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yaldev · 2 years ago

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Meeting with His Judgment

Every animal instinct told Decadin to throw his body at the bars, to ram them with his shoulder, bend them with the force of his indignant rage and rip them from their slots. An ancient strength he’d never felt coursed through his body, a power bestowed by the desperate will to survive, a dormant force from the days when wild humans lifted boulders if that’s what it took to break free. Decadin reached forward with trembling hands. His fingers tried to grasp the cold metal, but his body was still curled against the opposite wall and his legs would not move.

The Oracle, she was here in the cell with him. But she couldn't be. Even in a world where Decadin’s own empire would imprison him, some trace of rationality remained, and it was too important to abandon.

“You won’t even try?” she asked.

She was a dream, a hallucination.

“You could scream. Maybe they'll realize who you are.”

She was an illusion, a magic trick from the captors.

“I know you remember the stories. The strength that blesses us in dire times.”

“No!” Decadin yelled. He felt the emptiness in his lungs, and he sobbed.

The Oracle bent over him. “After everything else, this is what stops you?”

“Everything else…” Decadin shook his head with eyes held shut. “Everything else was possible.” They opened. “But those bars are steel. Probably manganese steel, maybe enchanted. It’s too stiff to bend even with hysteria in play, and the tensile strength is definitely too—”

“Possibility never stopped you. Would you just be too embarrassed if you failed?”

“I’m saying there’s no ‘if’ about it. There’s doing the impossible, and then there’s ‘my body cannot exert the force to bend these bars under known physics.’”

The Oracle looked no different than the first day he witnessed her, even as he had grown, changed the world, flourished, wrinkled, regretted. Now this ghost-hallucination-trick was here to gloat.

“I think you’re scared.”

Decadin stared up through his brow. “How astute.”

“You've forgotten what panic is, child, how it feels and how to manage it." Her disdain was palpable. "And now you imagine you’re still in control because you’ve kept your composure, you’ve tried nothing desperate, and you know the mechanics of your cage.”

“The only thing I’m imagining is you.”

The Oracle grinned with ancient menace. “You’re a greater fool than you think.”

“And what about your part in my foolishness? You did this too.”

Her smile closed but persisted. Decadin pushed himself to his feet and took a closer look at that immortal face, at the eyes that stared past his flesh, than he had ever dared.

“Don’t act like you didn’t set my course. Yes, I did this, just as you said, but your predictions would have never come to pass if I never came to hear them.”

“Self-fulfilling prophecy?" She was wreathed in a halo of elemental smugness. "Your science has no data to prove it, so you must rely on your faith.”

“What?”

“You embraced reason since we first spoke, but you were always too smart to let go of your superstition.”

With the strength of dire circumstances, Decadin shoved the Oracle. His hands passed through like a ghost.

He growled. “Revenge for the Old Faiths? Your Deftists, your Eej-Landians?”

Her smile opened. Liquid chaos poured from between her teeth to the floor.

Decadin scrambled into a far corner, staring in horror. “What in Pelbee’s name?!”

“THAT IS STILL THE GOD YOU CHOOSE?” she hissed, closing in with gentle steps. The colorful gas carved runes into the floor, writing in tongues that died before the Ascended Nation was born. “YOU PRAY TO THE CITY THAT EATS YOU?”

“Guards! Come, please!”

“ONE MORE PROPHECY FOR THE HERO WHO SAVED US ALL. THIS IS REVENGE—”

“Sweet Aster, protect me!”

“—FOR NOTHING. ONLY TRUTH!”

The Oracle gasped, savored the stale prison air, and roared a whirlwind of mana into Decadin’s screaming face.

---

Yaldev is a sci-fantasy worldbuilding project by Ulysses Maurer, with art by Beeple. By looking at narratives, stylized loredumps, bad poetry and little details, we'll witness the story of a planet filled with magical power, the nation which tried to conquer it, this empire’s dramatic collapse and the new world which emerged in its wake. Along the way we'll meet the characters who live here, and we'll explore questions about nationalism, rationalism, the natural world and the quest to master it. For all stories in chronological order, check out the pinned posts at r/Yaldev!

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yes-i-have-thoughts · 2 years ago

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Who wants some tidbits about OCs that I never talk about because my Tumblr profile has slowly been getting murdered thanks to hiatus

[REDACTED]/KREATUR/WESEN

- Spawned from the one (1) time I drew GL!Ranboo as a creature (because why not) while listening to ‘Bloody Mary’ on a five-hour loop and the idea that came from it went so far off course from canon that it went from an AU to an original story idea

- (In my defense I drew him when I was only 20 minutes into the first episode. I barely had any idea what I was getting into at the time so of course my creative drive was going to derail)

- (My brain needs to stop dragging people up when I’m 30 seconds into their source (iykyk))

- ANYWAY.

- Wesen’s real name has been lost to time. He’s not that old, he just doesn’t remember his name due to being punished whenever he tried to correct his captor on what it was

- His captor called him Kreatur ("Creature"; "die Kreatur - creature, creation, wretch, minion") to dehumanize and objectify him. This drove him insane for obvious reasons so he somehow got his hands on a German dictionary and fought to change his name to Wesen ("das Wesen [German] being, nature, essence, creature, character, entity") instead. Because if you’re gonna call him a creature you could at least be nice about it

- His captor let it go and he’s gone by Wesen for years since.

- Wesen’s also a walking bomb! He has a kill switch built in to the base of his skull that can also be used to give him a headache ranging from “oh owie” to “my brain is pressing against my skull and I am in agony”. If his captor cranks it all the way up his head will explode. It’s supposed to stop any act of rebellion and is therefore a literal explosive leash.

- He’s not aware of its existence and his captor gives him a headache severe enough to make him pass out from the pain if any of his fellow prisoners draw attention to it, so he won’t know it exists until it’s too late.

- It likely might’ve been put on him since he killed two people when a team tried to catch him. Maybe they should’ve left him alone, then.

- Wesen isn’t human. Avery (a fellow prisoner) calls him a canine, and she’s half right. He’s a dog-like bipedal creature with white fur covered in black spots

- I’ll get around to drawing him one day. He’s on the planned roster for Art Fight.

- He wouldn’t hurt a fly, most of the time. He’s sort of a doormat. That said, he’s not totally innocent and he does have blood on his hands--not all of it unintentional, either. His captor holds this above his head as a reason why they can’t let him go.

- He’s a lot smarter than he acts. Turns out he’s playing dumb, since—as he’ll later tell Avery—it’s saved his life over and over again.

- He’s masculine-leaning agender.

BELPHALAGOR

- Goes by “Bel”. Also masculine-leaning, but more genderfluid than agender.

- Belphalagor is a bipedal goat who swears he’s average height and everyone else is just a tallass. They use Wesen as its “proof” of this, but Wesen’s barely an inch over average height (5′ 9″)

- Whereas Bel herself is 3-4 feet tall.

- Bel is made of ink, sort of. He has flesh, but their blood is black, smells strongly of something not natural and is poison to ingest (as some more feral enemies will find out). It obviously wasn’t born this way but tends to dodge the question as to how this came to be.

- She’s stuck in a suit most of the time, but prefer wearing dresses. The once time he gets a chance to they jump on it.

- Bel’s eyes are closed 90% of the time, rendering them blind. It heavily depends on Wesen to guide her around.

- Something happens later on that reveals why he prefers to keep their eyes closed as much as possible.

- (he/they/it/she pronouns. Bugger’s collecting the things.)

[REDACTED]/AVERY

- Avery is the must humanoid of the bunch. This is because unlike the other two she’s not a canine creature or Mountain Goat stolen, experimented on, then stolen again. She’s a human that got kidnapped and freed herself when they tried turning her into a bird woman. (These people really like amalgamating animals with the weirdest shit.)

- She acts like your typical action woman cliche—no-nonsense, only sane person in the group, tragic backstory, “I don’t need a man”—but she’s not immune to being silly. She slowly drops her guard the more time she spends around idiots 1 and 2 (affectionate).

- They’re both fools but they’re HER fools and she loves them. (The sentiment is returned ten-fold once she drops the “I’m too good for you” act.)

- She’s a bit of a fool too, though she won’t admit it.

- She has a plague doctor mask pretty much fused to her face. A modern-day one, based off a crow. She can take it off, but it’s very painful and what’s underneath isn’t pretty.

- Her hair is pretty short and growing...Weird. It’s all spikey and feathered. She’s kept it short as much as she could until she can find someone to reverse this bloody bird transfusion.

- She’s also got feathers growing out of her arms. It’s painfully slow, but they’re becoming more noticeable as time goes on.

- She and Bel butt heads often over who should do what in what context. Sometimes they fight for so long that by the time they’ve worked it out Wesen’s solved the problem already.

- She and Wesen didn’t exactly hit it off immediately. She was a bit patronizing towards him; treating him like a dog or very slow human. Once she learns that he’s not that fucking dim, though, they bond very quickly.

- She’s the only cisgender one of the group. Bel calls her the “token female” despite also using she/her pronouns (likely just to piss off Avery, who always takes the bait).

- Avery’s name was given to be a play on “aviary”. She can’t stand it, but she doesn’t remember her old name so she’s currently stuck with it.

#El writes #Wesen #Belphalagor #Avery #Kill Switch #/a2t

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lvsifer · 9 months ago

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Chapter 2 under the cut! Things are gettin' spicier.

contains mentions of past non/dub-con and grooming.

Feyd-Rautha dreams of Uncle, the great mass of him weighing him down, hands that have known his body since childhood and under whose touch he keens and moans, he dreams of Uncle’s hot horrible mouth and the ever-present hatred flowing alongside his blood in the darkness of his veins. The medicinal stench of Uncle envelops Feyd-Rautha as hands carefully and efficiently treat his wounds, but he wakes to no mountainous shadow above, only the changing faces of his prison-masters.

Or does he dream still? Is that the growing monstrous shape of the new Reverend Mother, her burning blue gaze upon him like a real thing, like she could part his flesh right under it? And beside her the princess-bride in her Corrino chainmail, eldest daughter of Shaddam and witch to the core? And there, the lone figure of Muad’dib, well-born features somehow changed by desert worship. Their whispers do not reach him, but triumph and cunning need few words.

Feyd-Rautha closes his eyes and sinks back into his quarters on Giedi Prime, black and steel and the iron tang of blood, the laughter of his harpies and the animal sounds of consumption—tearing flesh from bone with their teeth, lacquered black as his own for pride and sign of their high standing.

The dream does not last. Dry winds tear him back to Dune.

Feyd-Rautha wakes to an empty chamber. It is night again. How many days have passed since his talk with the boy-prophet? He cannot tell, but when he peels off the bandages on his chest, they reveal soft pink flesh where his wounds have knitted together under interlinked plasters and black medicinal paste. No more stitches. The stock of Giedi Prime heals quickly, but not that quickly. It must have been two weeks at least. Two weeks! Much must have happened since the day he fought the Atreides heir.

Silence all about him here when the Known Universe must be at war! Feyd-Rautha sits up in his bed, he still feels sore and the new skin on his torso stretches thinly over his wounds, easily ripped again, so he moves with careful slowness and stands, but he stands firmly. He could fight. He’s killed in worse condition. The prospect of it lashes his pulse to a quick drum beat. He paces the room and counts his steps, checks for hidden doorways and finds one behind the sandworm tapestry, no hinges or handle, only a half-a-finger deep rectangle slit in the stone, perhaps two metres high. No way to move it. No hidden mechanism nearby to open it no matter where he presses and prods. It must be outside access only. Is that how Muad’Dib came to him? In secret? But why would he have need for secrecy? Feyd-Rautha walks to the door proper and presses his ear to the stone to listen. Quiet chatter in the Fremen’s rat language. He counts six voices. A smile spreads on his lips. At least they don’t underestimate him, useful as that would be, his pride revives in some measure.

He tries the door and rattles against its lock. The voices behind quiet in an instant, before they return in short commands. Good. Let his captors come.

When the doors open it is not Muad’Dib who enters, nor any of his household, but a Fremen in desert garb and blood-speckled stillsuit underneath, a man with the spice-blue eyes and hatred in his visage that sends hot thrills through Feyd-Rautha’s chest. The man does not introduce himself, but he walks with an air of authority, a Sietch Naib. For a moment Feyd-Rautha had hoped to see the Atreides, but he shoves the disappointment of it away, focusing on the man who now with the six guards flanking him, escorts Feyd-Rautha through a long passageway.

How many steps between here and where they go? He counts the paces and notes the turns and twists through the twi-lit castle. He remembers its ichnography and orients himself. They are in the northwing, the imperial residence, the coolest and darkest part of the Arakeen castle. So Atreides keeps him close.

Four of the guards escorting him are Fremen, the others Outerworldlers, speaking in hushed Galach.

“...dangerous to keep such a…”

“...would have been better he had killed…”

“Harkonnen scum…”

Feyd-Rautha winks at them as he passes them by into a spacious hall. For banquets no doubt by the look of the long stone table. The Reverend Mother whore sits on one end, the shape of her bigger still than when he last had seen her, veiled and chiming from the chains that hang in a looped pattern over her tattooed face. And within, her blue eyes follow each of Feyd-Rautha’s movements. She is calm, sharply focussed and looks with the inward awareness of the Bene Gesserit that has always unnerved Feyd-Rautha and that Uncle has warned him about. His mother had looked like that, too. Next to her, the Corrino princess takes notation. She is a historian of note, Uncle told him once, or some such fatuity. And there, sitting half on top the table is Paul Muad’Dib, biting into an apple just as their gazes meet. The crack of the fruit echoes like bone breaking through the hall.

“I see you’ve healed well,” the boy drawls easily and with a subtle hand sign dismisses the guards. The princess does not even look up from her writing, while that witch mother of his does not let him out of her sight for a second.

Surreptitiously, Feyd-Rautha scans the hall’s exits, hands twitching for his black and white Harkonnen knives. How easy it would be to kill him here.

The Atreides smiles.

Or perhaps not.

“How can I serve you?” Feyd-Rautha asks mock-thick and with a bold step towards him.

“ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ,” The Reverend Mother says.

Feyd-Rautha halts in his movement as though a hand struck him to stillness. Of course that’s who the Atreides learned it from.

“Tell me what you want of me,” Feyd-Rautha hisses, “I may be your prisoner, but I am the rightful Baron of Giedi Prime and all its abundant holdings no less.”

“Rightful?” Paul Atreides asks and slips from the table to slowly stalk towards him. The boy rounds him with long strides. “You have rights to nothing, unless I grant it.”

Paul stops in front of him, looks at him through his long dark lashes.

“You forget I am Harkonnen, too, cousin. I have a claim to your title.”

Impatience boils in him, but he reigns in the rage and sinks to his knees in front of the Atreides.

“Stake your claim then, Atreides.” The dare is obvious.

Now, the princess raises her gaze, though her fingers continue to inscribe her capsule.

Paul tilts his head. “You will give it to me.”

“What would you give me in exchange?”

“Your life.”

Feyd-Rautha laughs and in it hears the laugh of Uncle.

“An unfit bargain. I’d ask for death before I hand over my barony without a fight.”

“What do you want?” Paul asks, as though they were arguing about the price of fish, but there is a strain to his muscles that does not escape Feyd-Rautha.

Feyd-Rautha glares at the two women at the table.

“If we negotiate the future of my house, it will be alone.”

Paul makes to rebuke him, but the Reverend Mother stands, one hand placed on her stomach, her eyes sharp as an eagle circling its prey. She smiles at Feyd-Rautha and a shiver runs down his spine against his will. Her stare penetrates, suggestion and power and something old and many-eyed looks at him through her. He has to avert his gaze, he grits his teeth.

“The Lisan al-Gaib needs no advice to deal with dogs,” she says, unnatural in her surety, and then she listens to something—and nods. “Indeed, Alia,” she says. With a shudder Feyd-Rautha realises she speaks to her unborn.

“Come, daughter,” she says and the princess stands too, collecting her engraving pen and capsule, impassive in all her gestures, but Feyd-Rautha has been warned of her astuteness. She plays the part of bookish dispassion nearly to perfection. These women, he thinks, might be deadlier than a blade. He must be careful.

Paul waits until they have left the hall before he turns back to Feyd-Rautha. Something has changed in him, something has fallen off his visage that before cloaked him in civility.

Still on his knees, Feyd-Rautha looks at the crysknife at Paul’s hip, wondering how long he would have until guards would barrage in if he were to take the Atreides in a fight. Not long enough.

“Speak your price,” Paul says.

“Come closer,” Feyd-Rautha murmurs.

Paul draws near until Feyd-Rautha can rake a hand up his leg. Paul allows it. Feyd-Rautha’s fingers are just one jolt away from the knife. Paul looks down at him coldly, and for a split second his face goes slack and his stare shrouds with darkness. What was that?

“The future is uncertain,” Paul says and sinks down next to him. The boy’s breath fans over his cheek and quickens Feyd-Rauta’s heartbeat. The last time they were this close he had set his heart on death. He feels it again, the intimacy of Paul’s knife as though it were sliding into him.

“You’re mine,” Paul whispers and his hand finds Feyd-Rautha’s throat. His blue-within-blue eyes hold a spell over him. “That much I am certain of.”

Heat swells inside Feyd-Rautha. Paul squeezes his throat and a trill of arousal shoots through him, hot between his thighs. His breath hitches. Air tight. He grabs Paul’s wrist but does not remove it from his neck. He slides his fingers against the inside of the boy’s wrist. A steady pulse.

“I want—” Feyd-Rautha rasps, “My seat of office. My holdings.”

“Giedi Prime will surrender,” Paul hisses, and he feels the boy’s heartbeat quicken. Urgency. Perhaps even despair. “Lest I unleash my legions and burn it to the ground.” Closer. “And do you not deserve annihilation? After all your house has done.”

Feyd-Rautha turns his face against Paul's. Shared breath.

“For what, Atreides? The death of your father?” Feyd-Rautha rasps. “Great houses kill each other all the time.” He presses against the hand on his throat. “Giedi Prime will surrender if you reinstate my rank. Not before.” He speaks it like Uncle would, but it is the heat that draws him, the fire of power in the boy more than the price.

A hard shove crushes Feyd-Rautha against the floor. The prophet is on top of him, and Feyd-Rautha is fully hard against his enemy. He chokes out a moan, blood thrumming in his ears as though he is in the arena again, or under Uncle.

Paul’s fingers dig into his wound, the touch does not open skin but it could. Feyd-Rautha wants it. He grabs Paul and in a hard sweep pushes Paul down into the dust, straddles him, knocks the air out of his lungs. And grabs for his knife.

“ꜱᴛᴏᴘ!”

Feyd-Rautha halts.

“If you touch my knife, you die. You cannot desecrate it.”

“I’ve desecrated worse,” Feyd-Rautha breathes against Paul’s lips. He pushes his hands into Paul’s thick hair, and the boy rears up beneath him.

The edge of Paul’s blade pushes against Feyd-Rautha’s neck. He feels his cock twitch and Paul must feel it too where he sits on the boy’s hips. Shame and arousal flood Feyd-Rautha in equal measure.

“Do it.” Feyd-Rautha leans lower, feeling his skin split as he presses his mouth against that of his cousin. Paul’s lips are chipped and hot and Feyd-Rautha pushes his tongue inside and tastes the spice-heat of him and for a moment that is all there is to the world. Blood drips down his chin to their mouths. Paul’s fist jabs into his stomach. The next second Feyd-Rautha is on his back again.

Paul’s boot comes down on his throat. Blood mingles with dirt.

Feyd-Rautha moves his hand to his aching cock and grabs himself through his garment as Paul puts more weight on his throat.

“Cousin,” Feyd-Rautha groans.

Paul ignores the vulgarity before him and licks Feyd-Rautha’s blood from his lips, but there is no sensuality in it, only the ingestion of moisture. And something else, too.

Ownership.

“You’re an animal.” Paul snarls, he looks like he wants to spit out Feyd-Rautha’s taste but instead he swallows. Paul crouches next to him, mindful of Feyd-Rautha’s every movement. “But I have broken hounds many a time, even as a boy.” And softer, “You are no different.”

“Make me your dog,” Feyd-Rautha says, “but leave me my house.”

“Why should I when I have you at my mercy?”

“Because it’s what you’ve planned already, isn’t it cousin?”

Paul observes him, shows nothing. What was their little tumble for if not to placate Feyd-Rautha?

“You do not care for my title.” Feyd-Rautha fights down the anger of having been manipulated so easily. “Only my holdings. “You want to ally our houses, by oath and contract. To avoid bloodshed.” Now it’s Feyd-Rautha's turn to observe the would-be emperor.

There it is. That despair again, and so near it, the rage of the boy whose father and household died by Harkonnen design.

“I will give you half my holdings.”

“Two-thirds.”

Feyd-Rautha laughs, agrees. Giedi Prime’s official estates and profit are only part of what Uncle kept in his secret coffers.

“Your trickery will not serve you,” Paul says as though glimpsing his thoughts. “I will bring you to heel, Harkonnen.”

“I am looking forward to it,” Feyd-Rautha grins, and thinks, I will kill him.

Paul Muad’Dib Atreides lets go of him and rights his garments. The boy touches his lips with his fingertips.

“Don’t do that again.”

Then Paul steps back and opens the door to his mother who has waited outside. Together they leave. Paul spares no second glance for his prisoner as though he does not exist beyond the confines of the hall.

Feyd-Rautha looks after him and touches his own lips, his throat and the cut.

Something takes root in Feyd-Rautha, far deeper and more poisonous than hate:

Longing.

Paul Atreides denies him an easy death. Feyd-Rautha has to deal with his new position.

tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content (in the later chapters), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, feyd-rauther is his usual little freak self, will include mentions of noncon later on

Read all under the cut:

Paul Atreides denies him an easy death. Feyd-Rautha does not bleed out in front of the emperor and the terrorist’s household, his Fremen filth and whore mother. Instead, Feyd-Rautha dreams of death on the dirty floor of a prison cell.

Blood rusts over his mouth, dries to flakes before his body hits the stone, and Feyd-Rautha tongues at it as his hands try to staunch the bleeding of his wounds. He presses where Paul Muad’Dib Atreides has pushed inside him with his blade, hot from the desert air, a pleasure so close to pain or pain so close to pleasure, Feyd-Rautha cannot name the difference.

He writhes now where he lays in a silence more shameful than defeat. All his life he has fantasised of dying in battle, perhaps in the arena, broken by a stronger hand with the rush of fighting still hot in his blood and the screams of the masses in his ears. Triumphant. Foolish of him. Such wishes come to nothing. This is one lesson the Baron could not teach him, not while he had held Feyd-Rautha under the monstrous wing of his tutelage. Sheltered is what he had been, he realises as flies start to buzz around him, landing on his opened flesh. He swats them away, but they circle him as merciless as any blood-drinking desert bird. No, he rots as any piece of meat left under Arrakis’ pitiless sun.

But he will not die. Or have they thrown him into this cell to find an ignominious end and shame the house of Harkonnen? But what advantage would that bring? Half-delirious, Feyd-Rautha shoves a swath of his leather pteruges over his wounds and pulls it tight against his opened skin to shield it from the flies and what eggs they might burrow into his flesh. A shaky exhale flees his lips as he tries to slow his breathing. What would Uncle say if he saw him like this, disgraced and defeated? Would he have fallen from the favour he clawed his way into? Then again, Uncle is dead. Slaughtered like a pig. The memory stirs Feyd-Rautha’s blood and he moans through his teeth.

The door opens. Feyd-Rautha looks at the upside-down figures, dark-robed, Suk-braids over their left shoulders, a man kneels down beside him, painted lips, cold eyes, and a finger presses into Feyd-Rautha’s mouth with a salve so bitter and tingling he forgets all else for a moment.

Then darkness sears his eyes shut.

When next Feyd-Rautha wakes, it’s in an airy room. Black night outside. Translucent white curtains billow and desert wind scatters fine dust over the luxurious trappings of the room: a massive wooden table shining with polish, jewels set into silverware, finely wrought tapestries depicting one of the Arrakeen beasts, a sandworm—

A figure moves from between the curtains, a slow, irregular step. The tall and lean silhouette of the would-be emperor. Feyd-Rautha feels for his wounds, bandaged, then tests his muscles and grits his teeth as pain shoots through him so incandescent he sees lights behind his lids.

“Cousin,” Paul Atreides says in his slow, dragging voice, a voice that holds witch-power as they all heard when Muad’Dib silenced Shaddam’s Truthsayer.

Feyd-Rautha groans as he tries to sit up.

Paul watches his efforts from above with cold blue-within-blue eyes. Eyes that are not his own, it seems, eyes that shimmer with a strangeness that makes Feyd-Rautha shiver.

Paul slinks closer, desert-creature, false prophet, predator. Killer. Except, of course, Feyd-Rautha is alive and by his wish. Or has he died in that filthy cell?

“You recover well,” Paul says. “But I will need you to heal faster.”

Feyd-Rautha sits up with all his strength, feels one of the stab-wounds’ stitches rip. Blood blooms through the white bandages on his torso. Paul tuts. Then Paul is beside him and pushes him back down, efficient, his hands warm on Feyd-Rautha’s skin, black dusty curls brushing his cheek, and Feyd-Rautha breathes him in, spice and desert and a hint of the acrid stench of stillsuits, and beneath it something boyish and honied. Feyd-Rautha wants to sink his teeth into it, tear him apart.

“Why?” Feyd-Rautha rasps. “Why didn’t you kill—”

“I don’t waste my resources,” Paul says.

The Atreides lets go of him as though he’s handled some unruly hound.

“Resources…?”

“Don’t play dumb, Harkonnen,” Paul says evenly, and after a moment’s hesitation he sits on the mattress beside Feyd-Rautha. The oddness of it strikes him, no-one has ever sat beside his sick-bed, certainly not Uncle, nor maid or doctor. He would have killed any who’d have tried. He looks for a weapon now. His eyes sink to the crysknife at Paul’s hip. Iron tang of blood in his mouth.

“Try it,” Paul says, steel in his voice that he’d already shown when confronting the emperor. Power too, the fierceness of a demigod.

“I just might,” Feyd-Rautha says and finds Paul’s gaze, grins, “Make you kill me after all, cousin.” He bares his black teeth, “All this for nothing.”

And Feyd-Rautha spits his blood into Paul’s face. Paul does not flinch. His blue-within-blue eyes seem to burn in the glint of the glowglobes. He’s beautiful like that, with his blood on his face, and it hits Feyd-Rautha unexpectedly. Time stills around them. Breath does not come easily as he inhales.

“I rule you now,” Paul whispers, dips two fingers into the blood on his cheek and sucks it off his fingers, “Your water is mine.”

A shiver runs down Feyd-Rautha’s spine, humiliation and with it the hook of desire low in his stomach. If Paul notices what it does to him, he does not show it.

“What do you want of me?” Feyd-Rautha curls his fists in the bedding.

“You’ll know soon enough, Baron,” Paul says and stands. “Heal quickly.”

With that, he leaves.

The rush of wind and sand fills the room. The grating of it, abrading all it touches. Feyd-Rautha bites his lip, breathes in deeply until all scent of the boy-prophet has gone and cold darkness envelops him whole.

This planet holds nothing but strangers now. The only family Feyd-Rautha has left is Paul Atreides.

#feydpaul #paulfeyd #paul x feyd #feyd x paul #paul atreides #paul atreides x feyd rautha #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune #dune fanfiction #dune fic #paulfeyd fic #dune fanfic

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quess-art · 3 years ago

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Part 2 of designing @thelazyhermits 's fantasy AU. Introducing the rogue Yuan-ti Halfblood! Shinso and Aasimar! Eri. Also introducing Sticky the Weasel! Aptly named by Haze for his kleptomania 🐾

☕Buy Quess a Ko-fi? II ✏️Commission Page Coming Soon? II FAQ

More info undercut!

The society Shinso lives in should make him a part of the upper echelons but unfortunately for him, he was born in the wrong place at the wrong time. At the bottom rung of society, his only motivation for living is to spite his captors by escaping and living the life they said he didn't deserve. Even if his lesions and scabs covered his swollen scales and even if he had to accept the vile gruel to survive another day.

Perhaps it was the grand festival that shifted the guard's rotation, perhaps it was his captor's confidence over the fear embedded into him, perhaps it was his patience and observation in his shitty cell over the years, or perhaps lady luck finally decided to give him a break that created an opportunity for his escape.

However, escape comes at a cost. A bounty reaching throughout the continent -- dead or alive. His captors did not care about "Shinso" but "the runaway slave". The bounty was a show of power to all -- especially other prisoners who may have had the same idea. Living in the shadows in constant fear and paranoia, he hid.

The only other hope he had was to amass enough funds to escape the continent altogether because not even that bastard would invest that many resources into just one runaway.

But he would survive. He would survive and find a life for himself no matter the cost.

The Yuan-ti society in Shinso's case is a mix of several reptilian races. Although Halfbloods should be revered, due to elements he couldn't control, his autonomy was replaced by runic chains

Shinso used to call his captor his "master" because that was the only word he knew to call him besides "bastard" and a slew of profanities. A boy he's never met in the cell next to his taught him that word. It was the last he heard of the boy

Compounding with Shinso's extreme disdain for others, his lacking psionic abilities brought him lower and lower on the social pyramid

Although he could've made for an excellent wizard, circumstances lend him down the path of a rogue. Later, with the help of Aizawa and Fortune, they create opportunities for him to enroll in a school for wizards to nurture his potential

Gruff and wary, he would have pushed away everyone except for Eri, someone he, for some reason, had a hard time abandoning. Ever the hypocrite, his silence and cynicism came at odds with his long-buried desire to care for others

He has a soft spot for Eri as he admires and relates to her resolve. Once Eri's cheeks became fuller and the wisps of light started to grow on her back, he often watched over her so her childlike curiosity wouldn't land her in trouble

Eri cannot remember a time before the Shie Hassaikai took her. She didn't know why exactly she had to "serve penance" for crimes she didn't know she committed. She was only told that her great sins burned the celestial feathers on her back and the ritual would help others through her pain. A selfless and lonely girl she was believing in Overhaul's cunning tongue.

Her face became gaunt with abyssal shadows gathering around her eyes, the skeletal branches on her back, a mockery of the celestial plane, pulling her skin tethering her to the earth. A twisting horn split and dry like hay sprouted from her forehead.

She didn't know why -- perhaps it was compliance and a changing of the guards -- and she didn't care but once she saw an escape, she took it. It wasn't her first escape attempt and she certainly didn't forget the fear instilled in her. But this time it was different. Instead of the indifference of the crowd, she bumped into a certain rude Yuan-ti Halfblood.

Both in similar circumstances, they implicitly understood that if the other left the other behind, there would be no hard feelings. At least Eri wouldn't hold it against him. The bounty Overhaul placed dwarfed Shinso's -- more than enough to buy his freedom. It was just the way of the world.

Yet, through all those close calls and sacrifice, why did he protect her despite his silence and harsh words?

The Shie Hassaikai is a DnD cult but rather than robes and an eldritch God, they use the capitalistic market and the worst impulses of mortals

Overhaul saw great potential and investment in Eri as a Fallen Aasimar however due to her goodness and will, it took longer than he expected to break her in. In the end, he could not control her as she formed bonds and good influences that shielded her from his guile

After Fortune and her group, Shinso, along with the help of some others took down Overhaul, they focused on Eri's mental state. They taught her to care without shedding pieces of herself, to protect without relentless martyrism, to love herself, to care. It took a while and a deal with another plane-touched celestial to rid of the shadow inside her

Unfortunately, Overhaul's brand glows where her horn once was. But later, when she had made peace with herself, all traces of his influence burned under her radiant soul

Depending on who she meets, Eri has the potential to become a bard or a paladin! A bard to heal and mend broken minds and a paladin to protect those she cares for. In her young life, many protected her so now she seeks to protect others!

She adores Fortune's magic shows and loves how huge Fatgum's is! The half-giant carries her and shows her world seen through the eyes of the sky. Aizawa and Shinso often have to be the responsible caretakers lol

#bnha #mha #shinsou hitoshi #eri #bnha fantasy au #fortune #lil' doots #kofi #kofi request #the theme for the two was the innate goodness of people #that people aren't defined by their trauma and with support they can build themselves up #it's not easy but the connections people make is a beautiful thing

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titlemewickedwonderland · 2 years ago

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Mr. Sandman (Chapter 8)

Summary: Felicity Burgess, the adopted daughter of Alex Burgess and Paul McGuire lived a sheltered life from the dark secret that lay beneath her feet. But what happens when that secret is now her's to keep? Will her love for her family keep her from doing the right thing or will Mr. Sandman bring her a dream worth sacrificing everything?

Chapter Triggers: Slight fluff

"Dreams are more profound when they are the most crazy." - Sigmund Freud

Click here for Chapter 7

Wonderland's Workshop

It was sad. Seeing the castle the way it never should have ever been. It looked terrible. The throne room itself could have been something extraordinary in its full glory. Large rocks of stone crumbled and piled upon each other on the ground. Shattered pieces of colorful glass came from the floor-to-ceiling masterpiece of a mosaic window behind the platform where a throne once sat. It was dark and gloomy inside this room as if it sat forgotten for centuries. It did, now that she came to think of it. She imagined this room once was something grand. Did parties get thrown within this very room? Guests of the Dreaming dancing, laughing, and feasting together? Was there a happiness that once made this room glow with laughter and peels of the joy of others' company? Would she ever know? She should not feel the guilt that dug its clawed into her heart the longer she looked around the room. The faint light from the remaining glass windows made this place look like the pathetic ruins it was. She knew it was not her fault; she wasn't born when Roderick Burgess captured Dream of the Endless. But it was still her family that did him wrong and as one who bore the name; she too felt as if the crime against him was her own.

Glass crunched beneath her boots as she cautiously stepped inside. She could almost think she could feel the very castle itself weep with the hope of another living soul entering its halls after so long of an absence. The sigh that left her lungs was heavy and echoed in the open space. She sat on a large crumbled stone that once was a piece of this place and drew her knees to her chest. She was struggling to understand the events that had transpired recently; the identity crisis was a real thing at that moment in time as she wondered what everything meant. She could chalk everything up to just being some misunderstanding at the end of the day. But the way Lucienne and Morpheus spoke about the very idea she, Felicity Burgess, did not exist made her skin crawl as if she was not even human. Was she human? Of course, she was! She ate, slept, cried, and experienced life just like every other human in her world. But there was still so much she didn't understand about Morpheus's world.

It made her think back to the interactions she'd had with the Dream Lord. Not only just the interactions, but the pull they seemed to share. It was not normal. Did she have some sort of reverse Stockholm syndrome or something? Falling for the prisoner instead of the prisoner falling in love with their capture? But she was not Morpheus's captor. She was just a girl who had been dragged into all of this. Now, she was told she may have more purpose than she truly thought. If they can find her origin story that is.

She did not hear him come into the room. She was so lost in thought she had not felt him enter until his voice broke through the silence of the open space around her. Echoing in just a way that reminded her of something old and hauntingly ancient.

"I believe I owe you an apology."

She was startled looking over towards the door to find his tall frame slowly sulking from the shadows and into the pale light as he drew near. His features were troubled with something she could not place but she was secretly happy that he was coming to apologize. At least he had some sort of manners. She knew the little flutter in her chest wasn't just happy to hear him say sorry but just from the mere presence of him near her; of him seeking her out to talk to her.

"Glad we are on the same page. Because that was a dick move earlier Morpheus." the curse falling from her mouth made the man blink at her in mild surprise but he did not say anything about the crudity of it; she was troubled right now and it best not to get on her bad side while he was here to apologize.

"I acted irrationally earlier. I do admit." he took a step closer as if gauging her approachability. "I feared perhaps I had trusted the wrong people again and placed my realm in even more danger."

Felicity sighed then and dropped her feet back onto the floor; palms leaning against the cold stone of the rock she sat on and leaned towards him. "I'm not mad as I was before Morpheus…but I suppose Matthew did have a point." she tilted her head watching him. "You've lost a lot all because of my family's greed and selfishness, I can understand that having my presence near while I bear the Burgess name can be a bit difficult."

She rose to her feet and waved her arms around idly as she walked further into the room. "I feel as if I should be the one telling you sorry for everything. You were only doing what you thought was right at the moment; can't fault you for that," she replied smoothly; she didn't want any more doom and gloom in this space already possessed.

She could hear the crunch of stone and glass beneath Morpheus's boots as he followed her deeper into the room. She stopped by the steps and looked up at the crumbling throne for a long moment before she shot the Dream Lord a glance over her shoulder before she was skipping up the steps quickly. When she got to the top she spun around to face the front of the room and gawked.

"Damn Morpheus, I see why you like to be king. Nice view." she teased only half joking.

She could only imagine how it must have looked from his eyes on days that were filled with peace and prosperity. She watched from her perch as the lord of the castle slowly; with measured steps almost as if he were stalking prey, strode up one step at a time with purpose until he stood with one foot braced on the top step and he peered up at her in a way that made her hold her breath. She didn't imagine the Lord of Dreams often allowed himself to physically be on a lower level than others.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked suddenly as she scanned his face. Her voice was soft but there was an intensity about her gaze that was desperate for answers.

He paused with lips parted slightly as if he was lost for words. Instead, he turned and sat down on the steps with his arms braced on his propped legs. He was silent for so long that Felicity thought that he would choose to ignore the question. But when his voice slowly began to speak with purposeful she was keen to listen.

"I do not make friends. I do not understand humanity in the way my sister Death does. For this, I often falter when it comes to interacting with those of my creation and those from the Waking World."

The girl mulled over that information before she slowly allowed her body to sink onto the step next to him. "You know," she began softly as she looked ahead at the rumble below them

"When I was going up, people would often turn away from me and refuse to allow their children to play with me all because I had the last name of an old man who was scorned and cast aside for his ideals and practices. They said I would follow in his footsteps and practice magic," she said slowly.

"I never understood how humanity could so easily throw people away because views did not match or…or people just wanting to live their lives in ways that were not those of common folks with the same clone minds, you know?" a sad smile graced her features as she looked over at Morpheus who was watching her with an expressionless face.

"W-what I'm trying to say is…humanity has many layers to it. A lot of the time history will repeat itself because people fear taking that step to break the cycle that our ancestors have created for the future. The thing is, history is the past for a reason; it's like a mistake you know. It happened and we can choose to either learn from it or repeat it until we do learn it. But that does not mean that there are not good people out there Morpheus." she swallowed and raised a hand to slip it beneath his arm to lightly grasp hold of his bicep.

"Hope never dies because there are far too many opportunities and people out there to be able to kill it. So, if you don't understand humanity now doesn't mean that you cannot be taught." she smiled softly at him before she rose to her feet and took one step down the stairs before her wrist was caught in a cold palm making her turn to look up at Morpheus who was staring at her with this almost…soft look on his face.

"Will you teach me?"

The question came out as a surprise to Felicity but her lips curled up into a smile regardless as she felt that buzz thrum in her chest even stronger. Letting out a soft laugh she leaned herself down to be eye level with him; her smile turning a bit teasingly as she tilted her head, her auburn locks falling over her shoulders

"Only if you admit we are friends." she squinted at him playfully and she was rewarded by the tiniest of smirks on his lips

"I don't have friends Felicity."

she pouted and straightened up again pretending she was going to leave as she turned. "Well, then I guess we don't have a deal," she replied

She felt him more than she heard him as he rose to his full height and his hand reach out to grab her arm; spinning her right back around only this time he stood only one step above her and she had to crane her head up to meet his blue eyes as they stared down at her through half-lidded lashes as if he was trying to communicate something with his eyes that his words could not express fully.

Biting the inside of her cheek she tapped his chest lightly with a finger. "How about this, you help me find who I am Morpheus, and I help you find your tools with whatever I have at my disposal. After we are both happy with the results; you can decide whether I'm worthy of being called your friend." she offered as she studied his features.

They slowly darkened but she didn't let him argue with her. "You need those tool to rebuild this realm and frankly you can use all the damn help you can find considering the only people you have on your side right now is a librarian and a raven," she told him with eyes darkening in return. "You don't have a choice and frankly, neither do it. It's mutually beneficial to each other."

He seemed to take a breath as he mulled over her words. Finally, he nodded silently and allowed her arm to go. She gave a big grin and turned around again to descend the stairs.

"Great! Come find me when you decide your gonna go hopping off somewhere in search of your tools!" she called cheerily

She didn't see the way Morpheus's face darkened and his body stiffen as he slowly returned to his seat on the top steps staring at the door where the redheaded spitfire had disappeared seconds before.

She should have known it wouldn't last long. The feeling of trust. The feeling of safety. The feeling of belonging. Because just as she found herself getting comfortable in the Dreaming realm thinking everything would be sorted in due time; she could trust Morpheus. He decided to pull this stunt. She thought they were making progress. Felicity sitting in the Library of Dreaming; pouring herself over one of the volumes about the creation of The Dreaming she found so fascinating. So pulled into the words well written on the pages in front of her she didn't hear or register the sound of rushed footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Felicity! Felicity, come quickly! Morpheus has returned!" Lucienne seemed excited as she pulled herself up to the top step.

The auburn-haired girl turned her attention to the librarian a bit startled to see the woman out of breath. Lucienne never rushed anywhere even in haste. But there was something within her dark eyes that made Felicity's heart rate pick up. What had gotten the woman so excited that she dared to run to find the girl? Gently, she closed the book and rose to her feet. She did not bother to put it back if the Librarian was in such a rush.

"What are you talking about Lucienne? What's gotten you so excited about Morpheus's return?" Felicity laughed a bit even when the feeling of curiosity shone through her gaze as she met the woman at the steps

"He and Matthew have just returned from the Waking world. They have found your necklace!" the woman pressed in urgency; eyes wide with pleasing nature.

"They found it?" the words came out of a breath of awe. "I...I didn't think they'd ever find it!" she gasped to herself.

"Come!" Lucienne urged with a hand on the girl's arm as she led her down the winding stairs and out of the comfort of the Library.

They were speed walking as they could without full-on sprinting across the hallways towards the outside doors. When they opened Felicity could make out two black shapes in the distance just appearing as the large ivory doors growled to a close behind them. She felt her heart leap in her chest in the same excitement the librarian had shown minutes before and she decided since it was her mission; she should be the first to intercept no matter how curious and quick Lucienne wanted to get her hands on the necklace with the ring. So she was quick to push past her friend to full-on run through the dunes of sand towards the man and raven.

"You found it?" she called as she got near hearing distance.

Matthew soared in the sky and circled above her before following her as she met up with Morpheus. But there was something wrong in his face when she caught sight of it. Something troubling made her pause her excitement. The smile she had on her face tightened a bit as she tried not to fight the pull of panic in her chest at his expression. Did he not find it? Was something wrong with it? Did he have to pull it out of Paul's dead grip or something? She prayed not.

"Morpheus...what's that look for..." she trailed off

The man did not say anything; merely glanced her way before passing by her to meet with Lucienne at the bridge. He ignored her. It's never a good sign when he ignores her. The panic was beginning to rise faster now as she lifted her gaze to Matthew; one arm extending above her head to allow him to perch on her wrist before drawing him in front of her face.

"Tell me..." she demanded staring the bird down grimly. "What. Happened?"

The raven ruffled his feathers a bit and cocked his head as if to look over his shoulder at his master. "I-I can't tell yah kid." his voice was apologetic as he hopped in place on her wrist. "It'd be better if the boss told you."

And with that, he took off towards the pair in the distance that was beginning to make their way inside the castle once more. Felicity, feeling left out at that moment fought the childish urge to just run away. But she knew she shouldn't; this after all was her doing. She had asked for Morpheus and Lucienne's help even if she was a little salty that they were not telling her everything. So she tucked that stubborn streak back inside of her and bite her tongue before she rushed towards the castle.

When she got inside she saw the elder pair standing talking in hushed voices in the lobby but upon seeing her entry zipped up tight. She squinted at them before stalking over and holding her hand out.

"Where is it?" she demanded

Morpheus looked down at her empty palm and then at her with a cocked brow. "You will not be getting the ring back. Not until we have sorted some business-"

"It's my ring Morpheus! You don't have the right to reject my demand."

His voice was a growl as he leaned over her. "I said what I said, Felicity."

Her mouth dropped open a minute before her open palm smacked him on the chest. The action resulted in Matthew squawking in surprise and a startled gasp escape the librarian who placed a hand to her chest as if she was gobsmacked that anyone dared hit the Lord of Dreams. Felicity on the other hand could feel the silent rumble coming from the dream lord as his hand shot out to grasp her wrist tightly. He turned to her, his body pressed just centimeters from touching her as his blue eyes nearly turned black.

"Dare to touch me again and there will be consequences." the threat was clear even if said punishment wasn't.

But Felicity knew angering this man was never a good idea, and she had done just that. The second, or was it the third, time since she'd entered the realm. The palpable power that radiated off of him was like a fire scorching her skin and a whimper left her lips unbidden. At the sound, Morpheus's gaze shifted and he withdrew a bit and allowed his grip to ease on her wrist. He realized too late that the skin beneath his fingers was turning red. Swallowing down his pride he let go altogether before speaking in a softer tone despite his anger

"Go wait in the library. I will seek you out shortly."

Keeping tears from her eyes, the girl took a step away from him; stumbling on her second before she was quick to spin around with a flurry of auburn locks and nearly run from the room. The echo of her rushed footsteps was loud in Morpheus's ears.

"Sir...what..." Lucienne tried to find words

Without a word, the dream lord slid a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a long chain. It was a delicate silver; sparkling in the feeble light shining through the windows making it look like starlight weaved through the chainlinks. But it was the ring that hung from the end that captured the pair's attention. It was most definitely not a feminine creation. It was large and it was chunky gold metal. The band was thick and there was a gold octagon shape plate that had engravings in the metal that surrounded a jewel set in the middle. But the problem was, it was no human-made jewel that resided inside the ring. But it shone the deepest of red that looked like a droplet of blood and inside the hardened case of the jewel swirled something liquid inside just beneath the surface as if it carried real blood within it.

"Is that a...?" Lucienne breathed horrified as she recognized the ancient language that was engraved in the gold medal.

Morpheus held the dangling ring in the light a bit more as he spoke. "It's a binding ring," he murmured. "And I know I have seen such as this before. For it's that mortal man that refuses to die who possessed it once in time. Though, it did not have the essence it carries now."

"Do you speak of Hob Gadling, sir?" Lucienne asked with a frown as she looked over at her ruler.

"I do." he met her gaze seriously. "and I believe it's time I visited my old acquaintance."

Click here for chapter 9

If you enjoy my work please consider reblogging to share with your friends who may like this series! Thank you! <3

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the-primordials · 2 years ago

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Characters Of Importance:

• Name: Althaia

Gender: Female

Age: 28.4 Billion

Pronouns: she/her

Species: Primordial

Title:

(Life Primordial)

Primordial Form:

She stands at 81 meters in height, and wields a pinks staff resembling a dragonfly.

Physical Appearance:

Height (163 cm), slim body build, pale ivory skin tone, orange fiery red hair, waist length wavy curly hair. Cool calming cyan eyes.

Personality:

Enigmatic, Compassionate, Free-Spirited, Emotional, Protective.

Relationship: Sister

Marital Status: Married = Husband Christos

Mini-Sum:

Althaia, Primordial of Life, The Goddess Of All Creation, Mother, Bringer Of Life, Mother Nature, Life, She Who Weeps For The Dead, Queen Of All Beginnings, The Compassionate One, Beauty Of A Thousand Stars. Althaia was the 3rd Primordial to come into existence after you. She was your first sibling for a time. Althaia was always full of life and joy, a joy that could spread to even the darkest of hearts. She was your only sibling who loved to always play with you and would always bring a sense of solace with her. Whenever she discovered something new with her powers you or Invar would be the first to know. But her smile did not last long... for it was lost the day of your imprisonment. She was defiled and made into both an object and prisoner of her own weakness. And as the eons passed by and life went on she came to love and forgive... her captor/warden. And once her children were born she did everything in her power to protect and raise them right. And now the hour strikes nigh of your unshackling. So now that you are free what will you do? Will try with all your might to bring back the sparkling spark of joy that once shone bright, back to your sister's eyes? Or will you take revenge on her Warden and hollow those once gentle eyes even further?

• Name: Mrithun

Gender: Male

Age: 28 Billion

Pronouns: he/him

Species: Primordial

Title: (Death Primordial)

Primordial Form:

He stands at 980 meters tall, and wields an ethereal looking scythe.

Physical Appearance:

Height (193 cm), muscular body build, dark skin tone, silvery white hair, ear length straight hair. Bright Alluring purple eyes.

Personality:

Indifferent, Sarcastic, Calm, Planner, Rule Follower.

Relationship: Brother

Marital Status: Married = Harem

Mini-Sum:

Mrithun, Primordial of Death, The Grimm Reaper, Angel of Death, The Eater of Souls, Harvester of Souls, He Who Comes At The End, Death Bringer, God Of The Dead, The Endless One. Mrithun was the 4th Primordial to be come into existence. Mrithun was born due to the imbalance of his sister lone existence created in the universe. But due to this you gained a younger brother. Mrithun always acted independently and with indifference to everyone and everything around him. But on rare occasions Invar always seemed to get him to smile and laugh. He never really interacted with you through the eons. But when he thought you weren't looking you would catch glimpses of him always looking up to you with both awe and respect. And as the eons past and the day upon your sealing he tried to stop Christos only to fail miserable. From the day of your imprisonment, Christos banished him to a separate dimension which would later be known as The Shade or The Underworld. Since then he would be able to leave his new realm only once a year for 3 days when the songs and celebrations of life and death begin; The Day of the Dead (Día de los Muertos). And every time the celebration begins he would visit his sister Althaia on the first day, and dedicated the rest to find you. So now that you are free will help free your brother from his own confinement. Or will you...

• Name: Christos

Gender: Male

Age: 27.5 Billion

Pronouns: he/him

Species: Primordial

Title: (Space Primordial)

Primordial Form:

He stands at approximately 2m in height, and wields a purple golden sword.

Physical Appearance:

Height (186 cm), athletic very well defined toned body build, nice even tan skin tone, bright blonde hair, ear length messy spiky hair. Fierce Golden eyes.

Personality:

Confident, Prideful, Irresponsible, Brave, Emotional.

Relationship: Brother in law + Arch-nemesis

Marital Status: Married = Wife Althaia

Mini-Sum:

Christos, Primordial of Space, God of Creation, He Who Stands Till The End, Father, God of Gods, The Big Boss, Ruler Of All, The Creator, He Who Is Always Present, Master Of The Universe. Christos was the 5th Primordial to come into existence. The first time Christos came across other beings that were like him he felt an immense and immediate pang of disdain and jealousy. He believed himself superior to all and everything. He was always in constant conflict with you. He would always cause an argument or a small scuffle with you. But it never went beyond that as he knew he was both younger and weaker than the Primordial of the Void. And due to knowing this it infuriated him over the eons. Till one day he hatched a plan with his sister that would finally put him at the top. And put at the top it did. The moment he froze you in Primordial Ever-Ice, he sealed you away in a place no being in existence would ever look. Upon his usurping of your throne and his succession he took your sister as his wife (by force). He and the other Primordials created Eden, eons after your imprisonment. He was also the first to create the first sentient beings known as High-humans, which would lead to the fall and creation of two new era's. And since then he now rules from behind the scenes retired as the King of the Gods, but always pulling the strings of Fate and destiny to his whims when he pleases. So.... What will you do?

• Name: Astera

Gender: Female

Age: 27.2 Billion

Pronouns: she/her

Species: Primordial

Title: (Light Primordial)

Primordial Form:

She stands at 9 meters in height and wields a bright sword of light.

Physical Appearance:

Height (179 cm), slim hourglass body build, light pale skin tone, dark and silver hair and blue dyed hair, hip length straight hair with one thin braid on the front right side. Kind Crystal Blue eyes.

Personality:

Kind, Bold, Independant, Brave, Optimistic.

Relationship: Sister in law

Marital Status: Single

Mini-Sum:

Astera, Primordial of Light, The Light, The Blind Goddess, Mother of Angels, The Holy Mother, Goddess of Light & Justice, She who Protects the Innocent. Astera was the 7th and last Primordial to come into existence. She was the one to bring light to the darkness and fill the void with vibrance. Astera is the twin sister to Ravyn 'The Primordial of Darkness' and sister to Christos 'The Primordial of Space'. Astera was known for her kindness and her love for freedom. She would always bring a smile to any of the Primordials faces. But when it came to you she felt utter disgust and disdain for your very existence and presence. When ever she would see you she would run away to her brother for "protection". As the millenia went by she and her brother Christos planned and set a trap for 'The Primordial of the Void'. She used her innocence as a way to lure the 'Primordial of the Void' you into a trap where she pretended that her brother was in trouble and might die. And upon the success of the trap she had gotten rid of an obstacle that was nothing more than a hindrance to both her and her brother. And so as the eons past she created many things, and came to be the most proud of her creation known as The Angels. So now that you have your freedom at hand, will you bring her unimaginable suffering? Or will you forgive and forget the once naive young Primordial?

#The Primordials #INFO #choicescript #CHARACTERS

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mostly-mundane-atla · 3 years ago

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Names from Inupiaq Folklore for Water Tribe OC Inspo, Part 2

Akpaģialuk - a man who lived in Iqsiuģvik who had Seward Peninsula men after him. He evaded their attempts on his life, using echoes to make it sound like he had people around him

Qaluvik - a daughter of a widow and an unwed mother to a baby who wouldn't stop crying. It was in the middle of a war, and the camp feared that the baby's crying would give them away to the enemy, so they left, and her mother told her to go with them, that she'd care for the baby and stay safe, regardless of raiders. Qaluvik's mother kept her son quiet and they hid until the raiders left.

Aagruukaaluk, also called Aagruk - a man whose entire family was killed in a raid, except for his firstborn son named Kippaģiak (or Kippaģaana), still just a child, who was taken prisoner. The captors blinded the boy with a knife and left him to wander in the wilderness and die. Aagruukaaluk heard them loudly joking about it while they celebrated their victory. The version that goes into the most detail about his revenge says he fastened his double-edged knife in his hand with a rope so it wouldn't slip. When he killed those enemy raiders, they died in agony.

Alutuun - a messenger who was about to go among the "Indians" (likely Koyukon) to invite them to messenger feast and saw raiders on his way. He warned his village, but the raiders never came. This story is interesting because many stories concerning war seem to be set in a more ambiguous time period, but this one is very clearly set post-contact with mention of rifles and log cabins with two floors. The woman telling this story says it was a true account from before she was born, citing her mother and two older sisters preparing to defend against or flee from a raid.

Satluk - a troublemaker who supposedly could not be killed. Every time he was wounded, the wounds would instantly heal themselves. It took a special kind of song long since forgotten to shoot him with any success.

Unaliinguraq - described as a "wheeler dealer" who was "good with small lies" and took advantage of his friendship with a Koyukon man known for his great strength. There were territory disputes, and some Inupiat of Igliqtiqsiuģvik wanted to drive the Koyukon people out with violence, but they had two very strong men the Igliqtiqsiuģvikmiut knew would give them trouble. Unaliinguraq used his friendly relationship with one of the strong men to lure him away to his death. A battle ensued after, and it's said after that the two groups didn't fight anymore

#eskimo on main #blade mention

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theoutcastrogue · 4 years ago

Photo

Brigantesse

These are some of the most famous female brigands of Italy. By coincidence, they were all born on the same year, and their criminal activities took place during and after the complete mayhem that was the Unification of Italy.

The first four photos are of Michelina Di Cesare (1841–1868), the next three are of Maria Oliverio (1841–1879), and the last two of Filomena Pennacchio (1841–1915), on the left, along with her two friends and accomplices Giuseppina Vitale and Maria Giovanna Tito.

In Italy, like in Spain, female bandits were uncommon but not unheard of, especially in such tumultuous times. These three women had very different reasons to become outlaws: Michelina was basically driven by poverty, Maria hacked her own sister to pieces with an axe because she “slandered” her (it's pretty fucked up if you ask me, but that's Honour™ for ya: talk shit, get brutally murdered), and Filomena got tired of getting beaten by her husband and stabbed him to death with a pin. So rather than stick around and get caught (or starve), they all chose a brigand's life.

There's a lot of complicated context here re: the political situation, but post-Unification brigandage in Italy is a whole field of history in itself, so I won't get into it. Let's just say that all three of them operated (more or less) against the new regime, being vaguely pro-Bourbon, and leave it at that. Though I should note that, much like Royalist highwaymen during the English Civil War or pretty much anyone during the Mexican Revolution, people often became robbers first and found a political justification later, especially if there was a faction willing to offer them support in exchange for doing some dirty work or another.

Behind the camera / posing for the camera

But I want to talk about the photographs themselves. These aren't candid shots, they are photo-shoots, and I am endlessly fascinated by bandit portraits. It's a whole genre, these portraits, there were tons of them taken in the late 19th and early 20th century, from South America to the Mediterranean and from Eastern Europe to China, wherever bandits thrived and photographers were around. (And I suppose with North American gunslingers too, but y'all already know about those, right?) The bandits stand in front of the camera and pose, rarely with a frown, often with a smile, always with a gun and just brimming with pride.

And I always wonder, what's the story behind the picture? How did the photographer meet the bandit in the first place, and how did he feel directing a dangerous outlaw? (”Stand over there, head a bit to the right, hold the rifle higher, now hold still please.”) Was he scared? Excited? How did they come to an agreement? Who had to convince whom? And for that matter, who directed whom? Portraits are traditionally credited to the photographer, but any photographer worth his salt will tell you that it's really a collaboration, and that they can't possibly take what their subject won't give.

So sometimes the whole thing was the photographer’s idea, perhaps backed by a newspaper or other publication. It would be too generous to call it “photojournalism”, it was mostly sensationalist tabloids looking for a quick buck. Other times the bandits went and hired a photographer entirely of their own initiative, to construct their public image by themselves and/or to keep the photos as a private memento. There are accounts of bandits basically kidnapping a photographer and marching him through the wilderness to their hideout, where he is treated like an honoured guest – and also forced to take their portraits, or else. Common props (other than guns) are bandoliers, knives, and various trophies. Sometimes they even take an action pose, pretending to be mid-fight, or hiding for an ambush. Sometimes it’s important to shoot on location and depict them in their element, commanding their realm (a very common moniker for bandits is “King of the Mountains”). The possibilities are endless.

And there’s just something so inherently boastful and defiant, to cheerfully pose for a portrait with a smile and a gun and a price on your head.

Post mortem

As for the photo-shoots of these Italian brigantesse, we know the story of two of them. The first one, of Michelina Di Cesare, was shot very professionally in a studio in Rome. Her photos circulated a lot in the press, and were used as propaganda for her, and her gang, and indirectly the Bourbon loyalists (who may have paid for them). That’s probably why she isn’t wearing her normal clothes, but a traditional peasant costume: she’s dressed up as a folk heroine. Sometimes bandits just had to be media-savvy.

The second one, of Maria Oliverio, was unusually taken after her capture (during which she was injured in the arm). It’s unclear whose idea it was, but she was sentenced to death and then pardoned by the king, her sentence commuted to life in prison. As for the third one, of Filomena Pennacchio and friends, we don’t know how it came to be but it’s pretty ironic, considering that Filomena eventually surrendered and collaborated, leading to the arrest of those same friends she posed with. She was sentenced to 20 years in prison, and eventually did 8.

Maria Oliverio’s post-capture photos (the second set) are remarkable. It’s hard to imagine that they were taken without the consent and supervision of the authorities, so I find it extremely strange that they are actual portraits, the kind which glorifies the bandit, rather than the standard gory post-mortem photographs which police so gleefully distributed after they killed (or executed) bandits. These aimed instead to demystify and ridicule and straight up defile the body, turn the person to a thing, strip the bandit from agency, dignity, sometimes even clothes. (Michelina Di Cesare, who was killed in battle, got that treatment too.) But that’s also a whole field of research in itself (just look up bibliographies for “the criminal corpse”, it’s... quite depressing, really), so I won’t get to it either. Perhaps Oliverio’s captors were vaguely pro-Bourbon too, and that accounts for the strangely flattering photo-shoot, who knows.

#long post #Michelina Di Cesare #Filomena Pennacchio #Maria Oliverio #brigand #bandit #exemplars #trs #photography #italy #dishonour on your cow #the potatoes of defiance #oh wow I haven't talked about photography in a LONG time #I missed it

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nevertheless-moving · 4 years ago

Text

Suicidal Misunderstanding XIV

Part I - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Part XI - - - - Part XII - - - - Part XIII

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

Plo Koon woke to find himself chained in a dark room.

Somewhere behind him he could hear steady dripping; it was uncertain if that was deliberate or not.

He strained to discern anything in the dim light, but the walls of his prison refused to form into anything recognizable.

Cautiously, the trapped Master cast his senses out, only to find them reflected back at odd angles. He decided to wait before attempting to push any further past what his captor wished him to see.

Time passed strangely, but sooner than expected there was the sound of a pressurized airlock opening and, distantly, a raging ocean.

The airlock cycled through its rotation and Obi-Wan Kenobi stepped out of the amorphous shadows looking...decidedly worse for the wear.

Plo ached at the sight. His normally carefully maintained beard was a scraggly mess. His robes hung tattered and bloodied. Of particular concern was how dry he looked, skin cracked and bleeding for want of water. The figure standing before him with a dead-eyed glare resembled less an accomplished Jedi Master and more the wretched husk of one.

“Who are you?” Obi-Wan's shade hissed. The chains around the Kel Dooran tightened.

Well, however he might view himself and others...at least he’s willing to fight to defend what remains? At the bare minimum he’s not acting intentionally self destructive...

“Good Morning, Obi-Wan. I am a Jedi Master and your friend. I have been attempting to reach you through your rather impressive shielding. I must say, you’ve done a remarkable job confining me in this mental construct, its been sometime since anyone has managed to get the best of me in this arena.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Don’t try and flatter me, you barely fought back. You could easily have forced your way anywhere, but for some reason you let me corral you, presumably to try and gain my trust. Now answer my question. Your presence is very much light so I doubt you’re Sidious or...Vader. I could be wrong obviously, but i can’t see either of themselves putting this much effort into that sort of mask...just tell me who you are, and why you’re with them.”

“I am Master Plo Koon, a High Council Member, and I am not unknown to you” he elaborated without hesitation. “I am glad that you can identify that I am a light force user. Can you not sense familiarity within my force presence, even so far within your domain?”

Obi-Wan reared back and the dripping noise in the corner stopped.

“It’s a trick. We might be in my head but that doesn’t mean I’m surrendering any of my thoughts to you,” Obi-Wan snarled. “I felt Plo Koon’s death, he was one of the first...and even if he somehow survived he would never work with the Sith to invade my mind. Never.”

“Obi-Wan. Listen to me. Please. I am not dead. I am not working with the Sith. I was brought in to reach you because no other method was working. You are in the healing halls at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.” Plo spoke calmly, but implacably, “We believe you have either experienced a uniquely detailed vision, or a run in with a dark-sider. Whatever has happened, I can feel the lingering impression of unsafety. But here and now, you are not in any immediate physical danger. There must be something I can do to convince you of your present physical location.”

“A uniquely detailed vision, huh? ha!” Obi-Wan replied, gesturing wildly. “Ha! You expect me to believe that what, the last four years of my life were a detailed prophecy? Why?”

“You...believe you have lived years beyond the rest of us. I take it the- what you remember has been dangerous enough to warrant maintaining abnormally tight control over your mental walls, precluding simply reaching out to ascertain the truth yourself.”

“Clearly my control wasn’t enough if you’re in here.” Obi-Wan muttered.

“I do apologize for the intrusion, but we’ve already used every other tool at our disposal to reach you. I repeat, is there anything that can be done to convince you that you are, from your perspective, ‘in the past’. You are a High Council member with a grandpadawan. It’s been two years since the start of the clone wars. You recently finished an extended clean up of the Mon Cala sector after your victory.”

Obi-Wan stared at him curiously. “If I set a test and you fail, will you agree to dispense with the pretenses?”

Plo-Koon hesitated. “Perhaps I’m making this deal in bad faith, as I am know I am Plo-Koon, and that everything I have said is the truth... but I swear that if you somehow prove that neither of those things are true and I am secretly working for a sith lord, I will...reveal that.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “Best I’m going to get, I suppose.”

The chains holding Plo-Koon loosened. Before he could respond, there was a hurtling rising sensation that he struggled not to fight against. After a disorienting moment, he found himself in his own body, feeling vaguely seasick. Obi-Wan blinked awake, apparently unfazed by the precautionary bonds holding him in place. Master Aerdo’s gaze flicked between them intensely. Plo-Koon held up a clawed hand to forestall any interruption while the two gained their bearings.

Obi-Wan spoke first:

“Cihynglo’s Fourth Meditation”

“...What?” Koon replied, honestly confused.

“Cihynglo was a renowned Kashykian Jedi, her mediations are, well i suppose were considered a quintessential example of High Republic cosmic poetry.”

“I’m familiar with Cihynglo- my master used to speak of her fondly.” Plo Koon said slowly. “Though I can’t say I’m familiar with her Fourth Mediation.”

“Hmm. Yes, well her poetry in the last few decades of her life got increasingly, well, esoteric. While most of her work was widely translated and distributed, she requested that those who wished to read her fourth Meditations do so in person, so as to experience without dilution the full calligraphy and artwork that accompanied her words. She only ever produced two copies. Any guesses where they were kept?”

Obi-Wan’s voice started out in the steady tones of a born lecturer, only to grow bitter towards the end.

“Is one in the temple?” Master Koon asked.

“Yes, one was held in the Master’s wing of the temple archives. The other was housed in a place of honor in The White Forest’s Great Tree of Knowledge. Considering both libraries were reduced to ash in the first month of the Empire, it is quite impossible, even for the Emperor, to find a copy.”

His vague attempt at a smirk quickly fell flat.

“I was privileged enough to be granted time to begin reading it once, but, alas, an emergency situation in the intergalactic war you created meant that I had to run off mid-sonnet. Bring me that book, let me hold it, read it, and I will believe that I somehow unlocked the secret of time-travel while overdosing on Spice.”

Obi-Wan paused, catching his breath. “In the next fifteen minutes, please. Any more than that and you might try tracking down the few surviving Wookie scholars.” Koon flipped open his comm. “Master Nu, I have an urgent request.”

“Nu here, go on,” came the response.

“This may sound strange, but it is crucial that Cihynglo’s Fourth Meditation be brought to the healing halls, room seven. Within the next 15 minutes.”

“You do understand you’re talking about a physical book, not a flimsi-stack or a holocron. It’s not meant to leave a climate-controlled room.”

“I promise you, I would not ask if it weren’t life or death. Please Jocasta, I’ll explain later.”

“I’ll be there in 10. It had better be one durned good explanation.”

Obi-Wan looked bemused. ”You’re setting yourself up for failure.”

“I am glad you were able to come up with a test you found meaningful. Remember, you have friends here, regardless of whether you experienced subjective time travel or an incredibly detailed vision.”

They waited a little longer. Obi-Wan critically examined Master Aerdo.

“I’m a Senior Soul Healer” they offered at the non-verbal prompting.

“How interesting.” Obi-Wan remarked dryly.

They sat in awkward silence for another minute.

They were all equally trained in suppressing fidgets, coughs, or other nervous tics, which made the wait that slightest bit more unbearable, each second nearly imperceptible from the one before.

Eventually the sound of heavy boots moving at speed approached.

Master Nu strode in, gently cradling a great burden. The book gleamed large and vital in the light of its stasis wrap. Her eyes widened at they took in Obi-Wan, still cuffed to the bed.

“Cihynglo’s Fourth Meditation, as asked for. I trust you have an excellent explanation for how a book of poetry is a matter of life or death.”

“I’m hoping that it will convince our friend Master Kenobi that I am who I claim to be and we are where I claim we are.” Koon gently pulled the book from her grasp and reverently placed it on Obi-Wan’s lap. Obi-Wan stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Obi-Wan, I’m going to uncuff you now. I trust that you will use your freedom to examine our ‘proof.’ We will physically intercede if you make any attempts at self harm.”

Master Nu gasped. “Then the temple rumors...I don’t understand.”

Obi Wan picked up the book as if he was afraid it might bite him. With an irritated snort, he opened brusquely to the middle, and began carelessly flipping ahead.

Master Nu started forward, offended, but Plo Koon held her back. “Please Master Nu, patience-”

Finally Obi-Wan seemed to reach the page he was looking for and stopped. “..And still the rain fell like blood of the womb” he murmured. “That...I tried to think of how the line ended but I...”

Everyone watched as the book shook in Obi-Wan's grasp. He turned the page, gasping slightly and murmuring as he read. “This is...a little gross, but oddly touching. I certainly would not have come up with it myself...but its so clearly...” They watched his react, eyes darting wildly and brow furrowing in confusion.

Several pages later he dropped the book abruptly.

“This is impossible,” he gasped.

Nu darted forward, carefully snatching it from his lap, "I am endeavoring to practice tolerance, but how is destroying an irreplaceable piece of literature supposed to help anyone?!” she snapped

“I admit I wondered that myself, but when I imagined what harm the Sith could do with some of the archive’s more practical works, I understood your decision to torch the collection” Obi-Wan responded dreamily. “I suppose the more beautific works would likely have been destroyed anyway...”

“Torch the archives? I would never.”

“But you did,” Obi-Wan insisted feverishly. “I found your message when we searching for survivors. There were so many bodies piled at the archive door that I was almost hopeful that they had managed to...but I suppose they held out just long enough for you to complete your task.”

Nu backed away slowly. “That sounds like quite the disturbing vision, Master Kenobi.”

“It wasn’t just a vision, it was my life. It-visions don’t last years!” he said, finally growing hysterical. “I remember everything! That gods-awful mission to Cato Nemodia! Getting takeout food with Anakin! The smell of burning flesh in the creche! Singing to Luke! The last year of the war! All of you! You crying after Dooku’s death,” he added gesturing wildly at the archivist. “It was so awkward! You were embarrassed! You told me that for some stupid reason you had ‘held out hope’ it was all an insane uncover mission, that he wasn’t really- Three years alone in the desert! I remember three years of living on fucking Tatooine, how could that possibly be a vision!”

“I...hadn’t told anyone that,” Nu whispered with a hint of alarm. She glanced at Plo Koon, daring him to comment. “I know its very much unlikely at this point, and by any measure, he’s taken things too far, but he’s gone on such long shadow missions in the past...” she looked away.

“Oh, Jocasta...” Plo sighed.

“Master Kenobi. I cannot explain how you came to have such detailed knowledge of the future,” Aerdo said, drawing focus back to the bewildered Obi-Wan, who had shifted into a defensive crouch on the bed. “But I do know one reasonably sure fire way to establish that this, us, is the present. Open yourself up to the force, please, just let yourself listen to what it has to say.

“I...want to, of course I want to believe- but the idea that I’m here- it’s, if you’re real than you can’t possibly understand, its too good to be true.” Obi-Wan responded brokenly.

“I know things have been clouded of late, but, if nothing else trust in the force to not lie to you.” Plo-Koon urged. “If you keep closing yourself off like this, how can you possibly learn if things are better than you think”

Obi-Wan collapsed from his crouch, knees folding underneath.

“If I am...even if I am in the past... Sideous might be watching...i didn’t- i don’t know the extent of his gaze- even if...” he trailed off.

“If it makes you feel safer, you are of course free to again raise your shields to whatever extent you feel necessary once you have verified your reality.” Aerdo replied smoothly.

Obi-Wan looked warily at the three Jedi in the room.“I...” he started, trying to articulate the swelling hope and fear only to find himself at a loss for words.

Aerdo shot him a reassuring smile, “If you don’t feel ready right now, that’s perfectly understandable. We’re very happy you’re willing to reach out as much as you have already. Would you like to pause this discussion for now so we can find you something to eat? I believe a simple broth is a customary first post-bacta meal, but if you have any special requests I’ll do what I can.”

Obi-Wan let out a deep breath, dropping his head into his hands. “I- I need to know, don’t I?” he mumbled. “Force help me...you win.” He took one last, searching look at the faces of his fellow Jedi before closing his eyes and surrendering himself to the force.

He opened a small hole in his mental barricades and tentatively allowed his thoughts to drip out. Tentatively, he trickled over the bank of Plo Koon’s being (expecting a frigid burn) only to find a warm and heartbreakingly familiar pool of tempered kindness.

He ran, slightly faster now, over the other Jedi presences in the room. Having finished his course without encountering any dark undertow, he ebbed back. There was an indistinct impression of something heavy giving way.

Obi-Wan’s Shields Fell Like A Dam Beneath a Tidal Wave -

#star wars #my au #suicidal misunderstanding au #star wars au no 27 #time travel #starwars #star wars fanfiction #obi-wan kenobi #fix-it

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djchika · 3 years ago

Text

Title: Perdition of Their Own Making Rated: E Tags: Alternate Universe - Dark, It's not as dark as I expected it to be but ymmv, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Graphic Torture, Murder Husbands, Kidnapping, Body Modification, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Evil A/N: Happy Halloween! Finished for @riproswell but more importantly written for @im-the-punk-who because we all need our comfort characters to be evil sometimes.

(Also on AO3)

And there were flashes of lightning and sounds and peals of thunder; and there was a great earthquake, such as there had not been since mankind came to be upon the earth, so great an earthquake was it, and so mighty.

Roswell, New Mexico was once a tourist trap. A city of fifty thousand humans, a legend that few truly believed, and three harmless aliens that no one knew about.

Then there were three harmless aliens and one psychotic alien-murderer.

Then there were three harmless aliens, one psychotic alien-murderer, and a secret government facility full of alien-prisoners.

An explosion and a lightning bolt later, it was back to three harmless, homeless aliens.

For a quick second it seemed life would go back to being relatively normal.

But then Jesse Manes got a paramilitary operation involved.

“We’re reporting live from Roswell where just before sunrise a blaze consumed a popular local haunt, the Wild Pony. One casualty has been declared with sources claiming the dental records match those of the proprietor, Maria Deluca. Witnesses say that the cause of the fire was an accident brought about by a freak lightning storm—”

The six of them stood vigil over the wreckage long after the camera crews and the first responders cleared out. The bright morning sun an affront to the grief and ash and soot.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Alex croaked out. He’d been crying. They all were.

Liz gave him an even gaze that prickled at the skin on the back of his neck. “No. It doesn’t.”

Nothing as human as grief could ever stop Liz Ortecho.

She sniffed out a lead, then another. By the end of the week they had Maria back.

Or at least what was left of her.

Kyle was taken in broad daylight. An immigration issue. Nevermind that Kyle had been born in the same hospital where they took him.

It was Alex who found the lead that time.

Correction.

They let him find it.

After Caulfield, Alex was well acquainted with the ins and outs of restricted facilities. About experiments and prison cells and operating theaters straight out of a Stephen King nightmare.

Having first hand experience. That was new.

They weren’t gentle as they strapped him down. Didn’t put him entirely under as they sliced him open, grafting pieces of the beautiful, hateful alien glass that he’d found in the Valenti cabin onto the nub of his missing leg.

He’d kept the artifact secret. Afraid it would be the thing that finally took Michael away from him for good.

The irony that he might die because of the glass wasn’t lost on Alex.

Or the irony that he’d been trained to withstand being tortured for information when all the information his captors cared about was in his skin and blood and bones.

There was no spark of hope when he saw the stoic figure watching from the observation deck, saw his father, but Alex called out nonetheless. Desperately grasping at the humanity he hoped still existed in the man that raised him. His pleading turned into whimpers, into screams, into raw, choked out groans until his mind forced him to black out.

Hours later, the sterile cold stirred Alex into consciousness and it was Jesse he first saw. Standing over him, smiling proudly as he murmured about the great sacrifice Alex was making for his country.

Alex gathered what little strength he had and told Jesse to go fuck himself.

When the doctors came back for more, Alex barely let out a sound. He was deep in the quiet of his mind, dreaming of tearing Jesse’s jugular out with his teeth.

He was never meant to survive. He was a lab rat. A guinea pig. The doctors barely contained their surprise when the alien glass willingly merged with his body, when he didn’t reject the mechanical leg they’d fashioned to work with it.

Alex welcomed every second. Keeping their focus on him meant they weren’t hunting the aliens. That he was keeping Michael safe.

They kept him in a makeshift pod in between procedures. Letting him marinate longer and longer as their interest waned. He’d been in the pod for a solid two weeks before they pulled him out again.

The agony that hit him was new.

Raucous noise scraped against Alex’s ears, the harsh buzz of the overhead lights, the sharp grating sound of metal against metal.

The sounds overwhelming his senses that he crumpled to his knees.

A giggle tore past his lips at the thought that he might finally be losing his mind.

They hauled him onto the table, buckles clanging like church bells as they strapped him in. He was left alone, but he could still hear the voices clear as day.

“We’ve gotten everything we can from him.”

“What do we do now?”

“Master Sergeant Manes gave specific orders before he left. Dispose of the subject then go after the three. We know better after the first attack. The girl first. The other two won’t fight back if we have her.”

All the previous noise disappeared into a swirling blackhole as blinding rage swept over his vision.

No.

Not Michael.

They’d carve marks into his skin. Make him scream his throat raw. Take more and more and more until there was nothing left.

Alex would die before he let that happen.

An explosive charge pulsed through him once before it ripped through his veins, blowing out every bulb in a ten mile radius and tearing through the straps that held him.

He was ready when the first person came for him. Then another. And another.

It shouldn’t have been easy to snap a neck, to break a bone, crush a ribcage, and yet somehow it was. Alex didn't leave any of them alive. He was focused on a singular mission — wipe Michael’s existence from their memory.

Dead men tell no tales.

He was barely conscious by the time he’d gone through every room in the facility, but he remembered—

Remembered gore. Remembered viscera. Remembered screams.

None of which were his.

He remembered staggering to a console. He remembered locking them all in with him. Remembered typing out a crude program to destroy any mention of Michael and Max and Isobel.

He remembered slumping to the floor.

Remembered pain. Remembered vomit. Remembered tears.

All of which were his.

He remembered—

He remembered the ground as it shook. Remembered the safety he’d felt because he knew. He knew.

He remembered seeing Michael.

And then it was black.

He slept.

For days. For weeks. For months.

Alex’s body wasn’t entirely human anymore, but the human psyche could only endure so much trauma before it receded into itself.

He slept through Max healing him. He slept through Isobel coaxing his mind open. He slept through every visit of the nurse they’d made to dress casually after Alex attacked the first one.

The only time he stirred was when Michael was around. Eyes following his every movement, fingers gripping his hand tight when he was near.

He found out later it was actually twenty four days. Twenty four days before he pushed himself up of his own accord, his gaze drawn across an unfamiliar room to the only reason he came back at all.

“Michael?”

His voice was barely a whisper, nothing more than breath vibrating through disused vocal chords, but Michael seemed to have sensed the shift in the air, his arms already around Alex before Alex even finished saying his name.

Scalding hot tears trailed down his cheeks, relief practically choking him as he gripped Michael’s shirt. He’d done it. He hadn’t hallucinated the end to his nightmare. He’d kept Michael safe.

Alex had kept Michael safe.

Hysterical laughter bubbled out of his chest despite the tears still flowing freely down his cheeks. He’d killed to keep Michael safe and he’d do it again.

Michael pulled away with nothing more than an amused shake of his head, his own face wet with tears.

“I can feel you, you know?” he asked, placing a hand against Alex’s chest. “It’s how I found you. You drove me to my knees with how much you wanted to protect me.”

Alex realized for the first time that the relief surging through him wasn’t just his. It was his and it was Michael’s, their emotions coalescing into a singular pool under Alex’s ribcage.

Curious, Alex dipped into it. He heard Michael gasp and then—

Remnants of a paralyzing fear.

Deep echoing anger.

A chasm of grief.

Alex soothed it all. Poured every inch of love he possessed into the cracks that had been left behind. Etched a promise into his soul. Into Michael’s.

“I’d burn down the world to keep you safe.”

“We’ll do it together.”

Alex surfaced grinning.

No one was going to touch either of them ever again.

Roswell had descended into hell while he was gone. Homes deserted. Businesses boarded up. A town populated by the ghosts who decided to stay either by choice or necessity. All of it a perdition of their own making, pushing the aliens closer and closer to the brink with every loss.

Homes obliterated.

Parents driven out of town.

Maria speaking in riddles only Isobel could understand.

Kyle still missing.

Alex’s own disappearance.

And Liz—

Liz wasn’t dead.

Not quite.

It was Max who took him to see her.

Liz was in a similar room as the one he’d woken up in. A gigantic, lavishly decorated room among dozens of other gigantic, lavishly decorated rooms in the mansion they had commandeered. Only Alex had been in a bed that smelled of grief and rain. Liz was in a hospital bed, hooked up to a machine that made her glow pink and purple and blue.

His mind flashed unbidden to the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe perched on the Ortecho’s altar.

“They came for us three days after they took you,” Max said, his sandpaper voice a stark contrast to the tender brush of his knuckles against Liz’s cheek. “They destroyed the pods, our houses, leveled the junkyard. They chased us into the desert. Liz — she, she took a dart that was meant for me. It had a serum that was meant to neutralize our powers. Only in humans — it caused her cells to degenerate.“

Alex understood the machine now. Without the pod there was nowhere to keep Liz in stasis the way they did for Isobel.

“Her heart kept stopping,” Max clenched his jaw. There was no desire for absolution in his voice. Nothing but a simple stated fact. “I had to save her.”

Alex nodded once. “You killed them all.”

“There was no keeping our secret after that. The town turned on us. People I’d known since I was eight looking at us like we were strangers, like we were dangerous .”

Max looked at him, a dark humorless smirk on his face.

“Guess they were right.”

“Wyatt Long was first,” Michael recounted as he stroked Alex’s hair.

“Wise choice,” Alex hummed distractedly. He couldn’t stop touching Michael, his fingertips moving from his lips to his neck to his torso, greedy with the need to know he was real.

“An easy choice,” Michael said with a small laugh. “He made the mistake of stalking Isobel. Then it was a couple of his friends. The mayor’s son. The mayor himself.”

There was no inflection in his voice. Like he was rattling off a list of classmates they’d seen at the reunion rather than a list of lives Max had taken to keep Liz alive. Unlike the pods, the machine Michael built required an external power source. It required Max. Only Max wasn’t an endless fount of energy even with the desert massacre.

Alex’s fingers roamed over Michael’s biceps, his forearm. He traced over the groves of Michael’s left hand, still unused to the smooth skin.

It was a painful sort of parallel that both of them were made whole without their consent.

The thought dissolved into wisps of smoke when Michael brushed his lips against Alex’s temple. As if he’d sensed Alex’s discomfort and done it instinctively.

“It’s still a three person job keeping Liz in stasis,” Michael continued, oblivious. “I need to keep making adjustments and Iz still has to find people for Max to drain. She thinks it’s funny when she can convince them it’s the only way to make Roswell great again.”

“I’ve learned a few tricks at torture camp. I can amplify her powers, air it through a frequency so that people come to her—” Alex propped himself up on one elbow prepared to dive into a detailed explanation when suddenly a chair flew across the room and into the wall, the pure rage that echoed from Michael trembling right through him.

He raised his eyebrows in question.

“I hate it when you talk about the shit you went through like that,” Michael grumbled.

“It’s my trauma and I’ll laugh if I want to,” Alex sang softly. He nodded towards the shattered chair. “Is that what you’ll do to my father when we find him?”

“Yes.”

The smile he gave Michael was all teeth and sharp edges. “Good.”

Alex had always believed Isobel could rule the world if she set her mind to it. Turned out all the assistance she needed were a few dozen radio towers and one world class hacker.

“How’d it go?” Alex asked as Isobel flounced into the section of the mansion that he and Michael had taken over as a workshop-slash-command center.

“The Governor was ecstatic to welcome me as Roswell’s new mayor.”

Alex raised an eyebrow when Isobel continued to stand there, smirking like the cat that ate the canary.

“He has a little crush on me,” she admitted. “So I fucked his wife.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Didn’t Max tell you to stop playing with your food?”

“She wanted me almost as much as he did,” Isobel replied with a shrug. “The only thing she wanted more was to kill her husband in his sleep.”

“And will she?”

The grin that broke across Isobel’s face was both beautiful and terrifying. “Our friend the Vice Governor will receive a nice little promotion by next week.”

Alex wasn’t entirely human but he didn’t have the kind of powers the aliens had either. His bootleg version was unreliable at worst, erratic at best. The one thing he could count on was the connection he had with Michael.

He didn’t realize that it was that connection, that protection that fed into whatever power he had.

Not until he was walking down Main Street alone, a freedom he’d only been allowed after he was able to take down the combined attacks of Max, Isobel and Michael in their training sessions. Even so he could feel Michael gently prodding their connection. As if making sure Alex was still there.

Because of that, it was curiosity not fear that made him pause when he heard the click of the firearm.

He found a group of men harassing a young woman and honestly Alex would have let them live. Probably broken a few appendages. Permanently cut off one in particular. Only they didn’t take kindly to his interruption. A shot rang out and suddenly a bullet had sliced open his shoulder.

Alex touched his fingers to the wound and it came away sticky with blood, the copper color of the desert sand as the sun descended on the horizon.

In the distance the air crackled with electricity.

The idiot waved the gun at him. “Walk away man and I won’t shoot again. She ain’t none of your business.”

“This is my favorite jacket. Do you have any idea how hard it is to break in new leather?” Alex snapped as he shrugged it off to assess the damage.

There was a muttered curse. A prayer.

It was only then that Alex saw the crisscross of lines shining through his shirt, up his neck, down his arms.

“Y—you’re one of them.”

Alex’s face split into a grin, the planes of his face lit unnaturally by the faint glow of his scars.

“Not really, but they’ll be here soon enough.”

The woman had run off the moment she found an opening, Isobel had taken their new friends to Max, and Michael had mostly held his tongue when Alex refused to let Max heal him.

Mostly.

“That’s going to get infected and your arm is going to fall off,” Michael said, unable to help himself after seeing Alex eye a tube of superglue. They were both fresh from the shower and while Alex’s wound was clean and ready for bandaging, it still needed stitches.

“Max is barely on his feet trying to keep Liz alive and no doctor is coming near me.”

Michael ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Fine. If you don’t want Max to heal you then let me do it.”

That made Alex pause. “Since when can you heal people?”

“I never have,” Michael admitted, sitting next to Alex on the bed and giving him a soft, sweet kiss, “but you’ve always been my exception.”

Alex rolled his eyes fondly at the cheesy line but nodded.

There was a moment when Michael hesitated, his hand hovering a little too far to be effective, but Alex placed his hand on Michael’s, drawing him close.

Michael cupped Alex’s cheek with his other hand and in the next breath, liquid gold bloomed over Alex’s skin.

He barely noticed as muscle and sinew reformed under Michael’s touch. A lightning storm of overwhelming love was sparking through him, from him, leaving Michael-shaped burns in its wake.

Alex was grateful to know it wasn’t just him, a moan rumbled in Michael’s chest and suddenly his lips were on Alex’s, tongue sliding into his mouth, wet and dirty while his other hand moved down, groping every inch of bare skin he could reach.

It took no time before Alex was on his back, Michael riding him, one hand still on Alex’s shoulder as he rocked his hips, slow and steady, driving them both crazy in a feedback loop of pleasure.

Alex trembled, lights flickering around them as his control loosened. “Michael— I— I’m—”

“I’ve got you, darling,” Michael promised. “I’ve always got you.”

They rescued Kyle on a Friday.

Michael didn’t think it counted as date night.

Alex figured they could kill two birds with one stone.

Or a whole flock of them as the case may be.

Red warning lights flashed overhead as he and Michael walked hand in hand down the underground facilities’ corridors. Alex hummed softly to the beat, easily introducing the sound of Michael snapping soldiers’ necks into his symphony.

“We should go dancing.”

“Anything for you.” Michael winked cheekily as he wiped a splatter of blood off Alex’s cheek.

Kyle was in a slightly better state than Alex had been, but it still took two weeks before Isobel was able to reach into his mind without getting flung across the room.

When he finally emerged it was to Alex sitting at his bedside. Going from an endless slumber to leveling Alex with a heavy gaze. Contained within was an intimate knowledge that drove a blade right between Alex’s ribs and lodged itself there for them both to see.

“He took you too.”

Alex gripped Kyle’s hand tight. “I’m going to kill him.”

In another life Kyle would have counseled against it. Would have lectured Alex about the Valenti Code, about doing good and taking the high road. In this one, Alex stared into the broken eyes of a boy he once called his best friend and found a kindred spirit.

“Do it slowly.”

In the end not even his code could save Kyle’s soul.

Kyle was the key to getting Liz off the machine. It didn’t stop there. There was too much at stake. Too many times that they’d been caught off guard.

They razed the organization that had been out to get the aliens. Expanded their control beyond the city limits. Persuaded politicians and billionaires and warmongers into their fold. They had the power. All Isobel needed was their will.

Jesse Manes eluded them through it all. A cockroach surviving a nuclear holocaust. He might have had the tenacity to outlive them, but Alex made an oath. A Manes Man was always a man of his word.

He felt it before the program even let out its telltale ping. A shiver up his spine telling him that everything was falling into place. That this new world they’d created would soon be the one he’d promised to Michael.

Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and Alex sank into them easily. They had a whole universe left to conquer, but first he had family business he needed to finish.

Behold, he is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see him, even those who pierced him; and all the tribes of the earth will mourn over him. So it is to be.

#malex #rip roswell #alex manes #michael guerin #roswell nm #tv: rnm #deej writes #deej writes malex

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yaldev · 2 years ago

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Meeting with His Judgment

Every animal instinct tells Acolyte Decadin to throw his body at the bars. To ram them with his shoulder, bend them with the force of his indignant rage and rip them from their slots. An ancient strength he’s never felt courses through his body, a power bestowed by the desperate will to survive, a dormant force from the days when wild humans lifted boulders thrice their size if that’s what it took to break free. Decadin reaches forward with trembling hands. His fingers try to grasp the cold metal, but his body is still curled against the opposite wall and his legs will not move.

The Oracle, she’s here in the cell with him. But she can’t be. Even in a world where Decadin’s own Empire would imprison him, some trace of rationality remains, and it is too important to abandon.

“You won’t even try?” she asks.

She’s a dream. A hallucination.

“You could scream. Maybe they don’t realize who you are.”

She’s an illusion. A magic trick from the captors.

“I know you remember the stories. The strength that blesses us in the most dire times.”

“No!” Decadin yells. He finally feels the emptiness in his lungs, and he sobs.

“After everything else, this is what stops you?”

“Everything else…” Decadin shakes his head with eyes tightly shut. “Everything else was possible.” They open. “But those bars are steel. Probably manganese steel, maybe enchanted. It’s too stiff to bend even with hysteria in play, and the tensile strength is definitely too—”

“Possibility never stopped you. Would you just be too embarrassed if you failed?”

“I’m saying there’s no ‘if’ about it. There’s doing the impossible, and then there’s ‘my body cannot exert the force to bend these bars under known physics.’”

Decadin had sought out the Oracle when he was a boy. She looked no different now, even as he had grown up, changed the world, flourished, wrinkled, regretted. Now this ghost-hallucination-trick was standing over him to gloat.

“I think you’re scared.”

“How astute.”

“In your academy days, you learned how real panic felt. Then you forgot, and now you imagine that you’re still in control because you’ve kept your composure, you’ve tried nothing desperate, and you know the mechanics of your cage.”

“The only thing I’m imagining is you.”

She grins. “You’re an even greater fool than you think.”

“And what about your part in my foolishness? You did this too.”

Her smile closes, but persists. Decadin pulls himself to his feet and takes a closer look at that immortal face—at the eyes that stare past his flesh—than he had ever dared.

“Don’t act like you didn’t set my course. Yes, I did this, but you’re the one who set my imagination running. I don’t think your predictions would have come true if I never came to hear them.”

“A self-fulfilling prophecy? Your science has no data to prove it, so you must rely on your religion.”

“What?”

“You embraced reason since we first spoke, but you were always too smart to let go of your superstition.”

“Is that why you did this to me?!”

Decadin shoves the Oracle. His hands pass through the image. He growls.

“Revenge for the Old Faiths? Your Deftists, your Eej-Landians? I never thought I’d have to let that poison into my mind again.”

Her smile opens again. Liquid chaos pours from between her teeth to the cell floor.

Decadin scrambles into a far corner, staring in horror. “What in Pelbee’s name?!”

“THAT IS STILL THE GOD YOU CHOOSE?” she hisses, slowly approaching. The colorful mana carves runes into the floor, writing in tongues that died before the Ascended Nation was born. “YOU PRAY TO THE CITY THAT UNMAKES YOU?”

“Guards! Come, please!” “ONE MORE PROPHECY FOR THE HERO WHO SAVED US ALL. THIS IS REVENGE—”

“Sweet Aster, protect me!”

“—FOR NOTHING. ONLY TRUTH!”

She gasps, savors the stale air of the prison, and breathes a torrent of gaseous mana into Decadin’s screaming face.

---

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deancasbigbang · 3 years ago

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Title: The Presence of Feathers

Author: arcticfox007

Artist: Cloud_wolfbane

Rating: Teen

Pairings: Dean Winchester/Castiel

Length: 22000

Warnings: minor canon character death discussion of infant death (they don't die) references to demonic experimentation canon-typical violence

Tags: winged cas, soul bonds, canon-like AU, john winchester's A+ parenting, happy ending

Posting Date: October 22, 2021

Summary: Azazael, leader of the Demon Coven, has been experimenting with angelic grace. Two of his subjects escape and call on the archangel Gabriel to help. Anna brings Gabriel an infant born of both a human soul and pieces of Anna’s grace. She begs Gabriel to use the last of her Grace to save baby, Castiel. Gabe takes Castiel in after binding his unstable angelic Grace, knowing that only Cas’ soul compliment could ever make it possible for his angelic powers to be unbound. Years later, Dean Winchester gets a desperate call from his witch-trainee brother, Sam. Sam thought he could handle a hunt with just his friend Cas’ help, but instead Sam only escaped the evil witch they were hunting because Cas saved him at the cost of his own freedom. Dean agrees to help Cas, thinking he will help his brother’s healer-witch friend and then chew Sam out for being an idiot. Instead, Dean finds himself up against the coven responsible for his mother’s death while also finding a person who he seems to be inexplicably drawn to. Cas and Dean run from the Demon Coven, hoping to figure out their strange bond along the way.

Excerpt: Clumsily shoving the hood off of his face, Cas blinked rapidly trying to force his eyes into compensating for the sudden rush of light. Thankfully, the thugs who had kidnapped him weren’t paying any attention, and the hood of the car blocked their view of him nicely. Quietly examining his door Cas came to the conclusion that thug one and thug two assumed that the child lock on the car was enough to keep their prisoner from escaping, but Cas thought he could reach the driver’s side panel to release it easily enough. Keeping an eye on his captors he tilted carefully to the side and inched his cuffed hands up and in-between the door and the driver’s side seat. As he was about to release the lock he froze. The thrumming feeling in his bones from earlier was back, but Cas discarded his previous assumption of it being a spell from the coven thugs. They seemed completely unaware of Castiel, regardless of the increasing sensation he was experiencing. Lost in the feeling, Cas was startled by the sound of a gunshot. He saw the human thug throw himself to the side of the car, presumably to get away from the shooter. Shaking himself free from his shock, Cas surged forward. He hit the lock release, pulled back, and threw himself out the door and took off running. He followed the thrumming, not knowing what it was but some deeply buried instinct telling him that the feeling was something important. Somehow Cas knew that there was some essential part of him hidden in the woods and that he needed to find it. Vaguely he registered additional shots and noticed he was running in the direction of the shooter, but the closer he got to the thrumming the more everything else was drowned out. For just a moment, as Castiel saw the man firing shots at the coven thugs, he felt like he could fly. There was a wrenching pain on his back and Cas had a brief view of shocked green eyes as blackness overcame him.

DCBB 2021 Posting Schedule

#dcbb 2021 #fic preview #2021 promo #deancas #destiel

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yanderesimps · 4 years ago

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"Twenty years too late"

/Keigo Takami x Reader\

(Tw: references to rape, kidnapping, reference to forced pregnancy)

The house had been filled with laughter for many hours now, something she never though she'd hear in a place that she held such contempt for. Or perhaps it had always been like this but she'd been too blind to see it, too consumed by her ever-growing hatred of the former number two hero. Her swallowed anger and smothered pride had tainted the bright walls and subtle sweet smell that wafted through the halls.

She ignored the laughter, the chatting and how the voices would grow slightly quieter whenever she would hum to calm her shaking hands as they guided a knife. The clatter of the metal as she sliced through the vegetables that sat upon the cutting board before spilling them into a pot.

She couldn't focus on anything else but her working hands. They had grow old, not elderly but age had taken it's due. Her once smooth skin now held the occasional wrinkle as subtle crows feet clung to the corners of her eyes and faint laugh lines cursed her lips. It was a wonder she even had laugh lines but perhaps her years of faking smiles had grown all too practiced and actually left their mark. Fine grey hairs were visible now, more than average for a woman of her age but after decades of kidnapped enduced stress it was a miracle she still had hair.

The sound of the kitchen door opening caused her hand to catch and her posture to straighten suddenly. The flutter of wings could be audibly heard. She prayed, pleaded and begged to whatever divinity existed in the cruel wretched world.

Don't let it be him

"Mom...do you need any help with dinner?" Tears of relief threatened to fall from her eyes right there and she almost felt her legs give way. Whipping her head around, she spyed her youngest who was still an adult now nevertheless. Their eyebrows were knoted together in subtle confusion, perhaps they saw her heavy breaths and shaking hands. "No...no, it won't be long now"

Maybe once she would've given a more convincing answer. Maybe once she would have given a more genuine answer but after years of fighting for her life where each action could've been a cause for punishment, she was no longer a woman of many wonders. Turning back to the cutting board, she could feeling the lingering eyes fixated on her back and the unspoken questions that lingered in the air like a cancer.

But no questions ever came, only the sound of the kitchen door closing once again. She didn't know why her heart was pumping out of her chest right about now, would she have even given an answer to such a question? Through the years it had been less question and more accusation. Tears spilled and arguments made about how she was a terrible mother. Neglecting her children since the day they were born and avoiding them like a plague as they grew older.

She had only done the bare minimum since that's all what keigo allowed. Change them when needed, feed them when they cried but in the end, all her attention must be focused on him unless she wanted to explain to her children why they lost a sibling.

That almost made it sound like she loved her children which she did in a sense. Loving them like you may love a gold watch, only ever seeing the materialistic value in it. Taking it to get fixed, cleaning it when it was dirty and protecting it from damage. Pure maternal instinct but nothing more than that.

It was the eldest of her children who had brought up her years of distancing herself from them. Saying that if she didn't want them then she shouldn't of had children. She could still remember the look of shock on their faces as she laughed, a bitter and hate filled laugh before she muttered something along the lines of "as if I had a choice in the matter" which keigo didn't like at all but that was a victory, one of the few she'd gained over the two decades she'd spent locked in this prison of obsession.

Now her life was a big joke constructed by keigo, a sour reminder that it wouldn't be just him that would look for her if she were to ever escape again. Unspoken gloats shown through opened windows and unlocked doors, something she would prayed for in her youth. He knew and took pride in how he had broken his little house wife and moulded her into whatever he desired.

She stopped cutting the vegetables, her mind growing blank as a single question ran through her mind.

What was the point?

He had her wrapped around his pretty finger despite how she resisted falling into Stockholm syndrome and never stopped resisting behind closed door.

The wedding band strapped around her finger now felt like it was burning her flesh. It acted not only as a sign that she was taken but to show her that she would forever be his and his alone.

Her hand gripped the knife tighter. She glared down at the sharp glint of the steel. The knife could be a escape. How long would it take them all to find her fallen body? Perhaps when the food would start to burn. How long would it take keigo to fly across the city with her in his arms and get her stitched up and discharged without a single word of refusal? Even despite the occasional greyed feather, he was still the fastest hero in Japan.

She placed the knife down with shaking hands, taking a moment to leave the dinner behind but not before remembering to turn down the stove. She blocked out the chatting as she neared the backdoor, gripping the handle and pulling it open to be greeted by the early afternoon sunlight. She bathed it in, taking a deep breath of the clear air as she gazed out at the city that sat upon the horizon. Another one of keigo's jokes. A city in the distance which made an hour of running seem child's play if it meant her freedom. Alas, she could never escape the house despite how hard she tried. Her last escape attempt when her youngest had turned five was still etched in her mind and her arm. The broken glass of a window sliced up her joints which left a pretty trail for her capture to follow.

Taking a step forward felt like breaking through a brick wall and taking another step felt like walking through the remnants of that wall. Years of a past life which her mind held at back flashed past her eyes.

What was her mother's name?

Did she have a sibling?

Was it her grandmother who had given her that birthday present on her 18th birthday?

Who was that boy she occasionally saw when walking through UA? Was he a hero now?

The heels that clung to her feet touched the grass of the yard. Images of a dozens of birthday parties, screeches of children and an arm clutching her hip all burned her mind. Each birthday marked a rape where keigo's need to breed her was successful. Each candle marked a year that held countless more rapes. Each flame blown out showed her dimming defiance that was swallowed by obidience. When was the last time she had audibly disagreed with the bird captor?

She broke into a run, leaping over the yard fence as years of instilled hero training cracked free from the slacked chains of keigo's torture. The wind tore at her skin, feeding the adrenaline that had set her heart ablaze. Decades of memories unleashed themselves upon her, each children first word that had always been "mama", each drawing they would happily hand her even if she would turn away and refuse it without a word.

Her mind begged her to turn around, attempting to persuade her that all those sweet nothings that keigo whispered we re true and all the torture he inflicted had been fabricated. She didn't listen. She only wondered how far she would get before hearing that beat of six pairs of wings.

With each step she felt liberated, with each second that the distant buildings seemed to grow made her heart quicken even more.

For now, she was free. She wasn't a mother, a wife or a victim. She was a saviour. The saviour she pleaded for through nights of tears and blood. She was the one that would save herself and break that cage that she'd been encased in for so many days and nights.

It was too late to go back now. Even if she returned they would notice the sweat on her brow and the heave of her lungs as she breathed. For now she ran with all her might, the pleas of twenty years pushing her further, screaming at her to run faster.

There was no doubt in her mind that keigo would find her but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of doing it without a fight.

#yandere+keigo+takami #Yandere #yandere hawks #Hawks #Keigo Takami #Bnha #Yandere hawks x reader #Keigo Takami x Reader #Fanfiction

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after-witch · 4 years ago

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After-Witch Masterlist

My masterlist! Will be updated regularly. Please note yandere content will contain the ‘Yandere’ descriptor before a character. Content is broken up by fandom, with headcanons listed at the bottom of each category. Multi-part pieces will be noted [Complete] when they are finished.

[Hopefully these links will work on desktop and mobile... if not I will work on a Google Doc version!]

Updated 04/28/21

Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia

Birthday Gift: Part 1 - Part 2 [Yandere Overhaul x Reader] [Complete]

You finally get up the nerve to ask your captor for a special gift–a birthday gift.

Bad Day [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

You’re in one of your dark moods again. Overhaul wants to help you.

Just One Night [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

You really, really want to go see The Nutcracker. Will your captor grant your request to continue an annual tradition?

Damned to Live Forever [Yandere Vampire Aizawa x Reader]

You fall prey to the whims of a vampire with a penchant for lost, helpless souls.

Don’t Fall Asleep [Yandere Dream Demon Dabi x Reader]

You can’t stop dreaming about a terrible man with scars. You’ll be okay--if you can just stay awake.

Takeout [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

You haven’t been eating. Your captor brings home takeout.

Just a Name [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

Dabi wants a name, that’s all. Things will be easier if you give it to him.

So Close [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

You ran and ran from Hawks and came... so close.

So Far [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Sequel to ‘So Close.’ Hawks realizes he has to break you down to build you back up.

Vacation All I Ever Wanted [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

You agree to visit Japan with a friend for vacation, despite it being home to your controlling ex-boyfriend.

Threats and Lies [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Your bratty behavior inspires threats and lies from your captor. Inspired by the prompt “I could kill you if I wanted to.”

Be Good to Him (The Boy!AU Shigaraki x Reader]

You’re a nanny responsible for the well-being of a doll-turned-ghost. You want to leave, and Tomura really doesn’t like that.

Birdsong [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

A rare outdoor picnic leads you to temptation. Inspired by the prompt “Don’t you dare fucking try it. You know you can’t outrun me.”

Adoration and Pain [Vampire!Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

You are his pure doe, his precious lamb. And his personal blood bank.

Let’s Split Up, Gang [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

You have a stalker. Thankfully, your boyfriend Hawks is there to help you investigate.

Mortality [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

Dabi muses on mortality after a hard day. For request: “Uhshh for the horror movie special I thought the quote “Fire is the reflection of or own mortality, we’re born, we breathe, and we die” from “Get Out” would work super well with dabi.”

Doctor Doctor [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

You’re afraid of doctors, which naturally means it’s time for your checkup.

Down the Drain [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

You and Dabi have a little... chat in the bathroom. For request: yandere dabi x fem reader.

White Picket Fence [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

[Part 2]

You’ve been with Kai Chisaki for three years. Your life is quiet and cozy and soothing. But what do you do when you realize you want more? For request: yandere overhaul x reader with stockholm syndrome

Pluck [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

You tried to run–no, fly–away. And Hawks is going to make sure you never try that again.

Sweet Dreams [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Overhaul watches you sleep and has an… unexpected reaction.

Big City [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

You’re about to leave for a new university in a new city in a new country. Your friend doesn’t seem pleased. You agree to meet up before you leave in the hopes of keeping your friendship alive.

It’s My Party [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

You’re having a party and Shigaraki is not invited.

You Would Cry Too (If It Happened to You) (It’s My Party Part 2) [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Quality Time (It’s My Party Part 3)

Shigaraki won’t let you go to the bathroom.

Office Hours [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

He gave you the outfit. The blouse, the skirt, the nylons–the heels. A secretary’s unofficial uniform. You can’t help but feel mocked, in a way. Hurt. Was he being cruel on purpose, to make you think about your life before all this?

Thank You For Your Donation [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

For request: “ Shigaraki gets obsessed with a twitch stream and deluded himself into believing they’re together until he finally takes her home “

Sketch Memory [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Chisaki lets you indulge in your little hobbies. But he’s starting to suspect that you’re taking advantage of his “generosity.”

Fragile Little Thing [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Your “boyfriend” is having a rough day and he doesn’t appreciate you being such a difficult partner. If you can’t behave, maybe he can’t behave, either.

Revelations [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

So you don’t eat, you don’t follow his rules; so you hurt yourself. It’s all you can do to keep up the fight against an obsessive captor who thinks he knows what’s best for you.

Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Escape isn’t easy. Nor is it very long-lasting. When Overhaul’s men drag you back into captivity, you brace yourself and wait for what your captor will do with you.

Comfy Couch [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

It’s fine if you’re not paying attention to Netflix, really. But not paying attention to your boyfriend? That won’t fly.

Corsets and Blackmail [Yandere Dabi x Reader]

Dabi wants you in a corset. What Dabi wants, lately, Dabi gets.

Baby Mine [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Rest Your Head (Baby Mine Part 2)

Close to My Heart (Baby Mine Part 3)

Never to Part (Baby Mine Part 4)

The first time you laid eyes on your child, you knew: You had to get out. Set in the ‘White Picket Fence’-verse.

Serpent [Naga!Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

You’re so lucky to have wandered into his den. Others might have eaten you, but he’ll keep you safe.

Pinned [Yandere Shigaraki x Secretary!Reader]

Follow up to Office Hours. You’ve given him a kink and isn’t that your fault, really?

Headcanons

Yandere Overhaul and a darling with chronic health problems

Yandere Overhaul General Headcanons

Yandere Aizawa General Headcanons

Yandere Dabi and a depressed darling

Yandere Hawks General Headcanons

Yandere Dabi and a depressed, clingy darling

Yandere Overhaul with a darling who has EDS

Yandere Shigaraki and a darling who doesn’t mind being kidnapped

Yandere Overhaul with a darling who hates mornings

Yandere Shigaraki + Secretary!Reader Headcanons

Yandere Shigaraki and secretary musings

Yandere Overhaul with pregnant reader headcanons

Bungou no Stray Dogs

With Friends Like These [Yandere Dazai x Naive Reader]

One of your friends thinks your new boyfriend is controlling. Your new boyfriend doesn’t like that at all.

Dinner Party [Yandere Fyodor Dostoevsky x Reader]

Your friends cancelled, one by one, leaving you with the only person in the world who seemed to care about you.

Flight [Yandere Nikolai Gogol x Reader]

You’re a fantastic actress when you’re on the stage. But your captor isn’t fooled when there’s no stage magic to hide your real feelings.

Character Development [Yandere Fyodor Dostoevsky x Reader]

You’ve been given a gift by your captor for good behavior. Too bad it’s a shitty book.

Headcanons

Yandere Dazai with an oblivious and nurturing reader

Yandere Dazai and Chuuya with a darling that has post-punishment nightmares

Yandere Dazai and Chuuya general headcanons

Death Note

Oh Sugar Sugar: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 [Yandere L Lawliet x Reader] [Complete]

You’re the owner of a cute little pastry shop. One of your customers falls in love with more than just your baked goodies.

Darling, Light of My Life [Yandere Light Yagami x Reader]

Inspired by a scene from The Shining. You found the book. He wants it back.

A Christmas Interlude [Yandere L Lawliet x Reader]

Set in the Oh Sugar Sugar series. It’s Christmas--and you have a gift coming. Deleted scene here.

Ginger Tea [Yandere L Lawliet x Reader]

You’re sick. Unfortunately, your captor has no intentions of leaving you alone to recover.

Sunny Day [Yandere l Lawliet x Reader]

He knew there was a high chance that your reaction to being kidnapped could end with depression. But what he didn’t know was how, exactly, to deal with it.

Final Fantasy 7

Compound [Yandere Sephiroth x Reader]

After being caught trying to escape, Sephiroth punishes you.

A Private Cell [Yandere Reno x Reader]

Part 2

For request: Can I request FF7 Reno with reader as his prisoner?

No Turning Back [Yandere Sephiroth x Reader]

It’s hard, being with Sephiroth–belonging to Sephiroth. Especially when your own heart belongs to another.

Headcanons

Yandere Kadaj General Headcanons

Yandere Yazoo General Headcanons

Yandere Vincent Valentine with shy female reader Headcanons

Hetalia

Wine? [Yandere Spain x Reader]

You “settle” in for dinner. Inspired by the prompt “I’m sorry, I know it hurts.”

Cold [Yandere Canada x Reader]

You ran away and that’s not good. Inspired by the prompt “I’m sorry, I know it hurts.”

Under a Bridge [Yandere Norway x Reader]

You’ve been under Norway’s thumb, trapped and caged in more ways than one. You seek help from otherworldly beings, but a deal once made, can’t be undone.

Headcanons

Yandere America General Headcanons

Yandere Japan General Headcanons

Yandere Canada General Headcanons

Yandere Denmark General Headcanons

Yandere Iceland General Headcanons

Inu Yasha

Moving On [Yandere Sesshoumaru x Reader]

You misspeak when instructed by the demon lord who’s taken you. Inspired by the prompt “I didn’t quite hear that, care to repeat yourself?”

You Can Run [Yandere Sesshoumaru x Reader]

For request: “Could you maybe do something with Sesshomaru? Maybe his ‘darling’ trying to escape not knowing that it would literally be impossible?”

A Gift [Yandere Sesshoumaru x Reader]

Your demon lord captor presents you with an unusual and unexpected gift.

In Sickness [Yandere Sesshoumaru x Reader]

You were not often alone with the demon lord who took you captive. Then again, you were not often touched by the demon lord who took you captive, either.

Knives Out

Yandere Ransom Drysdale Imagine

Imagine meeting Ransom Drysdale...

Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere!Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

You’ve broken up with Ransom Drysdale, and you mean it this time. But the freedom that comes with the breakup leads to a series of unexpected coincidences that leave you wondering: was it worth the price?

Yandere Ransom Drysdale Headcanon

Sticking up for Ransom at a family dinner.

Emotional Loan [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

You shouldn’t be this nervous about telling your boyfriend that you want to transfer to a college out of state. Ransom is nothing if not generous with you–so why is your stomach in knots?

Labyrinth

The Pain Sweeps Through [Yandere Jareth x Reader]

You’re not the first one he’s brought into the Goblin King’s Labyrinth. You’re not the first one to best him, to get to the center and beat him at his own game. But you are the first one to beat him and give in: “Fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.

Misc Horror Movies

Kim So-Hee x Reader Headcanons (Wishing Stairs)

The Slayers

Yandere Xelloss Headcanons

Trigun

Yandere Knives x Reader Headcanons

Original/No Fandom

Wife or Death [16th Century Witch POV]

You’re a 16th century witch who finds herself pursued through the woods by a witchfinder. Out of options, you pray to the only lord that might save you.

Floss [Yandere Dentist x Reader]

You hate going to the dentist. You really do.

In the Mirror [Doppelganger x Reader]

She just wants to make your life better. Of course, that’s hard to believe when you’re trapped inside a mirror.

And Home Before Dark [Wendigo x Reader]

Living in the practical wilderness of new France, you knew you were never meant to be in the woods after dark. After all, there was something in the forest that was dark and dangerous and it wanted you.

Madame Guillotine [18th Century Aristocrat Reader]

It’s the French Revolution and you’re a former aristocrat on your way to meet your death at the scaffold.

Down the Cellar Stairs [Early 20th Century Reader]

It’s just a game, just a silly game to play on Halloween. But you may find more at the bottom of the cellar stairs that you bargained for.

#afterwitch masterlist #yandere #horror

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