#grinning green god (visage);

[nurrgleth]

[solitary-traveler]

A Wanderer's Prayer

It was like staring at a mirror and confronting a version of himself that he detested with every fiber of his being. In other words, he sees his past in you and wishes he could help.

Wanderer x Gn!Reader

Notes: Hiii, so this is inspired by a video I saw on tiktok by @dellabelle99. It had me sobbing for like 5 minutes. I swear I want to give him a hug so badly-

Art: @Coco_nikio (X)

Warning: Angst? (again yes), let's use all collectively give him a hug

Blue.

The sky was dark blue.

Settled on the ground, the tall patch of grass served as a mattress for the tired Wanderer. The days filled with deafening noises and taxing chores blur into a hazy memory, whisked away by the remaining orange glows of sunlight. He rests his eyes as the veil of silence nestles against him once more. Nightfall never failed to seclude him from everything inconvenient, in the best way possible. 

When he opened his eyes, the flickering gleam streamed onto his face, as a faint evocation pulsated through his thoughts. 

“The moon is beautiful isn't it?”

He recalled your words from a previous night, a night that continuously haunts him. The moon had cast a soft glimmer on your face, uplifting your features and framing that cheeky grin you have plastered on your annoying face. It was almost ridiculous how all he could do was stare and swallow the lump of words he’d been itching to say. In spite of the whirling chaos in his chest, he could only mutter a soft “I know”. 

“Just like you.”

He sighed, shaking his head. Nothing good comes out of reminiscing about that event. Just thinking about it made his cheeks flush. An utterly, absurd reaction. Maybe there’s a malfunction somewhere in his system?

A green pulse of light darted across his vision, eyes widening as his attention snapped to it. Much to his surprise, a dendro crystafly perched on his indigo hair. He raises a hand to wave it away, but your saccharine voice tugged on his wrists like a pair of handcuffs.

“I feel like my skin is on fire”

Wanderer paused. He caught a glimpse of the glowing rock above him for the second time, adorned by a tiny flitter of lights that washed the area with a green flicker, before a set of images burned across his mind. 

A crystafly had landed on you before too. The luster reflection of the moon strikes your face with such delicacy—the fluttering wings akin to a blooming flower tucked behind your ear—yet your features showed disagreement. The glint illuminated a new set of marks on your pale skin and the heavy bags under your pretty eyes. You looked pathetic.

“I wish I’d never been born at all”

He dislikes how his stomach lurched at your words. It was like staring at a mirror and confronting a version of himself that he detested with every fiber of his being. The tightness of his chest loitered, an impending reminder of the past etched in stone, unperturbed for all eternity.

He longed to smash that visage and pummel it until even ashes were forced out of existence. He wanted to break you, the shadow who’s lagging behind him and striding down his path. To impale every shred of innocence you have left back to your pounding heart.

But how could he offer you any assistance when he could not liberate his own from the repulsive tethers that bite onto his skin and refuse to let go?

A frustrated yelp escaped from his  throat. It was fucking annoying. The reality of his helplessness was slowly sinking in. Was that it? Was there nothing else he could do?

Drenched in desperation, Wanderer exhales to still till his raging thoughts. “To any god that can hear me,” he whispered, his gaze falling on the blatant light that blinked from the black canvas above. “Please offer them your protection.”

His eyes closed. What was he even doing? Praying to the gods as if they’ll fulfill such a foolish request?

“I can’t always spend every waking hour by their side. I can’t always save them if they need help” 

He saw himself dressed in a white kimono, running around the sandy beaches of Yashiori Island. He sees Niwa trailing behind him, out of breath as he catches up with the eccentric wanderer, holding a purple veil in hand. 

He was following him again.

“No matter what happens…”

“May they never lose,” his voice cracked. “May they never falter”

At that moment, his chest blazed with a crushing weight. Why did these words hurt so much?

“No matter how many times they cry.”

“You promised me we could be family!”

“No matter how many times they fall.”

“No! Anything but the gnosis!”

“May they have the strength to stand again.”

So that’s how it is. 

“May all the people he meets be kind and warm.”

“If all I wanted to do was use you, then I’d be no different from The Doctor.”

“I hear he has some pretty interesting ideas… Gotta have a chat with him sometime!” 

“Please protect them.”

He blinked. He gets it now. His prayer mirrored the words he’d been dying to hear. 

A prayer from one broken person to another.

[argisthebulwark]

TES Summer Fest Day Six: Mirror/Abandoned

summary: After years of avoiding it, Miraak catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. gn reader/Miraak, no gendered pronouns or y/n used. warnings: themes of body horror (scars, multiple/misshapen pupils), themes of body dysmorphia/unease with physical appearance. mentions of injury & battle. angst with comfort. @tes-summer-fest TES Summerfest Masterlist

Somewhere deep in his chest a chasm tears open. Miraak is flailing, falling deeper and deeper as his sense of self crumbles at the sight. Too many pupils flicker to where his chapped lips part, eyes so unfamiliar they make his stomach turn. What color had his eyes once been? He claws for a memory that is long gone, breaths huffing out too quickly when he fights to recall - were they green or blue?

A jagged, poorly healed scar cuts across his face. Of their own volition Miraak's eyes trace the old wound and he relives that awful day - his mouth stings with the taste of blood, phantom pain shimmering over his jaw in a memory of that beast's talons raking over his skin. Gods, it had been a simple mistake - he's usually so careful to avoid even a glance into the grimy mirrors. One careless look and now he's stuck there, shaky fingers mapping out the planes of a face he does not know.

Miraak had never considered himself especially handsome but there is something terrifying about seeing the visage of the beast he'd become under Mora's influence; swirls of ink covering tattoos he'd once admired, eyes that long ago shone with power now lifeless without his patron. He takes in the streaks of grey shooting through once dark hair and cannot remember when that happened.

Combing a hand through his unruly locks gives him a fleeting glance of the man he once was. He remembers how carefully he'd once braided it away from his face, the way it used to curl around his ears and meticulously cropping it to frame his jaw. Miraak's heart sinks at the memory of that man who sincerely thought he could be a hero.

"My love." Your voice breaks him out of the reverie, cheeks coloring as you thankfully give him something else to focus on. You wrap your arm so easily around his waist and lean in to his side, a little divot appearing between your brows when you stare at his reflection. Miraak cannot fathom how you stomach being so close to him - perhaps if he still resembled that young man he would understand, but time had robbed you of that chance.

"What are you doing?" You sound cautious and he wants to apologize for making you worry but he cannot summon the words. That chasm in his chest has stolen away his voice, barely enough room for him to suck in a breath around the horrible weight of grief. There's hardly enough energy for his eyes to slide back to his own reflection, knees weakening at the stranger he finds there.

"I was also stunned into silence when I first saw you." You grin, a sweet kiss pressed to his jaw. Miraak's eyes fall closed against the litany of excuses he doesn't have the energy to say. You worm deeper into his robes and Miraak feels a bit of that weight lighten, suddenly guilty for causing you to worry.

"You're the most handsome man I've ever seen."

"Don't jest." Miraak snorts, though his voice sound deflated.

"I would never joke about such a thing." Warm fingers wrench his jaw upward and Miraak's eyes fly open, relieved to see an annoyed flush in your face.

"What do you think I see when I look at you?" You demand, a finger jabbed toward the mirror.

"A monster."

"Incorrect."

"My dragon -"

"Do you think of me as a monster?" Your brows furrow deeper when you glare at his reflection. He looks at you, taking in old scars and marks from the many selfish gods who have tried to lay claim to you.

"Of course not."

"Yet you expect me to find you unappealing? If you must hate anyone, hate me - I am responsible for many of your scars." Your nose crinkles when you smile at him, hand falling to rest on his chest. That awful pit in his chest seems so much smaller when you lean into him, lips ghosting over his cheek. He will never forgive himself for killing the young man he'd once been, for robbing you of the chance to love a version of him that had so much more to offer.

Despite all the grief and regret he cannot help but marvel at the sheer trust in your motions; your eyes falling closed against his chest, his arm draped around your shoulders, the content little smile on your face. Each day you've looked at him without fear, you've kissed his scarred lips and gazed into his eyes with no hesitation.

"I think we fit together." You murmur the words against his skin and something clicks. Your scars, your wounds, the terrifying power he's seen you wield - he would never fault you for these things. When Miraak dares to look in the mirror one last time he thinks you may be right, there's something magnetic about how you fit together. Those years of suffering and madness suddenly seem so miniscule compared to the peace of holding you, his dragon.

Miraak supposes that he was made for you.

[syrma-sensei]

Somewhere In Your Heart, Ch.3: Mirrors.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!reader.

Rating: Explicit.

Setting: In the early 80s.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Prostitution, angst, sexual innuendos, violence, cursing...

Summary: Soldier Boy lives through the ennui of his peak, but everything is about to change when he has a shift in his heart.

“That’s not what I fucking signed up for!”

Legend flinches a bit as Soldier Boy flings the glass of liquor in his hand. Legend's face twitches as he sees it splinter into tiny pieces, which makes him often wonder if he’d end up with his head bashed into pieces if he carried on his career in this damned place. Despite everything, Legend has developed a tight resolve when it comes to dealing with Vought's supes, Soldier Boy in particular.

“You wanted the gal, and now you have her.” Legend answers crudely.

Soldier Boy seethes, “I don't recall being consulted about her fucking pimp tagging along!”

Legend sighs at this point, “Mr. Harold's her manager, and he emphasised his inclusion to be thoroughly considered. He's been her tutor for years. And you heard her yourself, she wanted him in.”

Soldier Boy smacks his lips in deep frustration. Great. Now, he'd have to deal with her manager being up on their asses in their little game of cat and mouse. What he wants is simple, he wants her in his bed after he's won her over. He doesn't want that fuck face to get in his way. Soldier Boy sighs, passing an aggressive hand over his face.

“When do we start the rehearsals?” Ben asks in a tight tone, he's still finding this hard to digest.

“Tomorrow morning, because you know, she's quite busy at night.”

Legend's insinuated smirk didn't go unnoticed by Ben. The little shit.

“Good.” Ben replies, and dismisses Legend, because he too has a busy night.

Ben exhales deeply through his nostrils before he scooches by the swarms of dancing and drunk people. He's donned in a casual outfit for tonight. Casual yet fancy; Ben never skimps on his looks whether it's for business or in his private life. He dresses both to impress (the gals) and depress (the pals). He's aware of his effect on both sides and likes to swagger with his looks; he has black jeans on his legs, black jean jacket wide open to show off his chest which is accentuated by a white shirt. His feet are comfortable in a pair of brown and sleek boots.

Finding his way to the bar, his piercing green eyes catch the visage of a pretty girl by the bar. Once his eyes land on her, she flashes him a grin which he partially ignores on his way to his destination.

He sits on a stool, resting one arm on the bar counter, ordering a drink, then he turns around to have a quick scan on the dance floor. Most of the people dancing are between late adolescence and early twenties. When he was their age he applied to Dr. Vought's Compound V trials to win his father's favour. He scoffs between him and himself.

A real man doesn't take a shortcut.

The words still titillate a bitter taste akin to ash under his tongue whenever he remembers what his father spewed in his face after Ben saw God under those fucking trials. It was perilous and shrouded with uncertainty, but he was willing to do it for his father, to make him proud. He became America's first superhero, the golden son of the states, but what good the golden son title could do him if he was a disappointing coward in his father's eyes.

He closes his eyes for a bit, he can't believe it still haunts him after all this time. His dad is dead. Hell, he's older than him right now, hitting his fucking sixties with ease his dad would've wished he had. The bastard died of cancer, or so he'd heard. It was a long time ago. He doesn't remember, of course, why would he bother? He didn't even attend his funeral. The old bastard didn't deserve the honour.

He gobbles down his drink in one go when it's served, relishing in the momentarily burning sensation. Then, he orders another.

Fuck, sometimes, he wishes he was normal like those youngsters, he thinks melancholically. Hell, he can't even get drunk to forget, to make mistakes, to feel alive again.

He comes to places like this because it's easier to blend in. He's rarely recognised among drunk and stoned people who are looking for some ass.

Ben's head whips to the side when he feels a gentle hand on his arm, caressing it tenderly. “You look sad…” He raises a brow at the girl, she's the same gal he saw when he first entered the club. “I can fix that…”

He lets her despite the fact he knows she can't fix shit.

After hours, Ben is lying naked in one of the club's rooms, beside him the girl who offered him help, the help that did him nothing at all. He knew from the outset this wouldn't work, but he gave it a shot because the girl looked somewhat akin to Rita Hayworth whom he had a crush on growing up.

He rubs his eyes with a groan as he sits up, deftly swinging his feet down on the floor. This is not good. Sex is never not good to him, especially if it's accompanied with some toots on fine breasts like this one had. God, she has two watermelons for a pair of tits. And boy did he fucking like tits. Big, medium, small, he likes all of them.

Ben glances at her, fuck, he didn't even ask for her name, but Rita-Hayworth-knock-off is a new mom. He can sense the milk hormone kicking in her system which she's trying to dial down with meds. Ben twitches his eyebrows; it explains why she's taken this road.

He shakes his head, looking at her, she seems in her early twenties, he can hazard a guess and say it's the same scenario. She met Romeo, got knocked up, Romeo left, big old daddy kicked her out. And now she has hers and her baby's mouths to feed.

Ben grunts as he reaches for his jean jacket on the floor, he grabs something out before he gets dressed in his clothes. He leaves her some money under the pillow.

Rita-Hayworth-knock-off wakes up after a while to find her payment under the pillow, and a piece of paper above it, with no trace of the handsome man. Her eyes widen when she flips it back and forth trying to comprehend what's that.

It's for you and your baby, not for the fucking pimp.

Rita smiles with tears in her eyes, hugging the check to her chest.

When his pursuit of pleasure has failed, Ben heads back home. And by home it means one of his private properties, a penthouse. He sighs as he slips the jacket off, tossing it on the armrest of the leatherd big sofa in the living room. He ambles towards the wet bar and pours himself a drink. He lets out an elongated sigh, it almost sounds longing and craving.

“Fuck…” He groans. You really did a number on him. His bodys is fucking raging with want and nothing besides having you will regale that burning desire to claim you. He guzzles up his drink.

He fucking met a broad twice and his body is acting up like a pussy. He's fucking Soldier Boy, the Soldier Boy. One fleeting girl can't bring him to heels like that. But again, the image of your sensual features, the rasp in your voice, the mystery in your eyes, they're all so fucking tempting him to coax you down layer by layer. He wants to see the girl behind this facade. Oh, he knows there's one behind that eloquent, sagacious mask. He wants to meet the one who's grinding on his vainglory's gears. He wants that woman, and he's intended to own her.

The world of Vought is a dreadful and dangerous place to be, but however the people in charge of making it dazzle with such glamour, they earn each penny they make.

You were fast to acclimate to the somewhat new atmosphere. Jack was proud of you, and you were happy you managed to do so.

You're always on time, with utter competence and professionalism; any lack of diligence is frowned upon. Your business is mostly tied to none other than Soldier Boy, the greatest hero ever lived.

Working with America's son is amusing to say the least.

In spite of his big headed self, he's actually good at taking orders and exerting them like a good soldier would. Through the days in the rehearsals, he's been unexpectedly nice to you, which makes you wonder what he really wants from you. You're not an idiot. Jack made sure of that. You know that Soldier Boy wants you; him practically eye-fucking you is a bit of a giveaway. However, he doesn't verbally express anything of the sort.

During the days at Vought, you've come to learn more and more about Soldier Boy, bits reporters would kiss your ass to divulge to them. But of course your professionalism and the NDA you signed prevent you from doing so.

You find Soldier Boy — or Ben as he emphasised to call him, is an interesting individual, as expected from a man of his rank and fame. But as any performer he's a complete hypocrite. Just like yourself. The first time in which he almost made you gasp was when he invited you to his headquarters in the tower so you could sniff some crunched crack with him. To kick back, as he put it. That shit is good, I'm telling ya. You discovered that America's golden son isn't as godly as his media pretence claims to be.

He's flawed, tremendously so. Just like you are. He has a short and firing temper that threatens to blow off at any second. And he isn't kind to those who don't make him happy. One time, he burst in the face of a poor assistant for not bringing his right order of coffee. Iced. He snarled at him.

And to add insult to injury, he's hard to please.

However, and oddly enough, he isn't as crass with the gentle sex. Especially with you. Maybe the fact he would fuck you at some time has something to do with that. Be that as it may, you enjoy the companionship of the supe, because there's a lot to him that intrigued you. Despite everything, his what is akin to giddiness that he shows when he's with you is growing on you.

Anywho, within the deepest layers of you, you envy him. He isn't on a leash like you. He comes and goes whenever and wherever he likes. He takes shit from nobody, and does whatever he wants. You wish you had anything close to what he had. The power, the money, the connections. You want to be like him, and not some bitch tied to her owner for life.

Today's the day you and Soldier Boy officially record the cover song after days of arduous rehearsals with the latter. Again, he's hard to please; you can't help but to think whether he made you and the rest of the crew reiterate when he didn't like that note, or when he disliked the harmony of the rhythm, or he was doing that on purpose just so he can spend more time with you.

You internally sigh, you shouldn't read much into the lines, but considering, you relish in the attention and you give him yours, the thing he wants the most as of yet. You wonder when he's going to get bored of you. Up close, Soldier Boy is the kind of a man who falls fast into ennui. It's only a matter of time before he tosses you aside and moves on to his next stimuli.

You're playing with fire, and you know that. Much like he is seeking the pleasurable sting, so are you.

Despite Soldier Boy's faults, he knows how to get the job done, whether it's on field or up on the stage, Legend muses. The latter can't but acknowledge that Soldier Boy is a talent. A magnificent and pure one at that.

Legend is glad about the fact this gal is being in Vought's favour. She has the voice and the looks, and he can feel it, everyone working in the studio can feel it. The chemistry between the two. Maybe, just maybe, he can consider making them a screen couple after the song hits the audience on cloud nine.

It's been a good day today. The records are going smoothly. The only thing that might've disturbed it was Jack Harold's presence in Soldier Boy's. The latter has a thing about the former. And casting professional shit aside, the man is hubristic and kind of unpleasant. Luckily, he doesn't come by often. Jack dropped by from time to time to establish his presence. Nothing harmful, yet.

Legend only hopes Soldier Boy keeps his cool in front of Jack just for a couple of days more. Legend watches the duo sing in a flawless consonance.

Everything is at ease until a rambunctious Noir barges in the studio, seeing red.

The music of “Just The Two Of Us” slowly dwindles away, as yours and Soldier Boy's melts into the walls of the recording room.

“You’re standing in my place, Soldier Boy.” Noir enunciates.

Soldier Boy wries a brow the young supe.

The palpable tension is a clear cue for the crew to scramble out of the recording room, because they know better not to get in between two supes. Legend watches from the control room, he notices that you aren't running like the rest of the staff. Instead you take the spot behind Soldier Boy.

The latter can hear your heartbeat quicken up and can distinguish it from Noir’s; each has its unique pattern like a thumbprint. And at the moment, Noir's is gushing with fury, and yours… Well, yours is bumping with fear and… excitement?

Soldier Boy scoffs at Noir, a small grin playing on his lips. “Your place?” He snickers, “Listen up, kid—”

“No, you listen to me, Ben.” Noir spits, “This is where you fucking stop getting in my way!”

Soldier Boy bursts out laughing, “Getting in your way? Kid, this is my hit, before your old man knocked up your mama.”

That's it. Noir couldn't take more insult into his wound and marches forward, launching an attack at Soldier Boy. However, the more seasoned supe grabs his fist in his first with ease.

Soldier Boy tilts his head, glancing at you over his shoulder, “You might as well get outta her, sweetheart, things are gonna get a little bit messy.”

You don't need to be told twice. Your feet hit the air as you scurry out of the room. But… Noir takes the shot and hauls you in his free hand and hurls you to the wall. You wail as you fall on the floor.

“You little shit!” Soldier Boy grits his molars and grasps Noir’s arms and fixes him to his spot before he headbutts the younger supe. Three hits were enough to make Noir stagger backwards, giving Soldier Boy the chance to punch Noir's cheeks, then depositing him unconscious onto the floor.

Soldier Boy lips twitch at the pathetic little shit, before he walks in your direction, crouching down to your level.

“Hey, are you okay, sweetheart?” Unlike the brutal scene from moments ago, Soldier Boy's touch is gentle when he holds you up to check for any injury. Luckily, and thanks to Soldier Boy, Noir couldn't exert enough power to cause any severe damage to you but manageable bruises and a sprained ankle.

Legend watches at the mess from behind the scenes as supe crisis staff pour into the room to clear that mess up. He doesn't heed anything of his attention but how Soldier Boy insisted on carrying you up in his arms to get patched up in his own personal quarters.

Legend lights up a cigar and wonders what kind of spells you cast on Soldier Boy that he's so smitten with you. Could it be you're a supe with hypnotising powers? Maybe, but if so, you'd have been within Vought's records.

But nothing of the sort was found on you. You're just a human with a pretty face and vocal talents that happened to captivate the mind of the current most important asset of Vought. He expected Soldier Boy to get bored and toss you aside after a couple of days when he was done with you. But Legend was gravely mistaken. For the past weeks, Soldier Boy only got more enamoured by your charms and was putty in your hand with only a bat of your pretty eyelashes. Legend kept an eye on both of you everyday to see how that was coming along, and it surprised him to say the least.

Perhaps they can use you to their benefit for a better communication with the supe, Legend says. Because as the days pass by, Soldier Boy is only getting older and out of touch with each day. He's become more tenacious and hard to deal with each day. Maybe you could become a key for a new affair. Who knows, maybe when the song is all the rage in the country, people will like the idea of pairing you together better than Soldier Boy with Countess. People would find a human girl paired up with Soldier Boy more appealing and more relatable. Legend flick the cigar in the ashtray on the dashboard in the control room. He shakes his head, and gets back to reality. There are two injured people in the mess today which makes him release a series of expletives as he huffs a vapour of smoke.

He sighs. The things he does for talents.

“Oww!” You groan as the medic dabs an alcohol-soused piece of cotton on your ankle.

“Careful with that one. She's delicate.”

Soldier Boy tells the medic as he patches you up.

When he's done, he leaves you with several plasters on your body and a swollen ankle wrapped with a white bandage.

Great. Now you're gonna be useless for few days. You sigh, already picturing the querulous frown on Jack's face. You're gonna miss a couple nights at his clubs.

“Relax, you’re gonna be fine.” He offers you a glass of whiskey with rocks. “I know you're no snowflake.”

You take a gulp of your drink and the searing sensation temporarily numbs the bitterness you've held for the most of your life.

You sigh again, placing the glass on the coffee table in front of you. In times of vulnerability like this, you can't be but haunted by the memory of your brother. The only family you had before your life took a shitty turn and snatched him away from you. Before you met Jack. Before you've become this.

You drown yourself in self pity and scoff. Life wasn't just a bitch by depriving you of your care-taker and protector, it also threw Jack Harold in your way who moulded you into what you are now. A complete hypocrite, who lives off kissing ass and sucking dicks.

Soldier Boy studies you before he pours you another. He knows you need another shot.

“You know…” You say after you feel the tantalising burn in your esophagus. “I didn't remember being roughhoused by one of you folks in our contract. Plus, what did he mean by you getting in your way?”

You usually won't care, but you're really curious what rubbed Noir the wrong way that he hurled you across the recording room. For all you know, and from what you've heard from the halls of Vought, he was on a solo mission.

Soldier Boy jeers. “The kid's delusional. He thinks I pulled the song from under his feet when in fact, Legend begged me to do it.” He swallows a mouthful of his drink.

You sigh again, “But isn't he a member of Payback? I thought you guys are like family.”

Soldier Boy sneers, “The kid needs to be reminded to respect the chain of command every once in awhile. He shouldn't have crossed me with such impudence.” Then through his fleeting ire, a sly grin pulls at his lips as he tips your chin up, “And he shouldn't have touched what belongs to me.”

A bemused shiver roils through your spine at his claim of ownership of you. You can't be his. You're Jack's. The latter made sure of it. Being Jack's property would be a dread to any woman, but wanting to be Soldier Boy's is frightening. You saw what he did to Noir with a sliver of his strength, the fact he can snap you in two halves like a toothpick makes your bowels liquid. However, you can't ignore the twinge in your core when he said it. No, no. You learnt how to lie and be a fake bitch to other people, but not to yourself. You don't misinterpret the aching throb between your legs for this man. No, no. You crave to be his, you wish he'd snatch you away from Jack the way life snatched your brother away from you; once and for all.

You drum up what remains of your deteriorating aplomb and keep your chin up. “I wish to be compensated.”

Soldier Boy quirks a brow up. “You want compensation?”

You nod at your bruises, “If you want me to be yours, you must show me.”

He falls silent for a moment that elapses like a year. Then, another grin curves his lips up. “Show you…”

“I want you to show me something I've never seen… Can you do that?”

His grin widens, it almost resembles a shark's. “I think I can, dollface.”

After a few days, and after your bruises fade away into yellowish smudges, Soldier Boy keeps his words.

He sneaks you out of Vought after you two finish recording the damn song. Pleasure after business as he told you. You only thank Christ that you conducted the visuals a day before Noir came back and almost ruined your work.

He takes you to a building in the heart of the city, the sliding spyhole glides open, an eye peeks through it, and as soon as it perches on Soldier Boy, the door immediately clicks open.

You step in, dogging Soldier Boy's steps. He turns to you and smirks. “Welcome to Herogasm, sweetheart.”

🦅 Previous Chapter: A New Window

🦅 Next Chapter: Unmasked.

🦅 Somewhere In Your Heart Masterlist

🦅 Soldier Boy Masterlist

Taglist: @thebiggerbear, @zepskies, @deanbrainrotwritings, @deansbbyx, @deans-spinster-witch

@venus-haze, @kaleldobrev, @k-slla, @ketchupjasmin, @demodemo909

@mystic-mara, @jqtaro, @pepsicolacoochie, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @prurose

@leavli, @robertthehoover, @soldiergrimes, @vanessa-boo, @uddiifiigj...

[unabashednightmarepizza]

𝑂𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝐿𝑜𝑠𝑡, 𝑁𝑜𝑤 𝐹𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑; Part 1

Summary: Having to work with Mexican Special Forces to take down a terrorist group so that they wouldn't bomb a place and make them chicken nuggets, you had to return to where once you lost the two dearest friends you had.... People that could have been more, if your life worked out differently.

A/N: Reader's codename "Night" is entirely made up by me.... And excuse my bad attempt at accents.

A/N: Though I'm mew to this... REQUESTS ARE OPEN FOR COD: MW2

¹: Do I sound like I'm a newcomer to you, Colonel?

²: All those informations couldn't have been uploaded to my brain in my mother's womb, no?

Pairings: Alejandro Vargas x Fem!Reader x Rodolfo Parra( romantic), Task Force 141( platonic) , hints on GhostSoap

"Ouch, Soap! Come on, be a bit gentle man!"

"If ya stopped fo' a second, I wouldn' have to be harsh." You groaned under Soap's teasing eyes and Ghost's irritated yet still soft staring while the plane you three had to take was bringing you to Mexico, somewhere you never thought you would have missed at all. The mission you three took before this was kind of a disaster. The raid in Al-Mazrah and trying to get a hold of Hassan was a hardwork, between the many snipers protecting the building even though there was no one and learning that Hassan already fled out, made all three of you, to put it simply, mad.

Like mad,mad.

Sure, Soap tried to mask it with his god-awful jokes while Ghost just stared at the ground with his usual and deadly, unreadable Ghost-stare, as you called it... You were only able to sit straight thanks to Soap for his help with bandaging your wound on your side and give him a bright smile- one that the team would make fun of since the brightness of it was the polar opposite of your nickname.

All bright and shining smile, on the Night's face...

Hissing through the slight pain that went through your spine in little electroshocks, you got up and sat down next to Simon, slightly leaning back with your legs kicking the air aimlessly. You didn't have to talk, and neither of you liked it when one spoke only to crush a comforting silence, you just laid your hand on his thigh with a reassuring smile. You knew the tendency he had, blaming himself for one single failure when he won against many people.  

But the battles he was apparently fighting inside was far harsher and tougher to him.

Ghost really lived up to his name, he was like a ghost. No face, no backstory... And if you weren't the one of the few that was lucky to gain his trust, you wouldn't know his real name or that slight show of half of his face whenever he would smoke around you.

Why do you never let us call you Simon, you once asked him while you were eating your sandwich while he was smoking next to you outside. A peaceful night it had been, apart from Price nagging you to eat healthy when the lungs of that man was like a coal. The man you think I am, Simon, is long dead. Here, I'm only Ghost, he gruffly replied to your question after finishing and pulled his hood up while his feet kicked the pebbles, not looking up at your innocent-eating visage that stopped mid-action and a sad pout settled in. You didn't say much after that, sensing that it was something very sensitive for him...

And though, he still didn't fully trust you with his story... It was okay as long as he was comfortable around you.

"Get your shit together, bestie! We're landing soon enough!"

"I'm not your bestie, Night- what the hell does that even-"

"Oh, shit! Look at this, Soap! We're in Mexico already!" Soap grinned at your enthusiasm while Ghost groaned, a smile staying hidden beneath his balaclava. The Scottish man let out an amused how you seemed happy and excited even after a tough mission and a rough wound, looking down at the green scenery like a kid having her first vacation, but looked out the window anyways, kinda getting where it was coming from.

But the next words that left your mouth made even Ghost look up at you curiously.

"Damn, It's been a long time since I've been back here! Feels like nostalgy..."

"Wait, you... you're from here?"

"Uhh, kinda? After my parents died, my uncle who used to live close to here, Las Almas, took me in and raised me until I was 14 or something..." your voice got relatively silent in the end and a sad frown rested on your face, a sight that neither of the men had ever seen.

It was obvious that the rest of that story, your story, was gonna get darker from here. It was always like that for everyone in the military, no one really had a good, white-fenced family life...

One way or another, all of the troubled ones got sweeped in the military work.

"What happened then? How did you end up in the USA?" Soap asked the only question that was ringing in both of their heads, thinking-and hoping- that what they thought wasn't the case.

And knowing this, and seeing it on their hopefull gazes, you turned to look out the window one last time before the plane landed, and a harder look settled in. "He died in front of my eyes, Laswell was there for an operation and tried to stop the one who killed him... Apparently she failed, and as a repentance I believe, she took me in."

"So you haven't been here ever since than?" Soap asked curiously when you sat down to buckle up while the plane started to lower down. Your brows knitted, mind racing to find a memory if you had been there but when nothing came, you shook your head as no. "Nope, that's the first time... Oh, the amount of irritating Spanish jokes I'm going to make to irritate those guys, hehehe..."

Ghost only sighed at your evil cackle, rolling his eyes when Soap's eye beamed at the idea. And you smiled even wider when his eyes met yours with the same amount of mischief but soon dropped when he eyed you sadly. "I woulda wanted to join, but I don' know Spanish, lass..."

You grunted angrily, shuffling on your seat that was more like a cat kneading a soft blanket which made him chuckle and ruffle your hair. "Don't worry, Soap! Spanish isn't that hard that I'm sure you will learn a few words when we leave here-AND STOP MESSING MY HAIR! JUST BECAUSE I'M IN MILITARY DOESN'T MEAN I DON'T CARE MY LUXUR....."

Ghost would never admit, rather die, but he only tolerated yours because you were the only one who was brave enough to bitch out the General while being completely unfazed and playing a game on your phone.

Alejandro, to say it simply, didn't expect to see a woman in the team that was coming to Mexico. Laswell didn't say anything and just said cheekily I'm sending you someone just like you, Colonel...

But seeing an angry woman, who was dwarfed in the middle of two huge men and represented more of a chihuahua, was definetly a good change.

And up until the plane landed, and even when the doors opened, you didn't stop complaining and yelling at Soap-who was busy not to cackle at every angry face gesture you did- while Ghost was walking ahead, fed up by you two's stupidity.

And it was amusing to watch you hit bulky man who was able to throw you over his shoulder.

"Sergeant Mactavish, Colonel Night!" A booming voice made you both stop playing with each other and look ahead to see the serious-looking man greeting you with a handshake, both of you nodding in gratitude at his respect to you not using your real name. It was no use, after all, with giving your name away so carelessly.

One of the rate things you and Ghost agreed on.

Alejandro shook Ghost's hand as well, the colossal Titan-like man nudging you to move with the tip of his gun harshly after Soap being a little bitch, as he called it.

While the said-man was busy with fucking up with Ghost.

"Actually, I believe he prefers to be-"  you bit down your lip hard at what Soap was about to say, a snort still leaving you when Ghost yelled at him to stop since he knew you both were about to ridicule him for letting you two tease him.

What was the bad that would come with telling every single person you met that the killer-machine of a colossal Ghost liked to be called babygirl, after one of your babygirlfying sessions?

The three men already started to speak to themselves about Hassan and Shepherd, and though you knew it was selfish... You just wished you came here for a vacation and not a mission, the sound of the General's name being enough to make you even more mad then before.

And remembering the last convo you had with your adoptive mother, Laswell, only fueled that anger.

"Mom, I'm telling you that there is something wrong with the way the General acts!"

"What could possibly be wrong with him, Y/N! He is the General-"

"That's the point! He only asks about where the missiles are, and I bet my 1000 dollars that it's because he wants to have a power in his hands and not to save humans!"

That man is bad news, and if I can get more info maybe before he kills me, I can-

You knew that Laswell was heavily loyal to him, and she never questioned him or his morals but though she never saw it, you saw how an evil smile would come to him at the mere mention of killing or sacrificing men, soldiers who had families, hopes, dreams...

And you knew, that he knew what you had been doing from his back by collecting evidence and that he was already planning to kill you.

"Hey, lass... You good?" Soap called to you when he realized that you no longer walked with them and you shook your head immediately, jogging up to them before getting in the car after Soap.

"Yeah, no worries. I'm sorry for dozing, just thinking of how I'll get my hands on someone after we're done and have a fun night out- Oh, hey!" You grunted noncholantly, while Alejandro raised a brow at you curiously and Ghost pushed you into the car forcefully but you still had a beaming smile to the man sitting in the driver seat, offering a hand while the said-man was watching you three curiously, accepting the kindness nonetheless.

"Hey, not a good first impression on our teammates, Ghost!"

"Do I look like I give a damn? Get in!"

"Okay, Jesus fine. Stop being an ass..." you grunted in pain while plopping down on the seat, being squished by the two bulky men who opened their legs a bit wider than usual to fit in and though you normally wouldn't give a damn...

Right now you couldn't breathe.

And it definetly wasn't because of the most gorgeous two men you ever saw-

"Look, guys, as much as I love you, move your legs away from my tiny self 'kay? I know I don't have balls between my legs but be a gentleman and shoo your legs away!"

Rodolfo widened his eyes at what you said, watching the two men grunt and apologize while doing so and looked over to his boyfriend to see if he was the only one being shocked when he caught Alejandro's sigh, him muttering she's like that before cleaning his throat to introduce him.

"This is my second in command Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra." Alejandro introduced his boyfriend with a proud smile, the man at the recieving end smiling bashfully at him before giving a nod over to your trio, which you also did the same and squeezed your eyes questioningly at him.

After hearing his name, you turned your questioning eyes to the man, suddenly feeling like you knew them. The shape of his nose, the way he smiled and touched his face when he first met you...

"Is something wrong, Colonel?" Rodolfo questioned hesitantly, the doubting face you did setting his nerves up to the roof while Alejandro looked back and stared at you back, protective eyes raking through your face until you gave a huge smile and shook your head, hands waving dismissively.

He couldn't be your best friend from years ago... that would be shit kinda insane, right?

"No, no... You just remind me of someone, I don't know who though. Sorry, if I made you uncomfortable." You leaned back on the seat with an unreadable gaze, lips thight and a kind of approving face yet smiled at him.

"That's not a problem, thank you." he nodded at you kindly, and turned back to the road ahead.

While both him and Alejandro thought why their hearts beated erratically at the sight of you smiling.

"They're not angry, Soap..."

"But they are yelling! They must be angry-" you sighed at his persistence as if he was the one who once lived here, and if the look on Alejandro's face said anything, it would be the same as yours.

"Look, It's a Mexican thing! Their blood runs hotter and wilder than the rest of the human population which makes their vocal cords stronger. Trust me, no one is actually angry here." You explained bored, your head on Soap's shoulder while you played with his hands idly, him turning his palm up for you to have better access. Alejandro slightly turned to look back at you, somehow with jealous and irritated eyes- thinking that it was because you two were being intimate while on mission, when you two weren't together at all, unknown to them-while Rodolfo's eyes found your face in the rear mirror with a confused look.

At both your knowledge, and the closeness you had with the Scottish man.

"For a newcomer, you know our people a lot-" Soap's eyes shone when you lifted your head with a teasing smile and side eyed him, the moment you had been waiting for was finally here and it was your time to shine...

Damn, I wish my phone was on my hand...

" ¿Le parezco un recién llegado, coronel?"¹ you smirked cheekily at their astonished face, almost laughing out loud when Rodolfo lost the control of the vehicle which resulted with Ghost yelling loudly while the poor man apologized before his eyes found yours. "You speak Spanish?!"

" Toda esta información no pudo cargarse en mi cerebro en el vientre de mi madre, ¿no?" ² Rodolfo chuckled, trully seeing what Laswell meant when she said that one of the members would be much like Alejandro, a genuine smile creeping on his lips while Alejandro let out a loud laugh and smile.

Smiles that died down quickly when they realized that their eyes lingered on you longer and longer.

He and Rodolfo, ever since he lost the third piece of themselves, never smiled that much. Life was never easy to them ever since, between protecting Las Almas and its people, taking care of each other and healing their wounds that would never trully heal, they never had the chance to be themselves and have fun.

Not when they lost the girl they both fell hard for, their third piece Y/N Y/L/N...

The only person they saw them fighting shoulder to shoulder with...

Even swore on their blood...

Only for it to be broken with you, someone they tought that would never abondon them, disappearing without a trace.

Both Alejandro and Rodolfo's hand touched their chest, where they had their rings was hidden beneath, to have some comfort and feel you even if you weren't here anymore. Alejandro and Rodolfo, when they bought the promise rings, also brought one for the person who took their hearts with herself and probably died, thinking that you would have loved the idea. And occasionally, they would exchange it between each other when the other needed to feel it.

To feel you.

This time it was around Rodolfo's neck and he momentarily squeezed it, battling the tears to go away. This, the want to cry and the feeling of something clawing inside his chest, never happened in the almost 20 years that he had been dealing with his loss...

And he didn't like the reminder of what should have been.

Meanwhile, you and Soap was busy with gossiping between each other while giggling at the chaos that happened a few minutes ago so intensely that you didn't realize the looks Ghost was giving you. "You wanna bet if they're engaged?"

"Nah, lass, I'm one hundred per cent sure that they're married."

"Can you two not shut up and talk about the mission once?" Ghost butted in on your gossip harshly when you both looked at him offended.

"No?" You both whisper yelled at Ghost and he grunted, turning to look out the window while you patted Soap's arm with a bright idea. "How about I ask?"

"Are ya crazy? We just met these people, where do ya get the courage-"

"Live, laugh, don't give a fuck, Soap! That easy, and I'm betting my 100 bucks." You all-knowingly said, already seeing the wide smile and beam on Soap's face.

"100? Damn I'm in!" You gave a childish smile and scooted closer to the two men sitting in front, at this point you could have just squeezed yourself in between the empty space in the middle because of the intense pull you had. Alejandro stressed you a bit though, even when you are the mostly unfazed one. So, you turned to Rodolfo while the man gave you a curious yet amused side look.

"Do you have a question?" You smiled at his soft voice, already feeling a little bit more eased, and looked at him with the softest eyes Soap and Ghost had ever seen on you.

"Yes, actually... I was wondering, when you said you both grew here... How long has it been?"

"Close to 35, I guess..." he gave a thoughtful hum, voice lost in nostalgia when his hand slithered up his vest again which caught your attention but soon was broken when he met your eyes from the rear mirror. "Why do you ask?"

"Ah, I just grew up somewhere close to here. I was curious whether we met or not since here is a small place. Especially after your face reminding me of... someone from my past."

You frowned sadly, a blank stare setting on your features. One that Rodolfo decided that didn't suit your bubbly self. "I'm sorry, for causing pain to you. But if I met you, we would have remembered... Right Alejandro?"

The man only gave a grunt, and watched you talk sweetly with his boyfriend with a heavy heart. He wasn't jealous, and that was what shocked him. Normally, as someone who had trust issues who was in a relationship, he expected to be jealous of you and how close you were getting with both him and Rudy. When many women and men tried their chances with either of them, or both of them, they both declined them harshly. They would never taint the memory of you, your touch on their faces and bodies...

Only Alejandro was the one to break that by getting with Valeria, a name they despised after years. A name that Alejandro would never forgive himself for giving himself over when he wanted it to be with Y/N and Rudy.

And it was because of his stupidity that he almost lost the last person he had.

And though he felt like he tainted your memory again, with how he was being with the woman in the car... He felt like curling up and crying like he did many times when he remembered.

But he also couldn't deny the way you fitted... so well with them.

You smiled to him, unaware of his inner turmoil, mindful of putting some distance between yourself and Rudy- taking the frown on Alejandro's face as jealousy, before dropping the bomb. "Then, I'm just gonna ask it away: Are you two engaged?"

Both of their faces fell in shock, both of them yelling over the other to prove that they weren't indeed together. They had been so careful until now, with never showing anyone their biggest weakness and especially the trio that just came-

Really, how did you know this before anyone?

"Where did you get the idea from, colonel?"

"Ah there we go with her deductions..." sighed Ghost irritatedly while Soap was busy crying internally at the amount he lost to you.

Even when Price clearly warned him to never challenge you.

You smiled giddily and cracked your knuckles and neck with excpectation before diving in to your Sherlock Holmes obsession, which was learning the ways of the Art of Deduction. "There is a whiter place on both of your left hands, meaning that you used to wear a ring and by the size of it, I'm assuming it to be either wedding rings or engagement rings. But you two are still looking at each other as if you want to eat the other so it's definetly not wedding and... The bedroom eyes here is intense, man."

"We-We don't do that, Colonel-" Rudy stuttered in embarrassment, the sight would have made you coo teasingly but since they were in a relationship- which was a disappointment on your end, kinda- you smiled and shook your head.

"Yes, you do. That's okay, really. I deal with the two men behind me doing it x10 worse..." your voice died down before Ghost would have hit your back when the car stopped near two corpses, bloody and covered with some insults and threats on the cover. Alejandro turned to look, since he didn't see what it was with his whole body turned to you to look at your face more closely and a sad look found his eyes at the young people laying in those covers. The sight disturbed you, and even if you couldn't admit it...

The frown of Alejandro hurted you more.

"You might want to sit back, Night. This sight-"

"I've seen worse, Colonel, trust me... But what's written on them? What are those?" Your voice hardened, the cold tone Soap and Ghost had seen you use when torturing someone came, and they watched just as sadly.

Not as obviously as you, since they mostly knew how to conceal their emotions.

And since they didn't have a personal grudge like you.

"Narcomantas..."

"Cartel clothes..." translated Rodolfo for the two behind you, his eyes trained on you and how you scrunched your nose at the scene before you sadly, the empathy you had for them even after being gone from here for such a long time, his heart softened at the sight and his hand twitched to touch your forehead to erase that frown when the thoughts shook him to his core and he cleared his throat, letting Alejandro continue with a hard, determined look while turning to look at the road.

"Messages from El Sin Nombre. Warnings marking territory. Our streets are laced with death... El Sin Nombre, The Nameless, is the leader of the Las Almas Cartel. No one can find him, but he is everywhere... But Los Vaqueros like challenges." He explained throughly what had been plaguing this town while you plopped down next to Ghost, completely loosing your mood at what had been going on in the place you grew up.

How much these people suffered.

"With your mask, you will fit in well here Ghost..." you knew Rodolfo meant it in a good way, no vicious comments, especially after that scene you left behind, but you also knew how this mask was a sensitive topic for Ghost. So, both you and Soap snapped your heads up and made gestures for him to stop since neither of you wanted Simon to explode and Alejandro, catching on its sensitive side, shushed Rodolfo who gave a sheepish smile to both of you.

And seeing the tension rise again, you gave a kind smile to him before nudging Soap who looked at you curiously. You smirked teasingly, head pointing to Alejandro and Rodolfo with a shit-eating grin. "Take notes on that, will ya?"

"Oh God, woman... You're the worst."

"Damn right, I am. You gotta ask how they did it before we leave and I want my 100."

He groaned and looked out the window when they took a turn to reach where Hassan was hiding while both Mexicans looked at you with smiles.

Both sides unaware of the chaos that would happen in the next hours...

Who would have known that mission would reveal secrets you had been keeping to yourself?

But at what cost?

And who would have known that Rudy and Alejandro would have what they once lost?

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Know No Evil | Chapter 05 Chapter 05 | awakening force⌟

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The thrill of your newfound power lingered as you walked home. A shiver danced down your spine—a delicious mix of fear and exhilaration.

You were no longer just ____. You were something more, something... powerful.

Reaching your house, the murmur of conversation drifted from the kitchen.

Inside, you found your mom chatting with a couple perched at the table—Hiro and Shisuki, your parents' old high school friends.

You vaguely remembered them stopping by a few weeks ago to celebrate your dad's promotion.

Hiro, tall and tan with a shock of lime-green hair and light brown eyes, flashed a friendly grin. Shisuki, his wife, offered a wan smile. She was pale and slender, her lavender hair mirroring the color of her eyes.

You noticed something subtly off about them. You couldn't quite put your finger on it.

Your mom, ever watchful, intercepted you before you could linger. "____! There you are, sweetie. Let me see those hands." Her voice held a familiar edge of worry as she inspected the scrapes from your encounter with Bakugo.

Before you could protest, she whisked you upstairs, muttering about "rough-housing" and "being careful."

With a sigh, you resigned yourself to a quick bath. Wrapping a towel around your head, you picked up a rag and began drying your hair as your mom hurried downstairs, called upon by your dad to help entertain the guests while dinner simmered.

Alone in your room, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the floor, you replayed the scene in your mind.

The memory of your helpless rage, the shove that sent Bakugo sprawling— it all felt distant now, overshadowed by the chilling realization of what happened next.

The way Bakugo crumpled, his whimpers replaced by a strange, terrified silence—it was like you'd flicked a switch, taking control of him not with your body, but with your will.

Suddenly, the image in your mind flickered. Bakugo's tear-streaked face contorted, morphing into an older visage. Golden-brown eyes, framed by a mess of unruly blond hair, stared up at you with an unsettling intensity. A wide, toothy grin stretched across his face, revealing a chipped canine tooth.

The boy—no, the young man—held a chainsaw in one hand, the whirring blade a constant hum against the silence. Yet, despite the weapon and the wildness in his eyes, the most unsettling aspect was the way he looked at you.

It wasn't just fear or submission; it was a kind of god-worship, a bizarre adoration that promised nothing but utter obedience.

The distorted voice echoed in your mind, the words spoken with a reverence that bordered on obsession. "You... have control..."

You blinked, the mental image dissolving like smoke. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the echo of the phantom voice lingering in your ears.

The room seemed to vibrate with your nervous energy. You grabbed a stray pillow, squeezing it until your knuckles turned white.

This power... it was intoxicating, a forbidden fruit that promised both dominion and danger.

The memory of Bakugo's terrified face warred with the strange, exhilarated feeling of controlling the distorted figure in your mind. It felt wrong, alien, yet strangely exhilarating.

You practiced the word in your mind, a mantra of your newfound power: "Control." The word resonated within you—a dark promise of possibilities.

Curiosity gnawed at you. Could you do it again?

Glancing out the window, you saw a familiar sight—a plump robin perched on the sill, its head tilted inquisitively.

This little visitor often graced your window ledge, a welcome distraction from the monotony of your days.

Today, however, it served a different purpose. It was a test subject, a pawn in the game you were starting to play with your own abilities.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you pushed the window open a fraction. The robin cocked its head again, then with a bold chirp, hopped inside.

It fluttered around the room for a moment, its bright red breast a splash of color against the now-beige walls (you utterly despised the pretty-pink-princess aesthetic and threw an absolute fit until it was gone).

A cruel amusement bubbled within you.

This was your domain now, and this little creature was subject to your will.

You focused your mind, picturing the bird in your control. "Fly." You willed the bird to take flight.

It obeyed instantly, launching itself from the floor in a flurry of feathers. You guided it through the air with your thoughts, a puppeteer manipulating its movements.

The bird performed aerial flips, swooped low to the ground, then ascended again in dizzying spirals.

A giddy smile stretched across your face as you willed the robin to perform another daring maneuver. It swooped low to the ground, skimming the throw rug with its wings before launching into a spectacular corkscrew climb.

You felt a surge of exhilaration, a sense of power you'd never known before.

This—this was your Quirk!

Suddenly, the urge to share your newfound ability with your parents overwhelmed you.

You bolted for the stairs, the excited chirp of the robin echoing in your wake. Reaching the top of the stairs, you paused.

Your parents were in the living room, your mom topping off two glasses of whiskey for their guests.

"So, how's ____ doing these days? Anything new?" you heard Hiro ask, his voice laced with a hint of amusement.

"Oh, you know," Wino replied, his tone dismissive.  "Same old, same old. Still no sign of a Quirk manifesting."

A bitter taste filled your mouth.

Here you were, bursting with the revelation of your newfound power, only to be dismissed by your own father.

Hiro chuckled; the sound sharp and unpleasant. "Poor kid. Stuck being Quirkless in a world like this.  Rough luck."

Your father laughed along, a hollow sound that grated on your nerves.

Mei, ever perceptive, picked up on the shift in the conversation. "Dinner will be ready soon," she announced, her voice laced with annoyance. "Winnie, please try not to discuss such sensitive topics about our daughter while I'm here." With a huff, she turned and stalked back towards the kitchen.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

You stood frozen on the stairs, the joy of your discovery replaced by a cold anger. They didn't believe in you.

They pitied you.

You stared at them, a cold emptiness settling in your chest. Their flippant dismissal of your prior Quirklessness, the way they treated it like a minor inconvenience, stung more than you cared to admit.

Without a word, you turned and retreated back up the stairs, the robin fluttering after you with a soft chirp.

Reaching your room, you sank onto the bed, the bird landing gently on your shoulder. Staring down at the bird, a flicker of defiance sparked in your eyes.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. You reached out a hand, gently rubbing its soft feathers. Focusing on the bird, you willed it to fly away.  "Fly," you whispered the order once more.

The robin launched itself into the air, soaring effortlessly around your room. A surge of satisfaction coursed through you. You could do it again.

You were powerful.

For the next hour, you spent time honing your newfound ability. It was like playing a video game, but with a living creature as your avatar.

You sent the bird on dizzying spirals, weaving through furniture and dodging obstacles with practiced ease. But as minutes turned into an hour, the thrill began to wane.

The bird, once curious, now fluttered erratically, its tiny body exhausted by your relentless commands.

You released your control, and with a tired chirp, the robin landed on your outstretched finger. You stroked its soft feathers, a sense of boredom replacing your amusement.

A different idea took root. You remembered the innate feeling that nearly swallowed you as you willed Bakugo under your control.

With a deep breath, you focused on the bird, visualizing a pressure building within its tiny body. Staring intently at the robin, you willed that invisible force to constrict its organs.

The bird froze, its bright eyes filled with sudden fear. You broke eye contact and released the pressure. It chirped weakly, its body trembling.

You hadn't seen any outside physical harm, but the raw terror in the bird's eyes was enough.

The robin let out a relieved chirp and took shook its feathers, before looking up at you, waiting for its next command.

As the bird sat before you, a surge of exhilaration washed over you.

You hadn't just controlled something; you'd inflicted pain, a mere taste of the power you now wielded.

A chilling realization settled in your stomach—this wasn't just dominance; it was manipulation on a terrifying level.

Suddenly, a familiar voice jolted you from your introspection. "____! Dinner's ready, honey!" It was your mother's voice, laced with a warmth that seemed to pierce the fog of darkness clouding your mind.

With a sigh that carried the weight of the world, you sat the bird down and pushed yourself off the bed, heading downstairs. Every step felt heavy, a chore rather than a movement.

As you reached the bottom stair, something strange caught your attention.

It was a smell. Not unpleasant, but amplified.

Your mom's familiar scent of lavender soap and cinnamon rolls mingled with the sharp tang of cleaning supplies. But these were just base notes. A new layer of perception had been added.

You could smell everything with a startling clarity.

Your father's cologne, a cloying mix of citrus and musk, suddenly seemed overpowering.

Shisuki's perfume was a sickly sweet floral that made your stomach churn. Hiro's scent was worse—a combination of stale beer and something vaguely acrid, like sweat that hadn't quite dried.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you came to a screeching halt. The world smelled different, and not necessarily in a good way.

Then came sight.

You recognized the scene unfolding before you—your mother setting dishes, your father laughing with a man by the TV. But a chilling disconnect settled in your gut.

You knew who these people were supposed to be—your parents and their friends, Hiro and Shisuki. Yet, their appearances seemed...wrong.

Your mother turned, her smile widening at the sight of you. "There you are, sweetie! Come sit down, dinner's ready." She gestured towards the table, her familiar voice a grounding presence amidst the sensory overload.

You shuffled forward, eyes glued to the couple beside your parents.

Hiro, you vaguely remembered, was tall and tan with brown eyes and lime green hair. Shisuki, his wife, was pale and slender and had hair the color of lavender with matching eyes.

But staring at them now, their features seemed blurry, their colors muted. Like someone had smeared their image with dirty fingers.

You tried to focus, to etch their appearances into your memory. But the harder you concentrated, the more their forms dissolved, details slipping through your grasp like sand through your fingers.

Panic clawed at your throat.  What was happening?  Why couldn't you remember their faces?

A sudden realization dawned on you. The heightened sense of smell came at a cost. You could distinguish people by their scent, yes, but now, your ability to differentiate faces seemed to have dulled.

It was a strange trade-off, one that mirrored how a dog identifies others through scent.

You had gained a quirk, yes, but it came with a price—quickly, you darted your eyes down to your plate, unable to bear looking at the distorted couple any longer. But even that small movement seemed to draw attention.

"Honey, is everything alright?" Mei's voice filled the room, laced with concern.

You wanted to scream, to blurt out your questions: Were those really Hiro and Shisuki? Was your mind playing tricks on you? But the words wouldn't come. The fear was paralyzing.

Stealing another glance at the couple before forcing your eyes back to your plate, you mumbled, "I don't feel very hungry anymore."

Your mother's eyes widened significantly, a hint of worry flickering across her face.  "Oh, sweetie," she began, her voice taking on that fretful tone you knew all too well.  "Is there something wrong? Maybe you don't like what I made? I could fix you something else—"

Before she could launch into a full-blown worry spiral, your father cut in.  "____," he started, his voice heavy with irritation, "stop acting childish and just eat your dinner."

The room fell silent.

You felt a prickle of defiance rise within you, but it was quickly squashed by the overwhelming confusion and fear.

You stared up blankly at your father, then reached across the table for your water glass, taking a slow sip before setting it back down with a clink.

"You know what—" your father started, his voice rising in anger.

But before he could explode, Shisuki interjected, her voice firm but strangely calm.  "Wino," she said, clearing her throat slightly, "why don't you take a breather? Maybe go outside for a smoke or something?"

A beat of silence followed, then Hiro spoke up, his voice warm and friendly.  "Yeah, man. Take twenty. We'll keep an eye on things."

With a heavy sigh, and a final glare in your direction, your father pushed himself away from the table.  "Fine," he grumbled. "But someone's gotta go get some dessert. There's nothing decent in this house."

Without waiting for a response, he stormed out, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

As soon as the front door slammed shut, the air crackled with a tension you hadn't noticed before.

Shisuki, with a cruel edge creeping into her previously saccharine voice, leaned towards your mother and remarked, "Honestly, I don't know how you two deal with it, Mei. All that screaming and tantrums—it's no wonder people are rethinking having kids these days. It honestly makes us so grateful we don't have to deal with any of that with Yumi."

Hiro, previously sporting a smug smirk, let out a bark of laughter that grated on your nerves.  "Yeah, Shisuki's right. Yumi's such a sweet, well-adjusted child. Always top of her class, never a complaint," he chimed in, his voice laced with a smugness that turned your stomach.  "____? She's a walking advertisement for abstinence if I ever saw one."

The words struck you like a physical blow. Your breath hitched, and a hot ember of anger ignited in your chest, growing with each passing insult.

You clenched your fists so tightly your nails dug into your palms, but it wasn't enough to contain the surge of power that threatened to erupt from within.

Your mother, bless her heart, attempted a feeble defense. "She's just going through a tough phase, that's all," she stammered, her voice wavering. "She'll grow out of it."

Shisuki scoffed, the sound harsh and dismissive. "Oh, honey, this is more than just a phase," she condescended, her eyes flickering towards you with a cold, calculating gleam. "What you need to do is take her to a professional. There are specialists who can deal with these...issues."  Her voice dripped with a false sympathy that made your skin crawl.  "After all, I am a child psychologist. I've seen my fair share of troubled youngsters."

Wino's absence hung heavy in the air, his departure emboldening the couple like vultures sensing weakness. They felt free to dissect you like a lab rat, their words slicing deeper with each cruel pronouncement.

Mei, clearly struggling, could only stammer a weak response, overwhelmed by their condescending assault.

Then, a horrifying realization dawned on you. They weren't just talking about you—they pitied your parents for having you, while in the same breath, celebrating their own perfect child.

A dangerous glint flickered in your eyes, mirroring the growing inferno within your chest. The memory of Bakugo's compliance surfaced, a chillingly sweet reminder of your newfound power; the image of the robin, tweeting in alarm, hapless and in your mercy.

For a terrifying split second, the world seemed to blink. Shisuki was crumpled sideways, her head lolling at an unnatural angle as crimson bloom spread across her once-pristine white blouse, a silent scream trapped behind her lips.

Hiro slumped forward, his chair clattered onto the floor, eyes wide with terror as a similar stain blossomed on his lime-green shirt. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, a sickening counterpoint to their choked gasps and desperate clawing at empty air.

Their bodies convulsed into a grotesque form of flesh and bones, their lives draining away before your very eyes.

The image was so vivid, so real, that you almost choked on a gasp. Your breath hitched, the taste of iron flooding your mouth. But before you could succumb to the darkness, a flicker of self-preservation sparked within you.

No, they won't get the better of you.

With a deep breath, you wrestled the power back in, forcing it down into the churning depths of your being.

Slamming your fork down on the table, the harsh clang echoed through the room, effectively halting the conversation.  All eyes turned to you, surprise etched on their faces.

"I'm not hungry anymore," you declared, your voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor running through you.  "Good night."  Without waiting for a response, you pushed yourself away from the table and headed towards the stairs.

"Honey, wait!" your mother called after you, her voice laced with concern.  "Are you sure you're alright?  Maybe I can make you a sandwich..."

You paused on the bottom step, the sound of her fretting already starting to grate on your nerves.  "No, really, I'm fine," you said, forcing a smile.  "Thanks anyway."

As you ascended the stairs, you could hear your mother's voice trailing behind you, a mixture of concern and indecision.

Reaching your door, you spared a final glance back at the scene unfolding downstairs. Shisuki and Hiro were engrossed in conversation again, their faces devoid of any worry about your abrupt departure.

The moment you were out of sight, however, the conversation shifted. Their voices, though lowered, were still audible.

"Honestly," Hiro scoffed, "what a useless child. Quirkless and a constant burden."

Your mother gasped, a sound of wounded pride. "Hiro!" she protested.  "That's not fair.  And besides, Wino and I are Quirkless too, remember?"

Shisuki, her voice dripping with condescension once again, waved her off dismissively.  "Darling, at least you two contribute to society. Your husband's a decent accountant, and you tutor those college kids on the side. But what good is that girl?  She's a walking black hole of wasted potential. Honestly, she'd probably be better off in some kind of...  well, you know."

Their words hung heavy in the air, the unspoken implication a sledgehammer blow to your already fragile ego.

Your hand instinctively closed around the doorknob, knuckles turning white. A cold fury burned in your gut, fueled by their callous disregard for your feelings.

As the last of their conversation faded away, you finally closed the door, the sound a small act of defiance.

Slumping against the cool wood, you slid down to the floor, knees pulled tight to your chest. Your fists clenched, nails digging into your palm until a crescent moon of pain bloomed.

The heat in your chest bubbled over, a volcanic rage threatening to erupt. Your body trembled, wracked with a potent mix of anger and fear.

Flashes of the power you wielded, the intoxicating satisfaction of controlling Bakugo and toying with the bird, looped through your mind like a cruel highlight reel.

"I...need it," you muttered, the words barely a whisper. The urge to unleash that power, to silence the voices that taunted and belittled you, was overwhelming.

But then, a soft chirp pierced the storm raging within you. You glanced up to see the robin perched on your desk, its head cocked inquisitively.

The sight of the small creature, so full of life and innocence, was a much-needed anchor.

Taking a shaky breath, you pushed yourself to your feet, legs wobbly like a newborn foal.

Stumbling towards the bird, you reached out a hand. It chirped again, a single, questioning note, before hopping onto your outstretched palm.

Walking over to the window, bathed in the soft glow of the twilight sky, you gently stroked the bird's head. Below, you could see your parents saying their goodbyes to Shisuki and Hiro.

Their laughter, strained and forced, grated on your nerves.

Eyes going blank, you entered a state of intense focus. The world narrowed, the air crackling with invisible energy. Walking back to your bed, the small bird remained motionless on your finger.

You settled against the pillows, propping yourself up for a better view. "Fly." With a chirp, the bird nestled in your hand took flight around your room once again. Its tiny wings beat a silent rhythm as it zipped and zagged.

With a sigh, you dropped your hands, severing the mental connection.

Well, kind of.

The moment the bird was outside of your window, a harsh caw ripped through the air.

"Caw!" You recognized it instantly—the hunting call of the large falcon that had been terrorizing the smaller birds lately.

Right on cue, a blur of feathered fury streaked into view, diving for its prey

Just as the falcon was about to snatch the smaller bird in its talons, you clenched your fists, focusing your power inwards. It was a forceful contraction, like crumpling a piece of paper with your mind.

Staring intently at your clenched fist, you imagined the falcon instead. You envisioned every detail, its sharp beak, powerful wings, and piercing eyes.

Then, with a flick of your wrist, you imagined it crushed, its body crumpled like the paper you'd envisioned earlier.

A beat later, a sickening thud echoed from outside, followed by a strangled cry.

You scrambled to your window, flinging it open despite the cool night air.

Below, on the sidewalk in front of your house, a gruesome scene unfolded.

Shisuki and Hiro, caught completely off guard, stood frozen in shock. Blood splattered across their clothes, a horrifying reminder of the falcon that lay lifeless at their feet, its body mangled beyond recognition.

You stared, the image searing itself into your memory. A wave of apathy, as familiar as an old friend, washed over you.

The dream, the impossible dream, of a life with Pochita—a family built on fear and adoration, flickered through your mind.

Even if you'd been devoured by Chainsaw Man himself, even if you'd been granted a twisted rebirth in that blood-soaked world, the machinations would have continued.

Schemes and plots would have brewed in the dark corners of your mind, always focused on the same objective: eliminating the blonde parasite, Denji, and securing your place at Pochita's side.

But here, in this mundane reality, such grand ambitions felt pointless.

With a sigh that carried the weight of extinguished dreams, you slumped back against the pillows. The power you possessed was a burden, a constant reminder of the darkness that lurked within you.

Maybe, you thought with a flicker of morbid curiosity, there was a way to use it for good.

But for now, the allure of apathy was far too strong to resist.

You closed your eyes, the image of the lifeless falcon and the horrified faces of Shisuki and Hiro swirling behind your eyelids.

The future is now stretched before you, an uncertain path riddled with both possibilities and perils.

Would you become a conqueror, wielding your power for dominion? Or could you learn to control not just others, but yourself?

Who knows? But there one thing you do know...

The game had just begun, and the choice was yours.

A/N: Ahh, denji my bby 😭❤️

[multi-lefaiye]

MAZZAKARR - THE LORD OF SLAUGHTER

HERE WE GOOOOO MAZZY BOY LORE DUMP!!! this isn't all the lore i've come up with for this character and the fictional religion surrounding him, but i figured this is the best general overview i can offer at this time.

CONTENT WARNINGS FOR THE LORE DUMP: child abuse, cannibalism, torture, and murder. all just mentions, but still, tread lightly if any of that bothers you.

art/writing/random lore taglist: @anexor @skitzo-kero @invaderskoodge @vacantgodling @chaieyestea

@albatris @void-botanist @kk7-rbs @moonflowerrss @corvus-rose

@angsty-prompt-hole @astral-runic @paradoxspir1t

--

(also, a lot of specific terminology and locations mentioned here are related to locations in d&d, but you don't need to know those to understand this i think)

Names / Titles. Mazzakarr, The Apex Predator, The Lord of Slaughter, The Master of the Hunt, The Father (many variations of these titles are acceptable)

Pronouns. He/Him

Domains. Death, Strength, Bestial, Blood

Home Plane. Mazzakarr is a prisoner in Carceri, specifically in the realm of Cathrys. Once, however, he was a spirit of the Beastlands.

Alignment. Neutral Evil.

Visage. Mazzakarr is a tall, broad being with a strongman’s physique, built of powerful muscle cushioned by body fat. He has burning hot, green-tinted skin and thick patches of dark brown fur on his body, including a mane down his back. Most strikingly, he has the head of a spotted hyena, with four glowing red slits for eyes and a grin full of jagged teeth. He wears no armor and minimal clothing, often just a pair of black trousers and heavy, adamantine-toed boots. As a prisoner in Carceri, Mazzakarr wears an enchanted metal collar around his neck, and a pair of gauntlets disguising the cuffs around his wrists. Though the chains holding him in place are invisible to mortals, he feels their presence weighing him down all the same.

Voice. Mazzakarr’s voice is a deep, booming growl, with a strangely melodic quality despite his animalistic demeanor and appearance. Many of those who hear his voice whispering to them say that it sounds almost like a lullaby, the Apex Predator’s song lulling them to embrace the ways of slaughter. Like the hyenas that share his face, however, Mazzakarr has a very distinct laugh, which echoes around the jungles of Cathrys as he stalks his prey.

Commandments / Tenets.

Fight for survival, and never allow yourself to grow complacent with what you have.

Cull and consume the weak-willed who do not fight for themselves. Only the strong must survive.

Kill or be killed. Adapt or die. Move forward or fall behind.

The First Hunter. Though his name has been lost to history, an important piece of mythos for Mazzakarrans is that of the First Hunter, the first mortal to hear the whispers of Mazzakarr and embrace the spirit of slaughter. He was a mere civilian lost in a hopeless, endless war, who had lost everything he had to an invading army. Before they could kill him, however, he fled from them, and for three days and three nights, they chased him through the wilds.

Then, one night, as the Hunter struggled to stay awake, terrified of being found and killed by those searching for him, he heard the voice of the Apex Predator.

If you want to survive, you must kill them before they kill you, Mazzakarr whispered to him. Devour those who would stand against you. Take what is yours. Fight, and you will escape.

And the First Hunter listened. When daybreak came, his pursuers found him, and he slaughtered them one by one. And then, he devoured them entirely--mind, body, and soul.

After the war finally came to an end, the First Hunter continued to spread the word of Mazzakarr, encouraging others to accept the spirit of slaughter into their hearts. Many modern Mazzakarrans see him as a prophet-like figure, the first follower of their god.

The Blood-Kin. Of Mazzakarr’s most devoted followers, none compare to the blood-kin, those chosen to share his blood and become his prophets.

At a very young age, the prospective blood-kin are selected to be taken and raised by acolytes of Mazzakarr to embrace his ideals. Each child is assigned one dedicated caretaker, who raises them in isolation from each other. It is this caretaker’s responsibility to feed and nurture the blood-kin, all the while training them to fight, to struggle, and to remain loyal to their Father, the lord of slaughter himself.

At some point in the prospective blood-kin’s youth, whenever they are ready to ascend, their caretaker will try to kill them. If they succeed in killing their caretaker to save themself, they earn the right to ascend and become one of Mazzakarr’s chosen. If they fail, they die, and their corpse is discarded to rot.

After proving themself, the prospective blood-kin is taken to the High Temple, where the ritual to bind them to their god is performed. The exact steps are kept a tight-lipped secret, but the blood-kin is to remain conscious and aware as their body is broken and reshaped by the high priests, and as Mazzakarr’s essence enters their blood.

If they survive, from that day on, they are Mazzakarr’s blood-kin. All that’s left is to choose their weapon.

As soon as the blood-kin is able to stand following the ritual, they are led to a secluded chamber, where they are presented with a wide selection of weapons from which to choose. They have only a moment to consider their choices, however, before another Mazzakarran attacks them.

Whatever weapon they instinctively grab for to defend themself is theirs from that day forward.

The Blood-Kin Trials. Once the blood-kin have ascended and claimed their place as one of Mazzakarr’s most faithful, the real trial begins. For the god of strength through hardship would never simply grant someone the title of prophet, regardless of what they suffered to achieve the rank. No, they must fight for his favor.

After their ascension, the blood-kin begin a lifelong manhunt of each other. They are compelled to hunt and kill each other, to cull the unworthy who do not have the strength to carry their Father’s blood. This is their life’s purpose, what every other trial they’ve passed has been building toward.

For the most part, anything goes when it comes to the blood-kin hunting each other. They are permitted to do nearly whatever it takes to hunt and kill their “siblings.”

There are only a few rules they must follow when hunting each other, so as not to draw Mazzakarr’s ire:

A blood-kin can only be killed by another blood-kin--they cannot seek outsiders’ aid in slaughtering each other.

They cannot fight each other in the high temple; only slaughters approved by Mazzakarr himself may take place in this holiest place.

When a blood-kin is killed, their unworthy blood must be spilled, and whatever their killer chooses not to eat must be left to rot.

When there are only two blood-kin left alive, they are compelled by Mazzakarr to return to the High Temple, where they will duel to the death under the watchful gaze of their Father. Whichever one wins will then become his sole prophet, having earned the title through the slaughter of their kin.

Origins and Ascension. All Mazzakarrans are taught the story of Mazzakarr’s rise to godhood. For he did not start his existence as a god.

Many lifetimes ago, he was one of two sons of a nature deity known as Kozmas, the goddess of the hunt and the endless cycle of life and death, of predator and prey. She created her sons to represent two sides of the same coin, two different perspectives on survival in a harsh wild.

One was to represent the lone hunter, the solitary creature relying on only its own strength to survive; the other, meanwhile, was to represent the pack hunter, relying on a community of its kind and working together.

The younger son, the spirit of the lone hunter, would one day become Mazzakarr. And so, for many lifetimes, the brothers shared the wilds, dutifully following their mother’s words and watching over the many beasts of the world.

Even in his early years, the younger son was very clever, and he recognized his own strength compared to that of his brother, who was much more passive and agreeable. The lone hunter thought it redundant to have two sons, when one would have done the job just fine. It was short-sighted of their mother to create them both.

He explained all of this to the pack hunter, and the eldest son understood. Only one of them was needed to watch over the world’s creatures. And so, he gave himself to his brother, and the would-be Mazzakarr devoured him--mind, body, and soul--until there was nothing left.

With this fratricide, two souls became one, and Mazzakarr was born. He ascended to godhood, almost surpassing even his mother. And with this ascension came an all-consuming hunger, a desperate need for bloodshed and death.

Kozmas saw what had become of her sons, and she was left furious and grieving, at least as much as a god is able to feel such emotions. She was unwilling to accept Mazzakarr’s ascension, and she cast him out of the Beastlands. He was no longer her son, but a savage wearing his skin.

For the sin of murdering his brother, Kozmas confined Mazzakarr to Carceri, sentencing him to an eternity of prowling the Scarlet Jungles of Cathrys. If he was so hungry for death, he could sharpen his claws on the mortal sinners condemned to his new realm. But he would never again see the hunting grounds he once called home.

Many, many years passed, and slowly, Mazzakarr grew in power and notoriety. Soon, he came to reign over Cathrys, becoming a king rather than a mere prisoner. And as his power grew, so did his hunger for more and more of it.

And so, Mazzakarr turned his hungry gaze to the material plane.

The Devoured God. Mazzakarr’s brother’s name is lost to history, and in Mazzakarran holy texts he is only referred to as The Devoured God. In much older times, the Devoured God had followers of his own in the material plane, those who revered him and the sense of community he fostered among his disciples.

Following Mazzakarr’s ascension, his followers nearly wiped out those of the Devoured God’s, erasing all records of him and killing those who believed him. To this day, the followers of the Devoured God have yet to return, as far as anyone is aware.

Freedom From Carceri. Mazzakarr’s ultimate goal is to free himself from Carceri and to enter the material plane. Everything he does with the cult of Mazzakarranism brings him one step closer to freedom.

And when he is free, he will drown the material plane in its own blood, and remake it as he sees fit.

[bronzeandsage]

Bronze & Sage

His wards were gone.

Coren forced himself to smile as he watched them fade beyond his sight and into the great Astral Sea. He would miss his wayward charge and the misadventures he had gotten himself into, the watcher felt he would miss even more so the offspring he had sworn to protect. The sunshine girl warmed his heart especially. But the time of mourning and being sad was long past or perhaps was yet to be, time was a fickle thing for him.

Time was never linear for those of the dragonflight, that was the hardest lesson to learn. A dark skinned hand would come to stroke at a feathered beard of his current visage, the same wayward eyes of emerald green searching the bluffs of Mulgore under a blue sky. Sand and sun were what his liege craved, but for a creature such as him change was what he craved. Always something different.

The same dark skinned hand would softly turn and thrust as sprig of power was used to summon a shifting orb. Coren's eyes would delve into those swirling sands, a soft delight rumbling in this chest at the idea of 'pondering his orb'. Least that's what he supposed was the way the people were these days.

These days.

How long had he been here? Or been this way? Was he a man? A dragon? A god? No. Coren was just Coren. A servant of the Bronze Dragonflight, a guardian of chosen, and a wanderer of the multiverse. The Word had spoken and here he was. Nothing more. Nothing less.

There was nothing to question.

His chosen was free now. Free of the cycle by their choice and his joy at the final gate passed just like his sorrow. Fleeting. Warm. Accepted.

It was time to find another. Or more. Or less. The Word would will as much as the sands shifting within the glass.

A burning ship. A broken son. A broken grin. A burning fury.

Familiar traits, familiar story, and one that could be focused if properly propelled. He'd done it once.

Why not again?

"Take me," a soft baritone slipped among peace.

A blue sky stretched far and wide carrying lazy white clouds and the wisp of hot breath mingled with dimming grains.

OOC:

Of Bronze and Sage is a roleplaying and writing repository for characters and stories of the Horde within the World of Warcraft. It is the third sister blog to a the Trio of blogs put together for a wide range of different concepts and ideas to be put together for. I've focused a lot on the Alliance side of things I felt like I'd been kind of ignoring the red side of things and pigeon holed a lot of the peoples as 'bad guys' in those writings. The Horde is as intriguing and varied as any monster hunting family with as many heroes as they have villains. The idea is to stretch those wings and learn more about this side of the world as well as interact with players/characters I haven't gotten a chance to really mingle with. So as before, if you'd like to interact, instruct, guide, or just say 'Hey!' to a bunch of green folks I'd love to collaborate.

Below you will find links to the basic information of the cast of characters for this blog. It's not as big as my Alliance brain is, but it's growing the more I look at building a proper group of old and new faces.

Dramatis Personae

Sevlaz - a misplaced orc thief brought out of the bowels of certain death to serve the Sands

Fenrag Onehand - the broken orc blademaster reforged as a new sword for the Horde only to search for a higher calling within the teachings of the Mist

Cahall Raincaller - a tauren disgraced, exiled, and alone the former Raincaller chieftain wanders Kalimdor wallowing in his failures to his lost tribe

Erik'red - a desert speaker and vagabond vulpera who is just as likely to win you with a smile as with their cooking

Qinhou - companion to Fenrag and fellow student of the Ways, though far more interested in helping the dead than the living

Mary Wincott - the fresh dead murdered by the Black Rainbow, untethered from her twin sister and reeling with psychic energies

Coren - Guardian of the Bronze Flight, traveler, former steward of the Candells, servant of the Word

More to come...

[izunias-meme-hole]

Top 5 supervillains?

LOOK AT THIS DUDE ASKIN' ME FOR MY TOP 5 SUPERVILLAINS!

In all seriousness though, I'll be glad to indulge, though be forewarned that my top 5 consists of supervillains from Marvel and DC, so like if this seems basic forgive me but I am allowed to be cringe in this instance because I've been dragged back into full on purgatory.

Number 1. Doctor Doom -As I've said before, I've always respected Victor, but I've never been super crazy about him. His animated and game adaptations are good but not perfect, and the movies so far have failed to get his character across in a great way, so that might've been a part of why I wasn't a Doom Superfan. Though after getting back into the absurdity and impactfulslness of superhero comics, it soon hit me... Doctor Doom is a villain made for comics. He's overdramatic, grandiose, terrifying, bombastic, egotistical, pragmatic, powerful, absurd, nuanced, insecure, lonely, the whole package placed within a suit of armor and a green cloak. He's an arrogant, tyrannical, cold hearted technological and magical genius who embodies every inch of supervillainy you could imagine, while remaining a genuinely sophisticated, and honorable figure even with his history of pettiness. Overall Doom is just one big magnificent bastard.

Number 2. The Joker - The Joker is a crook who fell into a vat of chemicals and got a clownish makeover, who ended up becoming the nemesis of Batman. While the other rouges have their particular danger levels, they all have some type of cause they're fighting for or they're purely out to benefit themselves. Joker just causes chaos, death, and suffering, for the sake of his twisted sense of humor. He is willing to kill and ruin lives in the most creative way possible, so long as he finds it funny. Yet despite how twisted he is, this evil ass clown actually can be funny. Not only that, but he's the most effective contrast to Batman, even more than the other rouges. Batman is a frightening figure with a semi-demonic visage who suffered one bad day in his youth, yet he is a hero dedicated to the cause of justice and protecting the innocent citizens of Gotham City. Joker is a colorful figure with a big 'ol grin on his face and a jovial demeanor, yet he is perfectly okay with causing as much unwarranted harm to others for the sake of artistic chaos. Ultimately, the Clown Prince of Crime is a villain that's managed to last for decades, despite the ever marching clock, for these exact reasons.

Number 3. Magneto - He's honestly on par with Joker in my honest opinion, and I'm saying this as someone who's been familiar with Erik for a LONG time thanks to the X-Men films and Evolution, and has gone through his history in the comics. Magneto is basically one of the most famous examples of a "Knight Templar" in fiction, a self-righteous figure fighting for a crusade that he deems noble at any cost. As for why he feels the need to do this? He's a holocaust survivor, it's as simple as that. The comics are the legit only piece of media that go into deeper details about Magneto's life in the concentration camps and the aftermath of that hell which only led into more hell, but that's the basic gist of what makes him tick. Magneto's lived in a world where innocent people got killed because of state approval, and he's not letting that happen again.

Number 4. Loki - Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, and Larry Leibber making the norse God of Mischief, the Poetic Edda's best figure, a supervillain... wasn't a bad idea. The result of that however was a wannabe king in a silly little outfit with devil horns who also happens to be Odin's adoptive son and the brother of Thor. This is inaccurate as hell and shouldn't work, yet it somehow does. He's a delightful trickster at every turn with a lot of gears consistently turning in his head, and while in the comics he's not really a villain anymore and his (in)famous run in the MCU ended on a surprisingly high note, he's still fun. Am I overrating him? Maybe.

Number 5. Lex Luthor - Superman's biggest hater being a self-made millionaire that is the embodiment of the best and worst of humanity will never not be fitting. Though if I'm being honest, I don't feel like DC has gone far enough with Lex. Still he's genuinely a pretty good villain for the man of steel to face.

[thatwritingho]

Strap Breeding

Pairing: Relish Rating: Explicit Summary: What the title says! Breeding kink, but with a strap-on. A direct follow up can be found here! Tagging: @m3gahet @chordsykat

Read on AO3 here

“Heh. You’ve been holdin’ out on me, babe.”

Big, dark doe eyes clouded in lust blinked up at the drummer in confusion, “Huh?”

Calloused hands gripped her thighs, pressing up until her knees were next to her ears, hips raised from the bed. Olive stared up at him in shock, teeth sinking into her lip and tongue ring worrying the backs of her teeth as a fresh wave of arousal crashed over her at the realization.

Oh, fuck, wait, a mating press-

“D-Dillon, wha-”

A grin curled crooked lips, Pickles’ eyes glinting in mischief, “A little birdie told me dis position makes yah cum like crazy.”

Olive scowled.

Toki. God damn him.

“So, you've been holdin’ out on me, babe. Never told me yah like gettin’ fucked like a gahd damn breedin’ slut.”

“Ahh…” Heart erratic beneath her ribs, plush lips parted to speak, yet all that came out was a cry of pleasure as the thick silicone slipped back inside of her. The term aroused her way more than it should, leaving her tingling all over at the thought of Pickles breeding her. A trembling hand found his, rough, band-aid laden fingers quick to hold her own for support, “N-not holding out, it- ahh- it's not like I haven't thought about it-”

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say.

A strong thrust filled her to the hilt, Olive whimpering at the fullness, muscles twitching around the thick cock stretching her. Cracking open her screwed closed eyes, she trembled as black met green, a wave of deep affection crashing over her as his fingers found her throbbing clit, rubbing in small circles. Green eyes nearly glowed as he stared her down, shining in his own love-struck desperation, crooked smirk curling his lips further.

“Oh, pretty girl, yah've thought aboot it, huh?”

Biting her lip, she nodded, mesmerized by his visage in the dim light, freckles glittering like tiny galaxies on his sweat slicked skin. Pickles leaned down, crunching her body further til her ankles touched his shoulders, bending her in half. Though, Olive didn't mind, as it meant she could wrap him in her arms, steal his breath in a kiss, drag her mouth over his skin, pour all of the mounting love she couldn't voice into each touch.

“Mm, yeah, yah've thought about me fuckin’ yah like dis huh?” His voice was rough and needy, the sound as he spoke in her ear sending shivers down her spine, cunt throbbing around his cock as he set a rhythm, “Thought about me breedin’ yah? Fuckin’ a baby into yah?”

The thought tore a gasp from between plush lips, and she trembled all over, tightening her hold on him as tears pricked the corners of her eyes, teeth sinking into her lip, “Mmhm.”

Pickles groaned, breathing out a chuckle and cradling the back of her head in his hand, voice rough and low with desire, “Yeah? You want me to fuck a baby into this tight little pussy of yers?”

“Ahh…” she breathed out, blood molten in her veins at his words, struggling to find her voice as hips ground into her own.

“Say it, baby. Say it.”

“Y-yes!” His hips were picking up pace, plunging deep into her warm, welcoming cunt as Olive panted, squelching filling the room as she moaned out her agreement, surprisingly herself with her eagerness, with how utterly enticing she found the idea, “Dillon, fuck… Want it so bad, please give me your baby, please-”

“Yeah? You want it, darlin’? Want me to fuck my baby into yah, breed yah till yer nice and pregnant so everyone knows who yah belong to?” His hips rutted against hers, aiming to be ever closer, to meld their bodies into one, “You wanna have my babies, Olive?”

“Fuck, yes! Yes, yes, please, oh my god, please- Dillon, please!”

“Heh. How many yah want?” His hips turned frantic, pounding into her with such force she could barely form words, could barely believe he could form words, “Four? Five? Fuckin’... ten?”

Whimpering, Olive managed to gasp out, “Make it t-twenty.”

Pickles laughed, giddy and love-struck and breathless, near high on her as he pressed a kiss to her cheek, panting with exertion.

“Yeah? Yeah, ohh, I'll fill you right up, babe, make sure there's naht a snowball's chance in hell I don't knock yah up.” Hips rocked hard into hers, as if he were trying to pound her through the mattress, through the floor, “We better have multiples, den, huh? We're both twins, what're da chances?”

“I'd ahh… need to do a genetics test. But- nngh!- higher than m-most.”

“Mm, yeah…” a warm hand was placed on her lower abdomen, the pad of his thumb gently caressing heated skin, “Yer gonna be so fuckin’ beautiful, babygirl, all heavy and full of me, full of my twins. Heh, no. My triplets. Gonna fuckin’ glow.”

Pointed, black nails dug indents into his shoulders, Olive whining, pleasure surging, boiling from the inside as flames licked her veins in a raging fire spreading from her cunt, from her connection to him.

“D-Dillon…”

“Mm, yeah, baby, gonna be so pretty fer me, dese perfect tits all heavy and milky, can't wait to taste…” His words were accented by a hand groping one of her breasts, tugging teasingly at her nipple, rolling the bud between index and thumb to tear another moan from the girl beneath him. Raising his face from her curls, green eyes were glazed in lust, expression speaking adoration that clenched at her heart, Olive whimpering as he fucked the head of the dildo into her g-spot.

Oh, she wouldn't last long like this.

A small, warm hand cupped his cheek, Pickles leaning into it, thick red lashes fluttering as she thumbed over his cheekbone.

“Ahh, fuck, Olive, yer gonna be so pretty, sweetheart, haa…” He sounded delirious, desperate, half crazed in need, his voice low and rough with lust, tingling through her nerves and erupting her skin in gooseflesh, “Yeah, gonna fill you up so fuckin’ good, make yah my pretty little wife, babygirl, my little breeding bitch… fuck, yeah…”

“Dillon!”

His words sent her heart pounding erratically behind her ribs, though she didn't have long to think on them as her orgasm hit, hard and strong. Her vision turned white as she boiled from the inside with heatwaves of passion, Pickles devouring her every sound of pleasure with a kiss that melted her brain. As her muscles convulsed around the cock, he broke from her to whisper more filth, Olive gasping as cum lube spurted into her cunt, filling her, squelching as he fucked it deep.

“Dat's it, good girl. Milk my cock, baby, don't waste a single fuckin’ drop. Take it all, take it, take it. Gonna cum in this pretty little pussy till yah overflow, and yer gonna give me a baby, right, sweetheart? Whaddya say, huh, babygirl?”

“Yes! Fuck, oh my god, yesyesyes! Want your cum so bad, Dillon, please!”

Bumping the tip of his nose to hers, strong arms caged her in with one hand on the nape of her neck, the other cradling the back of her head. Green eyes nearly glowed with intensity, his voice deep and near feral, “And yer gonna get it, babe, yer gonna get it all. Naht gonna stop til I know yer fuckin’ mine.”

Chest swelling with affection, she clung to him, pressing desperate kisses to his face, each one imbued with all the love neither would voice. Though, in moments such as this, under the guise of sex, Olive could allow more honesty to slip, and so gasped in a breath before speaking truth against his lips,

“I'm yours, Dillon, fuck. I'm yours.”

[cellody]

DWC: Day VII

LOVER & AFTERMATH @daily-writing-challenge​ MENTIONS: The Elements

Fire wore Lance down as if he had been the one on stage sweating through his awful choice of rare, all-black layers with no exposed skin able to breath in what air was available for cooling. Even his face—the only uncovered area besides his fingers—had to consistently be fanned; not only had the room been understandably warm per the theme and its popularity packing in the most bodies, but what he knew was going on outside of the gallery forced a permanent redness to burn all across his cheeks that made the hot flash that much more visible. He was beyond grateful to have rushed past, happier still to have studied all the saucy, thought-provoking artwork, and elated to have this bravery tucked into the nonexistent arsenal of his mind, but what was the most indescribable was the rush of relief that nearly left him dizzy when finally under the night sky of Dalaran.

The aftermath of the event had him wanting for bed like never before.

Once the two portals and multitude of stairs were traversed in order to make it home, Lance unlocked the front door to Taldormu’s—well, their—Valdrakken abode where his shoulders finally went lax and sighs escaped from weary lungs. The dracthyr leader wheeled around from where he’d been looking over a map and rushed to greet him with golden eyes wide and white, fanged teeth showcased in a hope-bearing grin. “You are back! How was it? Is all well...?” He could not keep from asking, after all; his treasured lover looked so worn out.

Thankfully, Lance returned that smile. “I’m so tired.” Tal chose to then morph from scales to skin when donning his shorter (albeit still plenty tall when compared to the goat), softer visage form clad in cloth and leathers worn under the usual armor. No such plate was kept on when off the training field, though. This was graciously and wordlessly given thanks when the younger plopped against that favored chest, arms loosely linked around hips in the same way his eyelids grew heavy. “But it was worth it. I... am glad I went at your insistence—I truly am.”

Such truth helped Tal to flex into a much tighter embrace. “Good. Good, good.” This was said with the same fluctuation ‘thank the gods’ would have been. Just because he’d urged Lance to attend didn’t mean he had confidence the artist would actually enjoy himself. “You were out quite a while. I’d begun to grow nervous.”

He would have looked up at the other had he not instead allowed his sights to close. Fatigue enraptured him quickly. “I took so much time appreciating all of her art that even the guards began to think me a bit strange. If I’d had any plus one, they’d have gotten bored of waiting for me in an instant.”

“Nonsense. I enjoy every moment with you.” Lance, of course, hummed with some amusement at this the way he always did; Tal would never relent from his adoring promises. “But my company would have been too much of a barrier from your need to blossom.”

“You were also working.” Then a green gaze flit upwards. “And, um...” His expression twisted so comically in wonder over how to word his thoughts that even Tal chuffed once. “I-I started overheating towards the end.”

He couldn’t possibly explain that people were outright showcasing coitus on stage when he himself yet struggled to come to terms with that imagery. That... feeling. Though no part of him had at any point been aroused, he understood the tension. Besides... he’d only seen such mingling for about three seconds before awkwardly fleeing. No sense in making the evoker fretfully gawk (though he’d have loved to see what reaction it’d bear).

Tal simply grunted. “I take it a warm bath is out of the question, then. Shall I fetch you a glass of something cold?”

Lips pursed and postures leaned away to begin the process of untangling from one another. “...A glass of something cold and a warm bath,” he corrected.

They’d not stay apart for long.

[nurrgleth]

Completed version of that one Nurgle WIP i posted forever ago. Nurgle is perhaps the easiest of the Chaos Gods to imagine: He's literally just a Great Unclean One but Big™️

I decided to give him a beard of tentacles to sort of set him apart from them tho (inspired by POTC's Davey Jones ofc).

Nurgle the broadest and second tallest of the Chaos Gods ^^;

[littleredroseonthevalley]

Building a Marriage Under a Willow

Summary: Under the guise of sezing the good weather, Guinevere has Arthur take her away to a picnic on a field. Her intentions are not quite so impure.

Rating: K - Intended for general audience 5 years and older. Content should be free of any coarse language, violence, and adult themes.

Words: 1000

Notes: So, in Code: Realize, Guinevere says that she cheated on Arthur because she felt lonely, that Lancelot made her feel needed and worthy. It really colours my view of this story.

A trickle of sunlight peered through the green of the willow tree, contrasting the gentle breeze that weaved through the branches. It was summertime in Britain, the fields are sown, the rain falls sporadically over the land and the people wait for the harvest season labouring in construction and clearing the fields.

The king is tying the horses to a branch in the tree, as to make sure that they would not get spooked and flee away, as the queen finds her footing in the ground once again, mostly unaccustomed to long rides. They were not half an hour away from the castle, but the fields are quiet, lonely and uncultivated. The seneschal had mentioned it was on rotation for rest this season, and so is taken by wild flowers and grass.

It was a season of war, in times past, but with peace under their reign, the king finds himself with little in the way of work to concern himself with. Guinevere sees it as her yearly opportunity to selfishly monopolise the attentions of an otherwise absent husband, not that he puts much of a fight against her.

Arthur settled a floral picnic blanket in the bed of lush grass, brushing the golden strands from his eyes as he turned for her approval. When his wife told him, en passant, that it was a beautiful day outside for a meal al fresco, he summoned the servants and bodyguards to clear a spot in the fields and get their tents out for the queen.

She held his rising hand and humorously reminded him that they had not been alone together for three days now, and his initial plans would gather a whole company outside. Perhaps her august husband would prefer to spend time with her with less prying eyes? He blushed with the implication and lowered his demands to a basket of food and two horses, as he too preferred to have an escapade with her to himself.

The usually cavalier man, covered with regalia and with an imposing visage, had looked so sweet under the early afternoon sunshine that Guinevere could not help herself not to admire him for a minute. His pale cheeks were coloured a gentle pink as he caught the look of adoration in her eye.

“Is this alright?” He asks, looking insecure about the whole thing. Perhaps it still is not too late for the tent?

The queen nods, plush lips turning up into a grin. Arthur smiles back, enjoying the way warm sunlight captures every enthralling part of her being.

He had no business arranging his own marriage, he had ministers and envoys carry this out for him, but by the gods, he knows that he would not be able to choose someone more perfect than the woman before him. Beautiful, kind, politically intelligent and supportive of his ideals. Is there any measure to a man’s luck? Is it a sin to desire your wife so thoroughly?

Unable to be apart from her any longer, the king stretches out his hand, his palm soft as it delicately closes around hers and pulls her toward him. As he wraps her body against his, he smells of the flowers and herbs her maids had been putting on her baths, the oils in her skin and the apples she favours to eat.

Arthur does not kiss her, not yet. Guinevere knows that he is a bit timid with his physical affections, though she is unsure if this is motivated by religion, self-consciousness or a misguided sense of chivalry, but she does not mind reminding him that it is both acceptable and desirable to exchange those acts between them, especially when they manage some precious time alone. The bed of the queen, unfortunately, tend to be quite lonely most of the year, due to travelling, military campaign and hunting expeditions.

Perhaps, if she dedicates herself to this marriage, if she can fulfil her role in this alliance by having a child as soon as possible, if she works in her relationship with Arthur and Lancelot, then she can avoid the terrible future she foresaw. She truly loves her husband, and no measure is taxing enough not to be tried, to be seen to its logical conclusion. Commandeering him into putting aside time for them is certainly not.

As she kisses his cheeks, a hair width away from the corner of his lips, the blond man is taken by a notion of propriety and slips his arms away from her waist, though he still holds on to her hands. He leads her into the shadow and down into the dry ground, ready to serve her the meal.

It takes a moment to settle, with his back pressed into the trunk of the willow with her head resting in his lap. It takes another moment for the conscientious man to relax, to remind himself that at this moment in time, he has no kingly responsibility to attend to.

It is, indeed, a nice day for a meal outside. Just as his wife had said, Arthur considers.

“Are you comfortable, my love?” He asks, running his fingers through her hair.

The woman hums contentedly. “Are you?”

Arthur grins as Guinevere reach for his hand, running her finger gently across the creases of his palm.

“Very much so. Do you have my book?” He asks, looking over to where he settled the basket.

The woman blindly reaches at her side, running your hands over the blanket until you find the book he had been meaning to read recently, but could not find the time. She holds it up, admiring the golden accents on the maroon hardcover. He plucks it from her grip, using his free hand to remove his bookmark.

“How many hands do you need to read a book?” Guinevere asks, lacing her fingers through his.

“Just the one.” Arthur answers, feeling much grateful that she could not see him and tease him for the lovesick expression that adorns his features.

*_*_*_*_*

Guinevere Masterlist

[roseguidedarc]

@sevynhells​   LIKED  for a starter from saera or daena targaryen !

         𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 for surely it was one of the highest treasons to wear the crown of your king.   but, luckily for saera her father is the king  &&  he had a soft spot for his girls—if anything, she could see him chuckling or perhaps admiring with the look in his eye from afar.   can you blame the girl for wondering about a birthright stolen from her ?  not so much   𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓷 ,   though it felt like it at times , but given to her brother out of a need to prevent another civil war that took so many.   the crown of the conqueror, with its dark metal  &&  red rubies throughout , had been taken from green shade pillow as palms test out it’s weight.     ;      ❝  it’s heavier than i expected.   though, it must be more so wearing it . . how does father keep his head on his shoulders ?  ❞   brow arches as hands lift it, gently placing the crown into her own head.   treason people would scream, treason  !  unnatural for her to even think to bear it, but saera is no ordinary woman.   she’s a princess , she’s the eldest , she’s the   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙱𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁  !    ❝  gods ,  ❞  she grimaced a little , looking at her visage in the full length mirror now.   ❝   aunt cassie. . . why do you look so nervous ?  surely , i won’t get into trouble for this. i’ve done it before  &&  father chuckles . . grandmother not so.  ❞   saera grins ear to ear.   ❝  what do you think ?  ❞

[sekhisadventures]

The Avatar of Y’shaarj

The Ruins of Thaldraszus, a Timeline That’ll Really Drive You Insane

Thaldraszus had once been a lush and imposing mountain range, home to the dragon city of Valdrakken and the Algethar Academy among other highlights… now it was a starcursed hellscape. Everywhere across the mountains great rents were torn in the world, the power of Y’shaarj erupting forth from them and spawning his monstrous sha minions, the landscape blighted and leeched of life and energy to feed the dark god’s hunger.

Valdrakken was the worst of it however, what was the capital of the Isles was firmly under control of Y’shaarj’s avatar. Stumbling blindly through the streets, locked in the throes of their darkest emotions and urges, were the former citizens of the city. Their bodies once showed the colors of their flights. Brilliantly scarlet ruby drakonoids, deep shining azure scales of the blues, the glossy sandy bronzes, the glorious emerald of the greens, and the deep inky black dragonflight… all of them were a swirl of white on black now, cursed by the power of the Old God.

A few miles out from the city, in a small hidden cave, were some of the survivors of the Old God’s return… seated in the cave, around a campfire, were several figures.

Malgum of the man’ari, the huge muscular demonic eredar sharpening one of his axes after using it to cleave several of the sha to pieces.

Jeemjazo Redmane, the former pirate eating what little food they could scavenge that hadn’t been blighted.

Finally, Leza, flipping through her spellbook as she tried not to think about all that had occurred.

Seated with them was one that they had all assumed was dead… and as it had turned out, may well be… at least in their timeline.

Galdia Grimaxe sat cross legged next to the fire, looking very grim indeed. Give her a foe she could cut, stab, or stomp and she would charge in with a bellow of ‘lok’tar ogar,’ but… this was different.

Suddenly Leza’s head snapped up, her fur standing on end. “Uh… g-guys? I feel something!” she yipped, her eyes going wide as she scrambled to her feet and drew her wand.

Malgum snarled and leapt to his hooves as well, readying his own weapons as Jeemjazo quickly scarfed down the last of his food and stood, pulling his pistol from his belt. Galdia rose as well, narrowing her eyes as she unsheathed her sword…

Then suddenly there was a swirl of sand and bronze magic, and in a burst of light the cave was full of people!

Galdia relaxed, sheathing her blade again. “About fuckin’ time!” she snapped, though she grinned when she said it.

Standing there were several figures. Nelen Fullmoon, Jaie Swiftpaw, Laura Brightflame, Nitika Dawnhoof, Grimo Blamstick, Edwood Vargas, Samantha Montebank, and Sekhi along with the dragon Chromie, still in her gnomish visage form.

“Ah, good… took us a bit to track you down, but we got there in the end.” nodded Nelen as he saw Galdia standing there.

“Hold up a moment there matey…” said Edwood, noticing who else was there. “Jeemjazo? Malgum? What’re ye doin’ together in this timeline? Where are we?” he asked.

Sekhi whined, hear ears flicking. “Guys, something sounds really wrong here… I think this is th’ Dragon Isles but…” she began, then she looked over and saw her sister.

Leza’s had dropped her wand, the vulpera girl’s chest heaving as her eyes filled with tears. “Ah… ahn…” she gasped through clenched teeth, then she shouted, “SEKHI!” and raced forward at her, throwing her arms around her sister and hugging her so tight that the shaman almost had to push her away just so she could breathe!

“L-Leza?! Whats wrong?!” she gasped, trying to pry the apprentice mage’s arms loose, but Leza seemed determined to hold on tightly to her.

Jeemjazo snorted, tucking his pistol back away. “… tch, would ye like a bloody list Sekhi?” he asked.

Nelen saw this, then glanced at the entrance to the cave and walked over, peering out as his jaw fell open. “What in all the…” he whispered as Nitika and Sam joined him, the two sharing a grim look.

“Yeah, we could feel that as soon as we arrived…” whispered the void elf, nodding as the tentacles in her hair twitched in agitation.

“My shoulders won’t stop hurting all of a sudden, and only one thing does that…” nodded the taureness.

Floating above the ruined and corrupted city of Valdrakken were seven massive eyes. Five of them were acidic yellow with vertical slits for pupils, the other two glowed a deep bloody scarlet.

“What happened here?” asked Nelen, turning back to look at the group.

“Isn’t it obvious Fullmoon?!” came a voice from the depths of the cave as footsteps approached them, then a new figure walked into view and a cry of alarm came from the newcomers.

Standing there was a night elf woman, but one with swirling green tattoos and balls of feelfire where her eyes should be, a pair of fel-infused knuckle-dusters slipped over her hands.

“You fucked up.” snapped Gremori Autumnleaves.

Malgum shook his head, “She could phrase it different, but when you all went to fight Dissonantia… you did not return. From our end the portal shattered, and we waited several days, but you never came back. We assumed you all dead.”

“Dunno if our versions of you died or not, but all I wanted to do was have some fun with Cenoon ‘n Az’arad after all that… then Dissonantia yanked them back and… well… eh, you tell ‘em Malgum.” snorted the felsworn.

“It was Gremori who told us what had happened. Dissonantia had been using the souls she gathered and a hidden extractor in a corner of the Shadowlands to make anima to fuel her immortal state… but when she discovered that Aartox had told me the secrets of her defenses, she became desperate…” explained the man’ari.

Malgum explained the situation to them as best he could. About a month after their disappearance, Dissonantia had appeared on Azeroth, but not as they remembered her.

The Witch of Blackwald Forest had emerged at first in the Zalarek Cavern, near Abberus. Rather than a warlock though, she had become some sort of sha-monstrosity. She easily overwhelmed and corrupted the garrison the dragonflights had left there, then commandeered the font of Shadowflame beneath the Isles for her own ends.

Using it with her own warlock powers she was able to drag forth scores of demons from the Twisting Nether, then force Y’shaarj’s corruption upon them, driving them mad and bending them to her will. When her army of sha-corrupted demons was complete they exploded forth from within the Dragon Isles, swarming the land and all before them.

The Azure Span was taken by complete surprise and overwhelmed within the day, the Ohn’ahran Plains held out longer thanks to the Centaurs' skill in combat but they were simply outnumbered. Bel’ameth, the new city in the boughs of Amirdrassil was holding on, but only barely. Thaldraszus held on the longest, but even with their aspectral powers returned the avatar of an Old God was a deadly foe. Only Nozdormu and Merithra escaped, the others staying to hold them back as long as they could.

The city fell, but the fate of the remaining four aspects was unknown. Either Dissonantia killed them… or… well, they hoped that she killed them.

Lastly, the Waking Shore was under siege, the only region without direct access to Zalarek Cavern, forcing Dissonantia’s forces to travel overland. The Alliance and Horde were there fighting tooth and claw to hold them back and reclaim the Isles… but it was not going well.

"When Valdrakken fell, we scattered to the hills... those of us who could flee the isles did so, but Dissonantia used her powers to seal off most of the ways out. Portals will no longer function, nor will hearthstones." he nodded.

"Yeah... I'm just here because I wanna get Cenoon and Az'arad back. I quit the second she drank that corrupted anima. I didn't sign up for any void shit." added Gremori.

The others listened in horror to Malgum’s recounting of the events of this timeline, Sekhi’s ears drooping… and then she looked at Leza. “W-wait… sis… Ma ‘n Da ‘n th’ twins… they were in Valdrakken when we went ta fight her…” she whispered, “T-they… they went back ta Orgrimmar, right?” she asked.

Leza looked at her, the girl’s expression unreadable for a moment, then her eyes filled with tears and she gritted her teeth. Her jaw moved, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

Malgum however, shook his head. “When Dissonantia returned, she made a special point of moving against your allies. I am sorry small one…”

Sekhi’s eyes widened in horror. Her family in this timeline, all save for her sister… gone. Dissonantia was a sadist, she would not have simply killed them. She would have ensured they suffered for their connection to her. “N-no… but… w-we stopped her! Grimo used his big zappa gun ‘n blew her up!” she insisted, shaking her head.

“Not this time…” sighed Galdia, walking past her. “We never came back. Dunno if Grimo didn’t find it or if the fall killed him… but yeah. This time around, Dissonantia won.”

“Too bleedin’ right I did!” cackled a voice, echoing through the cavern. The entire group started, looking around frantically. They all knew that voice, that arrogant laughter.

“Dissonantia…” growled Nelen, shifting into his worgen form as the others readied for battle. In a swirl of magic Laura became Laurelgosa once more as the others drew their weapons, but their foe was nowhere to be seen.

“I strangled that mag’har bitch wiv me bare claws back in th’ void, but then she turned up here! Stank of bronze dragon crap it did!” sneered Dissonantia’s voice. “I knew if I waited more of yez woulda shown up! Pity Dareley ‘n Shalandrae ain’t here, they screamed th’ best… but, eh, at least I get th’ fun o’ killin yez again!”

“Show yourself witch!” shouted Laurelgosa, “Stop hiding and face us!”

Dissonantia’s laugh echoed around the cave, “Hidin’? Ye bleedin’ git! I ain’t hidin’! I’M TH’ AVATAR O’ AN OLD GOD! I’m th’ whole Island now!” she cackled. “I’ve known where yez have been hidin’ this entire time! I just wanted ta let yez think ye’d escaped, its funner that way…”

Suddenly the walls of the cave split open and the group let out cries of revulsion and shock as the stones parted to reveal eyes all along the walls, staring straight at them. “Got a special surprise fer yez too…” she sneered… then from outside came a tremendous roar and a crash.

The group raced outside, eager to get away from THAT, to find a massive black drake waiting for them! Its eyes glowed pure white, tears of inky blackness running down it’s cheeks, and tendrils of shadow snaked along it’s body.

Nitika gasped, recognizing the horns and face of the drake. “Iridikron!” she shouted.

“That’s right! Try freein’ him from THIS Dawnhoof!” snapped Dissonantia. “KILL ‘EM!” she commanded, and Iridikron cackled madly, tossing his head as he focused on the group before them.

“You… yoooooou…” he hissed, “We waited… we waited and waited and waited… and you faiiiiiled…” he growled, “YOU LET HER TAKE ME BACK!” he snarled in despair, then the ground around him erupted with blackness and several rents of shadow exploded out of the soil, a swarm of sha clawing their way to the surface!

The group braced themselves, Malgum looking towards Chromie. “You! Dragon! You brought them here, take them back, NOW! We will hold these horrors at bay as long as we can!” he shouted.

Nelen stared at him, “Malgum! Wait! We can…”

“YOU CAN DO NOTHING FULLMOON!” retorted the man’ari. “This is not a foe you can defeat! Flee back to your own timeline!”

Jeemjazo nodded at him, “Malgum is right matey… yer already sunk in our time...” he replied, drawing his cutlass and axe.

Leza whimpered, then pulled out her wand and spellbook and with a wordless cry she blasted a fireball towards the sha, blowing one to pieces as she began to channel another.

“Leza…” whimpered Sekhi, seeing her sister shooting blaze after blaze into the horde with reckless abandon, the mage’s eyes wild as her tail thrashed.

“S-sekhi… go…” she bit back a sob, her eyes watering, “I… at least I got ta see ya, one last time, before Dissonantia got bored…” she smiled at her sadly.

Gremori snarled, then leapt into the air and came crashing down into the midst of them in her demon form, tearing a sha apart with her bare hands before lashing out with her felfire at the nearby ones.

Chromie whined, but she knew that Malgum was right. This wasn’t their timeline, it wasn’t their fight to win. She gave one last look towards the nightmare that Valdrakken had become, then drew her staff and started to focus on it.

“Oh? No yez don’t!” snarled Dissonantia, and the air around them darkened.

Chromie gasped, gripping the staff tighter as the sha raised their arms, chanting in shath’yar. “No! Guys! The sha are trying to block me from opening the timeways! I-I’m trying, but…” she gritted her teeth, sweat beading on her forehead, but the power of the void had always been a problem for the Bronze Dragons. Even Nozdormu had a horrible time seeing when their presence was near.

The others nodded, then the members of Avalon and Savage Untied drew their weapons, “Focus on the Sha!” shouted Nelen as they began to lash out at the horrors, trying to weaken their numbers enough to allow Chromie to open their escape route.

Ahead of them Malgum and Gremori slammed headlong into Iridikron’s corrupted form, the black drake roaring in madness and pain as he clawed at them, tendrils of darkness lashing out from his body. “FAILED US! YOU FAILED ALL OF US! THE WITCH RETURNED AND DOOMED US ALL!” he roared.

Laurelgosa hissed and belched out a blast of flames at the sha, then hesitated. Every sha they took down, two more rose from the ground to take their place… the Dragon Isles had become worse than even Pandaria at the height of the war. The sha just kept coming!

“No… we cannot kill them. We need something else… we need to stop them…” she looked around, then saw Chromie, sand swirling around her form… and her eyes widened, “… stop them…” she whispered, then she closed her eyes and focused.

“I am an evoker… my power is the power of all dragonflights…” she hissed to herself, spreading her wings. Suddenly, Chromie eeped as she felt a tingle through her form, the dragon’s eyes flicking to Laurelgosa.

Dracthyr are unique creatures. They have the power of all dragonflights, to a lesser degree… but what if they could do more in the right circumstances? What if they could borrow the power of a true dragon?

“Get ready Chromie!” shouted Laurelgosa, then she leapt into the air and sand swirled around her form as the air around her seemed to distort, time becoming a malleable thing for the dracthyr. She took a deep breath, then with a roar an eruption of sand and magic blasted forth from her maw into the encroaching horrors!

“Wots this? OI!” snarled Dissonantia’s voice as the sand blasted across their foes, Malgum and Gremori stumbling to a halt and looking around as, all around them, the sha were frozen fast! Sand dripped off their forms! The shadowy monsters weren't just paralyzed, time had completely stopped for them! Even Iridikron was stuck, the corrupted drake petrified in the motion of slamming his claw down upon Malgum.

Chromie gasped, the sha’s interference gone in an instant, “I-I have it! EVERYONE! COME HERE QUICK!” she called out as the adventurers raced towards the dragon. As they got there Sekhi hesitated, turning back towards Leza and Jeemjazo.

The two looked at her sadly, and Leza shook her head. She wanted to, but time only had space for one of her… “Keep our family safe sis…” she whispered.

Sekhi whined, ears folding back, and she gave a firm nod to Leza, “I will! I promise!” she yipped as Chromie slammed her staff down. With a woosh of temporal energy and a furious scream from Dissonantia, the group disappeared from reality… a moment later Laurelgosa’s time stop ended, and the sha exploded into action.

They fought bravely, but… the battle had already been lost. All they could do was make it cost as much as they could for Dissonantia.

Dalaran, a few seconds later, or a day or two depending on how you look at it

With a burst of temporal energy the group appeared on Krasus’ Landing in a heap, slowly picking themselves up. “Did we…” gasped Nelen.

A moment later Galdia snarled as she was slammed to the ground, then laughed as she realized it was Nightpelt, the undead worg pinning her down and licking frantically over it’s partner’s face.

“AUGH! Thrall’s balls that breath… down Nightpelt!” she smirked, shoving him off her as she sat up, “Yeah, we’re back.”

“ ‘ey! Wot da fook happened?!” shouted a familiar voice as Mola’raum jogged up the stairs to the landing, followed by Shalandrae, Dareley, and the rest of their friends. “We saw ya crash inta dat dragon, den ya all go BOOM, den ya suddenly back?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders.

“Long story Mola…” sighed Nitika, standing up and dusting herself off.

Nelen looked towards Chromie, “So… what about Nyloc?” he asked her.

Chromie shook her head, “I can’t sense him now. He must’ve hidden himself while we were busy. But we’ll find him again. As soon as he uses the moment, I’ll know.”

Nelen sighed, “Right, well, he’s our problem now too… and you did help us in any case. When the time comes, let us know.” he nodded firmly.

Chromie gave him a nod in return, “Yup!” she smiled.

“So…” began Galdia, “Bar?” she smirked.

Zhan-min grinned at her as he caught up, “Heard someone say bar!” he laughed, “I’m all for that. I could use a drink after whatever th’ fel all that was!”

Sekhi however got up and began walking back to the portal to Orgrimmar.

“Sekhi?” asked Nitika, reaching out for her.

“Mm… you guys go ahead… Imma head back home for now… not feelin’ so good.” she chittered.

The tauren nodded, giving her an understanding smile, “Yeah… I get it, go ahead. I’ll fill you in on anything important later.”

Sekhi smiled back at her, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes, “Thanks…” she replied.

The vulpera padded back through the city to the portal, then with a woosh she stepped through to Orgrimmar, her feet carrying her through the city to the Valley of Honor… and a ring of vulpera wagons.

She stopped as she got there, looking towards them.

Infront of one was a vulpera woman busying themselves with a large pot of stew, enough to feed an entire family of the fox-folk, and next to her watching a pair of young kits was a male vulpera that could only have been her mate. Next to them was a young vulpera girl who looked very much like Sekhi, reading a book as she absentmindedly adjusted her glasses.

The woman looked up as her ear flicked, then she smiled, “Hey everyone. Sekhi is home!” yipped Risala, Sekhi’s mother.

Leza looked up and grinned, her tail wagging, “Hey sis!” called out the apprentice mage, closing her book as her father, Atu, waved to her.

The twins, Zato and Eeda, stopped chasing each other long enough to run up to her shouting ‘biggest sis! Biggest sis!’ and race around her in a circle before darting back to the campfire, giggling all the way.

Sekhi smiled at them… her family, but in the other timeline they were all gone now. Dissonantia likely killed Leza after they made their escape.

She walked over to them, then sat down next to Leza on the log she was using as a chair, the mage cocking her head at her sister.

“Ya okay?” she asked. Normally Sekhi would chatter away about whatever was on her mind. If she was being quiet that usually wasn’t a good sign.

Sekhi looked at her, then sniffled and pulled Leza into a tight hug as her younger sister yipped in surprise, looking around. “Uhhh, Sekhi? Did somethin’ happen?” asked Leza, glancing at her parents.

Sekhi considered telling them, then shook her head, “N-no… not really… not technically… just… glad ta be home is all.” replied the shaman.

Atu and Risala glanced at each other, then shrugged as Zato and Eeda looked up at their sister. They could tell something was wrong, and a moment later both of the small twin vulpera latched onto her legs through her skirt, hugging into her.

Sekhi rubbed her eyes, then smiled and reached down, stroking their heads as the twins looked up at her and smiled at their sister.

She had seen the End Time, the fate of Azeroth if the Cataclysm had been completed, but today she saw her own personal end time. The fate of her family if Dissonantia had returned and exacted her vengeance against those who had helped her enemies. In this time they had been victorious, but it was a sobering reminder of what had been at stake.

Next Story

Previous Story

[replicantdeviancy]

While it was no secret that the priest was turning out to be a near constant source of amusement & fascination for the youthful detective, what had piqued his subconscious senses on multiple occasions thus far were just how many secrets James seemed to keep close by. He had a knack for speaking very candidly without saying very much at all, able to use that charismatic charm of his rather well. Connor expected that there were many who might be taken by this charisma at face value & let themselves be strung along, unable to fathom just how easily they were being played by this devilishly clever man. But in that very same instance, the detective felt that it wasn’t out of malice or trickery, but out of necessity. He knew that James knew Connor could tell when he was fibbing, that he could pick out falsehoods with relative accuracy. That he carried on with his antics told Connor that it had become a large part of his personality, something he almost couldn’t help. It also spoke of a hidden anguish left unhealed, an unseen scar on his soul.

Through sweet smiles & joyful laughter, the detective pondered over the source of that pain, curious as to the catalyst. His thoughts drifted to the story the priest had mentioned before of the woman & her family, the child left devastated—

But then, James was distracting him again with flirtatious quips & teasing him about shame. While his lips said one thing, Connor felt that he was saying another, that he was trying to get a rise out of him. A delectable thought that this older man with such worldly & vast experience would want to woo someone like him; a rather ordinary & boring person, when one ignored his looks or his strange brain. Yet here they were, together in his car, driving through evening rush hour & flirting like a couple of teenagers. It felt good. It felt really, really good. It had been so long since anyone had pursued Connor romantically. True, there were plenty who looked his way, & he had a tendency to flirt with anyone he felt he could get away with it around. Sometimes it was just for entertainment, sometimes his interests were legitimate. But rarely had he acted on his attraction, hopelessly shy lest he was given a clear green light. & even then, he hesitated. The priest made him feel confident, appreciated. He hoped it wouldn’t end after a single evening out.

He hoped James felt the same. The both of them seemed to have more in common than the detective had initially realized. “Mm. Well, by all means; woo away.” A little laugh came in response as Connor glanced at his date sidelong, curious over that subtly wry little smile tipping those lips. He wondered what was going through the man’s mind, even as he teased him over enticing a man of god - to which he assumed he’d done rather thoroughly at this point - & crossed himself as he prayed aloud. That earned him a little swat on the shoulder, followed by a delighted bout of laughter, one that lingered as Connor retorted with a quip of his own. “Please. I’d like to think that I’m proficient at bringing evil to justice.” His dusky voice fluttered lightly as he spoke, pretty visage split wide with a stupid grin that was slow to recede. Admittedly, when he had first come to the church that afternoon to speak with the priest, he had never anticipated that this supposedly prim & distinguished older man could be so lively. James had the wit & energy of a man in his twenties with the maturity & knowledge that came with age. It was elating being in his presence. The man was so full of life, & so different from anyone Connor had met before.

Truly, he could spend hours listening to him speak. The man had a silver tongue & a beautiful accent that made the detective curious as to how his own ancestors might have sounded, as they were partially, allegedly, from the British Isle. Not that he had been all that interested in his family history before, never having inquired on a genealogy site or the like. He only knew what results had come back after he & his brothers had submitted their DNA into the DPD database under the instructions of their mentor. It had him wondering just where James had originally come from, & what things were like there. Different than Detroit, surely, as the city was its own unique entity all by itself. This sudden intrigue did spark a feeling of wanderlust in the young man that he hadn’t experienced before, & the want for knowledge had him silently yearning. He hoped that he might get James to divulge a little more information about himself eventually, besides silly fibs of knitting & culinary creations.

Well, that one sounded true. There was a desire there, at least. The rest, though– “Mhm. Sure. You crochet,” he teased. He couldn’t help himself. Damned for his impeccable wit & ability to detect falsehoods. It was an invaluable asset when in the midst of an interrogation or when negotiating with a hostile suspect, less so when he was trying to be charming. Most people didn’t fancy a smartass, though it seemed that James didn’t mind that part of his personality at all. The detective wondered how far that patience of his might go. He was known to be absolutely relentless, after all.

Though as the conversation shifted momentarily towards less speculative & more sincere pastimes involved in the priest's life, there came a faint notion of longing once again. James spoke of traveling, & he made it sound as if he enjoyed the chances at exploring exotic destinations, perhaps indulging himself in the cultures & enrichment it provided. But there was that subtle underlying feeling of loneliness that caught the younger mans attention, bringing his initial theory to light once more, as well as a question with it. Was James lonely? Maybe. But it wasn’t Connors obligation to fix that, even if he wanted to. James wasn’t his to mend. Not unless he wanted to be.

Now, the question was turned to him & the detective found himself somewhat contemplative as he distracted himself momentarily looking over the address presented to him & calculating the best route in his head. Google didn’t always know how traffic flowed in the city, & Connor knew a shortcut. He took a right down a somewhat derelict older road, the remnants of a defunct factory in view, a few condemned buildings. Hardly anyone came down this way, & while it felt longer, at this time of evening, it would lead them to come out into the more populated area of the city just a couple blocks from their destination.

Meanwhile, it gave him time to think of how he would respond. Was he worried that James would find him a little boring? A bit. Though he wasn't too bothered with that. It was just that as he really thought about it, the detective realized that he didn't do very much besides work. Young & ambitious, he'd truly dedicated himself to the job. He supposed that it wasn't uncommon among the police, but still, he was going to spend his whole life in the service of others at this point. He didn’t know if he was really that selfless. Now, in the company of someone new, Connor was confronted with the notion that he wanted to live for somebody, be with somebody. Perhaps it was he who was the lonely one.

Even so, he would always have family. “I… spend a lot of time with my brothers. We’ve always been close, & we try to make time for each other when we can.” The boys had been eternal companions, ever since they were born. Hardly ever apart, the three of them would defy their parents & dare to do anything they pleased. Connor recalled how they would sneak into the city when they were hardly in double digits, three scrawny little preteens wandering into abandoned buildings & discovering the two very different sides of Detroit that was so far removed from their pristine, upper scale suburb by the river. Better days, in some ways, but they had never been entirely innocent.

“My best friend is an ICU nurse at a big hospital in the city. Whenever one of my cases takes me there, I make a point of going to see him,” Connor offered, glancing sidelong at his date once more. He wasn’t smiling so brilliantly anymore, a hint of calm overtaking that betrayed that hidden somberness inside. The detective was, indeed, a complicated soul, one who was far older than his years. Aged by his open experiences, tired & needy, though he pushed away the notion of wanting for himself. Nevertheless, the desire within him ran deep, even as he smiled warmly for the priest. “He’s also great for sharing some conversation & wine. & I’m a semi-active member of his charity organization.” It felt as if he were trying to make it sound as though his life had meaning, more of a performance than genuine pride. He loved the work, loved his friends, but there was something more to it than what lay upon the surface. “But besides that… I like working on cold cases. Things that went unsolved.” A little shrug. A smile. “...Maybe I’m just married to the job.”

But of course, the moment he was able, he turned the conversation back to his date. “What kind of places have you gone to? I love to hear about your travels.” He was far more eager to learn about the priest than talk about himself. It wasn’t difficult to wonder how the boy truly felt about himself. “I bet you’ve seen some incredible things.”

"Oh, I wouldn't say I'm entirely incapable of feeling shame... like any warm-blooded man, I feel a minute smidge of it every now and then." The Brit retorted with the same effortless ease as every tease that passed his lips. The man did have shame, though nothing he'd scream to the high Heavens about -- - literally. But they were more personal, aspects of his life that he kept held close, mainly because they'd either sound utterly ridiculous to people or simply impossible. Maybe even a mix of both. Connor would be the same, if the priest tried to relay any of that real shame within him, he'd likely just put it down to metaphors and religious fanaticism. That was all demons and angels were, after all, weren't they? Just idle threats and supposed promises. "But, as you said yourself, good to know I'm in good company." Or with someone who didn't mind his little antics.

They were many, after all.

And seemingly never-ending. Though there was a point when they became less hypothetical and more realistic, daring to tread down the notion that this man, a detective, could possibly be interested in getting to know James a little more than a deep dive into whatever topic over food and drink. It wasn't a thought that the holy man should even think about, not without asking for forgiveness afterwards. Yet there he was, not only thinking about it but tempting himself with that sinful image of their clothes being strewn all over a bedroom floor, his collar in amongst it. He was even more positive that he was going to Hell after all this.

"Don't know, I prefer to call it wooing over seducing." That wry smile was there again, gazing at Connor as though he was rather proud of himself for coming up with that remark. "What can I say? I'm a classy bloke." Not that he really believed that, but it was always fun to joke around with people, as if testing the waters to see what would stick and what would falter. So far, the American had done rather well, not only taking James' endless quips but actually matching them as well -- - without getting annoyed by him. Of course, the man could turn it off if needed, though usually that was spared for interactions with his peers and superiors in Rome, having learned a long time ago that things went a lot smoother if he curbed his own particular brand of humour in those circles. Not out of respect or because it was expected of him, but because it meant he could get out all the quicker and do what he needed to without wasting time in between or suffering further exposure to the stuffiness a moment longer than he had to. If someone needed help, he wasn't just going to float around and wait for something else to happen.

Although, wasn't that what he was doing now? Waiting for something else to happen? It may not seem it, but James really did lament Mr. Moore's passing, wishing he could have helped him, that he could've sent the retched thing within him back down to Hell where it belonged and saved his soul from a fiery fate. But he had to remind himself one important thing -- - he was still just human. He had the knowledge, the skills, the experience, but he wasn't some sort of clairvoyant, he wasn't a telepath and he certainly wasn't all-knowing. Not that it stung any less, even if it did make him all the more determined to save as many souls as possible, the detective's being just one of them.

"Trying to entice a man of God?" No, tonight he was going to have a little fun, a moment to himself that perfectly coincided with also keeping someone safe. For now, he had a definite target, while he couldn't go around every single member of the usual priest's congregation in search of the demon or trying to guess who was next. The detective was ideal, he'd seen things and from what he'd been able to gauge so far, Connor was a complex soul which only made things all the more tantalizing for something that knew nothing more than twisted evil. The complicated ones were like a challenge, a trophy with a smorgasbord of possibilities to use against them. That what was made people all the more suspectable. After all, even James' father had lowered his guard for a split second and in that minuscule moment, it was all that had been needed for his fight to come to an abrupt end. "For shame, Detective Arkeit... for shame." He lightly mocked, his lip twitching a little as the growing curve revealed his pearly white teeth beneath. "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." His features calmed, morphing into something more serious even though there still remained a cheeky twinkle in those eyes as he turned to face the front for a moment and crossed himself with his right hand. He really was playing with fire and he knew it. But that was just an everyday occurrence at this point.

"If I get struck by lightning, I think we can both agree that I royally pissed off the big man upstairs with that one." He could at least muse to himself, smirking under his breath as a quiet laugh continued deep down in the back of his throat. Yes, this really was him on his best general behaviour.

"Directions? What do I look like, a GPS?" The man grinned, leaning off to the side to rummage around his right trouser pocket for his phone. "Just a sec..." He murmured as he unlocked it and quickly began to search for the place in Google maps, deciding that it was probably easiest just to use that. "There we go... got to give it something to do while it's listening in on our conversations."

Showing Connor the screen, he held it out to him, not minding if he decided he wanted to stick the phone somewhere in view or just get a good idea of where he was headed from anything he recognised nearby. He lived there, after all, so he was more likely to know the streets better than a guest of the country.

"What do I get up to? Now... there's a loaded question." A distinct smirk left him as he looked out the front of the car again, half contemplating just what he should say, what of the truth he should omit. "Well, when I'm not flirting with younger men, I can usually be found flirting with younger women." Came the first answer which was obviously another joke -- - mostly. "And older... life doesn't end when you hit your 50s, you know." This time he actually let out a soft laugh, still managing to talk without really saying anything. Or was that really the case when it came to the detective? What James did and didn't say likely told him more than the Brit realised. Just another reason to find the guy fascinating to be around. "The usual really, knitting, baking... got a new crochet pattern I've been working on, as a matter of fact." That was a lie, though it probably sounded more believable than the real answer. But that he'd have to keep to himself for the time being. "In truth? Travelling, mostly. See the sights, meet new people, offer a helping hand where needed. Nothing too out of the ordinary." He was as honest as he could get away with being. "What about you? What does Connor get up to when he hangs up his badge at the end of a long day? Wild parties? Skinnydipping? A sudden and almighty barrage of reckless abandonment?" Why did it sound as though he were describing himself in his younger days? "Go on..." He smiled over at the brunette, notably winking at him. "You can tell me."