.     donovan flinches when jack’s voice raises above the wrath of nature and he sharply turns his head to see him screaming at a god who did nothing but wrong him.     the demigod never dared to ask more than what jack offered to tell him.    most of the stories he knew from bedtime stories,   from cartoons and proverbs,    though donovan always reminded himself that there is more to jack than a fun story to tell before sleep;     the confirmation is right in front of him,   ringing in his ears like a drum.      

when jack falls to the ground that’s when donovan raises from the mattress,   rushing to the other but ultimately freezes again just outside the door.   jack is in love with donovan and he’d yelled it at a god.    donovan feels every bit of divinity inside of him boil to surface,    ichor filling his mouth.     his heart calls out for jack and makes every nerve in his body ache for jack’s touch,    makes him want to hear it again.    and again.   and again.   there is someone in the world who loves him.    there is someone in the world who would take down a god out of love for him.    donovan’s knees buckle as he steps closer,    welcoming the rain.    its drops hide how his own eyes burn when he rests an arm around jack’s shoulders and whispers,       “  we’re both free.  ”

donovan never knew love.    ever since he was young,    the people supposed to protect him turned out to be the ones hurting him most.     his mother opened the door to so many strangers and allowed them to cause him pain,   to make him fear everyone.   silenced,    beaten,    thrown,    touched when he wanted nothing but peace    –   all of these added to the poison his father let him inherit.    the one good fucking thing dionysus ever did was give him the power to free himself from nadya’s leash.    madness,   madness,   he always felt one step away from falling into unbridled madness.   when him and jack found each other,   donovan was held together only by the maenads who struggled to understand him and give him comfort.     jack appeared into his life just before donovan was about to lose all hope.

now they are both free.   from gods,   from fears, from everything.

“   come on,  ”    a quiet but firm command as he forces jack up on his feet.     when jack is standing up,   donovan grabs his cheeks and rests their foreheads together,   burning determination in those mismatched eyes of his.      “  look at me. you’ve always been free.     no fucking god can control you,   or me.  ”     donovan runs his thumbs over jack’s cheeks,    not caring for how the rain drenches them to the skin.      he’ll give jack everything he has,    even if it’s not much.     a bruised heart,    a broken sense of self,    a twisted sense of affection.   but jack will have it all.       “  and so long as i’m here,   i’ll fucking kill them with my own hands if they hurt you.    you got it?  ”     the words are almost a low growl,    a threat to any gods listening.    a sober donovan is a deadly weapon,     enough to make a god look away and shudder.     poison boils in his blood and he has to breathe deeply to control the rush of power.      his hands tremble on jack’s face but he doesn’t pull away.     instead he pulls him closer and seals his lips with a hard kiss,     hands snaking up to jack’s wet hair and holding it tightly.    the rain slows down as their lips move together,    warmth and cold melting together,    and they do not stop until the storm slows to a sweet pitter-patter.     only then does donovan pull away,    every inch of his body shaking with the cold,   with the emotion and desire that fills him.

“   you have me,    jack.     you have me. ”      all of me.   i love you,   too.

𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒. That is all Jack feels as he stares blankly at his twitching fingers, his sore skin that is covered with useless dirt and emerald stains from torn out grasses. It has always been that way. ( WITH THESE TALES, THESE SONGS, THESE TERRIBLE “WHAT IF”’S, THE WORLD MADE ME BECOME THE WINTER, THE THIEF OF SKIN AND FIRE. I WAS MADE TO STEAL THE LIGHTS AND BURN THE BODIES, AND ALL I CAN FEEL IS N O T H I N G. ) Perhaps, his aches speak in the whimpers of desperation, yet while the thunders only tear the sky apart, he expects some sort of glory from his outburst at God. He had never once dared himself to look at the sky and smile, laugh as if there are no eyes in the stars, the clouds, anywhere where there are heavenly homes for the powerful, trembling hearts. ( The deities were the ones to had invented abandonment, and it is tragically beautiful for what it can do to anyone so easily. )

Though there is nothing out there for Jack to gain. Nothing but r a g e. He continues to slaughter the plants beneath his body, wash his hands with more of nature’s haunted colours, shaken with violence at the sinking realization that no matter what he will do or say to God, hymns will only be water to the dried throats, sacrifices will only be food to the starving bellies; he soon learns that to become a God means to be forever hungry for what can not be defined as enough to their celestial mind. Why would God want to create the Universe? ( To create what will simply devolve into things for Him to feast on before the apocalypse. ) A dark limb reaches over to his shoulder and he flinches at the sudden contact, heavier than the rain it is, it is skin and warm and terribly familiar, yet he can not find himself moving away from it. Instead, he whimpers loudly, believing that this will be the moment God have enough of him. He shuts his eyes and meets the darkness, his final end.

Then a voice comes.

“We’re both free.”

Jack slowly turns and finds the man on his knees beside him. He stares in confusion when, at first, he does not recognize Donovan; the absence of his shit-eating grins, the ever consuming mischief in his eyes. There is only understanding from a place he does not know fully of, but can still sense its loneliness and suffering. It reminds Jack that he is not alone... that Donovan is here. Remembering how he had let him go at the garage, he gasps, now recognizing Donovan at last. He clings onto him once again, whispering only apologies to him for making him think that he would leave him, for making him believe that he would even think of abandoning him; then eventually, for existing. Though the burning words die down in his throat at the command as he is placed back to his feet. The world sways with everything spinning while he is standing perfectly still, and suddenly, Jack finds his forehead resting against Donovan’s and his gaze melts into the determination that is made out of love.

With widen eyes, his pants heavy and painful, he listens to Donovan, looks at him like he only matters to him in this damned universe. Donovan does matter to him. The world Jack stands on is no longer a place where he can find anything familiar to him, yet there is Donovan, his shadows, his dreams, his home. Donovan has always been a reason why he can endure the endings of the days, the beginnings from something tragic, because he had taught him believe in himself through the light to darkness, despite the harshness in his words. Still, they belong to love so twisted and distorted, and that will always be enough to Jack. So he nods furiously when asked at the end, unable to speak when he is amazed at how hellbent Donovan is to protect him from the world, both mankind and deities. From Hell to Heaven, Donovan would be there for and with him, and as Jack let his hands on his cheeks, he hopes Donovan knows he would do the same to him, regardless of anything.

They are truly free, and because of the love they have for each other, they are unstoppable.

Jack kisses Donovan back, softly moaning at the grip in his hair. His hands land on his back, clenching his shirt and skin as he presses his weight against to him, wanting to be held more closely to his heart. Listen to it sing out of joy while the deities watch their act from the above and the below. This is love, he thinks, feeling the rush of euphoria through him from Donovan who have done nothing but given kindness to him. This is love, he believes, and there are tears dwelling in his eyes again, though not out of pain, but joy that he can relearn what love is. Understand it better that Donovan, and only him, is what love means, and nothing and no one can ever take that meaning away from him. Not when Jack is still standing and breathing, despite it all. ( LET THE DEITIES WITNESS US AS WE SPILL OUR BLOOD IN THE NAME OF DEVOTION. WE WILL MAKE OUR OWN WORSHIPS, TURN THEM INTO WARMTH, AND WE WILL FALL IN LOVE WITH IT FOR EACH OTHER TODAY, TOMORROW, FOREVER. )

“Jack... have Donovan t-too,” he replies to him, breathless, feeble, but the words still stand as a promise. He notices how the rain slows then and when he glances at the sky, he weakly smiles, feeling only the eyes of Donovan on him. Nothing and no one else, but just Donovan. His shadows, his dreams, his home. “Let’s go - let’s go home,” mutters Jack, looking back at Donovan and himself. He winces, fully taking in how soaked both of their clothes are. He wonders if Donovan have any extra clothes. Though to think he would wear them, he shuffles his feet in shyness while absently, he takes him by his hand, letting his warmth take him in the gentlest way possible. He leads themselves back to the garage, neither of them being in front of or behind each other, but they walk by each other’s side. They are together now, so together, they will live, and together, they will be okay in the end.

Donovan Dobroshtan and Jack Alez, the Universe’s impossible lovers.

[stillness-in-green]

Stress Management

Guess who woke up with post-Deika Shigaraki/Re-Destro on the brain?  (Spoilers: it me.)  

A few months after Deika, when everyone is beginning to settle into the new status quo, Rikiya finally gets to meet Shigaraki’s other most mysterious ally.  (Content Warning: Ujiko, Shigaraki being kind of handsy.)

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When Rikiya entered the lab, mouth still tasting unpleasantly of bitter black ichor, his first thought upon seeing the twelve tubes and their contents was, Ah.  So, we never could have won, after all.  

“Why didn’t you bring these with you to Deika?” he asked, gaze taking in the obsidian-black Noumu floating in their rows.  “It would have saved everyone some injury and expense.”

Shigaraki Tomura, slouching as ever undisturbed behind him, huffed out, an edge of exasperation to the sound.  He didn’t have time to answer, though, as the figure in the chair at the end of the room turned to face them.  

“He hadn’t earned them yet,” the little man replied, eyes masked behind thick green lenses.  

Curious, how much function shaped form.  Rikiya had never met a true mad scientist before, but of course he had imagined how this one might look when Shigaraki had, the day prior, called him out of the blue and told him to make time for a doctor’s appointment.  And here Ujiko-obvious-pseudonym-Daruma sat, a perfect embodiment of Rikiya’s idle imaginings.  

“I have to thank you!” the man went on.  “The winter training retreat was getting fairly dull, but I couldn’t ask for a better result.”  

“Training retreat?” Rikiya echoed, raising an eyebrow.  He looked back at Shigaraki, who never had bothered to explain what he and his team were doing up in Niigata when the Liberation Army made contact.  “How—youthful.”  

Shigaraki rolled his eyes—a perfectly youthful response—and the doctor chortled.  

“Come, come.  Sit down, Yotsubashi Rikiya!  I want to talk about your quirk.”  

A skinny robotic arm extended from behind Ujiko’s chair (truly, the Platonic ideal of what one imagined when asked ‘what sort of man creates things like the Noumu?’) and indicated the rather more mundane folding chair across from him.  

Rikiya hesitated for only a moment—he still wasn’t accustomed to his new prosthetics, and that cluttered floor looked to be a nightmare—before a hand alighted between his shoulder blades.  He stiffened at the four little points of contact, his skin prickling, suddenly hyper-sensitive to where the fifth might fall.  

“You heard him,” Shigaraki Tomura, middle finger hovering, said in the casual voice of a man who knew he didn’t need to threaten.  He pushed Rikiya forward—well, pressed him forward.  Despite everything, Shigaraki lacked the physical strength to do more than suggest. Suggestion might as well be doctrine, though, when it came from a hand like his—certainly if one appreciated the uncertainty of living another day.  Rikiya went, picking his regrettably wobbly way over the sprawling oversized cables.  Shigaraki ambled along behind, hands back in his pockets.

Manilla folders sitting upright in a wire organizer, a somewhat dated laptop computer, a mug full of writing utensils—up close, Ujiko’s desk was a spot of normalcy amidst the lab’s draping shadows and looming, flickering observation monitors.  As Rikiya sat down, the doctor examined his new legs with a professional eye.  

“Better quality than that stump your magician was working with,” Ujiko aimed over Rikiya’s shoulder, to the sound of a snort from Shigaraki.  

“You haven’t seen what they put together for him since then.”  

“Detnerat is very proud of our upcoming prosthetic line,” Rikiya put in, aware of the commercial-quality falsity of his good cheer.  “Those who give their all in the line of duty deserve only the best.”  

Shigaraki actually laughed at that, a throaty snicker mostly drowned out by Ujiko’s slapping at the arm of his chair amidst belly-shaking guffaws.  The sounds echoed up through the canyon-curve contours of the room, perfectly at home and perfectly unsettling.  Rikiya didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t let the smile fall off his face, but felt his stress spots swell a fraction of an increment larger.  

“Government subsidies!” Ujiko barked in his humor.  “They do buy the best, eh?”  

Rikiya settled for inclining his head.  Modesty was generally a good tactic, he’d found.  

Still chuckling, the doctor pulled a folder over and slid a sheet of paper out of it.  Rikiya accepted it when offered and skimmed over the contents as the other man brought himself back under control.  

“Does it look accurate?” he asked, his mustache still bristling around a smile.  

Rikiya’s name, his alias, a brief on his meta-ability (titled his quirk, of course), one on his personal history, followed by a section on one half of his parentage and that man’s ability.  The paper was a non-standard size and, sure enough, the bottom looked slightly uneven, as if a portion had been cut away.  

“In general, yes,” he replied, trying to pass it back over, then letting it settle in his lap when Ujiko made no move to take it.  “What did the rest say?”  

“Considerations for my work here,” Ujiko answered, prompt if unspecific.  “Now, tell me!  You transform your ‘stress’ into power.  Was there ever a time when you did so inadvertently?  Can it happen by reflex, or must it always be a conscious choice?”  

“It does have an accumulation condition, if that’s what you mean.  Imagine the board meetings if it worked solely on reflex!”  

Ujiko did not laugh at that joke, only leaned closer in interest, eyes narrowing behind his goggles.  That proximity was less alarming, though, than the sudden twin weights on his back.  

Shigaraki had leaned on him—not dropped those deadly hands over his shoulders, but, from the feel of it, propped his thin elbows on them instead.  He was close enough that Rikiya felt the brush of his hair—still overlong despite Rikiya’s tentative suggestion of a trim and Trumpet’s frequent backroom complaining.  

Rikiya’s stress markings gave another twinge.

“Ho!  Hohoho!  So there is a degree of reflex involved!”  Rikiya looked back up to find Ujiko staring intently at his forehead.  “What admirable self-control you must have, then!”

“Getting brought up to be a cult leader will do that for you,” Shigaraki said, the sneer audible in his voice.  

Rikiya almost opened his mouth to protest the designation, but the sensation of Shigaraki’s fingers (his good hand; he seldom wore the prosthetic Detnerat had produced for him) tapping restlessly over his shoulder killed the objection before it could reach the internal committee governing the kinds of smart remarks Rikiya allowed himself to make out loud.  

No rhythm, no real pattern, but somehow never all five fingers at once.  Rarely even four, in fact.  And Shigaraki Tomura was the successor of All For One, as that beast who had so recently joined his group unceasingly reiterated in its refusal to call the youth by name.

Really, it’s no wonder he laughed so freely back then.  Rikiya relaxed, incrementally, ignoring the doctor’s interested hum.  I must ensure he’s able to do so again soon.

Ujiko, it became rapidly clear, had brought him in to sound out his quirk for the purposes of placing it in one of his Noumu.  Quite an alarming prospect—I’m afraid I can’t be parted from it! he’d said with jovial force—until Ujiko waved off the protest with a dismissive comment about rudimentary genetic splicing he’d mastered in college.  

“Even so, it’s quite distinct, as meta-abilities go,” Rikiya argued.  “Part of why I can do what I do is my position.  I can’t have that position brought into question by a High-End Noumu rampaging through, oh, Sapporo or somewhere, with stress blots mottling its skin every time a hero lands a good hit.”  

Before Ujiko had done more than inhale to volley back, one of Shigaraki’s spidery fingers touched Rikiya’s forehead, causing them both to look up.

“No one would see it.” Shigaraki’s red eyes flicked to Rikiya’s and away.  The young man’s touch skated lazily over his skin, following the pulsing movements of his stress markings—across his temple, around the hollow of his eye, over the bridge of his nose.  “I’ve seen you covered head-to-toe in this gunk.  It’s not that different-looking from those things.”  

Ujiko sputtered briefly, probably torn—at a guess—between protesting the unique wonders of his “children” or backing up Shigaraki in hopes of swaying Rikiya’s opinion.  Shigaraki went on.

“If I know the doc, they’ll all perform different anyway.  One with your quirk”—he paused, then grinned wide enough that it probably hurt his cracked lips, and continued in a mocking tone—“sorry, your meta-ability.  People won’t even raise an eyebrow, as long as it’s just doing the armor-buff thing.”

“Naturally they all perform differently; that’s called scientific progress, you brat,” Ujiko said with his strange, amicable malice, then reoriented.  “In any case, Mr. CEO, as you’ve pointed out, you don’t make a habit of getting into brawls in front of news cameras.  Just good sense, really.  Until you all decide what you’re going to do with that footage out of Deika, no one even knows what the combat applications of your quirk look like.”  

“Think Skeptic’ll leak a video or two?”  Shigaraki leaned over him, leering.

“Of course not,” Rikiya demurred.  “Not Skeptic or anyone else.  They are all loyal to Destro’s will.”  

“And remind me who’s the one carrying that these days?”  

Rikiya sighed, settling back into the chair.  Shigaraki’s weight shifted with the movement; he was left curled over Rikiya’s right shoulder, radiating self-satisfaction.  Rikiya truly had not expected the leader of the League of Villains to be so—touchy-feely?  One day, he hoped to gain enough of Shigaraki’s favor to find out whether it was a mark of affection or a display of dominance, or perhaps some strange blend of both.  

“You, Shigaraki Tomura,” he said, voice level.  “As I said in the ruins of Deika.”  

“Right.  So be a good minion and roll up a sleeve for the nice doctor.”  

Rikiya obeyed.  

“How droll.  Well, he’s no Gigantomachia, young man, but he’s not a bad start,” Ujiko said with shades of approval, rummaging in his desk and pulling out a syringe with unsettling rapidity.  He drew two vials of blood, movements brisk and efficient—part of Rikiya, the part not preoccupied with the way Shigaraki’s chin tilted into a prouder angle at the compliment, considered this evidence that, terrifyingly, Ujiko Daruma might actually run some kind of day-world clinic where he worked as a perfectly normal doctor, all-unbeknownst to an unsuspecting populace.

The bright blue and yellow child’s band-aid he applied to Rikiya’s arm after removing the needle did little to allay the suspicion.  What a disturbing souvenir, he thought, rolling his sleeve down as they stood up.

“Where will it be?” Ujiko asked, pulling a truly appalling assemblage of brain and legs, red tennis shoes and bulging eyeballs into his lap like a favored pet.  “Back to the office?”  

Pulling his jacket back on, Rikiya looked down at Shigaraki.  “I keep a water pitcher in the mini-fridge.  It should help with the—flavor residue.”

“The office, yeah. I wanna hear more about that hero line of yours.  See you ‘round, Doc.”  

A grunt from Ujiko, whose attention was obviously straying further by the second, and then the sudden engorgement of sticky fluid, bursting in his mouth like a rotten grape. This method of transportation really was just awful.

Back at the office, Shigaraki spat the goo out onto the tile with no sign of embarrassment whatsoever and stalked over to the mini-bar.  Rikiya sighed.  The young man had no manners at all.  

But then, etiquette was one of the first restraints one learned as a child.  Of course, there were limits to how charming such coarseness could be, but…  

He allowed himself a small smile.  

Well, it wasn’t as if it was the worst thing Custodial had ever had to clean up off his floor.  

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(And now I’m going to post this on AO3, where, incidentally, everyone who likes this pairing should go read the other post-Deika fic about it, A Different Kind of Weight.)

[xellychan040]

you reach out to be consumed

Fandom: Slayers Characters: Lina Inverse/Xelloss Word Count: 2004 Warnings: uhhhh, xelloss. Also vague smut in the form of slutty nihilism.     Summary: ”All human are you.” Notes: Written during the 2018 Slayers Secret Santa for @shathereal / @mazoku-and-sorceress  . I’m so so so so very sorry this is as late and short as it is. I loved your prompt, but I’m awful and life is so time-consuming. Besides all that, I had fun writing this! Thank you, I hope you like it! Title lifted from Interpol - Flight of Fancy

And we will walk the path of destruction together.

Unnatural stillness fills the long, dreaming moment after Shabrinigdo's second death. The lord of nightmare's power hung like an oppressive pall over everything, snuffing out the remnants of Ruby Eye's boiling hatred, leaving nothing behind. All that remained was a void, suffocating even to a monster. Xelloss' wounded, shredded existence creaks under the weight of emptiness, each moment he lay prone threatened to wear him away. Slowly, stutteringly, Xelloss begins to pull his shattered astral body together, achingly reforming his physical form. When the stumps of his arms regenerate, Xelloss crawls painfully towards Lina, where she's slumped in the rubble, the threads of his unfinished body dragging behind him. Her hair hangs limp, a funeral shawl of silver spider webs instead of vibrant waves of auburn. There's a fragileness to her frame that wasn't there before. Her slight body appearing infinitely breakable as if the wind will take her away in a carousel of ash and dimming embers. He scrapes himself closer, the oppressiveness of the Lord of Nightmare's presence somehow stronger and weaker the closer he gets to Lina. As if a fragment of that power remained inside her but was dormant now, falling into a deep slumber in slow increments, and yet always present. The pressure of that power rasps uncomfortably against his astral being, but it's a curious, lukewarm feeling; not quite enough to be truly painful, but as the power recedes, he feels instead as a keen loss. Like a thread of his existence is being pulled and unraveled, whittling him down a little at a time. Perhaps it was The Mother of All's way of reminding her children that from nothing they came and to nothing they could return. Xelloss rasps a laugh despite himself, the taste of ichor sweet on his tongue. The air shudders, a slow collective breath as the humans awake from the stupor of terror after bearing witness to powers far beyond their comprehension. From below, the pain, fear, confusion, and dread from the Talforashia citizens and Lina's comrades begin to filter to his astral body, healing him. The flavor of their emotions is bittersweet with the relief of survival. To him, it tastes like an overripe fruit beginning to turn, sweet and a little bit like iron and rot. Slowly at first, like grains of sand in an hourglass, his body begins to knit together, and then as the shock wears off the gathered humans, their emotions pour into him all at once like a dam breaking. The taste floods his mouth, but he doesn't pause to consider it, merely clenches his newly formed left fist and heaves himself that last, infinitesimal distance. Xelloss allows himself a brief study of Lina herself. Shadowed eyes, mottled bruises, and small gashes peek through tattered clothes, discoloring fair skin. She hasn't moved once during Xelloss' slow crawl towards her. A muddle of sensation clouds through his being, an unfamiliar hesitation creeps upon him as he reaches for her. His fingers hover over her cheek, not quite touching her, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Xelloss mouth thins, his eyes open dark and pensive as he stares at her pale face, searching for traces of gold beneath her skin. After a long moment, he closes that last, infinitesimal distance, cupping her cheek against his palm. His fingers fan across her cool skin, thumb tracing the swell of her bottom lip, wiping away a thin stream of blood there. He leans forward and presses his mouth to hers, tasting dust and sweet, warm, mortality. "All human are you," he whispers against her lips, voice low and longing. Lina shifts and groans, eyelids fluttering.  Lingering, still searching for fragments of gold and creation, Xelloss catches a glimpse of something bright, something unbendable. "Xell-?" Lina breathes. He tastes his name on her lips. "Wha-?" Xelloss smiles against her mouth and vanishes. *** I dreamt a long dream. "Are you still watching that one, my pet?" Beastmaster asks, lounging luxuriously among her wolves, the bright end of her cigarette ashing into a golden tray. The shade of gold is too light, pale and clean, yet Xelloss thinks of a golden sea raging inside a small, red and earthy vessel, black lightning cleaving an empty sky asunder. Xelloss smiles an easy smile. "It's what you ordered me to do." Beastmaster laughs in an exhale of smoke. It smells like burning, smoldering villages. "Oh my. When did my cute little creation become such a willful child?" She crushes her cigarette in her golden tray, then summons the crystal Xelloss had been idling beside. Xelloss says nothing, placid as his master turns the heavy crystal between her manicured claws, glimpses of fiery curls flashing along its surface. "Such a small thing," Zelas says at last, bemused. Still considering the crystal, she lights another cigarette. Her claws clink along the surface, tracing the sweet curve of Lina's face. Xelloss folds his hands over his lap politely. He does not bother himself with feigning disinterest. "Ms. Lina is very small indeed, but her potential is..." Xelloss taps a finger across his bottom lip. Remembers the taste of iron and sunlight at dusk. He smiles. "Well, there are reasons you have me watch her." "Don't put this on me," Zelas says. "You're going above and beyond your original mission parameters. So far, you've kept yourself almost undistracted." There's a mild rebuke in her tone, but her expression remains bemused. The threat is barely implied, but it's there nonetheless Xelloss bows, not denying it. "Well, carry on." Beastmaster allows, at length. Idly drawing on her cigarette, she waves the crystal back towards Xelloss. He catches it, smile serene, eyes open. Fire red curls flash between his fingers. *** You who present me dreams of ruin. Perhaps Beastmaster is becoming sentimental. More likely, Beastmaster feels secure with her power. She's gained much after the defeat of so many Dark Lords, after all. He's a favored creation, but nothing will stop her from erasing him and starting over with a new subordinate. Perhaps one without so many idle curiosities.   Though his work does not suffer, the threat of distraction stays hovering over his shoulder should he slip too far. It's especially present at times like this when he finds a lull between his missions, and there's nothing in particular for Xelloss to do.   So he searches across the astral plane for that singular soul. Despite everything, there's little reason not to. Lina's soul isn't much different from any other human soul. It shines more or less with the same flickering brilliance as most other souls. It's the color of the morning sun, a pale, blushing red as it rises from the horizon. It's lovely, if only because it belongs to her. A small, warm, human light, unremarkable in its mortality. Xelloss feels his astral body shudder, unraveling at the edges as he circles closer to Lina's soul. He reaches out, the blackness of his form coiling around her light like a serpent. Her soul pulses. A flicker of gold. Through the thin veil of the astral plane, Lina says, "I know you're there." Xelloss stills. A long moment passes before unwinds his astral body away from her soul, then slides into the physical plane besides Lina, smile in place. "Quick as always, Miss Lina," he says brightly, giving her a jaunty little wave. Lina snorts, flicking her hair over her shoulder arrogantly. "Of course I am." Her mouth is like the curve of a blade, sharp and gleaming when she smirks at him. "Quick enough to know you want something." "Do I?" Xelloss asks, smiling. He touches his finger to his cheek, tilting his head. Her hip cocks to the side, hands braced at her belt. Her eyes are very bright. Lina steps closer to him, close enough to touch, expression expectant. Just a little smug. "Well sure," she tells him. "Or else you wouldn't be keeping such close, personal tabs on me." Lina smiles. The setting sun on the horizon drapes her in a halo of burning, molten gold. Xelloss feels himself burn with it. "Am I right?" *** You who dreams of golden dreams (be destroyed with me) "It's rare when you're alone, Miss Lina," Xelloss says. The door closes behind him with a soft click. "Is that the reason behind your impulsiveness, this evening?" Lina scowls, nose wrinkling. She lifts her hair off the nape of her neck and lays it over her bare shoulder. Her cape and mantle lay draped over the small writing desk provided by the inn, her talismans in a neat pile on top. It was strange to see Lina without her tunic and breeches or her various gear. "I don't think I like the implication there." Xelloss lays aside his staff, smiling peaceably. "I wasn't implying anything sordid, Miss Lina." He pauses, then laughs as he sits on the bed. "Or rather, nothing more sordid than undressing in front of a monster." "Don't besmirch my maidenly virtue," Lina drawls, moving to stand before Xelloss, stance wide and challenging. As if she wasn't in her white undergarments but instead staring down a bandit, her next target, destruction in her hands. Something primal inside Xelloss' astral body tightens in anticipation under her gaze. His fingers twitch against his thigh in response to the sensation. "I'll kick your ass if you do." "No," he agrees, voice low. "I would never." He tilts his head up, exposing his throat. His eyes catch hers, the flickering candlelight on the bed stand makes her irises look like burnished gold. He's seen those eyes before, in a dream, in a nightmare. Xelloss feels his physical form waver, bubbling excitement races through his being, not unlike bloodlust, but fuller. Deeper. A strange, hollow hunger. Perhaps Lina isn't the impulsive one here. Xelloss' smile curls into itself; he is all too aware of what he's doing. Moving slow, his fingers fan across the swell of her hips, thumbs smoothing over the indent of her waist. The skin is soft and cool, her belly dipping as she sucks in a breath when he presses his lips beneath her navel. Nuzzling against her warming skin, lips fluttering along her hipbones, the line of her ribcage, Xelloss asks, "Why are you letting me touch you?" Lina's hands tangle in his hair, tugging firmly. "Why do you want to touch me?" She asks, her nails scraping along his scalp. Xelloss shudders, fingers tightening over her fragile flesh. "I want," he says, the words heavy and dangerous over his tongue. His astral form quakes; distantly he can smell the smoke from Beastmaster's cigarette. Lina pulls his hair, catching his drifting attention. The sharpness of it sends a shock across his astral body. He breathes, leaning up to nip at the edge of her brasserie. "You've touched the sea of chaos. I want to taste it." *** an empty dream. Strange. So strange. Like a void. Heat and breath and sensation. He remembers this feeling, surrounded on all sides by an immense pressure, the marrow of his being whittled away. Lina's fingers lace and tangle in his hair, pulling him towards her sweaty, salty neck. "You think too much," she gasps, arching into the slow roll of his hips. The candlelight catches in her hair, spilled carelessly across the ruined sheets. Xelloss clutches at her thighs, slotting himself impossibly closer, mouthing at her pulse. Wet heat, hazy gold, encroaching darkness, such a nostalgic feeling. He trails his mouth from Lina's neck to her jawline, pressing his smile against her ear. "I'm not thinking, Miss Lina. I'm worshipping."

"Idiot," Lina chokes, chasing his mouth with her's.

Yes, he must be, he thinks.

Xelloss kisses her, tracing his hand along her side until he cups her face. He tastes molten metal. He tastes fire.

He tastes his end.

He tastes her beginning.

He tastes golden creation.

Xelloss laughs into the join of their mouths.

[anansis-records-of-stories]

Empress of Blood

Through their blood, I gain their memories. Through the blood, I am more than myself. Through the blood, I am both life and death.

Blood is my currency. The act of spilling it gives me purpose. Hate me if that is what you desire, for I cannot deny my designated nature. I am a warrior, but I struggle for no mortal ideals but my own. I am my own weapon, wielded only to prove my purpose, my existence against those who wish the same.

Each time I enter the abyss, I am reborn in an ocean of red ichor. Each life I take, I keep. Each life rip asunder, I see. Their hopes and dreams become mine. Lost to the victor for they did not have the strength to maintain them. Through their blood, I gain their memories. Through the blood, I am more than myself. Through the blood, I am both life and death.

You may call me, Selella Mathea, the eldest heir to the foreign land of The Soston Empire. If you do not know my home, it matters not for I bear no ill will. My birthplace does not define me. Neither does the name I was born with. I am known far and wide for my prowess, for many a warrior, ally and enemy have chanted my title, the Empress of Blood, for better or worse. I have carved my way into history. Journeying from village to village, country to country, Continent to Continent, slaying beasts made of man and Dut flesh alike.

Cold. Unremorseful. Heartless. I have heard many whispers of these words behind my back as those among me who recognize my strength. I weep naught for any soul which I've taken for we are all brothers and sisters in the grasps of War. We are bonded by blood, despite the incompetent machinations the mind springs forth to make us forget. I have not forgotten this. I’ve met few who remember.

I seek only a death in battle for that should be the only ending worthy of my story. Such should be the ending of an artist, dying within his workshop amongst his creations. I seek to die by the hands of another warrior and through my quarter century of conquest, I have not yet met another worthy to take claim of my life. And so I continue to walk unburdened by the weight of the lives I have taken, the blood I have spilled. And why shouldn’t I? For they are my treasures. My spoils of war.

Perhaps I have grown prideful, but surely my pride is warranted for I have slane hundreds without the reliance of others. My status is mine and mine alone. Of course, by those who do not share my ideas, I am deemed a monster. A wicked witch who may feast upon the lives of mortals to fulfill whatever dark agenda their feeble minds can think up.

And so over the course of my life to date, I have made few friends. My blade has become my only true comfort for we engage in a dance far more intimate than any held in a ballroom. I have even abandoned my family for I know they could never understand. Those who have chosen to sit idle on dull thrones cannot fathom the depths of my soul, not even my own brother, Luxius, shared my passion. Though young, he is too precious to this world. He would make for a much better ruler than I for I do not share the compassion and charisma needed to lead a nation. As my Grandmother believes, and I agree, I am far too selfish. My life is my own and I have yet to give it to anyone.

And though I tell you of my fascination with battle and conflict, I wish to tell you that war has not always been at the forefront of my consciousness. These nights as I lay my head beneath the stars, I ponder about my future. Some part of me would not mind the comfort of a lover who understands me. To sire a child and hope they too feel the connection and pull that I have felt all my life. To teach them to wield a blade, to travel with them and educate them of the world I am currently traveling right now.

Is it because I am innately a woman that despite my prior misgivings, my status as such pulls me in that direction? Or is some subconscious part of me becoming more aware of the fragility of life on a level I've yet to understand? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Recent nights I dream about the crossroads. It starts with two roads. Down the left is a road of solitude. I die alone amongst thousands of others, the last warrior standing, in a battle against a being no mortal could face by themselves. In my last moments, It is not loneliness that floods me, but contentment. I died as I lived.

To the right, I see the path of companionship. Far more twists and turns sketch these murky experiences than the previous road. I see the hazy faces of people, I’ve yet to know, but care about all the same pass me by. Some are fleeting as though they never existed at all, others stay with me for years or is it I who stays with them? It’s hard to tell the farther I go. I see the potential of future lovers, for whom I sire my own lineage by. I see the lives I’ve touched. I hear the stories they sing of me within taverns and around campfires. Not all of them would be considered good, not all bad. The Empress of Blood brings forth many interpretations as was my wish when I started my campaign.

At the end of this road, I see a series of choices and outcomes. Each one more real than the previous visions I mentioned before. As if somehow, there was never really a choice at all. However, this thought is irrelevant for it does not impact what I see next.

A death hidden from my mind's eye leads to the meeting of blood and smoke. The smoke seeks my help. Revenge is wagered. The World Mind bleeds. Godhead is consumed. The Empress of Blood is no more.

As the nights pass me by, the gods whisper into my mind. Vudum of Death teases a grand destiny. Yulla of Time conveys dreams of possibilities. Doheia of The Sky reminds me that the choice is forever mine. I believe her for free will is sacred to her. I will not be a puppet if that is what the others seek of me, but mortal curiosity pulls me towards companionship.

I am not getting any younger. Each day I face could be my last and I am finding the prospect of having friends and family I can rely on pleasurable. I do not know if it is my own suppressed desires that are now making themselves known or if it is because the gods are manipulating me to do their will. Whatever that will maybe.

Today, I have been conscripted into the local army to fight a horde of undead who have been wreaking nothing but death and destruction on this side of the continent. The Usholim, are what the people are calling them. I wonder if these dreams I have been having for several months will matter at the end of this for I can feel my blood boiling with excitement.

A great battle is to be fought this day. A lovely day to die. If I survive then perhaps I shall look for my first friends amongst the other survivors. If not then the glorious death I sought for so long might finally be upon me in spite of prior visions.

Perhaps it is finally my time to rejoin The Blood, to contribute my souls and knowledge to the pool. Perhaps a dream may just be that, only a dream. Perhaps this had been the only true outcome all along. Death amongst the dead. If so, then this thought is irrelevant for it does not impact what happens next. Whatever it maybe I face it as I lived. My blade in hand and my blood coursing through my veins.

Word Count-1366

[shirk-raya]

Castle of Glass [ One-Shot ]

Characters: Shirk, Vinny ( @vinnydoesbad​ ), Disaster ( @disaster-doll​ ), Ace ( @acesinadeck​ ), Vulpe (mentioned, mine.), Dr. Majesty (mentioned, @ a-wanderin-whirlybird ) Rating: T for language, graphic descriptions of violence and heavy topics Warnings: Heavy amounts of blood, graphic descriptions of violence, mentioned kidnapping, mentioned torture, hurt/comfort, angst, allusions of self harm, needles, self care of injuries, head injuries, character going nonverbal, panic attacks, sign language Word Count: 4,036 Words Relationships: Shirk/Ace/Disaster/Vinny (The New Gods) Summary: Prompt fill:  "You can't expect me to believe nothing happened, not when you flinch every time something touches you." A/N: So, uh, remember that fluffy drabble I posted not long ago? Yeah, this is the complete fucking opposite. Sorry that I’m not sorry. This was written in one night, without sleep, and not proofread, so if there are any mistakes, welp. This is rather heavy, so read at your own risk.  I like making my boy suffer ;3c

The clouds rolled low over the tops of the buildings, hung heavy with bellies full of the promise of rain, threatening to break their hold at a moment's notice. They completely covered the sky in a thick blanket, blotting out the moon and stars which twinkled high above without a second thought about what occurred below their light. The only illumination that lit up the dingy streets were the flickering street lights, old and unkempt, which lined the black asphalt in mirrored, uniform lines. A dark, hulking shape shuffled itself through their pockets of light, hunched in on them and sending darting glances to every shadow like the world itself was readying to pounce on them. Their left leg dragged uselessly behind them with a quiet, and all too loud, scuffing noise. A long, jagged metal pipe was held in a white-knuckled grip in their left hand, a serrated knife hanging loosely from their right. Both had rivers of blood and ichor falling away in a rhythmic drip, drip, drip as the person slowly made their way through the streets, leaving a bloody trail that mingled with the person's own blood.

 Bright red, disheveled hair was lit up underneath a street light, calling focus to the gore and unsavory grime that caused the ruby strands to clump disgustingly together, staining their head and neck an ugly shade of red. A flash of lighting followed shortly by a sharp crack of thunder caused the figure to seize up, hands clenching impossibly tighter around the weapons held within. When no one jumped out from the darkness, no glint of a gun meeting their eye from within the creeping shadows, they let their shoulders slump and began their trekk once again. Another flash of lighting and another sharp CRACK thundering through the sky caused the person to jump and glance upwards in an unsteady squint, green eyes weary and unfocused. A fat drop of rain, bone-chilling and foreboding, fell between their eyes, causing them to flinch away from the freezing touch and pick up their slow shuffle to a slightly faster amble.

 As the clouds finally broke under their pressure and the rain began to pelt down painful bullets of ice-cold water in earnest, soaking everything their chill-inducing hands grasped, including the lone figure in the street. A familiar building rose out from the darkness like a beacon of hope. The abandoned mall. A painful smile cracked across the person's face despite the way they flinched violently against every thunderous wave, splitting a previously unseen cut across their bottom lip open again and spilling fresh blood down their chin, rough with unshaven stubble. Their amble picked up speed once again, and they forced weight on their injured leg, sending sharp spikes of agony up their spine into their chest with every step. Each excruciating step brought them closer and closer to safety.

 They finally, and quite literally, stumbled into the building, water cascading off of them in waves and mixing with the bloody footprints left behind after every step as they made their way to the single elevator in the middle of the main entrance area. They stepped into the elevator and hit the floor they wanted to go to. As soon as the doors slid shut, they collapsed heavily onto the railing, weapons clattering heavily to the carpeted floor with a series of dull thuds. The mantra that was being chanted in their head like a song on repeat thudded painfully loud within their skull. I am Shirk Raya, the Dragon of Los Santos. I will not betray my family. I will not give in. I am Shirk Raya, the Dragon-

 The doors opened with a cheerful chime and he stooped down to pick up the abandoned weapons before stepping off the elevator, watching dully as the doors slid closed once again. He then slowly turned, head and leg throbbing painfully with every beat of his heart, and shambled down the short hallway to the room he knew was his. He fished out his keys-the only thing left on his person after his captors destroyed everything else-from his jacket pocket, unlocking his door with a cuh-chunk and taking a single step into the dark threshold. The door shut with a soft click behind him and he finally allowed himself to relax, beaten and battered body nearly giving out where he stood.

 Shirk was exhausted, wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he knew that it was highly unlikely he would get any amount of rest for a while, what little sleep he would manage to capture would almost surely be plagued with nightmares. Plus, he was getting nowhere near any of his furniture being covered in slick blood as he was. First thing: shower. Tend to his wounds. Eat or drink whatever he could stomach without throwing it back up. A flash of lightning alighting the room through the single window to his left caused the normally fearless man to startle so violently he nearly passed out, a vice-like grip crushing his lungs and causing his heart to pound painfully against his ribs. He quickly scurried like a frightened cat to the bathroom, closing the door tightly and locking it before allowing himself to breathe. He kept the lights off, didn't want to see himself in the mirror until he was at least somewhat presentable, and turned the shower on as hot as it could get. He had enough cold water to last a lifetime-

 A quick shake of his head dislodged the memory, and he quickly shucked off his clothes and climbed into the shower, not for the first time glad it had a seat-like slab in it as his busted leg finally gave out on him and he fell heavily onto it. He let the blistering water pour over his skin, washing away the physical reminders of what had happened barely hours ago. He felt more than saw the blood wash down the drain, no doubt coloring the water a horrid red as it swirled around. He quickly cleaned himself, taking extra time and special care on his hair, making sure it was completely clean and snarl free before moving onto his injured body. He washed himself down the best he could, mindful of every fresh wound and abrasion, some still dribbling blood even as he cleaned them. He attempted to move his left leg to give some attention to it, but it spasming sharply at the smallest movement caused him to forgo cleaning the limb entirely.

 He shut the water off and clambered out of the shower ungracefully, left leg refusing to bear anymore weight. He grabbed one of the towels off the rack- leaning most of his weight onto the bathroom counter- and patted himself dry, ignoring the white linen turning red in spots as he did so. Once suitably dried off, he wrapped the towel around his waist and turned the light on, ducking his head at the bright assault to his eyes. Once his eyes adjusted to the change in light, he opened them and glanced at himself in the mirror. The man staring back was hollow-cheeked, with sunken eyes and cuts and scrapes littering his face. The beginnings of a beard colored his chin and cheeks, below the dark hair his skin was pale and sickly. The man's eyes lacked any emotion in them, being closed off and mistrusting of everything.

 The only thing that told Shirk it was him and not some stranger were the all too familiar scars brandished across his face. This wasn't the man Shirk had left as three weeks ago, this wasn't who he remembered. He didn't have the beard, or the nearly feral look in his eyes for starters. Unfamiliarity stung as his brain and he tore his eyes away from his face, to take inventory on the rest of his body. Numerous new wounds- some already scarred, others fresh- littered what unmarred skin he once had. Some were sticky and hot with infection, and yet others were scabbed over uncomfortably. A plethora of different wounds in different states of healing; most intentional, torturous wounds meant to hurt, not kill, though a few were gained in his escape-

 He once again shook his thoughts away, moving to crouch in front of the sink and rummage through the cabinets. Shirk pulled out his first aid supplies, including a needle and stitches, and began to patch himself up. He'd maybe go to Doc Majesty, but probably not. Never does seek out her aid, lady makes him nervous, only when forced to go or on death's door would he find himself at her lair. He found he had zoned out, deft fingers working on auto pilot as he sewed and bandaged himself up. His torso and arms were done, all that was left was his leg.

 Which, unfortunately, had the head of a crossbow bolt stuck in his calf. Not one of the small ones, one meant for hunting large game, broad and triangular. He kneeled down so all his weight was on his right leg, moving his left to a position where he could reach the wound. Prodding gently, not without sharp pain radiating out from each touch, he located the foreign object. Holding his left hand over top it from the outside, he grit his teeth and took a deep breath. Positioning his right hand, he dug his finger into the wound, biting his tongue to keep from making a noise. He breathed heavily through his nose, the stench of blood and antiseptic clogging up his senses. He fished around and his finger finally brushed over the hard edge of the arrowhead, and he quickly yanked it out, pressing in with his left hand to staunch the fresh blood flow from the wound. He couldn't help the pained grunt- too loud- from escaping his lips, and he stilled, holding his breath.

 Shirk thought he heard movement from outside the bathroom, so he waited, daring not to breathe, listening for anything further. When no other sounds greeted his ears, he turned back to his leg, grabbing the stitches with a hand he refused to acknowledge was shaking. He quickly stitched the offending limb back up, wrapped a tight bandage around the rushed job, and stood up, still bearing most of his weight on his right leg. He washed his hands, ignoring the one injury he refused to touch-they re-carved BEAST just below the brand.

 He couldn't help the way his eyes drifted down to the age-old brand, phantom pain of the hot metal biting into his skin causing the muscle underneath to twitch and jolt as if it were being branded all over again. He swallowed, throat dry, and remembered step three of his plan. Get something to drink. Easy. The nausea suddenly rolling in his gut promised he'd be unable to eat anything, but he's gone this long without food, what's a few more hours? Shirk pointedly ignored his ribs poking out from under his skin, and turned to the door. He hesitated, glancing back at the mess he left; a pool of blood, used bandages and towels, other medical supplies strewn about… He'd clean up later, he decided. He really needed water. He hesitated again, before praising the Gods he kept a spare change of clothes in bathroom for times like this. He quickly threw on the sweatpants and t-shirt, not bothering to tie up his hair.

 He swung open the door without second guessing again, turning out the bathroom light as he did so. Another grumble of thunder caused him to jump. Shit, he fucking forgot it was storming. What a damn coward. Jumping at a little thunder. He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, limping his way towards the kitchen. The knife and the broken pipe he had brought home with him sat on the wooden table, neatly placed. Strange, he didn't remember putting them there. He could've sworn he had dropped them somewhere by the door…

 The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and that was his only warning before footsteps approached behind him. His hand reflexively reached out and wrapped around the handle of the knife, and he ducked into a crouch, springing away from the person behind him. They gasped. He whirled around and bared his teeth, pushing the pain away. Brandishing the knife like a sword, he narrowed his eyes, just seeing the outline of the person standing before him. Their hands were raised, hands empty. Shirk didn't trust them-

 The light turned on and he violently flinched, backing up on instinct. His foot hit the counter, his bad leg, and sent a shock of pure agony up. He groaned, resisting the urge to grab his leg, and opened his eyes into a glare. As the people in front of him came into focus, he froze, knife clattering to the floor. Disaster was the one who came up behind him, in a nightgown, eyes flashing with worry and confusion. Ace stood behind her, slowly putting down the book they had grabbed. Vinny was over by the door, looking ready to bolt but trusting Shirk enough not to hurt any of them. All the fight in him left in a rush and he suddenly felt light-headed, headache back double-fold and leg angrily pulsing in pain with every heartbeat. He slowly lowered himself so he was sitting on the floor and hung his head, focused on drawing in breaths that didn't cause his chest to shudder.

 The rush of blood in his ears receded, and a voice right in front of him- too close, too close- replaced it. "-irk! Shirk, answer me!" His head snapped up and he attempted to scoot away, panic seizing his body again, but his back was to the counters so he had nowhere to go. He was trapped. His hand reached for the knife again against his own accord- "Woah, shhh, it's okay." Disaster was crouched in front of him, trying to calm him down, hands held out once again. He hand gripped around the blade of the knife, serrated edge slicing easily into his palm. "Please put down the knife," she told him in a calm, soothing tone. She was too close. He hand reached out to touch his arm, his vision swam, and he curled away from her outstretched palm.

 He heard Ace- or was it Vinny?- ask something in a scared voice, but all he could focus on was how close Disaster was and how he wanted her to back up. "Nnn," he tried, mouth unable to form the words his brain was screaming.

 "Shirk?" Disaster asked, attention back on him.

 "Bhhh," he tried again, frustration mounting the fear. His eyebrows furrowed, and his hand clenched further around the knife. The bite of the blade didn't register in his mind. "Bhhk," he ground out, chest heaving-in anger? In fear? He wasn't sure-and heart somewhere in his stomach.

 "I don't understand, sweety," Disaster told him, and he nearly brought his head back to connect with the cabinets behind him, but barely restrained himself.

 A sudden thought came to him, and his hand slowly uncurled around the knife. He brought his hands to his chest, shaking like a leaf. He refused to look at Disaster or Vinny, instead meeting Ace's eyes. 'Back up,' he signed at them. Again and again, repeating himself. 'Back up. Back up. Back up back up back up-'

 It took a few tries, Shirk's movements jerky and sloppy, but Ace's eyes soon lit up in recognition. "He wants you to back up, I think?" When Shirk nodded, too desperately in his opinion, Disaster's mouth turned to a deep frown, but she moved away a couple of feet, finally giving Shirk room to breath.

 "Shirk," Vinny piped up, moving to sit next to Disaster. Now that Shirk didn't look like he would shank one of them or hurt himself out of fear, they felt more confident to approach, in slow, deliberate movements like one would do around a frightened dog. That's what he was, huh? A fucking scared animal. "What happened?" Vinny's word stopped Shirk's train of thought, face shuttering over.

 He wanted to tell them, he really did. But something held him back, something screaming about not trusting anyone, something scared and broken from weeks of torture and abuse. His hands moved of their own accord.

 "'I'm fine, nothing happened,'" Ace translated, settling near the other two.

 "Bullshit," both Vinny and Disaster said at the same time.

 "You can't expect me to believe nothing happened, not when you flinch every time something touches you," Disaster told him. Her tone rose as she spoke, clearly upset, and Shirk had to fight back the instinct to curl away from her volume. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of proving her words.

 He glared back at her. 'I'm fine,' he stressed, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm. 'Nothing happened. Got a little banged up, that's all.'

 "Shirk," Ace said quietly, after translating. "Why are you lying to us?"

 'I'm not-'

 "You are," Vinny told him. Shirk raised his hands to sign something back when they stood up a little too quickly. Shirk shifted before he realized, back in a crouch and fingers brushing the knife again. "You wouldn't look 10 seconds from slitting one of us if something didn't happen."

 Shirk curled his lip at that, averting his eyes. Damn Roach was too perceptive for their own good. He startled when he looked back and saw Vinny closer than they had been. Not within touching distance, but closer. Shirk's breath caught in his throat.

 "What happened?"

 Shirk wanted to use words, his voice, for this. He forced his mouth to work, frowning at its reluctance to do what he wanted. It had been over a week since he spoke. "I-its nnnothing you neeed to con-concernn yourselvess about," he started, slowly and haltingly. His words came out slurred, and for the first time he worried about brain damage. Maybe that's why his head hurt so much.

 "Shirk, we just want to help you," Disaster piped up, having moved closer too. Ace wasn't far behind her, in the process of crab-walking over beside her.

 It was like a dam broke, and something that had been misplaced clicked in his brain, mouth suddenly spouting words he didn't want to be spoken aloud. "What do you want me to say?" he nearly shouted, voice wavering and cracking from lack of use. "I fucked up, okay? I got caught, I was stupid, I fucked up." His breaths were coming out in gasps, but he couldn't stop the words anymore. "I was caught, and tortured for three fucking weeks, and I didn't think you were coming-" his voice cracked harshly, but he barreled on, "and to top the shit pie, it was the fucking Burgundy Beasts who got me. I was in their grasp again and I was alone and I didn't know what to do-" His voice broke completely, and his legs gave out below him. He gripped his hair, finally allowing his head to connect with the surface behind him with a CRACK. "He's coming, he's coming, and we're all fucking screwed because he's on his way," he said, quieter. A shudder passed through him, and he whispered, "I thought you weren't coming for me."

 "Shirk," Ace started, but Shirk cut them off with a frantic shake of his head.

 "You know how fucking scary it is, to be tortured for three weeks, and you try, oh you try to hold on hope that help is coming. They have the best damn hacker in Los Santos minutes away, of fucking course they're on their way. But the days pass and the torture gets worse, you go fucking insane trying not to say anything, and then you realize the ones you love aren't coming. If they were, they'd be there by now. You start to doubt they ever loved you at all," he told them, tears welling up in his eyes. God he was so fucking weak, crying like a bitch over this. "Do you know how that feels?"

 A spur-of-the-moment thought made him lift his shirt up and off, showing the bandages hiding new and old wounds he would normally never show anyone. He almost unwound the white linen, but just  stopped short of doing so. Brain damage was likely. He gestured to the scars, peeking from beneath the bandages, across his chest in anger, staring at Disaster and Ace who didn't know what the Beasts were capable of. "Do you know how it feels to be ripped to pieces, day in and day out? To have old wounds-" he gestured with his bloody hand to the re-carved words under the brand- "reopened with the intent of breaking you?" He ended with strained breaths, entire body shaking.

 "Shit dude," Ace whispered, getting elbowed in the side by Disaster. No one knew what to say for a moment, the only sound being Shirk's ragged breathing, too fast to be healthy.

 Vinny moved first, breaking the tension that had fallen over them. They moved forward, slowly and deliberately, knowing that when Shirk got like this a hug was the best thing to do. They got within a couple of inches and paused. "Can I touch you?"

 Shirk started to shake his head no, but changed his mind and nodded a quick yes. His eyes were screwed up against the tears that still threatened to spill. When Vinny's arms wrapped around his body, he jumped, inhaling sharply. But he quickly melted into the hug, arms coming up to clutch at Vinny's back. "I thought-I thought-" he blabbered, barely suppressed sobs shaking his frame. "I-I thought y-you-" he hiccuped, pressing his face into Vinny's chest.

They had never actually seen Shirk break down like this, but the two had some close moments when talking about their shared experiences within the Burgundy Beasts, and they simply ran their hand through Shirk's hair, shushing him whenever the babbling got to incomprehensible. Disaster and Ace soon joined them, wrapping their own arms around Shirk's frame- which was much thinner than they remembered-and giving him soothing words and touches. They avoided any and all fresh wounds, sticking to his head, his neck, his arms.

 His sobs quieted, exhaustion settling over his body, and he pulled away from them, eyes glassy. He crossed his arms across his bare chest, frowning at himself. In a fit of anger towards his actions and words over the past… however long, scooped the knife up off the floor and stood. The others gave him questioning, almost doubtful looks as he turned the blade in his hand. He stabbed it behind him into the counter top before he mumbled something and stomped away to the living room and collapsing face-down onto the couch. He felt someone gently grab his hand in their own and had to force himself to not snatch it back. They wrapped something around the cut down his palm, and he signed 'thank you' from the side of his head, unwilling to move his face from the pillow.

 He heard Ace mumble something about how he "had mood swings so violent it'd must hurt," from behind him, and then heard what sounded like a smack followed Ace whining.

 Shirk realized dully that he never got the water he was originally after, and he fought with himself whether or not to get up and get it. One the one hand, laying down for the first time in weeks felt so good, and the sleep was pulling at his body. On the other, he was unwilling to sleep as he knew what would happen if he did. Mind made up, he went to push himself up when a comforting weight settled onto his back. Hands started carding through his hair, and Shirk sighed in bliss, pressing his head back into the hands. He could… lay here for a little longer. At least, until whoever was on top of him moved. The hands didn't still and he found his thoughts slowing and his consciousness being pulled away from him. He would get up… he would. Just after... he took a small nap. -- A/N: There are some questions left unanswered, which aren’t spoilers for a maybe story about what happened before, so I’ll put them here: Q: What prevented Enigma and the others from finding Shirk for so long? Also how was he not found during a sweep of Los Santos if he was missing for so long? Were they under the pretense that he’d be out of communications for a while? A: Shirk had been out on a job, gather intel and spy on a group that was claiming a little too much land within the city, and while told not to engage, followed them back to their base in the mt Chilliad region. The group happened to be a subset of the Beasts, and Vulpe themself was personally visiting the crew to make sure things were running smoothly. There was a shootout and Shirk was overwhelmed and captured.  No one thought anything was wrong until too many missed calls, and bu that time it was too late. Vulpe is a Specialist, not only an expert with strange weapons (ahem, the crossbow) , they're also rather good when it comes to covering tracks, whether physical or digital. They wiped all the cameras before the Freaks realized shirk was MIA. Their base is underground, like one of the bunkers in-game, and hidden, its no wonder they didn't find him.  Q: How far did he walk from where he was being held to the mall? He’d have to be pretty close, right, or did he walk for over 24 hours? Wouldn’t they have found him then? A:  He didn’t walk far, but where he was being held was not near the city at all. Opposite side of the island, in fact. The final fight actually happened quite close to the city. They were transporting him to the docks to send him to the main land, to Fabian, and he broke out of the van, killed the men who were driving and fought Vulpe again, this time getting away (was it purposeful on Vulpe's part to let him flee? yes. Did they let him leave unscathed? The arrowhead in his calf says otherwise.) Q: Was he tortured the entire three weeks or would it alternate between days of torture and days of isolation? Because would’t he die if it was three weeks of consecutive torture? A: It did alternate between torture and isolation. Vulpe did want information, yes, but the intent of everything was to make Shirk hurt and weak, before Fabian could fully break him. Vulpe never forgave Shirk for what he did to their beautiful Leader’s face.

Q: Why is everyone in Shirk’s apartment, anyway? Don’t they all have rooms/apartments within the Mall? Why weren’t they out looking for him? A: Well, yes, they do. But you know when someone misses their s/o who’s on a trip or smth, so they wear their clothes and sleep on their side of the bed and stuff? It’s a comfort thing. They all missed Shirk, and the easiest place to regroup without feeling so hopeless was his apartment. They broke in, of course, but Shirk doesn’t need to know that. And the reason they weren’t all out is because they were getting rest and regrouping. They had been looking all day, and when this happens it’s really late at night/early in the morning. Like, 2-3 AM. People need their rest, whether or not any of them were actually sleeping. Q: Who the fuck is Vulpe? Why are they important? Why are they after Shirk? A: Oh! They’re someone we haven’t properly met yet! One of the Fox Twins, and one of the two Third-in-Command, Fabian’s most trusted crew members. They take turns with their sibling, Corsac, running the Los-Santos branch of the Burgundy Beasts, and all the smaller crews owned affiliated with them. You’ll learn more about them later, as well as the Beasts as a whole.

[rudra-writes]

Pallas and Telurin - Barfight with Barnaby, Return to Karabor (Part 2)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. Pallas and Telurin reach Karabor. Before returning to the temple, they stop at an inn, where they meet Vindicator Barnaby. Barnaby flirts with Pallas inappropriately, which starts a fight. Pallas consoles Telurin afterwards, then Telurin escorts Pallas to the Karabor temple the next day. As a death knight, Telurin is unable to remain at the temple, and the pair are temporarily parted.

Telurin sets his jaw and starts in their direction, nearly there when Barnaby, as Pallas names him, has the temerity to put his hands on *his* Anchorite. He's close enough now to intercede, and he does, stepping bodily between them, simultaneously wrenching the offending hand off of Pallas and physically pushing Barnaby away from Pallas. Armor or no, the faint thrum of the Light as he comes in contact with the slightly larger male (how that vexes him to have to look up to meet his gaze...) as well as his build marks him as a Vindicator.

“True Vindicators,” Telurin sneers, even as frost begins to bloom around the edges of his plate, “Do not use their influence to intimidate Anchorites.”

Barnaby is utterly shocked that anyone would have the cajones to actually push on him - It's not something that happens very often. He's so taken by surprise that he stumbles back, almost knocking a skinnier draenei standing in back of him to the floor. Pallas is also too shocked to respond quickly. He senses that there's about to be trouble however.

The heavy-set vindicator regains his footing and stares at Telurin in an aghast rage. "What business is it of yours--" He squinches his eyes and makes a bit of a face, "--Death knight? Oi! You've got some balls to touch me. I'll give you a dirt nap for that."

He thumbs his nose once, then suddenly comes out flying at Telurin with an enormous right hook. Being that Telurin is armored, he aims for the death knight's face.

Telurin, being the instigator and therefore aware of the reaction he might receive, manages to avoid getting decked in the face by making the calculated risk of letting Barnaby connect with the side of his crest instead, where the bone was thickest. Still, it's a solid hit and he shakes his head to clear it before he's able to retaliate in kind.

"I'd like to see you try!" Telurin laughs, stepping forward within Barnaby's reach to throw his own punch, aiming to knock the wind of him and gain the upper-hand quickly. "I will do more than that if you so much as look at him again."

"Dirt-eating death knight, you should be on the floor!" Telurin socks Barnaby just above his stomach. The effect of the blow causes him to double over and lose his breath. By this time the tavern has erupted into chaos, as all other draenei in the room start shouting and pushing into each other to get away from the brawling pair.

All others except Pallas. "Please, don't fight," the priest begs the two of them, holding up his hands. Barnaby shakes his head a few times and ignores Pallas completely. Instead he bellows at Telurin, "I'm going to fuck you up!" "Go ahead." Telurin taunts with a grin that's somewhat feral, and spreads his arms with his palms out. His entire focus is on Barnaby, who still seems raring to go. "Come at me again, see how well that goes for you!" Telurin's taunting seems to make Barnaby see red. As soon as he's regained his breath, the vindicator jumps up and comes out swinging for the death knight's face, pulling back and aiming a left this time. Pallas scampers out of the way when he sees that neither of these two draenei, a vindicator and his own bodyguard, seem inclined to want to listen to him.

Telurin begins to move from his open posture to something more defensive when Barnaby charges him, and gets one hoof set back from the other to brace himself, but the other draenei is quick enough that he does not manage to escape the left hook, and it connects solidly with his jaw. He stays on his hooves, steadying himself against a table, and spits out ichor from his bleeding mouth. If he wasn't set on injuring the Vindicator before, he certainly is now. "Is that all you've got?" Telurin laughs, his bloodlust audible in his voice. He charges the other draenei, intending to pin him to the bar, his head low. Barnaby grins when he sees he's drawn blood. "Oh I've got a lot more where that came from, you want to see it?"

"Please, stop fighting," Pallas implores a small ways away. He is drowned out by cheers and jeers from all around him as the bar's other patrons encourage the spectacle. Telurin charges Barnaby, pinning the living draenei to the bar. The fact that the death knight was wearing armor helped him with this.

"That was your first mistake," Barnaby grunts, throwing his muscly arms around the death knight, intending to try to wrestle them both around so that Telurin was the one who was pinned. The vindicator didn't really factor Telurin's undead strength or endurance into the equation, however. Telurin snorts as Barnaby tries to turn the tables on him. With his arms pinned against his sides for now, he focuses on keeping the Vindicator between himself and the bar, digging his hooves into the floor to do so. He decides against replying verbally in favor of headbutting Barnaby, aiming the center of his crest at the Vindicator’s nose. Telurin smashes his crest against Barnaby's nose, eliciting a colorful swear from the vindicator. When the death knight raises his head, he can see that the other draenei now has a nosebleed.

Barnaby responds by trying to fling himself, and Telurin in the process, off of the bar and into the closest table. If he is successful, the table would shatter to pieces under the weight of the two of them.

Pallas covers both of his hands over his mouth, while other draenei either cheer, or flee the tavern as fast as they can. The situation is chaotic. Telurin's grin is wicked at the sight of the blood and as such is caught off guard when Barnaby makes his move, resulting in the destruction of the poor table, which was apparently not designed to bear the weight of two adult male draenei, one of whom in plate.

Fortunately for Tel, his armor takes the brunt of it, and as soon as they're on the floor he's attempting to flip the both of them, to get atop or away from the Vindicator before he can be pinned.

Barnaby wrestles around on the floor with Telurin, growling, but looking almost like he is enjoying himself. He sends another right hook aimed at the death knight's chin. "You had enough yet, you blooming corpse?"

Pallas tries to step in-between the broken plates and crockery and furniture on the floor to come within shouting distance of the two brawlers. "You are destroying the establishment! We are in a holy city!" Telurin blocks the punch by managing to get an arm up in time to deflect it.

"Just getting started, you sorry excuse for a Vindicator!" He snarls back at Barnaby, and it's clear his blood is up. There's no giving in now. He threads a leg between Barnaby's and uses it as leverage, along with an elbow to his arm on that side, to roll them both on the remains of the table and more importantly, get out from under him. If it's successful, the maneuver will have their positions reversed, with Tel atop the Vindicator. Telurin is successful in twisting Barnaby underneath him, at least for the moment. The vindicator is as large and strong as a bear, and nearly as hirsute. "You’ve got some guff, death knight! You afraid of fighting me without that armor?" The living draenei challenges, still bleeding dark blue blood from his bruised nose. "Not my fault you started this fight with someone better prepared than *you*," He says, now focused on keeping the upper hand now that he's got it, trying to pin Barnaby's arms to the floor. "What do you mean -I- started it?" Barnaby shouts in response. To his mind, Telurin totally started the fight by pushing on him. In response to having Telurin on top of himself, he rears his head back and tries to crest-butt the other man away from him. It's true, Telurin was the first one to lay a hand on the other, though he feels his actions were justified. He gives rather than taking the headbutt, releasing the other draenei's arms and pulling back, using his tail to keep his balance, ending up almost sitting astride Barnaby, all the better to pin his legs.

"Yes, by harassing *my* Anchorite!" Telurin snarls back, punctuating his words with a punch to Barnaby's jaw. Barnaby is so surprised by Telurin's proclamation of ownership that he takes Telurin's punch right on the chin. Bloody spittle flies out of his mouth from the recoil.

He recovers quickly, however, shoving himself into a sitting position by pressing his large hands against the floor. "What do you care about Anchorites, dead man?" It doesn't yet occur to Barnaby how an Anchorite might be valued to a death knight. All he can think about in this moment is closing up his fingers into a fist, and swinging another left at Telurin's face, which to him, is just existing to be punched.

Pallas folds and unfolds his arms, and taps his hoof. "I'm going to count to ten. If the two of you don't stop fighting, I'm going to make you stop." At least, he'd try to make them stop. Telurin is enjoying himself immensely, lost in the simple mechanics of the fight. He tries the same maneuver as before, bringing his left arm up to push the trajectory of the punch away from his jaw, though it may be less effective since he's also intent on getting the fingers of his right hand around Barnaby's throat, which is clearly the more important move. His hooves dig into the floor as he brings his full weight to bear, attempting to put Barnaby back on his back. Barnaby is determined to land at least one solid punch to Telurin's face before all is said and done. He tries to throw a right uppercut before the death knight can block that one too. In the process, however, he is pushed backwards against the floor, which he hits with a heavy thud. "Get your hand off my throat, you rotten old corpse!" That one does hit, snapping Telurin's jaw closed with a click, his tail lashing. He blinks a few times, but keeps his grip, just under Barnaby's jaw, which to Telurin is the important thing.

"Yield, before I put you out!" He growls, beginning to squeeze, focusing on cutting off circulation rather than air, easy enough with the arteries so close to the surface. "Fuck you right in the arse," Barnaby groans, seizing Telurin's right wrist with both of his own mitt-like hands and trying to yank the death knight's fingers away.

Pallas steps up behind Telurin. Witnessing what is happening, he places a hand on the death knight's shoulder. His voice is quiet but firm. "Telurin, let him go." Telurin growls and digs in deeper at Barnaby's attempts to pull him off, until Pallas puts a hand on his shoulder and asks him to stop. He doesn't look at the Anchorite, but he does let go of his grip around Barnaby's throat.

"Of course, Anchorite." His tone is harsh, and he glares at Barnaby as he says it, but he does relent and moves off the Vindicator to stand. Pallas is privately very thankful Telurin was willing to acquiesce to his request. He squeezes his small fingers on the death knight's shoulder for a moment, and then turns to Barnaby, who is still lying on the floor. He places his hands on his hips and gives the vindicator a tongue-lashing. "You are a brute and a cretin and I am disappointed in you, Barnaby. You will not touch me like that again without my consent. Is that clear?"

The vindicator had been glaring balefully at Telurin, but at the Anchorite's words he seems to relent. He doesn't say anything for a few moments, then asks, "...Did it really bother you that much?"

Pallas sighs and throws up a hand, gesturing around the tavern. "I don't want it happening in front of all these people." He notices the vindicator's bleeding nose and bashed-up face, but is too angry to want to do anything helpful about it.

Barnaby sniffles blood and looks away. "If that is what you wish, Pallas."

"It is. Good evening." Pallas turns around and starts to march up the stairs, not bothering to hide the sour expression on his face. Telurin’s expression tightens at the Anchorite's words, his tail lashing at the exchange between the two. He watches Pallas as he marches up the stairs, torn between following and turning back to deal with the mess he helped create. In the end he decides to stay, at least long enough to find the innkeeper to make reparations. Barnaby sits up, scowling at Telurin and seeming to be strongly considering slipping quietly out of the tavern while he has the chance. However, because Telurin seems to be trying to make reparations, he decides he should as well. He can't let a death knight, of all people, stand him up in this area.

The innkeep, a middle-aged female Caregiver, had been hiding behind the bar, and Telurin is able to find her easily enough. She rises to her hooves nervously. When she catches sight of the death knight's unnaturally harshly glowing eyes, and his threatening, un-draenei-like armor, she becomes even more nervous, and backs away from him.

Telurin sighs as she backs away from him. It's nothing he isn't used to, even when he's not been a major contributor to destruction of property. He shifts into something a hair more relaxed than parade rest, showing his palms to her before placing them behind his back, gripping his left wrist with his right hand. When he speaks, he's back to his calm demeanor. He cannot help the overtones of his voice, but he can keep his tone soft.

"My apologies," His eyes flick to Barnaby, and the broken table. "For the damages. Please, allow me to repay you for them." The innkeeper stops edging away from Telurin as he fails to turn on her and instead becomes docile. She nods and names a figure, a bit on the high side, but he pays it without batting an eye. Barnaby hovers around with a handkerchief to his nose until Telurin has finished with his business with the innkeep before talking to her himself. He doesn't seem willing to engage Telurin directly yet, even if he is copying his example. It remains to be seen how they might interact with one another at a later date. The vindicator pays his half for the damages, then disappears out the door.

[violetosprey]

BTD: Rire/Cain Compare and Contrast

One thing I like about the BTD and TDDUP games is that pretty much every single character in the series is unique.  Hardly any of them line up in the same format as any other the others (due to occupation, objectives, level of sadism, personality, etc.).  Actually out of the entire series, there’s only really two characters that come close to being “carbon copies” : Cain and Rire.

This used to bother me a bit, but it doesn’t anymore because when you put a little more thought into it, the two couldn’t be anymore different.  It’s about time I put my thoughts onto paper though so I stop trying to lump these two together all the time :P

Game spoilers below.

First off, laying out the most important fact here:  It doesn’t matter how “similar” these characters are in the context of the games because they are created/owned by two different people.

Rire is owned by Darqx.  Cain is owned by ElectricPuke.  

Sooo I could technically end this post right here just for that sake.  These were two friends with two separate characters for their own universes.  They have full knowledge of the other’s character.  I don’t know who had their character first, but really this isn’t the case of either of them copying the other.  It’d be worse in my opinion if a creator kept dishing out the same exact type of character each and every game with just a different coat of paint on them so to speak.  Both creators are pretty good though with their character diversity :)

1) Why Rire and Cain feel like the same “model”

Well they both happen to be supernatural beings of the “dark” variety (one’s a demon, and one’s a fallen angel) who are very charming when you first meet them, but reveal themselves to be complete sadists later on.  They’re pretty overpowered, so you’re completely at their mercy.  They both do physical torture, as well as mess with your mind.  They are torturing the MC simply because they’re bored and they found the MC “interesting.”  It is highly likely you will end up dying when you meet them (though same with most any of the other BTD boys).  And they’re also incredibly difficult to please.  They want a victim who will fight back a bit, but they also don’t like a victim who is totally “uncooperative.”  Sometimes they don’t even mind a little submission from their victim or the victim even showing willingness to engage in certain activities.  Really, they just want someone to “play” with who keeps them on their toes.  Also, I’d have to double-check, but I think they’re even the same height XD

So yeah...pretty similar on the surface.  I have to admit though that these two are my 2nd and 3rd favorites out of all the BTD characters, so clearly I didn’t really mind how the setup went :P  

2) Why the two characters function completely differently underneath the hood

First off, appearances.  While snappy dressers I have to say, they’re EXTREMELY different in the looks department.  Rire’s got this luscious hair in a short ponytail while we have Cain sporting this more, almost delinquent look, with his hair dyed red in the middle (it looks fantastic slicked back though!).  Rire’s also got a little more chest hair and same facial hair, and Cain seems slightly...leaner I guess?  Overall, I find Rire’s appearance to look a bit older to me.  Certainly more of a mature gentleman.  Cain doesn’t look so young that he’d pass for a teenager, but he’s definitely got a “younger adult” look in comparison to Rire.  Which is hilarious considering that Rire is actually at least a couple thousand years younger than Cain I believe :P  

Second, the setup/predicament that MC walks into.  Both you meet in a nicer establishment.  With Rire, it ends up becoming a one-night stand the MC gets into that goes horribly wrong, resulting in them becoming a prisoner in their own house at Rire’s mercy.  Cain you meet by chance, have a nice little chat with, then you actually leave but he kidnaps you shortly afterward.  Instead of your home, MC is actually taken to where Cain stays.  So with one, your natural safe zone has now become a prison, while with the other you get taken far away to a place that’s unfamiliar to you that you have no power to leave yourself.  They’re both scary in different ways.  This kind of leads into the next bit.

Third, their restrictions.  Fun fact, Cain is likely the more powerful of the two.  But the funny thing is Cain doesn’t have as much freedom to move about as Rire does.  Rire is a demon royal and the king of his demon sector where he’s from.  Every now and then when he gets bored, he’ll pop into the earth realm to mess with some poor unfortunate soul.  It’s implied he’s done this on more than one occasion.  The only reason he doesn’t linger too long there is because a) he’s probably satisfied once he’s had his fill and b) if he’s the king, he’s probably got to make sure he’s not absent for TOO long from his sector, least some up and coming demon get the idea to usurp him.  Gotta let your people know you’re still the boss :P  Otherwise, no one’s probably looking for Rire to come back (he’s supposedly a bit of a tyrant).  

Cain on the other hang has actually broken out of prison recently (how recently is up for debate).  There are indeed other angels stronger than him looking to get him back in his cage, and of course he doesn’t want to go.  So he’s smart enough to keep out of sight long enough when he’s on earth.  When he goes to find a new toy though, he wants to savor the “playtime” more;  So he kidnaps them and brings them to his hiding place.  I guess you could say Rire has more freedom but less time when he’s enjoying himself, while Cain has more time to enjoy himself but less freedom to move about.

Fourth, powers.  Rire’s a little more physical, using mostly his tentacles (ichor) to torture someone.  Seeing as he can sprout as many as he’d like, keep people at a safe distance, and they can become both liquid or solid, he can get pretty creative.  He seems to have SOME control over a person’s psyche, but I think Darqx confirmed isn’t not really full on mind control.  He’s got more control of demons underneath him.  And it depends on how strong the person’s mind is (that’s why you can break free from it).  He’s likely got highly regenerative abilities.  He...MIGHT have teleportation, I can’t remember either in the game or Darqx’s notes (he might just be super good at sneaking up on you honestly).  And of course, he can take your soul if it’s part of a “deal.”

Cain’s got a larger repertoire of abilities.  He’s got a bit more mind control capability it would appear (according to Puke’s notes, more like getting people to admit truths and a minor telepathy bond).  So Cain’s a bit more capable of messing with your mind than Rire is.  Cain can disguise his physical form, as well as physically transform others into fallen angels or demons.  In one ending, it is implied he can either take control of someone’s soul...that or it’s more like “your soul belongs to me now” while you physically keep it.  Not sure.  He can heat things up (like boiling the bath) and manifests objects like roses and chains.  He seemed to be able to use “invisible forces” such as barriers and a weight on the MC as well.  He’s got quick regeneration, and he DEFINITELY can teleport.  So Cain’s more of a wild card than Rire because with the array of abilities he has, you won’t necessarily know where the danger is coming from before it’s too late.

Fifth, end game play.  Rire’s looking for a “quickie” in more ways than one.  The more entertaining the person, the longer he lets them live.  Ultimately though, you’re going to meet your doom at the end.  If he doesn’t like you enough, he’ll just kill you.  On the slim chance that he does end up liking the MC...then he gives them the choice of whether or not to live.  If they say they choose death, he gives it to them.  If they say otherwise...then he actually takes the victim’s soul for his collection.  I am aware now from reading Darqx’s blog that Rire can do a “mark” thing on someone he likes as a way of ownership...but a) that is probably INCREDIBLY rare for him to do, and b) I have no idea what happens after that (if he either takes his victim back home with him, or if he just lets them “free roam” and he comes back to “play” with them whenever he likes until he gets bored...and probably kills them).  My guess is he doesn’t really ever take any of his victims home.  If he ever feels “affection” for anyone...I have a funny feeling it wouldn’t be a good thing either.  He just plays with his victims wherever they’re at, kills them or takes their soul, and goes on his way.

Cain’s actually hoping for something a little more long-term.  He’s gone through the trouble of wandering around incognito when he’s a wanted criminal, so hopefully when he spots someone he fancies he doesn’t have to go replacing them too fast.  Like Rire though, he’s initially thinking of torturing and inevitably killing his victim.  UNLIKE Rire though, you do have a very slim chance of getting on Cain’s better side for a better ending than being trapped in a bottle for all eternity.  If you prove to remain entertaining to Cain, but he still will see you as a toy that’s beneath him, he’ll turn you into his demon minion.  If Cain feels more affection with you, he may start to view you as an equal.  Then you gives you the choice of either leaving of your own free will (sadly you can’t return to Earth though- gee thanks Cain :P), or staying with him and becoming a fallen angel.  Puke’s implied the MC has become more of Cain’s equal if he does this.  While again, still very difficult to gain Cain’s favor, my guess is the reason you’re more likely to meet a better end with Cain than you are Rire is because Cain was once a human.  Cain’s lived a long time, and while he is no where near good, he’d be more capable at sympathizing with others.  He also seems to have “quiet and thoughtful moments.”  Rire’s pretty much the very text book definition of a “demon.”  Cain’s a tad more complicated (but still very sadistic).

Yeah I just had to do this so I would stop lumping these guys together.  I love them both a whole lot and appreciate even the more minor differences between them.

[themothyards]

“Try not to die, Huntress,” she says as the Harvesters roar in over the dunes. 

Imperious, Eris thinks - if ever there were a woman born to be a Queen, this is she. No wonder she is the source of so many legends - one glimpse of her bright armor, gleaming in the ruddy light of Martian noon, and Eris believes them all.

Beside glorious Wei Ning, the wall of shield-sisters holds firm, unconcerned with the ineffective Harvester-fire, hardly blinking as the troops drop.

There are more than Eris expected. More than any of them expected - far more. None seem concerned. Behind the line of Titans, countless Ghosts work through the wreckage of the Collapse to recover…something. Something they feel is important - important enough to make a stand.

She pulls the rifle from her back. It has been her crutch for the last month, the tool she uses to navigate the endless sight-lines of the wide open sands, and the legion that has hosted her these past few months has not stopped needling her over it. 

A greenhorn’s weapon, they used to tell her. A coward’s weapon. The whispers faded when they heard her name, when they saw the overlapping tally marks etched the full length of the long, worn barrel - when they heard what she had done at the Gap. Now she recognizes the gentle ribbing for what it is; some sort of Titan bonding behavior. 

And they call the Hunters strange.

“Shields!” Wei Ning yells, as barrages from the distant Colossi rain down upon the Wards that blossom at her call. Dull explosions, visible through purple voidlight, shatter atop their heads, but their leader stares through it all, toward the lines of Phalanxes that march over blood-red dunes. 

“Hold, Sisters,” she says, arms clasped behind her back, “Until you can smell them.” 

Two Titans to a Ward. One carrying the Blessing, one the Fist. It is a mark of respect that Eris shares the Ward of Wei Ning and her shield-sister; the Ward of the commander of the Martian Shield-Lines - not just in name, but in the heart of every Titan on the planet. 

Either that, or it means Wei Ning thinks she cannot take care of herself.

Not a Queen, Eris thinks, an Empress.

Psions open fire from a distance, and Eris wonders again why they cannot understand that their bullets will never penetrate the Ward. Something very much like fear drives the legions here, some sick desperation that Eris can sense in every ambush, every assault. Not for the first time she wonders what forced the Cabal to Mars.

The Phalanxes grow larger, Ghosts still buzzing frantically through half-alive computing systems.

“Hold,” Wei Ning says again, this time a whisper that only Eris can hear, and she is certain the Titan is talking to herself. “Huntress, I’m afraid your long rifle may be useless when the fighting grows close. There’s still time to trade it out for a real weapon.”

Eris hears the laughter on her voice, as the huge woman pulls the sleek shotgun from the holster on her back, leans it back against her shoulder. The words on her right gauntlet glint purple-red; words that any Guardian stationed on Mars for more than a week can recite by heart.

“I’ll try to leave some for you,” Eris says, checking her magazine, and beside her Wei Ning’s shield-sister chuckles. 

She has seen Wei Ning’s Lines fight before, has watched them fall upon unsuspecting legions like the eagles from the old books, and she has learned enough about their kind that she knows it must kill their leader to stand and wait and defend, rather than take the fight to the Cabal. And yet that is what they do, and the muffled explosions beyond the Wards do not shake the grim calm of the Titans.

It is Wei Ning who leads the charge at last, as she always does, tearing from the Ward like a bolt of lightning, her fist shattering the skull of a legionnaire, two quick coughs from her shotgun felling the closest of the Phalanxes.

Eris has danced this dance before, and by the time the Titan whose Ward she shares has reached the battle line, Eris has neatly sidestepped from the bubble, lifted her rifle, and removed the head of a Centurion.

One, she thinks, and then the fight is on.

Wei Ning, to Eris’ dismay, is right. Landing shots grows more and more difficult as the lines blur, as Titans and Phalanxes crash together and the lone Huntress is buffeted by the changing tides of battle. Still, she is quick and sharp enough to find a line, here and there, and when she does she does not miss.

The Cabal do not stop. At first, they fall like the cannon fodder they are, but slowly - so slowly Eris is not certain that the Titans see it, close as they are - the sheer numbers begin to overwhelm the lines of gleaming plate. They are being pushed back; herded, almost. But wherever the Cabal begin to gain the upper hand, Wei Ning crashes through them, dragging her Shield-Sisters behind her, leaving corpses in her wake.

Eris knows that it will not be enough. 

She has abandoned her rifle, and now it is her cannon that does her bloody work. Before long her arms ache from its tireless kick, but still the Cabal come in an unending wave, their fear of death outweighed by their fear of whatever waits behind them. And die they do, in droves; they fall to Wei Ning’s fist, they fall to Eris’ cannon, they fall to callous lines of barking shotguns. 

Then a Titan falls. A Defender, caught off guard when her Ward finally shatters. And then another. The purple blisters on the dust begin to drop, and no new Wards blossom to take their place. The Lines shift, to shield the fallen, to allow for Ghost revival. And still the Ghosts ask for time. 

Across the dunes, Wei Ning, indomitable, drives her knee into the face of a Colossus, takes its head with her, but around her the Lines have begun to falter. Eris pulls her rifle from its sling again, yells into the screaming wind and sand, yells to call for a retreat; but this is not her Line, this is not her planet, and these are not Hunters.

It is not until Wei Ning, standing strong atop a dune, makes a motion with her hand that the Lines begin to fall back toward lonely Eris Morn, auto rifles keeping the ever-advancing wall of Cabal shields at bay as best they can, Eris’ own scope preying on those stupid enough to show their ugly faces.

The Ghosts are slow, so slow, but whatever they want from this dead place will have to be taken soon or be lost to the relentless march of the Cabal. Eris hopes that it is worth the ammunition, because their re-grouping has become a full-blown retreat, has become the desperate, crouching, backwards shuffle that Eris remembers from the Gap, and Traveler take her if she will watch another Guardian die.

The Light finds her knives, and the Trance consumes her. She runs through lines of retreating Titans, skips through rows of bulky armor now dulled by sand and munitions-fire, and she carves a hungry path through the advancing Cabal towards Wei Ning, towards the woman who will - who must - pull them from this disaster. 

She reaches the vanguard at last, crackling Light dripping from her armor, and with a final spinning lunge she breaks through to Wei Ning and her shield-sister, her commander’s shotgun still couched in tireless arms, hands still clenched into unbreakable fists.

“Wei Ning! We must leave!” she yells, but Wei Ning does not turn to acknowledge her. 

“Now!” she continues, “Before the Ghosts are taken!”

“Go!” Wei Ning screams, fury in her voice, and she thrusts her shield-sister towards the last defensible position in front of the Ghosts, to where they will make their final stand. And then she turns the full weight of her gaze upon Eris.

“Get behind me,” she growls, and Eris learns what it is like to fight back-to-back with her Empress of Fist and Thunder.

Together they hold the line, buying time for the scattered lines of Titans to retreat. Eris’ rifle may be slow but she is faster than any Titan, and with Wei Ning beside her there is nothing she cannot kill. They kill and kill and kill, with fist and knife and rifle, until Wei Ning grabs Eris and forces her to run, the massive Titan shielding her with nothing but her own bulk.

Eris sprints after the commander, breathing hard, diving in and out of the limited cover, and she is certain that the last sound she hears will be the hiss of Cabal artillery.

Wei Ning does not see the motion, far to their right, that pulls Eris to a stop. She skates ahead, and before long Eris is alone, sheltering behind the ruins of an ancient something. Eris has always seen more than most, and what she sees now makes her blood run cold. In the hollow of a dune, a Titan - her own Titan, the same Defender whose ward she shares - is pinned between two advancing lines of Phalanxes. As she watches, one of them raises a shield to block a shotgun’s shell, and with the same motion it smashes the Titan to the ground. 

Eris runs. She runs over the sand that does its best to trip her, runs through the hail of bullets and rocket-fire, runs toward the tiny purple shape in the distance, not noticing when her shields begin to chatter static.

She is not fast enough. The Phalanx lifts its shield again, slamming the edge into the chest-plate of the fallen Titan; once, twice, three times, and as Eris leaps from the edge of the dune she reaches forward through that endless distance and she pulls - and then she is there, and her long rifle does a shotgun’s work, hitting the Phalanx center-mass before her knife finds the beast’s throat, purple ichor blooming in the sky, and then she is in the dirt, leaning her full weight against the immovable mass of full Titan-plate, struggling even to shift it, as her shields fail and a bullet strikes her arm.

She screams, drops her rifle. Another hits her leg, and she falls to the ground. Around her, the ring of Phalanxes closes. She stares down the barrels of a dozen slug throwers, stares at them and snarls, but before she can lift her cannon something howls out of the sky and the ground shatters in blue arc-light, hurling Cabal soldiers away as though they are children’s toys. Then Wei Ning is beside her, auto rifle laughing at the Darkness, and before long there are no enemies left. With one hand she lifts her fallen squad-mate and hefts her over the shoulders of another Titan who skates away.

She pulls Eris to her feet as well, and her Ghost finally recalibrates and catches up with the damage she’s taken. The pain lingers, and Wei Ning lets Eris lean on a shoulder as they retreat.

“Ghosts have what they came for!” she yells, and Eris nods, trying to catch her breath. 

“What do they want here?” She yells back, as distant Harvesters disgorge yet more troops onto sand burned to glass. She reaches for her long rifle out of habit.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. They can have the place, and may they choke on the dust. Let’s go.”

“Wait. My gun.”

“My shield-sisters have already retreated. We’re not staying. You can get a new one.”

“I’m not leaving my gun!” Eris says, pulling away from Wei Ning.

“Hunters,” the Titan mutters, but she accompanies Eris back to the crater she made herself, and stands guard as Eris retrieves her worn rifle.

The Titans are waiting for them when they return at last, over dunes and away from the ruins the Cabal seem to want so badly, inside a claustrophobic bunker open to the Martian air. Wei Ning passes her helm to a Titan, then kneels in front of her battered comrade. Eris slumps to the ground, pulls her own helmet from her head, and leans against the comfortable weight of her rifle.

“Good eyes, Huntress,” Wei Ning says, not looking as she lightly slaps the Titan’s cheeks. “I should have noticed.”

“How is she?”

“She’ll live. Thanks to you. I suppose that’s what they call - ” her mouth curls into a grin - “‘Fine shootin’.”

Eris smiles a tired half-smile. Her whole body aches. She does not understand how this human wrecking ball appears none the worse for wear, but Wei Ning stands and offers her a hand. Eris takes it, and lets the woman pull her to her feet for the second time.

“You’re no Titan,” says Wei Ning, “But I name you shield-sister nonetheless. You can fight at my back any day, Eris Morn.”

Aside from a handful of appreciative grunts, no one seems to notice. The Titans are already intent on their next objective, but it is enough for Eris that a few nod in her direction. She cannot help the grin that spreads across her face then, as she returns her long rifle to its holster and trails her Empress back out into the alien light.

Once, she had thought that Twilight Gap would break them. Perhaps not. Perhaps it has made them stronger.

Perhaps this is what Pack feels like.