#legion eyes series

[lemonyinks]

PT. 7 of Drawing Legionnaires eyes: Luornu

plus the single colour versions

[darrisgrove]

All I can think about while reading The Eye of the World.

[sweet-honey-fruit]

Wanted

Boothill x reader

Synopsis: Boothill has a wanted poster with your face on it

This is a snippet from what I was going to do. I might turn this into a series.

Warnings: boothill typical violence, cussing, boothill’s substitute cuss words, use of guns, mentions of splattered brains (but doesnt happen)

Masterlists: xxx

Out of bullets. Out of backup. Shit shit shit. You’re normally better than this. You are better than this. You wouldn’t have secured a job to personally work beside the Ten Stonehearts if you sucked at it. So why now? When it truly mattered, why start losing grip now?

The hallway on the space station was long and agonizing. It’s slim but somehow you still feel like prey in an open field. The grip you have on your gun is tight despite the blasphemous thing being out of ammo. How the metal is digging into the palm of your hand is the only thing keeping you grounded and focused. Focused on making it to the safe room. Focused on sending out that distress signal. Focused on the little hope you have left. Just focus.

The distant sound of gunshots urges you to run faster. Each round of shots fuels not only your need to escape but your overwhelming guilt as well. Normally you stay back and handle the threat. You stay back to help your agents and get them to safety. That's what you wanted to do. Yet the sight of seeing bodies upon bodies being thrown to the side by him, you started to, selfishly, second guess if you should.

What pushed you to get out was Jade's voice speaking through your earpiece. She specifically ordered you to run and to get to the safe room. She all but hinted that this was surely a fight you couldn’t win and you needed to get out now. She's normally calm and collected, tactical and calculating. Jade isn't one to order you to retreat for she has trust in your abilities. So when she told you to run, you ran like hell was after you.

For once, you prayed to the Amber Lord. Praying that your colleagues will make it out alive. Although, you doubted that.

The weight of your conscious is almost enough to weigh down your speed but once the familiar doors of the safe room enter your sight, all weight is washed away and it’s replaced with relief.

Finally, after minutes of running and dodging bullets, you’ve made it. You take deep breaths to calm your breathing as a shaky hand swipes your keycard over the mechanical padlock. With a loud beep that makes you internally cuss it out, you slip into the room. The moment the door shuts you collapse to your knees.

“Holy fuck.” You mumble, letting out a nervous laugh. Your gun clatters to the floor beside you as your hand loses the strength to continue the death grip. You run your hand over your uniform to try and soothe the ache that replaces the cold metal. What a shit show.

You have faced an astronomical amount of enemies throughout your line of work. Anywhere from the Anti-Matter Legion to Galaxy Rangers. All of them were a pain to deal with, sure, but this? This is something different. You have never seen someone so precise, so quick with a gun, and so cocky. Recalling everything just made your blood boil. It’s not even because he ambushed your crew. It was more of the fact that he was moonwalking while doing so. Honestly, who acts so casually in a fight?

Pass it off with humor all you want, but you know exactly why you’re left shaken. This was the work of one individual. The same individual that made eye contact with you in the lobby. His grin widened when you locked eyes, and his bullseye pupils seemed to have made you the target. It was chilling. The way your body tensed and the hairs on the back of your neck stood was foreign to you. You’re normally the hunter but in the moment you felt like prey. That feeling was followed up by Jade's command and it felt too much like an omen. Like all of this was for you. All of this was because of you.

You shake your head to get rid of those thoughts. No. There’s no reason why you should dwell on the situation. Only doing so will drag you down. With weakened legs you stand, stumbling over to the command terminal to send a distress signal out. You hesitate for a moment as you stare down at the screen. The blinking red of the button haunted your memory.

The bodies of your coworkers. The blood of the agents you were supposed to watch over on Jade's behalf. The screams of pain and terror as they tried to take down the threat that snuck onboard. No matter how hard you try, you can't push down that culpability. Your mind races at a million miles per hour, from one thought to the next, all about your irresponsibility. You tried to save who you could. You tried to take down the threat yourself. You shot so, so many bullets all for naught. Then he looked at you. Made a beeline for you. Was he here for you? Was this all your fault? Where did you go wrong? Why didn't you try harder to save the agents that were trusted to your care? Are you even worthy of saving?

Your breath hitches at the last question.

'Am I worth saving?'

Even so, that decision isn't up to you. It's up to the Ten Stonehearts. With reluctance, you press the button. There's a gentle ping that was supposed to reassure you that the distress signal was successfully sent. But all it did was make your gut twist with anguish. It shouldn't only be you in this room.

Your sorrowful eyes stare out the window with a glaze. In all of your times of need, it has always been the stars that brought you comfort. Always a shining, shimmering light in the dreadful place of your mind. For the first time since this morning, your mind goes quiet as you imagine yourself walking among the stars. You enjoy the tranquility of the safe room, taking the opportunity to worship the silence. No screaming, no commands, no gunshots.

Wait.

.

.

.

No gunshots.

Your moment of peace is ripped out of your hands and replaced with your heart dropping. Your breathing stops and slowly, ever so, you turn your head to look behind you.

Oh fuck.

There he is in all of his cowboy glory. The barrel of his gun is pointed right between your eyes and there isn’t a hint of hesitation on his face.

“Don’t tell me ya hidin’ from my welcome party.” His thick southern accent lays on thick at the realization of it all; you haven’t been fucked like this in a long time. Your gun is left on the floor. Even if it is out of ammo, you still could’ve potentially used it as an empty threat. You quite literally backed up against a wall. Alone. The only exit is being blocked by the blood-thirsty cyborg man in front of you. There’s no one left to provide backup.

That feeling creeps up your spine again as his eye pierces through you, just itching to pull the trigger on you.

"Is this what they consider southern hospitality?" You sarcastically ask, a glare settling into your eyes in hopes of masking that premonition deep within your bones.

There's a skip of a beat in your heart when there’s silence. A thick, heavy silence that only grows louder the longer you stare down the barrel of the pistol. It’s only broken by his boisterous laugh. A laugh that feels mocking. A laugh that makes you feel offended that you opened your mouth. You go from scared, to confused.

“Oh shucks! You got me gatherin’ tears in my eye! Holy fudgin shirt on a rag! It’s been a while since I had someone tell me a one-liner like that. You’re a hoot and a holler!”

He finds this humorous. He has a gun pointed between your eyes, eager to splatter your brains across the window behind you, and he finds this funny. You go from scared, to livid.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Ha! At least one of us can say it-“

“Are you fucking serious? You murdered my coworkers, you’re threatening me, and you’re laughing?”

“Don’t go actin’ all high and mighty now, you IPC scum.” His mood switch gave you whiplash. What was once a lighthearted tone was turned into a low growl. He took one step forward, then another, and another until his chest was pressed up against yours. His breath fans over your face. Your back presses up against the command terminal. The soft red blinking of the distress button reflects off the shiny metal of the gun as he presses it against your forehead. Even so, the indignation coursing through your body is enough to fuel a stellaron.

“You shouldn’t be acting all righteous either. Wanted criminals don’t deserve to act so pompous.” You snap back, huffing out a breath.

“So ya know who I am?”

“Unfortunately.”

Boothill might as well be a cursed name among the IPC. A name that brings both fear and a migraine. You never had the courtesy to meet him until now. His wanted poster has been sitting on your desk for a while along with his list of crimes. The stack was so big that his crimes were used as a paperweight for a while. While he was annoying, the Ten Stonehearts put you on missions that were ‘more important.’ His information served more as a warning rather than a task.

Now you regret not going after him when you got the chance.

“It appears my ruckus has paid off.” He whispers, lowering the gun. You had a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, that that was a sign he was leaving. That the distress signal wasn’t needed after all. He only allowed you enough relief to let out a shaky sigh.

The tip of the gun is pressed under your chin, tilting your head back to fully look up at his smug smirk.

“It’s a shame your wanted poster says wanted alive.”

Your eyes widen in his swift movements. With harsh movements, he slams the grip against your temple. There’s a burning, aching pain that spreads throughout your head and down the back of your neck. Your body falls to the floor with a harsh thud. You couldn’t help but think this is what you deserved for failing them all.

‘Am I worth saving?’ It appears the universe made that decision before your higher-ups.

Boothill kneels beside you, placing his gun back into his holster.

“Don’t ya worry. Ima take good care of ya.”

[relax-and-read-on]

I have not made made a generic hc post about the primarch in a LONG time. I miss it, and it's good for the warhammer tumblr ecosystem. So, without further waiting....

Primarch, and the absolutely shitty gifts they give each others for a White Elephants gift exchange

Roboute: A classic coffee mug (primarch sized!) Filled with sweets and a indestructible fancy fountain pen. The mug say "World Most Okay Dad" on it, and he joke that it apply to them all.

Lion: a stuffed bird. The number of eyes on it is vaguely unnerving. It's unclear wich way is the head suppose to go, and all agree that it's probably an awful mutant bird. Lion is too proud to admit that it's just a really shotty taxidermy he made himself.

Alpharius Omegon: They give a series of mysterious CD in blank case, wich is a very rare and hard to read format on most ship! It's the entire series of MLP:FiM, famous lost media in the 30th millenium.

Rogal: A thick, sturdy, and perfectly elegant multi bit screwdriver, with extra standard bits put in the handle. Give a proud presentation on it, explaining it's superior design and all it's ergonomic features. It's 45 min long.

Perturabo: it's a coupon that say "one (1) construction from me and my legion, free of complaining. Valid until the 31th millenium." It's the most popular gift of the night.

Corvus: slipper and kigurumi, all crow themed. They are *adorable*. Sadly, the size is a bit tight and vaguely indecent on the more muscular primarch.

Lorgar: a traditional colchian tea set, with hand dried craft teas! The set is beautiful, and the teas prove to be only mildly hallucinogenic.

Konrad: A very, VERY pretty embroidered set of throw pillow! They have delicate pattern of flower and nature imagery... And are made with human hair. Konrad is very proud of himself, and even more of the absolute bloody screaming his gift create when he explain it.

Sanguinius: put out by Konrad's gift, but he also made a pillow, but this one filled with his own feathers. Has surprising property against nightmare.

Vulkan: He was actually sweet, and brought homemade hot sauce, his mother's recipe! The problem is that the stuff is so strong, it's considered a dangerous chemical in most of the galaxy. Can be used as jet fuel.

Horus: Edible sexy underwear. Insist that whoever gets it has to wear it, and jokingly say that, if they are too shy, he can do a demonstration himself.

Mortarion: a succulent growing kit. Even his most dumbasses of brother should be able to keep a succulent alive, right? Doesn't mention that it's an highly invasive species that will colonise the entire ship of his poor victime.

Jaghatai: a foal. Yes, he carry a whole ass live animal to the gift exchange, and keep insisting that it's an appropriate gift. The horse is chewing on Magnus' hair.

Leman: Mad that he didn't think of bringing a puppy, but he has the most amazing looking collection of smoked salmon, caviar and preserved fish to offer.

Magnus: his patience is wearing thin, but he still offer a perfectly beautiful robe, that act as an honest to good mood ring and change color depending on the person's aura.

Fulgrim: A painting of himself! Wich is actually a joke, it's just a thin and hand painted decorative paper covering the true gift: a painting of all their family, together. Get called a try hard.

Ferrus: a collection of very pretty crystals and fossils! Wich he arranged in a chocolate box, and explain that those are his favorite flavors.

Angron: A punching bag that even *he* find durable. He made sure of it, by thoroughly testing it before giving it out, wich explain it's used appearance.

I know exactly who gets what..... Yall want to know in a part 2 ;)?

[hedwig221b]

Hedwig!! I love your fics so much, no one else does Sterek like you🤞

This is so random but I’ve been craving some outsider POV fics of you have any recommendations:)

P.S. I love Eros Mania Amor and it definitely inspired this request lol

Hi! Thank you so much! 💗 Here are some of my faves:

Oblivious Misadventures, and Other Such Tales by Little Spoon (JaydenNara)

Going to college was exciting and new, a chance for new friends and a fresh start, and the best part was, there was a supernatural fraternity on campus, meaning Scott finally had the freedom to be himself.

Then he met the resident human who came with a stalker alpha. What was the point of a supernatural fraternity if he still had to pretend to be human. And seriously, did Stiles ever fall asleep somewhere normal?

the demon slayer by the_problem_with_stardust

Jaz sighs, leaning back against her alpha. “They’re going to tear us apart.”

“No they won’t. Alpha Hale is an honorable man.” Maria presses a wry smile into her mate's neck. “It’s literally the only thing every other pack we’ve met with has agreed on.”

“But his Emissary…” Jaz swallows hard, trying not to think of the stories they’ve heard. Stories of a man who banished a legion of demons to hell, using only the force of his will.

A Spotter's Guide to the North American Werewolf Hunter by wearingthelilac

Dealing with a hunter roommate was not covered in the student handbook.

Or the one where Stiles' college roommate is a werewolf and thinks Stiles is a hunter.

Is This Seat Taken? Only By My Delusions by SylvieW

An unknown werewolf and his mate move to Beacon Hills and the McCall pack isn’t sure what to expect from them. They discover that while Derek isn’t a problem, Stiles might be.

Scotty didn't know by Smowkie

Scott was confused. They both smelled almost horny, except not really sexual, more like in awe, and they kept approaching each other, complimenting each other, and-. Derek lifted a hand, gently touched Stiles’ cheek.

“Do the eye thing again,” he murmured, and Stiles’ smile was huge as his eyes turned white.

“What the fuck,” Scott said faintly, but no one seemed to notice him.

The life of the irresistibly oblivious Stiles series by Nosiddam1

Just a series of cute fluffy one shots where Stiles is irresistible or oblivious or both and who only has eyes for Derek.

Fell In Love With A Boy by beekayem

When Sera moved to Beacon Hills she met the man of her dreams. Stiles Stilinski her next door neighbour with extraordinary cooking and baking skills and a smile that just melts her heart. He was perfect.

He was also married…to a man. Who may or may not be her boss.

Life was hard.

Too Little Too Late by SolariaLunar21

Danny's always had a secret crush on Stiles Stilinski but never hopes for more until he over-hears Scott and Stiles talking about the other boy coming out to his Dad as bi.

Other fic recs: pack mom!Stiles | angsty fics | possessive Derek | baby/mpreg | historical | smut | mafia | hurt/comfort

[helvegen-s]

Rage, rage | one

index

Pairing: Azriel x Hybern!Princess!OC

Summary: Nimue was a gift for the King of Hybern. His shining jewel, the perfect heir. However, she is clear about who the villain of the story is. When she saves her father's enemies from a tragic end, she realizes that now it's the Cauldron who has a gift for her: a mate.

Warnings: PTSD, description of injuries, bad language, the King of hybern (jumpscare), if there is anything more, please let me know.

A/N: so here it is, the first part. I really hope you enjoy it and that you get to love Nimue just as much as I do. Any kind of support is greatly appreciated! 🥰

Standing in the middle of that enormous training ground, Nimue counted the scars on her hands one by one: first her left hand, tracing each one with her right thumb; then her right hand, tracing each one with her left thumb. It had become a ritual, something that anchored her back to the physical world, slowly pulling her away from her daydreams.

Once again, she felt the weight of her body on her own bones, on her own muscles. A couple of deep breaths, and with the short sword in her hand, she began the series of exercises again. The same series of exercises as yesterday, the day before, and for the last twenty years.

Twenty years in which Nimue had grown accustomed to her new life. New, because she knew she had always been there, inside the Cauldron, and against her will those hands had torn her away from her place, her home. She had ended up in Hybern, locked in a castle and with a princess title she didn't know where it came from, as she shared no genetic bond with the man who called himself her father, the King of Hybern.

The King of Hybern, who with the Cauldron in his hands and desperate to conceive a powerful heir, had submerged his poor and naive concubine in the poisonous water of the Cauldron. The woman, pregnant with the king's offspring and terrified of disobeying the cruel king's orders, obeyed.

Thus, the liquid of the Cauldron separated skin from muscle, muscle from tendon, tendon from bone, and the poor woman who screamed dissolved like salt in water. Before the eyes of the entire court, the King had burned one of his concubines alive, and in return, a young girl had emerged from the Cauldron. Nimue, The Radiant, the daughter of the king, created by the Cauldron.

Nimue knew all this because in the depths of her bones, and only when she let her guard down, she felt the despair of her mother when she was submerged. If she closed her eyes and concentrated, she could feel her own muscles dissolving, melting, the bones crunching and bursting, the muffled screams, the life of the poor woman extinguishing.

That only filled her with rage. A rage that boiled inside her, in every fiber of her being. Sometimes she let it grow, let it spread through every drop of her blood, like poison disguised in wine: she shaped it to her liking, gave it the form she wanted. She shaped her rage into swords, laying waste to entire legions with her rage, burning entire forests with her rage...

One could only imagine that in the face of such destruction, her "father" would be angry. No one wanted a daughter who killed hundreds of soldiers every time she trained. However, the reaction was completely opposite: a smile, some congratulations, a pat on the back, a kiss on the forehead, a small hug...

Small displays of affection that Nimue drank as if she were dying of thirst. After all, he was her "father".

Children are meant to make their parents proud. Or that's what she told herself every night before falling asleep.

She stopped abruptly before finishing her last set of exercises and looked up.

Above her, in the corridor surrounding that enclosed training ground, courtiers of her father, guards, servants, people who stopped to admire her if they had the time, kept passing by. Sometimes they made comments about the natural grace with which her movements seemed to defy gravity itself. Every gesture of hers was fluid and harmonious, as if she were in perfect harmony with the universe around her. It was so, because after all, the world around her had come from the Cauldron. And she was the Cauldron.

Sometimes, however, they made comments about the monster the King had created. An aberration.

With a flick of her wrist, her weapon disappeared into the air, she spun around, and left that training ground. She walked through the halls of the Palace, navigating intersections and crossing doors until she reached the very center of her home. The great stone cavern where the throne was situated. Even before entering, she could hear the voice of the King, and without entering the room, she listened.

"My patience is running out, filthy rats. If you don't know how to do your job, I'll have you thrown to the nagas, and let them do whatever they please with you, you pack of useless scoundrels."

Nimue entered the cavern, her gaze forward and her chin high, those airs of superiority she knew belonged to her. She walked among those present, who made way for her, feeling the hairs on their necks stand at attention in the presence of the princess. With a determined step, she approached her father, who only raised and lowered his eyebrows in response.

"What's the problem, father?" Oh, that mask of innocent girl that many swallowed. She might even dare say that sometimes, the King himself took her for naive, for innocent. When she was anything but, far from it.

She carefully observed the situation: before her father, and kneeling before the steps of the throne, were four of the six spies she knew her father had designated in Prythian, specifically in the Night Court. Among them, two bodies completely mutilated, almost unrecognizable. However, Nimue recognized them as the other two spies that were missing. She lifted her head and let the smell of blood penetrate her nose, savoring it on her palate. That's when she noticed the slightest hint of cedar and mist. She frowned and looked at her father.

"It's nothing, my sweet child. I'm just dealing with these useless ones," the King turned sharply towards those men, who, under the scrutiny of father and daughter, only sank deeper into their shame. With their heads bowed to the ground, they trembled so much that Nimue could hear the chatter of their teeth. "Do your job and find out everything. Everything. And if you have to kill that petty High Lord, you will."

Nimue did everything to hide her smile. She knew those four useless men stood no chance against that High Lord her father spoke of. She knew, because in the Cauldron, she saw the shadow of Rhysand: a vast pit, as deep as the greatest of lakes, and as black as darkness itself, so dark that Nimue saw her own scarlet eyes reflected in it.

By the Mother, Nimue doubted if her own father, without the aid of the Cauldron, would be a match for that vast darkness that undulated within High Lord Rhysand.

The King raised his hand, and with a gesture, all those present in the throne room bowed respectfully and left the without a word.

Nimue turned, ready to leave, but the King pointed at her and shook his finger. With the same hand, he made a gesture, as if pulling on a leash.

A leash that Nimue had worn around her neck since she had been torn from the Cauldron, and whose end her father held, with an iron grip. It was invisible, but when she even thought about how happy it would make her to leave the confines of the Palace, to see the world, she felt its weight around her neck, as if the King was her executioner and the leash his axe.

"Yes, father?" Her tone, completely compliant, made a fleeting smile cross the King's face.

"You will fight for me in this war, won't you, my dear?" he asked, voice so poisonous she almost gagged. Nimue felt her blood boil, her rage consuming her. "You will fight for me and win for me. I will release you onto the battlefield and you will descend upon them like rain upon dry earth. You will sow the fields with their blood, because that's what I've made you for, my Radiant jewel."

The marks of her nails digging into her palms turned into wounds, and when her magic closed them, she clenched her fists again, reopening them.

"Yes, father. I will be your weapon."

She felt the leash loosen, and with a pleased smile on his face, her father gave her permission to leave.

When she was out of the King's sight, Nimue imagined the thousand ways she would slit that old, rotten man's throat.

Azriel let out a sigh, his own breath forming clouds in front of his face.

What was that pressure in his chest? Where was all that irrational rage coming from, burning his chest and taking his breath away?

His shadows swirled around his shoulders, buzzing and whispering to each other.

He did everything he could, searching in the depths of his being for the calm he needed at that moment.

Yes, rage, rage. We are furious.

Yes, that's it, furious.

Azriel clicked his tongue and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the incessant fluctuations of his shadows. He seemed like a horse shaking itself to get rid of the flies that tormented it so much.

"What's troubling you?" Cassian asked. A playful smile on his face while his gaze was fixed on some point in the city spread out before them. "It seems like your shadows are giving you a hard time."

"Never," Azriel replied without hesitation. He sighed again, rubbing his chest with one hand, right where that pressure seemed like it was about to pierce his body. "I feel like hitting something, someone. But it's not my desire, it feels strange."

Cassian burst into laughter as he leaned on the balcony rail. He closed his eyes for a moment, sinking into that brief moment of peace and enjoying the sunlight, before turning to look at his lifelong brother.

"I think we should call Madja. The spirit of Amren seems to have gotten into you and we'll have to get rid of it before you start giving us all dirty looks," he said, with a serious expression all of a sudden.

Azriel looked at him, raising an eyebrow and then sighing, ignoring the usual delusions of the Illyrian.

Both let the topic pass when they heard footsteps coming from inside the house. Cassian crossed the balcony threshold first, and while Azriel enjoyed a few last seconds of calm and sunshine before going back inside, he felt a pain in the palms of his hands. Stabbing, throbbing.

How strange, it had been a long time since the old scars on his hands had caused him sudden discomfort.

He would ask Madja for some ointment.

Because that's what it was, right?

As Cassian and Morrigan's voices echoed in the dining room, Azriel continued to prolong that moment of stability as much as he could. He felt like he was on the edge of a precipice, about to take a step forward without looking at what lay beyond. So as long as he could, he would enjoy those rays of sunshine, that scent of home, those views of the city they were rebuilding after Hybern's attack, hearing his friends laugh, and knowing that this was his place.

He went over the plan day and night since he and his family had conceived it: arrive, enter, break the Cauldron, and get out of there before the King even realized that they had snuck in.

It was perfect. There were variables, of course, but for the hundreds of unforeseen events Azriel had imagined, hundreds of solutions had been devised. It was perfect, and he trusted the plan.

But he felt so out of sorts...

Rage, it consumes us. It burns us.

Rage, rage.

It wasn't him, it wasn't his rage. He felt his own skin, his body, filled with emotions that weren't his. Like a container of some chemical mixture about to explode.

By the Mother, maybe he had eaten something strange at yesterday's dinner. Or perhaps it was the wine afterward, or maybe the countless drinks that followed at Rita's...

Because that's what it was, right?

[thefiery-phoenix]

YANDERE TONY STARK HEADCANONS

Tony as a yandere would be calculating, EXTREMELY possessive, a manipulative and obsessive one too and it's all for the best in his eyes

He'd first meet you at a party or something like that. You weren't like those other types of people, shallow and self centered. The way you just... blended with the flow and you were super chill about it was intriguing to him. So he came up to you and when you suddenly tripped on your shoe lace/ heel, he caught you by our waist as you spilled your drink on him . You apologized profusely and grabbed a few tissues from somewhere and offered to help him but he just brushed it off telling you it was no problem

May or may not send JARVIS to spy on you just to know 'if your safe of not' and heck, he'll even find a way to hack into ALL your accounts you never told a single soul about and YES that even includes that Wattpad and Tumblr account too. He'll keep track of all your social media and if he sees anyone trying to flirt with you or something, he'll either end up blocking them or send JARVIS or his Iron Legion or deal with those clowns. He needs his daily dosage of hourly updates on you so he knows you're safe or he'll freak

He knows you like the back of his hand and probably much more than you know about yourself. He can read you like an open book, always calculating and interpreting your next move

He tries being subtle with you first, trying to gain and get your attention with gifts and all that romantic shit, but he grows puzzled and confused when you keep on rejecting him. He gets upset and startled when you call him a 'Playboy' and he'll do something completely IRRATIONAL like kidnapping you. Ah yes, the most easiest way to deal with problems when it comes to yanderes

But he'll never yell or raise his hands on you and make you do things you aren't comfortable with. He has a lot of respect for you and literally DROWNS in his respect women juice. He will spoil you rotten till no ends. Want that new book series that got released? Don't worry, he's already called ahead and made sure those guys have a separate stock ready for you. Want your favorite snack? It's already there sitting beside your bed table

When you act up or try running away from him, he'll be heartbroken and disappointed like a dad. He'll restrict you from using your favorite items for a while and then he'll just cuddle you and kiss you saying he really loves you and not to scare him or do something like that again

If someone tries harming you that fool who decided to do something as stupid and dangerous as that would literally pay with their lives no joke. He'll be bashing them up till they bleed and after he's done torturing them, he'll kill them. No one messes with the love of his life and TF away with it

Man has ABSOLUTE power that can even ruin people's lives if necessary

Just listen to him before he does something really irrational like killing your friends because they're ''taking'' you away from him

[anonymousewrites]

Nature of the Human Soul (Book 1) Chapter Fourteen

Platonic! Hazbin Hotel x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Alastor x Teen! Reader

Chapter Fourteen: Show Goes On

Summary: The Hotel rebuilds and moves on from the fight.

Mouse Note: Thank you for reading Nature of the Human Soul (Book 1)! I hope you all enjoyed because I loved writing this. I'm so excited for Hazbin Hotel to return because I have a lot of ideas for this series, and I'm excited to continue. But for now, thank you for everything! If you like my writing, please check out my other Father Figure series!

           “Noooo!�� screamed Lute as Adam fell. She ran to Adam’s side, and (Y/N) backed off, narrowing their eyes in case she tried anything. “Sir! Stay with me, sir! Adam!” He was gone.

           “It’s over,” said Charlie, holding Vaggie to her side protectively.

           Lucifer loomed over Lute, and her eyes widened in fright. “Take your little friends and go home! Please.”

           Lute narrowed her eyes and picked up Adam’s halo. Furious at having no other choice, she glared at the demons before calling out to the exorcists. “Retreat. All exorcists fall back.”

           The angels rose into the air, fleeing back through the portal to heaven.

           Lucifer, pleased, turned to the hotel group. “So…who’s up for pancakes?”

           Everyone, bloody and tired, stared at him.

l

            “Good evening, I’m Katie Killjoy,” said the news report later that night.

            “And I’m—”

            “No one gives a shit who you are, Tom,” said Katie. “Breaking news: extermination day is canceled! Charlie Morningstar managed to fend off the angelic attack with more than just nice words. In an unseen turn of events, our demonic head honcho Lucifer stepped in to save his daughter’s ass in the last moment. We’re also hearing reports that Adam, leader of the Angelic Legions, first man, and totally fuckable bad boy, has been slain by a filthy gardening demon or some shit like that. The kid said, quote, ‘I hate cameras, and TV here sucks, go away’ before threatening our crew! What an asshole! Anyway, congrats to Charlie and her crew for not being totally fucking useless for once.”

l

            Charlie held Keekee as she looked over the rubble that used to be the Hazbin Hotel. They’d lost so much, so many people. “Oh, there, there, it’s…” She sighed. “It’s okay.” She tried to believe it herself, but it was difficult.

            Angel smiled at her as he held Fat Nuggets. Charlie managed to smile back and took a step towards him. She found herself in front of the “Happy First Week!” sign she’d made for Pentious. Her heart ached at his loss. Vaggie put her hands on Charlie’s shoulders comfortingly.

(Charlie) “He did it for us, The ultimate sacrifice. He gave me his trust, And look how we pay the prince.”

            Tears gathered in her eyes. She had failed her friends. Because she hadn’t been strong enough, they had gotten hurt, killed.

(Charlie) “This bloodshed could have been avoided, If I convinced heaven to work together. I took a hotel, and I destroyed it, I know I could have done better, better, Instead of letting you down.”

            Lucifer put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder and smiled at her.

(Lucifer) “Come on little lady, why the frown? In the last ten thousand years, you’re the first one to change this town, You can do this, Now I know it, For your story has just begun, You can’t quit now, Hell, you owe it, There’s still damage to be undone, You’ve changed my mind, You’ve touched their hearts.”

            Charlie looked around as her friends approached with a smile.

(Lucifer) “Found the good in souls gone bad, The stage is wrecked, the crowd is gone, But by God Charlie, The show it must go on!”

            Her friends gathered around Charlie.

(Vaggie, Cherri, (Y/N), Angel, Husk, Niffty) “We can do this, We can build it! Best hotel that you’ve ever seen! Twice the bedrooms, We can fill it!” (Lucifer) “With more sinners than you can dream!” (Lucifer and Vaggie) “It starts with you!” (Vaggie, Cherri, (Y/N), Lucifer, Angel, Husk, Niffty) “You know it’s true, Fulfill your destiny!”

            They reached out their hands. Wiping her tears and smiling, Charlie stood and took her father’s hand as the group came together for a hug.

(Charlie) “So long as I’ve got all of you with me!”

            And so, the cleanup and work began. It was tough going, but everyone pitched in, and the hotel began to come together better than before.

(Niffty) “To build a hotel, I think we need some brick and lumber!” (Lucifer) “Good thing we’re in Hell, check out this little magic number.”

            He snapped his fingers, and the supplies appeared.

(Angel) “Start with foundation.” (Lucifer) “A remedial creation for me.”

            The foundation came together in a single spell.

(Niffty, Angel, Lucifer) “It’s as easy as can be!”

            Soon, the hotel was getting decorated, rooms ready to be stayed in.

(Charlie) “No time for cryin’, We got a lot of work to do and, We gotta try and make the best of what’s in ruins.” (Vaggie) “New coat of paint!” (Husk) “New lights across the marquee!” ((Y/N)) “With a little sorcery!”

            They waved a hand, and plants grew up around the hotel, decorating it with nature amongst the barren city that Pride usually was.

            Finally, the hotel was put back together, with a statue of Dazzle outside. Charlie smiled at the painting of Pentious and the Egg Bois going up in the foyer to honor his memory. The memories of who they lost would never be forgotten as a new era of the Hazbin Hotel approached.

(All) “We can do this!” (Charlie) “We can do this!” (All) “We’ll be better!” (Charlie) “We’ll be better!” (All) “Though redemption may take a while.” (Charlie) “Though it may take a while.” (All) “Wayward sinners, clear their ledger!”

            They came together for a hug, and a familiar face popped out of the shadows.

(Alastor) “And we’re doing it with a smile!”

            (Y/N) grinned. He was healed and back with them. He had survived, too.

(Charlie) “We’ll make a difference, wait and see.” (Charlie and Vaggie) “We’re gonna do this, you and me.” (All) “And then tomorrow it will be, A fuckin’ happy day in Hell!”

            The Hazbin Hotel was open for business.

l

            (Y/N) walked through the hotel to the new wing dedicated to Alastor’s broadcasts. Obviously, it was placed on the opposite side from Lucifer’s apple-themed wing. They paused at the door of the radio and knocked.

            “Alastor?” they called out.

            The door was opened by a shadow, and (Y/N) stepped inside. Alastor was standing over the controls of the new radio, examining everything.

            “Do you like it?” asked (Y/N), slightly nervous.

           Yes, they had faced Adam, but this was…different. It was a different type of encounter. With a fight, (Y/N) knew what it felt like to suffer, to go through pain, so they could handle that. With friendship, (Y/N) had very little experience, so they weren’t sure how to deal with it.

           Alastor turned to face them. “It seems Charlie did a good job ensuring this was up to my standards. My broadcasts will be quality, as usual.”

           “Charlie didn’t make it. Well, she helped, but I, uh, I did it,” said (Y/N).

           Alastor paused, and his grin, unbidden, widened. “You did?”

           (Y/N) nodded. “I saw your tower was affected when Adam hurt you, so when we rebuilt the hotel, I made sure there was something for you to come back to.”

           “I hadn’t expected to have a broadcast tower at the hotel,” said Alastor.

           “Do you like it?” asked (Y/N).

           “I do,” said Alastor honestly.

           (Y/N) brightened. “I’m glad! And I’m glad you’re alright. Adam did a lot of damage to the hotel, killed Pentious, and hurt you pretty badly.”

           “It will take more than that to kill the Radio Demon,” said Alastor, but the unfortunate truth was that he had nearly died.

           “I faced him,” said (Y/N) suddenly.

           Alastor paused. “Oh?”

           “Yeah, I fought Adam. It didn’t go that well for me, either.” They grinned at him. “But I killed him. In the end, I killed him.” They stood proud in their strength and determination. Yes, (Y/N) had nearly fallen to Adam and Lucifer had really defeated him, but dealing the killing blow had given (Y/N) so much satisfaction.

           Alastor looked at (Y/N), and he cursed every part of him that still had some humanity since he felt something as they smiled at him. It wasn’t what he felt when Rosie laughed alongside him and teased him, but it held a familiar warmth. Although he had begun by seeing something in (Y/N) that reminded him of himself from oh-so long ago, Alastor couldn’t help but look at (Y/N) and just see them, now. It wasn’t them being like him, even if it still began there, but it was more.

           “I wouldn’t expect anything less of my protégé,” said Alastor, unable to keep the fondness completely out of his voice.

           Alastor was falling victim to all of the weaknesses he wanted to eliminate within himself.

           And (Y/N)? Well, the Nature Demon stood tall. They were growing into all the strength they had ever wished for.

Taglist:

@kyalov

@pandaquick

@boredwithlifeatthispoint

@jaytheaceenby

@paastaboi

@bettybabys

@gxdoesstuff

@grippleback-galaxy

@just-here-reading

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@funkyexistence

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@a-huge-bi-nerd

@lost-in-the-hellaverse

@tagthetrekkie

@amberforest08

@picklehat3r

@lunalixya

@rl800

@crystal-freak24

[achromant]

AND HERE WE ARE! My project for the gw2 'zine!

Featuring Baruhn, reflecting on his life so far, the challenges, the small sparks of joy, the horrors, loss and gain.

For clarification's sake; I did in fact plan to depict every stage of Baruhn's life, but uuh. File was already too big.

Might do a series of short comics (graphic novels?) though, because i fking love storytelling.

Let's look at my idiotic level of detail a bit, eh?

[Long Text Ahead]

Baruhn's story begins in the Plains of Ashford. An unsuccessful attempt to stem the tide of Ascalonian Ghosts leads to the demise of many year-long allies. Dozens of brave soldiers gave their life for a mere week of peace until the ghosts reformed. They always do. Soldiers don't.

Shaken in his faith in the Legions, the first seeds of doubt arise.

Until finally he found someone to trust with his pain. In a tavern at the edge of the Black Citadel, he gets to know this odd fellow, who is continuosly follow by the faint smell of sulfur. Although Baruhn knew where that path led, the warmth radiating from the old veteran in front of him was not only a physical, but an emotional one.

With the Three Legions busy with their internal quarrels, fighting over an empty promise, Baruhn took the first steps down a previously thought to be dark path.

Surprisingly, die Flame Legion was welcoming, their fires offered light and guidance, the embers igniting the skies like stars. Surely this was better than the cold metal over the Black Citadel.

Baruhn took to learning first, handling the small flames with ease after years of throwing fireballs at ghostly shapes. Then, he figured out how to teach, and that is where the real magic comes from. Nurturing a flame, protecting it from harsh winds, adding a bit of kindling and coal here and there. He even taught the more elusive ways of magic that wield smoke and ash.

Baruhn knew about the war, the countless lifes lost on the other side of the fence. But those were humans, and here he was among family.

That is, until he met Molly.

After a small recon mission that was assured not to be much of a hurdle, Baruhn found himself alone in a forest. The small fires he conjured for light and warmth only drew in the nearby villagers. Those with pitchforks and torches, with crude swords and a thirst for blood. He couldn't really bring himself to hate them, this was war after all. But at what cost are these battles to be won?

Trying to escape the villagers was a futile attempt. He sank to the ground, his own hot blood dousing the little flames beneath his weary head.

For some reason - maybe hope, maybe resignation - he forced open his heavy eyes, only to discover his wounds cleaned and bandaged with fragile white cloth. A small human girl, of all things in this damned forest, tried to help. Even in his weakened state, even with just one hand, Baruhn could have easily grabbed her and cracked her skull. But the only thing he did was listen. He listened to the ramblings of the small human, going on and on about faries made of leaves and gnomes of stone. She called him "bear".

When the villagers came, they saw the girl at his side. That was all it took for them to turn on her. She was to be executed like that beast that now slowly stepped in front of her. For the first time, Baruhn spoke to the girl. "close your eyes."

Fire roared, not red, not orange. not a warm, welcoming fire. Not one that belongs in a hearth, that thrives in the arms of a family. This was so much worse. This was years of inner conflict, of doubt, of closing his eyes on the other side of the fence. For the first time in his life, this was the only thing that he wanted to do, protect the little insignificant human behind him. Fire roared, and it burned wood and it burned flesh.

Baruhn picked up the little girl, she held tight to his horns, nestled in his mane. He ran for hours, years of military training finally useful. The little girl, Molly, lost her mother years ago. She burned in the fires of a war she tried to escape. "And your father? What about your family?", he asked between deep breaths. Molly was quiet for a while, then whispered, her voice barely audible, "My father burned today."

They stayed together, for quite a while. He protected her, and she, with her head full of stories, and a book full of dreams, protected him.

Things came, things went. Baruhn rejoined the High Legions, acting as a spy for Ash, keeping an eye on Iron and Blood.

Baruhn ultimately took on his role as Novice, then Archivist, then Commander. He helped during the struggles against Scarlet. A small flame here and there, some shrouding smoke, a well timed lightning strike. It was other people that finally defeated Scarlet, but he was always in the background, with all the small things at just the right time.

Mordremoth came, but with him new allies.

It was but a small tangent in the grand scheme of things. Watching the fragile sapling while waging war on the jungle itself.

Their relation was something more than friendship, something else than love. They were there for each other when they needed to be. Be it only to keep a flame burning or to banish the voices to the back of the head again, they walked the same path for a long time.

Tarir, the Egg. Aurene. A new flame entrusted to him, his to nurture, his to raise. A gamble, again. What if that little flame would some day devour the world? But Baruhn did, what he could do best. Teach.

Darker times came. Caudecus and the White Mantle. The raid on the Mursaat's prison. Then facing the last Mursaat himself.

Balthazar came, and in his wake a new kind of fire. A war, similar to the ones Baruhn had seen before, but still different. A war without a cause, war for war's sake. War against nature, against the world, like a child lashing out when there were none to help them up. Maybe Balthazar's flames were not too different from his.

After the festering swamp that Joko was, came the mountain, Kralkatorrik. Death was not a hindrance anymore, not for the Commander and his dragon. The story went as the story goes.

When it came to face the frost, the whispers, Jormag. Everything fell apart. Jormag pried into the deepest, darkest corners of Baruhn's life, dragged every doubt, small as it may have been, into the light. In the ice, every truth was warped, encased in whispers, in lies. It suffocated any hope and planted even darker seeds than anyone thought possible.

It was the spirit of the Raven that aided Baruhn. Even the black feathers of its wings were shimmering like rainbows in the moonlight.

A small piece stayed with him, just a fragment. Nevermore.

After that, the stars themselves. Astralaria.

So many stories that make a life, so many pieces. Every encounter, every step along the way is another fragment of the whole. People are made of other people, that is what it means to be alive.

[moodymisty]

Chapter reactions to their Primarch's beloved [ part2 ]

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

[ Part 1, Part 3 ]

Author's Note: Another 4 of the 'Chapter reactions to their Primarch's lover' series I said I went too crazy with. I chose them at random, if you want any more feel free to say.

Relationships: Implied Lion'el Jonson/Gn!Reader, Implied Konrad Curze/Gn!Reader, Implied Vulkan/Gn!Reader, Implied Magnus the Red/Gn!Reader

Warnings: Some vague implications of the Night Lords being creepy little shits but tbh is that really surprising?

➧ Dark Angels:

Paranoid. You were actually kept a secret from most of the Legion apart from Lion'el's closest Commanders for quite awhile, until he made his decision to reveal the that The Lion of Caliban had taken a lover.

You can only assume he did all of it as another layer of his ever expanding list of contingency plans and secret keeping. You're quite familiar with his thought process at this point; At least what isn't also another secret.

They are, more than a bit confused as to why their Primarch has dedicated his time to such pursuits, but you suppose it all could be far worse.

Their 'upbringing' and Lion'el's inability to show pretty much any emotion has heavily affected their ability to do or understand anything that could be considered 'affectionate'. It just seems pointless to them.

They have a pompous aura, and an overall 'nose turned upward' attitude regarding you. Despite being their Primarch's beloved, you are seen as beneath them by nature of your existence. This could quite possibly change overtime however, depending on how much of an active role you take in Lion'el's legion.

However Lion'el's paranoia extends to his sons in force, and his men are hyper vigilant of you if you're ever put under their watch. They may not have the best attitude, but you couldn't be safer. Expect to basically be chained to one spot for periods of time. Figuratively. Maybe.

All of this makes interacting with them, difficult, but manageable. At least they don't want to murder you.

...As far as you know

➧ Night Lords:

Avoid every single one of them like your life depends on it, because it very much does. Becoming the object of Curze's obsession is probably the worst possible thing you could do for your overall life expectancy.

Because he pretty much brought a prey animal into den of slobbering wolves, being with you. As while Konrad may love you (at least as much as a man as troubled as him can) many of his sons see you as little more than a brand new thing to be toyed with.

While Heresy era Night Lords may be marginally less deranged than their 41st millennium counterparts, they still heavily enjoy instilling fear; Particularly to keep humans in line.

So they tend to circle around you like they're herding prey animals; Biting the air if you wander too far away from their Primarch's shadow.

There's really only a few that you 'trust' enough to be in their protection for more than few minutes. And while you might feel safe, there's always... Something off.

You can stand to be in the same room as Sevatar- given his more stalwart, repressed nature which makes him much easier to communicate with than the average Night Lord- but you don't like the way any of the Night Lords look at you. Even him.

There's always something deep within their dark eyes, or something behind their rare smiles. Being near them makes your neck tense, hair standing on end. Every single siren in your head screaming to run run run. It's like they're waiting for the moment Curze leaves you alone to take something they want.

You don't want to know what that something is.

➧ Salamanders:

The most sane of them all besides the Ultramarines and the White Scars. They treat you with respect and kindness, in that stunted, overly formal Space Marine way. You can tell they're trying, so it's kind of sweet, honestly.

Even from the moment that Vulkan first formally introduced you as his beloved, they always seemed to welcome you into the chapter, so to speak.

They're also helpful; For example given the sheer scale of the Flamewrought, you've been helped by them before when you found yourself horribly lost. Something Vulkan finds very amusing.

Overall, they are one of the few, if not the only chapter that would probably be actually somewhat, happy, to see their Primarch happy.

They see the way Vulkan softens whenever he looks at you, and know that those things are what they're fighting for.

Vulkan has spent years emphasizing the importance of protecting the Imperium and it's people, and it's paid off with a chapter that is not only of a somewhat normal disposition, but isn't completely fucking insane.

They'll keep you safe no matter what, as even without orders, they genuinely seem to care for your wellbeing.

Just keep your new sons away from the lighter fluid, ok?

➧ Thousand Sons:

Many of them disapprove of Magnus going down such a path, seeing it as unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but when they see how Magnus is absolutely stupid in love with you and will not hesitate to scold dissent on the matter, they end up having to stay largely quiet about it.

No matter how much they may object at the end of the day, Magnus won't budge; So they have to just learn to accept it. Afterall, Magnus had made it very clear you aren't going anywhere.

While they perhaps might not be as overtly as pompous as the Dark Angels, for awhile they won't be much more than amicable to you.

As their Primarch's beloved, they will be more than ready to protect you if need be, and while at first it might simply be because their Primarch has ordered them to, overtime they do warm up a bit. You can smile at them and watch them hone their skills, and they begin to see why Magnus likes you so.

Just don't finger up the tomes, and you both can coexist.

[mandos-mind-trick]

Jaig Eyes

Summary: Soulmates are forbidden among the clones. Yours just happens to be a certain Captain. Thankfully, he's not above breaking the rules sometimes.

Pairing: Captain Rex x medic!reader

Warnings: NSFW, smut, P in V sex, no foreplay, unprotected sex, some description of battles, wounds, slight blood mention, drinking, partying, Soulmate AU

A/N: Rex my baby, my boy, one of my OG faves. It's about time I wrote something for him. I'm a little delirious from the heat, but I'm still alive. This was supposed to be the first one of the series but Tech and Crosshair demanded more attention.

MASTERLIST

The explosions are loud, even with the tanks as far ahead as they are. Your adrenaline is pumping, but you keep breathing, keeping it under control. That’s why you were chosen for this position, after all. Your ability to keep control even under the most overwhelming, stressful situations. 

Your home planet got hit hard early in the war. Due to its location near four major hyperspace lanes, both sides of the war needed to control it, and that came at the expense of its inhabitants. Many people lost their lives in the brutal battle, both civilians and clones. There wasn’t much left of your home afterwards, most inhabitants of the city displaced. 

So you decided to leave and join the GAR as a medic. You already had the experience, and after doing everything you could to help during the invasion, you had decided to put your life plans on hold and join the army. 

Your ability to keep calm under extreme duress had impressed your instructors during your training, and so they had given you the title of combat medic, and sent you off with the 501st Legion. You had practically been thrown right into the field, not that you had expected much less. 

Kix, the clone medic you served under, had given you a brief tour and rundown on the way to provide reinforcements to the 104th. He had warned you that the area they were landing in was going to be hot, and to expect to jump in right away. 

You had expected nothing less, having already seen just how ugly the front lines can be. 

That’s where you are now, treating troopers practically as they fall. 

“The Captain’s down!” 

The words ring loud and clear through your comm, the energy of the entire battalion shifting. You have yet to meet any of the clone commanders, much less the Captain of the 501st. You had been thrown into this rather rapidly. There would be a time for introductions later. 

Your name is called through the comms, Kix appearing with another trooper, dragging who you assumed was the Captain between them. They lay him on the ground, the other trooper running back into the heat of the battle. 

“We need to stabilize him before we can move him.” Kix says, kneeling next to the Captain. 

You kneel on his other side, taking a look at him. His entire right shoulder piece is missing, an ugly wound oozing blood. It’s a nasty shot, but he’s lucky it’s not on the left. 

“Bacta.” Kix says and you hand off an injector from your belt. 

You move to take off his helmet, your breath catching in your throat. Your eyes are drawn to his helmet, above his visor. The marking on it. You knew most of the clones used some sort of marking to distinguish themselves. Whether it be on their armor, or tattoos, or hairstyles, they all had unique aspects about them to give them individuality. 

This one, though. This one is startling to you. 

Most species in the galaxy experience the phenomenon of soulmates. There are a number that don’t, but they are vastly outnumbered by those that do. 

How one is linked to their soulmate can vary. Yours just happens to be the identifying mark. A symbol or even a phrase that means something to your other half. Or, for the lucky few, an entire name. Most got them at birth, or some shortly after. Rarely were there huge gaps in age between soulmates. Given the vast dichotomy of species in the galaxy, fate wasn’t that unkind. 

Well, most liked to think it wasn’t. 

Your mark showed up eleven years ago. You had already been well into your childhood when you woke up one morning to find a symbol on your chest. You’d never seen anything like it before. After some extensive research, you came to learn they’re called  jaig eyes, a symbol used by Mandalorians for distinguished warriors. A symbol of bravery, tattooed over your heart in blue.

You had thought your soulmate might be Mandalorian, and so you had spent years planning and working towards a trip to Mandalore. 

Then the war started, and your planet was invaded.

The entire situation had left such an impact on you, you decided to push your dreams of Mandalore, and your soulmate, aside for the time being. If fate had paired you together, you would meet eventually. 

You hadn’t expected this though. 

Your hands are shaking just a bit as you grab his helmet, pulling it off. You support his neck, easing his head to lie in the dirt. His face is pinched as Kix ties a tourniquet around his shoulder. 

“I’m fine.” He grunts out, nose scrunching in pain. 

“The gaping hole in your shoulder says otherwise.” Kix says, injecting the shot of bacta into the wound. 

You grimace a bit, knowing how much that hurts. Your own fingers pull down his blacks, exposing enough of his neck to administer a stim shot. You can see as it begins to kick in, numbing the pain and giving him a boost of energy. His face begins to soften, body relaxing a bit. 

Kix calls for an evac, two troopers easing the Captain onto a stretcher before removing him from the heat of the battle. You clear your head, moving on to the next injured trooper. The battle isn’t over. You have a lot more work to do before you can think about this new development. 

****

You wipe your brow, body starting to drag as the adrenaline crashes. The battle had ended, but your job was only getting started. There was still a field of injured troopers that needed care, as well as a full med bay. 

“I’m impressed.” Kix says, finishing applying the bacta patch on the final trooper that needed care. “Not many nat-borns can keep going that long after being in the field.” 

You shrug. “It’s not my first time on the battlefield. My home planet was one of the first invaded by the Separatists. Most of it was wiped out by the battles. I learned very quickly to stay busy. If you’re not doing anything, you remember you’re human and you crack.” 

Kix puts a hand on your shoulder. “Go get some rest. We’ll be fine here.” 

“Thank you, sir.” You nod, heading off to the bunks. 

You hop in the refresher, wishing it was real water, but the sonic shower will do. You don’t let it hit you until you crawl into your bunk, letting the day wash over you finally. You’re shaking, silent tears rolling down your cheeks. You’d mastered the quiet cry a long time ago, not wanting to disturb your fellow medics getting some much needed rest.

You’re exhausted, but you’ve seen far too much today to let yourself rest just yet. 

You need to work through it. If you bottle it up, you’ll only explode later. 

You close your eyes, the image of the jaig eyes coming to the front of your brain. There was no mistaking it. It wasn’t the confusion of battle, or the stress making you see things. The Captain of the 501st has jaig eyes on his helmet, in the same shade of blue as the ones printed on your chest, right over your heart. 

This is going to complicate things. 

It was one of the first things you were taught in your training. Under no circumstances were clones allowed to initiate their soulmate links. If, by chance, one of them happened to be your soulmate, the link had to be rejected. If a clone was found to have iniated the link, they would be decommisioned immediately. 

It’s cruel, but you can understand why. 

The soulmate link is a powerful motivator. The clones were designed to be loyal, focused, and dedicated to fighting and winning the war. Many of the first generation of clones had deserted upon learning of their soulmate marks. It seemed even the most potent conditioning couldn’t overcome the yearning of ones soul to find its other half. 

Even the most loyal clone would turn their back upon meeting the soulmate. 

The thought of being rejected is terrifying. It’s a painful process for both involved. Some who have experienced it claim it feels like your body is being turned inside out, every cell on fire as your soul destroys the link. You remember every second of it, the horrible pain and the grief that settles in as you realize you’ll never be able to feel the same again. 

You’ll never be the same again. 

You can’t tell the Captain. He can never know. You can’t stand the thought of being rejected. Though the pain would ease with time, you’ll never forget it. You’d rather suffer through the pain of being so close but never initiating than feel the rejection of someone who may never have wanted to reject you. 

****

Time flies quickly now that you’ve established yourself amongst the 501st. The Legion is constantly on the move, burning through battle after battle with little rest in between. According to Kix this is very common, with the Legion going sometimes weeks without a break. You know it can’t be good for them, recognizing the exhaustion on many of the trooper’s faces and in their body language. 

You’re beginning to feel it too, tension knotting in your shoulders and the quality of your sleep has been declining. You know it’s not just the stress of constant adrenaline and work, though. Constantly being within close proximity of your soulmate and doing absolutely nothing about it has been wearing on you as well. You’ve spoken maybe ten words to each other when Kix had introduced you to the Captain after the first battle when you’d helped care for him. 

Since then, you’d only seen him in passing. 

It’s slowly driving you insane. 

You’ve grown close to some of the troopers, especially those that frequented the med bay for “unjustified reasons” as Kix liked to call it. It was his code for “they did something stupid and now we have to fix them.” 

You can’t really blame them for being a bit reckless sometimes. They deserved to have some fun every once in a while. 

“There’s my favorite medic!” A heavy arm slings around your shoulder, nearly making your knees buckle. You’d been in one of the storage areas, cataloging everything the med bay needed to stock up on once you landed on Coruscant. “Excited about shore leave?” Fives asks. 

“Actually I am.” You say, honestly. You had planned to book a hotel room and sleep off the stress. You hope the distance from your soulmate will help ease the tension that’s been building. 

“A bunch of us are gonna hit 79s. You should come with us.” Echo says, popping up on the other side of you. You had been wondering where he was, as the two were rarely far from each other. 

It’s a tempting offer. Losing yourself in a bar for a night might help ease the stress. Unless Captain Rex planned on being there too. 

“I don’t know...” You say, chewing your lip. “I was planning on just relaxing.” 

“Come on,” Fives squeezes you against his side. “It’s your first shore leave. Let us show you how we celebrate.” 

You almost say no, but perhaps spending time around others will help you feel better. Even if Captain Rex is there, alcohol can help you forget. Perhaps you could even find someone else, someone to help you forget. 

“Fine.” You sigh, but a smile tugs at your lips. “I’ll come with you.” 

They both cheer, giving you breath-stealing pats on the back. Sometimes they forget they have to be gentler with non-clones. 

“Meet you on the landing platform at 19:00 hours.” Five says. 

You salute him jokingly, making your way to the med bay with a smile on your face. 

***

You’re glad you thought to pack a dress for occasions like this. You’re also glad you packed a dress that covers your chest. The last thing you need is any of them seeing it. Would they report you? Would they tell the Captain? You’d like to think they wouldn’t. It’s not like you’d even been trying to talk to the Captain. 

You check yourself in the mirror, making sure your mark is covered before you make your way out of the venator. As promised, a small group of guys is waiting on the landing pad, some of them having dressed down while others are still in their armor. 

Fives whistles lowly as you approach, your cheeks warming a bit. “Looking good, civvy.” 

“I mean, I know you’re a looker but kriff, you clean up well.” Jesse says, nonchalantly giving you a once over. 

Your face feels hot with their attention and compliments, not used to being on the receiving end. “Thanks, guys.” 

“Come on,” Fives tosses an arm across your shoulders. “Let’s get going!” 

***

You feel warm, slightly buzzed as you make your way back towards the bunks. It’s late...or early depending on how you look at it. You’d had a good time with the guys. You’d danced and drank and laughed a lot. It was a good distraction, and it helped you decompress a bit. You’re exhausted, though, still ready to sleep the rest of shore leave away before you inevitably get thrown into another battle. 

It’s the alcohol that’s dulled your senses a bit, not even noticing the person rapidly approaching behind you until they’ve spun you around, pressing you back into the wall. 

“Fives!” You blink in shock up at Fives, his brow furrowed as he stares down at you. “W-What are you doing?” 

Your heart is racing as his hand lifts towards your dress, all the worst possible things flashing through your head. He’s a flirt, but you’d never thought he’d go this far. Your buzzed brain has just got it in you to call out for help when his hand tugs the neck of your dress to the side, revealing the mark on your chest. 

“I knew it.” He says, letting your dress fall back into place. 

“How did you-” 

“I glimpsed it while we were dancing.” He says simply. “I had to be sure.” 

You step away from the wall, adjusting your dress. “Well you could have just asked instead of giving me a heart attack.” 

“Sorry.” He says, actually managing to look guilty. “Why haven’t you said anything?” 

“I don’t want to get rejected.” You say. “I’d rather live with the pain of him being close than live with the pain of rejection.” 

Fives snorts. “He won’t reject you.” 

You blink up at him. “What?” 

A grin tugs at Fives’ lips. “He won’t reject you. Most of us don’t agree with the rule against soulmates, and we don’t plan on following it. Rex may be a Captain, but he’s not going to reject you just because he’s supposed to. If we followed the rules as rigidly as we’re supposed to, most of us would be dead already.” He puts a hand on your shoulder. “Talk to him. You never know when it might be too late.” 

***

Despite Fives’ admission to their willingness to bend the rules, you haven’t approached the Captain. Partly because you’re still afraid, and also partly because you haven’t had time. After the brief shore-leave, the Legion had been thrown into a long campaign that had been taking its toll. Many, many troopers were injured, and you barely got time to sleep, let alone do anything else. 

Like approaching the Captain about your soulmate mark.  

After two long weeks of grueling battles, it’s finally over. Well, at least the fighting. You still have an overflowing med bay to get through. 

Hours later, most of the troopers have been stabilized and on their way to healing. Kix sends you away, practically ordering you to bed. You don’t argue, your feet already dragging as you leave the med bay. You need a long cry and a nap, ready to crash. 

You hadn’t meant it literally, but it seemed fate was getting tired of your avoidance. 

You walk straight into a hard chest, nearly falling backwards. Hands steady you, and you look up right into the eyes of Captain Rex. 

“S-Sorry Captain.” You stutter, taking a step back. “I-I wasn’t paying attention.” 

“It’s alright.” He says, still holding your gaze. “I know you’ve been overwhelmed in the med bay recently. You’re all working hard.” 

You nod. “Yeah.” You continue to stare at him, the words bubbling out of you before you can stop them. “I need to speak with you. Alone.” 

He blinks in surprise. “Oh. Is there...something wrong? Is it one of the troopers?” 

You shake your head. “No, no. It’s...” You almost backtrack. You almost change your mind, but those soft brown eyes draw you in. “It’s personal.” 

He hesitantly leads you into one of the many storage rooms, making sure it’s empty. You hope no one walks in. You’re already nervous about bringing this up to the Captain. You’d rather not have to try and explain this to someone else. 

You turn to face him as the door slides shut, looking up into his eyes again. His face is drawn and focused, and you almost feel bad for throwing this on him. 

“I think you’re my soulmate.” You blurt out, wanting to get it all out in the open. 

His eyes widen in surprise. “What?” 

You bite your lip, stripping off your gear enough that you can lower the neckline of your shirt a bit. You draw it down, revealing the mark on your skin. “It appeared almost eleven years ago.” 

He steps closer, staring hard at the mark. His hand lifts, his gloved fingers tracing over the lines of the jaig eyes. “The medic’s symbol.” He says, eyes still staring at the mark on your chest. “My mark, it’s the medic’s symbol.” 

You let out a long breath. Fate really does plan out everything perfectly. 

His hand leaves your chest, lifting to cup your chin. You step closer to him, your chests almost touching. How desperately you want to kiss him, to initiate the bond. You’re not even sure that’s what he wants. 

“I think I’ve known since Kix introduced us.” He says, his hand still holding your chin.

“I knew the moment I saw you on the battlefield, when you got shot.” You say. 

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” He asks. 

“I didn’t want to get rejected.” You admit. “I-I thought...but then Fives said-” 

“Fives knows?” He asks. 

You nod. “He saw the mark when we went out to 79s last shore leave.” 

His grip tightens just a bit on your chin, jealousy flashing in his eyes. 

“Nothing happened.” You quickly add, realizing your words left a little too much unsaid. “We just danced, and he confronted me after about it. He said you clones aren’t quite as uptight when it comes to rules as everyone thinks.” 

The side of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “Not in this Legion at least. I do wish you’d said something sooner, but I understand if you didn’t know...I’m not going to reject you.” He holds you still for a moment before dropping his hand. “The General is being called back to Coruscant, so we’ll get a short leave once we return. Two hours after we land, come to the barracks. I’ll make sure they’re empty.” 

Your stomach squirms with excitement. Even if you do nothing but sit and talk, the prospect of being close to your soulmate has your body coming alive. You nod, hardly able to contain yourself. 

You don’t feel quite so tired anymore as you make your way to your own barracks. 

***

The two hours after landing seems to take a lifetime. Your eyes flash to the chronometer constantly. The first half hour hadn’t been so dreadful, as you had spent most of that helping move still recovering troopers, and loading up carts to pick up supplies. 

Then you’d found yourself with nothing to do but wait, so you had returned to your barracks to wait out the hour and a half before you’d make your way to the clone barracks. You’d considered dressing up, but you thought that might draw too much attention. Wearing light gear could at least give you an excuse for being there, should anyone ask. 

You head out ten minutes before, knowing it will take you that long to get across the ship. The trooper’s bunked on the opposite side of the ship from the medics, who were close to the med bay. 

Your stomach flutters with nerves and excitement the entire way. You’d thought about this moment for a long time, though it’s not quite playing out like you had expected. You’re not complaining, though. You’re lucky to have someone as loyal and caring as the Captain for your soulmate. 

You make it to the barracks, Captain Rex waiting outside the door. He’s removed his armor, wearing only the blacks underneath. You greet him with a smile, and he returns it. You like it, you realize, seeing him smile. 

He leads you inside, this set of barracks smaller than the others. It’s specially set up, he tells you, for the more higher ranking clones. The Captain, the ARC troopers, and those on his specialized squad. 

He leads you to the bed closest to the fresher, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t really plan anything. I don’t want you to feel pressured into doing something you don’t want.” 

You put a hand on his arm. “I figured we’d just let things happen naturally. Even if all we do is sit and talk, that’s fine with me.” 

He smiles down at you. “Then let’s talk.” 

And so you do. 

You tell him everything. From your earliest memories to getting your mark, to the devastation of your planet during the start of the war. You tell him about how you’d planned to visit Mandalore in hopes of finding your soulmate, and how you’d given up that dream to join the GAR. 

He tells you everything about himself too. Growing up too fast on Kamino, the endless training, being called to the front when the war started, how he was there on your home planet when it was attacked, all the men he’s lost, the stress of the war. They’d been designed to be more resilient to high stress situations, but the grief of loss and the exhaustion still weighs on him. 

You wrap your arms around him before you even think about it. You feel for him, you really do. As much as they’re supposed to be just numbers in an army fighting a war they didn’t even volunteer to be a part of, you know they’re more than that.

“That’s why most of us don’t follow the rule about soulmates.” He says, his arms wrapped around you. “We have to believe there’s something beyond war and loss.” 

“I’m glad you don’t agree with it.” You say, resting your head on his shoulder. “I don’t think I could have given you up.” 

His hand slides up your back, moving to rest between your shoulder blades. “I...don’t have a clue what I’m doing.” 

“I don’t think anyone does.” You say, and you mean it. “I think most of it is just supposed to...be natural. It’s supposed to feel right.” 

He pulls away from you, looking down at you. Your faces are inches apart, breath mingling. This close you can see the lines on his face, the light scattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks. 

“You’re kinda beautiful.” You say, staring at him. 

“I think I’m the one that’s supposed to say that.” He says, leaning in closer. “You’re the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Your cheeks heat up, a goofy smile tugging at your lips. “Stop. I am not.” 

He cups your face, his gloved thumb tracing your cheek. “Of course you are. You were made for me, after all.” 

Your lips meet, a spark shooting through you. You feel warm and light, pure energy racing through your nerves. His grip tightens on you, pulling you closer against him. He's warm and solid, like a cabin during an ice storm. 

He groans quietly against your lips, pulling you into his lap. You settle against him, tilting your head as the kiss deepens. You hadn't really planned on going this far, but you now understand why people say once you meet your soulmate, it's uncontrollable. 

He pulls away, pressing his forehead to yours. "I don't want to feel like I'm rushing you."

You smile. "I want this too. I don't think I could stop."

He wraps his arms around your waist, flipping you easily onto your back. "Good. I don't think I can either." 

He presses his lips back against yours, slotting his body against you. He's all lean muscle, fitting perfectly against you. He presses even closer, something hard poking against your thigh. 

You smile into the kiss, shifting your hips slightly to create some friction. You're already damp, your body well prepared for this moment. It had been building up for weeks. You can tell now, how much you'd been yearning for him, even if you hadn't noticed before. 

His lips trail down your jaw, charting a path down your throat. You arch into him, fingers digging into his broad shoulders. You tug at his blacks, one of his hands reaching back to pull the top off over his head. 

You run your fingers down his chest, feeling over every bump and scar. 

“I’ll tell you about them later.” He says, tucking his face back into your neck. You have a few too he’ll want to know about. “Right now, I want to see you.” 

You smirk up at him. “Then you best get to work, Captain.” 

He matches your smirk, sitting up on his heels. “That’s brave, issuing orders to your commanding officer.” 

“Well, in certain situations, I outrank you.” You reply. 

He unbuckles your med kit, setting it on the floor. “Don’t tell me Kix has been putting ideas in your head.” His hands slip under your shirt, trailing along your skin. “I’ll make a pass, though. This is one situation where I don't mind being told what to do.” 

You gape up at him for a moment. “Do you...like being told what to do, Captain?” 

He pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it onto the floor. Your breastband quickly follows, heat blossoming across your neck and chest as he stares at you. You feel a bit self-conscious under the intensity of his gaze. “Only if it’s you.” He says. “You’re so beautiful.” 

You smile shyly, reaching out for him. “Not quite as beautiful as you.” 

“Definitely more beautiful than me.” He says, leaning into your touch. 

“I’ve been waiting so long for you.” You say, caressing his face. 

“Then I won’t make you wait any longer.” He presses a kiss to your lips before sitting back up, undoing his belt. He slips his pants off, tugging yours off as well. 

You should feel self conscious being bare in front of him, especially only knowing him for a short time, but it feels natural. You know it’s natural. You were meant to be together. 

He slots his body against yours once more, his hard length pressing up against your core. You’re already wet in anticipation, more than ready to seal your bond completely. It’s a bit strange after having thought you might get rejected if you ever revealed it to him, but you’re glad he’s at least willing to break the rules about this. 

His hips grind against yours, dragging his length against your folds. You moan, spreading your legs further for him. You want him as close as possible. You need to have him as close as possible. 

“You’re so wet for me.” He groans, dragging his hips against yours. 

“I need you.” You whimper, arms wrapping around him. “Kriff, please Rex.” 

“Yes ma’am.” He says, kissing your throat before he reaches down, lining himself up. 

Hearing him say it stirs something in you, heat rushing straight between your legs. You slot that away for later, focusing instead on him as he slowly presses into you. The stretch burns a bit, but he goes slow, moving inch by inch until he’s seated inside you. You shiver at the close contact, your body coming alive from how connected you are. 

“Kriff, you’re so tight.” He groans, dropping to his elbows over you. “Fit me so perfectly.” 

“Well, I was made for you.” You say, wrapping your arms back around him. 

“So perfect for me.” He says, pressing a kiss to your lips. 

He begins moving, small thrusts as he drags his hips against yours. You cling to him, wanting him as close as you can get him. The sensations and the thought of having him so close set every nerve ending alight in your body, energy thrumming through you. You know it's the connection, the link you share coming alive. 

You love the feeling of it. 

It’s a bit sloppy and awkward, as neither of you are experts. You don’t care though, the pleasure still building as picks up speed. He’s close too, you can tell by the desperation of his movements. You slip a hand down between you, circling your clit as you near the edge. 

He stills as he cums, your own orgasm washing over you at the same time. You cling to him, holding him as close as possible as you ride out your highs together. 

“How much time do you think we have?” You say, holding him on top of you. 

“More than enough.” He says, letting himself sink closer to you. “I told Fives to keep them out as long as possible. 

***

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You had been so comfortable and comforted by Rex’s presence, you had just drifted off without trying. 

It’s the arrival of the other troopers that has drawn you from your slumber. Rex’s arm tightens around your waist, obviously having heard their return as well. So much for keeping this a secret. 

You hope maybe they’ll all stumble to bed tiredly and not even look in your direction. You’re hidden from the door by Rex’s body, his arm pulling the sheet up higher inconspicuously. 

“I see the Captain’s been busy while we were away.” A smug voice says. 

“Ha! I called it! You owe me 20 credits!” Another voice calls out. 

“Fives,” Rex growls, going to turn around, but you sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest. You’re still very much naked. 

“Wait, did you bet on us?” You ask in disbelief. 

“You owe me another 20!” Hardcase exclaims, slapping Jesse’s shoulder.

Rex wraps an arm around you, pulling you back down. “Let them have their fun. I’ll make them all do extra rounds in the training room tomorrow.” 

There’s a simultaneous groan from all of them as they shuffle to their bunks to get ready. 

“Don’t worry, cyar’ika. Your secret is safe with us.” Hardcase says. 

“Just as long as I don’t feel the bunk shaking.” Jesse says, climbing up to the top bunk. 

“No promises.” Rex smirks, wrapping his arms back around you.  

Taglist:

@stressed-cherry

[lemonyinks]

PT. 2 of Drawing Legionnaires eyes: Imra

inspired by @ neapoliting's design and the 2006 cartoon design, my two favorite Imra looks.

[darrisgrove]

The Eye of the Wheel NOTES

-"Why did you have to keep doing something just because it had always been done that way?"

-Ravens chapter done. I never knew reading about village life, sheering sheep, and carrying water to and from a river would be so interesting.

-Shai'tan sounds kind of like Satan.

-"As the Wheel of Time turns, places wear many names. Men wear many names, many faces. Different faces, but always the same man. Yet no one knows the great Pattern the Wheel weaves, or even the Pattern of an Age. We can only watch, and study, and hope."

"In wars, boy, fools kill other fools for foolish causes."

-"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills."

-What happened to Tam is gonna make me cry.

-It's really scary to think that the boys wanted to go find trollocs when they were kids know that we know what trollocs can really do. Those boys would never have made it back alive had they actually gone.

-Gods I love Thom. I'm sure he's not a major character, but I have enjoyed his appearance since the moment he arrived.

-Are Paet al'Caar and Aemon al Caar al Thorin related?

-Moiraine dropping the fact that they will be running and hiding for the rest of their short lives was kind of a slap in the face. And they had no reaction to it at all.

-The rats died with broken backs. That's a fun nod.

-Images seen around the characters by Min: Lan: 7 ruined towers around his head, a baby in a cradle holding a sword. Thom: a man, not him, juggling fire, a white tower. Perrin: a wolf, a broken crown, flowering trees. Mat: a red eagle, an eye on a balancing scale, a dagger with a ruby, a horn, and a laughing face. Rand: a sword that isn't a sword, a golden crown of laurel leaves, a beggar's staff, pouring water on sand, a bloody hand and a white hot iron, three women standing over a funeral bier with him on it, black rock wet with blood, lighting around him both striking him or coming out of him.

-I like Thom :)

-Shadar Logoth.

[bapple117]

File Not Found a radiostatic one-shot - AO3 link

Vox x Alastor (Unrelated to my main radiostatic series)

Minor angst, fluff, romance

During a system update, something goes awry for Vox and the update messes up, reverting his memories back to ones he'd saved from 1976... back from when he and Alastor had still been friends and partners in crime.

Confused and scared in a Hell he doesn't recognise, Vox searches out for the one familiar presence he knows will always be there - his old friend, his mentor, the Radio Demon.

6k words

(thank you @impale-me-radio-daddy for the guidance and inspo on how to format this nicely, ily)

The afternoon that Vox finally decides to relent to the ceaseless, nagging notification buzzing in his head daily - system update ready - happens to be a pretty dreary one. Rain falls lightly from the inexplicable skies of Hell; frail little drops that pitter-patter against the sleek windows of the Vee’s building, smearing like tears on the glossed glass.

Vox has been putting off the update for about a week, groaning every time the reminder pops up; remind me again tomorrow, he opts for, waving off the alert with an impatient hand gesture. Vox has better things to be doing. Spending an hour sitting static, plugged into the mainframe, waiting for files to finish installing - it feels as tedious as it sounds. 

But then, Vox stumbles upon this day; this sleepy, rainy Sunday afternoon, with nothing much on his schedule and no-one around to play with. Valentino is off filming; Velvette is at some conference, of all things. Vox finds himself milling about in the lounge, reclining on the sofa, dangling his leg in a fidget as he scrolls through his phone.

The alert strikes again. 

System update ready! Initiate now?

“Ugh, fine,” Vox sighs out, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get this out of the way, then, shall we?”

Staggering sluggishly into his control room, Vox flicks a few switches to boot systems up and then scrambles around, looking for the right cables. He mutters to himself; hushed, irritated mumbles of nothings and curses as he sorts through the mess on his desk. 

The alert bleeps at him noisily, again. 

“Yeah! Yeah,” Vox says, his annoyance and exasperation tinging his voice with a sharp edge. “I’m fuckin’ going as fast as I fucking can, just fuckin’…”

Vox’s narrow fingers land, finally, on the correct set of cables; he snorts to himself in victory. There we fuckin’ go. Settling into this chair, the Television Demon snaps the cable attachments into the back of his head, feeling an immediate surge of tingling power and connectivity in his nerves. 

“Alright, initiate mainframe interaction,” Vox says aloud, to no one but himself and his interface. “Update install, authorisation granted.”

An option pops up on Vox’s screen, and he can see it in his mind, too; allow system override?

“Uhhh, fuck, I forgot what that does,” Vox says, weary. “Let me get more info on that.”

System override will enter you into stasis. The system will commence the update and will automatically authorise any necessary backup installations should any errors occ-

Vox waves away the information screen, scoffing. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” He says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, blah blah blah. I haven’t needed to restore from fuckin’ backup in ages, who gives a shit. I could do with a nap anyway, so. Let’s fuckin’ go.”

Vox authorises control of the update over to the system AI, and the initiating process slips him into a deep but comfortable sleep-state. 

Initialising… 

Preparing to install…

Update installing…

….

….

….

….

Update unable to complete. Retry?

/ AUTHORISE RETRY: YES (SYSTEM proc)

….

….

….

….

ERROR

ERROR

ERROR

ERROR

error

—

—

Restoring from backup 

….

r e s t o r i n g …

Vox wakes, unsure as to why he was even asleep in the first place; his eyes open and reveal to him an unfamiliar space. What the fuck? He looks around, startled, confronted with a legion of strange screens and devices that he doesn’t recognise. 

Standing, stumbling, Vox lists forward and something prevents him from moving; cables, latching on to him like the gripping tentacles of some great beast. Grunting in confusion, Vox yanks at these, pulling them out of his head; his head… It’s… flat. 

Vox feels at his own face, fingers frantic and seeking a familiarity that he does not find. His own head is alien to him, thinner and flatter than he’s ever had it before. The TV Demon steps forward and peers into the reflective surface of one of the blacked-out screens before him, catching a foggy view of himself; a face he only half-recognises peers back at him, its expression alarmed. 

What the fuck is going on?!

Vox trudges through his memory in an attempt to figure out what he last recalls; after all, perhaps he got drunk and ended up… here, wherever this is, and he simply doesn’t remember… Yes. That’s the likely option, although he supposes that doesn’t account for the new face, so… 

Okay, okay. Stay calm. 

Something in the mass of strange technology in front of him bleeps some kind of alert, and Vox jumps; with wide eyes and a heaving chest, Vox looks around for the source. A notification, blinking on the smallest screen on the console table. New message. Vox lifts this device, peering at it; from what he can tell it seems to be some sort of small, handheld television. Disregarding this, Vox places the strange gadget back down, gingerly. 

This isn’t his home, after all; wherever he’s managed to get himself, he needs to get out, as fast as possible, before the owner shows up. Another screen amongst the larger ones has a wall of text; curious, Vox gives this a quick glance. 

Update was unable to install: reason, unknown

System was unable to restore from backup: reason, backup not created

System created custom backup made from uploaded / offloaded memories

Date of most recently uploaded memory: 1976

Memory backup install: complete

“What the…” Vox’s eyes dart quickly as he rescans this information repeatedly. “1976, but… But that’s now…”

A quick look at the bottom of the screen would happen to reveal information to quite the contrary; according to these devices, the year is actually almost fifty years later. 

“You gotta be fuckin’…” Vox’s words catch in his throat as a strange, disquieting feeling of nostalgia mixed with déjà vu washes over him like a cold dread. 

No. No. This can’t be happening; he has somehow time travelled? To the future? No; this can’t be possible - Vox assumes he is merely dreaming. 

When the Television Demon attempts to escape the strange labyrinth of a building he is in, he’s met with images of the bizarre new face he seems to have, plastered in every corner. Posters. Cut-outs. Advertisements of all kinds; it is overwhelming. Breathing heavily and feeling like he might be going insane, Vox looks for an exit in the bottom lobby of the building. A small, nervous-looking demon approaches him, its hands trembling around a thin, flat device. 

“Uhh, Mr Vox, sir?” The demon asks. “Can, I, uh, just get you to si-“

“What year is it?” Vox says to the demon, urgently. “And how the fuck do I get out of here?”

“What… uh, what year, is it, sir?” The demon asks, perplexed. 

“Ah, fuck it,” Vox says, distracted by a sudden glimpse of the way out. 

On the streets of Hell, the nightmare continues; the city is a pulsating, noisy blur of lights and neon and voices, so many voices, all chattering together. Sinners walk down the sidewalks, gazes glued to devices in their hands, despite the dappling rain drops that paint every surface. Vox careers around, unsure who to talk to or what to even say - what does one say, when they believe they’ve woken up in the body of their future self?

There’s only one demon Vox seeks, now; his oldest, truest friend. The one he knows will have the answers. 

His trustworthy, ever-reliable mentor; the Radio Demon. 

Alastor sits in the lounge of the Hazbin Hotel, a mug of coffee in his hand and a headache throbbing in his skull. The cohort of the hotel squawk together in delight over some ridiculous new something-or-other on Angel’s phone, and Alastor has had enough. Eye twitching, he focusses instead - for once - on the television set which has been left to run idly in the background. 

The Radio Demon would never normally give the confounded television any time of day, but something catches his eye - a report, an urgent report.

CEO of VoxTek Enterprises Missing For Several Days In Unusual Disappearance

Alastor’s eyes narrow as he takes this information on board; he lets it roll around in his mind like a weighty marble, occasionally bumping into spongy feelings. Amusement, at his rival’s misfortune. Indifference, at the consequences it poses. Satisfaction. Victory.

But there is curiosity, there, too; and something else. Something deeper. Something that sits embedded within Alastor, a left over remnant from all the decades he and Vox had been the closest of allies. 

Concern.

A part of him, even now, festers for Vox - worries about his whereabouts, at this revealing of his disappearance. Where in Hell is he? What is he doing? Is he plotting, or has he perished? Alastor does not know, and the lack of knowing bothers him so wholly that he cannot help but meddle. Without uttering a word, Alastor releases his shadow, commanding it as if it is a scent hound, given only one purpose; find Vox, and tell me where he is. Alastor’s shadow slips out, unseen by anyone, and is gone. Out the door. Out, into Hell; searching.

Vox has been in a state of deranged hiding for several days. The Hell he knows from his own time has warped and shifted, and is rendered unfamiliar and unforgiving to him, now. Having come to terms with his reality, somewhat - that he has been displaced in time, somehow - Vox had attempted to seek out Alastor in locations he knew would be likely haunts. 

He had even shown up to where he’d known Alastor - at least in his time - lived, a shoddy apartment in a dodgier end of the city. The hunt was fruitless; Alastor was nowhere to be seen. Desperately seeking the comforting face of his dearest friend but only finding his own face littered on every street corner billboard, Vox grew manic. Unused to the level of notoriety he clearly has in this reality - he cannot step a yard without some sinner approaching him, apparently - Vox sought out the one corner of the Pride Ring he knew would never change.

And so, Vox has been seeking refuge in the blissfully familiar and thankfully never-evolving Cannibal Town. A place he knows that Alastor himself regularly frequents, and yet… Vox hasn’t even had so much of a glimpse of the red-coated Radio Demon. 

With nowhere to go and no friendly strangers offering assistance, Vox is alone, and afraid. He feels pathetic. He sits in an alleyway, avoiding the hungry gazes of cannibals, clutching at himself, fighting back tears. Vox hates himself for feeling so weak, for sinking this low. The version of himself that had grinned so smugly back at him from posters and strange, glowing screens had looked so self-assured and confident. Is that who he is, in the future? Vox feels like he might be going mad. 

“Well, this is a sorry state of affairs, don’t you think?”

Vox’s flat head whips up; Alastor is there, before him, standing prim and proper as usual, staff clasped behind his back. Oh, what a sight for sore eyes he is - Vox is immediately cheered, a grateful grin spreading across his screen, his soul feeling lifted.

“Al!” Vox exclaims, rushing to stand. “Oh thank fuck, I’ve been looking all over for you, something fuckin’ insane is happen-“

Alastor steps backwards, repulsed, as Vox attempts to get closer. There is clear disdain and mistrust in his red eyes, and Vox feels a blade of confusion and hurt stab him somewhere.

“Al, it’s me,” Vox says, laughing nervously. “It’s me, Vox?”

“I know who you are,” Alastor says, slowly. “Well, I just came to see for myself if the rumours were true, that you’ve fallen to rock bottom, and here you are! Quite the show, old pal, now, I will be getting on my way-“

“No, Al,” Vox says, tone despairing. “Please, you gotta help me, something is… Look, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, okay? I went to your apartment, but someone else fucking lives there now, I don’t fuckin’-“

“Which apartment?” Alastor says, raising an eyebrow. Curious, despite himself. 

“The one in fuckin’ Dodge,” Vox says. 

“I haven’t lived there in decades,” Alastor huffs, unamused; he turns away.

“No! Look, Al, please,” Vox says, grabbing Alastor’s arm; Alastor’s furious eyes burn at the sight of Vox’s claws clutching him. “This is what I’m trying to tell you. Something has happened to me, I’m not the me you know, uhh, right now…”

Alastor is clearly affronted, vexed beyond comprehension; but he hesitates, and doesn’t flee. His pupils glide over Vox’s screen in frantic movement, seeking understanding. What has gotten IN to him? All he finds in Vox’s expression is sadness, fear and hope.

“Something has happened to me, Al,” Vox says, loosening his grip a little. “One moment I’m there, 1976, we’d just done the Edsharp job, right, remember that? Anyway, the next moment, I wake up, and I’m fucking here.” 

Laughing; Alastor is laughing. Vox is bewildered, heart sinking; Alastor brushes Vox’s hand off from his coat sleeve, then smooths the fabric down. After he is done letting out his stream of wry cackles, Alastor exhales out a mockingly contented sigh. 

“Very good, Vox, old pal!” Alastor says, brightly. “Deeply entertaining, I must say! I suppose you expect me to believe you have forgotten all that has passed between us? My, my, Vox! You should know better than any that I know a performance when I see one.”

“What?!” Vox breathes out, exasperated. “Al, no! I need you, I need your help right now, I have no fucking idea what’s going on. I mean, my fucking face is everywhere and it’s driving me crazy!”

“Well,” Alastor says, inspecting his claws. “We agree on one thing, at least.”

Something drips in the background of the alleyway; a leak in a water pipe, perhaps. Vox blinks, confounded and not understanding why his dearest friend isn’t listening to him - or even willing to look at him. 

“Look,” Vox says, trying to compose himself. “I know it sounds insane, Al, okay? But I’ve fuckin’… I’ve time travelled some how, and I dunno what the FUCK is going on. Like I said, the last thing I remember is being in 1976, doing the Edsharp job, with you, and then I woke up here in this body with this crazy thin head, and I couldn’t fuckin’ find you, and… Al! Please!”

Alastor is walking away, having heard enough; this is some ploy of Vox’s, clearly, he thinks. His bruised heart has no energy for it. It is a cruel joke, a game that Vox is tricking him with, and Alastor wants no part in it. 

“Alastor!” Vox cries out, desperate. “You said you’d never let me down! You said you’d always be there for me! Don’t you remember?”

Alastor stops, his blood feeling thin and cold in his veins; flashes of his own memories bully their way into his mind. Flashes of the friendship he’d once treasured; Vox, his old boxy head. Smiles. Drinks. Jobs. Dances. It’s all still there. 

“You’re the only one who can help me,” Vox says, sounding hopelessly dejected. “You gotta believe me, Al, please. I’m so fucking scared right now, I don’t know what the fuck to do. Please.”

Turning on his heel, Alastor isn’t sure what compels him to do so, but he decides to humour the moment. Alastor analyses the micro movements and changes in Vox’s expression, observing carefully, and he opts to test the waters for a reaction. 

“Can’t you speak to Velvette? Or Valentino, perhaps?” Alastor asks, the names tasting like bitter filth in his mouth. 

“Al,” Vox says, squinting in clear confusion. “Who the fuck are they? You just making up fucking names now, or what?”

It hits Alastor like a brick wall to the face; Vox is telling the truth. He truly doesn’t remember, and here is a version of Vox who still adores him, plucked straight from the past. It makes no sense, but then, things rarely do make sense, in Hell. Alastor’s intrigue overrides his suspicion, and so, he relents. 

“Fine,” Alastor says. “Come with me. I still keep a private dwelling, fairly close to here, actually. Come along, then.”

Around a dining room table, two Overlords sit; a stiff drink in hand for both, and an awkward silence drifting between them. Alastor is still on edge, guarded and tensely watching Vox with keen circumspection. Vox is exhausted, ragged-looking and slumping in his seat. His clothes are mussed and the creasing lines around his on-screen eyes seem to deepen with each moment that passes. 

The TV Demon looks up at Alastor then, and the shrewdly evident dislike in Alastor’s gaze tells Vox a story he does not want to accept. Something has happened between them, in the years he no longer remembers. 

“What went wrong?” Vox asks, suddenly. Alastor’s grin is unfaltering but his left ear flicks, twice. 

“That’s a rather big question,” Alastor muses, wry. “And not one I’m sure I am qualified to answer.”

“No, not everything,” Vox says, sighing. “But what happened… between us?”

Alastor lets out a short huffing sound, looking away; his grip around his whiskey glass tightens. His expression darkens, his frown evident in all but his smile. Alastor feels an internal conflict pulling at him, wondering how much he should say; his eyes flicker around the room as he contemplates. Vox observes this, worried. Eventually, Alastor lets out a long exhale, and shrugs.

“We fell out,” he says, simply. 

Vox is immediately distraught, his mouth opening and staying open in a slackened shape of clear upset. 

“You and me? We fell out?”

“Yes, that is what I said,” Alastor snaps, the topic clearly sore. “We don’t speak anymore, save for the odd spat over the airwaves.”

“Al, what?” Vox asks, sounding pained. “We don’t fuckin’ speak anymore? But you’re my best friend!”

Vox reaches out, his claws seeking Alastor; they rest on Alastor’s arm, and the Radio Demon flinches immediately, withdrawing his arm with a snarl, his whole body tensing. Alastor’s eyes blacken, his ears are flat against his head. There’s a crackle of screeching radio feedback. 

Alastor stands, feeling an ocean of thrashing emotions pulsing through him; it is too much for him to try and grapple with. The sight of Vox’s distress is making him feel unwell, which infuriates him, and the whole ordeal feels deeply unwanted. 

“I will allow you to stay here until your memories return,” Alastor says, speaking quickly. “Other than that, I wish to have nothing to do with you, do you understand?”

“Al, I-“

“Goodbye, Vox, old pal,” Alastor says, and then he is gone.

Despite this, Alastor does visit the apartment again. And again. And again. And again. 

The first time Alastor visits is caused by some wretched bit of gnawing curiosity that itches within his skull and will not leave him. It refuses to be satiated by simply sending his shadow out for reconnaissance; Alastor must see things for himself. 

When Alastor appears in the apartment at some early hour in the morning, Vox is asleep on the sofa. Inspecting the bedroom, Alastor can tell Vox has left the bed entirely untouched. Has he been avoiding it? As what, some gesture of politeness?

Alastor rolls his eyes, and readies to leave again; but then, something stops him. He stares at the television demon, sprawled and snoring on the sofa. Vox is too tall for it, really; his legs dangle over the edge and one of his hands drags on the floor. His screen is off, black as night, but Alastor can hear the sound of his soft breathing. 

The Radio Demon stares with brazen intensity. The thought of having a chance to converse with a version of Vox who still loves him is deeply tempting, Alastor has to admit; the Vox he knows now wants him dead. But this Vox - whatever has happened to him - doesn’t seem to recall any of that bitterness or hatred at all. Alastor finds himself feeling an odd sense of longing for his oldest friend. 

Ridiculous. 

Alastor leaves like a thief in the night, cursing his own pathetic sentimentality, and Vox is none the wiser.

The second visit, Alastor shows up to the apartment rationalising it to himself as a mistake - a misjudged bit of teleportation, or his shadow acting up, perhaps. Vox, reading in an armchair in the living room, hears a sound from the kitchen; slapping the book shut, he stands, wary, and approaches the kitchen doorway. Vox prepares himself for an intruder, but on seeing it’s just Alastor, he is delighted. 

“Al!”

Alastor tenses, immediately; to hear his own name said so joyfully in Vox’s voice is both a tonic and a dagger to his heart. His lip curls above his toothy grin, but Vox is undisturbed. 

“I’m so glad you came back, Al,” Vox says, grinning, his hands on his hips. “I’ve been wanting to-“

“I came purely to make sure you have all that you need, I assume you are not leaving here much,” Alastor says, haughtily. “Can’t let you starve now, can I? Although that would be rather amusing…”

“I can conjure stuff, I’m fine,” Vox says, his smile twitching upwards on one side. “Turns out future me has a lot more powers now, which is, uh, cool, I guess.”

Alastor rolls his eyes; Vox doesn’t let it discourage him.

“Wontcha sit with me for a bit?” He tries, screen beaming. “I wanna know more about what I’ve missed. Y’know. The years I didn’t see, or, whatever.”

Vox is left wanting, though; Alastor has reached about as much as he can tolerate, and disappears, without a word.

The third time Alastor appears in the apartment, Vox chooses not to make a big deal out of it. Instead, he simply stays where he’s sat, reading again; not his first choice of pastime, but Alastor doesn’t own a television and so there isn’t much else to do. Alastor stands, staring at Vox for a while, saying nothing. Eventually, Vox looks up from his page, frowning. 

“You just gonna stand there, or…?”

“What year did you say you last recall?” Alastor says, bluntly. 

“1976,” Vox says. “That’s the last thing I know. I know, uh… I know time has passed, Al, but I don’t have any memory of it, at all.”

“Hrmm,” Alastor vocalises, turning his staff in his hand. “I suspect something has gone faulty with your frivolous technology.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Come here,” Alastor says. 

“What?”

“I said, come here.”

Standing, Vox paces over to Alastor, unsure as to where this is going. Alastor moves, too, closing the distance between them. Faces so near together that Vox can almost feel Alastor’s exhales, Alastor pinches at Vox’s screen with his claws, turning his head this way and that. Alastor is still tense, but he’s also really looking, his gaze washing over Vox with fixed intent. 

Vox’s pulse beats hotly in his veins, adrenaline flooding him; he is silent, stunned and frozen into place. Alastor’s eyes are all over him. 

“I see no injury on you,” Alastor says, and he removes his hand; his fingers flex, feeling burned by the touch. Not entirely unpleasantly. 

“No, uh. I’m not hurt, no,” Vox says, dazed. 

“That makes one of us, then,” Alastor mutters, looking privately forlorn, his gaze diverted. 

“Al,” Vox says, his tone gentle but pleading. “What happened? Between us, I mean? I can tell things aren’t like before, but… I fuckin’ hate that you can hardly even look at me.”

Vox reaches out a hand, meaning for it to come to Alastor’s cheek; before it can reach its goal, Alastor is gone. Lost to shadow. Vox stands alone once more. 

Fuck. 

The fourth visit of Alastor’s, Vox is prepared. Having magicked a bottle of rye - a brand he knows Alastor cannot refuse, his favourite - Vox has also dug through Alastor’s record collection to find the recordings he knows Alastor derives the most pleasure from. Knowing Alastor as well as he does, Vox manages to predict the timing of the next visit with impeccable accuracy; Alastor shows up, right on cue, one languid Sunday afternoon. 

Can he resist a glass of whiskey? No, he can’t; neither can he resist another two after, either. Soon the two demons are tipsy together, sat on the living room floor, jazz spilling out in warm, woody tones around them. 

As Vox had hoped, the truth comes out; the details of their conflict tumble out of Alastor like liquid poured from a bottle. How Vox had changed. How he had built his empire. How he had wanted Alastor to join him - had pushed it, hard, and had spoiled things. It’s a one-sided account, of course, tinged with Alastor’s bias and resentment and hurt; Vox feels guiltily to blame, anyhow. 

“Gee, I’m sorry, Al,” Vox says, staring at the glass in his hand. “Future me sounds like a fuckin’ asshole.”

“Mmmm,” Alastor hums, briefly raising his eyebrows in wry acknowledgement. “I’ll say.”

“Well, he’s not me, Al,” Vox tries, clearly inebriated. “I mean, he was, or, I will be… I mean, that guy, he’s not in me right now, or I mean, I guess he is-“

Alastor is laughing, and Vox’s world feels like it will continue to spin, finally; Alastor’s laughter is the most glorious sound he could hope to hear. Vox grins giddily like an idiot, overjoyed. 

“I forgot how entertaining you can be,” Alastor says, smirking. “Mmm. I suppose a part of me has… missed this, if I dig deep enough.”

There is truth in Alastor’s words, and this is evidenced by how frequent his visits to the apartment become; soon, Alastor is visiting every other evening. He stays for hours at a time, occasionally bringing things - old newspapers, ground coffee, cartons of cigarettes. 

Vox catches up on years of history as best he can through the newspapers, but he struggles to really comprehend it. It’s all too much; all he really wants to focus on is the comforting familiarity of Alastor. 

And, he does; they focus on each other, wholly now. Alastor lets his guard down somewhere around the eleventh visit. Each time Alastor materialises, Vox is ready for him with smiles and greetings. Alastor feels warmed by it; Vox’s adoring attention is addicting. They play cards, they listen to jazz, they talk. 

One evening, Alastor attempts to teach Vox how to play chess. Vox, frustrated at struggling to grasp it, ends the game early, groaning. By the nineteenth visit, they can play a full game together. Alastor always wins, of course, but Vox enjoys it anyway. Any time spent together is a gift to him, bored and cooped up in the apartment as he is. 

Eventually, Alastor speaks aloud what both demons know to be true; that Vox cannot hideout forever. Vox lets out a petulant moan, his mouth full; they are eating together at the dinner table, something delicious and divinely creamy that Alastor has made, all thinly sliced potatoes and copious butter. Alastor sips his glass of red wine and observes Vox carefully. 

“I know,” Vox says, begrudgingly. “But can we just, y’know. Not think about the future for now?”

“How very unlike you,” Alastor quips, smirking. “But fine by me. You can stay here for as long as you like. Let the rest of Hell panic over your absence, for all I care. What a ruckus they’ve made.”

“I’m not ready to face it, Al,” Vox shakes his head, prodding his food with his fork. “I don’t know this life that my future self has, I don’t know about any of the things you’ve told me he’s done or the demons he runs with. I don’t want any of it, I just want…”

“This?” Alastor offers, coyly. “Us?”

“…Yeah,” Vox breathes out, nodding. 

“Then you shall have it,” Alastor smiles, sincerely. “For as long as you want. Or, until your memories return, in which case I shall be very sorry to see you go.”

“Pfff,” Vox scoffs. “I won’t forget this, I won’t forget you, Al.”

“We shall see,” Alastor says, mostly to himself; he swirls the wine in his glass, and tries to ignore the strange sense of urgency building in his gut.

Several weeks pass. Vox is kept like a willing cockatiel in its cage; waiting, always, for Alastor to visit. And Alastor does visit, as often as he can. Excuses given to Charlie range from believable to the absurd - oh, I have some business to attend to! A lesser-known demon requires my help on the other end of town. Oh, I thought about going to get a new hairstyle!

No one in the Hazbin Hotel thinks to correlate Alastor’s strange behaviour and absences with the decreasingly reported-on disappearance of Vox, the CEO of VoxTek; truthfully, no one gives a shit what Alastor gets up to in his free time. No one bats an eye.

Alastor has been generous, too, supplying Vox with all kinds of pleasantries; clothes he might like to wear, new books to read, new records to listen to. A functioning radio. A well-stocked fridge. Vox isn’t sure if it’s a case of slight Stockholm syndrome, or what, but he finds himself not really minding being the Radio Demon’s secret pet. 

Vox is attempting to play a game of chess with himself when Alastor arrives; the sleeves of a soft sweater rolled up on his arms, and his tongue stuck out in concentration as he moves the pieces on the board. He’s been playing white, imagining the black side as Alastor, trying to predict how Alastor would play. The Radio Demon figures this out immediately when he glances over, and he grins wide. 

“I’d never make that move,” Alastor says, sitting down without hesitation to join Vox at the chess table. “You’ve done this all wrong, Vox, honestly. Do you really think I’d-“

“Hey,” Vox smiles, eyes soft. “How was your day?”

“Urgh,” Alastor sighs, running his hands through his hair. “Exhausting. More bonding activities, wouldn’t you know it. I grow weary of it, Vox, truly. Makes me want to go out and kill things.”

Vox laughs, resetting the chess board by placing the pieces back in their usual homes. Alastor slips off his coat, letting his shadow take it from him and hang it up. 

“Do you remember that loan shark mob, down at Ricky’s?” Vox asks, his smile mischievous. “You swallowed almost all of them whole. Remember that?”

“Oh! Yes, like it was yesterday,” Alastor nods, amused. 

“It kinda was, for me,” Vox deadpans, shrugging. “’75, that was. I’m surprised you remember it still.”

Alastor pauses; there is a real reason he remembers that particular occasion, but he does not voice it. Still, the memory echoes in his mind; how Vox hadn’t been able to shut up about it afterwards, exclaiming praises and admiration for Alastor, how in awe he’d been at such a display of power. Alastor has never forgotten that feeling. How it feels to be accepted, fully, even the ugliest, most monstrous parts of himself; something Vox always did. 

Later, before Alastor leaves, there is a moment. An important moment, one that weighs heavily on their minds for the next few days, after. As Alastor puts his coat back on, telling Vox about how he may not be able to visit for a little while, Vox stops Alastor with a hand on his arm. 

Freezing, Alastor looks up; Vox leans forward, and kisses Alastor. Quickly, chastely, just a peck - warm, buzzing screen meeting cool, dry lips. Vox isn’t sure what drives him to do it - beyond the fact he’s been in love with Alastor his entire fucking damnation, of course - and he regrets it immediately, dreading Alastor’s reaction. 

Vox pulls back, avoiding Alastor’s eyes. Alastor is reeling, wide eyed, his smile a faint, taut line; but he places his claws at the base of Vox’s screen, lifting, making Vox look at him. Vox’s expression is full of anguish. Alastor smiles, genuinely, and brushes his thumb over the base of Vox’s screen. 

“Give me a little time,” Alastor says, quietly. “I need to digest this. I will return.”

“Al, I’m so sor-“

“This isn’t a rejection,” Alastor says, kindly. “I just need to collect my thoughts on the matter. I’ll be back just as soon as I can be, alright?”

“O-okay,” Vox breathes out.

Alastor doesn’t visit again for a week. 

Vox feels like he might go mad; he paces the apartment, overthinking and worrying, wondering if perhaps it would be better if he regains his memories, so he can simply move on with his life. Alastor had said it wasn’t a rejection, but where is he now? Vox has been alone for days, left ruminating, trapped in this prison of his own choosing. 

Another evening with no sign of Alastor appears to be drawing to a close, and Vox readies for sleep, pulling off his sweater; but then there is a noise, and Vox knows Alastor has come. Breathing heavily, dressed only in his slacks, Vox pokes his head out of the bathroom doorway. 

Alastor is there, looking like a lost child, his pupils blown out and his hands wringing; he turns, and sees Vox, and their hearts connect silently. There is a palpable energy, and Alastor’s chest is heaving. 

“Alastor,” Vox starts, his voice a whisper. 

“Promise me,” Alastor says, his words ragged as he tries to still his breathing. “Promise me you won’t ever remember.”

Vox’s entire nervous system feels rigid with the tension of the moment; he swallows, a myriad of promises he could make swimming through his mind, none of them breaching the air. He lets out a shy laugh, not knowing what to say. Alastor walks over to him, slowly, looking like a startled animal; he eyes Vox’s bare chest. Vox’s deep blue skin is freckled with scars, some of which Alastor knows he will have no memory of gaining. 

“Al, you know I have no control over-“

“Promise me,” Alastor says, sounding desperate. “If you remember, it will all be spoiled, Vox. I can’t… I can’t… I don’t know why I want this, but I do, I do-“

Alastor’s words are halted as Vox rushes into him, pushing him against the wall, the heat of their bodies combining as they are pressed together, and then they are kissing, and it is the only thing either of them wants to feel, ever again. Moaning into each other’s mouths, hands grabbing and frantic, tongues colliding hungrily; the two demons hold each other, craving further and deeper closeness. When Vox pulls back, panting and breathless, Alastor lets out a needy sound of longing. 

“I l-love you, Al,” Vox breathes out, stroking at Alastor’s face. “I’ve loved you, for a really, really long fuckin’ time. And if this is a second chance, or, or-“

“I have fallen,” Alastor manages, gasping somewhat. “Also.”

“Wha-what?”

“I, too,” Alastor’s words shudder out of him; his voice is nought but a whisper. “I don’t understand it, but… I suppose a part of me always did, deep down, but, I…”

“You… You love me?” Vox says, hardly daring to believe it. 

“Yes,” Alastor says, his grip on Vox’s arms tightening. “And if this is to be a second chance, then I shan’t let it go to waste. I know what the other side of losing this looks like, and I won’t let it happen again.”

Vox laughs, his heart filling with exhilaration, and Alastor laughs with him, still breathless. They kiss, again; and it is the sweetest taste either of them has ever savoured. 

“I think me losing my memory might be the best thing that ever happened to me, huh?” Vox jokes, his whole body feeling flushed with love and joy. 

Neither demon knows what the future holds; how they will proceed, how Vox will live his life. Alastor has some ideas, but truly, neither of them care, in this moment. They have found each other again, against all the odds, and have truly found each other, deeply this time. The Radio Demon has finally fallen in love back, not even understanding how; but not all questions need answers. 

“Yes, Vox, old pal,” Alastor grins. “I think we happen to be in agreement, on this one.”

The faults of technology have saved them, and neither Vox nor Alastor could be any more grateful. Memories lost, a friendship restored, a love created. 

Perhaps, in the end, it was the best system update Vox has ever received. 

[milswrites]

How To Train Your Illyrian Prologue

Cassian X Morrigan'sSister!Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: Growing up in Windhaven doesn’t give you the best table manners. Cassian was an Illyrian soldier and that meant that most of the time he acted like a barbarian. When he enters Rhysand’s court, it’s you who must show him the ropes of proper Night Court etiquette. But will you be able to train the untrainable?

Warnings: A lil angsty

Notes: Let me know if you want to be tagged (see the note at the end for an explanation)

Hewn City was not a place for those of weak heart and fragile mind. You don’t just live in the Court of Nightmares; you have to fight in order to survive it.

To live is to adapt, and to adapt to a life in this wretched city you have to learn that the only thing that matters here is power, and to the likes of Kier and his small legion of command, power was everything.

To them power wasn’t about wealth, status or ownership. Power was about control, about the complacency of their subjugates and their greed for power ran deeper than any ocean. Making them willing servants to their desire for authority.

It was the coronation of the new High Lord, which caused the stir of panic within Hewn, whispers of the young male's new regimes flooded the ebony halls. Opposed to any senseless changes which may soon be made, the Lords under the mountain tightened their grip on the strings of control they had held for many years prior to this new ascension.

Yet their claws didn't sink as deeply as they had once assumed. Free from their control the ever changing winds blew in a new direction, now carrying a different type of news. The hushed whispers of a promise, an oath that the Night Court will one day see better and brighter days ahead. A promise that Kier so longed to crush.

The first upset was the bastard Illyrian’s promotion to the General of the Night Court’s army. A valued role once reserved for those of pure blood and golden lineage, now tarnished by the brute's filthy ancestry.

The next slight came soon after the first in the form of an announcement, Rhysand had selected his second-in-command, giving the gravely important role to a woman. Yet this was a decision Kier was too afraid to contest, the otherworldly beast which lurked behind Amren's silver eyes dared the bitter Lord to protest her new position, a cruel smirk slicing across her face as she absorbed his quaking form.

It was Morrigan’s advancement into Rhysand’s court that was the biggest slap in the face for Kier. An unwelcome sign that the power he held over the Night Court was indeed slipping from his vice-like grip. The Lord of Nightmares was smart enough to see this act for what it was, a threat. A ceremonious performance by the young High Lord which veiled the true meaning of the young woman’s appointment into Rhysand’s court.

It was a contest of power, Rhysand’s subtle way of bearing his sharp teeth at Kier in warning. His way of establishing the dominance he had over the Night Court.

Kier didn't take this insult lightly, the spiteful male beginning to sew the poisonous seeds of his hatred throughout Hewn City in protest. Slowly turning the inhabitants loyalty from their new High Lord back to himself, settling the roots of the thorns which would one day grow to choke Rhysand's new regime.

Power was power.

That's what Kier would prove to Rhysand. That try as Rhysand might to wear the mask of leadership, Hewn City belonged to him. Each miserable soul who had the misfortune of living there, every onyx brick which made up the hollow streets, Kier owned it all.

Though the Lord of Night was no fool, he saw the flames of rebellion which flickered in the treacherous streets of Hewn. Heard the accusatory whispers which were carried to him by the winds.

So it was decided that Rhysand would play Kier at his own game, opting to plant his own seeds of destruction within the Court of Nightmares. And what better way to uproot Kier's nefarious plans than by welcoming his youngest daughter into his court, choosing to further fuel the inferno which was currently waging war against the political infrastructure of Hewn.

And so Rhysand hired you, standing by with a smile as he watched Kier's world crumble and burn. Waiting to see what move the wounded male would make next.

Leaving you to hope that you don’t get hurt in the process.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: So I know you're probably confused about how we've gone from Part 8 to a prologue. I love the concept of this series I just knew I could do better on the execution so here we are! I’m sorry this has happened but I really want this to be something I’m proud of and I’m already so excited about it!

You can expect more arguments, more tension and more smut!

I'm going to tag all of you on this one just so you know what's going on, but if any of you would like to opt out of the tags I totally understand!

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added):

@esposadomd @gorlillaglue25 @tele86 @azriels-shadowsinger @justvibbinghere @mybestfriendmademe @kalulakunundrum @abysshaven @iluvyewman-blog @lectoracronica @st0rmyt @aunicornmademedoit @blackgirlmagicforever @awkardnerd @acourtof-wingspan @12358 @sh4nn @roses-are-red54330

[kujousgf]

II. DARK LEGION. mdni. 18+. series masterlist

pairings: wanda maximoff + mutant!reader

summary: you and wanda talk... kind of

warnings: slight violence

wc: 1.8k~

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It’s a stupid question, Wanda knows that. Of course you know about the prophecy, why else would you be here? There is no way that you just happened to show up out of nowhere without knowing. You nod, and you’re happy your hands are occupied in your pockets to stop them from twitching or fidgeting, you haven’t had this many eyes on you in, well, a while. “Agatha spoke to me about it briefly,” you pause for a second, “but I’m not entirely familiar with what it seems to be talking about.”

You hope Wanda understands what you mean when you say that without having to say it explicitly. You’re familiar with who Chthon is, but what you don’t know is what exactly the Darkhold means by Wanda being ‘born from Chthon’ and simply because of the nature of the God, you’re not sure she would be willing to discuss it so openly and in front of everyone. You’d been thinking about it for a combined few hours now, trying to figure out what exactly is meant by the word ‘born’. You were actually largely confused by the fact that this prophecy was in the Darkhold at all. That, however, was something you could think about later.

Agatha cuts in before Wanda can speak and effectively seals both of your fates, “Wanda, dear, why don’t you take our Hunter to the library? You two can discuss the prophecy while the rest of us come up with a plan. Maybe some of Tony’s gadgets can help track down Lilith.” She smiles after she’s done and you both know you can’t say no because it wasn’t really a question. You should just leave, really, go back to that middle of nowhere town and forget all of this even happened, but you still can’t shake that nagging feeling in the back of your head. The one that tells you this is something you have to do whether you want to or not.

It’s quiet as the two of you walk to the library, the only sound being your footsteps on the floor and the occasional bird chirping outside when you walk past an open window. It’s not an entirely awkward silence, it’s just that neither of you are particularly willing to start a conversation. You’re focused too much on trying to remember exactly where the library is just in case it becomes useful in the future, and Wanda’s trying not to focus on the way her heart speeds up when you're near.

In order to ignore the way your own heart seems to be beating out of your chest, something that hasn’t happened in a long long time, you attempt to make small talk. “What,” you pause for just a second, trying to figure out which question you want to ask, “did Tony mean when he said ‘new’ loverboy? And what’s so funny about me not being a boy?” It comes out a little awkwardly, not used to talking with people lately. And, admittedly, you realize you sound a little childish asking this particular question and something tugs at the nerves in your forearms when you do. It gives you a feeling you’d rather not think about.

Wanda merely glances at you, “I don’t believe that has anything to do with the prophecy, does it?”

You inwardly wince. Wrong question to ask, then. Your people skills clearly need work, but Wanda is also clearly guarded and doesn’t seem to want you around. She’d sounded unhappy, but cordial at best when she greeted you merely ten minutes ago. You can’t blame her, though, you’re not that happy to be here either. However, you can be cordial, too. There’s no need to act familiar with her, because even if it feels like you are, you’re not. “Of course, my apologies. That was rude of me to ask.. I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped.”

It really is none of your business what Wanda’s past relationships were or if she had any at all, you’re not sure why that was one of the first questions you asked, it wouldn’t usually be. What you do know is that the pulling in your nerves has shifted to a pulling at your veins that spreads through your body and you’re certain that it has nothing to do with Wanda now. You try not to let it show, but something outside of the compound is beckoning you towards it, calling for every essence of your being.

Your head snaps to the side and quicker than Wanda can even open her mouth to ask why you’ve stopped walking, your dagger is unsheathed and lodged into the chest of some… thing, pinning it against the wall and watching as the holes where its eyes would be glow green before they go dim and the creature turns to ash with a shrill screech. You’re not sure what it is and neither is Wanda, but the pulling in your veins has stopped and you feel the tension leave your body.

“What was that?” Wanda’s eyes have widened slightly as she looks between you and the pile of ash on the ground. “I…” you’re hesitant to say it, not wanting to face the facts, “believe it was sent by my mother.” You re-sheath the knife when you’re sure that was the only one. Wanda hadn’t even noticed you had it, otherwise she might have been more hesitant than she already was to go to the library alone with you. Even though she has no reason to suspect you’ll hurt her. In fact, part of her knows that you would never.

“What a—” Wanda thinks of what to say, not wanting to say anything to offend you, but knowing a thing or two about bad ‘parents,’ “nice welcome present.” She settles with, and you actually laugh a little. It’s quiet and it’s mixed with a bit of disbelief, but it’s a laugh and Wanda almost doesn’t hate the way it makes her feel warm inside. “Yeah, it almost makes up for the missed birthdays.”

The rest of the walk to the library is quiet and uneventful. Since there was only the one creature in the hallway and you couldn’t sense any more, the two of you decided you’d just tell Agatha after she was done whatever it was she was doing and perhaps she could tell you what it was. It wasn’t quite so tense with you and Wanda now, a little joke goes a long way, but neither of you attempted to make any small talk afterwards. You don’t feel the apprehension radiating off of Wanda anymore and she doesn’t feel the need to run away radiating off of you.

The library is nice if not a little dusty, as if the Avengers don’t make use of it nearly as much as they should. If you had a library like this you would be in it all the time. The bookshelves are a deep brown color and you run your fingertip across the length of one of the smaller shelves. Real wood. The room itself is huge and the walls are lined with bookshelves. There’s space in the center of the room with a large wooden table and a few chairs, but the rest of the space is filled with rows of bookshelves. You wonder just how many topics are covered in all of these books and if any of them have anything to do with what’s going on right now.

Your fingertips graze the spines of a couple of books as you make your way to the table, stopping to peer around the room. Wanda doesn’t speak, just observes as you take in the compound’s library. She had been enamored with it when she first moved into the compound and it seems to have the same effect on you. She’s noticed that the older books are the ones that catch your eye and for reasons she’s largely ignoring, files that detail away for later.

You reach into your back pocket and grab the envelope, taking it out and setting it on the table without really looking. It slides a little when it hits the wood before stopping. You don’t speak at first and neither does Wanda, waiting for you to figure out what you want to do, watching the wheels turn in your head as you look up at the ceiling. You take a breath before you look at the witch. There’s not exactly any point in keeping secrets, you decide.

“You know, I wasn’t going to come. When Agatha sent me that letter,” you gesture to the wrinkled envelope on the table, “I was fully prepared to ignore it. After all, it’s not exactly custom to agree to help someone you haven’t seen or spoken to in fifteen years, but there was something nagging me in the back of my mind, telling me I had to at least figure out what it was she wanted. But now that I’m here… I don’t think that’s what it was at all.”

Wanda’s breath catches because she knows what you’re going to say next and she doesn’t know if she wants you to or not. She feels it, too, the pull in her chest, and it’s like she can almost see the energy that connects you to her and her to you. She doesn’t entirely hate your presence anymore and it’s scary. It’s scary because it’s only been about 30 minutes and she can’t tell if these are her own feelings or if she just thinks she’s feeling this way because she’s supposed to. It’s scary because no one had ever made her feel anything more than indifference in less than a week. Up until she’d met you, hell, up until ten minutes ago, she had sworn to herself that she wouldn’t want anything to do with you, but now that you’re here she doesn’t know if she can ignore that pull. It’s almost infuriating. It was something she was going to ignore until you brought it up, but now that you have—

“I still don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing here, but,” your voice pulls Wanda back to the present and she knows she has to stop you before you continue. “Don’t… please,” it’s a plea because she knows once you say those words there’s no taking them back, once the universe knows, there’s no taking it back, “I know, but it hasn’t even been a day and I,” her next words make bile rise up in her throat, “I have Vision.”