#mentioned blood

[spiderbunnifics]

A Bad Situation: And A Worse Solution

Disclaimer: do NOT try to do DIY blood transfusions, I mostly made this to help me remember the steps of drawing blood for my phlebotomy class, DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

   “Oh well Steve’s doing it so he’ll be okay” HE ISN’T LIVING LONG ENOUGH TO HAVE SIDE EFFECTS.

    “Alright, alright, I’m setting you down..” Claire sighs, finally kneeling on the concrete floor of the -- hopefully -- safe room; feeling the coldness of the material seep through the denim of her jeans and into her skin. She tentatively set the taller boy to the ground, letting him lean his back to the wall, sending ripples of chills and cold straight through his hair and to his neck. The light sprinkle of freckles on his face were much more distinguishable against the boy's pallid skin 

     He groans and shifts, head lolling slightly as Steve lays his hands on the ground. Adjusting how he’s sitting -- trying to keep from putting pressure on his tailbone.

Claire’s hands raced to ghost next to his shoulders, trying to soften the pressure between his back and the wall. Steve was already the most reckless person she had ever met; from doing (his version of)  acrobatics to air-kick the undead to try and save Claire from a monsters grip, all the way to nabbing those twin guns, without even maybe taking in the fact that they could very well be booby-trapped. 

He was a good kid. Sweet, even; But god he had less than zero survival skills.

When she leaned back and away from his crumpled form, Claire had to take time to find the injury again; she knew it was a seemingly small gash in his arm. Every time he unbent it, the gash seemed to open a little more, revealing the crimson of the deep cavity that the cage-trap had left him. Claire remembered how, before the pain had even registered, he joked about the cage leaving a ‘parting gift’, elaborating on the joke after seeing just how bad the injury was -- and just how worried the injury was making her -- in that usual trying-to-be-charming way. 

Now that she thought about it, he had barely reacted to the pain, his body too frazzled by the copious amounts of adrenaline in his blood, pumping through his body. 

 Steve was lucky to only walk away with a gash, excessive bleeding and all; anyone else, and the falling cage would have severed his arm by the elbow, and he would’ve died from blood loss minutes ago in Claire Redfield’s arms.

Speaking of blood loss, Claire thought, we should probably find something to do about it.. There really wasn’t much she could do for the blood that had already left his system; now that most of it was caked on the dirty, decrepit floor, she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate it if she found a way to put that back in his system..  

Claire looked from the door they had just walked through, all the way to Steve, who now looked much more dazed, staring off in her general direction, his blue-green-hazel eyes appeared glassy; like they’d been open for too long, like they’d been exhausted from numerous sleepless nights. His breaths were shallow -- so much so that she had to really squint to see the rise and fall of his shoulders, and Claire could see the faintest of bluish hues on his lips, the kind of hue that made Claire’s stomach churn like a witches brew.

“Steve..” she watches as his head lowers as if he was starting to fall into slumber, his shoulders slumped forward as he gives no answer, no acknowledgment.  

“Steve!!” A shout, this time, firmer than she’d meant it to be. 

This time he jumped, immediately wincing at the sudden, involuntary movement that made Claire's heart clench right away.

“What?? I’m up, I’m awake!?” He sount more annoyed than anything now; even if the sudden burst of energy clearly exhausted him more than he’d like to admit.

Well, they couldn’t just stay here like sitting ducks. Steve’s losing a lot of blood, and I’m not sure what herbs -- if any -- could help stop the blood, She thought.

    She knew she was on the edge of talking to herself, as she always was when stressed, she’d done it throughout high school, did it at Raccoon City, and now she was sure she’d do it here, too. 

After a few more blinks, Claire’s mind finally thought up a solution! It was … dumb, and likely would cause so many problems for Steve in the future, but it was a good solution when you were in a biohazard and had literally nothing else.

Claire remembered seeing on Steve’s prison ID card that he had blood type AB; yeah?

    Well, the thing to remember about AB was that it was a universal receiver -- when it came to blood types --. If he did have AB blood, any other blood type would be able to properly mitigrate into his. 

So, given all that, who’s to say she couldn’t … use the butterfly needle, syringe, and expired vacuum tubes she took from the room on rockfort with that undead analyticist?  

Maybe take some of her O-type blood using the butterfly needle, connect it to the vacuum tube, get the syringe into the tube, and inject the blood into Steve’s wound? She could even use her own prison jacket as a makeshift tourniquet.. 

Right?

Well, it was …. Decently worth a try.

“Steve, you’re gonna have to forgive me.”

“Wha- why??- what’re you gonna d—”

“Something really, really stupid.”

He looked mildly scared now. Maybe he did have survival skills, after all.. 

Trudging through her satchel, Claire scrabbled a few items out; “Butterfly needle, vacuum tube, syringe… jacket.. Left luger..” 

Now that the items were sprawled out on the floor (Okay, not the most sanitary, but this is prison. And a Biohazard.), Claire finally let herself concentrate; mentally going over the steps in her head; She wasn’t … exactly certified with this kind of stuff, per se.. She had taken half a course on it during high school, but even then, she barely listened.. 

   “So.. what ‘Stupid’ thing are you … uhm.. Doing..?” His voice was small now, the bravado he’d kept tucked in the back of his throat; he trusted her, with his life, even, but he didn’t like it when she had no clue what to do. He needed her to know what to do.

“Well, It requires needles, and--”

“And you want to use me as a human pincushion.” His tone became hesitantly jovial, but it was cut off with a grimace; Claire could see his hand tremble very slightly. 

“More or less,” Claire murmurs, a faint smile had begun to rear, “And somethin’ tells me you’ll happily let me?”

“I guess” 

“Good boy.”

With a huff, Steve lays back, his back against the wall as he looks to the wall behind her. 

     Claire guessed that -- despite his bravado -- he didn’t care for needles, because his eyes stayed there, a thousand-yard-stare.

Claire quickly scurried to his side, gently taking his arm in her hand, her blue eyes trying to find the biggest vein in his arm. She didn’t necessarily need to know where it was immediately, but it was best to look for it while assembling the needle set.

Claire inhales deeply, shaking hands struggling to tie the tourniquet on herself properly,

    Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Steve's hands raise up towards her, silently offering help; but she shook her head, she couldn’t ask him to help her with it, not when he was already so weak, and certainly not as she could see his head tilted at an awkward angle, he looked too tired to keep it fully upright.

She somehow managed to get the tourniquet tightened on her arm properly, just a pointer-finger-length away from her inner elbow

‘Two inches above injection spot’

She winced at the feeling of the strange, stretchy material digging into the skin of her arm as it tightened.

‘Feel for the vein.. The tourniquet can only stay on for a minute…’

Claire picked up the opaque connector, securely screwing it to the right, unintentionally ignoring something -- probably something stupid -- Steve was in the middle of saying

She held the wings to the butterfly needle up, making sure the bevel was up 

‘Fifteen-to-thirty degree angle…’

She angled the needle upwards to her vein ever so slightly; did she know whether it was the right angle? Absolutely not. No way. In no way did she know.

But she tries anyway, she carefully -- gently -- sinks the needle into her skin, wincing at the very mild sting that dripped onto her nerves. 

Through lidded eyes, Claire sees the flash of red between the wings of the butterfly needle; Claire hurries to secure the vacuum tube into the holder; she was so focused on looking for a flash within the needle that she almost didn’t even react.

Her eyes raced to that vacuum tube, entranced eyes watching as her own blood slowly filled the tube, she knew she’d need a lot of blood for Steve -- though, hopefully not needing to take out enough to where she would pass out --

She …. Probably left the needle in for too long; not that she could really feel any difference.

Claire makes no effort to band-aide the spot the needle punctured, carefully pulling said needle out of her arm and discarding it to the side -- not the safest way of disposal, but this is Rockfort Island, after all. -- 

     “Hey Steve?”

He hummed, blinking a few times before his full attention went to her.

    No words needed to be said, it would be better if they weren’t, even.

“You are …. Really not going to like this next part..” Claire’s trembling voice falters the words, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice, or, if he did, he hadn’t shown it.

The taller boy took a breath, grappling for the strength to start actually speaking.

       It was, at least, a minute before he finally spoke again, his voice tinted with exhaustion:

“I… Don’t think I really have a choice, do I?”

Claire couldn’t help the chuckle she let out. “Nope.. But, uhm, listen: You’re losing a lot of blood, I don’t have the right …” a pause.  

    “Materials, the right materials to do this right.. So I’m going to try to redneck it.”

“Redneck it??”

“...Gonna try to work with what we have and worry about it later.”

After a few seconds, he nods, “I can handle it.. We’ve been through worse, right?” Some of that bravado came rearing to front, and she sees him smile as soon as he finished the word ‘right’ 

Nodding back, Claire recovers some of her fallen confidence, biting the side of her bottom lip as she grabs for the syringe previously set to the side.  

     She grabbed the medical wrap she stole from the analyst zombie earlier in rockfort, unwrapping it so she could tightly bind Steve's injured arm in the pink wrap (“Well that’s manly” Steve grumbled, Claire couldn’t really tell if he was joking or not, so she let it go.) 

“Yeah.. been through worse..”

Claire dipped the needle’s tip into the vacuum tube, pulling up the plunger until all the blood from the tube was inside the chamber of the needle, she even checked the chamber once to make sure the blood was all … well, right-looking, texture-wise, not that claire could really tell what hemolyzed blood looked like.

“This is the part I was talking about.” she forewarns.

Claire was quick to sink the needle into Steve's upper arm, figuring it was better to get it over with than settling it into the large vein -- and being careful to not hit the vein wall -- with very little struggle. 

   “Alllll…..lmost done..” She holds the ‘l’ phoneme, initially unintentionally as she’s so fixated on focusing, the last thing she wants is to do this wrong, to burst a vein, or cause one to collapse.  

   Claire wouldn’t forgive herself if she had done any of those..

She moves her thumb, pressing down on the plunger of the syringe; and setting the blood inside the chamber on the path into the younger man’s vein. Claire’s blue-hazel eyes look up steadily at Steve’s face to check for any expression, softening as she sees him wincing slightly -- likely only at the syringe--, Claire quickly apologized with a murmur.

And then, finally, once the plunger was flush against the chamber’s edge, and the chamber was devoid of blood, Claire slowly pulled the needle out of his vein and skin.

She carefully wrapped the area in the stretchy medical tape, drawing it tightly as she kept pressure on the area with her left thumb.

“Is it over..?” Steve’s voice was small, still, as if he was afraid to speak any louder.

A simple nod is all the answer Claire needs to give him, because as soon as he seems to process her movement as a response, his shoulders untense, and he’s clearly brought to some sort of ease, by the way he finally rests and leans back fully against the wall he’s laying against; he breathes heavily for a few moments until finally letting out a “thank God”. 

    Claire’s lips turned up into a relieved smile as she set everything aside, not bothering to clean or sanitize -- because, well, it is Rockfort Island.

Claire leaned forward, lazily allowing herself to fold into Steve’s arms, as she sighed again, in relief: enjoying how Steve’s warmth emitted from his form. 

“Claire..?” 

“Yeah?  what’s up?”

“We … we get to rest here for a while... Right..?” 

Claire paused momentarily, “Yeah.., I mean, I was just gonna lay on you and make you rest, but I guess this works too..” 

She felt him shake with laughter, his arm cradling her closer.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

What's Left of the Draigo

The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure Chapter 3

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

Fandom: Original Work

WIP: The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure (Tales from Valaria)

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Words: 3100

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west @libraryofcirclaria @syncopein3d @galactic-dragon-pathex @ashirisu

@writingphoenix

CW: panic attack, mentioned attack, mentioned fire, mentioned death, mentioned blood, held at sword-point, swearing, self-deprecation, mentioned magic whump, distrust

A/N: Sort of lore and worldbuilding-heavy, but fantasy lives for this kind of stuff, y'know? Octavian does get held at sword-point so there's that for you whump lovers too.

----------

Ten years.

Give or take a few months, but still. A full decade.

Ten years and the stench of smoke and ash still hadn’t fully faded. Octavian could smell it as he emerged from the swampy woodlands surrounding the Draigo stronghold. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Ten years was a long time, even for elves and Draigo and their long lifespans, a lot could change.

Draven had mentioned that the Draigo had barricaded themselves in their stronghold shortly after the outbreak, so Octavian had hoped, prayed that this one would be no different, that the damages from the explosions in his foggy memory had been repaired. That there would be solutions within its walls. Perhaps they had withdrawn to find the cure for the plague, to devote all their efforts to the research.

He should’ve known such hopes were baseless.

Octavian’s breath caught in his throat his eyes fell on the ruined stronghold. The once-majestic walls had crumbled, the stones not covered in ivy and moss blackened from the flames. With the walls gone, he could confirm that time had taken its toll as he walked between the destroyed buildings on shaking legs.

The Council Hall, which he vaguely recalled having sustained the worst damage in the attack, was little more than a pile of rubble with a sapling peeking out from between a pair of stones. The other buildings weren’t nearly as destroyed, but they all had been abandoned long ago.

No sight, sound, or scent of another living person. 

Just dust. 

And smoke. 

And ash.

Octavian fell to his knees, his entire body shaking, as the blurry memories assaulted him.

Graves. A supposed Draigo from the far east stronghold. Nothing more than a liar, thief, and arsonist.

The dead devar in the archive explosion. The injured and dead Draigo in the Council hall.

The mission.

Maelyn.

Oh celestials, Maelyn.

She’d trusted him, and he’d failed her.

Lead her straight into a trap.

He had no choice.

No choice….

Did she even survive? Everything right after the enchantment broke was a blur. Maelyn had the pendant, it was in her hand. He didn’t know what happened to Graves, but if the thief had survived Octavian would take it upon himself to hunt him down for what he did. As for the Watchers….

He didn’t know. He hadn’t even returned to the stronghold before being intercepted by Kenta. And then….

Octavian reached into his bag and pulled out the slim metal object. A ‘gift’, as the Draigo had put it, before shoving Octavian into the lake. “You will see the world broken beyond your comprehension,” he’d said, closing Octavian’s fingers around the object. “See that this message is delivered.”

Octavian never had time to ask who the recipient would be. He flipped the metal object between his fingers, thumbing the carved symbols. Much of the archives had been salvaged after the fire was put out, he remembered that much, even if the memory itself was about as clear as a muddy puddle. Perhaps the books and scrolls had clues to deciphering the strange language?

It was worth a try.

Wasn’t as though anyone was around to stop him.

Taking a deep breath, Octavian rose and started towards the archives, one of the only buildings still mostly intact, although ivy had attempted to take over its walls. The outer doors were torn off their hinges, a mess of splinters now covering the marble floor inside. The elements had taken their toll on the immediate interior, the shelves and pedestals, devoid of their contents, rotting and worn away by time and water.

The faint noises of small, skittering creatures reached Octavian’s ears as he stepped inside the dim building, the only light coming in from the door and the high windows. Much of the light had been magical in nature, stemming from a certain artifact. Without an archivist to maintain them, they had long ago winked out of existence, the artifact stolen or destroyed by now.

Octavian wandered methodically throughout the depths of the archives, from the highest levels of empty shelves to the lower storage spaces, searching for something, anything, that could aid him. Eventually, his search evolved into one for anything left behind. Had the Draigo fled and taken everything with them? Or had they all been killed, and the archives sacked completely?

The longer he scoured the archives, the more certain he became that the latter was far more likely. Especially when he stood before the storage rooms. He’d ventured down there rarely, only once or twice in his memory to retrieve something for Skylyn when the rest of the archivists were busy, so he only had a vague idea of the sorts of items kept in the maze-like rooms below the archive.

The door, just like the entrance, had been torn from its hinges, and everything beyond was veiled in darkness, the natural light unable to reach. He hovered on the threshold, uncertain. The debris he could make out hinted that the door had formerly been barricaded. 

Barricaded against whom? Who killed them all and took everything? Kenta? The humans? The lycanthropes?

Something else?

And the faint scent in the air… it was partially hidden under the cloying smell of wood smoke and burning paper, but it was unmistakably metallic, coppery. He shouldn’t be able to smell blood, not after so long.

Octavian’s stomach churned and he turned away, unwilling to investigate any longer. “Coward,” he muttered to himself disparagingly as he stalked back through the archives to the entrance. “Damned coward.”

“‘Damned coward’, hmm?”

Octavian jumped and whirled around, drawing his borrowed knife, and found the point of a sword centimeters from his throat, wielded by someone dressed in dark clothing, their face veiled. Their voice was unfamiliar. Not Kenta.

“What have we here?” The veiled figure, teased, cocking their head. “You’re far from the border, elf. Are you an exile, come to seek sanctuary? A seeker of knowledge? A… traitor?”

Octavian swallowed, fighting the urge to back away as the sword lightly touched the veins on his neck. One thrust, and he would be dead. “My… my name is Octavian de Silv,” he forced out, heartbeat hammering in his ears, “I am… I was… a messenger for the Draigo, but I have been in captivity for the past ten years.”

The figure’s hand tightened on their sword. “A messenger?” they repeated, “hmm… your name is familiar to me, why is your name familiar to me? Are you perhaps a devar messenger?”

“I am, yes.”

“Ah! I remember now! You were sent on that mission to capture the thieving Draigo with Maelyn Sorro, correct?”

Octavian hesitated, but he suspected lying would do him little good here. “…correct. Is Maelyn…?”

The figure shrugged. “You both disappeared during the mission. But I would assume if you survived, she had as well. The question of her being still alive, however….” They rotated their wrist, the sword point turning, a constant reminder of just how quickly they could end Octavian’s life. “Everyone assumed you turned on her. Or, at least, that was Kenta’s theory when he left to hunt you down for treason.”

Octavian’s eyes narrowed. “The punishment for treason is execution. That is what I expected him to do when he found me wounded in the Fells, mind and will shattered by a magician’s runes.”

“Oh? And yet here you stand.”

The memories of Kenta were clearest. Octavian could almost see him standing before him, helping him to his feet and leading him to shelter. He could almost feel him bandaging the mutilated runes on his back, listening to Octavian’s side of the story. He had seemed disappointed when Octavian mentioned that he didn’t know where Maelyn had gone. “He did not kill me.”

Octavian slowly held out his hand, revealing the metal object. An artifact, perhaps? Whatever it was, he suspected it had been instrumental in implementing his stasis in the ice. “He gave me this, right before leading me over a lake and shoving me in. I remember the water freezing over, and I thought I passed out for a few moments before waking up and breaking free of the ice. Except Kenta wasn’t there.”

The figure slowly moved their sword away from his throat and sheathed it, but kept their hand on it as they examined the object. “May I?”

He nodded, and they picked up the object, running their fingers over the symbols. “A human lycanthrope hunter was nearby,” Octavian continued, “and he was kind enough to allow me a place at his fire in exchange for aid in tracking down his target. It was through him that I discovered ten years, not a few moments, had passed in my time beneath the ice.” He gestured at the ruins around him. “And so much has changed.”

“Much has changed, indeed,” the figure agreed, handing back the object. “This could be one of our artifacts, but I do not know enough about the inventory to confirm. It put you in some sort of stasis?”

“Yes.”

“And clearly it protected you from the fate of the other devar.”

Octavian’s mouth went dry. “I… what?! What happened to the other devar?”

The figure glanced around, an air of sorrow about them. “How do you think there are no Draigo here? We cannot be infected by the plague, little good that did us.”

“They… they attacked you?”

“…not of their own accord. Please, at least allow me to show you some hospitality. It’s not often I encounter other survivors, even if you missed the turning. Wish I had that luxury.”

The figure turned and walked back into the archives. Octavian hesitated, but soon followed, his curiosity outweighing his apprehension. They threatened me with a sword, he reminded himself, slowly sheathing his borrowed blade. They haven't shown their face, but I don’t think I know them. How can I trust them?

They already know what any Draigo would know. And yet even Graves somehow knew that. But I don’t think anyone would play at being Draigo now. Not when there’s no one left to fool.

“Your voice is unfamiliar to me,” Octavian said softly as they moved back through the archives, “you know of me but I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Sounds about right,” the figure agreed, pausing before the door to the store rooms. They clicked their fingers twice, and light suddenly erupted from inside, a small fabric ball not far from the door lighting with an inner glow. The ball illuminated the dark corridor, revealing branching rooms with doors similarly destroyed and dark brown streaks staining the walls and floor. “To be fair, you got incredibly famous shortly before the attack happened. The Council made a big deal about your ‘trial’.”

The figure continued down the corridor, the fabric ball fading as they passed, but an identical one illuminated further along. The unmistakable script of runes decorated the surface of the paper balls. Octavian frowned at the artifact. “‘Trial’?”

“A mockery of justice is what it was,” the figure clarified, stepping through a doorway into another hallway illuminated by another paper ball. How many of those did they have? “They took your and Maelyn’s disappearance as confirmation of a traitor within the ranks, the person who admitted the thief who somehow caused the Council chambers and many of the other buildings to spontaneously combust. Kenta insisted that you were behind the whole thing, and murdered Maelyn on your mission.” 

They stopped outside a door. Nothing remarkable about it, except it was the first Octavian had seen intact here. “He similarly insisted on being the one to go and exact justice. I suppose the stasis you describe is what he decided. He never clarified, everyone assumed execution.” Opening the door, they waved Octavian inside. He entered to find a surprisingly cozy hideout, decorated with glowing paper balls and a multitude of other artifacts lying amidst tattered blankets, carpets, and scorched cushions.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home, despite the… conditions outside,” he remarked as the figure closed the door.

“It’s not much, but it’s the only home I got left,” the figure agreed, unbuckling their sword and setting it on a nearby crate. “I don’t think anyone tried to hide here, otherwise it would’ve gotten similarly destroyed. Please, sit.” They followed their own instructions, plopping down on a cushion and unveiling, revealing a woman, younger than Maelyn, with dark skin and braids tied up elaborately to keep them from her face. Her markings were a light blue, almost white shade, scattered across her face like freckles.

She stuck out her hand in the human greeting. “My name is Aster Kyr. I was on retreat south at Loch Vika when the attack happened.”

On retreat. Loch Vika? Oh…. Octavian hesitantly shook her hand and seated himself on the cushion opposite her. “You had only just come of age?”

Aster nodded sorrowfully. “I was there with two other Draigo, Kassia and Leon, and a devar, Dorian. That night… my dreams won’t let me forget when Dorian started acting strangely, like he was in pain. Kassia was talking to him, trying to figure out what was wrong, when he suddenly transformed into his other form. His was an owl. But that time… it was certainly owl-like, but it was all wrong, like someone who only had a vague idea of what an owl looked like had tried to put one together and gotten some parts mixed up with a savage bear.” 

Aster took a shaking breath.  “She… she didn’t even have time to scream. Leon was the next closest, and the… creature… thing… pounced on him. He couldn’t get to his knife, but he was always better with his fire anyway…. I had to put it out of its misery. It was the only thing I could do. And Leon… Leon died in my arms as the sun rose. The moon turned red that night. I think that might be what had caused Dorian to… to….”

Her voice broke, and she turned away, tears glistening in her eyes. When she spoke again, her tone was harsh. “I buried them all overlooking the loch and returned here. I hoped… I hoped that whatever happened with Dorian was a fluke. I was incorrect.”

“What happened to the devar?” Octavian asked softly.

“Some of them had died while transformed, their bodies remaining in that cursed, twisted form. Some had managed to change back in the sunrise, I assume, and succumbed to the injuries by the Draigo fighting for their lives. The rest… from the clues I gathered and the garbled stories from the survivors, they ran off during the night and attacked the nearby villages. After that, I don’t know. We found out later that whatever curse befell them was transmittable to the humans. And thus started the plague.”

Octavian drank all the information in, his heart pounding. All in a single night? Transformed into some sort of monster? “There were other Draigo survivors?”

“Yes,” came the shaky reply, “all in varying states of injury. We regrouped, buried the dead, cared for the wounded the best we could. Since then, everyone else drifted away, keen to escape the reminder of that night. I stayed. Sometimes I go to Valdove for supplies.”

“What happened to the archives?”

“I don’t know. Vulir had his theories, that someone in the chaos stole what they could and fled using one of the artifacts. Whoever that could be, though, I can’t—”

“Kenta,” Octavian interrupted, hands closing into fists, “He knew something like this would happen, maybe he caused it.”

Aster gave him a quizzical look, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Octavian sighed and shook his head. “I can’t do anything about him anymore. I don’t know where he could have gone after imprisoning me. Some of the artifacts were left behind?”

“Yes,” Aster said, pointing to the paper balls. “Those, a few I can’t figure out that I keep in crates, a scattering of scrolls and books. I don’t think any of the archivists survived, none of us could make heads or tails of what was left. Part of the reason I stayed is to guard the ruins from potential looters and thieves, but when the others scattered they spread rumors about the stronghold being on lockdown, and that kept the humans away for the most part. The rest…” she waved at the sword absently.

“…may I look through them? The chance is small but they might hold clues about the object Kenta gave me.”

Aster indicated one of the crates leaning against the wall, a blanket and a paper ball resting on its surface. “Everything’s in there.”

Octavian rose to his feet, but before he could move over to the crate, Aster jumped up and grabbed his arm. Her gaze was hard, almost accusatory. “Wait. What happened to Maelyn Sorro if you did not kill her?”

“I…” Octavian remembered the moments after the runes had been disrupted by the Watcher’s hand, remembered when he finally came to himself after what felt like years of enthrallment when it couldn’t have been more than a couple weeks. It was all a foggy blur, he wasn’t fully awake until after Kenta found him, but one thing was certain. “The last I saw of her, she was alive. After that, I do not know. The runes the magician used on me caused my memories to be uncertain, but she was alive.”

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

Octavian hesitated. “…yes. It would take more than a magician and a thief to kill Maelyn Sorro.”

“What about the devar?”

“You said she disappeared before the attack? I think she either went somewhere to lie low or she just hadn’t arrived back when it happened. And after that, it doesn’t really matter. She could be anywhere.”

Aster glanced at the door. “If you’re so certain…” she let go of his arm. “I must apologize. I wasn’t sure if I was going to arrest you for treason or not. My people are… I must try my best to uplift their legacy. You understand, right?”

She’s so young. He nodded. “We are what remains of our peoples.” He glanced down at the artifact in his hand. “I do not know if I should stay for long. There is much I must investigate.”

“Of course,” Aster recognized, settling back onto the cushion. “I will welcome your company for as long as you choose. I can’t offer much, but I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you. For not arresting me for treason.”

She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

[drinkinboilingcoffee]

Serious FNAF movie thing again, hear me out: individual movie for each Afton WITH completely unique cinematography styles and framing based on the characters POVs. Examples (incoherent drabble warning):

-Michael: Mike’s movie would be the most traditional. It would have a classic slasher horror kind of vibe (maybe a bit more character centric); gore, creepy music, jumpscares, etc. Until it’s just… not. When the most horrific scenes happen (Bite of 83, scooper, finding out William is the killer, etc.), the music goes silent. The framing gets more jittery and broken. In the moments where it hits Mike hardest, the idea that he can pretend this is all a game or joke or his imagination vanishes and the world becomes as realistic as possible. -Evan/CC: The important thing about Evan’s POV is blurring how much is real and how much is his imagination. A multi-media effect would look amazing; imagine when he looks at his toys and the animatronics, they’re covered over by cartoonified drawings or claymation. The world itself could maybe distort more when he’s scared- look at artist like Jack Stauber for inspiration for the sorts of styles that look like they should be cute but turn out creepy instead (actually, if we could get Jack to voice act the dolls-) -Charlie & Henry: If these two had a movie I think it should be a conjoined one for a few reasons. For one, one of the bigger complaints people have about both characters is that their characters and arcs end up being nothing but projections of the other, that their characters are too dependent on each other. But what if we actually leaned into that? I’m kind of thinking Wes Anderson style symmetry in the shots- put the two side by side as much as possible until it becomes a signature. Then break that. Once Charlie dies, have Henry keep standing to his side in the shots, only Charlie is no longer there to fill hers. Maybe even do some reprises of the shots and songs with the Puppet in Charlie’s place. -Elizabeth: Elizabeth’s filming is unique in that it doesn’t use any filming techniques to look more frightening. It uses them to look less. The thing about Elizabeth is that I don’t think she’d ever admit or acknowledge how messed up everything is until it was too late. She tries as hard as she can to make her situation seem perfect and that spills over into her perception of reality. The lighting is bright, the colors are vivid, the music is calming. This almost never changes. Not when she’s being abused by William, not when Evan gets chomped, not at Charlies funeral, never. Whatever triumphant track plays when she finally gets to see CB? It keeps playing when she gets scooped by her, not fully cutting off until even after the screen goes dark. Maybe use lighting and focus tricks to make things seem hazy or like they’re in a dream, then if at some point Liz actually has a breakdown and the gravity of everything finally hits her, the world becomes entirely clear for the first time. -William: The best way I can think to describe this film is dissociated. The colors should be monochrome and diluted, the lighting hazy, any music used in a way that gives the distinct feeling it only exists in the scene’s background. Only a few objects (and people), the ones that fill William’s attention, should have their colors normal (the animatronics, remnant, Elizabeth, Henry (definitely Henry), etc.). Maybe when William is in the suit and in character as Bonnie, the background and music become more clear? If I had to give one piece of media to draw inspiration from, look at Joker. The camerawork should also be jittery, and if we could bring in the blood-hits-the-camera effect, that would look perfect.

ABSOLUTELY reblog with additional ideas I want to know if there’s any other serious fnaf movie angst stans out there

[theyaremanycolours]

Well, I never expected the Super Mario Brothers Super Show to show an actual torture scene.

Not to mention the bloody wereturtle - the only reason that got past the censors was that it was established to be tomato sauce

Also, while I'm not sure if this is a normal thing for him in this show, but Toad was both clever and ready to fight in Count Koopula. Probably would've bitten an arm if need be - I like it.

[nickikisu-reblogs]

blood of a virgin

[onenicebugperday]

no she can have a little flesh and blood. as a treat

[starii-void]

going to chb must be crazy like imagine sharing a camp with

-one of the strongest demigods ever who's saved the world like at least 3 times, fought multiple gods & titans and WON (and is a tartarus survivor)

-the literal main architect of OLYMPUS who's also saved the world multiple times (also tartarus survivor)

-THE lord of the wild who's also close friends with the first two (and has helped save the world multiple times)

-an emo kid from the 1930s who again helped save the world and is also a tartarus survivor (TWICE)

-a son of apollo who survived tartarus with nothing but cargo shorts and sheer will (pun intended)

-the main designer and builder for the argo II, also the first hephaestus kid to have fire powers since hundreds of years ago (did i mention killed gaea? no? yeah he did that too)

-a girl who somehow charmspeak-ed gaea into falling back asleep (also side note daughter of super famous actor because why not)

-pretty much everybody is a two-time war veteran

-THE GOD APOLLO who just sometimes comes down to visit in the form of a teenage boy

-did i mention dionysus, god of wine madness and theatre

-also chiron, trainer of pretty much every greek hero ever

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Happy one year anniversary to In Stars and Time!

[mugiwara-lucy]

Kamala will make the FUNNIEST president in all of American history 😂

[luminarai]

hey, hi, I was just on the former bird app and came across this info from a brand new study and now I cannot stop screaming internally??? what the actual fuckkkk

theres' an article from the guardian here and here is the actual study:

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Funny Stories book on Patreon

[demigods-posts]

headcanon that percy and annabeth have a relationship contract they made after they got together once the war came to pass. they outlined it on paper in percy's bedroom. typed up a final draft using sally's laptop. and printed out and laminated it at the local library on their two month anniversary. and they abide by it like it's the law.

[iwander12]

[rockingbytheseaside]

Hi! I wanted to say I absolutely adore your art and headcannons! I wanted to ask if you would be interested in making a headcannon for our lovely harbingers where there is someone trying to sabotage their relationship with the reader like for example the person is saying that the reader is cheating or is saying mean things about the harbingers and that they have ,,proof" it is if course a lie. Don't force yourself to do anything you don't want to tho!

(Absolutely genius idea! Sorry to keep you waiting! I’m a slow writer…)

✦ When others try to sabotage your relationship with them

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Childe

(tw: general mentions of violence and blood. sfw) 

Being intimate with a powerful Fatui Harbinger provides the illusory dream of having riches, power, and status. Some watch you with hushed murmurs as you accompany your beloved with linked arms, looking all elegant beside him. Perhaps some people cannot comprehend how such a ruthless Fatuus can even court someone like you. Others simply cannot comprehend that status and money is not a key factor in your relationship.

✧ To crossfire with Pierro is to go against every single Fatui Harbinger. The Director is known far and wide as a man of cold words and power beyond the seven nations. All valuable intel and actions are reported to him first and foremost, as even the top Harbingers bow before him. You, on the other hand, were not meant to bow before him. The Jester shall never let you lower your head, because it is he who shall stoop to worship you. 

However recently, a certain rumor reached his ears. His spies related to him info that certain Fatui soldiers, some lowly commoners at the bottom of the ranks, are spreading uncouth jabs about you and Pierro. Intel states that these fools think you infiltrated the Fatui and The Director’s inner circle by some intimate provocation and seduction; that you’re in it for the money and status.

Pierro’s gloved hands gripped the papers. Nevertheless, his expression is placid as always. 

Thus, the culprit now sat in Pierro’s office, trembling as the room oozed with murderous silence. The Jester never raised his voice, nor did he question the man who “joked” about you. The fellow kept spitting apologies, begging for mercy. He knew it was futile to lie or waste the Director's patience.

And the Jester? It took everything in his power not to get his gloved hands bloodied. To hear someone accuse you - his most cherished, as a shallow harlot? Consequences shall be faced. Calming his boiling turmoil, Pierro continued to conduct himself professionally:

He made sure the man and his entire generation met their oblivion. 

With the recruitment of his best spies, he ascertained that the culprit’s disappearance was not felt by a single soul, his entire family gone, and all traces of spread rumors eradicated. Above all, it was orchestrated so that you would remain unaware that anyone dared to tarnish your reputation.

You carried on with your life, blissfully unaware and undisturbed. Even now, you came in knocking on his office, asking: “Long day at work, honey? I can bring you some tea or coffee if you want.”

The Jester's smile returned, throwing away some crumbled documents into the trash can - “A tea break would be excellent, my divine.”

If it’s blood that needs to be spilled to protect you and his private affairs, then Pierro won’t think twice. 

✧ For Il Capitano, the way of the blade speaks more for its wielder than words. If you wish to prove your stance, you better be prepared to face the First Fatui Harbinger, as his might will test you in a relentless duel of strength. So what do you think happened when Capitano overheard someone calling you “weak”? That his beloved does not deserve an ounce of his attention, because you are a meek being compared to the Harbinger? 

His hand instantly found its place on the hilt of his claymore. He left no room for negotiation or doubt. He marched straight towards the culprit, unsheathed his weapon, and pointed the sharp point of his blade straight at the person.

“If you are so confident to spit such insolence about them, then you must be equally confident with your strength. Let your blade speak.”

The poor fool tried to defend himself with excuses. But his mocking meant nothing to the Captain’s weapon. Before you know it, there is an ongoing duel initiated by Il Capitano. The witnesses know that whoever is on the receiving end of his wrath has no chance of surviving. Not when a single swing of his weapon causes craters on the ground.

The man was about to collapse, accepting his violent demise. But just as Capitano was about to unleash his final lesson, your voice rang out amongst the crowd.

“Hey! Cease this commotion at once!” - you stepped up, your expression stern as you stood in front of your beloved. In a rare moment of vulnerability, the Captain’s already stoic body language shifted. His claymore was sheathed back to its place.

“My beloved, you shouldn’t have seen this…”

“And yet I did. It would’ve reached my ears anyway. What did I say about temperamental duels, Capitano? Morons are not worth it.” 

“He called you weak. I cannot allow it.”

For a minute, Capitano kept his head hung low in reverence. You stood with your arms on your hips, scolding him. Was it not for your intervention, that person who vocally mocked you would’ve been lying dead now. Instead, you spared the offender, and the man was allowed to flee in humiliation. 

The conflict was eradicated, and Capitano's imposing demeanor showed he didn't regret his actions. Considering how even Capitano bowed to your words, the accuser realized - you are not weak. Because if there was one person who made the First Harbinger go motionless then it was you. 

✧ Today was a good day for Il Dottore, but you weren't sure why. He was a tad clingy, his steps laced with a sense of giddiness. Giving you extra squeezes while hugging, smothering you with longer kisses on the cheek. Even as you sat idly in his lab, you watched him as he worked on some paperwork with a grin.

Thus you questioned him, lazily strolling around his lab and observing the countless tools or vials. But he waved off his excitement, tapping his pencil over some papers - “Nothing of major importance, but I did have something interesting happen recently.”

You raised an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue.

“An idiot made a pathetic attempt at spreading rumors about us.” - You stopped in your tracks, going still as you held some miscellaneous container with what seemed to be tissue samples. The Harbinger continued: “Some fool spoke behind your back; stating that anyone who is close with a heretical scholar is bound to be equally insane. They thought that if their words didn't reach you, then it's of no consequence.”

Your expression fell somber with each word Dottore spoke. He said it with such profound avidity, that his voice demonstrated threatening intent behind them. So he continued. “But you know me, dear. Nothing goes past me. Vile nicknames are nothing new to me. My work is not for the faint of heart, and those pesky cretins enjoy concealing their fear with profane titles. And they can call me whatever they want. However, I won't allow them to call you names. Not because of my work.”

You averted your gaze sadly onto the samples of veins and organs in vials. You pretended to inspect them, but your sorrow was more prominent. You suspected Dottore already did something, hence his unusual giddiness today. Thus, you inquired in a soft whisper - “So… what did you do?”

“I handled it, naturally.”

“...You did? What happened? To the person who said such things, I mean.”

“What happened? Dear, you're holding them in your hands right now.” - Il Dottore beamed, pointing at the vials of organs you held. 

✧ Today, Scaramouche was eerily silent. You were accompanying him during one of his work expeditions, aiding him with certain formalities regarding his Fatui subordinates. The 6th had soldiers working under him, and although he did not care for their training, he did not tolerate any incompetent weaklings.

Therefore, you decided to lend a hand. You helped conduct a training program for his underlings, making sure all standards were met. It’s not the first time you did so, since The Puppeteer often placed you as the second in command whenever he was absent. And the Fatui soldiers did not conceal their thrill - it’s like you were their favorite substitute teacher who was more cheerful and forgiving than their superior.

Either way, Scaramouche saw that the mission was going smoothly. But soon, lightning would strike. A certain Fatuus, an agent in training, was getting too charmful with you. It was during the usual training assigned by you, and this person was focusing more on his conversation with you than his training:

Telling you how you are a remarkably skilled person. How it’s a marvel to see someone so delightful as you working alongside the Balladeer. How you shouldn’t waste your time with someone as aggravating as Lord Harbinger Scaramouche. He’s even leaning closer towards you.

You smiled uncomfortably, your attempts at polite disagreement did not work with this agent. Yet now you felt the static in the air, and that’s when you realized - Your beloved heard all of it.

On this usual, unassuming morning, Scaramouche walked silently and struck a man with lightning. All eyes turned towards the commotion as you stood behind the Harbinger. His fists were clenched, sparks of electro crackling from them.

He may have been silent the whole day, but don’t mistake his silence for impassivity.

“Next time, know your place,” - he seethed, standing over the person who endeavored to sweet talk you. He permitted his subordinates too much leeway, now they dare charm you with empty flirts. Scaramouche would’ve stomped that man’s head if he wanted, but he wouldn’t create such a grotesque scene in your presence. Instead, he turned away, held your hand, and pulled you away.

He gave you a day off, his mind already conjuring plans to deal with his underlings later. At least he scoffed out an apology. Not for what he did; he does not lament that. Just a small ‘sorry’ for giving you a quick fright. The lightning strike was very loud, after all. 

✧ Pantalone often gets invited to luxurious meetings or extravagant galas. Any party that is attended by the richest man in Teyvat is a guarantee to make high-society elites turn heads. However, considering your prolonged relationship with your darling Pantalone, you know he secretly despises these social gatherings. Therefore, he takes you with him. Dressed in your finest, Pantalone proudly shows you off to the pompous aristocrats.

People would watch enviously, thinking to themselves: The Regrator’s sweetheart, spoiled by his riches. Your attire is as glorious as his expensive suit. His arm is tenderly linked with yours, always offering you his hand like a true gentleman whenever you two walk. Even as he conversed with various business partners, he always had to make sure his hand was around your waist or your hand.

This dotting behavior made certain ladies of Snezhnaya jealous. They could see you were not a noble-born, nor were you used to the attention during such gatherings. You just timidly accompanied him, and Pantalone kept rambling about you and your benign achievements. Childish, really. You’re probably someone who just ran after and clung to the Harbinger until he relented to keep you. Therefore, a group of ladies initiated the conversation: 

“It’s a pleasure to meet a man such as yourself, Lord Harbinger.” and “Why, a man of your status is probably seeking some interesting company. Oh? You are with someone? My, my, I did not notice them.” or “Surely you desire connections worthy of your status, sir.”

Pantalone had mastered the art of courteous smiling, yet even his act was about to crack. He noticed the way these ladies tried to stand too close to him, pretend you were not in the picture, or even passively mock you. Their insolence stenches, and noticing your silent discomfort caused his heart to sting. But he had a plan.

“Why yes, you are right,” - Pantalone smiled with his charming looks “I do value my time, and it’s important to not waste it on shallow conversationalists. Oh, but it’s such a shame that the people in front of us are just that. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Pantalone turned to you, his arms encircling your waist while speaking such backhanded comments with triumphant smiles. The ladies’ smiles fell instantly, and you tried everything to avert your gaze. “Um, Pantalone? Maybe we shouldn’t-”

“Shouldn’t bore ourselves with such lowly individuals? Hmm, I agree. There isn’t much to do here anyway, only the greedy will seek something in this superficial gathering. Oh well, let’s go so I can take you to dance, dear.” - Pantalone concluded in his usual enamoring tone “Ladies, if you would excuse yourself.”

In this world, the 9th of the Fatui Harbinger doesn’t excuse himself - others do. Therefore, he took you away, scoffing and checking up on you with hushed whispers. Pantalone was offended. Why do they assume it was you who desperately sought out the rich Harbinger? Little do they know it was Pantalone who used to run and seek your attention just to be yours. Honestly, they’re discrediting his neediness for you. 

✧ Should anyone meddle with Tartaglia’s personal life, they are picking up a brawl. Someone dares to flirt with you? His fists are ready. Someone said something unwelcoming about you? Anything in the vicinity can be used as a weapon. Someone endangers his relationship? Their life is now in danger.

Of course, you’re the one who consistently yanked him out of these fights. Usually, it’s nothing serious, as when you scold your boyfriend for such reckless behavior it ends with his heartfelt words and apologetic chuckles. He finds solace in embracing you from behind, gently enfolding his arms around your shoulders, reassuring himself that all is well.

However, Tartagia is still a Harbinger. Away from home, he’d personally search for intel on the culprit who dares to offend your relationship. Names, records, locations, anything to keep tabs on those who think they can drag his family into bloodshedding matters. Tracking is of no issue, after all, when he was still a young rookie, training as a Fatui agent was just the first step.

Once he determines the offender, he’ll pay a discreet visit to them. And this time, without you dragging him away from fights, there is no place for mercy or jests.

At night, Childe returned home, cheerful as the sight of you getting ready for bed welcomes him. Yet in the dim lights, you’d gasp and approach him with concern, catching traces of smeared blood on his face or hands.

Ajax would just smile; he didn’t need to explain. Instead, he would quietly approach you from behind and envelop his arms around your shoulders in quiet stillness.

[hankandmonty]

“Remember when we died?” Is such a raw line. Happy D20 eve

I forgot I had a rain version thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

[asthedeathoflight]

I think an underrated angle on 2x05 is something that either Jacob or Assad said in some interview somewhere, which is that in that episode Louis is addicted to heroin. Thats why he has that whole stash of drugs that he gives to Daniel, that's why he gives Daniel the drugs even though he's already got him alone. He didn't just use those 128 boys for sex he was using them to get high. Bring them home, get them to shoot up, and then drain them to get that secondhand high.

It clarifies something that's always confused me about that scene, which is why Armand saves Daniel the first time. He wouldn't save Daniel as a person, he clearly knows Daniel needs to die, but he's not seeing Daniel as a person there. Daniel is just a substance. He rips him away from Louis to stop him from using.

And i think that adds a whole other layer to the fight he and Armand have to think that this is Louis on a bender, with Armand cleaning up after him because he's not stable enough to. Louis in the bed for a week isn't just healing from the burns, he's going through withdrawal. Him at the table with Daniel giving him the "bright young reporter" speech is probably the first time he's been sober in months.

It adds another layer to Armand's desperation, that Louis has been running from both Armand and himself in this way, and of course Armand wants to erase that memory. Of course he wants to pretend that that fight never happened. Not just to protect himself but in a way to protect Louis from having said those things. When he describes the fight to Louis afterwards, he says "you said the worst things you've ever said to me." And he doesn't really know how to forgive Louis for that so he just wants to bury this rock-bottom moment and move on like it never happened. After all, Louis was high, he didn't really mean it, but if he remembers then maybe he might think that he had a point. Better to wipe the whole experience away.