#killing and maiming and ripping pillows with my teeth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vidalinav · 4 years ago

Text

All My Girls Like to Fight

Inspired by the song “All my girls like to fight” by Hope Tala

Summary: Devlon trains Nesta. Devlon’s POV

Disclaimer: I personally am on the fence about Nesta training because she’s more magically powerful (probably) than anyone else. However, I will not lie and say it does not intrigue me, because I tend to like anything involving Nesta Archeron. And, I think it would be cool to have her fight (and inevitable) and the sexual tension with Cassian would be through the roof if they ever trained together, which is just chef’s kiss* I just don’t like that Nesta learning to fight feels like she’s giving up more of her values, which doesn’t sit well with me, since she’s had to change so much already and not by choice. But the thought of Devlon being the one to train her satisfied all of the check boxes in my head because I could then work out subtly his own views about female’s fighting. That was very interesting and the fic practically wrote itself.

Anyways.... here it is!

General Masterlist, AO3, Fanfic

Devlon awoke to the sound of cutting air. It whirred and disappeared. Whooshed and was no more. He clamped his pillow to his ears, half-awake and in the middle of dreaming—some nonsensical dream that he knew he would not remember in the morning.

But the sound erupted again, this time a heavy clash, and his eyes burst open once more stinging.

He was going to murder the person who was at the training quarters this hour—never mind that it was his fault he lived so near. Every warrior, novice or no, knew that hours were reserved for early mornings until the sun completely set. Most males would be at home or a tavern somewhere. Those unlucky enough to be on watch, would be roaming above the forests scouting all that scuttled in the darkness.

But no one should be in the training fields.

Devlon slipped on his boots, not bothering to change, as he ripped the door open and met the ink and wind. He didn’t bother grabbing a weapon, sure as daylight that he’d scare the living wits out of the Illyrian with his presence alone. Probably a new trainee. Young, not knowing the rules. He was going to learn the rules today and he was going to learn them well…

But he did not find a young male, a boy. Not a trainee or a full-blown warrior.

On the dirt, where the mud still lingered from yesterday’s rain, was a girl…. A female. Her brassy hair shining in moonlight. Devlon stepped away at the sight of her.

This… female.

This witch.

Only a true witch could conjure that bright of a moon or so Devlon thought as she held up the steel. It was much too big for her, probably too heavy by the way her arms shook lifting the sword. But she swung at the leather target in front of her, wobbling on her feet.

The witch barely made a dent in the arm, and as she swung again, Devlon had to clamp his mouth shut from yelling that she was holding the sword wrong in her palms. If she kept that up, she’d surely break her wrist, if not multiple body parts from where it would either slip from her grasps and land on her toes, or from where it would fly from her hands and hit someone else.

He was the only other being on this training field, so Devlon took several steps back.

The mistake he noticed was something he didn’t bother correcting the few girls he’d trained that morning. Their first lesson in swords and shields. And, if he did not do it then, Devlon would not deign to do so now.

That girl was the problem of the general. Though, Devlon wanted to scoff at the audacity of the commander criticizing his training of the females, when his own could not hold a sword.

In fact, Devlon wanted to go get the commander himself, present her before him as another way he was inadequate—stick it to him and that high lord of theirs. This is who you entrust to win wars.

Instead, Devlon watched as she tried again, switching the blade to her other hand and waving her wrist as if it ached. He swallowed his tongue.

Oh no, he would not get involved in high court affairs.

The vexatious female had not stopped her pestering sword fight until early morning, and Devlon had punished the trainees for it. By the time the day had ended, the males were grumbling, wound tight and weary, and he could have sworn a few boys had thrown up behind the saunas.

Devlon had enjoyed their displeasure for he too was displeased. Annoyed. Irritated. Ready to pummel the commander in his next fight for bringing that blasted female to his camp.

Long past the evening was over, he was ready to forget it all, to sleep in his warm hut of a house, simple in its function. Ready for the night to overtake him and for the headache he’d had all day to stop pounding in his skull.

Devlon closed his eyes willing sleep to take him…

The sound of clashing metal started again.

His body moved without a second thought.

He stormed out of his house, his eyes adjusting to the array of purples and blues alight from trembling stars. Devlon could see her head peak out from the ring, where the practice dummies had been scattered in each corner. Like the night before, he wanted to yell, scream, rage, drag her back to that commander who thought too much of himself.

But like the night before, the image of her, her vile grandeur, made his temper cease.

As he neared, Devlon noted that she wasn’t even on the mats at all. She was sitting on the ground, tapping the sword against a rock. Clack, Clack, Clack. Over and over. Screeching metal that had him gritting his teeth.

Her legs were spread wide in what he thought was far from ladylike, her white nightgown peeking through the fur.

What odd training leathers she had.

He watched as the young witch tipped her head back, her nose held high but not in that pompous way he’d seen before. Devlon followed her gaze all the way to the stars. The midnight beast blinking back its thousand eyes.

There was a story in a Illyria about the night. When he was younger he was half-afraid it would swallow him whole. All of his friends, his family, tumbling to the back of its throat. It was the only thing he’d ever truly been afraid of. Not the wars, the creatures of the forest, the cruelty of the fae, but of this inconsequential thing that stared down as if it were waiting for them. Waiting for them both here in these training fields.

Devlon shook away the ominous thought, turning back to the female who sighed audibly. She hiked up her skirt as she kicked up her boots, and he shifted his head quickly, shying away from the indecent exposure.

She picked up her sword, swinging it round and round, turning to one of the practice dummies. It was large and heavy, three times her size, with various pegs sticking out its trunk. She merely gave it a glare and hiked up the weapon.

What the witch did not know was that it was designed to move. If it was hit, one the arms would swing forward. Hit again, and another on the opposite side would move. It was to teach one to defend rather than to swing blindly.

Swing blindly, she did.

Her wrist was still angled at odd ends, but she managed to cut the leather on the figure’s side. Not a killing blow but perhaps enough to wound an enemy if they had not already maimed her from her lack of skill.

Except the sword got lodged in the wood at the same time one of the pegs moved towards her. The little witch couldn’t maintain her footing, and so the peg smacked her side.

She yelped and Devlon clasped his hand to his nose, shaking his head. Thinking of all the ways, she would hurt herself tonight.

He’d never get sleep...

So, Devlon cut his losses and went back to his hut, willing himself to forget all he’d seen.

There were bags under her eyes. The heavy grey, dark and shadowed. It reminded him that she was still just a human girl underneath it all. Devlon half-wondered what she might have been doing if she’d not been thrown into this strange new world where war was what they ate, what they breathed, what they awoke at dawn to pursue.

It was true that he liked to call the witch spoiled behind the commander’s back—in his head; when he grumbled under his breath. That spoiled princess kept in the general’s cabin, unseen, unheard of, but trapezing through the camp as if she belonged here—as if she was one of them. That beautiful, solemn witch who lived in the woods, who ate the dreams of the elders and the smiles of the young.

But she was not a witch. Not Illyrian, certainly. Perhaps, not fae. No longer human. Could not be called lesser fae though, because there was nothing lesser about the female who had ripped Hybern’s head from his body.

She did not show the same strength she had in those few days of the war. Devlon had seen her walking with those buckets and bandages, watching his comrades fall one by one as if she commanded their deaths, plucked their souls from their bodies. How terrifying it must have been for her? This young girl, who had not lived even half of their youngest citizen.

He trained warriors for a near millennium who came back with lost limbs, lost friends, lost sanities, but what did she lose? What did she even have to lose? This little witch who had experienced nothing.

“Your wrist—” He spoke at last, his words rough to his own ears. She stared up at him, eyes widening then down at the sword in her hand. “You’ll break it if you keep bending it like that.”

He watched as she stubbornly gripped the handle tighter, turning her back to him and swinging at the practice dummy again. It swung from the momentum and the girl—female—witch—stepped back unable to keep her footing.

Dead, he thought. If she were in a battle she’d be dead.

“And your stance needs work,” He added sardonically. She huffed in reply. But Devlon was not finished. She had kept him up with her pestering noise for six days. He was tired.

“Why do you want to train?” he demanded because he truly needed to know. Why the late nights and the early mornings? Why punch when she didn’t know how? Why use a sword she could barely hold upright? He was tired of not knowing why she walked through the training fields as if it were a war zone and she was wading through the bodies.

Why fight at all?

She could be sheltered, taken care of, happily ensconced in an estate somewhere, with the general himself even if that last day in the war was any indication.

But the witch did not answer his question. Instead, she adjusted her grip, widening her stance, and holding the sword as if she was holding some sporting bat he’d seen the children play with.

“Incorrect,” he voiced allowed, circling her form.

She huffed but moved her left foot forward and her right slightly back, though he gave her no directions to do so.

“Incorrect!”

“Then why don’t you tell me what is correct?” She answered, harshly.

“Why don’t you ask?” He provoked.

But she lunged at him with the sword.

He quickly stepped out of her way and gave her a look, “Too easy.”

She tried again, and he stepped to the side. She hit the rope and it cut in half.

“You are not doing anything but tiring yourself.”

“Shut up!” She yelled, fury spitting out of her words.

Fine.

He remained silent as she ambled towards him, huffing along the way. Devlon crossed his arms, raising a brow and when she swung again, he grabbed the sword from her hands.

It was easy… because she was holding it wrong.

Devlon waited. The little witch glared, raising her head to meet him in the eyes.

Her face was red. Her hair, wild. Her eyes, gleaming. And, for a moment she reminded him of the night sky. The imminent danger of someone inconsequential…

Devlon held out the sword to her, the handle ready for her palm. She glanced at it, then back at him.

The female pursed her lips, looking as though she did not want to accept his gift, but Nesta grabbed the weapon firmly.

Why do you want to fight? He’d asked her.

“No one else can fight for me.”

~ “Join the ranks tomorrow,” Devlon commanded, crossing his arms, “At a decent hour, this time.”

“You can’t be serious,” Nesta exclaimed, dropping the sword on the ground. Devlon sniffed at that. That would be their next lesson it seemed, how to treat weapons with the respect they were due.

For now, he settled on tapping a foot. His patience dimming with the lack of sleep. A headache was already beginning to form as the little witch crossed her arms, lifting her shoulders in a way that had him thinking she must have had wings in another lifetime—in another form.

In any case, she could not be more irritated than him and Devlon rose to the challenge, “In a real battle, you will not be fighting training dummies.”

Nesta scoffed, her eyes widening as she began to make big, dramatic gestures with her hands, “They’ve trained all their lives. They’ll pummel me.”

“Perhaps, but that is the risk you take in any fight,” He breathed; the words coated in sincerity. “The males won’t take it easy on you, surely. Might even try harder to win. After all, no one wants to be beaten by a mere wisp of a female, but no enemy in war will spare you or wait for you to be ready. Either they best you and you end up with a few bruises or you learn to hit first.”

She took a deep breath, her nostril flaring in that way he knew meant she wanted to yell and so Devlon went on.

“You have kept me up for three weeks. I have taught you basic forms, stances, how to punch, how to kick, how to use your body against someone larger. I cannot teach you anymore. You must fight.”

“Is that all it takes? A few punches and a kick and someone’s ready to rage war.”

“No,” He called, scenting the fear. “But if you don’t fight, you don’t learn. There are some things only experience can teach you.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Devlon raised a hand.

“I won’t force you to go.” She clamped her mouth shut, her shoulders relaxing. “But know that if you don’t go, I’m not training you any longer. Our lessons stop here.”

Devlon watched as she gulped down her arguments, the silence tangible in the height of the witching hour.

Nesta looked past him, up to the stars.

If she saw her answers hidden in the cosmos, he wanted her to say it aloud, get this night over with and settled. But she closed her eyes, clenching her fists.

When she opened them again, he saw the grey flash in the darkness.

A newborn star, he thought.

Bright and burning.

“Fine,” She huffed, picking up the sword.

When Nesta walked into the training quarters the morning after next, Devlon was almost surprised.

This time instead of nightgowns and fur coats or sweats she’d hastily thrown on, she wore training leathers. But even if she walked with arrogance of a queen, he could still see the apprehension in her gait. Perhaps, it had something to do with the commander and the shadowsinger who looked on, eyebrows crinkling.

He supposed he picked a wrong day for her to join legion training, because well… both of them were here. Usually, Devlon had advanced warning of these visits but it seemed that the commander hadn’t bothered telling him that the shadowsinger would be making his rounds, spying on their progress.

At their gazes, at all of their gazes including the males who started to whisper under their breaths, the witch lifted her chin. Tall and impressively indifferent.

Learn to examine them, he’d told her. The foot they favor. The side they use the most. The weapons they’re most skilled at. That is what you learn by being in the ring, by facing them head on.

Learn to use what you know—what you are.

Nesta had no problem at finding weaknesses, he found, as she surveyed them all, but they had no problem leering, sneering, and jeering at her. The males closest to the general began to step aside, and the ones far enough away moved closer to see his reaction.

But Nesta didn’t bother looking at Cassian, instead she stepped towards him. Her arms crossing in that petulant way of hers.

“I’m here,” She huffed.

“I can see that,” he said, giving her a dry look.

His lack of directions seemed to annoy her, because she looked away, not succeeding to hide the roll of her eyes. Devlon could feel the headache already forming.

“We’ll start with drills,” He began, “Laps around the field, running through stances, and then hand-to-hand combat.”

The witch nodded her head, moving to join the males who straightened as she walked towards them.

She looked… small in comparison.

But small in the way that he imagined a venomous snake hid on the forest floor or a bushel of nightshade might disguise itself in grand bouquets. She was dangerous, he knew. They all knew, though they didn’t know exactly what chaos hid beneath her skin or how it might destroy them all had she been displeased with them.

The general sidled up to him, the shadowsinger ever close and present, and Devlon inwardly sighed. Both of them watching Nesta begin to run laps.

“When did she start this?” He asked, his tone outrageous and cynical.

“I don’t know what else to tell you, besides the fact that she lives in your house. If you don’t know when she started this, I’ll have to point out your lack of perception.”

“When did she start this?” The commander snarled. Devlon did not care for the tone.

“You. Tell. Me.” He offered slowly, tilting his head, waiting for the male to answer. “If you don’t know where she’s been, then how would I know? She was left to you wasn’t she?”

“Nesta can go wherever wants.”

“Then it seems we’re at a standstill, because you allowed her to roam freely but apparently were not clever enough to spy. Or is that why the shadowsinger is here?”

The hotheaded commander sneered as Azriel, the surprising voice of reason, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Just ask her, Cass?”

Cassian shrugged him off. “Why is she here, then?”

He thought that was obvious. “Because she made the choice to train.”

“She doesn’t know how to fight.”

Devlon grinned.

“Then maybe you should have trained her.”

The general’s face turned a special shade of red as his wings spread wide, but Devlon merely turned away. Watching as the little witch ran circles around the ring.

“I have to fight him?” She asked, pointing her index lightly to the male who grunted as he lifted a set of heavy weights.

“You don’t have to fight him,” Cassian interjected. “There’s no logical reason for this.”

Devlon tapped his foot. Even the shadowsinger looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else. “Experience is the best teacher.��

Nesta made a face, unconvinced.

“It will teach you your weaknesses.”

Her voice rose incredulously. “What weaknesses?” She asked.

Devlon raised a hand to his nose, the endless questions wearing down his patience. But he began with the truth anyways. “You favor your right side, but you’re left-handed, so you get off balance easily. You get tired too fast and end up winded before you hit anything vital. You clearly favor a sword, but all of the ones we have are too heavy for you to lift…”

The witch crossed her arms, a frown appearing on her face.

“But those things can be trained out of you… What cannot is the way you think too much before you swing. You second guess yourself before you punch. You’re too trapped in that head of yours and either you understand that you have to hit, or you understand that someone will beat you before you get the chance because you’re too busy thinking about the success of each outcome.”

Devlon watched as Nesta straightened her stance.

“I cannot teach you how to fight for yourself.”

He looked her dead in the eyes, knew and understood what she’d said that day, knew she remembered by the clench of her jaw. But, Nesta lifted a casual shoulder, noting Cassian and Azriel who watched the discourse with rapt attention.

“You’ve been watching me.”

“We should all know our enemies.” He pointed to the male, Aedon, a novice set to complete the Rite this year, who was used to being bullheaded and arrogant. “That male, right now, is your enemy.”

The little witch nodded in concession, and the commander scoffed, looking all too defeated for someone who’d barely argued for his cause. Perhaps, he knew he didn’t have one or at least one that Nesta would listen to.

She sidled up to the platform as the male, noticing her stare made his way. A swaggering prick who Devlon knew wanted to intimidate her. They would all do that at one point or another, he warranted, he grasped as the rest of the males seemed to forget they were supposed to be training themselves. They crowded around the mats; the boundaries separated by ropes.

Cassian and Azriel too, made their way to watch the fight unfold.

It seemed that many of the trainees were making bets, though they hushed quietly as he neared.

Nesta ignored the rest, only looking to the male who wrapped his hands in white gauze.

“You’re a small thing,” he noted, unhelpfully.

The little witch lifted a brow. “I’d say you’re a large thing, but I think it’s only your head.”

Aedon huffed a laugh, and though his eyes lit up with amusement, something else settled in. Something darker and foreboding.

It was a look Devlon had seen before. A look he’d seen on many of his warriors.

“I’ll make sure not to hit your face,” the male mocked.

Nesta looked at him confused, but Aedon took that as an opportunity to lung, kicking his foot out until Nesta was lying on the ground. He heard the crack as her shoulders slammed into the platform and he hoped, in some deep part of him, past the part that said he didn’t care at all, that it was the wood that splintered and not her spine.

She gasped loudly as she placed a hand on her chest, but no one came to help her move. It would’ve been shameful to do so. This female who wanted to fight with the warriors.

She did this to herself he imagined them thinking. Because it was that thought that immediately entered his mind. She chose this.

Get up, Devlon wanted to shout. Get. Up!

The shadowsinger held the commander back, though what he could have done Devlon didn’t know. Pummel the male who hit her when she willingly entered the match?

After learning everything he knew about this witch, he doubted she’d appreciate the gesture.

“You want to play with the big boys?” Aedon spit, “You get hit.”

He tutted lowly. “Do you need a minute, princess, or are you used to being on your back?”

Devlon didn’t dare show his own rage, but he grasped the rope, his fists clenching around the thick string until he felt he might rip it off himself. The feeling surprised even him.

But Nesta twisted herself upright, turning to the male with bright, furious eyes.

Nesta lunged and when he punched, she ducked, grabbing his arm. She used her weight until he was sprawled on the floor, but he reached out to grab her leg and she fell to her knees. She tried to kick him off, but he was larger, heavier, and it didn’t take much to pull her backwards until she was on the floor with him on top of her. He punched once, his fists landing on her cheekbone.

Aedon walked off, grabbing a towel he’d hung on the rope. Nesta cradled her cheek, kissing the mat with her body. While he waited, Aedon began tapping his foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. Over and over until Devlon, himself, could hear the noise ringing in his ears.

Nesta turned to face him and no one else.

She sauntered up to him slowly, serpentine and vile. Her eyes getting darker, her mouth set in a thin line. And Aedon laughed. Lowly at first, but the sound began to rise in pitch until it sounded maniacal and deranged.

This time, Aedon sprung forward, but Nesta was quick on her feet, and she moved just enough to grab his arm and twist it behind him. In this position, the male bowed before them and Nesta kicked out her foot.

He fell to the ground, twisting quickly to face her, but Nesta didn’t let him move. She ambled on top of him, her legs on either side of his torso and she hit. And hit. And hit. Until his face was bleeding, and her fists were drenched in the male’s blood.

Still she hit and the awaiting Illyrians did nothing but watch the young warrior play with the big boys.

Cassian shrugged off the shadowsinger, bending through the ropes around the ring. Devlon watched as he hoisted Nesta off the male by the waist. Her face was red and ferocious, and she began to fight the commander as well. But he didn’t let her go. Not until she had stopped fighting, stopped kicking, stopped punching, and she took deep, gasping breaths.

She stared at the male on the ground, wiping her forehead with her arm, the blood smearing on her face like war paint and she must have finally noticed all of the males looking at her. Some in doubt of what they just witnessed, others in outrage that she had the guts. Devlon didn’t know what his expression looked like, though he tried to school it into plain indifference.

The little warrior looked to the commander once more, who braced himself, his wings expanding wide. Ready to take her punches or fly her off, Devlon wasn’t sure, but he wanted to see. A mere curiosity at what the general would do.

But Nesta slipped past him, past them all with her shoulders pushed back and her head raised high. She looked to him then, her gaze harsh.

“Are we done?”

Devlon turned his gaze back to the warrior who’d bragged about his skill and was defeated so easily. “For now.”

She left without a second glance and Devlon could only nod to the male dripping blood on his mats, “wipe your face.”

Devlon found the young female in the infirmary. A tent the size of a small room that many warriors chose not to even step in, in fear that they would look weak to their comrades. The general and the shadowsinger were already there.

Azriel turned to the corner, blending with the shadows as Devlon so often noticed. Distantly, he could see him crushing some herbs, though the action did not make him look inconspicuous. Rather, it seemed he was trying to give the other two privacy at the same time he was eavesdropping. Cassian ran amuck, grabbing bandages and band aids and tea, though Nesta looked perfectly fine to him, besides a wound on her face.

Devlon wanted to sigh at the two of them. Pups still, even if they were over five hundred and had ended more lives than the years they’d lived.

Cassian laid an icepack under Nesta’s eye, where her cheek was red and blistering. She’d have a bruise in the morning probably...

Even some wounds couldn’t heal fast enough for the fae.

But, Nesta angled away from him as she hissed, grabbing the pack from his hands. The commander frowned but let her take control, though he remained hunched, his wings drooping to the floor.

His gaze laid solely on hers and Devlon felt... uncomfortable—conscious that the moment was between the two of them and perhaps not for two Illyrian busybodies who’d stumbled on this place for the same reason. To see exactly what would befall the two when disaster seemed to always follow.

“I wanted to teach you how to fight,” He admitted, unsure of his words.

Nesta didn’t bother looking at him.

“It wasn’t your decision.”

“And Devlon is...”

“He’s an asshole,” she said. Devlon gave her a bland look, though she made no move to take notice of him standing in the middle of the tent like an outright buffoon. “But he’s honest... and he doesn’t treat me any different from anyone else.”

Cassian shook his head, his expression pained. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that you couldn’t... tell me that you were...wanted to train. I--” His eyebrows cinched in that way Devlon remembered he’d do when he was young. All too afraid of being exactly what they called him.

“It wasn’t about you,” the little warrior answered harshly. The commander straightened at her stare, poignant but not malicious.

Honest.

Brutally so.

And perhaps that was what the general needed to hear, after all. What they all needed to hear for they all knew what the little witch meant. That the ability to choose was perhaps more powerful than the opportunity itself. That she had chosen, invariably, to wander in the middle of the night, to pick up a sword, to keep swinging and hitting and punching, to fight whether she knew how or not.

Nesta had chosen this. No one else could have convinced her.

Nesta turned to him then and lifted the icepack from her cheek.

“He said he wouldn’t hit my face,” She grumbled.

Devlon blinked, surprised at her words. “Did that appease you somehow?”

The female angled her head, thinking it over.

“No...” She declared somberly, “Bruises that you can’t see are still bruises.”

At the tone, Devlon began to shuffle uncomfortably once more, though he stayed as the witch grimaced. Cassian moved to switch her icepack to one wrapped in cloth, the liquid dripping on to the leather.

But Devlon couldn’t help stepping forward. Didn’t know why he did.

“You fought like an Illyrian today.”

Cassian and Azriel raised their heads. Devlon tried not to care too much, though he wanted to yell at them to run more drills as if they were still in his warband five hundred years before, fresh and almost too squeaky clean.

“Like a male,” he continued.

Nesta made a disgruntled face, displeased with his choice of words. “You just haven’t seen enough females fight.”

Devlon shrugged a shoulder. “I haven’t seen enough females want to fight. You are a rare exception.”

She lifted a brow and then grimaced at the gesture. She’d done that twice already, as if she kept forgetting that she was in pain. Devlon smiled in spite of himself.

But she pursed her lips anyway, looking to the tent that surrounded them, the purple fabric mimicking purple skies. He wondered if she could see straight through, feel the weight of the atmosphere like a bandage on a wound. Like that icepack on her face.

“Your world is too small if you believe that,” She spoke.

Devlon opened his mouth to refute, but Nesta held up her hand, silencing his argument.

“Are we training tomorrow?” She asked, though she must have known the answer.

“At the crack of dawn.”

Nesta began gesturing dramatically.

“That’s so early,” She whined. Devlon scoffed in outrage.

But at the look, Nesta merely smiled. Small and perhaps just a tilt of her lips, but unafraid. A wild look in her eyes as if she enjoyed the teasing... the prospect of training... of being someone they didn’t expect.

Inconsequential to the naïve. Imminently powerful to the rest.

Perhaps this time, Devlon wouldn’t mind training the girls... Might even look forward to it.

Tags: @ekaterinakostrova, @soitsgorgeous, @duskandstarlight, @pizzaneverdisappoints, @imwritingthesewords, @arin1030, @adelainejdevyn, @thebluemartini, @nahthanks, @laylaameer01

I wanted Nesta to make the choice to fight, and I definitely didn’t want it to be a decision on behalf of anyone else, because Nesta has had enough people take away her autonomy. But I also wanted the choice to fight to directly relate to her making a choice to fight for herself. And so at the end there, she may not be as skilled as everyone else realistically, she may not even know what fighting will cost her, but she’s angry and she’s tired and she’s going to fight and she’s going to fight to win.

Also, Devlon is a really cool character to me, but in this fic I wanted to make his lack of allowing women to fight be more complicated than just traditional sexism. So, I thought to make half of his treatment towards women because of his traditionalistic views that haven’t been challenged, and the other half, the contention, be because of having been told by Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian that he must train the females and the females must train or else. Rhys and Azriel and Cassian chose to do the blood right, these girls are being told they have to learn to fight. So I thought, here lies the great hypocrisy of being like we need to make this camp more equal, but the way we’re going to do that is by taking another decision away from the women. I just thought maybe Devlon would willingly help Nesta because she made the choice to want to train—might even admire and respect that about her and in turn this would be the spark to change. Nesta indirectly influencing the others.

One day I will stop writing essay length analyses of my own writing lol but today is not the day. I’m going to work on my Eris fic now and get that posted soon!

Comment, Reblog, Like or all three if you liked and want to see more fics posted! If you don’t like... don’t tell me lol

But also, Happy Reading and almost release day!!! It’s getting closer at least. Keep holding out! I know we’re all going a bit stir crazy...

#nessian #nesta archeron #devlon #cassian #acosf #nessian fanfiction #acotar #vidalinav #nesta x cassian #cassian x nesta #acowar #acomaf #acofas #acomaf fanfiction #feyre archeron #fanfiction #nesta #my writing

140 notes · View notes

qwertythepopstarian08 · 6 years ago

Text

JSAB AU Fanfic- Bug Spray

Okay, so after the events on @small--crcle I can’t think of Rayne’s AU at all without crying, so I wrote this gift fanfic to cope.

It’s literally the most angsty thing I’ve written since “That’s Not Your Brother,” so bear with me here... and bring a tissue box. Yes, I know it’s April 1st, and I should post some happy, lighthearted fic... but nope.

This was partly inspired by some asks that I sent to Rayne’s main blog, @plaquebeat ((as well as her priceless reactions))

Description: Here’s a nightmarish concept- What if every infected shape's magic changed a bit? Just a tiny bit, but enough for Blixer to notice. Like... being too close to Kubix or Penta for too long would make him feel like there are spiders crawling up his arms... Or being near NGB would make him feel like he's being watched... too many eyes... all around... He'd know deep down that it's not real...but he can't shake the feeling that his friends have changed.... and he's the odd one out…

Warnings: Given the source material, this fanfic has body horror, slight gore, references to PTSD, violence, and blood. Please, please, please don’t read at night. The only thing this story doesn’t have is harsh language. Please don’t read if any of these are triggers for you.

Speaking of language, since I personally do not use profanity in any of my works, I’d like to say here and now that the term, “Yxxit,” is an exclamation from a fictional language that I’m developing. It’s kinda rude, so you’ll see the context soon.

Blixer’s eye snapped open, and he sat up, breathing heavily. His heart was hammering in his chest, his core feeling like it was about to explode. He stared blankly forward, his nightmare repeating itself in his mind a billion times, that horrid, twisted song echoing in his head like a mocking, broken record.

Too many eyes… too many legs… skittering bugs everywhere. His friends and family, infected… leaving him as the only pure shape left… A choked whimper left him, and he drew his knees to his chest, hugging himself. It hurt to remember… it hurt to dream.

It took a moment for the reality to set in, and he felt tears running down his face, his entire form shaking. He could still feel phantom pains from that day, that horrible event that had forever changed his friends, had twisted his world. He nearly snapped his neck to turn around as he heard shuffling. His arm thrust forth, his hand changing to a cannon as he shakily aimed for the shape in the bed next to his, his eye shining in the low light.

A sick, paranoid part of him wanted to fire, to turn whatever monster he’d see to shards before it could react… but he soon remembered who he was looking at, and he winced. He whimpered, before he fully awoke, shaking his head and lowering his arm. His cannon changed back to a proper hand, and he shook slightly, sighing.

It was just New Game… it was just his brother… his former alter ego… not a monster. Not anymore. Hopefully… never again.

He sighed, drawing the covers closer as he slid out of bed and walked over the the other side of the room. Each step sent agonizing pain through his legs, and he winced, forcing himself to breathe. He hesitantly reached for the other shape, lightly shaking him.

“New… you awake?”

New Game was practically burrowed in the blankets; he’d been doing that a lot lately, and Blixer feared that he’d suffocate. But he was fine… at least in that respect. He was alive, at least.

The other shape failed to awaken, and Blixer tried again, raising his voice barely above a whisper. “New… New Game…. Wake up.”

Finally, NGB turned around. He let out a small groan, rubbing his eyes as he tried to mutter something, if only to get Blixer to leave him alone.

“Wha...wha’dya wann?” His words were slurred, and as he sat up slowly, Blixer winced, seeing the stitching around his face pull slightly against his flesh… from where it had been torn open. NGB blinked slowly, humming, “It’s… it’s like three in the mornin’... Blix… please don’t tell me you’re hungry…”

Blixer shook his head, whimpering. “I had a nightmare…” He looked away, sighing. “That nightmare…”

New Game’s demeanor did a one-eighty. He seemed to wake up fully, his eyes widening as he sat up, sitting on the edge of the bed. Blixer hadn’t been able to shake his fears from the latest incident. Things had calmed significantly since then, but it seemed like something was… off… for one thing, he was always having nightmares now…

New’s horns folded downwards, and he shakily smiled, trying to seem reassuring.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Blixer’s tone was curt. “No… just go back to bed… I wanted to make sure it was still you.”

New felt a twinge of guilt race through his heart, his eyes flickering. He glanced at the ground, ashamed, before he sighed. Even he was still affected by the… event. He had to admit, he sometimes caught odd glances at himself in the mirror… lingering just to make sure he hadn’t suddenly sprouted extra eyes or legs…

He was barely used to having his own body… being alone in his head was much more terrifying when his form was so unstable. Deep down, he was afraid that he’d wake up one day and be back in that nightmarish form. However, he knew for sure… no shape had been impacted as badly as Blixer.

“Blix? You know it’s not real, right…?” His voice held an anxious tone as he reached for his counterpart. ��Everything’s fine now…”

“That’s what you always say!”

New drew back, flinching at the sudden outburst. His horns flicked downward, and he shuddered a bit, the heart rate in his eye quickening. He looked around, trying to avoid Blixer’s gaze.

“But… you know that’ll never happen again…” he chuckled nervously, playfully punching Blixer on the shoulder. A twinge of guilt stung his heart as the other shape cringed, stepping back. “That weird bug stuff… it’s over… I ain’t turnin’ into a… what was it? Millipede?” He fumbled for the words. “Yeah… I’m not turning into a millipede again any time soon.”

He tried not to think about that day… his stitched scars tugged against his skin when he smiled, however, and he winced, trying to remain calm.

Blixer hugged himself. “But… you said it was fine when Kubix turned red… you said it was fine when Droplet blighting tried to kill us.” New winced at Blixer’s callous language. “Yxxit… you always say it’s fine… and then it’s not!”

The monocular shape breathed heavily, his hands clenched into fists. New Game whispered, “But…”

“No… just face it! No matter what we do, everything just goes wrong again the moment we let our guard down!” Blixer suddenly stepped closer, hissing in an uncharacteristic act of rage. “We’re a pretty terrible hero, if you ask me…”

Shuddering, he shoved New Game, his teeth gritted. His powers collected in his hands, and he forced himself to avoid attacking, unable to deny his anger. Sweet, innocent Blixer was gone. He’d been shattered and otherwise maimed way too many times to count, and he couldn’t trust himself to be happy. It was only a matter of time until things went wrong, after all… That seemed to be one of the constants of his world.

“You’re part of the problem…. If you weren’t around…” He shoved New again. “Maybe Kubix wouldn’t have gotten turned into a monster!”

New’s own aggression seemed to return, and he stood. “Well… how do you figure that, shortstack?” He stood, looming over Blixer by a few inches. They used to be the same height… after the incident… it seemed that the alter ego had grown a few inches. His mouth split into a fanged sneer, and he felt his scars stretch, threatening to sever. “We single handedly save this blighted world every blighted week… and you want to ridicule that?”

He pointed an accusatory claw at Blix, feeling a swell of sadistic satisfaction as his alter winced, afraid. He chuckled, his horns flicking upward. His scars ached with a phantom pain, and he winced, forcing a wider grin.

Recovering, Blixer hissed, “Every blighted week I get beaten within an inch of my life by a Tree-forsaken void-spawn of a monster…” His horns flicked back, and he started to scream. “I’m done sitting idly by while my own so-called family sics demons to kill… me… what’s next, my shardin’ grandparents come from the afterlife to rip off my fingers?!”

New’s good eye twitched, and he snarled, his heart rate monitor eye spiking.

“You know what… you should feel lucky… you didn’t get your blighted face ripped in half…” He raised a claw, his voice dropping to a venomous growl, “Although… that could be arranged…”

A sudden, wet ripping sound rang out (like that of flesh tearing), and New clasped a hand to his face, hissing in pain as he felt his stitches tear, pink blood pooling around his hands. He winced, glancing at Blixer. The other shape seemed terrified, his eye wide and tearful. He started to back away, raising a hand… which seemed to be close to becoming a cannon.

New chuckled nervously, dropping the violent act. Guilt pooled in his heart, and he felt a rush of nausea flood him; he’d gone too far… from how Blix was staring at him, he must have thought he was turning back into… that creature.

“Oh come on… I’m kidding…” He shrugged, removing his hand. “Blix… you have to get over it at some point.” Something dripped down his face from the wound, and he cringed, his vision blurring. He smiled shakily, trying not to make a sudden movement as he felt more of his stitches starting to tear… revealing the horrors within...

Blixer’s eye widened, and he screamed, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at New. The alter ego hissed, reeling, and Blixer scrambled back, vaulting over the bed and rushing out the door. Tears streamed down his face as he ran, his entire body glowing as he prepared to make a mad dash to escape. He didn’t even want to see Kubix…

“Blix!” New yelled after him. “Wait up! It was a joke, I promise!”

Blixer could still hear the skittering of billions of little legs with each step that his brother took. Just being in the same room with him… or any other formerly infected shape, was unbearable. He could still see the eyes staring at him from every angle, the mottled innards lining the ground as New Game’s spine cracked backwards, his flesh tearing apart like wet paper.

A choked sob left him, and he shook his head wildly.

Nothing was the same… it would never be the same again…

Blixer eventually collapsed, his legs giving out just as he shut himself in the closet. His eye was flaring with a panicked light, and he uncontrollably sobbed, his entire form quivering as he wept. It was hard to breathe, his hands flickering with his powers as he tried to force himself to stay calm.

The images from his nightmare assaulted his mind’s eye, and he broke down completely, covering his face, his claws digging into his arms as he hugged himself.

He couldn’t even bear to face his friends… each time he so much as locked eyes with his own father, he felt shudders crawling up his spine, his nerves on end as his anxiety skyrocketed. He was afraid…. Afraid that if he let his guard down, everyone around him would become something beastly and kill him.

His mind supplied a twisted pun; things were bugging him more easily lately. He let out a broken, bitter chuckle, his voice cracking… much like his body snapped each time he’d been slammed across walls by his enemies... by his own family.

He drew in on himself, whimpering as his laughter devolved into sobs again. He couldn’t forget that horrible day… having to watch his own brother rip himself to shreds, all in an attempt to stop himself from shattering… no, murdering him.

A soft knock at the door startled him from his dejected thoughts, and he looked up, choking on his own gasp. He coughed violently, shaking as his horns flicked back, fear filling him. How much time did he have until they hurt him again? Until some new big bad came around and turned someone he loved into a monstrous puppet, whose only purpose was to harm? Would he be next? Or would he just be the target the monsters would be sent to shatter? Blixer felt his heart stutter as he heard Kubix’s voice, muffled by the door.

“Blix? You alright?” The door started to open, and Blixer whimpered, scrambling back. “Blixer?”

He yelled, “G-get away from me!” He grabbed the nearest object- an old, balled up sock- and threw it at the square, screaming. “Please… please… get away!”

The sock sailed over Kubix’s head, despite his height. He opened the door fully, sighing and stepping inside. His eyes glowed with a soft, reassuring light, which was nothing like the deadly, predatory shine from the incident. Still, Blixer winced as Kubix approached.

“Blixer… what’s wrong?” He kneeled, reaching out slowly. “Did you have a nightmare?”

The unspoken, “Another one?” was easily communicated in the king’s tone. Blixer whimpered, shaking violently as he turned away, unable to coherently speak.

“S-stop… I.. I just wanna… wanna be alone right now… please…” he stammered. “Please… p-p-please….”

Kubix felt his heart break, and he sighed, his eyes dimming. He inched closer, and Blixer felt nausea race from his core, flooding his senses as he saw the scars along the sides of Kubix’s head, from where those dreaded horns had ripped from his skull.

“Get away… get away, please…” the small shape whimpered. “I can’t take it… can’t… just… please leave me… alone…”

All he could see was Kubix, covered in pink… spindly insect legs writhing from his back as he screamed and howled. Horns jutting from his head, spiking upwards in the air like wicked knives. Seeing the powerful king of Paradise, reduced to the pathetic, screeching mess of a creature, a creature that existed only to kill him. The flashback hit Blixer like a ton of bricks, and he screamed.

“You’re just going to h-hurt… me… again…”

Kubix backed away, raising his hands. “Blix… you know I’d never hurt you-”

“YOU ALWAYS DO!” Blixer suddenly shrieked. He threw a shoebox this time, wincing as it hit Kubix in the shoulder. He instantly cringed, drawing back with a squeak and cowering. “I’m sorry… I-I… I’m sorry….”

His eye was wide and unfocused… hazy with fear. His breaths were uneven, and Kubix was afraid that the pink shape had reached a breaking point.

“Blixer… stop apologizing… you’ve been through way more mess than a kid deserves…” He lowered his voice, his tone warm. “I’m sorry that I had to be the ‘bad guy’... you know that the real me would never hurt you… it was that… blighted infection…” He glanced down at his hands, mentally kicking himself for accepting that cursed tea… if he hadn’t been so naive…. Blixer wouldn’t have suffered…

“B-but… you used to… you used to be a bad, bad shape….” Blixer buried his face in his sleeves. “What’s stopping you from going back?”

Kubix winced, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Blixer… it’s been years since that happened… one incident isn’t going to undo… how much I care for my sons.”

Blixer hesitantly looked up at him. “I… I can still sense it…” He snarled, “E-everytime I see you and New Game and Penta… I can see the… the things you turned into…”

He looked away, breathing heavily. Kubix could see the utter terror in his son’s gaze. He felt his own heart stutter with a protective anger, and he suddenly reached out, pulling Blixer close. The shape instantly began to shriek, his eye widening and glowing with a terrified light. Kubix stood, backing out of the closet, keeping his hold firm yet soft.

“Blixer,” he whispered. He held the small shape close. “Please… listen to me… no one is going to hurt you…”

Blixer writhed, and Kubix felt claws digging into his arms. “Get away, let me go, let me go!” He felt as if he’d die. His heart quickened to a fervent pace, and he started screeching, vainly clawing at Kubix’s arms. “‘S-spiders… spiders every-everywhere…”

The small shape started hyperventilating, his eye wide and bright and so painfully distant. He was reliving his worst memory…. Even Annihilate wasn’t this bad… At least then, he hadn’t cared so much for Kubix… hadn’t had to fight his own father figure.

He tried to squirm out of Kubix’s hold. He could feel spiders crawling up his arms, a spine-chilling phantom sensation. He could see the black and pink acid dripping from Kubix’s mouth and eyes, like twisted tears… just before he started shrieking. He held his head, trying to banish the horrible images from his mind.

“Blixer… I’m not a spider…” Kubix held him, whispering futile reassurances. “Blixer… please… don’t do this… it’s okay…”

“No! It’s not… not okay… not okay…” Blixer shook. “Y-you… you guys turned into m-monsters… I never want to see anything like that… ever again…”

Kubix sighed, “I promise… I’ll do everything in my power to prevent that from happening again. You know this.”

He carried Blixer to the kitchen, setting him down at the table and pulling up a chair to sit across from him. New Game was already there, an ice pack pressed against his cheek as he glared passive-aggressively at his counterpart, who subtly inched his chair away. His glare was more like a slightly irritated, watery stare, pained tears having collected in the shape’s eyes. Kubix crossed his arms, sighing softly as he sorted out his words.

“Blixer… you need to tell us what’s bothering you. We can’t help ya if you just lash out…”

“T-tell you what’s wrong?!” The one-eyed shape growled, bristling. “Seeing you guys get torn apart and turned into monsters is what’s wrong! I thought that was obvious!”

Kubix narrowed his eyes, huffing. “You’ve seen me get turned into Annihilate far too many times to count… we both know you can handle a little body horror.”

It hurt to see Blixer like this; so standoffish, having closed off from the world in fear of being too vulnerable to help. It had been his emotions that stopped him from trying to save his own brother. He’d frozen up, overtaken by fear… but now, it seemed that he couldn’t stop reacting, usually with violence.

Kubix breathed, “Blixer… if it helps you get over this… I’ll go Annihilate right here and now just to make you see… I’m in control.” He winced as he felt his magic spike a bit, trying to force the irritated red out of his glow. “No matter what form I take… you’re still my son, Blix. As long as my mind is intact, I’ll never let ya get hurt again.”

New just grinned, starting to move the ice pack from his face. Blixer whimpered as he spotted the glowing yellow eye that had opened in the alter’s face. Kubix reached over, lightly plucking NGB on the shoulder and glaring at him. The alter ego huffed, pouting, before replacing the ice pack.

Blixer shuddered. “B-but… this was different…” He hugged himself. “Even when you go Annihilate… I know it’s still you, deep down... “ He looked away, sighing shakily. “But… whatever Suenami did… it changed you… and I can still sense it…”

Kubix huffed, “Blixer. Do I look like an insect?”

The panicked shape squirmed, shakily breathing. “N-no… not on the outside… but… w-what if…. What if the infection’s still there? What if you all t-t-turn back… into those bugs again…”

New scoffed, “Okay… so a FEW of those creepy eyes are still there… but I’m not gonna start sproutin’ bug legs all willy-nilly…unless...” He reached for Blixer with his free hand, wiggling his fingers eerily. “Ooh… I’m a monster… blegh…”

His brother squeaked, smacking his hand away. “Not funny!” he squealed. He growled under his breath, “Y-you won’t be laughing when I... spray you with pesticide…”

“You won’t be laughing when I turn into a bug monster and eat you.”

“Y-you’re already halfway -tthere…” Blixer’s tone was venomous… although his stutter remained.

New stood, clenching his fists. “Oh yeah? I’ll show you a real monster…”

“Look in the mirror and tell me what ya see…”

“Boys!” Kubix yelled. Both circles paused in their argument, eyes wide. The king huffed, crossing his arms as he eyed the two, disappointment clear in his gaze. “You two need to learn to get along…” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, I get it… that… incident… was emotionally taxing for all of us…”

New Game deadpanned, “There’s an actual hole. In my face right now.”

“Shut it, New,” Blixer growled. His voice faltered instantly, and he huffed, quivering. “Just drop it.”

New ignored him, of course. “A Tree-forsaken hole, Kubix.”

Kubix glared at NGB, before sighing. “As I was saying… last week was filled with some… unfortunate events…” He looked away, glancing at his hands. “But… we can’t just let it tear us apart.”

Blixer snarled, “Tell that… tell that to New Game.”

The alter ego whimpered, sitting down and hugging himself. He subconsciously scratched at his scars, squirming in discomfort. Blixer seemed to regret his rude tone, turning to face his brother with a small sigh. Hesitantly, he hugged the other, his horns flicking back as he stared hollowly through Kubix.

“S-sorry… I just… haven’t been feeling myself… since then…”

Kubix’s eyes filled with a sympathetic light. “I know…” He breathed shakily, “None of us have…”

Standing without another word, Kubix backed away, giving a last, empathetic smile, before turning away. He rushed out of the kitchen, towards his room… The last thing he wanted to do was scare Blixer… and if his very presence was painful, he’d just stay away… until things all returned to normal… no matter how much it hurt to know that he was the source of his own child’s nightmares.

Blixer thought he saw a flash of an agitated red in Kubix’s glow. He hurriedly stuttered, “D-Dad… wait…” He stood, dashing over to intercept Kubix’s departure. As he caught the ruby glimmer in the king’s eye, he felt his breath catch, a twinge of fear stinging at his core. He stammered, “I’m s-s-sorry… I shouldn’t have been so… so curt…”

Kubix’s expression faltered, and he backed away a pace. “Blixer… I know you’re still on edge… I want you to recover at your own pace… I can’t force you to be happy.”

“No…” Blixer shook his head. “NGB may be a pest…” That earned him a glare. “But I… I can’t just… run from my fear... “ He shuddered, barely able to make eye contact…. Barely able to ignore the anxiety in his heart. “I faced Ra… and Droplet… and… our own family… I should be able to face my fears.”

He took a hesitant step towards Kubix. The square went still, not wanting to frighten his son again. The young hero was terrified… he could see his horns quivering at a glance. New Game watched from afar, blinking owlishly. He was curious… what would Blixer do? Run… or face his fears head-on?

Kubix breathed, “Blix… if you’re scared of me… it… it’s okay… I know I haven’t given you reason to t-trust me lately…” He sighed, collecting himself. It hurt to see his son so terrified… of him. “But I promise you…Even if you think I’m still a monster... I will never hurt you, Blixer. Please, try to understand that much…”

He was cut off as Blixer hollered.

“N-no! I’m not afraid of you… because you’re n-not… you’re not a monster…” Blixer took another step, quivering like a leaf. “You’re… my dad.”

Much to the shock of the other shapes, Blixer suddenly hugged Kubix. Terrified shudders went down his spine, and he lingered, shaking violently. He repeated a mental mantra like a broken record, reassuring himself that his father was himself… that he wouldn’t harm him… ever again.

Yet, the memories of all the times Kubix had been controlled, all the times that he had hurt him… made Blixer’s eye fill with tears, and he shook, his breath catching.

“I… I don’t w-w-want…. Don’t want you… to turn into a monster… e-e-ever again…” His voice cracked, quavering. “I… I wouldn’t be able to take it…”

Kubix returned the embrace, sighing. He reached down, picking up the small shape and carrying him back to the table. He wordlessly pulled New into the hug as well, holding his two sons close… as his happiness depended on their safety…

In a way… it did.

Kubix’s voice was airy as he whispered, “I’ll never let this happen again…” He shuddered. “You shouldn’t have to fear for your lives… not in my kingdom…”

New said nothing, and Blixer just whimpered. The latter felt an eerie chill race up his spine. He could still picture those insect-like legs, the extra limbs that had torn free from Kubix’s back… that had left scars deeper than any corruption.

Blixer couldn’t speak. There was really nothing to say, except that he was deeply, truly afraid. The scars were proof that the transformations hadn’t been mere corruption… it was something much, much worse...

Kubix continued, “If you ever… ever feel unsafe… I will be there in an instant, and I will slay whatever beast is harming you….”

New shuddered. “It… it hurts, Kubix…” He sniffled, despite himself. “I’m s-s-sorry… sorry for teasing Blixer…”

“Like I said, I’ll always protect you… both of you.”

Kubix held them for awhile, silent. He still hadn’t been able to fully shake the effects of the incident. It was so, so much worse than anything he’d ever encountered. At least in the past, when it was simple as corruption, they could be sure that whatever mutations had occurred would fade away completely… but now, the scars ran deep to their cores, and Kubix was unsure if he could take it.

Yet… he’d remain strong for his sons… for his kingdom. He started to drift off to sleep, hoping dearly for sweet dreams, before he heard whimpering. He looked down, seeing Blixer clinging to New, his eye wide with tears.

“Blix?”

Blixer finally squeaked, “Wh-what if you’re the beast….?” He buried his face in Kubix’s sleeve. “What if… what if you lose c-control? What if you turn… into a m-m-monster?”

He didn’t want to picture that scenario… he never wanted to see Kubix or New Game… or anyone else… in that state again.

“Blix… as long as we’re on the same side, you never have to see me as a monster again… however…” The square chuckled, despite his seriousness. His tone was bitter, laced with a morbid, foreboding growl. “To the enemy… that’s exactly what I’ll be.”

#jsab #Just shapes and beats #blixer #new game #Other people's OCs #kubix #jsab au #fanfic #Oh Look a Story Thing #body horror #blood #eyes #horror warning #oops all angst #gore tw

17 notes · View notes