#he just wants to be close to monsters but it's interesting how his selfishness circles back to his people

[curapicas]

This. Man.

That he was jealous of the cool chimera was understandable. But he really went on an entire quest to save his sister who was devoured by a monster and then thought "you know what. god I wish that was me"

Bonus: Kabru, who has seen people being eaten by monsters, looking like a new nightmare was just added to his collection

[ceranovis]

Some musings to do with this celltw pic

As a fandom I feel like we could be doing So Much More with Other Side Elements being canon + all the connected Ordem worldbuilding it introduces by association.

Canonically, Cellbit chose to align himself with the knowledge element. So I hopped on over to the ordem wiki page for Knowledge to look for things to put in the paperwork on the table. Then I realized there's a memory alteration ritual (accidentally pulled the wrong ritual circle image for the art though oTL ...let's just pretend Cellbit identified the right one at some point).

The [Change Memory Ritual] can erase all or only some specific memories of the victim. In both cases, if the victim comes into contact with people, places and certain objects that were part of this past erased, it will begin to gradually recall some elements and have quick flashes of some moments, being able to recover its memory completely after a while.

Now listen. If there's one thing I think of as core to q!Cellbit's character, it's that as far as he's concerned the ends always justifies the means. This includes doing things he knows people he loves will hate him for because he thinks it will be better for them in the long run.

In the regret arc letters, he told Tazercraft he loved them, that Cell was dead & he didn't want them to think he was reverting to that type of monster. While there were a few moments where he brought up clearly unresolved feelings of anger and betrayal/abandonment regarding how things went with Fuga, I do think at that point he cared for the Favela crew as a found-family, and was making decisions he felt were in their best interest (usually without consulting them, or like...running those ideas by anyone else ever...)

If he discovered a way to erase specific memories, I could fully see him using that to 'make things better' for Pac. I doubt he'd try to erase all the Fuga memories (especially as he'd have to also erase Mike and Felps) but I also don't think he'd feel like he had to go that far anyways.

Earlier on in the Quesadilla timeline, Pac seemed to think of Cell as basically dormant and was relatively comfortable with having a fairly close and positive relationship with Cellbit. He only grew paranoid about Cell re-emerging when he saw signs of Cellbit snapping, and he first responded by actively trying to keep Cellbit in a headspace that wouldn't lead to that. There have been multiple instances of Pac extending a bit of grace, an unspoken offer not to forgive or forget but to move forward. He wants Cellbit to be a good man, not a monster.

So I think Cellbit would use the ritual to smooth over events that put a strain on their current relationship. Things that made Pac scared he was turning back into Cell. And he'd probably justify it as 'helping' Pac, but there's also a selfish element there too, of him desperately trying to keep hold of this new start and family he probably doesn't deserve but somehow got anyways.

It's small things at first-- just wiping away little instances that put Pac on edge around him. Pac is prone to glossing over Cellbit's red flags anyways, so even if other people remember what Pac doesn't, it wouldn't set off immediate alarm bells. Nobody would catch on to the manipulation.

Pac himself would write off most of the weird, vague flashes he gets sometimes. It feels sort of like deja vu but with an extra helping of uneasy dread. He's not very self-confident when it comes to his brain; he's just being unreasonably paranoid because of his memories of Cell-- those half-memories are so foggy because his brain is panicking and conflating the past with the present, right? More importantly, wants to trust Cellbit.

Now, there's a clip of Pac (which I can't find now but it lives in my head rent free) where he implies that, if Cellbit and Roier hadnt been introduced, he and Cellbit would have been together.

There are a few points in the canon timeline where guapoduo could have been derailed. Cellbit may never have even gotten to that point with Roier if he and Pac were already a little bit closer. If he was fucking with Pac's memories in a way that made Pac less cautious of him, I think it's entirely possible their relationship would have had a chance to develop in place of guapoduo's.

Cellbit didn't start erasing memories with the intention of getting Pac to fall for him though. He wanted the olive branch Pac extended. He wanted Pac to not be terrified of him. But it never occured to him that Pac might be capable of falling in love with the man who ate his goddamn leg. So it completely blindsides him when Pac does, in fact, very deliberately step over the line between platonic and romantic in their relationship.

It feels a lot more morally dubious to be manipulating Pac's memories once that happens. But he's in too deep. He knows Pac would hate him if he found out the truth. But isn't it better this way anyways? Pac, somehow, impossibly, wants to love him-- it's not like he's forcing Pac feel anything about him, right? He knows how terrible betrayal feels-- and he doesn't have to make Pac feel that way, doesn't have to hurt him like that! All he has to do is omit the truth. It's not even a lie, really.

He wants Pac to be happy, wants to preserve the warmth Pac looks at him with now, and if holding his tongue is what assures that... well he can swallow down the guilt gnawing at him and bear that mental burden for both of them. Theres so much in their history for him to feel guilty about anyways, what's one more thing?

Unfortunately for Cellbit, he's never used the ritual on people prior to this, and the books he got it from were light on details as to how it works. He has no idea that the locks on Pac's memories start to slowly erode as soon as he encounters a trigger. And since all of the erased memories are of Cellbit, their time together is just speeding up that process.

Eventually, Pac regains a memory he can't just brush off. And he has to come to terms with the fact that something is very, very wrong between them even if he doesn't understand exactly what's happening to him. He'd figure it out eventually, go through Cellbit's notes in secret and piece things together. When he does he's horrified and angry and heartbroken. But he's torn too because it's not like he can just forget the relationship they've built either, even if he now knows the foundation is half rotted.

He still loves Cellbit, despite every fucked up thing Cellbit has ever done to him.

The question is really whether Pac loves himself enough to pull the plug on this unhealthy dynamic.

[duckiemimi]

this was submitted as a submission! i kept their username hidden just in case they wanted their privacy! also, a heads up—i’ll be talking about death and ideation here.

what is a punishment for a monster?

this’ll be a little soft and embarrassing, but who am i if not soft and embarrassing? i think that’s a good thing. i hope you think so, too.

“punishment for a monster” is a very personal story to me. to this day, i’m not quite sure what prompted me to write it. i can’t really pinpoint a specific event in my life that inspired the structure and the story, but i do know that it felt like a long, overdue hug. it felt it was waiting for me, too.

you ask how i came up with the concept.

if i could pick out a more concrete moment of inspiration, it would be after watching Mike Flanagan’s “Haunting of Hill House”! i won’t spoil you too much,

***(skip this part if you’d rather watch it first!)***

but there’s a character in the show who goes around talking to his dead wife on an every day basis, like she’s there but not really there. at first, we’re led to believe that it’s a classic case of a haunting, like the title implies. by the end of the story, it becomes less clear, more murky. it seemed to me like he kept holding onto the memories of her, like he’d built a moving image of his late wife with every moment of her he could remember. so, yeah: she was there, but not really there. memories are building blocks, i think.

***(spoiler over; you’re good!)***

i’ve always had an interest in death and the afterlife, what it means for the people who keep going and what it means for the people who rest. it’s not particularly religious in nature; hell, i’d consider myself far from religious. i don’t know. i guess i wanted to know why some circles close and why circles don’t. why does the pen stop moving?

my cousin died earlier during the pandemic, and it was also during the time i was put on watch. actually, i think i wanted to go before she actually went. i’m older than her, but i guess that didn’t really mean anything in the end. i’ll always be older. and anyway, it’s selfish to want to go when someone’s already on their way, isn’t it?

in my culture, when people die, sometimes they come back as dreams. they’d come back one last time to say goodbye, and that’s when you know they’re happier. i never saw my cousin in my dreams. i guess i wouldn’t call us close. i hope she visited my sister, though. she wouldn’t tell me, but i don’t pry. it’s something between them only.

you ask about the title.

i’ll be honest, i didn’t really know what to title the story. pinterest is a treasure trove of ideas. all i knew was that it had to be a quote about “punishment.”

“It’s a fitting punishment for a monster. to want something so much—to hold it in your arms—and know beyond a doubt you will never deserve it.”

that’s the full quote from a book titled “The Wrath and the Dawn” by Renee Ahdieh. i’ve never read the book before. i’m sure it’s beautiful, and i know that even by this one line. maybe i’ll read it some day.

it’s a sweet irony, i think, to title a story about healing and second chances “punishment for a monster”, to title a story about forgiveness and metamorphosis something so punitive and cruel. but i guess it works in both geto and gojo’s cases. who is the monster here? who is being punished? but i think people can change. i think love transmutes.

you ask if i was as broken as you as you read it.

well, maybe. i tend to realize things in hindsight. at the time, i was only focused on geto and gojo, where to put my commas and spaces, what words to use to talk about loss. i only realized later on that i’ve typed up most of me into it, too. but isn’t that all art? isn’t art just a giant portrait of who we are at the time? i’m rewriting “honesty corner” and i considered rewriting “punishment for a monster”, but i think i want to keep that picture of me from then. if i ever muster up the courage to read it again, it’ll be like looking through a photo album.

i would write more of how i conceptualized geto and gojo in the story, but i think we’ve connected well enough for you to know what i meant. i read every single comment and so many of you have such personal tethers to the story. i won’t get in your way; you deserve to mourn the way you want, too. and anyway, grief is never-ending. it’s a lifetime thing and it isn’t always linear, and though you carry it for life, it doesn’t define you. love defines you.

(though you could say grief is an extension of love. how’s that poem go again? grief is love in a heavy coat?)

thank you so much for liking a story i wrote of my two favorite characters. i don’t think life is made up of straight lines. one day, when we’re both ready, let’s have some clementines at the table.

[seijorhi]

To the Wolves

my (first) entry for the Deal With the Devil collab, because i couldn’t resist writing for Yakuza Getou <33

Getou Suguru x Female Reader

TW Extremely dubious consent, coercion, manipulation, threats, implied murder, smut, nsfw

“No. I- I won’t.”

Sitting comfortably on the old, worn couch in your cramped little apartment, Getou raises a single eyebrow, “Oh? Is that so?”

His voice is perfectly pleasant, the smile on his face a touch amused, but you’re not so naive as to believe that the question is anything but a generous offer for you to rethink your reply. A smart person would take it – since the day you’d first arrived home to find him waiting for you, Getou hadn’t so much as laid a finger on you. He had no need for guns or knives, never shouted or bullied you, his reputation more than enough to cow you into submission before he’d even opened his mouth.

Of course, once he had, the simple threats to your friends and family’s lives had made certain that you were more than amenable to his request.

A mutually beneficial arrangement, he’d called it, as if there hadn’t been tears silently streaming down your face, your whole body stiff with fear. 

But that was the world he came from. Violence and ruthlessness, cruelty masquerading as kindness.

By all accounts, someone like you – a lowly admin assistant living a very boring, mundane life – should never have crossed paths with a man like Getou. The irony, of course, being that it was precisely because of your job that he’d been drawn to you in the first place. 

“I-I said no,” you stammer. “I’m not doing it.”

Getou sighs, long, pale fingers idly fixing the cuff of his left sleeve. “I had no idea the lives of your loved ones meant so little to you.”  

“Please, I-” you break off, biting your lip as your hands curl into useless fists at your side, “I can’t. Anything else, I’ll do anything, I swear it, just… please.”

Men like Getou aren’t the type to be swayed by pretty words or tearful pleas, but there’s an unmistakable glimmer of interest that flickers in his eyes at the offer. Casually, he leans forward, resting his chin on the palm of his hand and regarding you with a smirk. “So you’ll bring me the list of witnesses then?”

The barely audible hitch in your breath is enough to make him chuckle.

“No? How about those surveillance tapes, hm?” Smoothly, he rises to his feet and makes his way towards you. “Careful, little one, first rule of negotiation is knowing when you have something to bargain with. Don’t promise me what you can’t give.”

“Getou–”

He raises a hand and you quickly fall silent. There’s only inches between you two now, Getou’s taller, broader frame looming over yours. He could kill you like this, you realise with panic – reach out and wrap his hands around your throat and snap your pretty little neck before you could so much as scream. The tailored line of his jacket hides the gun he has holstered at his side, but Getou knows you're aware of its presence, have been since the very first time he’d broken into your home and threatened you. 

It’d take him only moments to draw the sidearm, even less for him to pull the trigger.

The walls of your apartment are thin, would your neighbours come if they heard gunfire? Would you, for that matter, if your roles were reversed?

Yet Getou makes no move for his gun, instead reaching for your chin, tilting it up with two curled fingers until you meet his gaze, “You understand, don’t you, that I make one phone call and that charming sister of yours and her fiance meet a very tragic, very untimely end?”

He pauses, waiting until you jerk a quick nod of assent before continuing. “You love them. There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with prioritising the ones you love over everybody else.” His voice is gentle, but the words make you shake, dread rising from the pit of your stomach as the pad of his thumb grazes over your bottom lip. 

You don’t know if you’re supposed to say something to that, but even as you try, you can’t summon the words. The by now familiar scent of his cologne tickles your nose and invades your throat, the warmth of his touch burning through your veins. Your own heart hammers like a drumbeat in your chest, every cell in your body screaming danger, but you don’t run, you don’t even flinch.

Getou smiles kindly, and perhaps if you hadn’t seen first hand the aftermath of his handiwork you might be tempted to believe it. His spare hand reaches into his jacket, but instead of the gun you’re expecting, he pulls out his phone, the screen flickering to life with a swipe of his finger. “So tell me, before I make a call you and I both know you don’t want me to make, why you’ve suddenly decided that their lives aren’t worth your compliance?”

Nanami. Your boss’s face flashes to your mind, the odd, fleeting glances he’d sent your way over the past few weeks when he’d thought you weren’t paying attention. Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your cheeks unwittingly warming, but you just shake your head, “If I give you those files, you’ll kill them. You’ll hurt them.”

“Maybe,” he hums, “maybe not. It’s no less than those monkeys deserve, don’t you think?” He spits the word like it’s venom, the twitch in his jaw the only chink in his otherwise effortless composure. “You’re protecting them, even now.”

You make no attempt to defend yourself, terrified of saying the wrong thing and setting him off, but Getou seems entirely unfazed, laughing coldly at your stricken expression.

“Your boss, the one with the perpetual stick up his ass; Nanami,” potent disdain drips from his tone at the name, “Always so morally righteous, sitting up on his high horse. You think he cares for you, that he’ll protect you when all of this comes out? And it will come out eventually,” he says, his smirk widening at the sudden pallor in your face. “At some point there’ll be one too many unfortunate coincidences, and the higher ups will realise that they have a mole in their ranks. Fingers will be pointed of course, but eventually even those idiots will figure it out.”

A knot tightens inside of your chest at his words, constricting until it feels like you can’t breathe. You’re shaking your head, eyes filling with tears, “N-no–”

“Oh, little one,” Getou murmurs, dark eyes drinking in every ounce of your distress. “Surely you realised that they have security cameras covering every inch of your floor? There was no reason to look before, but once they do…” he trails off, letting go of your chin in favour of brushing the back of his knuckles along your cheek. “They’ll throw you to the wolves.”

His voice is soft and cruel, belied by the gentleness of his touch, but it does nothing to quell the rising sense of dread inside of you. You want to believe it’s a lie, another threat meant to scare you into submission, but some deeper part of you recognises the truth in his words. 

Nanami, who’d told you once that there was innocence and there was guilt and very little in between. Nanami, whose office you’d bugged, whose trial only weeks ago you’d all but derailed with a few misplaced documents. You think back to the late nights shared in his office, bowls of ramen and case files scattered across the desk between you. You think of the rare smiles, his oddly dry sense of humour, the pleasant fluttering in your heart–

“You’ll rot in prison long before I do, and there is not a soul among that insipid bunch that would lift a finger to stop that from happening to you.” 

A soft, strangled noise leaves your lips as you fight not to sob, and Getou sighs, the corners of his lips twitching downwards in contrived sympathy. “Say the word and I’ll walk away tonight. I’ll still have to kill your sister – I am a man of my word, you understand – but I promise it’ll be the last you see of me.”

He slides his phone back into the breast pocket of his jacket, taking your face in both of his hands as tears spill down long lashes. “And when they come for you, you can tell them I threatened you, show them what little proof you have – if you have any at all. Maybe it’ll even make a difference,” he says. “But I doubt it.”

Every word is like a knife, slicing away at the raw, bleeding, vulnerable parts of you.

“Please…” It’s weak and desperate, your voice cracked and broken. You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore; your sister’s life, for Getou’s mercy, or maybe just for him to stop saying such awful things. He must take pity on you though, because he sighs once more, his right thumb sweeping across your wet cheek to brush away silvery tear tracks. 

“I’m not a complete monster, you know. I protect what’s mine.”

And in one breath, everything screeches to a standstill and a trickle of very real fear creeps down your spine. There’s no mistaking his implication, not when he’s holding your face like that, his eyes dark and simmering with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

“W-what?”

Getou closes the gap between you two, a startled noise leaving your lips as his hips press flush up against you. “Don’t play stupid, sweet thing,” he murmurs, and it sounds like a warning, “It doesn’t suit you.”

One hand slips to your neck, the other curling almost possessively around your waist. There’s no room for you to move, to back away or free yourself. For a moment, neither of you speak, the heavy silence deafening between you.

Does he notice the way your pulse races under his fingertips as they circle your throat, how you’re shaking like a leaf beneath him? Does he want you afraid? A scared little bunny rabbit cowering from the gaping maw of the big, bad wolf? 

Judging from the bulge of his semi-hard cock pressing into the soft flesh of your belly, he’s not entirely unaffected, and for the first time it’s not Getou’s gun or his threats that you’re most afraid of. 

It’s the selfish, twisted want that glitters and glints in those pitiless depths. You’ve never felt so entirely at somebody else’s mercy as you do with Getou now, staring you down like he wants to lay you bare, claim you again and again for all the world to see. And you don’t understand. There’s a thousand and one questions running through your mind, your insides twisted up into knots. 

You know what it is he’s asking of you – though asking feels like a generous word when he can so easily just take – but none of this makes sense, not when he was threatening your family’s lives only minutes ago. 

As if he can sense the turmoil and confusion raging through you, he leans down, his lips ghosting over the outer shell of your ear. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll walk away right now.”

I am a man of my word. 

His earlier statement rings through your head as you search his face for any sign of deception – you find none. But walking away means your sister dies. It means you’re left on your own to fend off the wolves when they find out what you’ve done.

Nanami might believe you. He might even defend you, but you’ve worked in the Prosecutor’s office long enough to know that duress isn’t the bulletproof defence people think it is, and for tangling with the likes of him…

You were screwed the moment he showed up in your living room, this- this is just the coup de grâce. The final damnation.

“Why me?” 

Getou doesn’t answer, but when he draws you into a kiss, his lips moving torturously slow against yours, there’s an edge of… something there, lying hidden just beneath the surface. And it terrifies you, more than his words and his promises ever could.

But when your back’s to the wall, what choice do you really have?

It feels like defeat when he takes you by the hand and leads you into your bedroom, ignoring the uncertain glance you cast over your shoulder towards the living room. You don’t want any of this, but you can pretend that it’s just… business if he fucks you out there.

Not in the bed you sleep in.

It’d be easier, you think, if it was cold and impersonal. If you cried and it stung and the only sounds in the room were flesh hitting flesh, ragged breathing and an occasional rough grunt.

There’s nothing impersonal about the way he watches you strip out of your clothes at his command. His own join yours on the floor without much ceremony – his gun pointedly set just within reach atop your nightstand.

The first time you’d laid eyes on Getou Suguru, it was two months into your new job; a photograph pinned to a thick, heavy file Nanami had dropped on your desk. A surveillance picture, you’d gathered, snapped as the man was exiting some neon lit club downtown. And you remembered the smug smirk he’d had, staring directly down the lens of the camera like it was a challenge, but that wasn’t what had struck you most.

It was the flutter of interest that’d shot through your veins the moment before common sense kicked in. Tall and fit, with long, dark hair swept up in the wind, a sharp jaw and a handsome face, you remember thinking he was probably the most attractive man you’d ever seen.

Now, standing naked before you, bright, colourful tattoos inked across his torso, accentuating the muscles that rise and fall with every measured breath, you can’t bear to look. It’s easier just to stare at the wooden floorboards, the corner of the shagged rug you’d bought at a thrift store when you first moved in. Easier to pretend Getou isn’t pulling you closer once more, pressing searing, open mouthed kisses along your neck, murmuring words that are lost to you entirely as his hands wander. You can feel it now, the heat of his body as he cages you in, his cock, thick and heavy and flushed nudging insistently up against your stomach.

You expect him to shove you to your knees, to force his cock down your throat in some archaic show of dominance before he claims your cunt, but he doesn’t. 

“I want you to touch yourself for me,” he whispers into your ear, teeth catching lightly on the sensitive lobe as you shiver. “Like you do when I’m not here, those pretty legs spread, fucking yourself on your fingers…”

The comment feels too familiar to be entirely offhanded, striking a chord of panic somewhere deep inside of you–

But it doesn’t make a difference. It doesn’t matter now.

You allow him to kiss you again before climbing onto the mattress. Like a good girl, you fall back onto the pillows, let your legs ease apart, wrapping your lips around two fingers and sucking for a brief moment before gliding your hand down between your thighs. 

His breath hitches, a soft curse sounding when saliva slicked digits spread your folds, the tip of your middle finger brushing lightly against your clit as you stroke your pussy. Your nipples harden and peak under the cool night air and you use your free hand to palm at your breast, pinching and teasing at the sensitive bud while one finger slips into the warmth of your cunt. 

The mattress dips, Getou climbing onto the bed, settling himself back on his knees, your spread legs either side of him.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. 

Your heart stutters, movements jerking as you brace for him to interfere, to touch you, but aside from nudging your thighs further apart to get a better view of your glistening cunt, he seems content simply to sit back and watch, his own hand lazily stroking at his cock.

Trying in vain to block him out, you squeeze your eyes shut and focus on the way your fingers feel between your legs, the pleasure–

 (Not the shame, don’t think about that, don’t think about Getou watching you debase yourself for his enjoyment)

–that pools in your core as you rub the shining pearl of your clit. It’s a familiar dance, a routine you’d normally help along with a glass of wine and a few faithful toys, but you don’t exactly have that luxury here.

And even with the rigid tension in your shoulders, the unwanted presence of a man you’re terrified of impossible to ignore, you can’t help the quiet moan that slips past your lips, the way your hips stutter, grinding against the heel of your palm as your fingers hit that sweet, delightful spot inside of you. 

Getou tenses at the sound, the last, fragile thread of his composure snapping–

He strikes fast. One moment you’re biting down on your bottom lip, your index and middle fingers knuckle deep in your dripping pussy, the next he’s braced atop you, one hand locked around your wrist, the other propping himself up. And as your eyes fly open with a startled cry, his lips crash against your once more – desperate and ravenous, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth to taste you.

And you don’t fight it when he pulls your hand from your pussy and drags it to his crotch, his fingers entwining with yours as he wraps them around his heavy, throbbing cock and moans. It’s humiliating, the way he thrusts into your hand, tightening his grip so you’re forced to feel every shivery twitch of his dick while he sucks eagerly on your tongue.

This is the choice you’d made, the deal you struck. It’s too late to back out now, and even if you tried to… 

“I want you,” he pants, his lips glistening with saliva, an almost manic look in those dark, pretty eyes, “to ride me.”

… you’re not so sure Getou would let you.

So you allow yourself to be manhandled, lifted and situated across his lap like a doll. Hands braced on his tattooed chest, you lift your hips just enough for him to guide his cock to your slick entrance before slowly sinking down onto his length.

Every inch hurts. 

It doesn’t make it any less painful, the way Getou soothes you, his thumbs stroking gently at your waist as you whine and mewl, feeling every ridge and vein of his cock as he stuffs you full.

“Fuck– good girl, taking me so well,” he purrs.

You’re not sure if it’s shame, pleasure, or some sense of twisted pride at the praise that has your pussy clenching, fire racing through your veins when Getou experimentally rocks his hips upwards. And if your cheeks weren’t already burning, the lewd moan that escapes you when the head of his cock hits your g-spot would certainly do the trick. 

Ever observant, he wastes no time capitalising on your slip, lifting you up just to drive you back down onto his length at the perfect angle. You shudder around him, keening out a cry that has him groaning in pleasure.

There’s no illusion of control here between you two.

You might be the one on top, but Getou’s grip’s too tight, guiding every roll of your hips against his, his own rising in time to fuck his cock deeper into your warm, velvety cunt. And somewhere distantly you recognise that this could be a thousand times worse. How easily he could change the narrative in a heartbeat, flip you over, force your face into the pillows and fuck you like a dog until you’re gasping for air. He could use you, hurt you, probably kill you without ever needing to touch the gun he’d left on your nightstand – and you wouldn’t have a hope in hell of stopping him.

But he doesn’t. Lying back against your pillows, dark hair falling from his half up-do, cheeks flushed from exertion, Getou’s attention is wholly fixed on you - on your face, eyes screwed shut, bottom lip caught between your teeth as he hits somewhere deep inside of you that has you seeing stars, on your tits, the way they bounce every time you sink back down onto his cock.

His eyes are hooded, dark and intense, searching for every hint of pleasure he’s drawn from you. You gasp his name, fingers digging into his chest, your cunt fluttering so deliciously around him – and he loses that last little bit of his self control. 

He jerks upright, one arm wrapping around your waist to anchor you to him as he braces himself with the other, and before you can so much as gasp his mouth is at your tits, hot tongue laving at soft, supple skin there.

“Suguru,” he growls, hips snapping feverishly against yours. 

“Suguru,” you parrot, head lolling back as heat coils tighter in your core. 

You’ll worry about the consequences later, when he pulls you boneless and sated into his arms and you feel his heart thumping at your back as he kisses you and tells you to sleep. When tomorrow you arrive at work and Nanami stares a beat too long as the love bites scattered across your throat, no doubt wondering why you won’t so much as look at him.

For now, you settle for pulling him closer, gasping as you chase that quaking, blissful end.

[princess-of-riviaa]

Training

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Summary: After being attacked in the woods, you ask Geralt to train you in self defense, and he puts an interesting twist on your first lesson.

Warning(s): mentions of rape, gore, violence, anal, some fluff (if you squint)

Word count: 2,732

The ambush comes quickly. Neither you nor Geralt have time to realize what’s going on before you’re surrounded on all sides by ten men. Every last one of them is tall and wide with muscle, strong enough to make even Geralt look like a normal-sized human. There’s lust in their eyes as they take in the sight of you. You have no doubt they plan to kill Geralt and take you as a trophy, or just rape you before killing you too, leaving yours and Geralt’s bodies to rot.

Stupid plan, considering they’re going up against a centuries-old witcher.

Geralt is on them in a second. The four men closest to him keep their eyes trained on him as he slices through each body like they’re made of butter. Two of the men stalk towards you. Instinctively your feet carry you backwards--until you collide with the thick, unmoving bark of a tree. You’re trapped. The two men smirk and chuckle as they near you, noticing your predicament just as you do. With your heart in your throat you brace yourself for their cold, unkind hands to do what they want with you--

Nothing happens.

And then--

Warm, gentle, loving hands on you, cupping your face. You open your eyes to find yourself staring up at Geralt. His pupils are wide with the heart-racing blood lust that comes after a fight. His mouth is pulled back in a snarl, revealing teeth as sharp as vampire fangs. He’s shaking with power and energy, ready to fight an entire army now. Danger floods off of his body so strongly you can nearly smell it.

You’re his opposite. Startled and struggling to breathe, feeling small and weak after what almost happened to you. Your entire body is shaking with fear and adrenaline and you feel tired and weak. Falling asleep right here sounds like a good idea, save for the bloodied bodies all around you.

“You’re alright.” The way Geralt says it tells you that it’s more a relieved realization for himself than an assurance for you.

“G-Geralt--” Shit, even your voice is shaking. What is wrong with you? It’s not like you’ve never seen Geralt fight before. But you’ve never been so close to becoming a victim of wild, selfish men like that. Fear shocks your system until you can’t even move.

Geralt notices and picks you up in his arms. He begins to walk in the direction of the nearest town, holding you like you weigh nothing. At any other time you’d be turned on by this; you love how small and dainty you feel in Geralt’s thick, powerful arms. It makes your heart race and your core burn with aching desire. But right now, all you can think of is the attack you just escaped.

You find enough strength in your legs to walk on your own again when you make it back to town. You’re as silent as Geralt as he leads you to the nearest inn. You catch a glimpse of the stables in the back and hear Roach neigh at the sight of you and her master. Normally you would stop to stroke her mane and feed her apples while Geralt talks to her, but right now you want nothing more than to take a warm bath and fall into the safety of a new bed with Geralt wrapped around you.

The inn is nothing too impressive, and the room is small and cold, but you’ve stayed in worse before. There’s a small tub at the opposite corner as the bed. Geralt announces he’s getting pails of water to fill it before leaving.

You sit on the edge of the bed and look down at your hands, still shaking. That’s when you notice your dress is stained a dark red at the top of your thigh. One of the men must have cut you in the middle of all the chaos. Your adrenaline had been running so high that you hadn’t felt it when you were cut. There’s a slight sting now and a warmth around the open wound, and you know the pain will get worse by morning.

Geralt returns with enough water to fill the tub. You watch as he pours the searing liquid in, admiring the flex in his arms, shoulders, and back as he lifts the pail, empties it, and sets it down before reaching for another one.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice almost inaudible to your own ears.

But his witcher hearing picks it up and he pauses in his chore of filling the tub to look over at you. The cold, feral look he’d worn earlier is gone now. His eyes are soft as they take you in, but he wears no more expression than that. You’ve grown used to his masks of indifference and have learned to see past them. He’s grateful you’re not hurt, that you’re staying with him tonight, and you can read that all from that tiny flicker of light in his eyes.

“You don’t have to thank me for protecting you.” He rises to his feet and moves across the room in three large strides. He’s in front of you a moment later, leaning down to kiss the crown of your head. “I’d burn the whole world down if it meant keeping you by my side.”

You look up at him incredulously. After having known Geralt for a year--slowly becoming friends with him by bonding through your obscure knowledge of rare creatures and monsters; hearing him confess the depth of what he feels for you; being intimate with him as often as you can--after everything you’ve experienced with him, you wonder how people can believe witchers feel nothing. Geralt feels so much it’s overwhelming. Not just for him, but for you too. He makes declarations like this in the middle of a casual conversation, and it’s enough to take your breath away because you know he means every word of it.

But you don’t have a chance to respond to his words before his eyes move down your body and stop at the dried blood on your clothes. “Shit, you’re hurt,” he realizes.

“It’s nothing, just a scratch,” you insist, but he ignores you.

Once you’re undressed and in the bath, letting the burning water turn your skin a bright pink, Geralt helps you wash off. He’s mindful to clean out your wound before doing anything else. He washes your hair--something you would normally insist on doing yourself, if you didn’t know how much Geralt liked to do it, rubbing his fingers in circles over your scalp as you relax more and more with each passing second--and as soon as you’re out of the tub you switch places with your witcher. He has to sit up straight to fit inside the tub and you hold back a giggle. You forget about the horrors of today as you lose yourself in cleaning him off. Geralt must be feeling the same way too because he lets you massage his shoulders and neck. He has most of his scars on his back, and since they’re what he’s most self-conscious of, he doesn’t typically like it when anyone looks or touches that spot on his body. But he trusts you.

“You should teach me how to use a weapon,” you murmur as you begin to kiss your way up his neck.

He tenses. “Why?”

“So I can defend myself,” you explain. “If something like today happens again--”

“It won’t,” he growls, though you know he’s growling more at the thought of you being in danger than actually growling at you.

“You’re a witcher,” you point out, “and your lifestyle is a calling card for danger. And since I’m not going away anytime soon, learning how to defend myself is the smartest option.”

“So you want to learn how to fight,” he concludes.

“Eventually. I think I’ll need a lesson or two on how to hold a dagger properly first.”

Geralt finally rises from the tub, using the same cloth you’d cleaned yourself off with to dry himself. He steps out of the tub and closes the distance between your bodies. You don’t bother moving away from him. There’s no point to that when he has this look in his eyes--the look that turns the air between you electric and makes a fire lick up the inside of your body in the most delicious way. In one quick movement he picks you up and wraps your legs around his waist. You’re both naked, and without any layers of clothing to divide you, his hardening cock is already brushing against the folds of your pussy, growing wetter by the second.

“First thing about fighting,” he says as he throws you onto the bed and moves to hover over you, “find your opponent’s weakness.”

His mouth goes straight to the hollow of your throat, the spot that, when his mouth brushes against it with a featherlight kiss, makes your legs fall open and your nipples harden. You can’t stop the blissful sigh that escapes you. He loves that sound, if the way his cock twitches against your thigh is anything to go by.

You can’t help but grind your hips up against his. It’s an involuntary response, your body already desperate for the hot friction Geralt’s cock provides against your core. You moan as his tip brushes against your clit, sending a bolt of pleasure through you, but before you can grind against him again Geralt’s hands are holding your hips down.

He nips at your ear as he says, “The next thing: always let your opponent know you’re in control.” As if for emphasis, his grip tightens on your hips, really pinning you down now.

“Geralt--!” you cry out, desperate for what you’re not quite sure, but feeling the need to call out his name anyways.

If he can’t see the way desperation ripples through every inch of your body, he can definitely smell it. That witcher nose of his has been known to pick up the scent of your arousal before you’re even fully aware that it’s there. And now you’re dripping with need for him to fill you; you’ve no doubt that your scent is flooding his senses right now.

With one hand still locked around your hips, he brings the other to your pussy. He doesn’t bother to wet his fingers before running them between your folds; you’re soaked enough already to not need a lubricant. You jump when he pulls his hand away before he can reach your clit. It’s a teasing touch, and if that flicker of mischief in his golden eyes is anything to go by, he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Geralt…” you cry out again, this time with enough desperation in your voice that you should be embarrassed by how pathetic it sounds, but your mind is already coated in a thick layer of need, and you’re past the point of shyness.

“And most importantly,” he says as he moves down your body, his breath making goosebumps rise on your stomach, “don’t stop until they’re begging you for release.”

A second later his mouth is hovering just an inch above your core. You look down and watch as his tongue darts out to lick his lips. He loves the sight of your pussy, especially when it’s dripping for him, and you realize he must be struggling to control himself right now. The way he looks down at your wetness tells you he wants nothing more than to fuck you with his mouth and then lick you dry.

“Please, Geralt!” you cry out. If he wants you to beg, you’ll beg. You just need his mouth on you. Or his fingers. Or his cock. Fuck, the things you’d do to have his cock inside of you right now--

His thick, talented tongue licks from the bottom of your entrance to the top of your clit. A shiver runs through your entire body. A curse stumbles out of your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on every tingle rippling through your body. He brings his tongue to circle your clit and already your legs begin to shake.

“Oh--!” You can’t manage to get out anything more than that.

“Your first training lesson’s going terribly, my love,” Geralt breathes against your sensitive folds.

Your right hand jumps to wrap around his thick, ivory mane. He growls as you tug at the roots of his hair, though you know he loves it when you’re so desperate you become rough with him. Your left hand clutches desperately at the bedsheets. You need something to tether your mind to reality, but the action is done in vain; you’ve already lost yourself to the pleasure that only Geralt can make you feel.

“F-fuck me,” you shiver, your tone begging, and you repeat the words over and over again until Geralt decides he’s had enough of your begging.

In one quick movement he flips you onto your stomach. Before you can fully process what’s just happened, he brings his mouth to your ass, giving a playful but sharp bite to each cheek. You moan out as the pain dances the line between unpleasant and euphoric.

“Such a fucking slut for the pain, aren’t you?” Geralt growls in that dominant voice that, at one point, you thought he reserved specifically for a fight. But the moment he learned that that tone makes you drip with arousal until your undergarments are completely soaked, he reserved it for the bedroom too. He lays it on thick now and you grind your hips into the mattress as a cry falls from your mouth.

Geralt wraps his hands around your hips and thrusts your body up until you’re on your knees. You rise to your hands, knowing he loves the sight of you on all fours for him.

“You didn’t even put up a fight for me.” He tsks before shoving two fingers inside of you. You gasp as your walls struggle to adjust to him; it doesn’t matter how often you two fuck--which, admittedly, is very often--his digits always prove too thick for your tight pussy. He chuckles darkly as you whimper in pain. “If you didn’t want me to have my way with you, little one, you shouldn’t have given in so easily.”

You open your mouth to reply. He doesn’t give you the chance, though. A second later his mouth is licking around your asshole, sucking on it like it’s his life force. A loud, whorish moan escapes you. Once he’s teased your hole enough, he plunges his tongue deep inside of you, stretching you out with such delicious pain. At the same time he begins to fuck his fingers in and out of your pussy at a ferocious pace. You’re shaking in less than a minute.

“Geralt, I’m… fuck, I’m g-gonna--” It’s a struggle to get all the words out but he doesn’t need you to finish. He can tell you’re close by the way your walls contract around his fingers and the way you grind your ass against his mouth. But, like the fucker he is, he pulls back half a second before you reach your orgasm. “Fuck!”

“You really think I was gonna let you cum before I’m even inside of you?” he asks. You hear rustling behind you but don’t turn to see what he’s doing. “You never learn.���

You jump when you feel his cock brush against your asshole. He brings his hand to your clit and begins to rub it in slow, teasing circles, a pleasant distraction as he slowly pushes his way inside your ass. He lets out a low grunt when he finally bottoms out in you. The entirety of his cock inside your tight little asshole makes you feel so full… there’s nothing better than that feeling. Geralt brings his hand to your pussy and slides his fingers back inside you, curling his digits with the same pace that he begins to fuck your ass.

“You’re going to cum around my fingers,” he orders, “and then my cock, and then I’m going to fill you up with my seed, and you’re going to keep it there for the rest of the night.”

You let out a shaky moan at his words, wanting all of that and thensome. And then Geralt gets to work.

...

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[carol-effing-danvers]

Steve Rogers is a Monster

Yeah, that’s a hell of a title, isn’t it? Strap in, it only gets worse from here. 

(click here if you’d prefer to read this on AO3)

Forewarning, if you enjoyed the epilogue for Endgame, this particular essay is not for you - and no, I am not bashing the Steve/Peggy shippers, you are beautiful human beings who make the fandom brighter and I’m happy that at least someone in this fandom got the ending they wanted.

Additional warning: if you expect this to be another Civil War debate, you will also be disappointed. There has never been a measurement invented that can adequately describe how much I loathe the verbal dick measuring contest that seems to pass for human interaction between Tony Stark and Steve Rogers in this franchise. It’s not funny or entertaining - it’s exhausting, uncomfortable, and frankly it’s rather lazy writing.

This is about the very specific way that the epilogue in Endgame completely changed the way the character of Steve Rogers can be interpreted, and I don’t just mean the very illogical and contradictory way that time travel is explained, both in the movie itself and the fact that the writers and directors have two completely different views on how that worked out. 

I mean that the choice made by Steve Rogers in the very last minutes of that movie alters the way I view each and every one of his actions starting from The First Avenger and that alteration is exactly what I want to talk about, because whether you view it as deserving or not, what Steve does at the conclusion of Endgame was the most selfish thing humanly possible. Time is a thief, but somehow Steve managed to steal even more than Time.

Side note here: I understand that I am a completely biased Stucky shipper, a friend to Barnes and Noble, a Starbucks aficionado - sorry. Anyway, I’ve always believed that Steve and Bucky were destined blah blah blah, but I was never expecting a Stucky ending. Disney wasn’t going to do that, and I knew that, I wasn’t bothered that Steve and Bucky weren’t doing the smoochies by the end. But Bucky’s facial expression during those last minutes was gut-wrenching. Like...I have no idea what kind of cues the script and directors gave him, but in the future, please don’t ask Sebastian Stan to look sad unless you want soul-crushing devastation. It’s not Seb’s fault, his features are just arranged that way - but the fact that the editing staff allowed Sam to be sad though elated to be entrusted with the Shield and Bucky looked like his soul was being physically torn out of his body was an… interesting choice. 

Other side note: if you’re writing about time travel, I’m begging y’all to get your facts straight. Or just don’t write about time travel. It almost always sounds better on paper than it does on screen and it means that you’ve opened doors to more questions than you’ve probably got the answers for. I know this was about trying to set up the idea of the multiverse, I get that, but there were better and less messy ways to do that, and I know that because I’ve done it before. @Marvel: Let me write you a six-way orgy you fucking cowards~

By going back in time, Steve robbed Peggy of the future that would have been hers - not only that, he’s robbed her of even the chance of making the choice between those futures, because you honestly could not tell me with a straight face that Steve told her the complete truth of what he had done and she would be okay with him alternating the very course of the future. It doesn’t help his case that he has a history of not disclosing truths that he knows will be painful or inconvenient for other people in his life.

He robbed his loved ones - Sam, Bucky, Wanda - of the years they would have spent with him. Sure, he ‘came back’ after Peggy passed away, but they are adults in the prime of youth who knew him sixty years ago in his own time and he is an old, old man who has lived an entire life completely separated from them. He is practically a stranger with a name they know, but a history that no longer belongs to any of them - not even his oldest friend. They have him back, but judging from his age, they’ll be lucky to get even ten more years with him. Assuming of course, that any of them can stand to speak to him - I certainly couldn’t blame them if they tell him to go to hell and take his dad jokes with him. 

Steve has stolen away their friend and dropped off an elderly and dying near-stranger in his place, and this is treated by the writing (and the majority of the acting) as a wild and unexpected but not tragic event. 

Is it really that unexpected, though?

I recall seeing a Game of Thrones essay on Daenerys across my dash (I’m sorry, love, I don’t recall who you are since it’s not a fandom I’m in, but if someone knows who wrote that, please post the link!) which detailed how her ending in the series was foreshadowed many times by her penchant for bloody killings and her habit of surrounding herself with her own fawning friends.

Months after reading that, I had the thought: though Steve is never really shown thinking about Peggy after Civil War, except in a few scattered scenes in Endgame, was this foreshadowed? Whether you believe that his actions are justified or not, what Steve does is still, in the end, selfish at its very heart, and Steve Rogers is not a selfish person. 

Oh no, my dear friends and readers. Because taking this action has solidified and clarified Steve Rogers as the biggest and most selfish asshole in this whole universe.

Steve does not do the right thing, Steve does the thing that will most make him feel better. The fact that this often happens to be the right thing in the end is more the result of happy coincidence than any special sort of moral authority that the man holds. 

Rescuing Bucky Barnes and his fellow captives in a prisoner of war camp from being experimented on by an insane Nazi eugenicist? That was not a moral stand, that was endangering himself, Peggy Carter, and Howard Stark because he couldn’t handle the reality of his best friend being killed in war.

Sacrificing himself by putting the Valkyrie down in the Arctic Circle? That was not about sparing human lives, that was about Steve seeing his friend die right in front of him and not being able to deal with the grief. There were ways he could’ve prevented the plane from killing people without killing himself.

Trying to make Bucky remember who he was? And later on, saving him from the government agencies who wanted to hunt him down? Although, arguably, that last one is also just good common sense - Steve was already shown that government agencies could and were corrupted by HYDRA and he’d also seen how dangerous the Winter Soldier could be when unleashed. 

Steve did, I think, truly believe that this was the right thing to do, but it was also about keeping his connection - his very last, since Peggy had descended into dementia caused by Alzheimer’s before she ultimately died - to a past that for him, was only months or years ago, rather than decades. In some ways, this is completely understandable - Bucky might be the very last person left alive who truly knows who the real Steve Rogers is, because the rest of these people only know Captain America and we are consistently shown through multiple movies how uncomfortable this makes him.

This gets...considerably less and less understandable as we are shown Steve’s growing relationships with Natasha, Sam, Wanda - even Sharon, though she barely gets any screen time and they share the most awkward kiss I’ve ever seen - and indeed, what might be the most uncomfortable kiss in cinema history.

Side Note 3: This is made even more awkward by the director’s choice to have two of Steve’s friends watching them the whole time - seriously, who even does that? Why would you make them do that? Only sociopaths make out with their friends staring at them like that. It’s so fucking creepy - and don’t even get me fucking started on the fact that she’s also apparently his own niece. AHHHHH!

But we are shown, over and over again, that Steve is capable of building close meaningful relationships with people in the present. They don’t know his whole history, but they do know Steve Rogers rather than Captain America and they care about him deeply. 

Side Note 4: Notice that I don’t count Tony Stark among those people - despite this strangely persistent narrative that the various writers and directors tried to sell to the audience, Tony and Steve were not friends. They were never friends. They were colleagues at best, but these were two men who neither liked nor understood each other very well, but had to work together. And sometimes that’s okay, too. (Oh dear, I just gave the Stony fans a fit too, didn’t I? Sorry, guys. Enemies to Lovers is a great trope, I support you!)

But let’s set aside Steve’s gross betrayal of the people who loved him. We’ll also ignore the question of whether the motive for these good actions has tainted the actions themselves. Because even without questioning these, the conclusion of this story arc still transforms Steve into the biggest monster this franchise has. 

The very fundamental way that the writers and directors can’t agree on how the time travel mechanics in their own story work mean that Steve has just done one of two things and they range from shady and very questionable to absolutely fucking horrific. 

The first, that he’s created his own alternate universe to exist in, is morally dubious at best. Even the people who support this theory and liked the ending seem to feel that it wasn’t necessarily a ten out of ten on the moral goodness spectrum. They’ll say things like ‘he deserved to have his happy ending’. Even that phrasing seems to acknowledge that doing this was the opposite of the right thing. It just considers doing the wrong thing as being justified rather than horrifying. 

But let’s examine this first idea for a minute - even this, the more innocent of the two implications, means that rather than really processing his grief or dealing with the repeated tragedies and losses that have occured in his life, even as he was running group therapy sessions and grief counseling, Steve Rogers chose to escape his current life by creating an alternate universe that specifically allows he himself to live out his own fucking fantasies of the way his life should have turned out. 

That, in case you are not aware, is wildly fucked up. I thought I was playing pretty fast and loose with Steve’s characterization when I turned him into an extremely polite serial killer but as it turns out, I clearly just wasn’t setting the bar high enough, because that’s somehow even more fucked up than being an undercover child soldier with a small sadistic streak. 

Hm, and now I feel I should have been more creative there...

The second, and even more horrifying option, is that this older Steve Rogers has been in this world the whole time, watching as things unfolded just as we’ve seen over the past decade, taking ‘the slow way’ through time. 

Side Note 5: I do kind of understand why you would do it this way, because that’s really cool and shocking when you say that! Until you think about it for longer than three seconds and suddenly you realize…

Everything that has happened here, every tragedy and downfall these people experienced, happened because Steve Rogers lived his happily ever after with his beautiful wife and did absolutely nothing to stop it. He got to fuck Peggy Carter and watched as his wife built an empire of intelligence networks, knowing that her efforts were completely in vain because her agency was rotten to the core and he never told her.

Every horrifying act committed by HYDRA under the guise of SHIELD was permitted through Steve Rogers’ negligence. And that’s just the wider big-picture worldview, large and shocking, but not personal. 

What about the people that Steve claims to actually care about? 

This means that Steve lived his whole life in contentment with his wife and children while his best friend was physically and psychologically tortured for over seventy years and just...let that go. 

He allowed one friend to murder another in the nineties, when the Winter Soldier was sent after Howard and Maria Stark. Then their child was being advised by a greedy self-interested warmonger who paid terrorists to drag him off to be tortured and slaughtered, and Steve did nothing about that, either. 

Bruce Banner was exploited, experimented on, and made into a monster against his will in the failed pursuit of recreating what was done to Steve, resulting in billions of dollars in damage and dozens or even hundreds of lives lost, and Steve allowed that to happen, too. 

Like Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanov was physically and psychologically tortured for others to use her as a living weapon - except that this was probably happening to her since early childhood, and a man her future self loved and trusted implicitly did nothing to save her from this upbringing. 

The Maximoff twins are shown to have not wealthy but loving parents who are murdered in front of them and they both endure days of laying in the rubble of their ruined apartment, wondering if the bomb in their living room would go off and kill them. Later, they are taken in by HYDRA, experimented on, and recruited as child soldiers to the cause when they show signs of having supernatural powers. They start a series of events that result in the destruction of a major city and the loss of what is probably thousands of lives. Pietro is murdered while trying to help the Avengers to stop this, and Wanda suffers the loss of the very last living person she loved. None of these things seem to have bothered Future Steve. 

Steve “I can’t sit on the sidelines when I see a situation go sideways” Rogers, planted himself on that fucking sideline and observed for nearly eighty years as friends, colleagues, and his own wife were lied to, brainwashed, tortured, vilified, and hunted down like animals.

And then there Steve Rogers himself - not the Endgame Steve Rogers, the Steve Rogers who brought down a Nazi plane and will lie beneath the ice for seventy years while everything he knows disappear (mostly) innocent of these horrors, the life he would’ve lived stolen from him by a stranger with his name and his face from another universe.

What I’m saying here is that if you consider this idea for any amount of time, it took Steve Rogers less than ten minutes to become the most evil and disturbing figure in the entire MCU, only (not really tho) contested by Thanos himself. 

Gross and poorly reasoned libertarian ethics aside, Thanos genuinely believes that he did what he did for the sake of the entire population. It’s made fairly explicitly clear that Steve didn’t do this for anyone but himself. 

Call me crazy, but if everyone you know needs to suffer and multiple planet-wide devestations have to happen in order for you to get your happy ending, you might be the bad guy. 

Maybe I’m just old-fashioned?

[jordanlahey]

Devilish (1/?)

Pairing: the lost boys x demon!reader (there isn’t an exact romance pairing just yet.)

Summary: You heard that Max and his boys were killed by amateur hunters but you knew that wasn’t true. However there is now word that others are coming to claim their territory whether they are alive or not.

Word count: 1859

A/n: I’m no good at the summary cause i just had an idea and wanted to start writing so forgive me if it drags on a little longer than it’s supposed to but I have a general idea on what I’m wanting!

It's not long after the sun goes down that the monsters come out to play but not the monsters that your parents tell you about in stories like the big bad wolf or big foot. No, the ones that feed off human blood if you unfortunately catch their eye, the ones that cower in the dark during the day but they forget the other kind of monster that looks seductive to the eye with their lips dripping with sin ready for another taste, The monster that's as old as time itself, one that feeds off sins and the lust for souls of the poor and unfortunate. No one is ever warned about making deals with the devil, they don't believe in all that stuff but they'll believe in fairytales. Humans. Poor pathetic people.

You hadn't been to the surface in so long maybe around 86 years? You had heard that a certain coven of vampires have been eliminated but that was hardly likely, you tend hear a lot when you're down below. It was boring down there surprisingly, you all had a job to do you got the job of collecting souls but even then it takes 5 years or more for you to collect them. If you were lucky a certain demon would let you collect some souls on their behalf which is exactly why you are here anyway. Making your way through the boardwalk you can point out all they needy ones ready to make deals, you walk past a certain video store first not that you had any interest in buying or looking more likely the person who had owned it.

You strolled into the store looking around until you spotted who you were looking for. Max smiles at the customer as he bid them farewell, his smile dropped when he saw you walk to his counter.  "I didn't expect to see you so soon."

"Oh don't be like that Maxy." You pouted and leaned against the counter "I'm here on business not for you yet." You smirked but he kept his stoic expression causing you to sigh. "I heard you and your boys were no longer...undead shall we say?"

"You should know that we can play a lot of mind tricks on people Y/n." Max narrowed his eyes, he was no fun.

"I thought as much, how are the Emerson's?" You could tell that comment struck a nerve, you knew after they whole fiasco that Lucy drove herself and her sons elsewhere. "but while I'm here I might as well warn you, others think you are dead and will try claim your territory." You picked up a lollipop from the bowl and unwrapped it, Max just looked at you unbothered. You really weren't getting much out of him. "Come on Max, why do you not like me anymore? Long ago you considered me a daughter to you. What changed?"

"You changed Y/n." You rolled your eyes, course you changed that's what happens when you giver in to your instincts. Even if you could change you still wouldn't be the same.

"You of all people should know what giving into temptation is like." With that you left, you weren't gonna argue with him, you had people to see, your night was already planned: find the ones who's time is up, go make more deals, have a little fun messing around. Very, very busy. Max will come around when he wants to know about he's coming to make Santa Carla theirs, you also wouldn't mind getting your hands a little dirty.

Motorbikes roared as they speed down the walk ways and people screeching to get out the way, the bikes came to a stop and off came the four boys. The night was young and so were they, beautiful as they come but deadly as they are. They were also on the prowl for a meal as well as for to cause chaos around the boardwalk, as per usual the boys would head to the carousel for the start of their long night, this time the Surfer Nazi's know to steer clear of the lost boys they won't be their target tonight. However, after they leave the ride they all catch sight of a girl they've never seen before leave the video store, she looked good enough to eat and the boys would be happy enough to pass her around.

You made your way through the crowds to the bar where a man sat all by his lonesome, he fidgeted nervously his this hands and kept taking long gulps of his drink. It was obvious that this was the man you were looking for, walking slowly towards the table you joined him and a smile played on your lips as you batted your eyelashes at him in a seductive manner.

"You must be her? I got told that it would be someone different." Oh, so they hand out memos now? How mundane, the man dabbed a tissue on his forehead a few times before taking one more long swig of this drink. "I have a favour to ask." You chuckled at him, who is this man? Does he not know basic deal rules?

"A favour? And what might that be?" You looked over at the bartender and you silently asked for a drink, the man before you fiddled with his tie before clearing his throat as he tried to muster u[ the courage to spit out whatever he wanted to ask. People rarely ask for second chances from a demon, the ones that know better and are ready to face the consequences of their actions. Humans get 5 years with whatever their deal was however, depending on said deal and how easily you can persuade the demon before you, you can be given more than 5 years but only on the day of the meeting and NEVER after the deal has been made.

"I.." Your drink arrived and you swirled the straw around the glass waiting to hear this favour, resting your head on the palm of your hand. You lift the drink to your lips before he blurts out what he wants "I would like to make another deal!" You almost choked on your drink, this guy actually asked you for a new deal? That's the favour? How rich.

"Tell me something, haven't you heard about the rule 'no wishing for more wishes' in the presence of a genie? This is the same thing you cant ask a demon for a new deal when your time is already up my friend." You smiled darkly at him, however he is brave enough to ask but it was the dumbest question in your opinion.

"Wait! I can get you more souls! Err...my wife's, a colleague, my brothers! Any that you want!" You rolled your eyes, humans really are cruel. They'll do anything to get what they want. Greedy, selfish bastards, you look forward to sending this one to Hell he'll go straight to the fourth circle. You get up to leave knowing he's going to follow you whether he wants to or not, probably best to head down the alleyway to avoid more mundane eyes for this. "Wait! Where are we going? I want 5 more years! I'm not ready to go just yet." When you reach the bottom of the alleyway you pin the poor man up against the wall, your face now showing the anger you held back.

"Who do you think you are demanding 5 more years!? You don't get to ask for more with no soul. You belong to me now, your soul is mine for eternity. You never made a Deal with the devil if you are not prepared to pay the price." With that you snapped your fingers and the man was no longer there, nothing but a small piece of glowing blue light that flowed into your body. That's what a human soul had looked like.

David and his boys had split up trying to look for the girl they had seen leaving the video store, they lost her in the crowd and she didn't have a scent or at least they didn't get close enough to get one from her. David was starting to get annoyed was gonna give up and find his brothers until Dwayne had sent him a telepathic message that he had found her heading into woods, David chuckled and met up with all of them by the bikes and off they went.

You knew you were being followed, they were going to catch up in no time so why not have a little fun? You started running, slow enough for them to still see you. You were taunting them making this a game of cat and mouse, now tonight was starting to get interesting they were Max's boys definitely but he didn't set them on you no no, they are hungry and you will be their meal for the night or so they thought. You take a sharp turn away from the dirt path to go further into the woods so that they pull have to abandon their bikes and go on foot or fly if they must, if this was going to be a game might as well make it as fair as possible. The boys do as you planned they go on foot running faster to the point they were already catching up, you could hear Paul;s taunts he was the closest behind you, now if you played this out right you could lose them just a little further.

The boys skid and come to a stop, you had vanished from their sights and they had lost your scent again, Marko and Paul growled in frustration while David and Dwayne were trying to figure out how you out ran them, now you knew about them but they knew nothing about you and that's what made it so fun. It you were still there with them watching them as they circled the spot you left them in, you planned to stay at watch them a little longer but you couldn't wait any longer.

"Yoo hoo up here boys." All them them turned to look at you siting on a tree branch. "Looking for me?" You smirked down at them.

"Hey pretty lady, why don't you come down here and do this the easy way." The glam rocker known as Paul called up to you, you thought about it for a moment and you know Paul would be the most fun one to play around with. You shrugged your shoulders and got off the brunch but as son as you got down David already had his hand around your throat and against the tree you were just in, it shocked you but you chuckled bitterly.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at." He sneered however he has a slight smirk on his face too.

"You must be David no doubt." You looked at the others "Marko, Dwayne and Paul." You pointed to the boys as you said their names.

"How do you know that?"

"I know everything." You reply.

[thiswasinevitableid]

for monster march, ghost + indruck + nsfw?

Here you go! I borrowed some ideas we’ve tossed around on the Discord

A sketchbook, new pens, a Hershey bar, and a bag of jumbo marshmallows. A small but lively fire. And a new, huge, fuzzy sleeping bag waiting for him in the tent. 

Not a bad camping set up for a city-boy art goth (as Barclay likes to call him).

Indrid sticks another marshmallow on the fork, roasting it until it’s deep brown, the smell of burning sugar curling through the air and settling in his hair. He’s never liked Graham Crackers, so he jams a square of chocolate into the molten center of the marshmallow and shoves the entire thing into his mouth. 

Kepler is small. Barclay hadn’t been kidding about that. He’d also been right that one of the two tattoo shops in town was willing to hire Indrid after looking through photos of his work and confirming he completed his apprenticeship. 

He’s been living in the Eastwoods campground in the Monongahela National Forest while he apartment hunts, and the tattoos he’s done so far netted him enough cash to buy his luxurious new sleeping bag. He might be waiting on a place for some time, so he may as well camp in style. 

Three “s’mores” later, the moon is up and the night is chilly enough that he wants his sweatshirt. Ducking into the tent, he can’t find it on his pillow, where he swears he left it this morning. Maybe he accidentally buried it getting dressed.

A splashhiss interrupts his rummaging. Scrambling from the tent, he discovers his fire is now a pile of soaked ashes and logs being angrily stirred by a thick piece of kindling. 

“Excuse me, but what the fuck?”

A man in a ranger uniform appears, the stick falling through his hand as he gives Indrid a disapproving stare. 

“Look here, I know you’re new here, maybe to campin entirely. But you can’t just leave a fire burnin when you go to bed.” He doesn’t sound mad, more like he’s a disappointed big brother scolding his sibling. 

“I wasn’t-”

“And all this” he gestures to the food on the table, “has gotta go in the bear box. Black bears are real good foragers and we don’t want ‘em comin’ into camp and gettin to comfy around humans.”

“Of course, but-”

“You didn’t take any food into the tent, right? Wouldn’t want somethin to decide to join you ‘cause it smelled a snack.”

Indrid pinches the bridge of his nose, “I am aware of all of these rules, and plan to follow them. Once I actually go to bed instead of ducking into the tent for my sweater. But since my evening appears to be over…” he grabs the marshmallows, roasting fork, and chocolate, carries them to the bear box, and slams it closed. 

When he whirls back around, the ghost is still there, chagrined. 

“Uh, sorry. I kinda jumpy about people leavin fires alone.” In the lantern light, his smile is as charming as his drawl. His stocky, bearish shape and unassumingly handsome face command Indrid’s focus, which is why his revelation comes so quickly. 

“You...there’s a statue of you at the visitor center. Which makes you, ah, damn it what was the name-”

“Duck. Duck Newton. They put my legal name on there, even though Juno tried to stop ‘em. But my name’s Duck.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Duck. I’m Indrid.”

“Nice to meet you too. Uh, sorry for ruinin your campfire, looks like you were havin a nice time.”

“It’s alright. I suppose I’m grateful there’s someone haunting the campsites to keep them in order.”

“You’re takin me bein’ a ghost surprisingly well.”

“I’ve always been interested in strange things, to the point that I earned the nickname ‘mothman’ in high school.”

“Huh” Duck watches him a moment, then shrugs, “well, guess I better be goin’. Have a nice night, mothman.”

With that, he’s gone.

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

“Hello again.” Indrid says as the campfire smoke curls around a human form, “Doing your rounds?”

“More or less. I like my job, and ain’t about to give it up just because I beefed it and turned into a ghost.” A creak as Duck joins him on the picnic bench. When he materializes, he floats slightly above the worn wood, watching Indrid draw. 

“That’s incredible, it’s so realistic it’s like you pressed the leaves into the pages instead of colored them.”

“Thank you.” adds depth to the leaf, “you know, I looked at the statue again today. It hardly does you justice.”

From this close, he can see a blush spread up semi-opaque cheeks. Then he starts fading.

“Oh, ah, I’m sorry. I was aiming for a benign compliment, not to make you uncomfortable.”

“S’alright, just surprised me. Not many folks wanna flirt with a dead guy.”

“I’m more interested in what the ‘dead guy’ wants.” Indrid smiles, hoping to convey he would submit to spectral touches as readily as he’d keep talking. 

Duck floats closer, “Kinda curious about your other drawin’s.”

Indrid turns the sketchbook back to the beginning, “they’re half portfolio and half travelogue. Here” he holds up a fade, detached piece of paper,  covered by an Morpho Butterfly that looks ready to fly away, “this is the first tattoo I ever designed.”

“Damn. Guessin’ that means you did this one” he touches the Rosy Maple Moth on Indrid’s forearm (or tries to). It’s chilly, but not in the way Indrid feared. More like taking a cool shower on a sweltering day.

“I did. Here, it gave me an idea for my first series of flash tattoos…”

They go over the illustrations page by page. Slowly, Indrid weaves in questions to Duck who, instead of recoiling from discussion of his mortal life, tells him rambling stories about the woods and which places serve the best food in town. 

The conversation doesn’t end until the fire goes out on it’s own, Duck standing automatically, grabbing a water bottle, swearing, and then disappearing so he can pick the bottle up. 

“Do you think that’s part of why you’re still here? Some unfinished business having to do with the woods?”

“Nah.” The water bottle thunks back on the table as Duck reappears, “I tried to live a normal life, improve the world the way I knew how, make some kind of difference to this town. Then I had to go play the goddamn hero.”

“I would say saving two dozen people from a forest fire makes a considerable difference in the world.”

A sad huff of a laugh, “Yeah, guess you’re right. Just...I meant to do somethin’ with my life, not my death, even if it was a small somethin’, and the closest thing I got to unfinished business is a model ship.”

“I...what?”

“It was four-masted and everything! I had Leo order it in special and everything and then I never, I never got to-”  He tilts his head up, sniffs once, “never mind. I better let you get to sleep.”

By the time Indrid calls “goodnight,” the ghost is gone. 

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

“Please tell me you’re gettin a place soon so you stop eatin everythin outta a can?” Leo bags the last of groceries.

“No such luck. Ah well, there are worse things than canned soup and Pop-Tarts.”

“At least let Barclay feed you, half the point of havin a friend who can cook is to let ‘em do it for you. You need stamps or anything?”

“N-” A box behind the counter catches his eye. It’s at an odd angle, as if whoever put it there is hoping no one will see it. Indrid can just make out an illustration of a four-masted ship.

“Is that for sale?”

Leo looks where he’s pointing, and for a moment something in his gruff affability wavers. Then he nods, “Yeah, suppose it is.”

“Can you ring it up for me?” Indrid nearly bounces on his toes when Leo sets the box on the counter and confirms his hunch. 

The older man sets a gentle hand on the cardboard, sliding it across to Indrid, “Don’t worry about that, kid. It’s yours.”

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

“Duck?” Indrid turns in a circle by the picnic table, “Duck, I have something for you!”

He saw the ranger briefly last night, but he didn’t hang around. Gingerly, he sets the box on the table, tearing off a piece of sketch paper to write a note in case the ghost stops by while he’s asleep. 

“Holy fuck.” Duck floats across the table from him, “‘Drid, where did, how did--why?”

“Leo still had it. As for why I, ah, it seemed like you still wanted it. If you can douse a fire and over my camp stove, I figure you can build a model ship.”

Duck disappears and Indrid’s heart sinks; that must have been too much. Then he’s squished in an invisible, wonderful bear hug.

“Thanks, ‘Drid.”

From then on, Duck spends every night at his campsite, building the ship while Indrid draws, reads, or talks with him. The model lives in the safest corner of the tent during the day.

“I mean, I’m up durin the day too, but I scared a few folks on accident and I don’t want people avoid the forest because of me.”

Indrid also learns that Duck is stuck within a certain radius of where he died, and that his attempts to talk with Juno when she was in his part of the woods only lead to his friend thinking she was hallucinating and Duck feeling miserable for three solid days. Indrid offers to act as messenger and invite Duck’s friends (many of whom have, by chance and by proximity to Barclay, become his friends) to the campsite to see him. The ranger is quiet for some time after that offer.

“Not yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I, it ain’t even been a year, ‘Drid. I think a lot of ‘em are still hurtin. And, and maybe this is selfish but...I ain’t ready to deal with them findin’ out I aint fully gone. It’d be so much all at once.”

Indrid doesn’t bring it up again. More than once, when Aubrey tells a story about Duck only for her eyes to sadden halfway through, or when he sees Juno looking at Duck’s statue a little too long, he struggles to keep his promise. 

A cold front blows into town and, since he’s still in the tent, he pops into Kepler Thrift N Find in search of an extra sweatshirt. Tucked in between one reading “Ranchos” and one with a picture of Garfield is a soft, well-loved hoodie with “Monongahela National Forest” on the front. He buys it and wears it home, the fact it’s loose in the arms making it even easier to tuck in his hands when he gets cold. 

He stops by the visitor center out of habit, checking out the new plush wild animals. There are also hints of Duck here and there; his name on displays, his face in group photos. As he contemplates a small, squishy black bear, he notices Juno looking at him more than usual.

“Hello again” he sets the bear on the counter.

“Howdy. This all?

“Yes, please. Are you alright? You look, ah, tired.”

“Yep. Or, uh, just noticed that sweatshirt. It was one that got made special for staff a few years ago.”

Indrid fidgets with the cat-bitten drawstring, “It was Duck’s, wasn’t it?”

“Uh huh. He put that patch on the sleeve. Guess it startled me to see it on someone else.”

“I understand.” 

“Knew him since we were kids. Hell, he’s my daughter’s godfather. Still don’t feel right, bein’ here without him.”

Indrid pushes the bear towards her and she pets it.

“What was he like?”

In the empty visitor center, Juno tells him. In her stories are echos of every conversation he’s ever had with anyone who knew Duck. When it’s time to close up, she asks if she can hug him, and thanks him for listening to her. 

“Guess you weren’t kiddin about wanting to sleep with a bear” Duck teases as Indrid sets his new purchase inside the tent. Indrid whaps at him, arm going through his torso. The ranger floats nearby as Indrid heats up ravioli and opens a can of Mountain Dew. Indrid tells him about the conversation with Juno. 

“Huh, guess that is my old one. Glad someone is gettin some use outta it. And it looks good on you.”

Indrid sets down his bowl, “We talked a lot, Duck. And it made me think about what you said to me one of the night after we met. You said you wanted a chance to make the world, the town, a little better. Everyone I’ve talked to, and I mean every one, has a story about you. How you helped them, how Kepler is worse off with you gone. You did so much, even with your time cut short. I, I wanted you to know that.”

The ghost looks away, “I wasn’t done tryin to help.”

“You still aren’t. You do what you can to keep the forest and the visitors safe. And you, you’ve made my life immeasurably better Duck. Seeing you is the best part of my day and I think I’m falling--ah, that is, you’re not done making a difference.”

Duck hasn’t moved since Indrid started talking about his feelings. When Indrid tries to meet his eyes, he disappears. Hurried, he reaches out to offer a reassuring touch and gets only air. 

“Duck?”

Nothing, even after he calls his name three more times.

He slumps onto the bench, “well, fuck me I guess.”

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

This is a terrible idea. But it’s his last, and therefore his best. 

Indrid even asked Barclay’s boyfriend, Joseph, if anything in his impressive library of the paranormal advised the reader on dealing with upset ghosts. A few did, always from the perspective of trying to get the specter to go away. They said nothing about what to do if your upset ghost was missing, leaving an ache in your heart you didn’t know you were capable of feeling. 

Instead, after a week of silence, Indrid changes tactics: if he can’t coax Duck back, maybe he can annoy him into appearing. 

Tonight, he finishes dinner and cleans his dishes, puts the bulk of the food in the bear box, and then tears open a bag of chips, scattering them across the table. He eats one, then leaves the open bag laying amongst the potato shards. 

Next, he dumps his remaining water on the fire, which takes it down to embers but does not extinguish it. When none of that gets a reaction, he decides to narrate.

“Hmm, that should be fine, it’s not that dry and I don’t think sparks can go over the edge.”

“Should I leave these juice pouches out? Yes, I think I should, in case I get thirsty at night. Maybe I’ll take one into the tent, just to be safe.”

He already feels silly and like no one is listening, and so he escalates. 

“I know I shouldn’t leave food out for the wildlife, but since there’s no handsome, ghostly ranger here to punish me for my transgressions, I am just going to leave some nuts out for the raccoons. I like raccoons. They deserve nice things. Hell, how about I just leave them a whole buffet since no one is stopping me!”

All he gets in reply are the few bugs awake this early in the spring and the crack of brush as a small mammal runs away from the weird bipedal thing yelling at his camp fire. He doesn’t leave out food for the raccoons; he climbs into his tent in a huff. What a bad idea, to think this of all things would bring Duck back to him. He’s being childish and bratty and selfish; Duck doesn’t deserve that, no more than he owes Indrid his company. 

He changes into his pajamas pants and sleep shirt, intending to go back out to make the site safe and tidy. Except.

Except something just opened the bear box. The chip bag crinkles and the fire hisses out a minute later. He should be running outside to apologize, but his mind has simultaneously  registered the full darkness of the night , the possibility that Duck is not the only paranormal thing in these woods, and the fact the nearest other campers are on the other side of the campground, meaning he is very, very alone.

The zipper on the tent moves, the flap falling open so his lantern shines on nothing but April air.

“Duck? Please say that’s you.”

A low chuckle, “It’s me, ‘Drid.” The fly zips shut, “mighty peeved about that trick you pulled.”

“I’m, I’m sorry. I missed you, but that was a bad way to communicate that.” He can’t see him, and the lantern only picks up the odd shift of sleeping bag or tent floor, so Indrid’s eyes’ dart about trying to pinpoint him.

“Oh, you communicated plenty, sugar. Like what you want a certain, uh, ghostly ranger to do to you.”

“Oh god” he winces, “please, forget I said that, it’s humiliating.”

“Not all that surprisin, truth be told. I mean, you and I flirted now and then. And you told me enough about yourself for me to suspect that you’re a kinky little weirdo who’s dyin to get fucked by a ghost.” 

“I, I feel I should point out that I only want to fuck one ghost. You. I want to fuck you and that means fucking a ghoOOOst.” He gasps as cold lips press into his neck.

“I can make that happen, darlin, all you gotta do is say it. You were a pain in the neck earlier, so now I expect you to be real polite and use your words.” Duck’s voice has never been like this before, rough and possessive yet still, under all of it, the same warmth draws Indrid in like a flame. 

“I want you, Duck.”

A bite to his ear, strong arms wrapping around his waist from behind him, “Want me to do what?”

“Fuck me” this is like every wet dream he had as a teenager, the supernatural being coming for a fellow outsider. 

That gets him a tender kiss on the cheek, “That’s better. Though, if I’m rememberin correctly, word you used was punish.”

Indrid yelps as Duck turns and shoves him to lay across his lap, kicks his legs out in surprise when his waistband slides down to his upper thighs. 

“Yesss” he wiggles his ass as Duck palms it, “yes, Duck, pleaseAHgod” the first strike stings, and Duck doesn’t let him recover before delivering five more, three to each side. His cock perks up at the pain. Stranger still, because Duck is invisible, all Indrid has to do is tilt his head to watch it harden and twitch with each slap.

Twenty strikes later Duck pauses, hand rubbing soothing, cool circles on the burning skin, “Learned your lesson?”

“Mmhmm.” Indrid presses an awkward kiss to Duck’s knee. 

“Glad to hear it.” Duck hauls him up onto his knees, slides a hand under his shirt and up his chest, “I’m rarin’ to feel more of you--holy fuck” 

“AH!” Indrid arches as Duck toys with his left nipple piercing, his other hand quickly finding the right. 

“God, fuck, you’re fuckin hot, if I were alive I woulda taken you home first time I saw you.” Messy kisses cover his neck as Duck tugs the piercings.

“Gaahnnyes, that’s, that’s very flattering.”

“Ain’t flattery, sugar, it’s the truth. Never could turn down some skinny punk with piercin’s and messy hair, not when I was a teen burnout hidin in the woods and sure as hell not now.” He moves Indrid onto his back, rucking up his shirt as his legs twist in his half-down pants. The ranger cups his face, and Indrid is positive he’s meeting his eyes, “tell me what you want sugar, tell me so I can treat you right.”

“Marks, I want marks anywhere you’ll give them.”

A growl from above him, then lips smashing into his, drinking him in before continuing down his throat, biting and sucking hard enough that he cries out every time. Duck pauses, teasing his nipples with his tongue as he rakes his nails up his sides. He sits up and for a horrible moment Indrid loses him. Then with glee he watches five red marks drag down his chest. He moans, rolling his hips and discovering just how closer Duck’s clothed cock is to his own. The contact only feeds the rangers eagerness, and Indrid is tosses and turns as he sucks, bites, and scratches, laying claim to the illustrated expanse of his body. 

“More, please, god that all feels so good.” 

“Don’t worry darlin, still got plenty of you to mark up, but we’re gonna do somethin else while I do.” He eases Indrid onto his stomach, slaps his ass fondly, “don’t go nowhere.”

Indrid’s duffel bag unzips, clothes and pens moved aside until a bottle of lube hovers in the air. The tube compresses and drips coat the rough outline of fingers. When the two digits press into him he sighs, eyes closing as he melts under Ducks watchful eyes. 

“That’s it ‘Drid, relax for me. Got well over a year of horny to work out, so this cute ass needs to be ready to take it.”

Indrid pushes his hips back in reply, taking as far as the fingers will go and whimpering excitedly when he presses in the tip of the third. Duck works that one more carefully, kissing Indrid’s face and shoulders as he whispers about how good he is, how much he’s wanted this.

“I want it too so for, for goodness sake please fuck me soon or I’ll leave my entire cooler out for the bears.”

“Only one bear in this campsite tonight darlin.” Duck laves his tongue down the base of his spine, bites down hard on his ass. Indrid’s still moaning from the pain when his cock pushes in.

“Fuuuckme that’s good. Shoulda snuck into your tent sooner, sugar, made you a fuckin cocksleeve you feel so fuckin good.”

“Ohgod” is all Indrid, voice muffled by the sleeping bag he’s biting, manages before Duck adjusts them so Indrid is on his knees. The ranger isn’t gentle, pounds into him like he’s nothing but a warm hole and chuckles whenever Indrid moans. 

“H-handprints, Duck, want hand prints GAHyesyesyes” he struggles to move in time with the ghost as the air fills with ear-splitting slaps. He’s so close, the pain and the sensation of phantom fingers claiming his body making his body beg for release. When he slides a hand down to jerk himself off, the arm twists up and stays trapped against his back. 

“You wanna cum, you know what to do.”

He blinks away the ecstatic tears, words raw in his throat, “Please let me cum, Duck. I want to, need to cum while you fuck me pleaseplease-” he cuts off into whine as the ghost works his cock hard, all the while jamming into him hard enough that the smooth fabric of the sleeping bag burns his knees. When he cums it’s with a weak cry of Duck’s name, which is swallowed up by hungry lips as Duck kisses him over and over, repeating Indrid’s name like an incantation as he pumps his hips and cums, pulling out as he does so it splatters on the reddened patches of his ass. 

A final kiss to the top of his head, and then there’s no contact between them and the zipper is moving.

“Oh no you don’t” Indrid scrambles, sweaty and exhausted, between the tent fly and the invisible man somewhere in front of him, “for goodness sake, Duck, I thought you liked me enough to at least let me fall asleep before you ran.”

The ranger finally appears, hair a mess and cheeks noticeably pink, “‘Drid, all that was amazing, but it’s all I can give you. I, I can’t...you said you were fallin for me and I can’t give you that.”

Indrid cocks his head, “Why not?”

“Because I’m a fuckin ghost, ‘Drid! You deserve to be with a livin’ fella, you deserve someone who can be a real part of your life.”

He crosses his arms, “Duck, you are a real part of my life. Honestly, what part of all the nights we spent together, all the ways we take care of each other, all of this” he points at the rumpled sleeping bag, “suggests otherwise?”

The ghost doesn’t speak, simply hugs himself (or tries to).

“If this is too much, if I’m offering something you do not want, then please tell me. But if this is you thinking that some paranormal quirks keep you from being a worthy partner for me, kindly think again.”

Duck disappears and Indrid is gearing up to try and tackle a supernatural entity when a familiar face buries itself in the crook of his neck. The ghost clings to him, and Indrid clings right back. 

“You really wanna give it a go?”

“More than anything.”

Duck lifts his head so their cheeks rest together, “Then fuck it. Let’s see what happens.”

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

Indrid finishes hooking up his lightly used Winnebago, AKA his solution to the lack of available apartments. He’s in a different section of Eastwoods, but he’s happy with his new spot. He opens one of his few boxes, gently lifts the completed model ship into a place of honor, and waits, humming happily, for an unseen hand to knock on his door. 

[ask-the-clergy-bc]

Could you do something for vampire papas + Copia with an s/o?

*rubs hands together* YOU BET I COULD! 

Also I might just through in a mild warning for predatory behavior and mentions of blood since these are vampires, and still have instincts to hunt and drink! The relationships will not be like normal ones, so it will have some power imbalances and the like! 

Papa Nihil:

~You’re one of two human lovers he has had in his very long undeath that has not been supernaturally altered in some way. The rest of his harem and close followers have all been partially turned or became thralls to his wills (all willing of course.) But you are different. Nihil likes you the way you are and never wants to risk changing you beyond recognition. He’s a very old vampire and one with unspeakable power- so his mere essence could warp you it’s so strong! Nihil prefers you to be yourself and with your right state of mind in check! 

~Keeps you away from his sons, as they are turned as well. He doesn’t trust them to not treat you like food or as another expendable servant. Nihil makes it very known that you are NOt just a mere ghoul or worshiper. You may be human, but you still have an important place in his shriveled, black mess he calls a heart. Nihil likes to remind everyone that you are not a mere plaything, and any harm that comes to you will result in swift and harsh punishment. 

~Nihil likes to pull a Gary Oldman, and his form can sometimes change. He’s old and powerful enough to not be hurt by sunlight or water (so long as it’s not blessed.) often times, when he’s feeling cheeky, he will shift from his decrepit form to that of his prime when he was a young man! It startles you every time when you see the tall, younger man with pitch black hair grinning at your door! Nihil especially likes shifting to look younger because not many, even in his close circle, recognize him and he can spend his day with you without being bothered too much. 

~Despite looking like he could die any moment, Nihil is a powerful being and has mastered many vampire arts. But it’s not something he’s particularly fond of lording over you. To him, your time together is the time he DOESN’T want to think about his long millennia of being a walking corpse. Your time together makes him feel human and nostalgic for the past when his emotions were stronger. Nihil doesn’t usually have deep feelings for others like he does for you, so he wants YOU to feel loved and appreciated when you are together. He knows you ALREADY know he’s a vampire, let you two forget for just a while.

~Never wants to turn you, because despite the perks, living forever actually really sucks. He’s lived for over a thousand years, and it still has not brought him closer to true happiness. Nihil would not force you to spend undeath with him just to be bored or sad that you cannot die. You two have no doubt had heated, emotional talks about it but he just can’t do that to you. “I might be a monster, mio caro, but I am not a monster enough to curse you like this.” 

~Doesn’t need your blood and doesn’t really want it. Nihil likes to think of you more than just food, and he has tons of servants and worshipers to feed from. Why bother yourself? He’s sure you taste very good, especially to him, but you are more to him than an expendable follower. Keep your blood, he won’t need it! But he will share a nice bottle of wine with you! He’s the type of old vampire that can stomach human food again! He much rather have a huge meal than worry about over feeding on you. 

Papa I:

~It’s amazing how indescribably powerful this vampire is, but is so gentle and almost tender with you. Papa has a list of things he has thanks to his vampiric nature- strength, speed, shape-shifting, etc. But with you he just comes off as any other satanic old man... except with a scary gaze to his mismatched eyes and big sense of foreboding that follows him. 

~Refuses to drink from you at all, even when you insist it’s fine. Papa always looks so appalled at the offer and looks you dead in the eye.“You are not a sacrificial lamb to my alter. I will not treat you like common prey.” Papa only ever drinks his blood from willing acolytes who serve him in a goblet. But even if you offered to fill his goblet he wouldn’t drink it. He sees you as too valuable and beloved to ever consider it. 

~Papa has debated on turning you into another vampire. On one hand he adores you and does want to spend eternity with you. On the other, he knows that vampiric nature can also be a curse that twists even the most noble of men into monsters and cold creatures. Could he ever be selfish enough to inflict it upon you just from his own needs? Unless Satan himself wills it, he’s in turmoil over the idea. 

~Papa is still the endless well of knowledge. He has spent centuries collecting and writing various pieces, so he knows a lot. Because you are so dear to him he is even willing to teach you all about vampires- even if it means you could kill him. Granted, he’s so strong there is very little you could probably do to hurt him... but he trusts you. 

~He actually really likes when you ask about his life as a vampire- that you show so much interest in everything that he has seen and experienced. Papa has been in undeath so long he forgets your life is so short. Papa will sit with you for hours and tell you everything you want to know! 

~The only thing that worries him about you, aside from your short life, is people on the outside being threatened by your relationship. He knows his followers would never harm you, he knows he is strong enough to protect you from anything- but he’s always been weary of the outside world. It takes one angry village or pompous vampire hunter to take you away from him. Despite all this, Papa always gives you the option to walk away and seek a normal life. To forget him and never look back. But you never abandon him, and he’s always eternally grateful you love him regardless. 

Papa II:

~This fucker is the vampire that comes through your window at night. Papa likes to be the dark and mysterious predatory vampire, even if you two are an established fling. No matter how long it has been, he’s always willing to be a silhouette in your window that stalks in menacingly. You always know it’s him when you feel a cold hand caress your neck and, at this point, you just welcome him into your bed. He’s also startled you many times by prowling around your shared quarters in the dead of night. He always chuckles as he never means it! 

~Vampire Papa has a way bigger ego than his normal counter part. This is because he is incredibly powerful and has lived a VERY long time. This can cause a bit of imbalance between you too, as you always get the feeling he never takes you seriously. But, what threat could you possibly be as a human? Sometimes you get frustrated with his vain attitude. Papa tries to make up for it by being respectful and polite to you- like an equal. He’s just not entirely worried you could ever bring him physical harm. 

~Papa respects you enough to not make you a mindless ‘bride of dracula’ minion. Granted, he DOES have a harem of lesser vampirie lovers, but they don’t hold a candle to you. Papa stills respects you and your feelings. If you can all help it, you just avoid his harem. Instead, your relationship is stronger intellectually and (for as much as he can) emotionally. He’s still withdrawn emotionally, but Papa has lived long enough where he knows how to support you. His emotions died a long time ago but you are the only sunshine he has had in his dark life for a while- he’s not about to lose you to apathy.

~Out of all the vampires, Papa was the hardest to get into a relationship with. For one, he had a harem and all the company he could want so he wasn’t actively seeking any type of mate like figure. Second, he knows how short lived you are. Papa tried to keep you at arms length as best as he could emotionally when he started to grow fond of you. He’s very aware of how much of a walking corpse he truly is, and you just remind him of it- of how he can;t give a whole, feeling human heart to you. But the more you stayed around, unaware of your effect on the vampire, the more he was unwilling to let you go- even if your time together becomes short. 

~Papa LOVES to drink from you if you give him permission. Among his servants, it’s the highest honor. But for you, it’s just a display of how much you love and trust him. He’s a powerful undead monster who could drink you dry if he so wished. For you two, this has become a weird bonding ritual that might not be defined by normal relationship standards. You give him life out of your own will and in turn he does everything to protect yours. Papa is always sure never to get too greedy and makes sure you are well taken care of by his servants after.  You have a huge luxury bed and are always tucked in and given honey and water to keep you healthy. Papa might be a monster in nature, but he will never act like one towards you! 

~if you really have bonded to the point where Papa can’t spend eternity without you, he will be the first to change you. But be warned, you might be his beloved, but he is a harsh master. Papa will train you to be powerful and independent in order for you to survive. It’s not out of cruelty, but he needs you to be able to hold your own. There are a LOT of things that can kill vampires, even the most powerful ones. Papa has taken you on as his eternal mate and will NOt lose you to a hunter or even day light. By the time he’s done with you, you are going to be one force to be reckoned with! 

Papa III:

~ This man is everything romantic you think of a stereotypical vampire- charming, suave, seductive, dark, and mysterious. Papa can be incredibly dangerous but he’s so charming and has a way of putting you at ease. Normally this would be used to get blood or minions, but for you it’s different. He’s not trying to seduce you just to use you for a meal. For him, it’s very nice to just be his wildly charismatic self without the fear of slipping and scaring you off. You already know he’s a vampire, so he knows he doesn’t have to be careful! 

~Sometimes you have to keep yourself from laughing because he unintentionally acts like a Bela Lugosi Dracula with some of his lines. He’s really just trying to keep the charm going but it can get cliche. Papa won’t be sorry for it, some lines are just classic! 

~There is something super sensual and intimate if you let him drink from you. Papa does it so gently and almost tenderly, because he sees you more than just the typical blood bag. You are his beloved and he is honored to be able to taste you. Papa always holds you close in a lover’s embrace before he sips on you deep and slowly- lips pressed against your neck. He is always mindful not to take too much and to savor every drop. Every time he pulls away his eyes are always closed in bliss- like he just sampled the finest of wines.   

~Papa loves to show off his powers to you, specifically his ones of minor flight and shape shifting. When you are as old and strong as he is, you can actually have wings! If you are down for it, he’ll fly with you in his arms! Papa also loves his animal forms, and you can always tell it’s him! Like when a bat seems too cute and friendly, or a black cat follows you too close. He always shifts back with a laugh and purrs in your ear. “How did you know it was me?” There have also been countless times you’ve caught him walking on the ceiling for fun. He always just shrugs and insists its a good party trick! 

~When Papa finds someone worth his time he considers making you another vampire. He will never tell you for years he’s considered. But the thing is, making another vampire isn’t very smart to do every time you fancy someone. Having to be sire to a fledgling is very tedious and takes a lot of patience. But... Papa wonders what it would be like to have you around forever. You don’t know it, but everyday Papa watches to see if you are worthy of the dark kiss of undeath. 

~ Papa, like his brothers and father, also has a luxury castle and rooms that he shares with you. Despite it being less active during the day and HEAVILY curtained from the sun, you live like a monarch! One thing Papa HAS shared with you is his crypt, the one he was resurrected from. Despite popular belief, no he does not sleep in the casket we was originally in. But, this is incredibly important for him to show you. See, he was brought back after a true death and not just changed- and a vampire can been slain with the soil of their resting place. It means a lot for him to trust you with this information. 

Cardinal Copia:

~Copia was very reluctant to have a relationship with you, let alone have you find out he was a vampire! Normally he doesn’t mind taking humans under his control as willing thralls to serve and feed him. But he’s been undead for so long he wasn’t sure to approach catching feelings for someone again. It was very tempting to have you removed from his life altogether. You were human and destined to die a natural, short life. And he wasn’t sure he was ready to sire another undead. But you won out in the end, and he can’t stay away from you. 

~ He’s very VERY protective of you, especially if any other vampires enters his territory. He doesn’t trust his own kind, least of all with you. Copia is very adamant about you staying out of any of his affairs with colleagues for this reason. It’s for your safety and the last thing he needs is having you threatened for leverage or a business partner trying to eat you. Not to mention, humans themselves can’t be trusted! Copia is always paranoid a vampire hunter or the other church will persuade you into thinking he’s nothing but pure evil. 

~Copia cannot resist your blood offerings even if he wanted to! To him, you are the sweetest and most satisfying meal. He often worries one day he’ll lose his control and hurt you, but never has. Copia always asks your permission, never using his charm or powers on you, before gently sinking his fangs in. Copia will have you with him the rest of the night to make sure you are recovering fine and that you rest well. Typically he gets very cuddly after feeding and is satisfied, and wants you in his arms so he can keep an eye on you. 

~Copia is an odd vampire in which he rarely likes to show off his abilities to you. He will gladly flaunt his powers over rivals or other vampires, but he’s so loathe to do so around his beloved. A part of him wants you to love him for who he still as as a ‘person’ rather than the power he has as a creature of the night. If he wanted blind followers or bed buddies he’d just have a harem like SOME PEOPLE *coughcoughpapaIIcough*. There is a time and place for mindless followers, and being in a relationship that makes him feel GOOD and ALIVE is not the time. 

~Copia does stupid things as a vampire that makes you laugh. You’ve seen him hiss and pull his arms back to his body so many times! You know he’s this monster, but he just looks like a giant dork when he recoils like a cartoon character! You’ve all but lost your shit the time he’s held his Dracula cape up as a protecting from harsh sunlight. 

~Speaking of his cape, it’s his favorite piece to wear when he’s done pretending to be a normal human! Copia will usually wear it when he takes you out at night and when a special occasion arises. He’s informed you that it’s a sign of rank and respect amongst the other undead. You doubt it but hey, he looks great in it! 

[curiosity-killed]

a bow for the bad decisions

canon-divergent AU from ep. 24 (on ao3)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16 | part 17 | part 18

There are seven paths through the mountain, and Wei Wuxian strikes off on one of his own. His fingers still twitch, itch, with the indignation and rage that had licked up his arms when the Wen prisoners were drug out in front of the targets. He draws in long breaths, tries to remember what it felt like to harmonize his qi with the rhythms of the air and the ground beneath him. It’s harder now, with resentment hissing where golden energy once sang. As he passes away from the rest of the participants, winding through the quiet wood, his heart steadies into an easier rhythm, and he can feel his shoulders loosen. “No mess,” he breathes out. He turns in a slow circle, more for the sake of movement than any surveying purpose. Energy winds restless and eager through his limbs, unsatisfied by the long walk up the hills. He’s tired and antsy in a way he can’t wholly blame on the competition.

Since that night, since Jiang Cheng found out, he’s been trying to bully Wei Wuxian into getting more sleep, as if the problem is Wei Wuxian not wanting to rest. It’s sweet, almost. For all that the world has hardened and sharpened Jiang Cheng, it’s nice to know he’s still naïve in some ways.

The problem isn’t that Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to sleep. He’s been walking around half-exhausted since he stopped using resentment to prop him up during the war. He would love to sleep if it weren’t for the screaming, clawing, raving hands that scrabble across his throat and rip into his chest every time he tries. He’s no longer sure how much of it is from the seal and how much he carries on from the Burial Mounds, wraiths as a reminder of his bargain. Either way, the only way to quiet their wailing is to wait until he’s so exhausted oblivion takes him out at the knees or to drink until everything is sodden and soft-edged. With Jiang Cheng and shijie’s new campaign to ensure he takes better care of himself, he’s been cut off from either option. Instead, he’s left dreading evening, skin crawling at the thought of lying down. It leaves him brittle, dry-edged, like a leaf turning crisped and fragile in autumn. He perches on a fallen tree and sets to playing. It’s a gentle song, softer and brighter than any he played in the war. Monsters like music, it turns out, as long as it’s played right, as long as it sounds like an invitation. He lures them on and into Yunmeng Jiang’s nets and stops when there’s just enough, when he feels the pressure on the mountain ease just-so. He could draw all the creatures of the mountain into their nets. He could lure the dead from their graves and send them dancing all the way to Jin Guangshan’s bedside in the middle of the night. With the seal humming against his chest, there is so very little he cannot do. But – Jiang Cheng doesn’t want a mess. So. Lowering Chenqing, he settles back into his perch and exhales. The air is sweet up here, purified by the trees and the living things growing through the soft soil. Closing his eyes briefly, he drinks it in and lets the sunlight dapple his skin with warmth. He’s tempted to fold his legs beneath himself and meditate in the afternoon quiet. As a kid, he always struggled with their meditation classes, too aware of the rest of the disciples sitting around him and constantly tempted to open his eyes, to check how much time had passed, if he was doing it correctly, if there was something he was missing. But outside of their classes, floating in the cool lake waters or sitting alone in the grasses, he had slipped into it like the softest sea. Listening to the gentle murmurs of the universe, feeling the expanse of his own breath, has always settled him. The way the rhythms of his own body echo those of the tide, the wind, the steady earth, makes him feel small in a way nothing else does: like he is only a piece of a whole, a bud on an endless tree, rather than a child running, bleeding, from hungry dogs. There’s a noise, the quietest scuff of feet on the road, and he shifts, opening his eyes. Lan Zhan walks carefully between the shadows, upright and alone. Sunlight catches on the silver of his hairpiece, the summer blue of his robes. A smile pulls at Wei Wuxian’s lips, instinctive, reflexive, and he straightens up to call out to him. Unbidden, Zewu-jun’s words return to him. I hope you will not be so selfish to the people who care about you. Back when they were young, before, he and Lan Zhan were an even match. Strong enough to challenge each other, to hold each other up. There was a reason they’d worked so well on the hunt for the yin iron. Now, though — how can Wei Wuxian possibly be Lan Zhan’s match? Lan Wangji, Hanguang-jun, the righteous and indomitable. His stomach twists sickly, grief and regret and hurt coiling deep in his low belly. It would be selfish, to try to keep Lan Zhan, to try to bind him to his own dead weight. Steps sound steady up the slope toward him, and Wei Wuxian barely scrambles to his feet before Lan Zhan is there, directly in front of him. “Ah Lan Zhan,” he greets, trying to steady his voice with some of his old lightheartedness, “I heard you were tired of mending your family’s principles in Cloud Recesses.” “I made some progress composing the music score,” Lan Zhan says, “and I wanted to share it with you to see how it works.” Disappointment slides bitter down Wei Wuxian’s throat. Of course he’s only interested in fixing Wei Wuxian, as if he’s ever been anything but a problem. He taps Chenqing against his open palm. “Lan Wangji, who do you take me for? Can’t you leave me alone?” he complains. He’d rather be left on his own than have to deal with this constant nagging reminder of what he’s thrown away. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says stubbornly, “who do you take me for?” He swallows, suddenly caught by the earnestness in Lan Zhan’s voice. That bitter part of him, the teeth and claws he grew in the Burial Mounds, wants to bite back that Lan Zhan is nothing, that he is only a mythic hero just like everyone else thinks him and Wei Wuxian has no need of his concern, his presence. Hanguang-jun, it wants to say. I take you for Hanguang-jun, cold and aloof and empty. He can’t. As much as he could lash out and fight back in the war, it never really lasted that long. From that first night in Gusu, the first shuddering connection of his sword against Suibian’s sheath, Wei Wuxian has had a tether sewn into his soul, pulling him always back to Lan Wangji. Now, he breathes out and looks away. “I had once taken you as the one who knew me in this life,” he says. It falls from his lips like spring blooms, delicate and easily bruised. His whole self feels newly raw with the admission, as if he has opened himself to Lan Zhan’s inspection. “I still am.” His eyes flit up to Lan Zhan’s face, startled and unsure. There is no doubt in his amber eyes, no hesitance in his reply. In the face of that certainty, Wei Wuxian is left shaken, rocked. How? he wants to ask. How can Lan Zhan stay so firm in the tempest wake of Wei Wuxian? How can he answer so surely when Wei Wuxian has lashed him with rebuke and insult and distance? It is terrifying to feel that unwavering gaze on him, the weight of his conviction too much for Wei Wuxian’s exhausted shoulders. “Lan Zhan,” he says, because the words are now pressing to his lips, the confession budding on his tongue, “Lan Zhan, there’s something I need to tell you.” His brow tenses, just the faintest line of shadow between them, and Wei Wuxian knows he needs to say it even as he can’t fathom how to begin. It was easier with Jiang Cheng and shijie, when it came out by accident. Now that he’s had time to think and prepare, he finds himself with none of the right words. “There’s— I—” he starts, stumbles. He wants to make it easy, to grab Lan Zhan’s hand and press it against his chest over that gaping hollow gnawing beneath his skin. “Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asks, swaying half a step closer. Before he can find any word or betray himself by reaching out, Wei Wuxian catches footsteps behind him and twists, tugging Lan Zhan with him. It’s instinct more than anything, paranoia the smallest cost of survival. Annoyance rears up when he catches Jin Zixuan walking alongside shijie, boasting about Lanling Jin’s hunts. Shijie looks miserable, eyes downcast and posture carefully correct. She deserves better than this, deserves someone who brings the smile out on her lips and the brightness into her eyes. Jin Zixuan deserves far more than a single punch to the face. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan chides, a hand on his arm, and he subsides with a scowl. He holds out until Jin Zixuan plants his foot firmly in his own mouth and shijie starts stammering, nerves catching up to her. It’s far more patience than he really owes the peacock, he thinks. “Wei Wuxian? Why do you keep showing up?” “I should be asking you that question,” Wei Wuxian snaps back. “Why did you stop her after she rejected you?” For all that he’s tried to respect shijie’s wishes in regards to this match, he can’t understand what she sees in the man. Every encounter Wei Wuxian has had with him, barring a few councils in the war, has further reduced his opinion. He’s less of a peacock and more of an ass draped in fine silk; no amount of gold or perfume can cover that stench. The rustle of his sleeves is all the warning he has before Jin Zixuan has drawn his blade, swinging it down toward Wei Wuxian. He presses back, straightening to better shield shijie, but before he can lift Chenqing, there’s a ringing retort as the blade connects with another, far more familiar. “Hanguang-jun?” Jin Zixuan demands, stepping back in surprise. Lan Zhan lowers Bichen but remains just in front of Wei Wuxian and shijie, as if he’s taken up the role of guard. Despite himself, Wei Wuxian is glad for his presence.   Before any more can be said, before he can demand Jin Zixuan explain why he just drew a sword on an ally without provocation, there’s the sound of footsteps from either direction and a flock of descending Jin disciples. Wei Wuxian’s hand tightens briefly around shijie’s wrist in a wishful thought of just turning his back on all of them and walking away. “What happened? Zixuan, did Wei Wuxian cause you trouble again? I’ll deal with him,” one of the Jin cousins declares. He looks familiar in a way that means Wei Wuxian probably ought to know his name, but a cursory search turns up nothing in his memory, and he’s too irritated right now to try harder. “Wei Wuxian, what do you want? Why do you keep troubling Zixuan?” the man demands, shoving forward. Leaning back enough to breathe his own air, Wei Wuxian huffs out a breath and turns to face him fully. “Who are you?” he asks. Immediately, the younger peacock stiffens, all those gold feathers ruffling while Wei Wuxian waits with an eyebrow lifted. This is ridiculous. He just wanted to stop idiot Zixuan from bullying shijie and now this moron wants to take a swing. “How dare you not know who I am?” he blurts out. “Should I?” Wei Wuxian returns, breathing out a laugh. “You—!” He’s kept from drawing his own sword and waving it in Wei Wuxian’s face by Jin-furen’s arrival, along with her apricot-robed attendants. She crosses between the men as if she can’t see them, immediately reaching out for shijie’s hands. Wei Wuxian retreats half a step, lowering his gaze. Jin-furen’s always treated shijie well, cared for her like the daughter she wished she had. He’s glad of that, grateful someone else can see shijie for who she is and want to protect her. He just wishes she didn’t look at him the same way Madam Yu did: like he’s an animal brought in from the woods, something diseased masquerading as a pet that might bite at any time. “A-Li, why do you look upset?” she asks. “I appreciate your concern, Madam Jin, but I am fine,” shijie answers with a small smile. She’s not fine, Wei Wuxian wants to say, but he’d never shame shijie that way. Her eyes are still damp with tears that don’t quite fall, and her smile trembles a little. “Did my intractable son bully you again?” Jin-furen demands. She twists around to glare at Jin Zixuan. “Zixuan, what’s wrong with you? What did you promise me before leaving?” It is, Wei Wuxian will admit, a little satisfying to watch Jin Zixuan bow his head under his mother’s scolding. He holds himself on such an arrogant pedestal he ought to be reminded that the same dirt touches his shoes as everyone else’s. Beside Jin-furen, though, shijie has her head dipped and lips thinned in a way that signals embarrassment, her quiet retreat from the trouble she’ll blame herself for causing. Wei Wuxian steps forward and takes her wrist gently. “No matter what he promised, Jin-furen,” he says, “from today on, he and Yanli will no longer have any association with each other.” A little pull and shijie turns with him to leave. “Wei Wuxian! My aunt is your senior. How can you talk this way? Aren’t you being too proud?”

[did-he-just-hiss-at-me]

i present to you, another f***ing sanders sides swap au cuz there can never be enough of them

i'm gonna call this corruptive switch cuz the dark sides are arguably worse than in canon

Patton is Dark!Creativity

also known as Intrusive Thoughts

Aside from the usual I.T. things, he seems to suggest a lot of good things but with bad intentions, which slowly turn into completely bad things

"You should offer to house-sit for them, that way you can take the opportunity to steal and use their house for parties! Oh, or even better, steal from them!"

instead of The Duke, he is The Painter(no dukey-esque jokes, sorry)

his Dark Side animal theme is the Fear Mongrel(disguised as a cat. look up what the fear mongrel is)

makes alot of crafts that are either made of gross things or resemble gross things

i chose the fear mongrel because it poison's peoples minds and it has no set form so i can do whatever with patton's animal traits

Constantly stealing things from the other sides

Roman: Patton, why do you have my cloak?! I need it back!

Patton, wrapped in the cloak like a burrito: No.

Logan is Light!Creativity

also known as Logical Creativity

Everything he comes up with has reasoning behind it

"Just because a Manticore and a Chimera are already combinations of other animals doesn't mean they can't be combined; That just makes it a more powerful & threatening enemy to fight! So many more animal parts to contribute to the danger!"

instead of The Prince, he is The Author

doesn't always wear his coat

has a dislike for "cartoon logic", unless that logic actually has a good explanation

does not hate the laws of fiction, as long as he can see it as a possible irl event

sneaks memes into his writing

Roman is Anxiety

also known as Uncontrollable Anxiety

All the anxiety he gives Thomas is based off of wildly improbable ideas, and Thomas can picture the scenarios too(not just hear Roman say them)

"But Thomas, if you go to this party with your friends, your DD might get drunk and still try to drive you home, and you could either end up arrested or in a car crash! And probably die afterwards!

his Dark Side animal theme is a Nian(look it up)

due to the Nian's hatred of the color red he hides from all mirrors and reflective surfaces

only Ethan can combat his abilities

likes to get up close to people when spreading his anxious thoughts

hyper, like, all the time

i chose the Nian because it's pretty creepy to me and it's immortal(comparable to how difficult it can be to get rid of deep-set fears) and people fear it and what it can do(of course)

dark circles around his eyes cuz ironically he keeps himself awake at night with his fears

meme king

Virgil is Deceit

also known as Manipulative Self-Preservation

Makes things sound scarier than they actually are, solely to get Thomas to stay on track with his life

"If you tell him why you ducked out of the project, he may never ask you to partner up with him again; which will inevitably lead to him never talking to you at all, forever!"

his Dark Side animal theme is a Firefox

Unlike Canon Deceit, he does not care for Thomas' mental health

anti-villain. thinks he's doing good but he's just flat out evil

only reason I chose a firefox is because i wanted him to have something on his face, so i chose burns and scars, which brought me to the firefox, and foxes are cunning, stealthy manipulators

likes to sing villain/dark songs, to Ethan's dismay

Deceit is Logic

also known as Self-Protecting Logic

name in this AU is Ethan, just to prevent confusion with Virgil

Will do whatever it takes to keep Thomas safe. Will only resort to whatever is circumstantially necessary.

"I know you don't like the sound of it Thomas, but doing this will lead to the safest result. You could ruin this friendship otherwise."

glasses are actually just empty frames

cares way more about thomas's mental health than Canon Logic, CS!Logan, Canon Deceit and CS!Virgil combined

instead of scales, he has scars that look like vitiligo. he gets more of these spots as thomas goes through more and more things that negatively effects his mental health. they don't hurt Ethan physically, but they're constant reminders of his failures

only looks at memes that don't encourage negative feelings

huge freaking emphasis on positivity like ffs dude chill out

Remus is Morality

also known as Moral Ambivalence

Does the right thing but his morals are, quite obviously, a bit misguided

"Stabbing isn't wrong if they consent to it! He said he wanted to be stabbed!"

please don't let him near strong-heat-producing objects... like stoves... Virgil convinced him they're ok to touch

admires Patton's works but will never admit it to him. also admires Logan's but will admit it, and even give him some inspiration

likes to pretend to be a detective for some reason

yes, he still has his mustache, his dark circles(?) around his eyes are there too, but they're not as noticeable tho.

does not get memes

There are minor differences to the episodes that still keep a roughly similar plotline,, these are what i could think of

Like in The Dark Side of Disney, they're talking about Pixar movies in specific(Cuz Logan would be a firm believer in the Pixar Theory due to how interesting and plausible it is) and Roman's always suggesting sh** like "Wall-e killed all the other robots cleaning up earth" and "Toys can die and their owners wouldn't know they'd just be playing with a dead corpse" and Logan's like "cAN YOU NOT" the entire time cuz he knows it's probable and he hates it

In Can Lying Be Good? Virgil pretends to be Logic instead of Morality, because he can't keep up with Remus's energy and his points will make more sense coming from Ethan's mouth... or so he thinks. yeah by the end he's exposed. Ethan was tied up in a closet the entire time.

In Learning New Things About Ourselves, Ethan isn't the one against the puppet shenanigans like you would suspect, it's Logan... again. Since he's Logical Creativity he doesn't see how playing around with puppets and singing songs will fix Thomas's problem. It's still illogical.

In Selfishness vs. Selflessness, Virgil has(more or less) the same goal as Deceit does in canon(to get Thomas to realize he's not a perfectly good person) except instead of doing it in a regular courtroom, he does it in a nightmarish one in Patton's part of the imagination(who is in the background, manipulating the room during the trial)

just some other facts

Thomas is only a complete wreck when his dark sides are kept out of check(my writer abilities have peaked. i made a rhyme unintentionally.)

out of the dark sides, not even anxiety is TRULY "accepted" in this au. the dark sides are just tolerated. the only reason they're allowed to exist and interact with thomas like the light sides is because Ethan realizes how important they are and enforces a rule preventing them from being banned

speaking of which, the darks and lights do interact like normal friends but that doesn't mean they're happy with their opposite's roles

Somebody: You and Logan have a good brotherly relationship, right Patton?

Patton: Absolutely not. He is a sworn enemy to Thomas's well being.

Somebody: But I saw you two geeking out over something earli-

Patton: I would sell him to satan for one corn chip. I don't even like corn chips.

dark sides are based on fictional animals/monsters instead of real animals

everyone keeps their little quirks(Logan likes crofters, Patton likes cats, etc.) unless they are tied to their canon role(Deceit's emphasis on the letter "s" when speaking, Roman caring about his appearance, etc.)

don't let the dark sides combine their powers, ever. that's when they're truely strong

Roman and Remus are no longer brothers, it's Patton and Logan instead

yeahh that's all i've got. i'm working on character refs now, in fact right after this post goes up i'm posting logan's. here's hoping people like this concept hdgdjdhds

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

two things, and i love their implications:

1. mysterio’s real name isn’t quentin beck. we never really find out his actual name.

2. beck and his associates are seen stalking peter in the background in venice before the water monster strikes.

so “quentin beck” is born in the aftermath of civil war, right? he’s already fuming because tony stark not only had the gall to appropriate his revolutionary tech for a personal plaything and fire him in the process, but he and his band of costumed super-friends end up fighting amongst themselves and throwing each other in jail (which--let’s be honest for a second here. how in hell is naming your team ‘the avengers’ not a huge branding mistake?? nobody wants you to clean up a mess--they want that mess to not happen. beck doesn’t think he’s going to need a lot of effort to come up with a better message). 

so. anyway. it’s not long after that that the ‘avengers’ basically close up shop; this means that an entire hyperspecialised r&d division dedicated to making their toys is out of their very, very hyperspecialised jobs. the legal loopholes that they had to jump through and the million secrecy clauses hidden in their mind-numbingly voluminous job contracts means that there are multiple dangerously brilliant people who know a lot of dangerous secrets running around without a job, and almost all of them are furious with one anthony edward stark. a lot of them are absorbed into SHIELD--or what remains of it, anyway--but beck attracts the outliers, the most brilliant, the ones who could match his mania measure for measure and produce things the world would be dazzled by. he would out-tony-stark tony stark, and he would do it right. none of the messy backstory, none of the fatal character flaws, none of the silly flying costumes and sillier friends--he would be untouchable. his first step is to choose a new name--something short, sharp, memorable, and brand-able, like ‘stark’. he chooses ‘beck’. for a first name, he goes for something that suggests old-timey legacy and would stand-out and stick in a random person’s ear: ‘quentin’. 

quentin beck and his team are on the cusp of launching their ideas when the Snap happens.

quentin survives.

he doesn’t want to talk about it. he thinks he even forgets what happened in those few minutes, and if for the first few months he can’t bear to touch anyone and gets panic attacks at the sight of friggin’ dust motes it doesn’t really matter, all right? what’s more interesting is what he learns in the first few chaotic months after half the world turned to dust: that it was because of some megalomaniac space alien, and that the megalomaniacs who were supposed to protect them all had had their asses handed to them. tony stark gives up and retreats to the country; the remaining avengers are in a shambles. this is not the part that surprises beck; the part that really gets to him, really fucking sticks in his craw: people still believe in them. they still cheer when war machine flies by in his clunky metal suit and wizards shoot lasers from their magic circles; they’re still waiting for some last minute miracle from an alien who drops out of the sky and fixes this gaping, bleeding wound in one fell swoop. all of beck’s genius, all of his ideas and his dreams to change the world are nothing next to some costumed idiot who can shoot lasers out of his hands. fucking lasers!

well, fuck. if it’s the era of the superhero, then quentin beck’s going to go all in.

obviously he doesn’t have any actual superpowers (guterman suggested being “artfully irresponsible” with dangerous radioactive material, and quentin hopes he was only joking), so he’s going to need the resources that tony had. in the general chaos after the Snap and as a consequence of stark’s operations shrinking even further, it doesn’t take him very long to find janice and william, and through janice, exactly what he needs. combining his intuitive projection tech with william’s drones creates the spectacle he needs to convince people that he’s the real fucking deal.

he brainstorms with his team for his superhero character: capes and lasers are a must, obviously. scaly, skin-tight armour ala thor: check. metal chest plate and gauntlets like iron man: check. hell, make ‘em light up; the kids will love it. intricate designs on the cape and where it attaches to his chest plate: hell, why not. that’ll invoke those new york city wizards and give conspiracy theory nuts some meat to gnaw on. and a smoky dome over the head because by now beck is tired and rendering a believable human face, even under a mask? really fucking difficult without taking a huge dive into uncanny valley. he’ll get there one day, but for now his character gets a fishbowl on his head. 

all of this takes a long-ass time to put together, and by the time beck thinks he’s anywhere close to putting his operation on a test-run, the Snap is reversed, everyone comes back, and tony stark is not just dead, but a goddamn martyr. the other heroes come back. the Snap is now a Blip--a name that shows just how desperate people are to put the last five years behind them. iron man and the avengers are not just heroes anymore but mythic figures--if beck wants to stand a chance of even matching up to their status, he needs to start getting more ambitious, and take more risks. he needs access to all of tony’s armoury, and he needs to infiltrate SHIELD.

through janice and stark industries’ less-than-stellar post-Blip security, he finds out that not only did tony leave behind a master control for an entire planetart defence system, but that he left it to a kid. a literal sixteen year old child. a child! at first, quentin can’t quite believe it--tony’s ego was planet-sized, sure, but it can’t have been that big? maybe this peter parker is actually a 3000 year old alien changeling or something. 

oh, no. oh no no no no--peter parker is no alien. he’s spider-man.

it takes beck less than a week of stalking the kid to find out that he’s the guy in the head-to-toe spandex and bug-eyes that’s been rescuing cats from trees in queens. beck watches him go to school; watches him fool around with his friends and slink into a corner to have a silent cry when he thinks no one’s looking. he watches him suit up and break up muggings and accompany lost old ladies home at night on one hand and stop speeding trains and dodge bullets on the other. beck watches the kid leverage his status as a superhero to draw in funding to house the post-Blip homeless, yet quail at the very idea of having to deal with a problem any bigger than his own neighbourhood. it’s almost cruel, beck thinks, that tony stark left the burden of his legacy on this affable, compassionate kid, but stark was always a selfish bastard.

he sees peter parker crumble in front of stark’s grave on one particularly difficult night, sobbing until he’s practically dry-heaving with the force of it, and quentin beck makes up his mind. he’s going to get peter to give him tony’s legacy of his own free will. it’ll take him some time to put everything in place--he’s going to need guterman to revise the script that they’d been working on; everybody loves sci-fi crap about alternate timelines and multiverses, don’t they?--but the kicker? he’s going to swipe everything tony worked on (stole!) like he’s taking candy from a baby.

besides, he’s sure peter will thank him for it.

[maelstrom-cal]

stars

The words don't come out correctly, some immature slur of 'what's it?' that barely makes sense as tiny hands grasp eagerly for what Cal held outstretched in his own. He cautions to be careful, to be gentle, as the toddler plucks the creature free from his palm and stares in wonder as it curls against tiny fingers, brushing like a bristle that tickles and causes the baby to laugh in delight. Starfish, Cal clarifies and watches Loch try to repeat the word with more gibberish than success but he still smiles, praises and coaxes. But it's a terrible, dirty thing, their mother insists as she balks and knocks away the tiny creature to the sands with a scowl; how could he put his brother in danger that way? It could have been venomous, could have bitten or stung; does he want Loch to be harmed? Is he that selfish? Loch's tears are heavy and voice wailing at the anger that fills the air and Cal can't even think to argue that it's only a starfish, only a harmless little thing, he nods silently with his head lowered and his eyes dropped. He waits until after his mother has whisked the baby away before he smooths the sand over the broken creature with a whispered apology, the guilt making his eyes water. 

He points them out one by one, the reflections upon the glassy waters and how they mirror the shimmering lights from above. Cal doesn't know all their names, because surely they must have names like everything else, but knows each and every one is different from the rest. They're all alike too though, in their shine and in their connection. Like the both of them, he explains to the small boy sitting beside him on the rocks bathed in moonlight and salty air. Each and every star might be something unique but they’re all stars just the same. Brothers, Cal insists, can look different; can have teal hair or purple, eyes as vivid green as the moss or amber-brown as the shells littering the ocean's floor, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter to the stars if one shines a little brighter or a different hue of gold from the others; they still share the sky. Loch makes no effort to pay attention though, the younger boy is too busy prying snails from the stones and tossing them into the waters to watch it ripple. It seems, to him, a silly argument to make in the first place and he points out that some of those stars are larger, more impressive than others. They're only stars though, only blinking lights, there are far more interesting things to be explored. 

Cal tries again in his teens, determination renewed in spite of the growing wedge between the two of them. All but begs Loch to join him in his room one evening away from the scrutiny of their parents, promises he has something wonderful and secret to show him. The offer entices the other teen, but more for the possibility of catching him doing something their parents will disapprove of than in sharing in discovery. Cal knows it but cannot bring himself to care, he still wants to have faith, still wants to try. When he spreads the pages around the both of them in a wide circle, the inks old enough to be faint upon parchment and the illustrations rather faded, Cal excitedly runs his fingers over the lines and curves drawn in the maps, points out the celestial bodies scrawled ornately at the edges and lifts the book to hug close because it is a precious thing even though those pages have slipped free of the binding years and years before he found that treasure. And for a moment he watches Loch's eyes light up like emeralds, graceful hands tracing the twisting, curling drawings of sea monsters and dragons amid all the rest of the charts. They spend the rest of the night and well into the morning hours studying every page, tucked back into the cover with great care, fashioning stories about grand beasts in the waves and starry-night voyages. It's the first time in too long that Cal goes to sleep with a light heart, rises the next day with a smile on his face. But it doesn't last, before the afternoon the book is gone from his room and tucked away in Loch's instead. Their parents remark that they're happy their son is taking an interest in books when Loch sits at the table and thumbs through the pages, not even bothering to meet Cal's weary gaze.  

He tries to forgets, mostly succeeds, or at the least allows the rough-edges wear smooth on the memory enough to pretend it doesn't bother him. He follows the paces, the rules, and learns to keep to himself. The rare day he's urged to join his brother at the water's edge surprises him but Cal wants to think the best so he chases the delusion and smiles at the people who aren't his friends, at the ones that follow Loch like his personal entourage. What catches his interest is the conversation as they all settle in the sand, lazy and comfortable, words turning to plans ahead. He's older than them by barely a few years but in the same awkward spot of trying to sort out the future. They speak of stars then, of charts and their fates plotted out ahead of them. Only then, finally, have their parents told them some of the secrets spoken by those who read the heavens on the day they were born, of the grand things that they would become. Cal listens silently but with intent to each voice in turn, each borrowed friend, with something akin to reverence over their places in the world and what will be ahead. He doesn't know if the stars tell the truth, if they exist for more than only their own sake, but somewhere in the back of his mind he can remember the stranger who arrived for Loch. He has only the faintest memory of their parents in grave discussion and their mother's happiness over something he could not, as a child understand then but would later see meant that his brother would be someone important. It's why Cal never questioned much the way their mother guarded Loch, the times their father heaped praise upon him for the simplest accomplishments; his brother had a purpose. But when the question falls on him Cal finds himself lacking anything to offer, embarrassment burning the back of his neck and causing his eyes to drop downward. He hears Loch wave off the notion as though he isn't even there, pointing out that who can know that answer when their parents never bothered with seeing what the stars had planned for Cal. The truth is ugly and a weak twinge of pain in the pit of his stomach because he can't argue it. It's not the collective laughter of those strangers that stings his eyes and makes the corners of them grow damp, no, it's that his brother joins them. 

And finally it comes to an end, as all things eventually must. An end that finds him standing in the doorway of the room they shared when they were both very small, right until the day that they were ushered off into separate spaces. His shoulders are slumped and nervous energy eats at him, Cal can't recall feeling so much sorrow and excitement in the same instant. 

"I'm leaving now," he speaks quietly, one final peace offering between them, one more bridge he builds with such care and silently begs Loch to simply step across and meet him halfway. But the other teen does not so much as lift his eyes with the words, so Cal continues as best he can on that tired breath. "I won't be able to come home for a while, not after I start training, and you can't really visit. Can you tell mother and father that I said goodbye?" 

Tell them that he tried again and again; to fit into what they expected of him, to be an older brother to someone who saw him as less, tell them anything at all if it would just help them see him. The plea silent but still so clear in his tone. The only reply he receives is a nod, a match set ablaze upon that bridge. 

The stars keep him company in leaving, it had never felt much like home but somehow it still hurt to step away, or to step into the unknown. His eyes sought out the heavens that had never spoken to guide him, to them he was only a lost child. His life did not lay upon a map, his hopes could not settle with starfish and tattered pages, no matter how much he wished it had been different.

[tinyliltina]

Prompt 11:  Heartbeat

I finally did something that isn’t ask related s o b s 

Wrote a story with my Chris and @oliverthesaltyedgelord‘s Kelly in our summoner!verse and had way too much fun doing this worldbuilding-

I promise I’m going to get to asks asap but for right now enjoy my attempt to write something that wasn’t for class oml 

Feedback is??  Super appreciated, likes are great but please remember I can’t get better without input :0

Move, move, just move!  Chris sprinted forwards, her feet slapping against the muddied ground of the riverbank.  She heard a snarl behind her, and convinced herself not to look back.  It wasn’t worth it.  Running was what mattered now, not what she was running from.  Such was the life living in a world where dragons and trolls from other realms frequenced for an easy snack…  All Chris needed to know was there had been teeth and claws, and that justified running.  

Hairs she’d never felt stood on the back of her neck, maybe in their own attempt to flee the monster at her back.  Chris lept over another log, skimming the treeline for a hiding spot.  If she could get get a place to set up a circle-

A roar tore through the sky, ripping at Chris’ eardrums.  Whatever was behind her was close.  Chris’ heart slammed against her chest, reminding her she could only run so fast.  Hiding was the best option.  There!  A tree, just off to her left-it looked big enough to crouch behind.  Chris changed direction, her ankles protesting with the effort as she flew through the undergrowth.  Once she was close enough, Chris dove behind the bark.  Her hands scraped against the earth, but she didn’t care.  

The spell spilled from her lips before Chris could process all the words.  Heat built in her chest, manifesting through her blood, and traveling down her veins.  She felt a pulse against the ground as crimson vines appeared on the ground.  They grew and swiveled around her crouched form, doubling in size as the foreign tongue tumbled from the human.  Trembling, both with the ground and effort of focus, Chris tied up the last of the mantra, spitting out the final line.  

 For a moment, the world stopped.  Chris could feel her heart pulsing beneath her skin, and in the ground, and in the air.  It was loud, and panicked, but it was there.  Alive, steady, hers.  Power cracked beneath her fingers, and the ground shook anew.  Her hair stood on end, brown locks stretching out to the heavens.  

Th-thmp th-thmp th-thmp

The ground began to shake.  Not with the footsteps of her pursuer.

Th-thmp thmp thmp thmp

Earth split beneath the circle, tearing apart as the magic activated.

Thmpthmpthmpthmpthmp

Chris’ circle dissolved, manifesting into a physical form.  It stretched and hissed in the air, shifting into a humanoid shape that dwarfed the tallest trees.  Electricity danced in the air, and the circle singed the ground.  There was a sickening silence, then a loud bang.  Chris’ eyes shot up as the red faded, revealing the form of her guardian.  She had to crane her neck to meet his gaze, and resisted the urge to cower from it.  

Despite the fact her familiar was several yards away from her, he still towered over where she crouched.  Chris sat back, and glanced behind her.  The creature that had been chasing her, a young troll by its expression, was shrinking back.  She couldn’t blame the poor thing when it ran.  Truthfully, she wanted to run too.

“What’d ya call me here for?” Chris’ stomach dropped.  Slowly, she turned towards the hulking man before her.  Kellian looked much more intimidating with his face cast in a shadow.  His eyes gleamed a cornflower blue, and sent cold chills down Chris’ back.  Swallowing, Chris gestured to the direction the troll fled.  

“Ah-I mean, I wanted-...it was a troll, and I couldn’t run, so, um-” she cleared her throat, still struggling to breathe from the run.  “I...called you.”

Kellian was quiet a moment, then grunted.

“Mh.  Well I’m here now, so ya gonna ask me t’do something else fer ye?”

Chris shrugged.  

“Um-...I don’t, I mean other than that-...”  she shifted.  “Could you..stay here a second?  Just, I mean...just so it doesn’t come back?”

He blinked.  For a moment, Chris thought he would say no.  Instead, the giant sighed.  

“Sure.  Kinda have’ta, seein’ yer m’summoner.”  

Guilt welled in Chris’ chest.  As a summoner, she had the ability to force Kellian to do what she wanted.  There were restrictions, of course, but Chris hated the thought of treating any creature like a slave.  

“Would it be okay-I mean,” she rubbed her arm, flustered.  “Could you...hold me a second?  You, I mean, you don’t have to, but-”

Before she could finish her request, Chris felt something warm grasp her waist.  She squeaked, glancing down just as Kellian’s hands gathered her up.  With an unnerving ease, Kellian settled his hands against his chest.  Chris stiffened at the closeness.  He was much warmer than she’d thought, though it was almost relaxing.  Hesitating, then relenting to her craving for closeness, Chris slid closer to Kellian.  Her head settled against his chest.  

Th-thmp.  Th-thmp.  Th-thmp.  

Kellian’s heart rung loud and strong.  Chris closed her eyes, willing her own to mirror his.  For several moments, Chris was silent.  She took in the sounds of him beside her.  His deep, relaxed breaths, the thunder of his heart, all mixing into a relaxing song.  Against her better judgment, Chris leaned further into her familiar.  He was surprisingly soft, despite his hardened personality…  The fact he was being so gentle was enough to set Chris at ease.  

“Kellian?”

“Mh?”  his voice rumbled behind her.  

“Do you...well, do you want to leave?”

He was quiet a moment.  His chest shifted.  “A little, aye...can’t ‘til you say so, s’guess I’m stuck.”  

Chris cringed, ashamed of her own selfishness.  

“I’ll...you can leave in a little bit, I promise-I just…”  She didn’t have an excuse.  That thought made her stomach twist.  There was no reason for her to keep him so close, save her own wants.  Chris curled into herself a tad.  

“Why d’ye keep callin’ me out here?”  Kellian’s voice spoke against her thoughts.  Chris blinked, glancing up.  She peered at the underside of his chin, the only part of his face she could see at her angle.  

“I…”  She cleared her throat.  Was she obligated to tell him the truth?  Lying didn’t seem like much of a choice, especially with such a specific question.  “I guess…”  No, telling the truth was always the better option.  Even if he didn’t like her answer, at least Kellian wouldn’t think her dishonest.  “I don’t really know.  I feel...safer when you’re around.”  Her gaze moved to her hands.  “You’re such a well-known fighter in the monster realm, and, you’re the first monster I summoned...so that means something, I think…”

He scoffed.  “Ye summonin’ me was just bad luck.”  

Chris winced again, glancing at her hands.  He was right, she guessed.  It was bad luck, at least for him…  He was a high tier fighting monster, one of the most requested monster types available.  Neither one of them knew how he’d been summoned to Chris’ circle when she’d been looking for a companion.  

“Why?”  Kellian asked.

“Why....why what?

“Why d’ye keep summonin’ me back?  ‘S clear I’m na’ tha monster ye wanted...s’why keep callin’ me back?”

He wasn’t wrong, Chris supposed.  Really, she wasn’t sure why she summoned him back.  While he was civil enough, Kellian wasn’t open, friendly, or kind.  He was no companion.  Yet, if Chris had to choose between him and another monster, she’d go for Kellian.  

“I dunno.  I guess, really, you’re so big and strong…  I feel safer.”  

“Safer, eh?”

Chris nodded.  Kellian sounded surprised, and Chris couldn’t blame him.  Up front, he was a terrifying looking beast.  Glowering eyes beneath a dark head of hair, and skin lined with battle scars. Chris was the polar opposite.  A skinny, tiny brunette without a single scratch on her.  He was abrasive, she was gentle.  

“Safer...yeah,”  Chris shrugged.  She settled against Kellian once again, and stared at his fingers.  “You’re...I dunno.  You’re tough, but you aren’t mean. Even if you’re a little...snappy, I mean, you’ve always been gentle with me.”

“Kinda have t’be gentle with ye, considerin’ our contract…”  he muttered.  “But...I dunno.  M’assistant says I can’t fight forever, n’I guess he’s right.”  

“I think your assistant is a wise person,” she agreed.  “And maybe...who knows?  One day, hopefully, you’ll like hanging out...I mean, maybe you’ll…”  She looked down.  “Well, forget it.  As long as you don’t mind coming back, I mean…  Maybe this isn’t so bad?”

“Maybe,” he mused.  

Sighing, Chris leaned against Kellian’s chest.  His heartbeat resumed its powerful rhythm, a reminder of his presence.  In it, Chris found a strange sense of comfort.  She didn’t feel so lonely, even while knowing they weren’t close.  Before she knew it, the exhaustion of the day consumed her.  Her head nodded once, twice, then went slack.  

---

Chris had been quiet for a while now.  Unusual.  Normally the runt was chatty, to the point it was almost annoying.  Kellian frowned, sparing a glance to the human in his hand.  Ah, she was asleep.  That made sense.  Waking her up was an option, but it didn’t feel fair.  Kellian knew if she attempted doing such a thing he would lash out.  For now, he guessed, he’d let her sleep.  

He couldn’t deny his surprise at how quickly the lass had grown to trust him.  They came from two different worlds, yes, and Kellian had been raised differently.  But falling asleep on someone, especially a giant, wasn’t smart.  It was more surprising considering he’d never shown much interest in the young mage.  Still, there she was.  Fast asleep, sitting straight up, as if his hand were a couch.  

Kellian’s lip twitched.  A ghost of a smirk took over his features.  Fighting monster paired with a lonely mage.  The idea sounded so ridiculous, he couldn’t help but chuckle.  Kellian had the blood of dozens, if not hundreds, on his hands.  This tiny human, who could use him to fight like the others, saw that as comforting.  Him as comforting.  Or, maybe she tried not to see it.  With Chris, he could never be sure.

His eyes trailed the skyline.  It was still plenty bright out, and his next fight wasn’t scheduled for a few days.  For now, holding Chris wasn’t so bad.  Hell, maybe he was coming to enjoy her company.  Though he hated to, he was starting to like not seeing fear in her eyes when he came around.  The expression of relief on her face when she saw him appear…  Kellian chuckled.  Hell, he was going soft.  

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, JEM! You’ve been accepted for the role of IAGO. Admin Rosey: Jem, you have no idea how much I flailed and screamed and went buckwild while reading this application. The quotes that you picked for the plot points set the stage for an absolutely exceptional application. I think that, with Iago, a difficult task can be capturing his core without humanizing him so that others can understand him. But you gave us insight into his being without us feeling a shred of sympathy for him. Most know that I enjoy the exploration of these sort of characters but it can be so difficult to trust someone with them. There is no one I trust more than you with our duplicitous Iago. Everyone, read this application from beginning to end and weep with me. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Jem.

Age | 25.

Preferred Pronouns | She/her.

Activity Level | I’d say my activity level is about a 6/10! My work schedule is pretty demanding, but I always try to carve out some space in my life for writing, and I’m usually able to plot and crank out replies consistently throughout the week.

Timezone | EST.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Here, here, and here.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Iago/Ivan Rahal.

What drew you to this character? | I’ve been drawn to (re: obsessed with) Ivan since literally the day his biography was posted, but I initially shied away from applying for him because I was, admittedly, a little intimidated by how unrelenting his darkness is, and I wasn’t quite sure I could do justice to a character with so many layers and so many complexities, all of them wrapped in varying shades of evil. But I found that once I began unraveling Ivan layer by layer, that intimidation gave way to fascination, and I became so completely wed to the idea of immersing myself wholly in all of Ivan’s inner workings, in dissecting his person and his psyche as thoroughly as he dissects those around him. Ivan errs on the side of evil, yes, unquestionably so, but his lack of morals is deeply rooted in discipline, and that discipline has bred a methodical, calculative process of destruction that, though morally bankrupt, is unique to Ivan Rahal and Ivan Rahal alone. He’s a villain unlike any other one villain, a monster unlike any other one monster. To delve into the motives of a man who wants for nothing and feels for no one was challenging, yes, but also vastly compelling. Initially, I wasn’t quite sure how to approach a character who’s so definitively dark, but even darkness is painted in different shades and shapes, and Ivan is no exception. He’s cruel, yes, but he metes out his cruelty subtly, and in increments, and only to those he deems worthy of his attention (usually those virtue-bound apostates). He’s rotten, yes, but his rot is tempered some by his self-control, and that leash alone makes him considerably less prone to apocalypse than he might’ve been had been born absent restraint. He’s treacherous, yes, but there is beauty to be found even his treachery: the way he transforms, the way he sheds his snakeskin and shifts it to match the changing colors of the political current. To simply brand him a “monster” is to do a disservice to his many layers, for he’s a creature far more nightmarish than monsters could ever hope to be—and he swathes those nightmares in stardust, tricking the masses into thinking him angel-born, haloed, hallowed by the heavens. He’s cruel, and selfish, and he has a severe deficit of conscience, but he’s also smart, and tenacious, and adaptive, and in this game, in this war, those qualities are invaluable—and that makes him a valuable player here in Verona. Ivan is a villain, to be sure, and one of the worst, but even the most wretched devils in the most wretched circles of hell have their limits, their lines to cross or not cross. And isn’t that what Verona’s about? Flirting with the spectrum of monstrosity; forging lines, and deigning to cross or not cross them; wading in the gray sea of morality. Ivan is a villain, to be sure—and so the question remains: what kind of villain will he be, and what kind of lines will he cross?

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

“A wolf will never be a pet.” —Kamilla Tolnoe He’s a Capulet, to be sure, but make no mistake: Ivan would just as soon slit Cosimo Capulet’s throat as he would Damiano Montague’s if it meant getting his way. The Capulets were little more than convenient to his plans upon his arrival to Verona: he needed to remain close to Odin, and he found the Capulets’ methods of war far more preferable to those of the Montagues. But Ivan’s self-interest remains paramount, and should the Capulets ever become inconvenient to his agenda, his eye might yet wander elsewhere.

“When strong, avoid them. If of high morale, depress them. Seem humble to fill them with conceit. If at ease, exhaust them. If united, separate them. Attack their weaknesses. Emerge to their surprise.” — Sun Tzu, The Art of War He’s avoided Delilah, and depressed her, and exhausted her, and separated her from Odin, and from the Capulets, and from the Veronesi. And yet still she remains. A broken shell of the woman she once was, to be sure, but Ivan was certain she’d have fled Verona by now, driven from her home by shame and gossip, found to be guilty of adultery by a jury of vipers. And yet still she remains. Curious. Dangerous. Ivan was so certain he’d well and truly broken any love Odin felt for Delilah, but he sees remnants of it in the way he looks at her, in the way he reminisces about her, in the way he shows kindness as an ode to her memory. And that simply won’t do. Not for Ivan, who would not do well to be found out; not for Odin, who would be the first survivor of Ivan’s games; not for Delilah, who would be the first winner of Ivan’s games. It’s the first time Ivan has felt—not quite panic, no, but a sort of unnerving itch, like the chessboard upon which he’s been playing has suddenly been turned around, and he’s disoriented by it. He’s more determined now than he’s ever been to expel Delilah, and all of her suspicions and wiles, from Verona.

“You have played, I think, and broke the toys you were fondest of, and are a little tired now; tired of things that break, and—just tired.” — E.E. Cummings For all of Ivan’s love of games, he’s bound to get bored eventually, no? What happens when he’s made his way through the masses of Verona, when he’s grown tired of his games with Odin, and Delilah, and Chiko, and Pandora? What will happen when he’s broken all of his toys so thoroughly that there’s nothing left to play with? What will he turn his attentions to next? Who will he turn his attentions to next? Will ever there come a time when he finds he can no longer sustain this sort of gameplay, when even his dead, wintry soul grows weary of such cardinal sin?

“What are you? A chaos.” — Anaïs Nin, Fire: From a Journal of Love He’s motivated by power, yet, but not inasmuch as he’s motivated by his passion for destruction. His life’s greatest joy is ruination: his blood sings for it, his heart thrums for it, his bones rattle for it. It’s ingrained in his very being, this endless want for destruction, this mad desire to desecrate all things holy. He’s proven time and again his value to the Capulet mob, but for all of Halcyon’s efforts to leash him, Ivan yet remains feral, untamed, and that could prove problematic, surely, for an organization based on mutual trust and collaboration. How will Ivan’s own motives intersect with those of the mob’s? What will happen when those two sets of motives are no longer compatible? What will happen when Halcyon’s leash breaks?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | If the admins felt strongly about using Ivan’s death as a plot device, I’d certainly be open to it!

IN DEPTH

“You’re terrible at this,” Ivan groaned to Odin from across the table, eyes flicking from the book in his hand to his companion. Odin, whose face was scrunched with concentration as he stared at the chessboard between them, shot Ivan a dark look. “Must you read while we play?” he groused. “It’s distracting.” Ivan snorted. He very much doubted his reading mid-play had any sway in Odin’s chess skills. In all of their matches, Odin had never once won, had never even come close to beating Ivan—not in the game of chess, and not in the other games Ivan played with him, either. “What else am I supposed to do during the hours you spend deliberating how, exactly, you’re going to lose to me?” Ivan drawled, eyes returning to the book in his hands as he kicked his feet up onto the corner of the table and rocked his chair onto its back legs, his limbs sprawling out—ever the picture of a lazy, contented cat. Odin glared at him and outstretched his palm as if to move a chess piece to make a point. In the end, he decided against it, and returned to his ruminations. Ivan blew out a loud sigh of frustration, and Odin, irked, growled, “What are you reading, anyway?” Ivan didn’t look up as he raised the book in his hands for Odin’s purveyance. “The Art of War?” Odin read the title aloud, brows knitting together. Ivan nodded in confirmation, purring, “Perhaps if you read it, you might stand a chance at winning one of these matches one day.” Odin grunted his disapproval. “What could I possibly learn about chess from a book on war?” “All life is war, Odin,” Ivan said, and the response was so immediate, so instinctive, that Odin raised a brow at him. “Look,” he said, and turned the pages of the book towards Odin, pointing to the chapter’s title: “‘There are five dangerous faults which may affect a general.’ Who’s to say you couldn’t use these faults to outmatch me in chess?” Ivan placed the book on the table, reaching over to Odin’s side of the chessboard, moving one of his rooks forward one space. “Firstly,” he explained, “there is recklessness, which leads to destruction.”

Funerals weren’t so terrible, Ivan supposed. A bit redundant, maybe—how many times in the past hour alone had family and friends alike, red-nosed and puffy-eyed, groveled to Ivan about how wonderful his father was, how kind and true and good. (It had been a concentrated effort for Ivan not to ask each of them, amidst their weeping soliloquies, if they were at the right funeral, or if they had the right Samir Rahal, or if they were deaf or drunk or dumb, because by no stretch of the imagination was Samir Rahal wonderful, or kind, or true, or good.) So—redundant, yes—but not so terrible. If nothing else, the black dress code suited Ivan well—suited Ivan almost as well as the veil of death that lingered overhead, muzzling the gathered crowd with a heavy blanket of despair. It was a hunting ground for his ilk: a garden of eden nouveau, abound with trees sprouting apples ripe for the picking. And he was the black-and-silver-scaled garden snake, weaving about their ankles, hissing nightmares into their ears, all at once at the helm and bow of their ruin. Ivan had a way about him that was nearly reptilian in nature (an ode to his true essence, he supposed)—the way he moved, the way he spoke, it was all very…snakelike. Eyes slitted with alert focus; a lean, muscled body that seemed to swagger and sway with an ease that was far too predatory; a tongue poised with venom, and a sharp set of teeth to match. And those eyes, more animal than human, turned to the crowd before him, picking through the masses with a cool, hooded gaze that eventually zeroed in on his younger brother, who stood just beyond the stained glass doors of the church house, trying in vain to light a cigarette with a now-empty lighter. Turning on his heel, Ivan slinked through the crowd and sidled up next to his brother, a matte black lighter already in his outstretched palm as he approached. (Ivan himself didn’t smoke, but he made a habit of keeping a lighter on his person—all worthwhile negotiations were made over shared cigarettes, after all.) “Why the long face, Joseph?” he deadpanned, lighting the end of his brother’s cigarette in one fluid, graceful motion. His brother gave him an incredulous look before drawing a sharp inhale, hands shaking as he took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked its bud, ash catching on a gust of wind and scattering between them both. Ivan clicked his tongue with admonishment as he swatted a fleck of ash off of the lapel of his jacket. “What did Armani ever do to you?” he drawled, face lax with cool indifference. Joseph’s only response was a vulgar gesture and a mean scowl. “So sensitive, brother,” Ivan chuckled—and he was. Of all three Rahal children, Joseph had always been the most tempestuous, too easily steered this way and that by the unpredictable tide of emotion. Messy—Joseph was always so messy, and that sort of disposition made for easy prey. “You look well for the son of a dead man,” Joseph noted, glancing sidelong at Ivan. “You don’t,” Ivan countered, eyebrows raised as he looked pointedly at his brother’s trembling hands, at his pallid face, at the way his eyes glazed over blankly. Joseph shrugged, and Ivan noted with no small delight the defeated sag of his brother’s shoulders. He was prime for ruin, riper now in all his sorrow than he’d ever been before. “Nicotine isn’t quite doing the trick today, I see,” Ivan said. “Perhaps whiskey will.” He jerked his chin at the tumbler in his brother’s shaking hand. “What, Ivan?” Joseph hissed. “Are you going to tell me what you used to tell Baba?” Joseph screwed up his voice and deepened his voice a few octaves, mimicking Ivan’s rich timbre. “Alcohol isn’t the solution, now, is it?” “Technically,” Ivan pointed out matter-of-factly, “alcohol is a solution—of the chemical sort, of course.” He expected another vulgar gesture from Joseph, a growl or grunt at the very least, but he instead looked to Ivan with round, pleading eyes, seeking salvation from the very source of his damnation. Stupid boy, Ivan almost wanted to chide him. So reckless in his trust. It was too easy with Joseph—boring, almost, to feast on a thing so bent and broken. Joseph looked at Ivan as if he were the salve to all of his wounds, not knowing that he was plague that fostered pitfalls of pestilence beneath those very wounds, nourishing his hurts with black tar and rot, siphoning the life from him without a trace. And this was perhaps Joseph’s greatest fault of all: he wanted, and he wanted recklessly. He wanted to heal the wound without first dressing it; he wanted to feel, but to feel only the good, never the bad; he wanted stability, but plunged headlong into life’s greatest uncertainties: love, drugs, death. He wanted, wanted, wanted, Joseph, and he was reckless in his wants, desperate enough to procure them that he would’ve placed his trust in anyone who claimed they could deliver him those wants, even Lucifer himself. And, well, here he was: Lucifer himself, Ivan Rahal, tongue coated with the poison of promises unkept, poised to deliver Joseph the salvation he so recklessly pursued. “Brother,” he entreated, outstretching his hand for his brother’s taking. “Come.” Joseph obeyed without question and reached his arm outward, and when his fingers clasped around Ivan’s and met with the cool, hard steel of a needle concealed in the palm of his brother’s hand, the clouds in his eyes cleared, replaced by the mad glint of a reckless man who’d just discovered a new want.

“Then,” Ivan said, “there’s cowardice, which leads to capture.” He reached across the chessboard to move Odin’s rook back one space—a fearful retreat.

“Mama,” he crooned from his place at the kitchen’s entryway, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. “You look tired.” The effort he used to layer his voice with varying shades of concern was minimal (his charades, even in his young adulthood, had long since become instinctual—more second nature than conscious effort). He pushed off the doorway and moved to her side, eyes round with feigned concern. She turned to him, face weathered, drawn, bruises of purplish blue blooming beneath her eyes from sleeplessness. She smiled at him, and if he had any heart at all, it might’ve broken at the sight: a sad, sorry widow, joyous at the sight of her imagined savior, blind to the life he leeched from her, ignorant of the poison he injected into the very marrow of her being. Yes, if he had any heart at all, it might have broken, but the foul, writhing beast that inhabited the arctic wasteland of his ribcage didn’t break: it preened at the spectacle of heartache, like a desert rose blooming in the midst of high summer. So fragile, the human spirit; so easily broken. “Nothing to trouble yourself over, sweet son,” she said, reaching out a hand to place over his own. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled up at him, and he noted with some small dismay the veins of gray that began to creep into the edges of her thick sable hair. Her age in spirit had taxed her age in body, made older by his father’s shortcomings than she might have been had she married a good, kind man. Her eyes seemed ever round with fear these past years, murky and unclear, as though she were constantly treading the tide of cowardice, fighting to stay afloat, grasping with slippery hands at the anchor of courage. He pitied her, but it was a cruel pity, not a kind one; the sort of pity that might belong to a wolf who’s just come across wounded game. Pitiful, but still hungry; pitiful, but still hunting. Ivan’s gaze slid from her hunched form to a pile of envelopes laid out before his mother: bills, he imagined, all left unpaid by his father. In one sweeping gesture, he reached out, gathered the bills in one hand, and stuffed them into the pocket of his overcoat, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his mother’s temple. “I’ll take care of it,” he murmured—and he meant it. He’d pay the bills, every last dollar, every last cent. But he wouldn’t do it for love, or for pity—he’d do it for the game. The game of giving and taking, of building and breaking; of nursing his mother with riches of love and wealth only to watch her wither at their gradual extinction. When she looked to him, her eyes were watery with gratitude, but there was a sort of murkiness there, too—a kind of cowardice; a fear of unknowing, of a mother unable to care for her brood. And he fed it, that fear—nourished it in his mother so tenderly, so subtly, that she would already have succumbed to it by the time she realized fear’s talons had burrowed into the essence of her. And perhaps it was because of that fear that she smiled when Ivan pulled a small bottle of pills from his coat pocket and placed it on the table before her. “For the exhaustion, Mama,” he said. “It’ll help you sleep.” She didn’t hesitate in taking the bottle and tucking it between the folds of her dress. Because she was fearful, and because Ivan had trapped her in that fear—a cage made by his own masterful hand, carved from the shadows of nightmares and the rot of death, stitched together with naught but the fine web of her own unbecoming, her deepest dreads and terrors. “Ivan,” she sighed, and his name on her tongue sounded like a hymn, a prayer. “What ever did I do in this life to deserve a son like you?” He didn’t have an answer for her.

“Thirdly,” Ivan said, “there’s a hasty temper, which can be provoked by insults.” He moved one of his own rooks forward three spaces. Odin raised his hand to move his own rook forward, eager to capture Ivan’s rook, but Ivan held up one of his hands, gesturing for him to wait, to temper himself.

“Son!” his father grunted from his study, the single syllable slurred with what Ivan could only assume was brandy, if he was lucky—whiskey, if he was not (Samir Rahal was not half as cruel drunk on brandy as he was drunk on whiskey.) Eyebrows raised, he exchanged a knowing look with his brother, who sat in the chair opposite him. “It’s your turn,” Ivan said matter-of-factly, returning his attention to the book in his hands (some old, weathered text about European trade stratagem). “Please, brother,” Joseph groaned, voice strained. He was only two years younger than Ivan, a young seventeen now, but when he was like this, begging, he looked much younger. Ivan flicked his gaze back to his brother to find wide, pleading eyes round with fear. Ivan heaved a sigh, exasperated. So dramatic, he was.“What’ll you give me for it?” Ivan asked, one eyebrow cocked. “Anything,” Joseph said quickly, sounding far too desperate for a man attempting negotiation. Ivan made a noise of disgust and moved with swift grace as leaned forward in his chair to smack the side of Joseph’s head with his book. “Never promise anyone anything,” he hissed. “God above, Joseph, have I taught you nothing?” His brother muttered a curse and made a show of rubbing the back of his head, but he said nothing more. “Here,” Ivan said, tossing the book in Joseph’s lap as he stood to his full height. “Read it. It might do you some good.” And so he went, off to his father’s study, straight to the fat, drunk lion’s den. But was of no favor to Joseph that he went, no (Ivan’s actions were not—not ever—motivated by anything but self-interest). He went to his father not to spare Joseph his wrath, but to incur it. It was part of their game—his father, drunk and foolish and full of ego, thinking himself a god, a Zeus of old age; and Ivan preying on his foolishness, and his drunkenness, and his ego, a Hades of new age come to usurp the gods of old and claim his kingdom come. “You rang, Baba?” Ivan said as he entered his father’s study, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He was greeted with an empty bottle of Jack catapulted by his father’s own hand that crashed into the wall just a few centimeters to the left of Ivan’s head. Whiskey it was, then. Pity—for his father. Ivan schooled his face into a mask of boredom as he brushed a mist of shattered glass from the sleeve of his shirt. “You’ll mind your aim next time,” he said cooly, turning to the round mirror hung on the wall and inspecting his face for embedded shards of glass. His skin remained unscathed, save for a few small scratches on his cheeks and chin. “The Versace,” he said, gesturing to the fabric of his shirt, “can be replaced. The face cannot.” Ivan’s indifference had always irked Samir well, and already he was incensed, outraged by his son’s insolence. “You’ll mind your mouth next time, boy,” his father growled, and he moved to take a step towards Ivan, but the motion made him sway, and he thought better of it, instead planting his feet firmly in the ground and anchoring his hands on his hips to save face. But the misstep did not go unnoticed by Ivan, and he practically purred at the advantage his father had just handed him. The game had only just begun, and already he’d won. “Sealegs aren’t working well today?” Ivan asked, one corner of his lips hitching upward cruelly. His father, with that fickle ego so easily provoked, began to unravel before Ivan’s very eyes. It was the unbecoming combination of fury and pride, Ivan was sure, that drove Samir forward a step, and Ivan raised an eyebrow pointedly at the way his father grabbed the back of his leather armchair to steady himself. “Was there a reason you called for me, Father? Or did you only want an audience to spectate your balancing act?” Rage, untethered and undiluted, eclipsed the clarity in Samir’s eyes. “I called for you,” he snarled, vicious now, “because I wanted to look into the eyes of my thieving son”—he pointed a finger at his ransacked liquor cabinet, which now housed only two lone bottles of Jack—“and hear his defense before I beat him bloody and throw him out of my house and onto the street for the wolves to devour.” Ivan flicked his gaze to the near-empty liquor cabinet, drawling, “I only drink top-shelf, I’m afraid”—a denial, a half-truth, and a half-lie all in one. He did, indeed, only drink top-shelf liquor, but he did also, indeed, pour most of his father’s liquor stock down the kitchen sink for no reason in particular other than game-playing. “I don’t think Mama would be terribly pleased with you exiling her eldest from your house, do you, Baba?” Ivan mused, ambling over to the liquor cart at the center of the room and pouring an amber-colored liquid out of the decanter and into a tumbler. “Your house,” he repeated, turning the words over on his tongue in slow, dripping syllables. “Is it, though?” he asked, raising the glass in his hand and swirling it about. “When’s the last time you paid one of those bills?” he asked, nodding to the pile of envelopes that lay on his desk—no doubt electric bills and property taxes and mortgage notices, all of which Ivan had paid and righted in the year prior. And he’d paid them not for kindness, or for decency, or for love of family, but for power—for this moment right here. He’d been steadily gaining the upper hand in this very war for just over a year now, a general priming himself for victory: fashioning his mother and brother and sister into an army of loyal allies eager to defend his honor; sharpening his tongue into a weapon of mass destruction, arming himself against his father with an arsenal of information; drawing up blueprints of Samir’s weakest points, testing for faults in his defenses and marking them down in detail. Yes, he’d been preparing for this war for a long, long time now, fighting and winning small battles all the while, and Samir, the poor fool, had only just now realized war had been waged. It was almost unfair—to go to war with a foe so disadvantaged. Samir made a gruff noise of outrage, face red with fury. “Can you remember the last time you paid a bill for this house, Father?” he asked, and he layered the question with enough innuendo that it sounded more like, “Can you remember anything at all, you miserable, wretched drunk?” Ivan moved towards the desk and began rifling about the already opened envelopes, reading their contents aloud one by one. “Electric bill—account balance paid in the name of Ivan Rahal. Water bill—account balance paid in the name Ivan Rahal. Home insurance—account balance paid in the name of Ivan Rahal.” He flipped through the envelopes unceremoniously, and each time he spoke his own name may as well have been a knife to his father’s gut. “Ivan Rahal, Ivan Rahal, Ivan Rahal,” he crooned, dropping the stack of envelopes back onto the desk with a loud thud. “It would seem, then, that this is my house after all. Perhaps I ought to exile you, Baba, and see how well you fare with the street wolves.” Samir sputtered like a fish, so consumed by his outrage that he didn’t know which vein of fury to latch onto, which battle to fight first. It was no matter, though, for whichever battle he might’ve chosen, he would’ve lost—he already had. “Don’t fret, Father—I’m not an unreasonable man,” he said, again swirling the tumbler of liquor in his hand. “You may remain here, in my house.” And then, making a show of it, he brought the tumbler to his nose, sniffed once, grimaced in distaste, and poured the amber liquid out into the dimly lit fire, which roared to life with a grand whoosh. “But I’ll not have whiskey under my roof,” he said, scowling. “Certainly not bottom-shelf whiskey.” And that was it: his final blow—placed well and delivered even better. It landed perfectly, beautifully, the way a symphony’s sonata ends on one grand crescendo, and his father, mad with rage, lunged at Ivan. He made it one, two, three steps before stumbling over his own feet, thrown off balance by the heavy weight of whiskey. He fell at Ivan’s feet, groaning something awful and spitting half-intelligible curses at his son, a god bending a knee to his usurper. Zeus falls, Hades rises. Ivan sneered down at Samir, his face cold as he crouched down beside him. “Need a hand?” he asked, only the way he said it—darkly, and imbued with shades of malignant rot—sounded more like a threat than an offer of aid. His father, cheeks, eyes, and nose all bright with redness, looked up at him, and when Samir Rahal did, indeed, take his son’s hand, Ivan knew he’d won this war after all.

“And then, lastly,” Ivan said, “there’s a delicacy of honor, which is sensitive to shame.” Ivan moved forward one of his pawn’s.

The soft, clinking ring of the pawn shop’s doorbell drew Ivan’s attention, and he watched through cool, narrowed eyes as a woman with dark skin and dark hair that tumbled down her back in messy curls strode through the front door. Ivan studied her as she weaved in and out of treasure troves scattered about the small shop, her eyes catching most often on paintings. She seemed wild, feverish, full to the brim with a kaleidoscope of life’s greatest joys: love, beauty, freedom, passion, honor. Unbent and unbroken, she enchanted Ivan, and that, he supposed, was unfortunate for her, for the epicenter Ivan Rahal’s attention was not a pleasant place to be. With quiet, slinking steps, he slithered up to her side, where she was admiring a Syrian fresco of moderate value he’d extorted from an old friend. “What’s the going price?” she asked, not bothering to break eye contact with the painting. “There is none,” he replied smoothly, to which she furrowed her brow and canted her head in silent question, her gaze darting from the painting to Ivan. “I don’t trade in the currency of coin here.” A half-truth. He did, on occasion, accept monetary payments, but most often, his preferred currency came in the form of secrets and owed favors. “What do you want for it, then?” she asked. “A name seems a fair starting point,” he said, propping his shoulder against an old, mammoth grandfather clock adjacent to the painting she was studying. She smiled then, and it was a brilliant, dazzling thing—a vision of beauty that Ivan admired not only for its capacity to be ruined, but for its loveliness, too. “Sirena De Angelis,” she said. “Sirena De Angelis,” he repeated, each syllable rich and heady on his tongue. “You’re a painter, then, Sirena De Angelis?” More an observation than a question, and when she shot him another quizzical look, he slowly reached out one hand to curl a stray tendril of hair coated in dried blue paint around his pointer finger, holding it within her scope of vision for her purveyance. Matching splotches of blue streaked other places in her hair, and speckles of it peeked through the neckline of her blouse. “You’re either a painter, or a girl with some rather…messy proclivities in the bedroom,” he purred, hooded eyes falling first to the paint in her hair, and then downward, to the low-cut vee of her shirt. She blushed furiously, and for a moment, he wondered if she might surrender right there and storm out in a fury. But his initial assessment of her rang true, and her eyes lit with a fire untethered, a passion unmatched. “Can’t I be both?” she challenged, and he smiled at that—a real, rare sort of smile, one that met his dead eyes. “You’d have to tell me, I imagine.” “And then will I have earned the painting?” she shot back. Ah, smart girl. She was learning how to play his game, and he was excited, endlessly, to have found a partner that could match him—if only for a little while; if only until he well and truly broke her. “This painting,” he said, sweeping one arm outward towards the fresco, “was recovered from the remains of the Royal Palace in Mari during a French archaeologist’s excavation in 1935.” Leisurely, he pushed off of the grandfather clock and neared Sirena in slow, lazy steps. “It’ll cost you more than a confession, signora.” He paused, one corner of his lips quirking. “Even one so delicious.” She cocked her head, considering. “What’ll it cost me, then?” He studied her, eyes fixed on hers with feverish intent, daring her to falter, to misstep. But she met his gaze with equal intensity, eyes of green smoldering with the same amber fire that seemed to emblazon the very core of her spirit. “A kiss will suffice,” he said plainly, casually. That seemed to throw her off balance, and for a moment, her full lips floundered open and closed, searching for a response. She eventually settled on: “I’m married, signor!”—which she emphasized by flourishing her left hand, showcasing the unimpressive diamond ring on her fourth finger. He’d guessed as much (he catalogued each person he met, and the wedding band she wore had not gone unnoticed during his initial assessment of her). “So am I,” he countered. That gave her pause, and some of her anger gave way to confusion, and perhaps a bit of outrage. “You’re—married?” “No,” he admitted, chuckling, and she looked positively irate at being toyed with so cruelly. “But if I were, would it matter?” “Of course it would matter!” she exclaimed, insistent. “Why?” he asked. “Because,” she huffed, “it’s—it’s—dishonorable!” He barked a laugh, the sound rich with amusement. “Ya haram,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Is that it, then? Honor?” He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t think such a thing existed in Verona.” “Well—it does,” she said stubbornly, mimicking the action of crossing her arms over her chest: a true competitor through and through. They stared at each other for long seconds, perhaps even minutes, and it was Ivan who finally broke the silence. “Honor, like art, is subjective,” he said, and moved to stand beside her, facing the painting. She opened her mouth to argue, but he continued on before she could voice her opposition. “Here”—he pointed to the top of the painting: a sky painted in a flurry of dreamy hues, dappled with shades of pinks, oranges, and creams—“I see the beginnings of a sunset, but you may see the beginnings of a sunrise.” She didn’t argue that (she mightn’t have had a counterpoint to argue with at all). He turned to her, closer now than he’d been before, head bowed to meet her at eye level. “You think it’s dishonorable to kiss me, but I think it’s dishonorable to waste a pair of willing lips.” She held his gaze, her face taut with the busy inner workings of her mind. “We’re at an impasse, then,” she breathed, ragged, and they were so close now that the soft whoosh of air she expelled fanned his face. “So it would seem.” He studied her a moment longer, and when their lips were naught but an inch apart, he abruptly straightened to his full height, turned to the painting, removed it from its easel, and handed it to Sirena. Dazed, she took the painting, eyes round with confusion as she looked from the fresco to Ivan, then back to the fresco, then back to Ivan. “Take it,” he said, turning on his heel to retreat to his back office. “It’s worth much, Signora De Angelis,” he called over his shoulder, pausing at his office door to turn to look at her one last time. “But it’s not worth your honor.” He delivered the lie so well, he almost believed himself. She returned to the shop the next night and proved to him two things: firstly, that the painting was, after all, worth her honor, and secondly, that yes, she was indeed a painter and she did indeed have some rather messy proclivities in the bedroom—or, well, in the back office of a pawn shop, on top of a desk that was littered with various containers of paints and inks Ivan used for forgery. And so began their tryst: a mad, wild, tempestuous affair, imbued with all things rotten: deceit, infidelity, lust. They fucked viciously, desperately, grasping at each other for air, for life, for passions long denied. Each joining was more frenzied than the last, an unholy union lush with labored breathing and tangled limbs, writhing bodies and sweat-slicked skin, pleas and groans and moans, scratch marks and bite marks. And yet, in spite of its malignancy, their affair bloomed with beauty abound: he’d bring her Egyptian paints of the richest hues, and she’d paint him, and after, or during, they’d make love; he’d pull her into alleyways in broad daylight to do wretched, wonderful things to her, and she’d slip away from her sleeping husband in the dead of night and sneak into Ivan’s apartment to do wretched, wonderful things to him; she’d collect little treasures—pendants or rings or books—for him to sell in his pawn shop, and for each treasure she gave him, he returned the favor, showering her with gifts galore: a sapphire-stoned choker dating back to the 20s, a sundress embroidered with spun gold, a vintage Versace scarf. Ivan took great care to wean her on him, to immerse her in his person, in his essence. He kissed her well, loved her well, romanced her well, fucked her well. He fashioned himself the axis upon which her world spun, bent himself to her will to fool her into thinking she’d brought a god to knees. Everything she was, her world in its grand scope, became deeply rooted in him, and only once she was well and truly infatuated, once he’d pulled the wool over her eyes and led her astray from all the other sheep, did he unsheathe those big, wolfish teeth. His extracted himself from her life in increments—slow, poisonous increments. He began with small things: gone were the terms of endearment, the thorough, passion-filled sex, the thoughtful gifts, the affection. In their stead, he sewed seeds of doubt and uncertainty: screening her calls, letting his gaze drift pointedly to other women, coming when dusk settled and leaving before dawn broke. And when the early dregs of madness began to cloud her once-clear eyes, he exited her life altogether, severing himself from her so cleanly that there were times she wondered if it had happened at all, or if Ivan Rahal had been the making of a nightmare dressed in dreams. And then, when he’d stripped her of nearly everything, her love and her hope and her joy, he took what remained: her honor. Early on in their tryst, she’d gifted him one of her paintings: a watercolor vision of Ivan sprawled half-naked in her bed at dawn, hair mussed, eyes heavy-lidded and face soft from sleep. One morning, that very painting arrived at her husband’s workplace, and when Sirena returned home that evening, he cast her out of his house and his heart as thoroughly as Ivan had, and in the following weeks, Verona’s hotbed of gossip devoured what remained of her ill repute. Months later, Ivan was reading the paper when he saw it: Sirena De Angelis, 27, found drowned in the Adige on Sunday. And he felt—nothing, really. Surprise, perhaps, and maybe even a bit of nostalgia, but not sorrow, and certainly not guilt. Honor would have driven him to guilt, but he had none. Sirena had honor, and it drove her into the Adige.

There was a beauty in this tête-à-tête between he an Odin—a perverse irony in the way he laid out precisely how he would set out to bring down the lionhearted fool. He would take his time with Odin—would destroy him thoroughly, slowly. The muse that whet his appetite for apocalypse. He would desecrate all that was holy about Odin, would ransack his temple of virtue and leave that cavern hollow and wanting, a new habitat for his demons to occupy. He would water Odin’s small seed of recklessness with brandy and whiskey, with long, late nights spent at The Dark Lady, with the occasional hit of this drug or that drug. And then, he would feed his fears with whispers of his beloved’s adultery: creating imagined visions of Delilah’s eye straying a touch too far at that gala the week prior; waxing poetic about her beauty, a beauty unmatched even by the seraphs carved by Michelangelo’s own hand. And only once Odin was well and truly rooted in the trenches of his own cowardice would Ivan start poking at the weak spots of his temper, needling them, hollowing them out until he was naught but a bundle of raw nerves, easily provoked into fits of rage that Ivan would be sure to redirect in Delilah’s direction. And then he would prey on Odin’s honor, which Ivan imagined would prove the most challenging stage of Odin’s destruction, for his honor was deeply ingrained in his core, the foundation upon which his person was built. But Ivan would warp it, he was sure—would poison Odin’s honor until it was too delicate to battle his ego, until his reputation and its perseverance became his sole focus, and there was little he would not do to keep it intact (little he would not do to spurn his wife and outcast her as the villainess of the story to paint himself the hero-victim). Swiftly, Ivan reached across the chessboard to move forward Odin’s queen, which then checked Ivan’s king, left exposed without the protection of pawns and rooks. “Checkmate.”

EXTRAS

You can find a Pinterest board for Ivan here, a playlist here, and an instrumental playlist here!

MBTI: ENTJ. Astrology: Scorpio (November 2nd). Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil. Enneagram Type: Type 8. Headcanons:

OCCUPATION: His uncanny knack for weaning people on poison has long made him one of the Capulets most able dealers, and Odin has since restricted the majority of his duties to networking clients and peddling weaponry, dealing heavily in the black market trade of firearms. His silver tongue and military experience make him an extraordinary dealer of illegal weapons, and he’s cemented his place amongst the Capulet ranks as one of their best merchants, so to speak. In addition to his role as a Capulet soldier, Ivan owns and runs a small pawn shop in Verona called Handkerchief (an apropos ode to the Shakespearean tragedy from which he inherited his codename). Ivan is, and has always been, a procurer of things not easily procured: weapons, liquor, jewels, drugs, blackmail, information. And so it seemed natural, really, for him to set up shop and capitalize on his trade of black market products—a front to trade treasures for information, to curry owed favors and debt among those foolish enough to make a deal with Verona’s snake-skinned devil. By the looks of it, Handkerchief is little more than a small, homespun pawn shop in the heart of Verona, rife with trinkets, antiques, and paintings of great value. But in the back of the shop, dealings of a far more sordid nature take place, and it’s behind the shop’s plain front that you’ll find a variety of illegal goods ranging from firearms, to poisons, to drugs, and all matter of unseemly things. The pawn shop works partly as an outlet through which Ivan can peddle black market weaponry on behalf of the Capulets, but his business is equally rooted in more selfish interests, and it’s not uncommon for Ivan to trade away items of great value for information or I-owe-you favors to be cashed in on a rainy day. Whether or not he chooses to share the information and servitude he grosses from personal ventures is his own prerogative—one he handles on a case-by-case basis.

WEAPONS: His military service in the Middle East was a study in all sorts of weaponry, but Ivan’s found he’s partial to knives, old-fashioned though they may be. There’s something exquisite about robbing life with something pretty, something luxurious. It makes a dirty business something elegant, dresses murder up in glitter and gold—or sparkles and silver,as circumstance would have it. He quite likes the feel of a blade’s hilt, silver and etched with the Capulet crest, fitted against his palm like a babe burrowed against the nook of her mother’s neck. Seldom does he travel without knives—karambits, butterfly knives, combat knives—hidden beneath his jackets, in his boots, up his sleeves, and you can count on each blade in his possession to be coated in some variation of poison, be it monkshood or henbane, nightshade or yew (he’s a connoisseur of poisons, and is well-versed in those natural toxins that kill cleanly, sleekly, with no trace of his person). Veronesi at first made the mistake of thinking Ivan less skilled in physical combat than his Capulet companions, too reliant on fighting of the intellectual sort. But he schooled them all in his capacity for ruin of any kind, and he has since developed some repute as one of the Capulets most notorious assassins, skilled well in weaponry and even better in discipline and strategy (a product of his time spent fighting wars overseas). But perhaps Ivan’s greatest weapon in his arsenal is his tongue, and oh, does he use it well. Perhaps never in the history of the modern world has one man’s mouth been so capable of ruin. It’s with words that he’s laid waste to whole cities, imbuing his chosen victims with the sort of fear that rattles bones and teeth alike. He can talk most anyone into most anything with that tongue of his: he can talk enemies into lovers, can talk lovers into spies, can talk spies into allies, can talk allies into enemies—and so on. His wish is will where his knack for persuasion is concerned, and it is for this reason and this reason alone that Cosimo Capulet welcomed Ivan Rahal, a wild card without conscience or loyalty, into his ranks with open arms—because that sort of tongue could turn the tides of war.

FAMILY: The eldest of three children, Ivan was born to Samir and Esmeralda Rahal, neither of whom were well-suited to raise children. Esme, even before Ivan poisoned her against herself, seemed not of this Earth, perhaps forged from the clouds, untethered to the world and its realities. She was untethered, manic with faraway dreams and giggly lunacy (a byproduct of marriage to his father, from whom she was desperate to escape, even by means of imagination). She was horribly ill-equipped to raise a brood of three unruly children, and Samir was no better off. He was unhinged, dependent on whiskey to see him through his days and scotch to see him through his nights. Gruff and cruel and violent, Samir was no better able to raise his children than Esme, and the only bit of parenting he ever contributed to his lot came in the form of raised voices and raised hands (fists, if he was running low on Jack) when they misbehaved. No, Samir and Esme were not well-suited to raise a family, and so the Rahal children raised themselves. The oldest of three, much of what Ivan learned as a boy was self-taught. He taught himself how to read, how to play chess, how to tie his shoes, how to speak English, how to write Arabic. Then, when he was two, Joseph came, and four years after that, Yara came, and he taught them these things, too, because playing chess with someone who doesn’t know how to play chess is no fun at all. And then, when he was older, he taught himself how to drive, how to light a cigarette, how to negotiate, how to court lovers, how to hold a gun. These learned trades, though, he kept to himself, because playing chess with someone who knows all your tricks is no fun at all, either. Joseph was tempestuous—hypersensitive to his emotional keep and prone to chronic mood swings. Yara was gentle—a soft bloom of a girl too sweet to be sustained by the cold winter of the life the stars had designed for her. And their parents, one a madwoman full of sorrow and the other a catatonic drunk, did nothing to correct their children’s ills. Ivan’s love of catastrophe began here, with his father, who grew less and less alive with each gulp of amber liquor, a gradual deconstruction of man that fascinated Ivan endlessly. And it was not just deconstruction of man, but self-deconstruction of man, for what did Ivan do but place the bottles into his father’s own hand? And then, once he was weaned, what did Ivan do but take the bottles away? What did Ivan do but press needles discretely into his brother’s palm? What did Ivan do but bring his mother bottles of pills big and small, blue and pink? What did Ivan do but whisper doubt and misery into his sister’s ear? Ivan didn’t force his father into a depressive withdrawal so intense that he died of a heart attack. Ivan didn’t press the needle into the crease of Joseph’s elbow. Ivan didn’t force his sister into developing a habit of whoring around just to feel whole, alive. Ivan didn’t shove those pills down his mother’s throat. Was it not Ivan who arranged his father’s funeral and thereafter (and for some time before) looked after the family’s finances? Was it not Ivan who paid for all three of Joseph’s rehabilitation stints? Was it not Ivan who came to pick up his weeping sister whensoever she beckoned him, despairing outside of clubs or alleyways or her lovers’ apartments, seeking comfort and safety? Was it not Ivan who, when Esme was too lethargic to get out of bed, brought her groceries and fresh flowers from the market? What did Ivan do but hand his family their own instruments of destruction and let them have at it, swooping in at the end of it all to save them from themselves. What guilt did he bear in their ruination when all he ever did was give them the choice between ascent and descent. Was it his fault that they chose Hell over Heaven? Was it his fault that they suckled from Eden’s ripe apple tree like famished pests? Was it his fault that they never learned to play chess well?

APPEARANCE: He’s always belonged to the shadows, Ivan, and he dresses in their colors like a ship flying its kingdom’s sails. Black, black, black. He wears slacks and shirts of varying shades of black and grey, all embroidered with veins of Capulet silver. Jewelry gets in the way of his unique lifestyle, and so he doesn’t wear much of it, but he often dons rings, on most every finger. Rings thieved from his victims, his lovers, his foes. They’re trophies of wars waged and won, and they make the bite of a mean right hook even meaner. The only other piece of jewelry he wears is a silver cuff around his wrist fashioned to resemble a serpent with eyes of embedded emerald. It was a gift from a freshly heartbroken Odin—a trinket crafted from the melted remains of his silver wedding band and forged into a band of brotherhood—a gift to the savior who spared him his wife’s faithlessness and preserved Odin’s repute amidst a scandal tainted with shame and dishonor. Ivan wears it daily—an ode to his greatest masterpiece, his most fatal plague.

MANNERISMS & HABITS: Subtle and discrete, you must look to his body language to discern his moods: a cocked eyebrow when he’s intrigued, rigid shoulders when he’s hyper-focused, a scowl when he’s displeased, a crooked smile when he’s up to no good (and he’s never up to any good). To many, he’s an enigma, swathed in shadow and bathed in mystery, no discernible telltales to give away his moods. Ivan’s gone to great lengths to perfect the art of smiling when he wants to bite. A little faux charm goes a long way, and for none is this truer than Ivan Rahal. A master of transfiguration, he sheds his snakeskin like an art. A dance of duality, he straddles worlds with exquisite ease: the noble son, the dutiful wardog, the loving brother, the loyal soldier, the steadfast companion, the devoted lover. A purveyor of worlds, he knows well how to appeal to the masses, how to mold his person to suit his audience. Some know him to be sweet-eyed and sweet-tongued, and other knows him to be devil-eyed and devil-tongued; it all depends on what game he’s playing, what role best suits his interests. And that’s what it’s all about, really: his games. He fights dirty, kills dirty, fucks dirty. His father taught him young that honorable men are remembered for naught but dying young and dying easy. And so he lives without honor: thieving indiscriminately, killing indiscriminately, screwing indiscriminately. And this is how he gets away with it: smiles. Darkness, to Ivan, is an art, and he’s gone to great lengths to refine it. The whole of Verona knows him to be lethal, the Capulet mob’s grim reaper raised feral and trained wicked. But so easily do they forget that he’s a killer, a beast untethered by the human weight of a moral compass. He’s dark in the way he smiles sweetly with the same lips that have sneered down at the corpses of his victims; he’s dark in the way his hands curl around his lovers’ throats one night and around his foes’ throats the next (darker yet in the ease with which he demotes lover to foe). How many of his once-lovers and once-friends have suffered the winter of his cool indifference once he’s used them all up and thieved their greatest joys, their greatest loves? How many people—children, mothers, fathers, wives—have fallen pray to his foul games and tricks? With his lazy grins, a chin raised a fraction too high, hooded, cool eyes, and a masterful combination of archaic elegance, indifference, and a silver tongue always poised with lies and half-truths, it’s easy to be bewitched by Ivan’s bacchanalian beauty, to forget that he’s a killer (a good one, too)—and by the time they remember, it’s far too late.

LANGUAGES: Born in Syria, Ivan’s native tongue is Arabic, but he’s since mastered a handful of languages across the globe. He fancied himself the weapon of conversation at a young age, and he knew early on that what makes a weapon powerful is, above all, its versatility—its ability to be wielded against all manner of friend and foe. And so he immersed himself in cultures and languages across the world, diversifying his greatest weapon as well as he was able. During his early travels, he familiarized himself with German and Russian, and then, during his military tour, he picked up the Romantic languages (Spanish, French, Italian—a very small bit of Romanian). Since joining the Capulets, he’s become near-fluent in Italian and Spanish, and he’s made an effort to school himself in Zulu for the sake of his South African contacts. His versatile tongue and wide-ranging cultural scope has made him anoutstanding negotiator and conversationalist among the Capulets, and he is known well for his diplomacy by Capulet contacts in Spain and South Africa.

[efraincrayhorn]

Efrain A. Crayhorn

Character Development Questionnaire 

tw scars, tw bloodhunter style self-harm

BASICS -

1. Height?

5’10

2. Eye colour & hair colour?

Dark brown, near black.

3. Do they need glasses?

No.

4. Scars and birthmark?

He has cross-hatched scars across his wrists, arms, the back of his hands, chest, and upper thighs from initiating his crimson rite and decades of training, fighting, and war injuries. Across his back are long, bubbling claw marks from a long ago, near deadly encounter with a beast. They’re raised and can be felt, but are largely hidden by tattoos. 

He has faint freckles across his cheeks and shoulders.

5. Tattoos and piercings?

No piercings. The entirety of his back is covered in elegant, whirling tattoos of beasts and animals. They intersect, weave amongst each other, and seem to move across his skin. Parts have been damaged by burns and other injuries. 

Reference for the tattoo style

6. Right or left handed?

Naturally right handed, but dual wields his weapons and is trained to be ambidextrous. He can wield his rapier and dagger in either hand. If he stopped fighting, after awhile he’d lose his level of ability with his left hand. 

He cannot paint well with his left hand.

7. Any disabilities? Physical or mental. 

Potential PTSD from the war and seeing countless people, including his adoptive father, die. 

8. Do they have any allergies?

No.

9. Favorite color?

Emerald green.

10. Typical outfits?

Day-to-day he wears simple, but high quality garments. Usually dark pants, a light shirt and leather jerkin or leather armor, weapons belt, tall boots, and if the weather calls for it he wears a cloak or long coat in a jewel tone. The quality of his clothes is evident, but otherwise his outfits are unremarkable. At home or off duty he often wears more worn, sometimes paint splattered pants and basic sweaters. He always wears his family’s signet ring with the family crest of a charging bull.

11. Do they wear any makeup?

Not unless coerced. 

12. What weapon do they use, if any?

Rapiers and daggers. If necessary and available he will use crossbows. 

PERSONALITY -

13. Are they more optimistic or pessimistic?

If asked he’ll say he is a realist, but the answer is pessimist.

14. Are they introverted or extroverted?

Deeply introverted.

15. What are their pet peeves?

People who prioritize petty, vapid desires over the needs of others. Over confidence or a disregard for those more experienced than oneself. Needless recklessness. Disregard for personal boundaries and entitlement. Honestly, he probably has quite a few.

16. What bad habits do they have?

He’ll often forget his own privilege in none life or death situations. Is unintentionally insensitive as a result. 

He has a disregard for his own wellbeing and will push himself to exhaustion to finish his work. Efrain often forgets to eat, drink, and won’t sleep sometimes for days if he’s busy. 

17. Do they have any phobias?

No.

18. How do they display affection?

Trying to provide for others in anyway he’s able even if it’s a detriment to himself. His most common form of affection is asking someone if they are alright or if they need something. If he doesn’t care then he won’t ask. 

He’s highly unlikely to initiate physical affection, but once he knows it’s welcome he will repeat the motions others have done to him. Essentially he’ll never be the one to hug first, but will hug back.

19. How competitive are they?

Incredibly competitive in the moment, but not in order to earn accolades. He loves being pitted against a challenge and will compete to win for his own personal satisfaction rather than an award.

20. If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be?

He always wants to be better, stronger, more able to help. If anything could be changed to achieve that he would do it.

21. Do they have any obscure hobbies or routines?

Efrain is a master painter and, if given the opportunity, could pass days doing just that.

He regularly rants to his cat in Elvish in a normal tone of voice. He’ll also curse primarily in Elvish, Draconic, or Dwarvish, but rarely in Common. If he’s particularly incensed, and not speaking to anyone specifically, he’ll mumble and switch between all four of them without realizing.

BACKSTORY -

22. What are the names and ages of their close family members? Parents, siblings, etc.

His adoptive father: Eobald Crayhorn, 65 years old (deceased)

His (trapped archfey pal) cat: Weasel, 20-something years old as a cat (??? as an archfey)

23. Is their family alive and are they still in contact with them?

His adopted father died in early February. 

Weasel harasses him regularly.

His biological family is unknown to him. 

24. Where are they from? City, nation?

His ancestral home is in Khaggon, Hegaehend, but he has lived in many major cities including the capital Itresa in Eowesoa. He was born on Anari, however, and lived there until he was five years old.

25. Did they have a childhood best friend?

They were quite close with a fellow noble boy Arkanus Wismeister as a kid and teenager and remained in contact for much of both their adult lives. 

One of his closest friends, a fellow nobleman and briefly knight, was probably the only one he’d consider a childhood best friend. He was killed on their first mission as knights in front of Efrain from an attack from the same beast who scarred Efrain’s back. In honor of him, and his desire to see all the monsters in the world, Efrain got his tattoos.

26. Have they had any pets?

Only Weasel the not-cat. His father wouldn’t allow anything else.

He was raised around horses, and is an expert rider, but he never formed any emotional attachment to them. 

27. Did they grow up rich or poor? What were their living conditions like?

The Crayhorns are incredibly wealthy and he grew up surrounded by the greatest riches in Romera. 

28. What is their educational background?

He was given the few tutors, instructors, and teachers that lived up to Eobald Crayhorn’s perfect standards. In short, he was only ever taught by the best. When they weren’t enough, Eobald himself stepped in to instruct Efrain on combat, language, manipulation of their political and social circles, and anything else deemed useful by his father. 

When possible, he snuck in his own self taught lessons on art such as form, color theory, and Romera’s history of paintings. He wishes he could talk as eloquently about the mannerist movement in painting as he could about the chemical applications of blood, but he can’t.

29. As a child, what did they want to be when they grew up?

Eobald never allowed childhood dreams to grow beyond a half-baked whim, but Efrain always wanted to be a painter. Conversely he also never wanted to disappoint his father and felt the weight of his assigned noble cause even at a young age. As a result he battled with his “selfish” desire to be an artist versus his predetermined destiny as a knight and bloodhunter.

30. What advice would they give to their younger self?

Right now he’d tell himself to listen to his father more, but to ignore his father when it comes to art.

31. Growing up, were they ever bullied or were they the bully?

He was never bullied. Unless you count Eobald. 

32. Who do they look up to/who is their role model?

His father. Unfortunately. 

PRESENT -

33. Do they currently have a place of residence?

Primary residence is the Crayhorn Estate in Khaggon. He inherited many other properties, but he rarely uses them. 

34. What is their most treasured possession?

Weasel, but he wouldn’t call the cat a possession so much as a freeloader a friend. 

A carved wooden horse that he knows one of his biological parents gave him.

35. What is their drink of choice?

Strong teas. Anything alcoholic that isn’t particularly awful. 

36. Which king/queen are they loyal to, if any?

He is loyal to Hegaehend and King Rolland, but supports Queen Kaylynn in her attempts to shield her own people. He isn’t loyal to a crown or the idea of a monarchy, however, and if Rolland became corrupt and cruel he wouldn’t feel beholden to him any longer. Above all else, Efrain is loyal to people. 

37. Have they ever killed anyone?

Too many people. 

38. What was their last promise and did they keep it?

He doesn’t make promises lightly and if he makes them he keeps them. Most likely he told someone he’ll keep them safe or get them somewhere safe. Until the war is over, he doesn’t consider that promise kept.

LOVE -

39. What was their first kiss like, if they’ve had one?

With a fellow noble born child and it was rushed, both unenjoyable and great, and never repeated or spoken of with that person again. 

40. Are they in a relationship/have a love interest?

No.

41. Have they ever been in love?

Yes. He’s had three committed relationships and the last one, with a male courtesan, he fell deeply in love with. 

42. Have they ever had their heart broken?

By the very same courtesan he was in love with. He prioritizes his work, and his job, over his love for his partner. He knows the man wanted the world, and deserved the world, but Efrain couldn’t give it to him while so beholden to his father.   

SPIRITUALITY -

43. Do they follow a god, if so who?

None.

44. What do they think happens to them after death?

He hasn’t considered it nor will he.

45. What is their spirit animal?

Peregrine falcon.