#mixed with the relinquishing of suffering by death

[keikoayano]

Thinking about how all the remaining men are suffering. Thinking about how Eurylochus trying to elevate just a bit of that suffering (hunger) is the final nail in the coffin of their journey. Thinking about Penelope’s voice singing “Let me take the suffering from…” and her voice doesn’t finish, but then Odysseus is pointing towards his crew. A tragic, heartwrenching decision that in some ways could be seen as him “taking” their suffering by choosing to end their lives

[yuesya]

Humans are fragile.

Weak, helpless creatures that they are. If they bleed too much from being injured by a wild beast, then they die. If they stay out too long in the cold, then they die. Sometimes it feels like all he does is blink, and then they die. He knows this well.

Decarabian stares impassively down at the crumpled form of the white-haired human child buried in the crimson-stained snow.

… It appears as if this child has had a rough encounter with a monster of some sort, although Decarabian does not know of any monsters in these parts whose claws resemble knives more than talons. Perhaps the wild wolves…? But most of them remain close to their lands much farther in the north-east, where their newly-crowned wolf-god has recently staked out his territory.

“This is what happens when you raise animals into gods,” Decarabian murmurs, disapproving. The former Lord of the North had been a powerful, ancient god whose dominion over Cryo was –perhaps, by the slightest measure– more masterful than the control that Decarabian himself commanded over Anemo. He cannot fathom what the other god had been thinking, relinquishing the full might of their divine power and bequeathing it all to a beast, but such matters are not his to intervene in.

Even if the result is the swift rise of a beast-god who despises humans. Something that should be anathema to gods, whose very natures are fundamentally predisposed towards loving humanity…

Just as Decarabian himself does, and he is not one to deny his own nature.

The child in front of him is dying. That much is clear from the severity of the wounds that she bears, her body flayed with bone-deep gashes to the point where it almost seems as if something had tried to turn the child inside-out. This is not the work of a beast that attacked in hunger –this is the work of something that aimed to hurt, for nothing more than bloodthirsty enjoyment.

There are no older humans in the nearby vicinity. Animals will abandon their young who are too weak to survive. Decarabian had not realized that humans also followed that same practice.

This child is dying. Blood continues flowing sluggishly from her wounds, mixing into the snow. A chill wind whistles past, sending red-stained strands of long white hair whipping upwards–

Long lashes flutter, and the child opens her eyes.

Decarabian had not realized that she still possessed the strength to do so.

… The child does not speak. She cannot, for how can she? Who can speak when there’s a long gash splitting their throat open, red and wet and glistening in the open air? It’s a true miracle that she’s still alive, somehow. Even though it’s abundantly clear that she won’t be remaining so for much longer.

Decarabian looks into her eyes. It’s expected that her gaze is unfocused, given the poor condition of her body, and he prepares himself to witness pain. Suffering. Desperation –or perhaps hopelessness. It is only human nature. Weak, and despicable. But beautiful all the same, and it is for that very reason that so many gods–

Oh.

Decarabian has never seen such oddly-colored eyes before. Not on any human –nor beast, nor god. There’s something about these deep blue eyes that are almost reminiscent of the nighttime sky, but not quite. Not when they glow, gleaming with a prismatic, bejeweled light. But it’s not an ethereal sort of beauty; rather, it’s one that causes Decarabian to feel a sudden chill, for seemingly no reason at all.

But more importantly–

“You won’t ask me to save you?” Humans worship gods. Beg them for favors, for blessings, and it is only natural for gods to respond to their wishes. Poor, deplorable humans. Precious, lovely humans.

The child’s eyes are clear. There is no unspoken plea, no mindless terror. From all appearances, this child… does not seem to fear death at all. How curious.

A sudden thought strikes him. Whimsical impulse, that solidifies into genuine interest. 

What would she say to him, if she could speak?

…

Decarabian extends his hand towards her, holding it out over her body.

He does not possess the ability to heal. But, there is a certain magic that allows a god to share their power and grant protection to another by bestowing a new name –a new life. He suspects that this is similar to the spell that the Lord of the North had used to ascend that young wolf to godhood. It’s not necessarily Decarabian’s intent, but–

“Child of man. One who has bled upon consecrated ground, who still possesses strength to endure,” he says. The words are slow at first, but begin flowing smoothly as the ancient magic is fully invoked. “Upon the authority of Decarabian, God of Storms, I grant you my blessing. Partake of my power and rise anew, as a daughter of the unfettered wind.”

The next words coalesce on the tip of his tongue on their own.

… For a moment, Decarabian pauses. Because he can feel the power that’s gathering within him –power that rises on its own volition, for it is the necessary price for granting this child new life.

And it’s a steep price. Quite steep indeed. It is… possible… that Decarabian would be unable to maintain a human form anymore after this, or even reduced to an empty voice upon the wind in the following years.

But he will not change his decision, nor renege upon his words. No matter what the consequences might be.

“Rejoice. For I shall bestow upon you the name, ‘Balor,’” he declares, completing the spell. The winds pick up around them, and the human child is enveloped in a bright glow, slowly shrinking down into an even smaller form.

So even Decarabian’s power isn’t enough, is it?

Ah, what a curious child.

“Heed my command, and hear my words –rise.

… Rise, and live.”

[yikesitskennawrites]

Transitions- Chapter Thirty-Five: A Argument With Your Drunk Neighbor

Series Masterlist

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

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The couch at Stevens place was much softer and more comfortable than the one at yours. That was evident enough when you finally sat on the cushions after changing clothes and taking a long shower. It was mainly just standing underneath the running water and staring blankly at the shampoo bottle until you snapped out of it enough to take the washcloth and scrub your body of the blood from the person you killed. You killed. You took a life to protect others and you were now beginning to feel the effects of that. You told yourself repeatedly that it was for the best, even as you listened to him breath through the hole in his neck, even as you watched him reach for the knife and grip the blade and you had to pull it out of his grasp and cut his palm open before you stabbed with a force you didn’t even know you had into his neck again and again.

Eight times. It took eight times for the light in his eyes to begin to fade and his body to fall limp. He was still in your apartment behind a locked door that you struggled with opening and locking shut. You didn’t know what to do as you walked down the hall in a blood stained sweat shirt and pants with no shoes on because for some fucking reason you were worried about tracking blood when you were literally Carrie from Stephen Kings novel. The feeling of the deity being present disappeared on that walk from your flat and to Stevens. You were left with the feeling of guilt and too fucking aware of what you just did; and no matter how many times you told yourself that it was for the best, you were still left with the feeling of guilt and the idea of taking one more life. 

Not anybody else's, just yours. End it all, do one last vengeance for the kids and people you killed today. Do it to no longer have to suffer and cause suffering to others. You considered it: taking your own life for the thousandth time since you came back from the blip. You could go up to the rooftops and see the stars one last time before stepping right off. You could take the night bus to downtown and drown yourself in the icy river. You could dig through Stevens medicine cabinet and mix some prescriptions and just end it all. Throw in the towel and go wherever you’re destined to go after death. Fuck, Ammit would have loved you. She would have killed your ass right away because of how terrible the decisions are that you have made. Why did you listen to that deity in your flat? Why did you stay? You could have turned around and left as soon as he was on the ground and too distracted with the bleach pen you shoved into his eye.

You could have called Jake and told him what happened. You could have called Layla and asked for her to come over. But you didn’t because they hate you and everything just happened so quickly. The deity smothered any concerns you had for yourself, you recognized that when they left and you remained with the feelings of fear, anxiety, and guilt that you carried before they stepped into your place. They smothered it and made it like television static, you just felt too calm despite the knowledge that taking a person's life was wrong. You were too tuned down and out that the only thing on your mind was that you had to kill him. In hindsight, you could have left.

 You changed after the shower, a pile of dirty and too red stained clothing in the corner of the bathroom. The person in the fogged mirror was not somebody you recognized, just like the person in the reflection of the knife you used to kill. The bruises on your throat were gone, the ache of it too, every injury you had gained within the last twenty four hours was healed. You knew it was by the deity, they took the opportunity to leave you with metal scars and relinquish you of any physical evidence on your body of the last day. It is frightening to think about how yesterday morning you woke up to Steven making vegetarian pancakes and today, you are sitting on the couch with all the lights on, waiting for Jake, Marc, or Steven to walk through that door. 

It was nearing four in the morning on a Sunday and they have yet to make their way back to the building. Maybe they did come back but noticed that their light was on and decided to stay outside in the cold or go back to the bar or crash at someone's place. You haven’t called them, mainly because you still wanted to try and give them their space and let them breathe like  Marc demanded. But, you were worried. Maybe they got attacked and because they were too inebriated they couldn’t fight them off very well. 

How else would this plan have gone for the cult members? Because Harrow's cult must have been keeping an eye on you long enough to learn your schedule and routine, to sit outside of the building and watch Marc leave before sending in an asshole hours later to kill you. Because how else would they know to come to your apartment when your neighbors aren’t occupying the building at the same time? How did this fucker lock your door so quickly when you struggle with it? They already knew where you lived because they followed you home months ago. They know where you work because Amanda Bright walked right into your job and ordered a sandwich. You wonder if they are sitting outside of the building right now and waiting for their member to return to them or if they gave up and left.

The sound of jingling keys outside of the door and the handle being turned made you look at the only entrance and exit of the flat. Your heart pounds against your chest as you stare with wide eyes and the feeling of fear and anxiety flooding through you. The door opened and there Marc stood in the hallway, squinting at the brightness of the lights and his hair disheveled and shirt messy with new stains. He still wore the brown jacket you last saw him in. His eyes land on you and you think you see a series of emotions turning behind them. 

“You’re still here.” He slurs out as he lets the door shut loudly behind him. You think he left his keys in the lock. “I thought you would be long gone by now.” 

“I’m still here.” You say. He peels off his jacket and lets it fall to the floor before he kicks off his shoes, they go flying in different directions of the apartment and you make a metal note to check the lock in a few minutes. 

“I thought you would be too mad at me to be here. You always go hiding and don’t speak to me for days.” You watch him as he sways in one spot, you can smell him from the couch. He stinks of cheap cigarettes, smoke, and alcohol. Your nose wrinkles as you watch him make his way towards the kitchen, knocking over a pile of Stevens books. You get up from the couch and pick up his shoes and place them next to the door before you open it up and take his keys from the lock before placing them into the bowl next to your own orange lanyard. You pick up his jacket and fold it over your arm. It needs to be washed, it smells too much like what Marc currently smells like and it was gross.

“You need a shower, Marc.” You tell him as you set the jacket into the laundry basket. Tomorrow, well later today, you need to go down to the laundry room and wash clothes. You need to do normal things after killing a man. You still don’t know what to tell them, it was obvious that Marc wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around what you did at the moment. He was too drunk and honestly, you would love to be just like he is right now: to be too drunk to properly deal with anything. You’ll tell them tomorrow when they’re sober and hungover. For now, you’ll try to pretend everything is fine and that there isn’t a dead body decomposing in your flat. Fuck, you hope the blood doesn’t soak through the floor and go into the ceiling of the neighbor below you. 

“I don’t need a shower.” He protests and waves you off, “I need something stronger.” You almost snort as you watch him open up the cabinet and take out a Jack Daniels whisky bottle.

“Only if you’re willing to share.” You say as you lean against the island between you, the same one you carved pumpkins on Friday. He turns around, you can tell that the room was spinning for him by the look in his eyes.

“You’re not of legal age.”

“The U.K says I gotta be with adult supervision, actually.” You shrug, “But since you don’t remember, I’m twenty on paper past legal age for the U.K.” He scoffs. “They kicked you out of the bar?”

“It’s three in the morning, they said they were closing.” He answers before he turns slightly and opens up the cabinet door and takes out a small glass and places it on the surface you’re leaning against. You watch him unscrew the half empty bottle and pour about a quarter of the alcohol into it. He gently pushes it towards you before he takes a swig out of the bottle. You reach for the amber liquid, the glass cold in your hand as you pull it towards you and look down at the drink. 

“It’s actually four am.” You tell him before you lift the cup and down the drink in one go. It burns in your throat on the way down and it causes you to wince. 

“I would have thought that you never had alcohol before if it wasn’t for you taking it like a shot.”

“You’re not supposed to take it like a shot?” 

“No, I would have poured it in a shot glass if you were supposed to.”

“Oh.” You say. “I thought you were supposed to…”

“Have you ever had alcohol?” He asks. You shake your head.

“I have not.” You tell him. Your parents rarely drank and didn’t bother keeping alcohol in the house because of your mom's father being an alcoholic. She said that she didn’t care for drinking since she grew up with her dad being drunk all the time as a kid; but on the occasions that she did drink such as anniversaries and New Years, she only had one glass and your dad did too. Neither of your parents offered you some alcohol because they said it was terrible for your young liver and not fully developed brain, and you weren’t interested in stealing any sips when they weren’t looking. 

“I was fifteen when I had my first drink.” He says. “It was some cheap wine that was left over in my mothers glass when she passed out at the dinner table.” You swirl the little bit left in your glass, it wasn’t enough to drink and with the bitter taste in your mouth you didn’t want more. “I drank the rest of the glass because I knew that when she woke, she wouldn’t remember if it was half empty or not. It wasn’t as good as I thought it would be since she drank that all the time.” He takes a swig of the bottle. 

You knew that he had some baggage on him, hell you carried some baggage yourself. But you never knew what it was for him since he was like a mystery to you. You knew each other for a few months, and about two of those were spent with Jake taking the body out for a spin. So, now that you were thinking about it, you don’t know Marc very well. It was a little weird having that revelation after spending so much time with them. You know Steven better than you know Marc and you met them both the same day. From how his story sounded, it seems like his mother was an alcoholic. You trail your eyes away from the small bit of amber liquid and to him. He took another swig and kept eye contact with you throughout it until he removed his lips from the bottle and swallowed. 

“Steven says you look different.” He tells you. You watch his eyes trail over your face and down to your neck. Fuck, you feel different, you almost correct him. “Where are the bruises?” He sets the bottle onto the island and leans against it, keeping his eyes on your neck. 

“Healed.” You say. Your nose wrinkles at the stench wafting off from him.

“You didn’t make a deal, right?” He asks. 

You shake your head and answer, “No.” You watch as relief settles into his features. He picks the bottle back up by the neck. 

“Do you want more, kid?” He asks and despite not wanting more moments ago, you suddenly do. Everything was getting too real and you just wanted it to be muffled for a while. You know that you’re using alcohol as a coping mechanism and you hope that it doesn't stick. You nod and he pours about another quarter full into it. You stand in silence and tap your fingers gently against your glass before taking a small sip this time. It still doesn’t taste better the second time around. 

“I thought I lost you.” He suddenly says, breaking the tension between you. He sounds the most sober that you have heard from him since he came back to the flat. You look down at your glass, your stomach churns with more guilt. “You hung up and those eleven minutes I just kept thinking about how you were dead and it was all my fault; I didn’t know if you were alive and- and I kept thinking about the best place to bury you. Because you sure as hell are not getting dumped into the Thames River.” Your mouth dries as you listen to him take several gulps from the bottle. 

“I thought about calling the police on you at the bar. Damn near should have.” He says. “Steven stopped me. Said how you were safer with us than anywhere else. Sure doesn’t feel like it. Can’t even protect you right.” He slurs. Saying sorry doesn’t feel like it would cover anything but rather placing a childs size band-aid on a massive head wound. But you say it anyways because there’s not much else you can say to express how much guilt you feel for your suicidal action of staying in a burning building with a cult shooting up the place.

“I’m sorry,” You say. “I know that it's not enough and I will try to make it up to you.”

“What about that handshake deal you made with us, huh? What about staying on the line in something as shitty as today? How can I trust you again?” He presses and takes another swig. Your fingers press against the glass a little harder, not enough to crack it but to release a little bit of the building pressure inside of you. How fucking rich was the question coming from him. You try to swallow down the hurt as you listen to him speak. “Go on, tell me how.”

 But, of course, you weren’t successful, “What about telling me the truth about your fucking marriage and not being blipped?”

“Our deal was to be truthful with things that will affect us, not to go into our personal lives. I am not your friend, I am not your parent, I am your neighbor trying to keep you alive.” Your shoulders tense and you inhale a sharp breath. You try not to show him how much his words affect you. 

“It fucking effects me when you lie about something that I experienced. I lost five fucking years of my life, Marc.”

“Millions of people lost their lives! You are not special.” He retorts as he glares at something in the distance. Part of you hopes that Steven or Jake is trying to talk some sense into him, but another part of you doesn’t because at least now, he’s showing how he truly feels. You know what they say about how drunk thoughts speak sober words. 

“I lost my parents.” You say, “I lost my whole fucking life. I was supposed to go to college, and graduate high-school with a cap and gown, and I was supposed to celebrate my sixteenth birthday with my family. I was supposed to do all these fucking things but now I’m here. Being harassed by a cult and some god that has their head so far up my ass that I’m sure they’re in a whole other universe.”

“Join the fucking club, I never had my parents.” He says. Another swig, this time the liquid leaks out of the corner of his mouth and wets his shirt. “You did this to yourself. You could have stayed in New York and had your shit put together there instead of being dragged into this mess and meeting me.” Tears burn your eyes and you try to hide it behind your glass as you one shot the whisky again. He’s such a fucking asshole. He fucking hates you. They all hate you.

“Pour me more.” You demand and he does. This time it reaches nearly the top of the glass and you wrap your hand around it, alcohol splashing across the surface of the counter and onto your sweatpants as you bring it to your mouth and take a large gulp. You set it onto the counter as your throat burns and your intestines match it. You still don’t understand how people enjoy this stuff. 

“How can I trust you?” You ask. “How can I trust the intentions of my neighbor to keep me alive when they lie about shit all the fucking time?” Okay, maybe you stretched that, but it was a valid question. How can you trust someone who lied about being blipped and being married and acting like a prick? How did Layla fall in love with him enough to even say yes to his proposal?

He laughs sarcastically and downs the rest of the bottle before smashing it on the floor. Glass shards scatter across the floor and you wince at the noise of the impact. You’re not wearing shoes and when you walk glass will cut your feet. You watch as he rubs his face with his hands. 

“I guess we both have the same problem, don’t we?” He slurs once he removes his hands. You move your eyes back to your glass, the amber liquid was filled a little over half way. Your fingers wipe against the condensation of the glass as you both wait for the other to speak. Your thought about how much they hate you became true. They really do hate you and you can’t blame them. From how Marc has been speaking, you were a chore, a job, for them and not a friend like you thought you were for a long time. You told Steven that you considered them friends and went with it. Everything hurts. You did everything for them. You took a person's life to assure their safety and others and you were just a problem. 

You pick up your glass and down the rest of the liquid. You weren’t drunk, maybe a little buzzed and it made everything worse instead of better. You just wanted your mom, not Layla, not Steven, your real mom; and you can’t have her because she is dead and she’s not coming back. You set your glass on the table, deciding to deal with it in the morning- or later today in this case. You turn your body and take a step away from the island, the bottom of your feet pinch and you stifle a yelp at the feeling as you walk towards the sofa and sit down before inspecting your feet. Glass shards stuck out and you pluck them out with your fingers as you try not to cry. You heard Marc stumble towards you and you hope that he wasn’t planning on giving you any more of his mind because you have nowhere to go if you wanted to leave. 

You weren’t going to ask Layla to come pick you up at four in the morning and you weren’t going to return to your apartment. You will tell them about the body when Marc is sober, he will lash out on you if you tell him now and it will upset you more. Then you can clean up the blood, and you’ll be out of their hair for good. Only show them that you are alive and well by knocking on their door everyday after work but never enter the apartment. You’ll keep your end of the deal until you turn eighteen and then you’ll move cities, maybe continents again. Start new, fresh, away from them. Take yourself out of the equation and block their numbers. Don’t let yourself become attached again. 

“Look at you, getting hurt, because of me.” He says, his voice causes you to jump and you whip your head to look at him. His eyes are on the blood rising from the cuts on the bottom of your feet before they trail to your red eyes that are becoming blurry. You hold your breath, waiting for him to say something mean but instead you watch as his posture slouches. 

“Oh, dove, I’m so sorry.” Steven slurs, falling halfway over the back of the couch. His cheeks land on the cushions and he pulls the lower half of his body over the back of it. He rests his head on the armrest of the sofa and his legs curled back before he pushes himself up into a sitting position. His own eyes were bloodshot and had tears in them, crying wasn’t a good look for them.

“Marc loves you, he’s just scared he’ll lose you too.” Steven whispers. “The bloke is an idiot who doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time.” You wince as you pull out a big piece of glass and place it on the coffee table.

“Here let me,” He says. His hands wrap gently around your foot to bring it closer to him.

You jerk your foot out of his grasp as if he was on fire, “Don’t touch me.” You hiss at him. He frowns and you turn your eyes back to your foot to care for your wounds and to try not to feel guilty about the tears running down his face. He sniffles and you know that this isn’t fair to treat him like this. He hasn’t done anything wrong to you and he was terrified for you in the mall, but you just can’t get it out of your head that you are a job for him too.

“Do you want to talk about it, dove?” He asks. You can see out of the corner of your eyes that he curled his hands into fists and he was holding onto the pants he wore like it was his lifeline. 

“Don’t call me dove.” You tell him as you pull another chunk of glass out of your foot and set it next to the other one. “I am not your dove, I am not your friend, Steven.” The words hurt to say aloud but it needed to be said. 

“You really believe what that idiot told you?” He slurs, he says your name to catch your attention and you force yourself to focus on your foot. “He’s doing this to be an asshole to you to push you away and you’re letting it work.”

“He’s just speaking the truth, Steven.” You say, you finally look at him and your heartbreaks at the sight of him crying and trying to not let it show. 

“He’s not.” His voice cracks. You feel your own tears run down your cheeks. “Please believe me that he’s not.” You bite your wobbling lip and he reaches out for you with shaky hands. 

“He- he loves you, dove.” You let his hands settle onto yours. “I love you so much that it’s not funny.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re drunk, Steven.” You tell him, he shakes his head vehemently. 

“He was telling us how you’re dead in the headspace on the way over, how there's no chance that you are alive, and I think he was squashing any hope he had for you to be alive so it wouldn’t hurt him.” His thumbs rub against the back of your hand. “I was thinking about how you’re a fighter and there’s no way that you are dead; and if you were… I didn’t get a chance to tell you how much you mean to me.” Your nose strings and you choke out a sob. 

“I’m a murderer, Steven.” You protest. Your hands shake. None of this was fair.

“No, you- you didn’t kill anyone in that mall today.” He cups your cheek, making you look him in the eye. “Don’t even think that for a second.” He places his hand on the back of your head and pulls you towards him to place a kiss on your forehead. You shake your head once he removes his lips from your skin. The words build up in your throat to tell him about the dead cult member in your apartment, but you can’t get them out when you feel his arms wrap around you and pull you against his chest before you’re both laying on the couch. Your legs are slightly draped over his and his arm wrapped around you, hugging you to his side so you won’t fall off the edge of the sofa.

“You’re like my own child.” He laughs through a sob. You bury your face into his chest, your fingers wrapping around the cloth of his shirt. “And I thought- I thought I wouldn’t ever get to see you again. Marc almost had me fooled, damn him.” That nearly causes a laugh to bubble out of your chest but instead, a sob erupts and you feel terrible about all the intrusive thoughts you had today. 

You turn your face away from his chest and say, “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” You feel his arms tighten around you just a fraction. 

“I’m telling you that because it’s the truth.” He says. “You don’t have to believe me, but I hope that you will one day.” You swallow harshly, your throat still kind of burns from the drink. You try to calm yourself down enough to think clearly, you still feel pretty wrecked from everything that has happened. You don’t know if you trust Steven completely, but part of you hopes that what he said is true. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, you tilt your head back to look at him and he tilts his head down to look at you. “About everything that happened today.” He clarifies. You trail your eyes away and to the backrest cushion of the couch. Eight times, you thought, eight times it took before he was dead. The red light in your kitchen made it worse and that deity, it definitely wasn’t Horus. Was it Taweret? You’ll need to ask Layla about it.

“No,” You say. “Not right now. Tomorrow.” You pause. “When you’re more here and not, y’know. Drunk.” Maybe he’s so drunk that none of them will remember this conversation. He hums and you watch his eyes close.

“Okay.” He whispers. You can feel his chest rise and fall and you watch it for a moment. Everything you did today in your flat was for them. So, they can continue doing what Steven is doing right now: breathing. You get up by placing your hand on his chest and push yourself off of him and he grunts at the pressure on his chest. You take out the remaining glass shards and place them next to the others before you’re shaking him awake. He groans as his eyes slide open.

“Get up Steven,” You urged him. “You need to take a shower and drink a few bottles of water before you sleep.” You shake him a little more. “Get up, you stink and I don’t want to deal with you having a massive hangover.” 

“I’m sorry, kiddo.” Marc slurs and you nearly freeze in your movement. “I’m sorry for what I said.” You were still rightfully upset at him but you don’t feel like leaving him to his own devices especially when it will affect Steven and Jake. 

“We’ll talk about it in the morning.” You tell him. You pull him up by his arms and he groans. “C’mon. You do actually stink and I don’t want to smell it on the couch I’m sleeping on tonight.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch?” He asks as you throw his arm over your shoulder and guide him to the bathroom. “Why’s that?”

“Because I can’t deal with sleeping next to you right now.” You sit him on the toilet and he sniffles. 

“I’m sorry.” He says. He sounds like a child who got in trouble for something they did by accident. You grasp the edges of his shirt and pull it over his head before dropping it to the floor and making him unbutton his pants before tugging it down his hips and off of his legs. Soon, his socks followed and he was left in his black boxers. You frown at the sight of some glass sticking out of the bottom of his feet. 

“Stay still,” You order as you crouch down and begin to pluck out the shards and toss them into the trash can next to you.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” He tells you as you inspect his other foot. “I hurt everyone. I hurt you. I hurt Steven. I hurt Randall. I hurt Layla. Layla is mad at me. Do you think she will forgive me?” You glance up at him, wasn’t Randall his brother that died decades ago? 

“I think you need to talk about some issues with her.” You tell him as you stand. 

“I love Layla.” He admits and you were surprised that he was open enough to admit that. “And Steven was right,” He adds. You stare at him blankly. What the fuck was he talking about? He was saying that he loves his wife, but now he was saying that Steven is right? Steven told you that Marc loves you and you took that information with a grain of salt. You know that Marc is drunk, and you know that he would never openly admit his feelings, that he would rather eat a bullet before those three words would ever leave him sober. But, he sure as hell was giving you whiplash.

 You must have either made him uncomfortable enough to change the subject or his drunken mind got distracted because he looked away from you and to the corner of the bathroom you left the bloodied clothes in. 

“What’s that?” He asks. 

“We’ll talk about it later.” You tell him. 

“Did you try to dye clothes while I was gone?” He asks and you nearly scoff. You wish it was color dye rather than what it actually is. 

“A cold shower is going to do you some good, right now.” You say instead. “Get in it Marc.” He groans in response before you’re tugging him up off of the toilet and helping him sit down in the shower. You turn on the water before letting it run over him. You hope that the cold will help sober him up some. Maybe you should make him open his mouth and drink the running water to help quicken the process. You sit down outside of the shower and watch as he rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. You cross your legs into a criss-cross formation and place your arms on your knees before leaning forward. 

From how he’s acting, you doubt that he will remember anything from this morning. You play with a loose thread of a sweater you borrowed from Steven. You know that you weren’t going to get any sleep tonight because your mind will be replaying the events of what you did hours ago. You can’t even tell them about it because of how drunk they are. You would have to repeat it to them when they wake up tomorrow or later today. You feel like you're alone right now and that makes you want to cry. You swallow as you look away from the thread and to Marc, you need a distraction to get rid of the sight of the man's eyes shooting open and looking up at you in fear. 

“I bought you a yellow sweater and Jake a couple packs of marshmallows and Steven a miniature glass frog.” The words tumble from your mouth before you even realize it. Tears were pooling in your eyes. “I’m sorry that you won’t ever get to see them.”

“You bought me a sweater?” He asks, his eyes peeling open to look at you. You nod. “Really?”

“Yeah,” You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand and nod again. “I had to go to several stores to find this sweater and you won’t ever get to wear it.”

“I wouldn’t get the chance to.” He says. “You’ll steal it for yourself.” You laugh and he smiles at the sound of it. 

“It’s okay.” He grumbles. “As long as you’re okay and alive, I don’t care.” You sniffle and he closes his eyes. You watch him for a few minutes, waiting for yourself to finally calm down enough to stand and put him to bed. Once you stand, you turn off the water and grab a towel from the shelf before tossing it onto him. 

“It’s bedtime, Marc.” You say as you lean down and pat him dry with the towel. “You get to drink a bunch of water and then sleep.” He groans and you try to be patient with him to open his eyes. 

“Another reason I don’t want to sleep next to you is because you’re going to be soaking wet.” You teasingly say once he opens his eyes. You push back his wet hair and he hums. He doesn’t look too good. He looks sick like he’s going to throw up. “Marc?” You ask.’

“Yeah?” He grumbles out. He leans into your touch a bit and you don’t pull away.

“If you throw up on me, I will sock you.” You tell him. You won't actually punch him but you hope that he will think you’ll consider it. He chuckles and the sound makes you feel like everything might be alright. “C’mon.” You tell him. “Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, we still gotta get some water into you.”

“I should be taking care of you.” He mumbles as you help him get out of the shower before heading to bed. “You went through so much today and I couldn’t even be there for the after.” You weren’t going to tell him that it was okay because you did need somebody. You do need someone to tell you that it wasn’t your fault and to be sober while saying it. But, that body in your flat right now, is your fault. You set him on the edge of the bed and lift up his legs as his head lands on the pillow. You leave him momentarily to fetch a few bottles for him to down, and you were careful of the glass shards as you got them.  

“You know that night that you wanted to stay the first time? I didn’t want to do it.” He says. You raise an eyebrow, trying to think back to what he was talking about. The first night that you asked? That was months ago. It was understandable that he didn’t want to say yes because you were sixteen and it was weird for a grown man to let a stranger sleep in their apartment. 

“Yeah?” You say as you set the bottles down next to Stevens nightstand books and crack the seal on one to make him drink it. 

“But, Steven convinced me to say yes.” He tells you. You figured that they had to have some discussion on it so that wasn’t surprising. You tell him to sit up and he does after a few moments. You hold the bottle to his lips and he drinks from it and you make sure that he drinks the entire thing before you put the cap back on the bottle and let it drop to the floor. 

“Steven…Steven told me to be the person that I needed when I was younger and that’s why I said yes.” He tells you. You stare at him and he leans back, letting his body fall back onto the mattress. That was something you didn’t know, you thought it had to do with pity, but no, it was Stevens advice. 

“Oh,” You breathe out. Part of you wants to retort that he was doing a shit job at it, but another tells you to keep your mouth shut; and you follow the latter. You were still upset with Marc, but this piece of information was toying with your heart. You really do want to believe that everything Steven told you was the truth but it was difficult to accept, especially with the argument that you and Marc had no too long ago. 

“Can you…?” He hesitates and you watch him fiddle with the sheets for a moment. “Can you read to me?” You watch his face for any sign that he was fucking with you, but he seems absolutely genuine. 

“Yeah,” You say, “Scoot over a bit.” He does and leaves enough room on the edge of the bed for you to sit on. You reach for the top book left on Stevens nightstand. The yellow cover was comforting to look at and it reminded you so much of your childhood, especially with the colorful jumping fish on the cover. You have a vague recollection of your own father reading this to you, but even a more recent memory of Steven reading it to you just last week. You watch him close his eyes and you push back the drying curls from his forehead before you peel open the book. 

You read, “One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish…”

---

Work Cited: Seuss. One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish: Dr. Seuss. Collins, 2005. 

—

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[lily-alphonse]

"I'll Crawl Home to Her" by Lily Alphonse

Category: F/M

Rating: Teen (Mild gore, Injury, War)

Words: 963

And as my mind slips into a place in between: the past and present, beast and man, alive and dead; I wonder if even death will stop me from making it home to her.

A glimpse into Howl's mind as he risked everything to save his family.

A short poem songfic I wrote for Valentine's Day but haven't gotten around to posting here. I have a fandom-blind summary on the AO3 A/N if you'd like to read it without having watched Howl's Moving Castle

>>Read on AO3<<

Or read below ~

I was in Hell. Or at least very nearly so.

The air wasn’t air anymore but something undulating and hot that choked 

It was bombs, debris, and feathers. 

Another airship down. Another comes. More, more, more, attackers. Threats. 

Poor saps, humanity sold for a title, for honor. 

It was honorable, apparently, to be shredded by my talons. 

But maybe the honor was in my blood, dripping down my feathers, mixing with theirs. 

It was human blood, crimson and warm. Or once was. I am nearly as much a beast as them, now. 

But there is no more running. 

There was so much running before. 

But I had found Heaven. It was locked below me in a twisted reversal of legend. 

I had found home . Family . Words otherworldly. Precious now. 

She brought us together, brought light to the darkness. 

It is her laugh I think of, as I am splattered with more blood.

The beast consumes and I allow it; my human form cannot sustain this burden. 

I am powerful. I am not invincible. But I will fight to my dying breath to protect them. 

Protect the mornings eating porridge around the table, Sophie shooting Markl a matronly glare for trying to drink his, and getting it all over his face. Where I laugh despite myself, because he’s barely any better than I am, but anyone else attracting the fiery woman’s ire makes me giddy. 

Protect the way she gasped in awe when I showed her my hideaway, where I saw her true face again, unmarred by her curse. When I realized I was irreparably taken by her.

 

And as my mind slips into a place in between: 

the past and present, beast and man, alive and dead; 

I wonder if even death will stop me

from making it home to her.

The pain shatters my mind. Stabbing in a wing. Burning in a leg. 

Burning off what remains of my once porcelain skin. 

Prized. My body used to make me worthy. A prize. 

For who? For what? I don’t remember. 

How laughable then, that I relinquish my body to

the beast.

My final prayer, I leave the beast with one directive. 

One primal urge: PROTECT.

Then the pain is gone. 

I am a killing machine. 

A beast that can no longer fathom suffering 

except what it summons for others.

I see the world in flashes. 

Fire, bombs, winged henchmen.

Claws, teeth, screeching. 

Home. Sophie. The family. 

Our story only just began

How can it end so quickly? 

I did not know love before she found me. 

I was stupid. Foolish. 

I knew attention. Infatuation. 

But with Sophie… 

Something in my soul recognized hers

We were crafted from the same cosmic dust

Even without a heart my entire being craved her

Her obstinance. Her humor. 

Passionate to a fault. 

And so, so loving. 

My love.

My love. 

She saved me. 

From Sulliman, from the world, from… 

Myself.

She looked into the eyes of a cowardly, petulant fool and saw goodness.

She took my blood-stained hands and embraced them.

Maybe she could save me from Hell. 

I don’t know if I deserve to be saved. 

But I would fly out of Hell for her. 

Make any bargain. I had already traded my heart. 

What are Heaven and Hell but words 

In the face of my love for her. 

I had never even told her. 

I had never even told her.

There is so much left to our story. 

Waking up next to her. 

Her lips against mine. 

There was so much left to write. 

It would not end like this. 

And then somehow there was no more fire.

Only a door, the warped breathing of the beast. 

Then Her. 

She was blurry, but my star dust would recognize hers anywhere.

The beast had dragged my corpse to her just as I wished.

 

She kissed it. My otherworldly shell.

Our first... kiss.

I can’t feel it. 

Inside I am laughing, crying, screaming.

But I am dead to the world. 

Then we were flying again. 

Distantly I felt Calcifer’s presence…

In the end, Darkness.

I sputter awake, wincing at pain I expected to never feel again.

“What’s going on? What am I doing here? I feel te-” I try to sit up, chest unbearably heavy and pinching, “terrible like there's a weight on my chest.”

Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. Her face hovers above me, her hand on my chest. Her brown eyes glitter with tears but she wears a small smile.

“A heart’s a heavy burden.” Her sweet voice is the music of Heaven, the symphony of life and love.

A heart. I had forgotten what it felt like, to have a heart fluttering like this. To have it swell in painful joy at a love so strong it would be sure to ruin me if I lost it. I almost did lose it, but somehow... somehow I am here. She brought me back. She saved me again. 

I lift my hand to her cheek and she leans into the embrace with a smile. Gods I have never seen anything so beautiful. Her hair is short now, silver catching the sunlight streaming through the clouds. Despite the pain I sit up with her. “Sophie, your hair looks just like starlight. It looks beautiful.”

“You think so?” she asks excitedly. “So do I!” she throws herself at me in a tight embrace, laughing, face wet with tears.

I squeeze her tightly to me, wishing for all the world for her touch to scar me as everything else had. Over and over again I can not stop the choked whispers into her ear, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

I  crawled back to her an empty shell, and she breathed life into me again. 

I am home.

Excerpt from “Work Song” by Hozier

My babe would never fret none

About what my hands and my body done

If the Lord don't forgive me

I'd still have my baby and my babe would have me

When I was kissing on my baby

And she put her love down soft and sweet

In the low lamplight I was free

Heaven and hell were words to me

When my time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I'll crawl home to her

[caliburn]

A̷ͣ̍ͣ̃̅ͨ̓̕҉͉̣͈͔̩ ̶̡̭̞̣̣̰͂͋̎̃̂͟R̦̲̳͇̩̭̱̪͆͆ͯ̔̌́͜͟ ̴̡̱̹̙͇̒̽͠T̠̪͉̺̠̤̫̆ͩ̅ͨ ̟̼̝̀͒̂͐̀̔̚H̨̰̱̉ͯͣͪ̆̕ ̷̙̪̭̱̟͚̜̫̑̋̊̊ͥ̊̈́̆͞ͅU̪͎̳̹̻̰͎̳͑̆̈́̐̚͞͡ ̷̰̱̟̟̦̬͌ͥ͂ͥ̀Ŕ̸̵͏̫͔̼̥͎̣

She had always been warned to maintain a distance from the black-armoured Berserker — for her sake as much his. Once informed of the specifics, Lily had always complied with the instruction for fear of torturing a knight so beloved. Whenever the Knights of the Round received gifts, he would also, never with identification as to the sender. She longed to apologise to him for the endless mental torment he suffered, but with the frenzy her mere existence would whip him into, such would never be possible.

There be no need for more evidence than the present. Each Heroic Spirit in this city had been a shadow; hollow replications of culminated darkness, and with assistance, had she managed to at least hold her own against them. But he... he was a true Servant, and with only her sword to wield, she stood no chance. Once she entered his field of view, it was over.

Each breath wracked her lungs with burning pain, flared agonisingly whilst coughs ejected blood, mixed with that which poured from bodily wounds. Though she could peel herself from the ground, the knight remained crumpled before her companion, head dangling between her shoulders. Methodical were the footfalls that cast her in his shadow, plated fingers grasping at her hair to pull the Saber's view upward, gazed jade pierced by blood ruby. Ragged breaths were all she could muster at first, smoothed whilst broken lips shaped a smile.

She had known from the beginning it were impossible to fend him off, but if it afforded her friends time to escape the city, her death would not be in vain. And not just their safety, but his relief might yet still be salvageable. "If this... eases your pain, I will endure it all. I'm... sorry, Lancelot..."

Or will you find no peace, because I am not her?

A howl echoed from the maddened knight's throat, pulling on golden locks to hoist the smaller Servant from the ground, and once off her feet, he retaliated with one his own — driving itself into her abdomen with force that ruptured more blood from her throat and catapulted the tiny frame from his relinquishing grip, sending her through traffic lights and scraping against the road on the other side of a junction. Burgundy stained the street, gold splayed upon the heap at the culmination of its trail, shuddering like a lost traveller in the depths of frozen mountains. Ah... she would not last longer, but it was alright. Her senses were fading.

It would be over soon...

@gunnhildre

[mrskurono]

nanami x fem!reader x gojo

tags: mlm, threesome, oral (giving and receiving), anal, light cum play, anal creampie, slight cucking, semi public

character(s): Nanami Kento (jjk), Gojo Satoru (jjk)

“Please.”

Gojo’s voice no more than a pathetic plead as his pink lips were popped off Nanami’s cock with force. He really had nothing to say as the cock in his mouth was replaced by you grinding your soaked slit down on his face with vigor. With the same exuberance saved for Nanami’s cock stretching his jaw. Gojo was just as happy to swipe his tongue all over your soaked core in an attempt to lick up all your juices that had come from watching him gag on Nanami’s cock.

Fingers taking hold of his white hair to leverage his face up between your legs better. The second his nose pressed against your clit as Gojo’s tongue teased your entrance is enough to send a shiver right up your spine. And if that wasn’t enough Nanami had invited himself to grope at your chest as his cock was being serviced by Gojo’s hand wrapped wonderfully tight around the shaman’s cock.

“Fuck Gojo-” His name went with an exhale through your clenched teeth from his wonderful tongue work. Stepping in on these two was a blessing.

“Don’t give him too much,” Nanami looked down at the shaman gorging himself on you like it was his last meal, “He didn’t earn it.”

Reluctant but always right you have to break away from Gojo’s expert mouth even if you could spend all evening letting him eat you out.

“Aww,” Gojo’s coy grin quickly dipped into a pouty frown, “Y/n your not the one mad at me! Let me finish, Nanami is just being a meanie.”

“Be careful, I’m pretty sure this meanie would be letting you suffer with nothing,” You hadn’t let go of his hair so at Gojo’s cheeky remark you tugged his head back to look up at you both.

Of course he grinned and Gojo’s lips parted ever so slightly with a moan that escaped him. Mostly for show but it never stopped Gojo. Before you could make a move though Nanami had taken your place with his mouth on Gojo’s. Hand around gently against his throat and no need for you to be holding Gojo’s hair anymore. You relinquished the man to Nanami’s mercy.

Stepping back to enjoy the sight of the blond shaman stealing a heated kiss from the most talkative one here at Jujutsu Tech. Certainly something you might remember if Gojo became annoying in the future. Or perhaps just the blackmail of what Nanami could do to him would be enough to fluster the shaman.

“Get up,” Nanami ordered against Gojo’s lips, breaking the kiss like it was nothing as his hand left Gojo’s throat as well.

“Oh c'mon,” Gojo whined, like that would work, looking up at Nanami with a pout, “Gimme a little more than that Kento~” That earned a death glare you were downright happy not to be at the other end of. Gojo giggled and slowly got back up to his feet, “Fine fine fine, Nanami.”

Along for the ride you lean back on the desk. One leg propped up on a chair as you can’t help draw your fingertips up and down your soaked slit. Watching this unfold. The sight of both men more than alluring. But you figured Nanami had it covered as Gojo did what he said with minimum sass. Keenly aware of how badly Gojo wanted this, his sarcastic remarks were to save face because sooner or later he’d be a drooling fool on Nanami’s cock.

Nanami doesn’t hesitate to shove Gojo’s talkative mouth between your legs. Shutting him up effectively as the man wastes no time returning to what he was doing. His tongue dancing around your clit while now he can snake his fingers into toying with your entrance. Excited to have something to do is an understatement. If you hadn’t been trained to watch Nanami you would have had your eyes squeezed tight fighting off an orgasm. But you couldn’t take your eyes from the blond shaman.

“Wait-” Nanami pulled Gojo’s face from between your legs for a second. Earning a whimper from the both of you. But for good reason though as he swiped his index finger up along your slit. Coating it in your slick and Gojo’s spit. What he intended to do was obviously shortly afterwards.

Bringing his finger against Gojo’s entrance, Nanami was rightfully the first to earn a sincere moan from the white haired man. Almost pathetic as Gojo clearly pushes back on Nanami’s finger. Enjoying the sight too much your fingers return to teasing your core. Only to have the addition of Gojo’s mouth once more.

“He’s tight isn’t he Nanami~” You tease, the look of concentration on your coworker’s face amusing. He shoots you a glare but you’re nowhere in as much hot water as Gojo was going to be.

“Get over here,” Nanami wiggles his finger inside Gojo enough that even the composed shaman looses the focus on your cunt.

Obedient to his words you hop off the desk and come to Nanami. Who clearly wants you to work yourself a bit for barging in on his affairs. Obliging you get down on your knees to savor the sight of Nanami’s hard cock with a perfect bead of precum rolling down his slit. A scrumptious meal in reality you always wondered what he tasted like.

Engulfing Nanami’s cock past your watering lips, you look up at Nanami to see him looking down his nose at you. A slight hitch to Nanami’s chest as he takes in a sharp breath. More than enough of approval to continue on your merry way. The way Nanami’s cock fits in your mouth almost feels like too much. But it makes you want to take more of it. Working your tongue over every inch of him you can as your free hand squeezes the base of his cock and the other runs up and down his thigh.

Gojo’s turn. As Nanami returned his attention to the man. He had the pleasure of stretching a willing Gojo out with no time at all. The way he’d push back onto him and run his whiney mouth told Nanami he was more than ready. Trading one warm hole for another, Nanami pulled his cock away from your lips. Earning a reluctant groan from you. But with his cock covered in saliva he pressed himself up against Gojo.

“Fuck Nanami-” Gojo groaned under his breath, it’d been a while but all thoughts consuming told him how badly he wanted to take every inch of him, “Be careful now~”

Grabbing Gojo’s hips Nanami dug his broad fingertips into his flesh before pulling him all the way down on his cock. Little concern in a fleeting second for his coworker’s comfortability. Nanami pressed his cock down to the hilt inside Gojo and held himself there as the taller shaman squirmed on his length.

“Well go,” Nanami, balls deep in Gojo, tipped his head at you to a curt gesture at Gojo, “Make him shut up already.”

“Aww he wants me to be quiet,” Gojo, in no position to antagonize anyone, got what was coming to him when Nanami pulled back to snap his hips into him. The lewd mixture of Gojo’s giggle muffled by his inadvertent moan was a delight to the ears. You quickly made your way back to his face.

This time you got more comfortable on the desk. Worried less about watching the show and more about your growing need. Just the sounds from the two where enough as you craved something inside you. To remedy that you pulled Gojo’s face right to your core once more. He never missed a beat. Latching a needy mouth onto your clit as an excited tongue worked over your sensitive bud. He had every intention of making you cum now and it was obvious.

“Fuck-” Nanami’s groan stole your attention a little.

Looking up to see him, fistfuls of Gojo’s side, rutting into him with deep long strokes. If that wasn’t enough to make your insides twist and ache. The sight of Gojo’s bouncing cock might do the trick. Each thrust of Nanami’s cock into him seem to add to the wisps of precum beading and oozing off his cock. Gojo doing nothing short of making a mess under him as Nanami fucked him stupid.

In a moment of surprise, Gojo adds his fingers to the mix. So focused on them it takes you by a pleasant surprise. The second his long finger dives into you to swirl up your insides. Paired with the job his tongue was doing on your clit was almost too much.

“Shit-” You knot your hand in Gojo’s hair. Pulling him against you trying to ride his face right into your orgasm.

“Wait-” Nanami’s voice caught you off guard. He commanded your attention though even for a second, “Don’t cum yet-”

“But Nanami-” You whined at the fact you weren’t the one getting punished. That was saved for the idiot being spitroasted between the two of you. Hard to deny his order though as Gojo’s excited finger had an addition. Getting spread and fucked by both the shaman’s long dexterous fingers was borderline too much.

“Shit-” Evident Nanami’s demand was more of a plea. His own orgasm building up and making it harder to maintain his even deep strokes into Gojo. Who, for a better word, was a slobbering mess as he devoured your cunt amidst the painful ache of his cock bouncing up and down without any relief. His precum dripping out of him in the meek attempt to not cum every time Nanami’s cock rammed into his prostate.

Your orgasm could only be fought off for so long. Gojo’s tongue pressed flat into your clit as you ground yourself on his face. Too much when his long fingers hooked just in the right spot and a gush of warmth spread throughout your body. A slough of half mumbled curses fell from your mouth just as the grip on Gojo’s hair tightened. Your orgasm wracking your body in the worst way possible. Leaving you a twitching mess on the desk with Gojo’s face smashed between your legs when it was finally to late for him.

The vibration of his lips against your oversensitive clit. You moan slightly but savor the sight as Gojo’s cock jumps to life in the seconds after Nanami ruts into him nice and deep. He’s left with no other choice but to cum as Nanami’s cock milks him for his worth. Gojo’s moans muffled by your core still pressed to his lips. His seed spilt onto the floor with each rope of thick white cum oozing from his cock. Until there was a disgusting little puddle of his cum and Nanami couldn’t keep his composure anymore.

Rutting into Gojo one last time as deep as he could manage. He didn’t hesitate to fill him up with every drop of cum he’d been begging for. Nanami’s knuckles nearly turning white with the grip he had on Gojo. His cock twitching inside him as Gojo shimmied back onto him like his life depended on it. Greedy for every drop of cum Nanami was filling him with.

Finally when nothing but the heavy breathing of each of you filled the room. You release Gojo’s face from your grasp. Juices smeared all over his fucked out expression. Nanami does the same as he slips his cock from him and Gojo sinks to his knees. His own cum stain on the floor between his knees as Gojo looked down at his still hard cock.

What he didn’t expect was to see you both standing above him. Gojo takes a moment but beams a cheeky grin up at you both. But it’s obvious his eyes settle back on Nanami.

“Tch,” Nanami rolls his eyes as his hand moves to the back of Gojo’s head to lace his fingers in the man’s white hair, “Don’t think this is over yet Satoru.”

[spookyheaad]

Zemira

So since I’m working full throttle on the next two chapters of the Tesoro/Stella fic, I figured it would be a great time to get some Darksiders content up! I still greatly adore Darksiders, as I owe it’s unique art style (which is thanks to the badass artist Joe Madureira) for placing me down the path of making art for a living! I really would love to work on a Darksiders related property one day, whether it be a game, or comic, or something.

Enough of my rambling, I want to introduce everyone to my Darksiders OC, who I have shown a lot in art on my Instagram in past years. Her name is Zemira, she is a “Pseudo-Nephilim”. Pseudo Nephilim were Lilith’s second attempt at creating Nephilim, except instead of using the dust of angels & demons, she literally just rounded up living angels and demons and made them procreate, just to see what would happen. She thought it would make for stronger warriors, since their bloodlines & genetics would be more true to their angelic/demonic heritage.

(Also keep in mind this document was my initial design for Zemira, there are slight changes to her current design):

Now of course, the Charred Council catches wind of this and sends the Horsemen to kill these creations and anyone involved in it. Death, being the most severely & outwardly affected by the Nephilim Genocide which brought him & his three younger siblings to become the Four Horsemen, had slight reservations, but were quelled when he was reminded that Lilith was behind it all.

So the Horsemen did what was ordered of them, to slaughter these “New Nephilim” before they had a chance to form any sort of formal society or warmongering hunger for a home of their own. Death was able to do what he set out to do, but at times during the slaughter he couldn’t help be reminded of the comrades he mercilessly killed. He did not know why because he had no blood relation to these pseudo-Nephilim, no family or acquaintances among their lot. But, they did hold heavy resemblance to the original Nephilim, regardless of the fact that they were not born in Absalom’s image. They held both angelic & demonic traits, some more human-like, others more monstrous, and some were an equal mix of both traits.

Death pushed through this apprehension, that was until he came across Zemira. She fought back against Death on nearly equal ability in terms of physical agility and weapons prowess alone. She wanted something more than to be used as a weapon for someone else’s goals. Day in and day out she forcibly fought against her fellow pseudo-Nephilim, in an even more twisted and sickening form of eugenics; weeding out the weakest bloodlines in the way that all Nephilim know best, fighting to the death. She fought to be alive, and she will not relinquish her life so easily.

Death, being able to simply sense her will to live, and with his unwillingness to keep killing these poor beings, allowed her to escape.

“Go!”

She was taken off guard. No opponent had ever submitted in a fight willingly, or consciously, for that matter. She stood there in shock.

“GO, LEAVE THIS PLACE!”

The eldest Horseman was fed up, covered in blood, hunched over in a half battle-ready stance, half tired hunch, panting heavily. But he was not tired, no; his deep trauma from having to, in any form of way, kill off beings that not only looked like his brethren, but also came from similar bloodlines, was like a slap in the face; even more degradation to his existence. He was done. He allowed War, Fury, and Strife to kill off any few stragglers that tried to fight back. He couldn’t do this.

That’s a bit of the gist of Zemira’s backstory. Eventually, realizing that she had nowhere to go, she sought out Death willingly, still perplexed that he allowed her to live. She was told much about The Horsemen, specifically Death, by Lilith, and all the pureblooded angels & demons that took part in the Pseudo-Nephilim’s creation. He was strong beyond belief, merciless, cold, and had no reservations in terms of ending one’s life, as his iconic moniker so plainly implies.

That was not the Death she fought.

So basically from then on she locates Death (how, I’m still not sure; Vulgrim probably has knowledge of this type of stuff, maybe even Ostergoth lmao), and quite slowly (over the span of like four thousand human years) builds a strong relationship upon pillars of trust & a very quiet, but real love.

During her time with Death, she took the time to find beauty in all things, and in turn, properly cope with the constant abuse she suffered & her negative self-worth due to that. She learns to love herself, and tries to get Death to do the same. Zemira also tends to hide her pain with kindness & positivity; always attempts to see the good in others.

She is very level-headed and extremely thoughtful, almost uncharacteristic for a Nephilim of any kind. She puts the safety of others before her own (Specifically Death’s safety). Death also keeps her existence a secret from the Charred Council, as she would be killed without a second thought if they were to find out that Death allowed her to live.

Strife, War, and Fury eventually become aware of this relationship between Death & Zemira, and come to accept it. They see that she makes him happy, and is insurmountably precious to him.

After that novel of a post, here is her updated character sheet (Tbh this is just the most recent one. I may have to update it once more just for my sake):

Here’s some random artwork of Zemira with Death to end this post off:

[phynali]

Dean’s Body as a Punching Bag

Ever since I made this post about Sam and (his lack of) bodily autonomy (as well as the follow-up post that carries the theme through the other 10 seasons), I’ve been trying to determine what the corollary for Dean is. Re-watching 5x01 made it jump out at me in a huge way:

The bodies of the people that Dean loves are consistently used in a way that hurts/harms Dean and metes out violence against him. And it is specifically his loved ones’ bodies themselves, not shapeshifters or lookalikes or Leviathan either. It is the people he loves’ hands and fists and weapons.

(I need a snappier way to word that, but bear with me).

Where Sam’s bodily autonomy violations occur before he’s born, and are seen as early as the pilot with Azazel in his room and with the Woman in White, Dean’s analogous theme doesn’t sneak in until the mid-season finale with Asylum.

In this episode, Sam gets infected with a sort of ghost-possession/ghost-sickness (another example of a violation of his bodily autonomy) and his internal anger becomes external, focused on Dean. Sam attacks Dean violently, and Dean goes so far as to hand over a (thankfully unloaded) gun and in this altered state, Sam actually tries to shoot him. 

Ouch. The person Dean loves and most wants to protect had his body violated and used against Dean. This theme is going to carry us through the next, eh, 10 or so seasons, with some tail-end examples even after that. 

In Season 1 we have Asylum mid-season, and we have the finale in which John is possessed by Azazel and hurts Dean most grievously, almost kills him. In Season 2, Sam is possessed by Meg and shoots Dean (in the arm). In Season 3, we had a writers’ strike and a season cut short so I can’t think of any examples there (but lots of other shit to unpack for another day).

The in Season 4, we have Sex and Violence, which is super interesting. While Dean is the one targeted by the siren and therefore the one whose body is used against his brother to hurt him, the actual violence doesn’t start until Sam is also infected. Sam’s body is violated by being held at knifepoint by his brother and his mouth forced open to accept the siren’s venom, but then it’s a fist-fight, a showdown. Both brothers’ bodies being used to hurt the other, but getting to that point required Sam’s body to similarly be ready to be used against Dean.

Season 5 is literally bookended by instances of this happening. First, true to the idea that Dean sees Bobby as family, Bobby becomes possessed by a demon and he violently attacks Dean. And then Swan Song, most famous example by a huge margin, Sam is possessed by Lucifer and is fist-fighting Dean, destroying his face and killing him with his fists, and it is his overwhelming love for Dean that allows him to overcome this possession and save the world.

The theme is carried forward for a few more seasons, pretty much until that narrative turning point in Season 10 that I mentioned in my post about Sam. In Season 6, soulless!Sam allows Dean to be hurt by a monster, harming him by proxy. In season 7, Sam is hallucinating and almost shoots Dean. In season 8, Cass is programmed by Naomi to kill Dean, and in the episode Goodbye Stranger beats him to a pulp before overcoming this programming. In season 9, when Gadreel reveals himself and takes over Sam’s body and kills Kevin, he also attacks Dean. 

Skipping Season 10 for a hot sec (more on that below), Lucifer also later possesses Cass in Season 11 and harms both Sam and Dean. In Season 12, we get brainwashed Mary attacking her sons (and overcoming possession thanks to Dean). And possibly examples from S13-15 that I’m missing (Garth being affected by Michael? Cass being affected by Rowena’s spell? Both Sam and Dean were affected by the Witch from Wizard of Oz, right? I honestly can’t recall the late seasons near so well). But regardless we see the theme play out in the final 5 seasons, just less and a bit different than it had prior. 

-

Now, let’s unpack the S10 shift a bit, and why it changes things for this theme of Dean’s.

In S9, Dean takes on the Mark of Cain under the weight of guilt and self-loathing from having violated Sam’s bodily autonomy by tricking him into being possessed by an angel (and forcibly having him possessed by a demon to then fix that angelic possession). In this instance, Dean is willfully taking on something that alters his own body, and the narrative between he and Sam is flipped. Now Dean is the one with something ‘evil’ marring his body and impacting it outside his control, and now Sam is the one who is ignoring Dean’s protests and autonomy in order to save him from this thing, consequences be damned.

That 2.5 season role-reversal arc was huge for how it changed Sam’s storyline for the final 5 seasons, and similarly huge for how it impacts Dean’s.

Dean is now the one whose body is being used as a weapon against those he loves most, and he is the one suffering that loss of autonomy and control over himself. He is sick with bloodlust, is turned into a demon, is drawn to the First Blade, and is not in full control of himself. When the Darkness is unleashed and Dean suffers the emotional consequences of feeling tied to and drawn to this monster (woman? celestial being? godlike person?) against his will. 

The Mark/Darkness narrative shows us that Dean’s body might belong to him, but it too can be corrupted against his will. Dean learns that he won’t always be able to choose, learns what it means not to have control over his own body. That while he puts his family as his duty above all else, while he would sacrifice literally everything (his body, his soul, the entire universe) for his little brother, the opposite might also be true, even if Dean doesn’t want it to be. 

(And I said elsewhere that I fundamentally believe this narrative role-reversal was a consequence of him overstepping his ownership over Sam by tricking him into taking Gadreel. Their positions are swapped because they have to be, because narratively it becomes necessary for Dean to know what this loss of autonomy feels like, and for Sam to override his brother’s choices, or else they may never find a sense of equilibrium again).

By the time this Mark/Darkness narrative wraps up, Dean is fundamentally, irrevocably changed. Where in Season 5 it was completely unthinkable that he would agree to be a vessel for Michael, it is in the finale of Season 13, just two seasons after the Darkness storyline wraps up, that we see him take Michael into himself as a snap, in-the-moment decision. What was previously unthinkable is now canon. 

Because Dean is now different. Because his core of protecting Sam is the same, but his theme of how others' bodies are used against him has now upended itself, and he now has had his body used against others.

In my post about Sam, I said that in the end for the final seasons, the narrative has shifted from Dean owning Sam’s body to Sam also owning his own, and them acknowledging that they are in this together as a result of Season 10. I believe that happens with Dean as well, owing to this reversal. Sam has now taken some ownership over Dean’s body by getting rid of the Mark, and Dean has relinquished some of his tight-fisted control over himself. 

So Sam is sharing ownership over his body with Dean (in the vein of “I can’t pretend you won’t do whatever you can to keep me alive, even if I don’t want it, but we’re in this together” and “if we die we do that together too”), and Dean is also sharing ownership over his body with Sam (in the vein of “I’m no longer convinced you’re going to abandon me, so the things that I will do to keep you by my side will be met equal between us” and “when it comes to keeping you safe, it’s my autonomy I will give up first, not yours”). 

-

But what does this particular form of bodily-violence-from-family say about Dean from a thematic standpoint?

In my post about Sam, I talked about how the themes of possession (ghost and demon) and demon blood are inherently about bodily autonomy and free will. 

For Dean, thinking through this theme of his loved ones being used to hurt him, I’m torn trying to find the way to word it, but I feel that it has to do with his themes of self-effacement as love, as protection and duty. It’s about being willing to suffer anything (even to the point of death) to protect his family, the ones he loves most. Family is the end-all-be-all to Dean, and protecting his family (most especially his little brother) is the core and heart of his character. It is a duty and a responsibility and a calling and a purpose. 

To remix a quote from the film Legend, Dean’s devotion to his brother (and to a lesser extent, to everyone else he calls family) is how he measures himself. There’s no single word for it, as it’s a mix of protection as love, as an instinct, but also as a fundamental duty, an identity. His internal compass.

So Dean’s narrative invokes free will in a very different way than Sam’s. Dean always had and has free will. He had the will to sell his soul, the will to refuse Michael. He has autonomy over his body and he has choice, so much so that he makes choices over and over for Sam. Instead, Dean’s struggles with autonomy of self as related to his constant effacement (to the point of complete ego-destruction and physical loss of self) for the people he loves. He will die, sell his soul, let himself be beat to a pulp, and anything more that the situation calls for, so long as it means protecting or not harming his loved ones.

The original Swan Song end is a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, in the style of Greek tragedy. Sam’s struggle for autonomy, and the moment he claims that autonomy for himself, he falls into the Pit for eternity. Dean’s original intended Swan Song ending is analogous: a struggle to exist as more than his duty to his family, and right after he accepts that Sam is allowed to choose Lucifer and death for himself while Dean may continue on living, he then chooses to fall into the Pit after his brother so they could be together (in Hell, in the Cage) eternally.

Both of them have these absolute tragic flaws and in the first Kripke-era arc, tragic sacrificial ends. Sam’s relating to will and autonomy, Dean’s relating to love, family and protection/duty. Both of them belonging to themselves and to each other.

-

-

A few extra things about this theme worth noting:

1. the people who love Dean are always in an altered state when they harm him, whether it be possession, brain-washing, siren venom, soulless, etc etc, which I think goes to show in some ways how this love as a given to people who will never deliberately harm him.

2. in a huge proportion of these instances, Dean is saved by the person who loves him reclaiming themselves over and above their altered state. John overcomes Azazel’s possession (arguably, I would say, deliberately from Azazel, but let’s not quibble). Bobby stabs himself in the stomach to save Dean. Cass overcomes Naomi’s brainwashing. Sam overcomes the literal Devil possessing him. Mary overcomes some brainwashing (I think?). Etc. So Dean's love as sacrifice is rewarded?

3. Sam’s body is the most frequently used to harm Dean.

[sasorikigai]

He might be a shorter one, but he still gotta carry his injured hubby like a spicy hamburger he is. Nothing is heavier than that one boulder anyway.

Random Inbox Shenanigans (Koala Hanzo) || @sonxflight || always accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || The causatum of his excruciatingly throbbing pain has Scorpion’s back flat against the earth; with his chiseled shoulder blades pressing against it with such hardened steel force. He can feel the humming and whirling of his blood as his conscious spins, as he tilts his face slightly to the side. The setting sun burns the sky crimson, with its arm outstretched towards the sea. Fingertips tracing the bright illumination of the ferrous red ocean of his mind, as the surging waves keep inching closer to him as if beckoning him to return. 

The tide of his exquisite pain gently grazes his feverous form, whispering his name and crying “Come home....,” for the deep knows Scorpion’s wounded, unhealed heart, the vastness of what it holds, and all that he wants is to relinquish, because what else is there? Except to bestow all of the love inside that had been corrupted beneath the sirens of the abyss, the salt of his tears mixed with the scorching vitriol ire of his hellfire, manifesting as the fathomless song of the melancholic blue burning as white flame. 

The world is an ephemeral haven, for the wraith continues to be lost in his beloved’s arms, bide to sojourn in such vast terrain of his agony and suffering; this landscape of lost love forever making him to suffocate beneath the cold ice kiss upon his spinal cord. Frost everlasting chilling him to the bone, as his core huddles round the fire of his beloved’s warmth, but his fevered heart keeps on pounding, lest blood is slow. No longer damned by the touch of the reaper he knows, for no coffin nor a haven of irreversible death should mitigate his being with the fact that he will live with such tumult and chaos of his trauma pendulating between regression and progression. 

Despite his chagrin and humiliation, his limbs manifest themselves as a strangle vine that will cleave itself towards the tree. How Scorpion clasps at all the revealed wounds, both physical and mental, as his hands grasp and then flounder. A compulsion that wounds him continues to cleave and lacerate, makes his unlife no profounder, lest he continues to take the position of Shirai Ryu Grandmaster. “In my contradiction, how I desperately yearn to both cling and lash, for I wish to strike the hour of my condemnation, as torment and agony nestles deep in the depths of these familiar sorrows. I can ever exculpate myself of this past, for my hands continue to stain with the blood of the innocent, instead of martyred salvation.” 

Scorpion will continue to wade through muck, hoping not to ever get stuck from the abysmal tendrils of his demonic darkness. Such trials and tribulations will continue to obscure the blurred edges of his memory, but the wraith’s affixed stare fixates over Ryou Sakai’s radiance and warmth, as his faltering strength melts the steeled tautness and vigilance, with his consciousness gradually slipping into gentle, coaxed stillness.  ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[bailey-reaper]

The Lord of the Manor (5)

Summary: It is said that you 'reap what you sow', apparently that saying is no different for Grim Reapers...

Content Warnings: angst, xenophobia reference / imperialist thinking + me taking artistic liberties re: the van Zieks family

Other parts: (1) | (2) | (3) | (4) |

In the distance Barok could hear voices talking, which only served to confuse him. He was inside Klint's burial chamber, no one else should be here. He opened his eyes, head pounding, and found his confusion grew all the more.

This was not his brother's crypt. It was his own room, yet he had no recollection of leaving the family cemetery or the journey home.

He felt warm and dizzy, and that feeling intensified when he tried to sit up, "...Ugh..." it was slowly dawning on him that he was feverish. Most likely due to the reckless trip he took during a fierce storm.

"My Lord, are you awake?" he heard Harvey's voice.

"... Yes," his croaked, as though his vocal chords had rusted, "... What... happened, Harvey?" no doubt the butler could elucidate him.

"The groundskeeper was tending to the cemetery after the storm and found you collapsed on the floor. He came back to the estate and informed me, I then arranged to have you brought home so that the physician could assess you. Thankfully he does not think it's anything serious, most likely fatigue."

".... I see," Barok laid back in the bed and closed his eyes, his vision was already starting to swim, "... Thank you, Harvey."

"It is my pleasure, my lord, I am glad you are safe... the physician thinks you may have a fever but that you should recover after a few days of rest. Please let me know if you need anything."

"I will..." his consciousness was already slipping; soon enough he drifted to sleep.

──────≪⊰✥⊱≫───────

His sleep was fitful; drifting in and out of consciousness for several hours while his body wracked with freezing shivers and unbearable flashes of warmth. He writhed and groaned as the fever took a firmer hold of his faculties.

"Truly you seem to be suffering, little brother..."

Barok opened his eyes and stared in disbelief at the man sitting on his bed -- Klint. He was sat there, looking over at him with face marred by concern, "... K...Klint?" he uttered, before trying to sit up only to think better of it when his head throbbed sharply.

"Mmm," his older brother nodded, "Truth be told you're hallucinating, but I suppose that's to be expected when you neglect yourself in this manner."

A wry smile tugged his lips; it seemed his own mind was set upon chastising him for his earlier impulsiveness, "... Of course... a figment of my imagination."

"Yes... you've pushed yourself too hard of late, no wonder things have gotten on top of you and now you're feverish and hallucinating."

"..." he felt a strong surge of sadness in the pit of his stomach, "My mind couldn't at least trick me into thinking you were a ghost..."

"You're too cynical for that," the mirage pointed out, "No doubt you'd have tried to cross-examine this situation and forced the truth out of yourself."

It was irksome how accurate that statement was, and how he was incapable of formulating a witty reply to it. Eventually he gave up and muttered, "... Perhaps."

"Undoubtedly," the figment said, "Now, I suppose we'd best get to the bottom of why you're having this moment of delirium..."

"Clearly because I'm feverish," he retorted dryly.

"No..." Klint shook his head, "Clearly you need to do some soul searching. You've lost your way, your feelings of hopelessness have driven you to be reckless and now you don't know what to do with yourself. Perhaps you need to take a step back and re-calibrate, little wolf."

"Nonsense..." he muttered as he draped a hand over his eyes; his forehead was burning, "I... I know precisely what I need to do..."

"Oh really? Well I assure you that clinging to the past isn't it."

".... I know that," but how could he resist? This house was full of memories; it was the last place in all the world where Klint's memory was still a tangible thing that he could hold on to. It was all he had left of him.

"Find something to live for, Barok. You have a chance to turn a new page, to step out of your brother's shadow. You don't have to be a prosecutor. You don't have to be a lawyer. You can be whatever you want."

"Whatever I want..." he mumbled to himself as a wave of tiredness washed over him; he relinquished himself to it and drifted into a deep sleep

──────≪⊰✥⊱≫───────

For several days, Barok continued to drift in and out of delirious conversations with a mimicry of his brother. Until his body recovered and he overcame the fever; there was a dull pang in his chest when it dawned on him that he could not longer hallucinate his brother's presence watching over him, but, it was a familiar grief and one he continued to hold in his core.

He decided to take the fever dreams to heart, rather than wallowing, and set about busying himself with numerous distractions; a main one being repairing the old family estate. It had been refurbished sometime during his grandfather's lifetime, but it seemed the work had been rather shoddy.

In between the renovations, he engaged in correspondence with a few individuals in London, including members of the Prosecutor's Office, and dabbled in stocks to maintain the family's wealth. His employment as a Prosecutor was hardly a king's ransom, but it had been an impressive wage and he was conscious to avoid squandering his family's assets while he languished in a malaise.

For a few years that became his routine, and it was a reasonably comfortable one. He enjoyed the Devon countryside atop Black Gale and distracted himself with a mix of physical and cerebral activities. Yet, it felt profoundly empty to him; there was an acute sense of wistfulness at his core and he knew precisely what it related to.

He had geared his entire life for a career as a lawyer, and the part of his mind that had enjoyed the intellectual rigour found his current life far too humdrum. Of course he still read the Legal Reports not long after they were handed down by the Courts, out of a 'healthy curiosity', he told himself, but reading about the law was nothing when compared to actually practising it.

The anecdotes he received from his peers in the Prosecutor's Office did little to slake that innermost wish, in fact they only stoked it more. But he resisted by reminding himself why he left in the first place.

Should he return, the Capital would once more be swept up in its 'Reaper fever'; the press would fixate on his every move, the criminal underbelly of London would sharpen its knifes and perhaps this time manage to get his eyes... Fear had no part of it, for he did not fear death, but it grew wearisome to be so fetishised by the world at large and all it did was remind him all the more that Klint was not here.

Klint was the one who had inspired such a fervent love of the law in him; his righteousness, his acumen, his talent for public speaking... every time he'd watched his brother in court he'd fallen in love with the law a little more, for it embodied the very things his brother stood for. Or, that's what he'd wanted to believe.

The truth had been a bitter pill to swallow – for, while the law had the best of intentions, it was a clunky machine that often failed to work at the moment where individuals and society at large most needed it. Loopholes and the unjust were constantly undermining it. He felt the dichotomy between reality and idealism keenly. He had often equated the Law with Justice, but sadly the two things were not synonymous.

Sometimes he wondered how Klint had coped with that knowledge, for he saw his brother as a bastion of justice and a man of integrity who would no doubt have been just as aware of the law's failings as he. How he longed to ask his brother now that he had the benefit of practical experience.

For several years he maintained his distance from London and the law; many among the aristocracy gossiped, from rumours about his death to wild theories about his having eloped to America to marry into some wealthy entrepreneurial family, but for the most part he ignored them too. The only time he deigned to mingle with the other noble families was when such was demanded of him as master of the house.

One day, however, a letter arrived from London that piqued his interest to the point he could no longer resist it.

Magnus McGilded was becoming an increasingly brazen problem for the capital. He knew the moneylender had something of a reputation, one that caused misery among the desperate and unfortunate who had fallen upon hardtimes; but it sounded as though his activities were causing more angst than ever before, not least of all because he continued to evade the Courts through underhanded means.

Of course, his friend opined, it was not possible to prove that Magnus McGilded was bribing the Jury, buying witnesses and a catalogue of other dubious evasive tactics; but nor could anyone explain why entire cases were dropped at the last minute or why the police had failed to locate key witnesses until they themselves appeared from nowhere with vital information (in McGilded's favour).

It irked him to his core as he read of the various trials that had collapsed, and for the first time in a long while he felt a strong desire to do something. To bring the rodent out of his labyrinth of deceptions and into the light of day. He knew full well it was something that he would be capable of, were he to oversee a future investigation...

His mind raced with thoughts about how to outwit the Irish Shylock at his own game...

Another thing that piqued his interest was a throwaway postscript:

[Ps. We've had word from Lord Stronghart to expect some Nipponese student in a few months time. Apparently there is some cultural exchange afoot and the young man will be studying British law. I can't say I see the necessity, but I suppose our great nation ought to be charitable to those from more impoverished places...]

Seeing that word roused ugly feelings in his core, things that he had managed to keep his distance from for some time; but the anger was never far away. The resentment, like rot, was deep in his soul and it had been left alone but not eradicated.

The near-five years he had spent in the ancestral home was a welcomed reprieve, and served to focus his mind to some degree. He had never lost his passion for the law, and now it seemed there were reasons to pull him back into the foray.

Perhaps it was high time the Reaper returned London...

─────── Fin.

[whyshedisappeared]

do you see the difference between 188 casualties and 10? the difference between a defense worth billions of dollars and one worth nothing? a dome that stops 90% of rockets vs absolutely nothing to stop airstrikes? between having bomb shelters and a place to go vs being completely trapped in territory that israel controls the borders to? and (this particular instance) started because of israel evicting palestians from their homes in east jerusalem! a territory that israel illegally occupies

ok, i don’t know if you want a genuine answer or just looking to start a fight, so i’ll answer this seriously and if you have more questions DM me and if you wanna start a fight lmk who you are so I can block you.

first, you got some facts mixed so lets get to that before we talk casualties.

so, i’m not going to get into the state of the country through all the wars, we’ll just talk what was proposed to be the land in proposition 181 of the UN, which the UN accepting it cause the Independence war, and we’ll go over the way the country is divided rn.

So, the day the war started (Nov. 30th 1946) the country was divided the way you see in the first map. there weren’t a lot of Jews here until 1881 when the first wave of aliya happened, then the 2nd one started in 1904 when Hertzel died. the British mandate the ruled here favored the Palestinians over the Jews, because they were the majority when we first came here in waves, so they obviously had more land, and it was strategically smarter to side with them.

The previous day, the partition plan that is shown in the 2nd map was voted on and was passed with a majority. That plan is called proposition 181, or the partition plan. Israelis weren’t that thrilled about it because geographically the Israeli land wasn’t connected and Jerusalem was inside the Palestinian land while being under international jurisdiction, but it was better than nothing so we took it. Palestinians disapproved of it, and that started the war, which ended in 1949, a year after we got our independence on May 14th, 1948.

between ‘49 and 2000 the boarders moved a lot the wars, we took land, some we gave back during cease fire agreements and peace treaties and some we still have, but the last picture is the way it still is. The west bank is a bit tricky so let me explain it to you, it isn’t officially Israeli territory, we took over the area during one of the wars and the government refused to give it back during the cease fire so we ended up with this very weird and precarious solution, yes it isn’t legal but the government refused to relinquish control over it because they didn’t want whatever terror organization that was there at the time to be really close to the other boarder, they refused complete control because we took that land in a war, so here we are. The Jewish settlements there are part of area C, which is in full Israeli government and military control. You have area B, with Palestinian cities and villages (apart from Hevron that has both Jews and Palestinians), which is in Israeli military control and Palestinian Authority (PA) led. and area A which is fully controlled by PA and also only has Palestinians in it.

Now, this is all a very long way to explain to you, that while there are Muslims, Christians, Jews and other religious minorities in Jerusalem, excluding east Jerusalem, where it is under no official authority which is part of the problem, it is still under Israeli control and outside of the West Bank, just on the edge of it, but not in it. It doesn’t let the government permission to evacuate civilians out of their homes, by no means, but east Jerusalem is a problem area. Here’s a closer look at the map:

As I mentioned earlier, the fact that the Israeli government has jurisdiction somewhere doesn’t give it the right to evacuate civilians from their homes. I think it was unnecessary and uncalled for and never should have happened.

Ok, now let’s talk casualties. first, you need to remember that Israel gives Gaza (well, more like Hamas) money. However, instead of using it for the civilians’ advantage and to take care of them, Hamas uses it to buy weapons to arm itself and for anti-Israel propaganda. Yes, the Palestinians in Gaza has it bad, but that’s not because Hamas doesn’t have money, trust me they get more than enough. It’s because Hamas doesn’t care about the civilians in Gaza.

Israel invests some of the defense budget to create better, more advanced means to protect ourselves and the people living in the country, that’s why since 2004 we have the “Tzeva Adom” (literally translates to Red Color) alerts, which are the rocket sirens alarms that lets us know to take shelter. The government invests in having bomb safe rooms. We have Iron Dome since 2014 (that summer protective edge happened and the system was put in use during it) for that same reason. We invest in our protection, and therefore our casualty numbers are lower.

Also, I would like to point out that a solid percentage of the rockets Hamas fires at us never even cross the boarder and land inside Gaza, which kills people.

When the IDF plans to have an airstrike on a building, because Hamas puts the rocket launchers inside homes, schools, kindergartens, hospitals, etc. the IDF calls every single person in the building hours before to let them know to evacuate. Hamas prevents them from evacuating. Which is how they end up with the high death toll.

But, and that is very important, just because our death toll is at 10, doesn’t make it ok. Those 10 people, one of them a 6 year old kid, should never have died. Those 188 people should never have died. The only acceptable death toll is 0.

Now, to your last point, that Palestinians are not allowed to cross the boarder. They are. Both in the West Bank and Gaza. In order to be allowed into the country the IDF first makes sure the individual has no ties to a terror organization or carrying explosives by going through metal detectors, but they are allowed into the country. However, if an Israeli Jew were to cross the boarder they would be killed. Either on the spot or tortured and then killed.

I would like to reiterate, I do not support, by any means, the evacuations of Palestinians in east Jerusalem. I think it was uncalled for and never should have happened. It was the direct cause to this escalation. I do, however, support Israel’s right to defend itself.

To put this simply, if Hamas were to lay down their weapons, there would be peace and the violence would stop. If Israel were to stop fighting, we would be wiped off the map. However, it isn’t as simple as that. and the narrative changes depends on where you start to tell the facts, which means, like I previously mentioned, there is no right side and wrong side. There is no clear cut good and evil.

However, you must understand that us Israelis, both Jews and Muslims, suffer from the actions of the Israeli government and Hamas. It isn’t us that are fighting, it is the leading bodies on each side of the boarder and the civilians suffer as a consequence of that.

Please make sure that when you talk about what we’re living through right now, you don’t blame Israel/Israelis, or Palestine/Palestinians. Make sure you blame those responsible, the Israeli government and Hamas.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

And They were Coffin-Mates

Title: And They were Coffin-Mates

Summary: “I’m a vampire.”

Out of all the things to come out of his best friend’s mouth, he hadn’t expected that. Was Virgil sure he wasn’t dreaming? Maybe this was some set-up to one of Patton’s corny puns. Something like “I’m a vampire. I like my coffee de-coffin-ated.”

Virgil pretended to hate them. He groaned or grimaced at how awful they were. But really, it was all to cover up the smile they produced.

“A vampire? Pffft,” He quirked an eyebrow, “You’re going to have to try for a better joke than that, Pat.”

Word-Count: 3.5k

Pairings: platonic moxiety (they’re best friends)

Warnings: Vampires, blood mention, memory loss, involuntary turning, hurt/comfort, puns, so many puns, crying, non-graphic violence, headache, sensory overload, panic

This is based off a prompt ask I got sent a long, long awhile ago and just finally finished!

-

Virgil trudged up to his apartment, sweat rolling down his back. Really, it was his fault for wearing a black plaid hoodie and ripped black jeans. Wearing black in the sweltering heat of the summer sun’s gaze was like inviting death upon you. But he looked good in black and was willing to suffer. Besides, Virgil was quite sure his soul was dead already.

Eventually he made it to his apartment, blessed air conditioning hitting his face at last.

“How was your day, kiddo?” His roommate and best friend Patton asked. He was in the kitchen, mixing something in a bowl.

Virgil groaned loudly, collapsing into the couch cushions.

Patton whistled, “That bad, huh?”

“I’m going to fight the sun. Either that or move to Seattle, whatever’s easiest.” 

He groaned again, shoving his head into a couch pillow. His head hurt and he was so damn thirsty. Thirsty for water, please get your mind out of the gutter. He was terrible at remembering to drink enough water, something his coworker Logan constantly berated him about. Did he work with Lo today? God, he couldn’t remember. The entire day felt like a blur.

“Aw, I’m sorry you had a rough day. Maybe I can brighten it up with some pat-cakes?”

“Pat-cakes?” 

“Like it’s like pancakes, except with my name--pat-cakes!”

Virgil groaned, this time attempting to keep himself from laughing.

“Stop trying to cheer me up, it’s illegal.”

“Oh? I guess I’m a warmhearted crook then!”

“Warmhearted?”

“Yeah, because instead of a coldhearted crook, I got a lotta love and I’m not afraid to give it.”

Virgil snorted, gazing up from his pillow. Patton stood there, grinning in his grey cat-onesie. The sight was enough to warm his cold, barely beating heart, dammit.

“Well consider yourself under arrest.”

“What for?”

“Stealing my heart.”

“Oh my goodness, you made a pun!” Patton’s blinding white grin was worth it for allowing such a cliche, cheesy pun escape his lips.

“Yeah, well, don’t count on it being a regular thing,” Virgil said, turning away in a poor attempt to hide his burning, surely reddening cheeks, “that was my allotted pun for the year.”

“Auugust I’ll have to try to get another pun out of you before the year’s over.”

“August?”

“Y’know Auuu-guust, like ‘I guess?’”

“Pat, I love you but that one was terrible.”

“Oh, tearable! Like paper?! Or tearable like tears?”

“Patton, no, that wasn’t a pun.”

The banter continued as Patton finally started to pour pancake batter onto the grill. In typical Patton fashion, he created animal shapes  and stick figures out of the pancakes, rather than keeping with normal, round ones.

It helped distract Virgil from both his headache and his rather unmemorable day. Everyone deserved a Patton in their life. Someone who brightened your day with their mere presence. Virgil set the table for their pancakes-for-dinner feast as he pondered this.

He then found their largest water container (a blender) and filled it up to the brim with water. Was he going to regret this sometime in the middle of the night? Yes. Did he care? Not really, no.

He didn’t even know why his throat felt so parched. The last couple weeks of work had been ridiculously slow. It wasn’t like he had to deal conversing with a horde of customers, thank God. He took a gulp, then another and another.

“Wow, I sea you were thirsty!” 

He lifted the blender away from his mouth to respond, before pausing. He blinked, staring at the now-empty blender. Huh.

“Um yeah. Really thirsty.” He chuckled, setting the blender beside the sink.

“Good thing you quenched it then.” Patton said, looking at Virgil weirdly.

He didn’t blame him. Virgil would too look at someone weird if they chugged a 40 ounce blender like it was nothing. He licked his lips, his mouth still feeling as dry as ever. 

A part of him wanted to grab the blender, refill and down it, desperate to douse the itching, stinging feeling that clenched his throat. But he refrained, sitting down at the kitchen table instead. It was probably possible to die from drinking too much water, right?

“Here you go!” Patton said, shaking him of his thoughts. He placed a plate of pancakes in front of Virgil. There were several blobby pancakes with two triangles pointing out at the top, what Virgil presumed to be either a cat or dog.

“Thanks Pat,” He said, “So, uh, how was your day?”

“Oh, it was Pet-tastic!” Patton perked up, “I got to pet a dog today!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! I was on the subway when a person came in with the cutest--”

Virgil tried to focus on the words coming out of Patton’s mouth. He really did even as his head throbbed, headache worsening. Patton’s voice, the humming of the refrigerator, the dishwater noises, everything was suddenly too loud. He fidgeted, the fluorescent light beating down on him. He took a bite, hoping it would help. He hadn’t eaten since morning, of course he felt like shit. He just needed substance. Once he ate something, things would be okay.

Except he spat it out, coughing. Something was wrong. It couldn’t be Patton’s pancakes. He always made them to a fluffy, sweet perfection. Yet Virgil’s stomach threatened to heave up its contents at the mere taste.

“Virgil?”

He jerked his head towards Patton, wincing from the whiplash. 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m never okay.” is the retort Virgil wanted to throw back. Deflecting and self-deprecation was Virgil’s main attributes. Patton would’ve gasped at him, telling him he’d physically fight him for talking bad about himself. Except those words didn’t make it out of Virgil’s throat.

“I’m--I’m sorry, I just--think I need to go--bedroom.” 

He hated it. He ruined a perfectly good dinner all because his brain decided to freak out over things that didn’t bother normal people. 

“Hey, Virge. It’s okay, I’m not upset,” Patton said softly, “we can hang out more tomorrow. Movie night, remember?”

“Y-yeah.” Virgil said, rising from his chair. Vertigo crashed into him, almost sending him to the ground if not for a pair of arms catching him.

“I’ve got you.” Patton said, adjusting his hold so that Virgil stood, heavily leaning against him.

“T-thanks.”

“Let me help you to your room, okay? Wouldn’t want you falling for me again.”

Virgil let a small, breathless snort. He wanted to protest, but his legs felt too much like jello that he didn’t trust them. Patton guided him down the hallway, to Virgil’s dark cave of a bedroom. He let out a hiss when Patton flipped the light switch.

“Opps, sorry kiddo.” Patton apologized, shutting it off. They stumbled into the room, until they reached Virgil’s bed. Patton hoisted him onto the bed, fussing with his covers until Virgil was nice and tucked in. 

“I’ll save you some pancakes.” Patton said as he closed the door. Virgil didn’t respond. He closed his eyes, the quiet darkness quelling his swelling anxiety. Fatigue finally claimed his bones and he fell unwillingly into slumber.

It wasn’t a peaceful sleep. It was one of those dreams you woke up more exhausted than rested. The thirst followed him into the dream. It gnawed at him, nearly indistinguishable from hunger. He had to satisfy it, relinquish the control it held over him. He went out to search for something to make the burning ache go away. 

He went--well, he wasn’t sure he went. Everything turned hazy, as dreams often tended to be. The next thing he knew, he was standing over someone. No, not a person, they were just a pulse of red to him. They had it, the thing he needed and they weren’t giving it willingly. Something tackled him to the ground, pinning him to the ground as he flailed, desperate to escape its’ grip--

He shot up, gasping. Panic pumped through his veins. This wasn’t his bedroom, where was he? He frantically scanned the dark murky surroundings, relaxing slightly when he recognized it as his apartment living room. Still, what was he doing here and not his bedroom?

“You’re awake.”

Virgil jumped, vaguely making out Patton in the armchair beside the couch. He wasn’t in his cat onesie anymore. Oddly enough, he seemed dressed not in pajamas but in a polo shirt and blue jeans.

“Y-yeah, finally. I had a really weird nightmare.” Virgil said, surprised to find the action of speaking no longer painful. In fact, his throat felt fine even. Maybe the blender water’s effect was delayed.

Patton sighed, moving to sit on the couch next to Virgil. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he clasped his hands together, fingers twisting in a fretful manner. It alarmed Virgil. Patton was always babbling about something, jumping from one topic to the next seamlessly. Virgil didn’t know how he never ran out of things to say.

“Virgil, there’s something you should know,” He hesitated, “I was planning on telling you eventually. I just didn’t think…”

“What is it?” Virgil asked, his curiosity getting the best of him.

“I’m a vampire.”

Virgil gaped at him. Out of all the things to come out of Patton’s mouth, he hadn’t expected that.  Was Virgil sure he wasn’t dreaming? Maybe this was some set-up to one of Patton’s corny puns. A way to placate Virgil. Something like “I’m a vampire. I like my coffee de-coffin-ated.” Virgil pretended to hate them. He groaned or grimaced at how awful they were. But really, it was all to cover up the smile they produced. 

Virgil laughed, except it came out wrong. All high-pitched and strained.

“A vampire? Pffft,” He quirked an eyebrow, “You’re going to have to try for a better joke than that, Pat.”

“I’m not joking. Promise.” Patton insisted, grasping Virgil’s hands with his own.

Virgil swallowed, staring down at Patton’s pale hands. Come to think of it, Patton always shied away from doing outdoor activities, especially in the blazing hot summer heat.

“I’m Irish! I burn easily.” Patton once said, laughing.

Patton wasn’t laughing now. He looked abnormally serious, his lips pressed together in a neutral line. It was starting to freak Virgil out even more, to be honest.

“Vampires aren’t real, they’re just fictional,” Virgil said, as if he didn’t spend his time watching conspiracy theory videos at 4AM and wholeheartedly believing them on a daily basis.

Besides, Patton was too sweet, too kind and bubbly to be a vampire. They were gruesome creatures of the night, they feed on blood and had little room for morals. Unless, Virgil’s breathed hitched, unless Patton had been faking everything, what if their entire friendship was just a whole facade in order for him to get close enough to suck his blood?!

“Virgil, breathe,” Patton said, squeezing his hands.

He squeezed back, inhaling a deep shuddering breath.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You have nothing to apologize for, remember?” Patton said, referring to a past conversation they had regarding Virgil’s anxiety.

“Patton, I just…” Virgil bit his lips, instantly regretting it. He must’ve bit down harder than usual because it hurt, “having a hard time not thinking this is a dream.”

“I can show you,” Patton said, “Is it okay if I turn on the lamp light?”

Virgil nodded and with his consent, Patton reached over to the end table and turned the lamp on. A soft glow flooded the room. Virgil closed his eyes regardless, black dots overwhelming his vision. 

“You okay?”

“Just gimme a moment.” Virgil gritted his teeth, wincing again when the action hurt him. What the hell was wrong with him?

“I’ll only keep it on for as long as necessary,” Patton reassured.

“Alright,” He nodded, fighting to keep his eyes open. It burned like someone had been chopping garlic, but that was ridiculous, right?

Patton drew a breath in, opening his mouth wide. Virgil watched in horror as two sharp incisors intruded from his gumline. Even if Patton wasn’t one for cruel, practical pranks, there was no way it was a pair of cheap plastic fangs. They looked too real, too grotesque to be fake.

“What the fuck!” Virgil fell off the couch, tripping in his haste to flee. He plunged to the floor, his head banging against the corner of the coffee-table.

A dull pain blossomed around the crown of his head but he stood up anyways. He had to get away, flee from this twisted nightmare he found himself in. This couldn’t be real. Perhaps he thought he woke up only to be thrust into an even worst nightmare than before.

“Virgil, Virgil, please calm down!” Patton appeared at his side within a blink, placing his hands on Virgil’s shoulders. 

He tried jerking out of Patton’s grip, glancing wildly for some sort of escape. Belatedly he realized though the lamp light had been turned off, he could still perfectly see his surroundings. What the hell? He looked back at Patton, taking in the worried wrinkles and his normal set of teeth. No fangs. Where were they? He knew he saw them, he couldn’t have imagined them--

“P-please dont hurt me,” He whimpered, digging his head into Patton’s chest. He didn’t know why he did that. He should kept thrashing, escaping the grip of a supposed vampire. But Patton was also his friend, who cheered him up with stupid cheesy puns. The one and only person Virgil trusted and sought comfort from.

Patton drew his arms around Virgil, pulling him closer. He froze, waiting for sharp fangs to pierce his neck. Instead a hand carded through his hair, soft and gentle.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Patton said, his voice tight with emotion, “I’m going to hurt those that did however.”

Virgil craned his neck to look up at him, “W-what do you mean?”

Patton didn’t say anything at first, continuing to caress Virgil’s hair.

“Virgil, how was your day?”

“What?”

“Your day, before you--” Patton hesitated, “before you fell asleep, what happened?”

“I overslept my alarm,” Virgil recalled, “I was in a rush to get to work, and I....”

He bit his lips, a soft curse slipping out from both the pain it produced and the fact he couldn’t remember. He must’ve went to work, right? Work has been so slow and tedious that he just forgot what happened. He must’ve said some of that out loud because Patton slowly shook his head.

“Virgil, I contacted your workplace. You never showed up to work.”

“Wha-but I wouldn’t--I mean--” Virgil jolted, making direct eye contact with Patton, “I’m a vampire now, aren’t I?”

 He couldn’t believe he said that out loud just now. It was absurd, it didn’t make any sense! But...it did make sense in a maddening, down-the-rabbit-hole way. His unquenchable thirst, his unusually sensitive eyes, food tasting weird, that absurd, horrific nightmare that was starting to feel more and more like it wasn’t a nightmare. Had he really almost killed a person to drink their blood? He felt lightheaded, his world spinning wildly out of control as he clung to Patton for balance.

“I got you kiddo,” Patton whispered, leading him to sit on the couch, “do you need a glass of water?”

He was deflecting, maybe in a poor attempt to spare Virgil from the cold, harsh reality.

“Patton,” Virgil hissed, “I need to know.”

Patton averted his gaze, his hands curled into fists by his side.

“Yes.”

Virgil’s heart stopped beating. Wait a minute, didn’t vampires’ hearts already didn’t beat because they were undead? Did that mean Virgil was technically dead?!

He frantically checked his own pulse, relieved yet spooked hear it. Albeit, much more slow and lethargic than before.

“Our heart beats at a slower rate than humans,” Patton laughs weakly, “A lot of the myths around vampires don’t have any truth to them.”

“Pat,” Virgil’s voice trembled, “This is crazy, I mean--you’re a vampire and I’m one?! Did you--”

“No!” Patton insisted, his eyes flashing a brief red, “Virgil I promise you, I’d never do that. It can be really, really painful--the whole turning process. It can be so traumatic that well, I--I don’t even fully remember my own. Many don’t survive let alone live pass it. I’ve never wanted you to know what it’s like to--”

Patton cut himself off, jerking his head away. Virgil took hold of his hand, squeezing it gently.

“Know what?” He pressed. Patton’s lips quivered, tears glistening in his eyes, as he cupped Virgil’s cheek with his free hand. Virgil leaned down, gently touching his forehead with Patton’s.

“Pat, please.”

“You deserved a normal human life,” Patton said at last, a strangled noise escaping him, “Where you got to live and grow old and die. You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to be a monster like me.”

Patton broke away, clasping a hand to his mouth as the tears finally fell down his face. Virgil watched, his head throbbing as conflicting emotions raged war inside. Denial, rage, sadness--he pushed them all aside. Patton. He needed to focus on Patton. 

Despite everything, he still knew one thing; Patton Patterson was the furthest thing from a monster. Virgil refused to believe anything otherwise. He needed that one thing to remain true or else he’d fall apart completely.

“Patton you’re not a monster, you’re--you’re,” Virgil took a breath, steadying himself, “you’re my best friend.”

Patton let out a bark of laughter, “If--if you knew the things I’ve done, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

“Yes, I--I would,” Virgil swallowed, kneeling down beside him, “Pat, you are the kindest person I've ever met. You cry at cheesy Hallmark movies that end in happy endings. You volunteer at the local animal shelter and soup kitchen. You believe the best in people, even if they’re a shitty anxious nobody who doesn’t deserve it--”

“Virgil--” Patton choked.

“And--and unless that was all one elaborate ruse to fool the world, to fool me,” Virgil pressed on, “vampire or not, your presence makes my day bat-ter.”

“Bat-ter? L-like bat?”

“Yeah, well, congratulations you managed to get a pun outta me before the year’s end.”

Patton stared at him, mouth hanging open. He then laughed again, this time surging forward to tackle Virgil in a hug. Virgil yelped, falling to the floor hard enough to see black dots. Still, he clung to Patton as if afraid of never getting the opportunity again. Virgil let out a high-pitched keen, no longer being able to contain his anguish. Patton responded with a despairing wail of his own. 

Tears poured down both of their faces as their sobbing duet continued. For a long, long while it was the only noise produced from either of them. Until it tapered off into weak whimpers and then it was just the sound of two slow, steady sets of heartbeats close together.

“Pat?” Virgil croaked, utterly exhausted from the ordeal. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, safe and secure in Patton’s arms. A small part of him yearned to wake up in his bed and learn that all of this was a nightmare and nothing more. Yet the pain from unconsciously biting his lip with his newly sharpened incisors said otherwise.

“Yes?” Patton answered, his hand brushing through Virgil’s hair once more. He was so soft and gentle that it was hard for Virgil to ever imagine him the same species as Count Dracula.

“If--if you didn’t, um, turn me, then wh-who-how--why don’t I remember--why would--” Virgil let out a frustrated huff.

“Virgil, I...I don’t know who did it or why. There’s lots of reasons why another vampire would do it,” Patton said, dropping to a low growl, “and none of them are good ones.”

“Oh,” Virgil swallowed, “and that person? I went after a person, didn’t I? That was real, right? Did--did I hurt them? I swear I didn’t mean to, I--I--”

“Virge, deep breathes,” Patton said, “They’re okay, you didn’t hurt them. They were fanged out but okay. And then I brought you back here and gave you some of my blood supply.”

“I--I don’t remember that.” Virgil said, “I remember attacking them and something...stopped me? That was you right? But I don’t--I don’t remember--”

Virgil’s voice trailed off, the words once more getting tangled up in his throat. He was afraid. Virgil was always afraid but this was new. Vampires were real and he was one of them. He was an immortal, bloodsucking creature of the night. As much as it sounded cool on paper, it was utterly terrifying. Especially to know he had no memory of becoming one. 

As if sensing his distressed thoughts, Patton brushed his bangs aside to kiss his forehead.

“Shh, it’s common for young vampires to black out from blood rage. It’s--well, it’s not okay what happened to you, Virgil. I’m so sorry, I should’ve been there to stop it from happening. But I swear to you it’s going to be okay and that I’m here now to help.”

“Promise?” Virgil asked, yawning.

“Of course. Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a stake in my heart.”

And while Patton’s words didn’t immediately quell his fears, he fell asleep knowing Patton would be there for him, like he always was.

[fantasyoverreality98]

Fight the Darkness Pt. 9

Masterlist

Summary: Embrace the darkness.

Warning: Violence

Word Count: 3,246

-----

Wind howled as she made her way down the shore, following the sound of agonized screams. Amy took her time absorbing the life. The power.

The world trembled beneath her feet.

She turned back and saw Gaius following behind, looking like he had no idea to do. His hands were at his sides, his eyes watching her cautiously. With a laugh, she stopped walking, the screams dying out as she focused all her attention on him.

“I guess we were wrong about the island being the answer to stop my power, huh?”

Large waves bared down on them, and she threw up a hand when she saw the water approaching from the corner of her eye. The wave froze midair, towering beside them, a dozen feet above their heads. With a smile, Amy sent it crashing back into the sea.

“It’s not too late,” Gaius said, and she could see the pain in his eyes.

Amy hummed to herself, turning back towards the symphony of heartbeats that called to her. “Oh, my darling, we’re just getting started.”

More screams filled the air as she pulled more life in. Somewhere in the distance, an ancient column that had been miraculously left standing after Xenocrates’ destruction of the island toppled. The crash vibrated the ground beneath them. Amy imagined building the Tomb of the First anew, raising her birthplace up from the ashes. She just had to get there.

From the remains of the Order of the Dawn’s compound, she would build a new palace. Never again would vampires fear for their lives, hunted down by those who did not understand. Whispers of the Order emerging in different parts of Europe had haunted her for years, but she intended to put those rumors to rest.

“Amy, please.”

Silly Gaius. Didn’t he know begging did nothing?

It stunned her how many people were living on Mydiea now. A few hundred had to be here, living in small villages around the island. The last time she had seen it, the place had been in flames. Humans may be weak, but their resilience was moving. Somehow, they had managed to repair a lot of the damage Xenocrates had caused.

Amy admired the small houses built atop a cliff, craning her neck back to look up at them. Small figures darted around. A shrill scream echoed off the cliff walls, and people started to gather at the edge to look down at her.

“Do you remember being human?” She looked at Gaius again, drunk on the power flowing through her. It was like the darkness had made her into an entirely different person. “I do. I liked it. It was an insignificant existence, but it was still good. Until you took that from me.”

He looked horrified, and she laughed when she felt his thoughts. Gaius thought she was going to kill him. Adorable.

The screams grew louder when she held her arms out and started to rise. Once her feet landed on the cliff edge, people ran. Their screams were music to her ears. No longer would humans treat vampires unfairly, cornering them in small towns while they were defenseless.

She finally saw what Rheya had seen. Felt what Rheya had felt.

Rheya was the only one who had seen her potential. The only one who understood her, who had once encouraged her to try and unlock her power. If it hadn’t been for Jax’s death, things would have been different.

In another life, Amy would have joined Rheya.

“Mercy, please!” A young woman stumbled while she tried to run, her eyes full of fear when she rolled onto her back and saw Amy walking toward her. She began to cry, reciting a prayer in Greek.

The frenzied praying turned into screams. Soon, the single woman’s scream was lost in a sea of voices. Amy laughed, the pleasure she felt greater than any she had ever felt before. This power was everything.

Someone tried to run too close to her, and she grabbed the man, punching a hole through his chest before he even had a chance to cry out. The body fell to the ground, and she crushed his bloody heart in her fist, grabbing his limp body to feed.

The taste of blood was incredible. Amy grabbed anyone who got close enough, the warmth spreading from her mouth to the rest of her body. When she felt like she’d fed enough in this village, she made her way further inland and set to devouring the next.

It took a long time for Gaius to find her, his cloak billowing as they locked eyes from across the small village square. The last of the screams ended as he made his way over to her.

“Enough. What happened to the woman who spent twenty-five years fighting the darkness to prevent this very thing from happening?” His sword was still at his side, but Amy could see his hand on the hilt. “We came here to put an end to the darkness. Not for you to do this.”

“You know what you have to do if you want to stop me.” Amy tried to look serious for a moment, but dissolved into laughter.

What would ordinary weapons do against her? She was a Goddess. The world was hers.

Amy took in her surroundings, imagining a palace arising from the ashes of the Order’s facility. Somewhere in the distance, rumbling began. She threw her head back and laughed, reaching out to create new life. Trees began to grow around them, but the more she used her power, the more the life surrounding the island withered and died. It was a small sacrifice to pay. If rebuilding a new world meant the eradication of the old one, she would do whatever it took.

“The person you sailed to this island with is gone. Give up.”

Gaius shook his head, drawing his gladius. “I can’t.”

She sighed, casting her eyes out to the sea. Close, so close she could practically taste it, was mainland Greece. The life that thrummed there was so very inviting. There was not much left here. Less than a hundred people remained alive. She could feel each heart beating in each fragile chest. Hear every breath. Sense each restrained sob.

“We both know I can’t let you leave Mydiea, Amy.” A twinge of warmth filled her heart when she saw the regret in his eyes, but she quickly pushed it away.

“You cannot kill me. If you understood the potential, you wouldn’t try to stop me.” She reached out for his mind, knowing that if she could just make him see, everything would be okay.

He seemed to know what she was planning, and looked at her with sadness in his eyes. The blade clattered to the ground, and Gaius stood before her unarmed. “Please, don’t. I can’t handle another three thousand years enslaved. Not even to you.”

“I can help you see the truth. I can make everything right. We can make a new world free of terror and injustice. Join me. The world will be ours.”

“This is not the solution. You and I both know this is wrong.” Gaius tried to move closer, but she threw him back with a psychic blast.

Rage consumed her, and one of the houses nearby crumbled. She tried to reach for his mind again, but something stopped her. A voice spoke inside her mind. But this time it was one she knew well.

Let go of the power.

Amy laughed, the ground shaking underneath the weight of her power. Another house turned to rubble, and she forgot about Gaius for a moment. “You fool. This power is all we have.”

Stop it.

“You stop!”

Gaius slowly rose to his feet, concern mixed with the fear. “Are you okay?”

“Shut up. You aren’t in control anymore.” Her voice boomed the way it had that night in the abandoned house. The voice inside shrunk back. “I’m choosing darkness.” This time, she spoke to Gaius. “You said we always have a choice. So, I’m choosing.”

Is this what Jax would want?

Amy screamed, trying once more to get the voice out of her head. She was tired of fighting. If the darkness wanted to win, then she was relinquishing control. Her body could serve as the vessel. Rheya had been a part of her for so long, haunting her every single day for twenty-five years, and now she was free of that voice. It should be easy.

The rest of the houses crumbled, leaving Amy standing in a pile of rubble. She could sense a few more lives nearby and drew the energy in, panting when the screams finally ceased, and she was met with silence.

“This is my destiny. Can’t you see? All the suffering and pain, the grief over Jax…It all leads here. I can bring him back. I can bring Rheya back. I can do whatever I want.” She could feel the truth in the words. This pathetic planet was hers now. “You of all people don’t get to give me a speech about what’s right and wrong. Don’t think I don’t know who you truly are, Gaius Augustine.”

She had seen it. She knew that he had darkness of his own, no matter how hard he may try to bury it. Three thousand years of corruption did not leave a person in so little time.

Gaius shook his head, trying once again to move closer to her. She smirked, looking into his eyes as his steps halted and she kept his body trapped in place. “Did you honestly believe that this would end any other way?”

“I guess I wanted to have some hope for once.” It almost touched her how he still cared. She hadn’t thought it possible for this man to have feelings for anyone that weren’t fabricated.

“Hope gets people nowhere. I had hope I could fight this too, and look at what that got me.” She thought of Jax again, and the mourning returned. “I wanted to make things right. But there’s too much evil in the world for that.”

You are the evil, the voice hissed. The world you create will have no good left.

Amy stumbled back, the distraction enough for her hold on Gaius to break. He grabbed his sword and stood opposite her, regret reflected in his eyes. “Amy, listen to me. You need to fight this. Just one more time.”

“If you think this fight will end tonight, you aren’t as smart as I thought.”

“I’ll be there with you to keep fighting. We’re in this together.” Gaius dropped his sword again, and she let him get closer than he had in his previous attempts. He continued to walk closer, hands trembling when he reached out for her.

She could feel the life radiating from him. It would almost be as easy to feed from him as it was to feed on the humans. But she didn’t want that. Not really. There was another moment of clarity, a flicker of good that she clung to for as long as she could. “How am I supposed to come back from this? The things I’ve done, they aren’t forgivable. I’m a murderer, I—”

“The same could be said of me. But twenty-five years ago, someone decided to give me a second chance. You are redeemable.”

Darkness rushed back in, and she shoved him away, turning her attention back to Greece. More. She needed more power.

“Amy, no!” She tried to ignore Gaius, feeding on whatever life was nearest.

He started to run for her, and she caught him by the throat, turning her head away from the mainland to look him in the eyes. Regret filled her, knowing that there was only one way to end this fight.

She had to make him see the truth. To alter his mind again, and let him understand the potential. They could rule the world together, side by side.

“I don’t want to kill you, Gaius. I can’t. This is the only way.” She shoved the panicked voice aside, ignoring it as it cried inside her head. The pathetic remnants of who she had once been would have to go next.

Their eyes locked, and Amy began to delve into his mind, searching for the parts of him that resisted. She had to destroy them. It wasn’t enough to just lock those parts away. That left a chance for him to someday break free.

“If you can’t fight the darkness anymore, just kill me.”  

Amy shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “I can’t. I need you.”

“Kill me.”

She released her grip on his throat, and he fell to his knees. The affection was back in his eyes, mixed with a great sadness.

No. She wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it.

“Get up.” If this was what he wanted, she would make him work for it. “This isn’t up for negotiation.”

Something soared toward her head, and she turned, grabbing the arrow when it was inches from her face. Amy laughed again, and part of the island broke away, falling back into the sea. She saw someone standing across the clearing, a bow in their hands.

Pathetic.

She waved her hand, and the human disintegrated, the ash flying away with the wind. “You will not die here tonight, Gaius. I have bigger plans for you.”

The darkness coiled around her, reminding her of who he was. Death would be too kind. This was her murderer. Years spent lusting after this man were the fault of a foolish child. Whoever she had once been, whatever feelings she’d had about fighting this power…that person was almost gone.

“Consider yourself lucky that I actually do care about you. That is where Rheya and I differ. I’m not doing this to make you worse. I want to make you better.” She hooked a finger under his chin, forcing him to look up at her. “You’ll be a king. We’ll change the world together. I just need to make you understand.”

If you do this, you’re even worse than Rheya.

That foolish part of her was still fighting. It was almost admiral how it resisted. The mortal side of her, the human side of her, wanted to let this power go. She couldn’t let that happen.

“I’m sorry,” Amy said, and to her surprise, she knew that she meant it. “If there were another way, I would use it. But this is the only way I can make you see my plans.”

Gaius pleaded with her wordlessly, the fear written in his eyes. It was hard to look at him.

A single tear slid down her cheek, and Amy didn’t bother to wipe it away. She sniffled, hesitant once again.

“I love you.”

This time, she laughed hysterically, her grip on his chin never faltering. “You don’t mean that. All you want is to save yourself. Were you not the one who told me not to say it just because I thought this was the end?”

“I want to say it before you keep me as your prisoner.”

Amy dug her nails into his face, and he winced when the skin broke. Blood dripped onto the dirt, the smell of it making her stomach clench. She wanted to feed again.

“You don’t love me. You caused so many problems for me and my friends. You killed me. And then you disappeared for twenty-five years. Did it ever cross your mind that maybe the one person I needed there for me was you? Where were you when I needed you, Gaius?”

He looked into her eyes, the regret reflected within enough to make her hesitate, her grip on his face loosening. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You deserved better than me. We couldn’t be together. Not then.”

“I waited for you that night.” Memories of the hours she’d spent waiting for him to show up flashed through her mind. “You never said goodbye.”

“And I will always regret not going to you.” Gaius reached up to brush his fingers across her forearm. His touch sent shivers down her spine. “Please. Don’t turn me back into a monster. If you care about me at all, kill me.”

Tears burned her eyes, and Amy leaned forward, kissing him one last time. She pulled him to his feet, holding him close as she began to reach for the energy that surrounded him.

Stop. Don’t do it.

The voice was stronger this time, and she thought about Jax. Had his sacrifice been for nothing? They were supposed to end Rheya, and the darkness with her.

This was not how it was meant to be.

Amy pushed Gaius away, and remembered all the times she’d been saved by those who loved her. Before Rheya returned, before Gaius had been freed, before she’d become a vampire.

She closed her eyes and heard Jax’s laugh. She imagined that he was beside her, and she knew what she must do.

The darkness screamed with rage when she gained control again. It pounded against the walls she threw up around her mind, doing all within her power to stop the evil from consuming her.

Take it back. I don’t want it. The island seemed to shudder under the command. Amy prayed that she could somehow rid herself of this power.

The sky was starting to lighten. Within the hour, the sun would rise.

Wind ripped at her, and Amy imagined the power leaving her body. She would gladly die if it meant ridding herself, and the world, of this evil. No one should have this much control.

Without the Tree of Eternal Life, all she could do was hope that the island would take the power from her. And then she would have to make sure no one ever came to Mydiea again.

More screams filled the air as she drew in the last of the life around her. The power was so enticing. All she wanted to do was get more, but she knew that would mean the end of the world.

“I’m sorry,” she said when the island grew silent, knowing that there was no way to make up for all the death and destruction she had caused.

This was the end. But she was ready.

Slowly, the island started to wither and decay. Amy used the darkness to poison the very place that had given birth to it. She let herself grieve for the loss of one of her closest friends, knowing that she couldn’t bring him back. Even if the power worked, that would not be the Jax she had known and loved.

Amy closed her eyes as buildings fell apart, feeling not only the draining of her power, but of her own life force. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of Mydiea falling apart.

As the sun finally started to rise, she fell to her knees, forcing the darkness back into the earth, far away from her control.

When sunlight hit her, she welcomed the pain.

A laugh slipped past her lips as she collapsed, rolling onto her back to stare up at the sky. It felt strange to feel exhaustion after spending so long feeling indestructible.

Amy reached inside, and found that she could feel nothing at all.

Relief washed over her, and she closed her eyes, welcoming the emptiness that washed over her as she drew a final breath.

[msbluebell]

what about a "you start war, you face consequences AU"? At the end of BE Route, Edelgard thinks have achieved her goal. But everything go wrong! First, Claude, who has survived, becomes the king of Almyra and declare war to her to the Empire . And he's VERY powerful. Also some former nobles of Alliance and Kingdom don't accept the reunification and start a rebellion with the former knights of Seiros . The peace wil not happen any soon and a lot of people die or suffer or join the rebellion 1-2

2-2. Finally, Felix has survived and becomes the feral guy and decides to avenge Dimitri (his best friend), Rodrigue (his dad) and Sylvain (his lover) by killing the black eagles one by one and nobody (even Byleth) can stop him, no matter what they do. And Byleth has not the power of Sothis anymore. They can only watch everything falling apart, while being powerless. They can only watch their friends die by Felix's hands, Claude taking back the Alliance AND the Kingdom, ect...

This is actually what would have most likely happened if the Black Eagle Route didn’t have an Deus Ex Machina ending and the Crests and God powers didn’t disappear for no reason. I have made no secret of the fact that Black Eagles is my least favorite Route (yes, I’m including Church Route in this), and the lack of actually having to reform and change the system thanks to magical convenience is one of the reasons. 

Nobles will not give up their crest fixation just because Edelgard hates crests. And without crest disappearing, it is unlikely they will take to Edelgard’s reforms. She may end up turning her own allies against her. Especially ones that don’t believe in her cause and just gave up because they didn’t want to be killed.

Also, it is a very, very, very dumb move to spare Claude in the Black Eagles Route. No matter what, he is a political opponent that proved he’s 1) very manipulative 2) very good at thinking on his feet and gathering resources. He should have died just to eliminate the potential for later rebellious uprisings, even if Byleth and Edelgard didn’t know anything about his ties to Almyra. Looking objectively at Claude’s goals and the ending of Black Eagles Route, yeah, he still has a dream of uniting Fodlan and Almyra. And unlike Fodlan, Almyra isn’t suffering from being war torn for five years. There IS a chance he’d come in take over, especially if any of his friends died in the battle. 

Point is, Black Eagles Route has a lot of potential for mess if the crests don’t vanish (which I am so fixated on. The CHURCH didn’t make the crests, so why did they disappear? I interpret Byleth’s powers disappearing because they choose to relinquish them, which is a slap in the face to Sothis btw Byleth, but why did the CRESTS disappear when the Church fell? They had nothing to do with their creation! Ugh.)

(Black Eagles, much as I dislike their Route based on their actions and lack of self-awareness, still deserved a better written ending.)

But I’m ranting. Let’s get on to the prompt with Consequences AU:

I’ve spoken in another post about how Byleth, as I interpret them, more accidentally sided with the Black Eagles than anything. It would be the same in this AU, accidentally burning their bridges when they saved Edelgard in the tomb. Then they were forced to see the path through to the end because they couldn’t go back to anyone else, and they DID disagree with Rhea and distrust the Church, so maybe Edelgard is right...?

It was foolish to hope, in hindsight.

Rhea going mad was something that they expected, but they didn’t think their own actions would be the breaking point that drove her to such insanity. And they can’t erase the image of Dimitri kneeling in the rain as an axe meets his flesh. So many of their students died...but that was just...pitiful.

Edelgard assures him that it was for a better future, that all the death and sacrifice now will mean less suffering later.

But it’s hard to look at the people suffering in the NOW and think it’s better for the future. It’s like Edelgard is so fixated on the world that will be she forgot to take care of the world they’re in, or maybe she didn’t, and the people around her just don’t seem as real to her as the people in the future she’s envisioned.

Byleth’s first clue that everything was going wrong should have been their hair and eye color returning to it’s original state.

Sothis and they...the both of them have always been one, whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. They are a single entity that was separated and then made whole again. But now there is an emptiness inside of them, and the emotions they’ve developed are fast fading again. They’re becoming numb once again as they lose the part of themselves that was her, and they don’t understand why.

Soon, they even stop caring.

Edelgard insisted that it was a wonderful sign. That they pointed their blades towards the heavens and won, so her path must be the righteous path.

Byleth no longer cares enough to correct her.

Their students, the Black Eagles, frown more when they speak now. Byleth has lost their emotions, so the fondness is ebbing away again. They’re distressed as they lose their teacher, and Byleth tries to pretend they care until even that seems pointless.

They follow Edelgard because they know that’s what they decided to do, not because they care. They’re too muted now, and even guilt is slipping away as time erodes more and more of Sothis from their very being.

Then the murders start to happen.

It starts when Dorathea was found outside of the Opera House. Her body had been cut down by the singular strike of a sword, left to rot in the street by an unknown assassin. The Black Eagles mourn, and Edelgard swears justice will be paid. The guards are doubled in the city and the hunt is on.

It doesn’t keep Fernidand from dying later. His entire platoon was killed, a mix of sword wounds and Reason magic leaving behind a field of corpses. Witnesses say it was a pale, dark haired, man. Just one. With an unused lance tied to his back. Something about revenge, the witnesses say. For a father, a best friend, a brother, a sister, and a lover.

A year goes by and the guards get lazy again. It seems the assassin had reached their goal or died in the process.

Until Almyra declares war.

Byleth gives their advice as it is sought, but no longer cares enough to see to the personal welfare of the troops themselves. It’s...demoralizing, to say the least.

Then Berneddeta dies in her room, a knife left behind, the signal of House Gautier’s crest carved into the hilt of the blade. A warning.

There are no Gautiers left, though, they were all killed, so it can only be Felix, Byleth explains to Edelgard, because there is no one else left to avenge House Gautier, and Felix was a childhood friend of both Dimitri, who is dead, Ingrid, who died defending Dimitri, and Sylvain, who also died in that battle.

Edelgard puts a bounty on his head.

But her troops are too spread thin with Almyra’s sudden and unrelenting assault. With another war on the horizon, many nobles that don’t care for Edelgard or were taken over surrender to Almyra without hesitation. Fodlan is once again halved, and with it Edelgard’s forces.

Then Lindhardt is killed by Felix, this time with a note: “I’m coming for you Edelgard.”

Claude, it seems, is the leader of the Almyran forces, and declares quite happily that he’s going to make Fodlan a part of his country. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he says it though, and he’s barely holding back heavy disgust.

Byleth can’t help but think of how foolish they are when they have sentiment.

Byleth also advises Edelgard to surrender.

“Not you.” Edelgard begs, knuckles gripped against the table, “Of all people, you cannot abandon me.”

But the Byleth she wants is long gone. Or, actually, they never existed. But if if they had her dream killed them until nothing but a numb shell was left behind. Byleth, as the are, is under no illusions of what they are now. A walking corpse, with all that made them human faded into the back with a sleeping Goddess that was once themselves. 

Casper, who swore he wouldn’t let another one of his friends die, falls next. Felix, it seemed, has sided with Claude and is now leading the lands that was formally Faerghus. The people of the Alliance and Fearghus help rebel, throwing riots so large that they cannot be suppressed.

Petra is gone shortly after, taken by riots.

“FOR GOOD KING DIMITRI!” Cry out the people of Faerghus as they flood the streets of Fhiridad. Imperial soldiers are pushed back by people not even wearing armor, such is their numbers, and when actual soldiers come Faerghus is no longer a Dukedom of the Empire.

“FOR THE NOBLE CAUSE!” Cry the people of the Alliance as they’re lead by those still left of the Golden Deer. Hilda’s older brother has taken the helm and lead them to victory.

When they finally take Enbarr Byleth isn’t fighting. They don’t care, and watch from Edelgard’s side as they march her palace. They warn her to surrender, but she claims she’ll die first.

Felix walks in, and cuts down Hubert. Claude walks in behind him, hands on his hips, looking up at Edelgard and Byleth with a cold smile, “Did you get what you wanted?”

“I don’t want things.” Byleth answers, emotionless, “I haven’t since the power Sothis gave faded away, and I was left incomplete again.”

“Sounds awful, hope all this was worth that.” Claude answers as Edelgard’s eyes widen in horror.

“Perhaps if I could still feel, that would hurt.” Byleth answers him, “But I can only remember what emotions felt like, the experience is lost to me now.”

“...wow, that almost makes killing you feel like I’m being merciful.” Claude remarks as Felix glares from beside him, “Teach, why did you DO this to yourself?”

“I had meant to take Edelgard prisoner.” Byleth confesses, “I was simply run out and had nowhere else to go. Helping her seemed like the logical choice at the time, but it’s strange, I can’t see the logic in it now.”

Claude originally meant to take Byleth prisoner, if they could somehow be captured. Interrogate them and whatnot, allow their former students to air their grievances before they were executed for treachery. 

Not that just feels too cruel when Byleth was apparently already killed long ago.

So, when the final battle ends, Claude tells Felix to end Byleth.

Byleth never even lifts their sword.

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Random Mottos,10: Whether they’re called adages, maxims, slogans or creeds, a motto by any other name will still sound as sweet. These simple statements are essentially promises made to oneself, family, clan, guild, order or institution. It is a phrase that can be proudly carved into a castle’s archway as a sign or wealth and power or muttered to oneself as a mantra against madness when all other hope is lost. A personal motto is a vow to oneself and a promise of intent (For good or ill) to others, while an institutional motto is a binding pact of like-minded peers. A character’s motto can be a goal in itself or a moral anchor that centers his life and guides his action. This table is a mixed collection of real life and fictional mottos that can aid a DM to quickly expand the history of the campaign or to aid a PC in a richer character creation. —Note: The phrasing for the mottos are copied from their original sources the way they were written (I, Me, We, Him, Man, etc), and a DM should change the tenses to best suit the situation.

All Anger Ends In Cruelty.

All Is Fair In Love And War.

All Of Life Is A Constant Toil To Keep Oneself Alive For Just A Little Bit Longer.

All That Is Necessary For The Triumph Of Evil Is That Good Men Do Nothing.

All Will Bleed.

Always Cheat, Always Win. The Only Unfair Fight Is The One You Lose.

Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life.

An Enemy Befriended Is An Enemy Destroyed.

Be Not Afraid.

Better Dead Than Forgotten.

—Keep reading for 90 more mottos.

—Note: The previous 10 mottos are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

All Anger Ends In Cruelty.

All Is Fair In Love And War.

All Of Life Is A Constant Toil To Keep Oneself Alive For Just A Little Bit Longer.

All That Is Necessary For The Triumph Of Evil Is That Good Men Do Nothing.

All Will Bleed.

Always Cheat, Always Win. The Only Unfair Fight Is The One You Lose.

Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life.

An Enemy Befriended Is An Enemy Destroyed.

Be Not Afraid.

Better Dead Than Forgotten.

Body Is Flesh, But Spirit Immortal.

Brotherhood, Unity, Peace.

Build A Man A Fire, And He'll Be Warm For A Day. Set A Man On Fire, And He'll Be Warm For The Rest Of His Life.

Burn The World To Ashes And Dance Upon Its Ruins!

Called To Battle.

Cast Aside All Doubts.

Cruelty Is Its Own Reward.

Curiosity Killed The Cat, But Satisfaction Brought It Back.

Death Is Eternal.

Death Is My Way Of Life.

Death Travels Faster Than Light.

Destroy Those Who Delight In Cruelty.

Divide And Conquer.

Do Not Dwell On The End. Think Instead Of Today.

Don’t Be Evil.

Even A Small Light Dispels The Darkness.

Even In Dark Times We Cannot Relinquish The Things That Make Us Human.

Every Choice We Make Allows Us To Manipulate The Future.

Every Day Is Another Battle

Every Lie We Tell Incur A Debt To The Truth. Sooner Or Later That Debt Is Paid.

Every Step Towards Ascension.

Everyone Hates Me Until They Need Me

Extraordinary Quests Require Extraordinary Deeds.

Family Is Who You Survive With When You Need To Survive.

For Home. For Peace.

For The Right Price, Anything.

From Order, To Disorder.

From The Moment We’re Thrown Into This World, We’re Fated To Bring Each Other Nothing But Pain And Misery.

Great Leaders Inspire Greatness In Others.

Great Minds Think Alike, But Fools Seldom Differ.

Hearts And Minds.

Heaven Won’t Have Me, Hell Can’t Hold Me.

Hope Is A Lie.

Hope Is What Makes Us Strong. It Is Why We Are Here. It Is What We Fight With When All Else Is Lost.

I Came To Be Tested.

I Suffer The Innocents And The Guilty Alike.

I'm The Best At What I Do And What I Do Isn't Very Nice

If At First You Don't Succeed, Stand Closer And Shoot Again.

If Violence Wasn’t Your Last Resort, You Failed To Resort To Enough Of It.

If You Can't Beat Em, Buy Em.

In All Things, A Calm Heart Must Prevail.

It's Not A Lie If You Believe It.

Journey Without End.

Know Yourself And You Will Win All Battles.

Life Is Change, Chaos, Filth And Suffering. Death Is Peace, Order, Everlasting Beauty.

Life Is Nasty Brutish And Short.

Love Is The Death Of Duty.

May The Odds Be Ever In My Favor.

My Blades Will Do The Talking.

My Time Has Not Yet Come.

Never Leave An Enemy In Your Wake.

Never Run If You Can Walk, Never Walk When You Can Stand, Never Stand When You Can Sit And Never Sit When You Can Lie Down.

No Threat Shall Stand.

Pain Is Weakness Leaving The Body.

Poor Communication Kills.

Prove Me Wrong

Scorch The Fields, Salt The Earth.

Stranger In A Strange Land

Strength To Shoulder The Burden Of A Broken World.

Survival Is A State Of Mind.

The Greatest Good You Can Do For Another Is Not Just To Share Your Riches, But To Reveal To Him His Own.

The Harder I Work, The Luckier I Become.

The Only Defense Against Violent, Evil People Are Good People Who Are More Skilled At Violence

The Only Way To Lose Is To Stop Trying.

The Right Path Is Rarely The Easiest One.

The Song Of War Commences.

The Time Has Come, And Will Soon Be Gone.

The Wait Has Ended.

There Is Always Another Way.

There Is No Kill Like Overkill.

To Learn Is To Live

Trust Your Instincts.

Turnabout Is Fair Play.

Violence Isn't Always The Answer, But When It Is, It's The Only Answer.

Wake Up And Smell The Ashes.

We Make War That We May Live In Peace.

What Can The Harvest Hope For, If Not For The Care Of The Reaper Man?

What I Have I'll Hold.

What Is Not Forbidden, Is Allowed.

What We Do In Life, Echoes In Eternity.

What's War-Torn Can't Be Mended.

When One Door Closes Another One Opens But We So Often Look So Long And So Regretfully Upon The Closed Door, That We Do Not See The Ones Which Open For Us.

Where I Go, Destruction Follows.

Where The Gods Send Me, I Go Without Question. I Do Not Even Question Why I Question Not.

Where Your Fear Is, There Is Your Task.

Whosoever Stands Against Me, Stands Briefly.

Working For A Better Tomorrow Isn’t A One-Time Quest. The Tomorrows Keep Coming.

You Are Braver Than You Believe, Stronger Than You Seem, And Smarter Than You Think.

You Can't Outrun Death Forever But You Can Make The Bastard Work For It.

You Need Not Fear The Dark But Steel Yourself For The Horrors That Emerge From It.

[ashleyswrittenwords]

Of Gods and Goddesses (III)

Previous

Next

—

Of Gods and Goddesses 

It happened in a domino effect.

Demise rebelled against heaven by destroying the Parthenon. In a storm of rage and fury that no one expected, a sea of black had overtaken room. It had been overwhelming, some gods resisted by charging back and others succumbed immediately. Unable to fight of the monstrosity alone, Hylia was pinned. Demise mockingly declared his usurping of power with an ultimatum: relinquish the Triforce or face the destruction of the Surface.

They both knew the latter was inevitable with either choice.

It was only natural that Hylia refused. She fought against him and his hoards of demons that poured from portals. It was inescapable. Demise had used his time of isolation wisely to prepare for this and Hylia was pushed to the edge of heaven. The remnants of the Pantheon had either perished with the initial surge or fled to the Surface.

With her holy sword in her hands she was burning with light and hacked away at the hoard, “They will never bend to your will!” 

Her screams split through the air, roaring with visible verbosity. Reminiscent of a war already fought.

Demise had the gall to laugh. “Don’t worry, dear Hylia. I’ll make their suffering prolonged. I want you to hear their final prayers. What a shame they will never be answered.”

She gasped as he bore his sword down onto hers. It had been long since she had to wield a weapon and she was out of practice. Her arms burned to keep up. Demise was amused but annoyed all the same with her persistence. 

“We should have never granted you your life!” She screamed as he pushed her to the ground. Already she could feel the pleading beneath her feet as demons poured down from the heavens to damn the living. Prayers nipped at her consciousness yet Demise was already proven right – she couldn’t answer them.

“Far too late for regrets, Goddess of Light,” he spat, swinging his sword down. Hylia didn’t look away, instead she watched unflinchingly at the blade that would take her own life. Amidst cursing her own shortfalls, her death never came. The sword stopped short and into the body of the god who manifested before her. Alikah fell limply into Hylia and she cried out his name.

Then in a blink of an eye, they weren’t there. The sounds of roaring demons and chaos dissipated to the light singing of birds. Alikah had brought them both to the Surface.

Hylia breathing heavily, dropping her sword to the ground to fully embrace the god in her lap. She repeated his name incessantly, brushing his hair out of his face and swallowed a sob. He was mortally wounded, a thick gash cut diagonally across his chest. A black fluid mixed with the gold of his blood. Alikah’s breathes were thin and short. “I told you to leave!” Hylia cried, cradling his face in her hands.

He only smiled weakly, “And you expected me to listen?” The god coughed and a bit of his blood hit her cheek. A small sob escaped her throat.

“I can fix this!” She put her hand to his torn chest and willed light to her fingers. “This is my fault. I can fix this!”

“Hylia,” his voice was weaker than she has ever heard it. It scared her. His hand pushed hers away and allowed the wound to open once more. “It’s not your fault.”

She sniffed, bitterly meeting him. His eyes were warm as his skin grew cold. It was a fruitless endeavor to attempt healing him. Demise’s dark magic was terminal once it hit a god’s bloodstream. The pain he must be feeling…

“Hylia, they can’t do it alone,” he brought his hand to trace the curves of her face one last time and hoped the memory would persist through death. “Promise me something.”

“Anything,” she choked out, trying to find a possibility of living without him and coming up short.

Alikah’s smile was halved this time, but as potent as ever. “Bring me back as one of those mortals you love so much.”

Her expression grew pained as the realization dawned on her. To place his soul into a mortal would end any possibility of coming back as a god. Alikah knew just as much as she, but he didn’t relent when her head disappeared into the crook of his neck to hold him tighter against her. Her body curving around him. “I can’t live without you.”

“Nor can the Hylians without their Hylia,” he wretched up blood once more and felt his soul pull away from the strings that tethered him to his body. “They don’t need me. I’m useless in this form.”

It was a sad truth and emotions she didn’t understand flowed without words. When she affirmed his promise, he had grown silent and his body still.

Hylia’s cries were left unheard.

Alikah was no more.