#rawbi's writes

[rawbiredbest]

It’s All in Your Head

Contains: Fluff, Angst, Unconventional Relationships, Telepathy, Demons Fandom: Marvel (comics) Relationships: Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom Characters: Stephen Strange, Victor von Doom, Wong, Boris Word Count: 6103

Out of the blue, Stephen Strange and Victor von Doom find themselves telepathically connected.

No squealing, remember that......

Content warning for canon typical violence, profanity, implied sexual activity, and a single usage of homophobic language by a very bad individual.

Graciously commissioned by @osheets! Wanna do the same? Check my info!

Read here or on AO3!

- - -

The breakthrough comes with rapturous spontaneity. It’s like Victor von Doom has been standing on the shore of a Latverian loch, and in the blink of an eye, the grains of sand have become an orchestra, the surf their masterful conductor, and he the sole audience. He has captured their forms in glass and steel, multiplied ten million fold in the casings of complex machinery, and the entire laboratory sings the path to a bolder, brighter future. In all of his years of experimentation, innovation, desperation, he has never heard this music before. It pours from every screw and bolt, vibrates along every copper wire, thunders out of every piston and valve. The engineers below him, controlling and monitoring the device, are Gods of melody and time. Doom himself has transcended divinity, rising high on sublime notes of praise. He is Emperor, Encapsulated Universe, and his feet do not touch the floor as he glides to the heart of his machine, his veins coursing with silver beauty. Hydrogen atoms dance into the arms of their palladium partners, and their heat is love, love for each other, love for nature, love for him, and it is a primordial force unlocked from decades of ridicule and shame, and he has set it free. Genius. Monarch. Ultimate.

And then it goes. Slowly, a receding tide. It slides from his bones, leaving them aching. He braces himself against a panel, cold sweat sticking to his brow. His heart hammers in his chest, a lone drum holding a marching beat long after the band has departed into the moonless night. The engineers gape at him, oblivious to the miracle that has deafened their ruler.

Doom touches the shielding glass of the operating CMNS reactor, and its vibrations are an idiot hum. He blinks salt from his eyes, breath condensing on the machine.

Four thousand, five hundred and six miles away, a doctor and his best friend leave Madison Square Garden, wearing concert merch, beaming like loons.

- - -

To Stephen, it’s a tsunami.

He’s watching TV. The nightly news. He could tap into the Eye and view the entire world as it turns, but he doesn’t want to. It isn’t very often he feels human, let alone vegetable, so any opportunity to vegetate he takes with gusto. Stretched across his couch, he tugs down the hem of his shirt, leans his head on his hand, and waits to absorb the country’s woes.

He gets a sharp pain on the nape of his neck instead. He swats at the spot, looks at his palm. “Ow.”

Wong looks up from the email he’s writing. “Are you okay?”

Strange frowns, settles back down. “I think there’s a mosquito in here.” They’re talking about the Amazon fires. Stephen’s heart aches for the birds who will drop from the sky, their lungs full of smoke, voices forever silenced.

And then pain rips down his back, like his spine is torn out by an iron hand from his neck to his waist.

He can’t help but yell then, clutching the cushions. A heavy ache lingers in his vertebrae. Gingerly he sits up, breathing hard, eyes clenched shut. Something a bit like petrichor, a bit medicinal, a bit hot fills his nose.

Wong runs to him, but Strange raises a hand. “I’m fine,” he says, though he already braces against the thick lump rising next to his heart. As it crests, it dissipates throughout his body. He forces his eyes open, expecting to see the black trails of tiny spiders beneath his skin. Nothing but unmarked flesh.

“Should I call Doctor Carter?” Wong asks, thumbing toward the antique phone. It’s enchanted to call anywhere, anytime, any-plane.

“No, no.” Stephen leans on his knees, rubbing his temples. The pain is moving, changing. “This isn’t exactly her--”

--forte, he wants to say, but he is cut off by trees. Huge trees. Trees that consume the sky in fractal tangles of evergreen. Primordial, pristine trees, the definition of trees. The little things that crawl beneath and flit between, some carrying light, some with rigid jaws.

It’s a psychic attack. Strange has weathered them before. This one is weird. As he waves for Wong to get the Eye, he endures the spikes of pain that impale his senses to grab a closer look. This entity is lumbering, gigantic in scope yet wet around the edges.

It’s being born, he realizes. It’s waking up.

It hurts, it hurts but he’s curious. He sees New York now, its spires and streets lined up like so much circuitry. He feels the rough brush of concrete, hears the car horn concerto, smells the burn of rubber, and all throughout are rules, parameters, reasons. The thing is learning, feasting on information, and gathering more at an exponential rate. A tidal wave of green descends on the city, picking and plucking at this imaginary world.

And as it eats, thousands and thousands of hungry mouths devouring America, it hates. It hates the excess, the cruelty, the inefficiencies. It roars, barreling down the Sanctum, thousands upon thousands of tons of incomparable loathing.

Wong presses the Eye into Stephen’s hand.

“Pardon my French, dear friend,” Strange says.

The Eye bursts open, and the Sorcerer Supreme throws every ounce of his mystic might at the slavering invader. The living room cascades with dancing whorls of light as he raises his arms, funneling a solar flare, and cries a spell that every New Yorker knows by heart.

“FUCK OFF!”

Utter obliteration. When he opens his eyes, glittering motes trickle from the ceiling. The pain is gone. The TV has gone to commercial.

The phone is ringing.

Wong answers it as Stephen sinks to the couch. He slips the Eye around his neck, and its weight comforts. He thinks he’ll sleep with it tonight.

“It’s for you.”

Strange massages his ear. Vulgarity is embarrassing, but faced with an immaterial infant in the depths of an unholy tantrum doing everything in its power to cram a fork in a magic electrical socket, seemed like a good idea at the time. He takes the phone. “Hello?”

“Doctor! The master -- Victor -- something has happened, I do not know-- I--”

“Boris?” Stephen sits up. “Boris, it’s all right. Slow down. What’s going on?”

Behind the old retainer’s words, a siren wails. “The master--” He hesitates. “His newest Doombot. He turned it on for the first time. All was well, and then it exploded! And now Victor -- he is breathing this flame, this plasma! It burned through his mask! Doctor, what do I do!?”

Strange inhales deep. Counts to three. Lets it go. “He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I do not mean to doubt you, but--”

“It will pass. Give him an ice pack and put him somewhere dark and quiet for a few hours.”

“I trust you, doctor, but please, when you can, come and see him. The violence of it, it scares me.”

“I know. It’s fine. Just something he ate.”

Boris thanks him and hangs up.

Stephen wishes the couch would eat him as he heaves a sigh. “Wong,” he asks, “Is it too late to rescind discovering my bisexuality at the ripe age of however old I am now?”

“I don’t know,” Wong replies, “To both parts of your question. I lost count in the five hundreds.”

Strange curses again.

- - -

“So. We have a telepathic link. Any idea how it got there?”

He may as well be speaking to a wall of granite. Doom, arms folded, sneers at him across the table.

Stephen links his fingers together. “I have nothing. It’s rather disconcerting. I don’t believe it’s malevolent, which is always a plus, but it’s unremarkable, which isn’t. So I’d appreciate any insight, Victor. Whatever you’d like to...you know. Get off your chest.”

Doom’s eyes are cold.

“Anything at all. Need to vent? I know you can get heated.”

The table weighs over three hundred pounds, yet Doom flings it at him like a feather. Strange cuts it in half with a bolt of solid light as Crimson Bands constrict around his other arm. They serpentine and splinter into smaller tendrils, their tips unhinging into fanged blooms, and a thought comes to Stephen as the king charges him: he was born in a forest. It’s nature’s fury that fills his head, a cacophony of hellish noise, the wild hunt calling for his spilled blood. Doom’s rage in concentrated, psychic form, howling down their link.

The Daggers of Denak, blades spinning, do an admirable job trimming the vines, their severed heads still snapping, and Strange summons the Winds of Watoomb to push Doom away. The gale staggers him yet he presses forward, arcane runes flashing a ice blue aegis on his gauntlet. Step by step, forcing him back towards the wall.

He lunges. Strange is ready for it. Doom’s arm comes up, Stephen’s arms fan out. Before the king grasps his throat, he calls a pair of razors into his palms. Victor’s grip is suffocating. Strange holds his head between two guillotine blades. An impasse.

Doom’s voice rasps, thin and scorched. “That. Hurt.”

Stephen sips the tiny breaths he can. Something’s pressing into his belly. Sweat beads on his brow. It’s a gun. It’s the stupid gun Doom carries in the stupid pouch on his stupid belt. Why does he even have it? For shooting idiot sorcerers, he thinks. He swallows hard, knows Doom can feel it through the metal. Not so evenly matched as he thought.

And then he notices it. Hiding deep under the screams is a layer of fire. Reaching through the link, he touches it. Color rushes to his cheeks.

“Seriously?” he ekes out, “This is turning you on?”

Doom’s grip loosens. A minuscule amount, enough for Strange to squeeze a few more words. The fire leaps into his psychic palm, eager, aggressive.

“There’s no shame in it. You’re good at what you do, Victor. Very few people can put me in check. Look at you. You’ve pinned me to a wall like a butterfly. That’s impressive. I--”

The king leans closer. Stephen smells ashes on his breath.

“Hoary hosts.”

The gun is holstered. A steel thumb strokes his cheek.

“Reap what you sow,” Doom mutters.

- - -

The aches and bruises will last for days, but the coolness of Doom’s armor against the carpet burn on his back is soothing. He rests a hand in the king’s own. Anything else feels too strenuous. “Was that your first time having telepathic sex? It’s intense, isn’t it?”

Victor takes in the state of the room. Paintings smashed, furniture so much firewood, stone walls fractured and cratered. How much destruction is his? He has no idea. One or the other had to have held back. The castle is still standing, after all.

Neither man speaks. Stephen ventures a glimpse down their link and gets only an image of black curtains. Doom’s already set up defenses. Though some of his own are raised, he lets some satisfaction flow between them. An olive branch.

A quiet, amused huff. “At times, Strange,” Doom says, and already his voice sounds better, “Your physical merits outweigh the strenuous mental exertions you put me through.”

“I never much cared for the medieval aesthetic myself, yet here we are.” He grunts as he looks over his shoulder, thighs twinging. “How drunk were we that night?”

“Doom was sober.”

“Oh no, your golden goblet saw plenty of refills. You were, at the very least, tipsy.”

“You question Doom’s memory?”

Stephen cups his chin, looks deep into dark brown eyes. “I question, my lord, why you claim to remember, with crystal clarity, a night you could have easily decreed never happened at all.”

Nothing comes. No biting remark, no caustic humiliation. Doom only holds his gaze, and under the black curtains flashes something bright, something strong. It lasts for only half a second before the king gets up, using Strange’s shoulder for support. “This link shall be insufferable. Do your part to get rid of it.”

Stephen frowns, annoyed that his legs work. He wonders if Victor left any of his clothing intact. “Right. Ground rules. Stay out of my head, and I won’t make you cough up another star. Deal?”

“Stay out of Doom’s head, and you shall not know pain unending. You have a deal.”

- - -

This lasts for two months.

- - -

On Day 51, a current of malicious satisfaction slithers through Strange’s mind. Gooseflesh rises up his back. The half-chewed wad of pastrami and egg in his mouth goes sour. He spits it out, bracing himself on the dinner table, and without thinking of thinking, he thinks: what have you done now?

The smirk on Doom’s face reminds him of the crocodiles at the Bronx Zoo. The thing Victor is smiling at reminds him of shop class. He can’t begin to make heads or tails of it. Like many of the king’s devices, it could have come off the set of a sci-fi movie. Sleek and chrome, rigged with multicolored wires, pumps, and gauges, a porthole reveals the heart of the machine, a vile purple light. Stephen’s gut tells him that color would eat him alive if it could, tear into his flesh and drip his blood from its teeth. Stephen trusts his gut.

Strange, Doom replies, smile quickly fading into a scowl, We had an agreement.

You broke first. I felt you. My spidey sense tingled.

Victor’s gauntlets ball into fists, and he sends a wave of serrated anger barreling toward the magician. A chained wolf, barking and snarling. An executioner waiting for the condemned to dig his own grave deeper.

Stephen curses. He didn’t mean to think that out loud. Look. Just tell me what it is and I’ll leave you alone.

The black curtains rustle, then lift like a wing. Swimming in the purple light are mathematical equations, coiling around metal rods. It makes perfect sense to Doom, but to Strange it’s a form of gibberish undecipherable by any eldritch tome.

Then he hears it. It’s not coming from the machine. It’s from Doom. Subvocalized lyrics. A silent song. He could recognize the tune anywhere.

He bought its album at the concert.

This is cold fusion.

Stephen snaps back to attention. Cold fusion. Should I be worried?

Victor folds his arms. That I built a safe, eternal form of energy for myself and my people? Yes, Strange, cower and quake. Your country shall never have it so long as I draw breath.

There are many dangerous rebuttals to that he could say. Names he could drop. Yet Doom promised pain unending. Fifty-one days into their connection, Strange has no leads into its inner workings. Finding out if he could make good on his word is a risk Stephen is unwilling to take.

I don’t like this, the sorcerer thinks, but I have to believe you. Don’t misbehave.

His own mental defense is a never-ending subway express train, its doors and windows a veil of golden thorns. Sighing, he sits back down. What’s left of his sandwich has the appeal of wet newspaper.

Doom was right. The link is awful.

- - -

On Day 60, despite the blazing fire in the hearth, Victor’s feet send ripples through a puddle.

He regards it from his antique armchair throne with indifferent curiosity. Through the filters in his mask, he smells the green, pungent scent of foliage rot and seawater. In the puddle itself swim millions of plankton. A frenzy of eating, fucking, dying, and birthing unfolds beneath his alloy soles.

From the corner of his eye, he watches the puddle extend an arm of water across the floor. Sliding under a wall, a line of slithering damp turns the paint a moldy gray. Moisture fans across the entire side of the room in a pattern like falling stars, like skeletal hands trailing through a river. The scent grows stronger as the puddle expands. He rises before it consumes his chair. The leather sinks until it is a speck of mahogany in the brine. Gloom washes over it and it is gone.

Doom folds his arms. A breeze teases the tail of his cloak. Murmuring a quiet word, he puts out the fire with an arc of a finger, and turns around into another world.

It is eternal night. It has no sun, and what few stars can be seen are lucky glimpses through a lush canopy of branches and black, web-like leaves many hundreds of feet above. The grass under him has a sticky grip, but gentle. If grass could want for anything, it would like to give the king safe passage on his journey. He isn’t the sustenance it’s looking for. That comes on the wind, in the form of tiny shards of detritus falling from forest layers high overhead. It shimmers as it tumbles down, the only source of light in this hadal garden.

He doesn’t need to go far. Half-concealed behind a root far taller than he, Doom watches himself and Stephen Strange on the next mound over.

The magician talks with grand gestures, sweeping an arm over trees as dark as ink. Doom remembers himself speaking little, allowing Strange to tell him the highlights of the world. No recorded examples of predation. Negligible changes in evolution for millennia. A slow world. A place of peace.

Stephen steps into the water. Waist deep, he holds out his arm. His garb drips off him, revealing pale skin. He smiles, bare and inviting.

The other Victor undoes his belt.

“And you complain when I get you out of the house.”

Doom peers at the Stephen Strange sitting in lotus position beside him. “You drag me into your affairs with no concern for my well-being or sanity.”

“Please. The times you dig your heels in are cursory, at best. And then we end up doing things like this.”

Across the mound, the other king’s armor sits in a neat pile, and the two doctors stand in each other’s arms, their lips meeting and parting only to inhale.

Victor kneels on the grass. “Even you are capable of stumbling onto a good idea.”

Stephen’s lip curls upward. “I think about this often. This place is beautiful. This memory pleasant. I took effort not to broadcast this to you. My apologies if I disturbed you.”

Doom looks away. “You did not.”

“Oh? Your Royal Highness, we had an agreement.”

“Am I not allowed to reminisce myself?”

“Ssh. Meditate with me.”

He closes his eyes. Strange’s hand creeps into his own, and he lets it stay.

Perhaps he was wrong. The link isn’t so bad.

- - -

Wake up! Wake up, wake up, wake up!

Stephen rolls molasses slow toward awareness. The bedroom is pitch black, swimming in unholy hour of the morning disorientation.

Your wife is in trouble!

He cracks an eye open, shifting in the sheets. “Clea?”

No! Your big green wife! Get up, right now!

Those aren’t his thoughts. It’s a voice he’s never heard before, coming from inside his head. He holds very still and feels something slither over his brain.

He snaps wide awake.

I’m sorry we have to meet like this, the voice says, but we must hurry. The whole world is at stake!

In any other circumstance, Strange would interrogate the voice within an inch of its life, but its fear is genuine. Swinging out of bed, he yanks some pants on, startles the Cloak of Levitation from of its own sleep, and pulls open a portal to Latveria.

Curse me for a novice! the voice squeaks, That can’t be good!

Enormous rends in reality drape over the castle. Shimmering in the air, some bisect the stone in clean, monomolecular cuts. One vomits a steady stream of magma, causing a massive fire in the castle courtyard. Through each of them Stephen sees other dimensions. Another hole fans out from the keep itself and drops a mass of red crystals that crush an entire rampart.

Please! Hurry!

Stephen slams the portal shut, imagines his destination, and wrenches open a new one directly to Doom’s lab. The room is bathed in sunset colors and thick, acrid smoke. At its heart lies the fusion reactor, which is now anything but cold. The purple light pounds waves of energy, reverberating off its containment and magnifying a new tear in the world.

Victor stands in front of the machine. His motions are jerky, abrupt, a marionette controlled by a mob of children. He lifts a twitching hand and the tear throws itself through the castle to join the others outside.

Sister-Brother! the voice cries, Stop!

Doom’s arms drop, strings cut. The voice that comes from his mind is higher than the other.

No, I don’t think so, it says, I think I’m going to continue. You’re more than welcome to burn.

“You’re the link,” Strange says.

Just figured that out now? Sister-Brother asks, Wow, Brother-Sister. You sure drew the short straw. My host is incredible. I’ve mapped every gyri and sulci in here and it’s gorgeous. I’d stay forever if I could. It’s almost a shame he has to die.

Stephen glares, raising his hands, fingers glowing with magic. “As Sorcerer Supreme, I command you to release Doctor Doom!”

The laugh that echoes down the link is nails on a chalkboard. You have no idea what we are.

“You’re playing with fire. You’re threatening the dimensional stability of all of Doomstadt. And when I find you, you’ll have hell to pay.”

This host has already seen hell, Sister-Brother chides, What better place to grow up than in a body demon-touched? Have you considered that I’m doing him a favor? This is how it plays out. This is fate.

Doom turns around without his mask.

A bloodcurdling shriek ricochets across Strange’s mind, his hand thrusts forward with a will not his own, and a thunderbolt connects with the king’s head. Victor flies against a control panel, smashing it with the weight of his impact. Groaning and creaking, the reactor starts to power down, sprinklers in the ceiling damping the flames.

His face, Brother-Sister whispers, Gods, oh gods, what’s wrong with his face...

Stephen contains his screams until he kneels at Doom’s side, hefting his body into his arms. The scent of burning meat fills his nose. He howls for someone, anyone, to help him, royal blood seeping onto his chest.

- - -

He awakens to the beeping of the heart monitor.

Doom feels like mountainsides have taken residence on his eyelids. Slowly sliding them open, he takes inventory. The room is bright, sterile, no windows. He’s propped up in a bed. His hands are bare yet weigh like continents. He looks to his left.

“Hello,” Stephen says.

The sorcerer looks terrible. Ashen skin, reddened eyes, a frown threatening to rip his mouth off. The clothes he wears belong to any servant of the castle. The hands clasped together between his knees shake worse than Doom has ever seen.

“You’re on a morphine drip. You’ve been unconscious for the past twelve hours. You’re in the castle. We set up a makeshift triage room. For a while...” He takes a deep breath, steeling his voice. “We didn’t know if you would make it.”

Doom thinks, and his head is wonderfully quiet.

“Thank every deity you know that your skull is almost as hard as your armor. You’re going to be in a lot of pain for the next few days, but the alternative...I don’t want to think about. And I got rid of the link.” Strange picks up a jar from a nearby stand. “Meet Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother.”

Floating in cerebrospinal fluid are two worms. One is storm cloud gray bracketed by navy blue. The other is dark yellow-green with flecks of red. Flat as ribbons and only an inch long, they give each other a wide berth.

“Pineal parasites,” Stephen continues, “Stuck to the undercarriage of our minds, learning how to be through our eyes. They talked together through us. Saw magic through us. Deciphered grand machines through us. And now they’re ready to go home. That’s what yours was trying to do. They were looking for a place where nothing changes and nothing happens because all who go there are hijacked and killed. Not such a good idea after all, was it?”

Doom blinks.

Putting the worms down, Strange digs his wrists into his eyes. “Victor, I swear to you on everything I am I had no idea. I thought you’d like it. I thought you could forget being so angry, forget the Four if only for an hour, and be happy. Now you--”

He stares at the door, fist to his mouth. Swallowing his heart, he says, “I’m bringing them back. They’re not at fault. They’re just following their life cycle. Despite what they’ve done, they deserve to live.”

Birds that will choke on ashes, he thinks, Countless trees turned to dust. No more. No more death.

“The best doctors in your kingdom are here for you. I’ll be back.”

“Doom will go with you.”

Victor’s voice is quiet but steady. Stephen shakes his head. “No. You’re in no shape to get out of bed, let alone travel dimensions.”

The monarch shuts his eyes. Heavy footsteps pass through the door. A doppelganger in emerald and steel, the Doombot bows its head to its ruler.

“Doom will go with you,” Victor repeats.

Strange blows a ragged breath. By Doom’s creased brow, that wasn’t easy. “Okay. Rest now. Don’t do anything until I return.”

Victor says nothing. Stephen waits until he drifts to sleep, presses a kiss to rough lips, and departs, robot in tow.

- - -

Q-4301 is indistinguishable from the real deal, from its ramrod straight spine to its folded arms, yet there’s no look of wonder in its lenses, no human, if royally restrained, sense of adventure in its copper and silicon heart. It doesn’t care about the bits and pieces of gold falling from the alien canopy, the grass patting its boots. It stares at Strange, emotionless, and that very lack of feeling gnaws at the pit of the sorcerer’s stomach.

They’re on the same black water island mound as before. He can pick out the tree Victor pressed him against from all the rest. Had the microscopic eggs that birthed the parasite twins been attracted to their sex, or had it been sheer luck? He doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know.

In his hand is a candle made from the blood of priests. “Do you have them?” Stephen asks.

Q-4301 lifts a corner of its cloak. Sewn into the cloth is a glass vial. Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother are inside.

Strange nods. “I don’t know if Doom programmed you to feel fear. Either way, let me do the talking. If all goes well, you won’t have to do anything.”

The Doombot says nothing. Taking a deep breath, Stephen snaps a spark between his fingers and lights the candle.

The world goes silent. The wind ceases, and so does the steady fall of golden bits and bobs. The grass curls into tight nubs. The only indication that time has not stopped entirely is the gleam of flame like an undulating eel on the surface of the water. Stephen’s breath is deafening in his own ears.

The voice that speaks is low and obsidian slick. “Well, well, well. Look what the fags dragged in.”

The demon, descending from the trees, blends perfectly into the dark. Its teeth are yellowed and pitted from a diet of rot. It moves on long, soundless talons. Its eyes are cherry red, pupils like mouths.

“Doctor Strange,” the khat murmurs, “You honor me with your presence. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re a cautionary tale among khat-kind, you know. A warning about too much power in frail, mortal meat. Like stuffing a sun into a stomach, it’s only a matter of time till it bursts.”

Stephen purses his lips. “Cut the shit. I have something for you.”

The khat’s grin splits up to its ears. “A gift? Is it your heart? Your humanity? Your soul? Please tell me it’s your soul. I would so like your soul.”

“Come closer and I’ll show you.”

The demon pads on water, leaving no ripples in its path. “Is it the thing beside you?” Nostrils flaring, it sizes up the Doombot. “Not the usual breed of lost lambs you lead to slaughter. What sort of lies did you tell it to follow you? An offer of redemption, perhaps? Anything desperate enough to flaunt about in a green skirt would listen to you.”

“Desperation is for the weak,” Q-4301 snaps.

Strange swallows the ball of curses on his tongue and hopes it doesn’t show. Doombots fall for bait. Exactly like the original.

The khat stops. “Everything has weaknesses. You were once a babe in your mother’s arms, no? Look at your companion. The Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, can barely keep a friend around, let alone alive. No, no, no, there has to be a reason he wants you here.” It lies on all fours, rests its cheek on its fist. “What sort of gift was it again?”

Stephen starts to speak. Q-4301 beats him. “The only gift a demon like you deserves.”

Red eyes narrow in amusement. “Oh, it’s too much for a single khat to bear! Let me call my brothers. We shall find out together.” Rising into a crouch, it takes a deep breath.

There’s still time to salvage the plan. Strange shouts, “Do it!”

Q-4301 lunges into the water, tears the vial from its cloak, and thrusts its arm out. As predicted, the khat opens its toothy jaws and swallows the punch up to the Doombot’s shoulder. Payload delivered, they need to flee.

The portal spell is halfway done when Stephen spots Q-4301 motionless.

For a second, the khat too is still. Then, beaming around the steel in its mouth, it bites, and tears Q-4301′s arm off.

No robot could replicate the spray of blood and scream in agonized terror.

Strange doesn’t realize he’s also screaming. The khat snatches Q-4301′s shoulder and slams it beneath the surface. The water boils in the struggle. Shadows like hellish stalagmites reach for the leaf-choked sky as the sorcerer calls his magic. Black muck splatters the trees, the grass, Stephen’s legs as he gathers flame in his shaking palms.

The blast turns the water to steam as the garden sees more light than it has in billions of years. He looks for a target, finds nothing but the bare riverbed quickly flooding to fill the void.

The khat geysers up behind him, grabs his leg, and wrenches him into the water. The Cloak of Levitation has enough time to flip him face up before a heavy paw pins it down. Eyes stinging, heart hammering, Strange fends off the khat’s snapping jaws with novas in his palms. It takes all his training to anticipate where the teeth will be, vision obscured by plumes of bubbles, and not lose a limb.

Claws curl in his suit and drag him through the brine. His head connects with a tree root and all of reality goes sideways. His breath whooshes free, and sour liquid fills his throat.

The demon hauls him out, shoves him against a tree. Three blurry khats grin in Stephen’s eyes. Dozens of fangs.

“The gift is all three,” it says, “Your heart, humanity, and soul. Why were we ever warned about you? You’re nothing.”

It opens its mouth.

LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Stephen shakes water and blood from his eyes. The khat is frozen save its eyes, which widen in shock. Two voices erupt from its gullet. One, higher-pitched, screeches an incoherent string of profanity.

By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth, the other cries, I demand you let him go!

If he squints, Strange can see two ribbons in the khat’s belly. One yellow-green and red, the other gray and blue.

“What have you done,” the demon barks, “What have you done to me!?”

The claws pry open. Stephen beats a hasty retreat, flying to the unfinished portal. As he works to complete it, something moves at his feet. The grass scuttles bits and pieces of shattered human along pathways only it knows. He reaches down, grabs a fragment, and rage flows through him hot enough to make his skin glow, heat radiating from him in convection circles.

The khat breaks free of the parasites’ control, smashing its head against the tree for good measure. Screaming, it leaps for him. Strange sidesteps into another world -- home -- closes the portal, and waits until his ears stop ringing.

His anger he keeps. He storms through castle halls, eager to strike while the iron is hot.

- - -

Doom must really try this relaxation thing more often. It isn’t bad. Balcony doors open, letting in sunshine and a floral breeze, he reclines in his seat, sips his tea, and listens to the vinyl spinning on the antique phonograph.

I’m coming down, coming down like a monkey, but it’s all right Like a load on your back that you can’t see, oooh but it’s all right

The song has been in his head for months. It’s nice to hear it in the open. Doom smiles. Stephen has good taste in music.

“Bastard!”

The chair spins around and Doom is confronted by a feral magician. Strange notes the king’s simple garb: no steel in sight, just a cotton shirt and pants. He aims for Victor’s face but his quaking hands botch the throw. It bounces off his chest and lands in his teacup. “You’re not white!”

Doom looks at his tea. The blue eye in the tea looks back. “About time someone noticed,” he deadpans, extracting the orb by its optic nerve and setting it on a napkin.

The chair bucks like a bronco and Victor spills out. Stephen catches him with magic, hangs him in the air. The cup breaks into a thousand pieces and the king’s disappointed frown makes Strange want to throttle him. “Who was in the Doombot?”

“A nuclear engineer working on the CMNS reactor.” Doom sounds bored. “He tweeted about the parasite-induced euphoria I experienced. Called it an episode. Implications of weakness are illegal. Justice -- and the parasites -- were served. Two birds with one stone.”

“You killed a man for a tweet.”

“Whatever creature you encountered in the garden slew him, not I.”

Stephen drops him, relishing Victor’s grunt as a shard of teacup cuts his foot. It’s a slimy pleasure, and his face contracts. “Bastard. There isn’t an ounce of goodness in you.”

The king pulls the porcelain out of his flesh and points the bloodied end of it. “I have my ways just as you have yours. Until you grasp this concept, we shall always be at odds.”

“Be at odds? I saved your life!”

Doom brushes back his hair. Black stitches stretch from one ear across his head to the other. “You scarred me.”

They’re on thin ice. Strange dials back his fury, fists clenched. Monstrous tyrant or not, Victor is recovering from brain surgery. “You had a worm in your head.”

Tossing the shard aside, Doom sinks back in the chair in a position Stephen calls the regal slouch. “The sentence for weakness implications is community service. The engineer served his community. The sentence for injury to the royal person is death.” A scowl darkens his face. “I have half a mind to not let you leave this room alive.”

The sorcerer shuts his eyes.

“However.” Doom thinks, picking his words. “The extraneous circumstances surrounding the crime cannot be ignored. A different punishment is called for. It shall be made at a later time.” He draws a holographic display before him. A tigress pants in her den, lozenges squirming at her belly. “Three cubs were born at the Latverian Zoo this morning.” He looks at Stephen. “I find myself preoccupied with some wildlife conservation of my own.”

The sigh comes from the bottom of his heart. One day Victor will come out and thank him. Today is not that day. It will have to do. Strange rubs his eyes. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Speak.”

“Exile. A break. Another two months, or two years, or two hundred years. I’m not picky. I just don’t want to see you for a while.”

Doom looks back at the panel. “Your suggestion carries weight. So be it. Begone.”

That’s that. Another story concluded. Feeling empty, feeling light, Stephen turns to go.

“Strange.”

Fuck, so close. The sorcerer looks over his shoulder. “What?”

“When next we sojourn, for Doom knows we shall--” Victor’s lip turns up, the smallest hint of a smirk. “--I shall pick our destination.”

[blizzardrush]

( nioh is the dark souls of tekken...or something.

new duds! not a lot of brown sets, for some reason. or neckties, but that might be because it’s the year 1560.

god I love the switchglaive’s high and low stances )

[sneckoil]

Sheets I kinda want to write more cryptid AU doomstrange. Any headcanons? 😗

waiiit rawbi ppl on twitter commented on ur call for doomstrange prompts ashdkhg they were p good

but uhh considering you seem to be rly into dragoncursed doom (and ive been rereading books of doom) i was thinking abt how maybe the fire he breathes is cold (like. it looks exactly like fire. but it sucks the heat out of everything). and maybe that doom by himself is incredibly cold (in temperament ofc, but also in temperature)

[rawbiredbest]

Einception

Contains: Childhood Memories, Gameplay/Story Integration, League Mechanics Working As Intended Fandom: Path of Exile Characters: Einhar Frey, Alva Valai, Exile (Scion) Word Count: 1038

Fragmented memories allow exiles to look into the past. Einhar accompanies exiles into memories. Einhar doesn’t like to talk about his past.

Everything turns out better than expected.

This was written for the Einhar competition on the PoE forums. While it didn’t win anything, I still like this headcanon, so I thought I’d share it with you. PoE needs more love.

Please enjoy!

- - -

It is very hot today. The longer I’m in here, the less I can find. I wish I had a teacher. Someone who knows how all the parts go together.

“I could have told you that, exile!”

Einhar isn’t surprised she doesn’t respond. He has crossed paths with the exile numerous times. It must be the will of the First Ones. Einhar can tell in the exile’s frown, which is just as frigid as the cascades of ice she summons from her gnarled staff. Craiceann, First of the Deep, has her in a claw, whether she knows it or not. The entire scenario made a name for her, sleek and feminine, leap from the cool waters of Einhar’s imagination.

“Sturgeon! I have been here before!”

The exile glares at him over her shoulder while her chaos golems beat down a writhing mamba. They don’t have time for this. Memories don’t last forever, and already the gloom of decay lurks on the horizon.

A posse of proto-synthetes leap a nearby stone wall. Einhar pulls the pin on a grenade, lobs it at the advancing horde, and watches their delicate filigree and turquoise hearts explode into so much smoke and glitter. “When I was but a small Einhar, I wondered how many things worked. Not mechanical things like Niko, or gem things like gemlings, but living things! Small Einhar would think about this very much, until small Einhar’s eyes grew crispy! Father Frey would drag small Einhar back home and put him in a small, dark place, but he could not take the thoughts out of small Einhar’s head!”

Sturgeon turns around. This is it! Einhar thinks, Finally, she speaks to me!

Raising her staff, she calls an orb of electricity so hot the Beastmaster can feel it through his mask as it launches an arc of lightning past his face. Blinded, the filimite crashes to the ground. Einhar stomps on its casing, and all thought of acknowledgement vanish as he notices brain matter on the sole of his talon. He kneels and scoops some splattered mush into a pouch on his belt. Looking up, he catches a familiar sight.

It’s a cage, half-embedded in a dirt embankment. Einhar approaches it and kneels to the bars, grinning behind his mask. He lifts a hand in greeting. “Hello, small Einhar!”

The child in the cage, curled into a ball, peers out, takes in the hulking red cloth, black dreadlocks, and white, pointed beak, and asks, “How do you know my name?”

Einhar laughs. “I knew you would say that!” He looks behind him. Sturgeon, surrounded in righteous flames, is keeping the synthetic guardians of the memory at bay, but he remembers he needs to keep this brief. Luckily, an arm from some unfortunate monster, severed neatly by a blade of frozen anger, crash lands beside him. He picks it up, peels back its flesh, and offers the steaming pink underneath. “What do you call this?”

“Lunch?”

“Good boy! You have been eating well! Listen, small Einhar, have you heard of the First Ones?”

The child crawls closer to the cage door, eyes wide. “No! Tell me, strange man-bird!”

Einhar’s heart is so fit to burst with pride he nearly forgets what he needs to do. What a clever Einhar small Einhar was! he thinks, brushing the dirt into a blank canvas, Mind always working! Aware of the presence of a genius! Such a smart, sunburnt Einhar! He starts to draw with his finger, hesitates, wipes the slate clean, and starts again, careful to make his pictures upside down. “This is Craiceann, First of the Deep,” he explains, voice low with reverence, “Farrul, First of the Plains, Fenumus, First of the Night, and Saqawal, First of the Sky. They were the first of all beasts, and they watch us from the Great Grove, where the strongest shall go at the end of the world.”

As if on cue, the child says, “I want to meet them! How do I become the strongest?”

The Beastmaster wipes a hot tear from his face. He gets dirt in his eye like a silly Einhar, but the sting is nothing compared to the overwhelming love he feels for himself. This is what mother beasts in the menagerie must feel like when giving birth, with less screaming and hideous, red liquids.

He takes the child’s hand between his own. “Survive,” Einhar says, “Despite it all, survive. The years shall not be kind. Learn the ways of blood, build yourself a home, and give thanks to the First Ones, for they shall guide your path through terror and triumph alike. Only then shall you be considered worthy.”

Sturgeon cries out in pain, clutching her side. The pack of wrought reavers not occupied with attacking her chaos golems turn their attention to Einhar instead. Gold fangs and quills bared, they charge.

“Oh! One last thing.” Einhar crams a repeating bolt into his crossbow. Channeling his thaumaturgy – he needs to make this look life-changing for himself – he pulls the trigger. The reavers collapse in a pile of twitching limbs, mowed down in a hail of crimson spikes. He looks back at the child. “Make yourself a fine weapon! Tell it every day that it is a good weapon! The best that ever was!”

Gritting her teeth, Sturgeon waits for her energy shield to recharge. The memory decay is pouring towards her in waves. It’s too late to press on. If it hadn’t been for the feathered fool who raved about crabs and spiders at the slightest provocation slowing her down—

Was he still with her? It had been too quiet.

“Goodbye, small Einhar! Remember: don’t be a stranger!”

Sturgeon’s gut crinkles with frost as she is overtaken by blue.

-

When she returns to her hideout after what feels like twenty years of warfare, Sturgeon wants nothing more than to pry off her armor and crawl into a hole to sleep. Alva Valai catches her first.

“Did something happen to Einhar?” the time traveler whispers, “I sense a sort of fulfillment about him.”

Sturgeon shrugs her off. Across the snowy courtyard, the Beastmaster licks his pen in preparation for the poem he will write about the greatest day of his life.

[rawbiredbest]

A kiss we had to wait for, majima/kiryu?

“Yeah, hi, is this Kiryu’s Kissin’ Company?”

As the thug he’s pummeling has the sense to pass out when the passing is good, the Dragon of Dojima has time to hang up and tuck his phone away before the goon’s four buddies have their chance.

“I’d like to order one make-out session. Medium length, with extra tongue.”

“I don’t like this game,” Kiryu grumbles, watching the UFO Catcher claw descend on a purple, polka-dotted octo-plush, “We agreed: no objectification.”

“Hey, hey, hey, I’ll have you know that I’m a businessman. I understand the difference between a commodity and a service. Which yer doin’ a shit job at, by the way. I’m leavin’ a bad review on yer web page.”

Kiryu hangs up again. The toy slips free. Kazuma resists the urge to punch the plastic.

“I’m givin’ ya another chan--”

Beep.

Kiryu has taken bats to the cranium before, but this one felt like it was filled with concrete. As he presses the beer can to his temple, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He’s too tired to care about caller ID. “Hello?”

“Listen. It’s crazy fuckin’ rude of ya to hang up on a customer. Since I’m a great guy though, I’m cuttin’ ya a deal. Wear somethin’ cute, and I won’t write a comment that’ll shut ya out of business for the rest of yer life. Do I make myself clear?”

“Majima,” Kiryu groans.

“Recognizin’ me as a triple-S, diamond-class client is a step in the right direc--”

“Stop.”

A long pause on the other end. “Long day, babe?”

“Could be shorter.”

“Almost done?”

“For my health’s sake, yes.”

“Okay.” Palpable relief in Goro’s voice. “You come home then, all right? Twenty-five minutes, or it’s free of charge!” Barely contained snrks of laughter. “Shit, Kiryu-chan. I couldn’t help it.”

Kazuma musters an irritable grunt.

Majima’s waiting for him with ice packs, painkillers, and a pair of scissors. The latter is concerning until he spots a well-used roll of white gauze. “Sit.”

Kiryu obeys, perching on the end of their Western-style bed. The springs creak as Majima slithers behind him. Cold is applied to the bruise that will certainly evolve into a black eye and a short temper. With that done, Kiryu is divested of jacket and delivered onto his back, head on the pillows. He arranges himself in the least uncomfortable position and says, “Twenty-six minutes.”

Majima’s sliding the jacket onto a hanger. “Huh? Oh. Forget it.” He sets it on a doorknob and lies beside Kiryu. Their lips meet quick and gentle. “Homemade’s better than delivery anyway.”

[rawbiredbest]

Majima, ✥ - Popping a button on their shirt, showing their chest / a bit of cleavage

send these (accepting!)

Goromi has been making more and more appearances lately, and Kiryu finally asks why.

“I got girl DNA.”

She drops this truth bomb while strolling down Tenkaichi Street in a mink coat and designer suit, arm in arm with Kazuma. It isn’t the strangest thing he’s heard all day, but it’s certainly the most science fiction. “What does that mean?”

“Got blood work done after some punk had the nerve to bleed on an open wound. Doctors were real confused at the results. Turns out some parts of me have boy DNA, and some parts have girl DNA.”

“You’re joking. That isn’t possible.”

Goromi quirks an eyebrow so high her wig almost eats it. “Kiryu-chan, don’t look at little ole me and think I can’t be the impossible.”

He’ll never admit it, but her poetic moments make him fall in love all over again every time. “Heh. Very well.”

“Just keep it on the down low, got it? No one needs to know I ate my twin sister in my momma’s womb when we were both little floaty things. Majima Goro is a scary motherfucker, but he draws the line at cannibalism.”

The color fades from Kiryu’s face. So much for the warm fuzzies. “Right. I understand.”

It is then the train derails.

It’s so fast and brutal Kiryu has to think over it later to parse what actually happened. There was a group of kids sneaking up behind them. One reached around Goromi and popped open her shirt. A button bounced off Kiryu’s arm. Snake fangs flashed in the neon light, and there had been a flip, a switch electric Kazuma could feel in the air, and Goromi had submerged. Majima roared back to the forefront, and then Kiryu had a blonde mop in one hand while the other tried to prevent his lover from murder.

And that was Majima. Chimerical, as always.

[rawbiredbest]

kintsukuroi, kazumaji

to repair pottery with gold, with the understanding that the piece is made more beautiful by having been broken 

modern niohverse bcos why not

Kiryu knows many men with tattoos, but Majima is the only one with a back covered in scars. Instead of elegant lines of ink, or even harsh, clipped poetry of healed knife wounds, his skin is a bed of tough, bumpy moss. He is a landscape recovering from the savagery of a wildfire.

Kiryu first met Majima’s guardian spirit in 1986. She sprung from his spine, hands on his shoulders, and her mad hannya grin blazed hotter than the neon lights.

He doesn’t know the circumstances of her birth, or how her bond with her host came to be, and Goro dodges his questions every time. Her voice, like her face, is kept hidden by her masks. She doesn’t need to speak to know him. Her light scatters the shadows surrounding his secrets. There is nothing he can do about it, not when Majima hounds him relentlessly, yet Kiryu is aware information flows both ways.

Over years, his eyes get used to staring at the sun.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to him when late one night, when he cannot sleep and cannot get up for waking his lover, a warm palm settles on his shoulder. Kiryu rolls over and sits up. The spirit kneels beside the bed. Her mask, a noblewoman’s pleasant, painted face, betrays none of her intent. She touches his cheek.

There is a brief moment of nuclear fission, night turns to day, turns back to night, and then they too are bonded.

“Ya couldn’t do that when I’m awake?” Majima peers at them over his shoulder, crabby in the darkness.

Kiryu shifts back against him, arms around his waist. Heart thumping against a forest of scars, he kisses Goro’s neck, breathes the scent of his hair. “Sorry.”

[rawbiredbest]

Winter Dawn

Hello, and welcome to the second installment of Amrita Memories, a collection of crossover vignettes between the Yakuza (Ryu ga Gotoku) series and the game Nioh, re-imagining your favorite professional criminals as 17th Century samurai, ninjas, and mages, with a dash of demonic invasion and protective spirits.

IN THIS EPISODE: Majima has long since turned over a new leaf, but old legends reemerging may convince him to walk dark paths once more.

WARNING: contains graphic, canon-typical depictions of violence.

Here is a link to the first chapter. It isn’t necessary to read to understand this portion.

Read here or on AO3!

- - -

Destruction is easy. Rebuilding is not.

“Boss, we’re out of tiles.”

Majima Goro sighs, cracking open his eye. From the bottom floor, nothing stops him from looking up into the blue. The townhouse is unfinished, and will continue to be as long as work isn’t flowing. Nishida, the dam in the stream, leans over the hole where a ceiling will be and calls down to him again. “Boss?”

Disgusting. As foreman of the project, Majima had the most important role. Crews of craftsmen didn’t govern themselves. Let he who is without stress rebuke him for napping. The tatami mats had to be tested for optimal comfort, in any case.

Goro sits up, scowling as vertebrae pop. “Then go get some from the masons,” he groans, “Initiative. A little goes a long way.”

Nishida disappears and Majima lies back down. The village won’t be complete for weeks yet. There is rice to plant and streets to lay, wells to dig and shrines to bless. When all is said and done, it will be a nice place to live. Future residents will be proud to call it home. Maji-machi, he’ll name it.

“Boss.”

It’s Minami. The apprentice is young and has yet to see every hammer out of left field the world will throw at him, but the awe in his voice surpasses simple surprise. Saws stop grinding. Tools freeze in midair. Majima rises again to find progress at a dead halt. Time has suffocated under a stunned silence.

A legend has walked into town.

William Adams is the culmination of all dusty roads less traveled, from the chips in his axe’s blade to the tattered sash around his waist. Each soft footstep carries years of adventure. The Irish samurai pays no heed to the shroud of quiet hanging over the unmade village. It’s only a path to his next destination.

Goro stands up. “Excuse me, good sir,” he says, sauntering into the road, “There is a toll to travel any farther. You’ll have to pay up.”

William looks him over and decides the war has treated him well. Losing an eye is an adequate trade for a slim yet muscular build and leadership of competent men. Not an ounce of fear on his face, though Adams stands taller and wears plate capable of stopping cannon rounds and the foreman is clad in only a mustard seed yellow yukata. He drops a pouch of silver pieces into his hand. “Let me pass.”

Majima weighs the bag and his options. “Though this is very generous of you, sir,” he says, “My crew have families to feed. Surely a warrior of your caliber has more to offer.”

Blue eyes make a quick circuit of the town. He’s surrounded, he realizes. Dozens of craftsmen are watching the encounter. Many of them carry what could easily become makeshift weapons. The average age marks them all as veterans; their hands and faces rough with combat, not toil.

More silver appears. A bigger bag this time. “I’m leaving,” William growls, “Whatever game you’re playing ends here.”

He feels for the town, he truly does. They line every road from Tohoku to Tokai. Residents nurture hope out of bloodstained soil and a bedrock of sorrow. Yet he can’t stay. War waits for no man. He must make it to Osaka.

Saoirse whispers in his ear. “Death comes for you.”

No sooner has she finished does something hard and metal whiz through the air his head had been.

William draws his axe, hunches low to brace himself, ready for a fight – and freezes with ice in his veins.

The spirit rising from Majima’s back bears a madwoman’s grin and a monster’s fangs, though the energy she radiates is positive and pure. It’s a mask, Adams realizes. Gripped in her hair are other masks, no two alike, from a tengu’s fierce frown to an old monk’s smile. Her fingernails are knives. The ends of the sash around her kimono are snake heads, and they live, flashing their pale throats and flicking their tongues. The spirit burns with a flame intense enough to rival the sun.

“Had to see if it was really you, Sir Anjin of Miura,” Majima chirps. The kusarigama weight twirls high over his head, its tooth-like sickle clutched in his other hand. “Now there’s a name gone unspoken. It’s been ten years, hasn’t it? Show me you’re more than a myth!”

William purses his lips and plants his feet. Goro grins and is upon him like a swarm of locusts.

Adams gives him credit. His axe has claimed hundreds of limbs, can cleave Majima in half with no effort, yet the foreman dances around its swings with reckless abandon. As he resigns himself to the weary, inevitable truth that Goro insists on death before surrender, William throws himself harder into the fray. Majima reaches into his yukata, flings a fan-shaped array of throwing stars. Adams darts out of their way, draws a short breath as the shuriken twinkle with sizzling fuses–

Their explosive payloads burst, spraying shards of shrapnel. William turns with the shock wave. Though his eyes are closed against the blasts, he knows if he rides the force, ignores the sting of the sickle blade nipping through his armor–

Majima squawks as he’s barreled over. The axe lifts high, swings down,–

–and crashes into the earth so close to his head he feels pebbles kiss his cheek. Adams cranes over him, blue eyes frigid.

“Oi,” Goro says when he can find his voice, “You missed.” One hand is pinned behind his back. Slowly, he inches toward his belt, and the little box hiding within.

“You’re a fool and a menace.” William extracts the axe and can’t help but feel a rush of victory as clumps of dirt fall from the blade onto the foreman’s face. He has seen legions of men perish, personally sent many to be judged in the afterlife. Not this man. Not today. Let him be a lesson to their audience, the crews who only want to move on. There is no future in violence.

Majima looks up into the blue and softly sighs. Something underneath him is glowing.

William spots it too late. The bomb threatens to tackle him clear off his feet. His soles leave furrows in the ground as he’s rocked backwards.

Majima stands unscathed, and his spirit looms behind him. She runs her arms along his own, becoming amorphous and sluicing onto his kusarigama. Weapon aflame with ethereal power, he howls with renewed vigor and leaps at William.

Underestimated, Adams thinks, and reaches his mind for Saoirse. She is never far away, and as she manifests – smiling calmly as Goro charges them both – she coats his axe in deep, cold water.

Blade and weight smash against one another time and time again. Crimson and purple sparks ignite with every impact. William is shocked to find he feels sick. No doubt Majima needs to die. He mourns the loss of the bond between man and spirit that pounds against his axe.

Majima is tiring. The flames evaporate to steam under the relentless assault. He gathers himself for one last attack, eye bright with rage, giving himself over to his spirit. William lifts his axe, oceanic droplets sailing into the light.

Split seconds away from final impact–

“That’s enough!”

Eggs. That’s what the things flying between them look like. Bluish gray eggs that hatch into clouds of blood red smoke as they break on the ground.

Coughing and wheezing, both men recoil away. Majima hasn’t felt more drained in his entire life. He searches his mind for his spirit and finds her as exhausted as he. Good, in a way. Pain equals life. His trachea closing as he inhaled the red smoke is the best news he’s received all day.

He licks his lips. Numb as well, and yet. Oddly familiar. He’s tasted it before. Hemlock and nightshade blended to incapacitate, not kill, in a powdered form…

The smoke clears. Behind it is a man dressed in black, his face obscured. There is no mistaking the spirit that follows him: a white, two-tailed cat.

The bottom of the world falls out from under Majima. “Masanari?”

Hanzo Hattori’s primary concern is William. The samurai wins wars and, more importantly, is his closest friend. Yet the sound of a name gone unspoken for decades drags his attention away from Adams. Pulling his face plate down, for surely he is hallucinating and needs more air – no way. Impossible. “Goro?”

William, aching and finished, groans, “You know each other?”

Nekomata chuckles, looking between Irishman and one-eyed warrior. “Anjin, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what I’ve told you about cycles. When war springs from peace, it drags all manner of things from underground.”

- - -

The building will eventually become an inn, but for now acts as the work crews’ barracks. Majima secured the largest room for himself, and that is where the three men retire after wounds are dressed and drinks procured.

Majima’s spirit unnerves William. She kneels beside her host, hands folded in her lap. Her mask depicts a noblewoman, with blackened teeth and rosy cheeks. She is calm, yet Adams notes her throat twists behind her neck. Her head is turned completely around, the horns of her demon mask peeking through her hair. A two-faced spirit, regardless of her painted smile.

“Hey.” Majima tap-tap-taps his eye patch. “You’re supposed to look at this.”

William grunts and hides his embarrassment in his cup.

“I must admit, I don’t know how to feel,” Hanzo says, “It’s been over thirty years since I saw you last. I thought you were dead.”

Majima huffs a laugh. Withdrawing a pipe from his yukata grants William a glimpse of the tools strapped to his body. Scrolls, kunai, boxes and balls of explosives. “No, still alive and kicking,” he says, “For better or worse.”

“I’m rather lost here,” William interjects, “How do you know each other?” He looks at Goro. “How do you know me?”

The foreman grins, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I’m in the business of keeping my ear to the ground. Been my best interest to do so. Ever since Nobunaga took my eye.”

Adams flinches, shooting Hanzo a worried glance. Majima cackles and slaps his knee. “You should see the look on your face! You’d think the Demon King lived again!”

“He did,” the samurai growls, “He returned from the dead through black magic.”

“You’re dumb as a sack of hammers. I know that. Ear. To. The. Ground. You sent him packin’. Kinda hate you for it too, that you got to kill him instead of me.”

“A long time ago,” Hanzo interrupts, “the Iga Province was its own republic. We were independent of any overlords, and the Iga ninjutsu school was born of the guerilla warfare employed to keep us that way. My father trained many in the style.”

William glares at Majima. “Let me guess.”

Goro deliberately shuts his eye in what can only be a wink. “Guilty as charged. Fourth generation Iga ninja, in the flesh.”

“And a right pain in the arse.”

“Ya flatter me, Anjin-chan!”

“So you were there,” Hanzo asks, “when Nobunaga attacked?”

Majima’s grin sours. Wind dashed from his sails, he takes a deep puff of his pipe while collecting his thoughts. “Yeah, I was. Tried to defend our home. Lost my family, my belongings, and my eye in return.”

Hanzo frowns, leaning forward. “We were little more than children.”

“No one was spared the fire. Men, women, infants – all were subject to Nobunaga’s wrath. I barely escaped with my life. What happened next was…complicated, to say the least.” He peers at his spirit. She returns his gaze. He blows a gray plume and continues, “That’s one thing the peace is good for. I’ve put all that behind me. Haven’t killed anyone in ten years, though if a blue-eyed dunderhead wanders into town–”

“I’m really not someone you want as an enemy,” William sneers.

The spirit puts a hand to her lips and laughs. It’s the sound of diamonds in a bonfire. Shivers travel down the samurai’s spine.

“Have a sense of humor, Anjin-chan,” Majima quips, “That was the best fight I’ve had in a long time. Ya ever wanna go again, just say the word.”

“I could’ve killed you.”

After a moment, the ninja blinks. “And?”

Adams gets to his feet. “I’m done here. The pleasure’s all yours.”

Goro waves him off. “I mean it about a rematch. Don’t make me ambush you, because you will not see it comin’.”

The sliding door slams shut. Majima quirks an eyebrow. “Ya sure do know how to pick ‘em.”

“He’s seen no end of conflict,” Hanzo says, “It weighs heavy on his mind, and you aren’t helping.”

“I’m testing if he’s still sharp. No point in carryin’ around an axe if he can’t use it.”

“We’ll see about that in Osaka. Toyotomi Hideyori has gathered an army in rebellion against Lord Tokugawa. I want you to come with us.”

The pipe freezes halfway to Goro’s incredulous lips. “Eh?”

“Osaka Castle has been fortified with a grand stronghold called Sanada Maru. It is said to be impregnable, with scores of archers and cannons defending the outer walls. A man of your skills will be an invaluable aid.”

Majima falls silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is low and solemn. “I can’t. I’m done working for anyone.” He flicks the ashes out of his pipe. “Besides, I have this town to rebuild. People are waiting on me, Masanari. I can’t bring back Iga, but I can give them a new future.”

Hanzo bows his head. “I respect your decision. Your endeavor is noble, and I have no right to conscript you away from it.” Getting up, he pauses at the door. “I never had the chance to say I admired you, Goro. Father’s training was merciless. Your companionship kept me sane.”

“Yeah, well. Look who’s cozy with the shogun and who’s digging latrines.”

Hanzo cracks a sad smile. “May the gods keep you well, old friend.”

Eight million gods and I haven’t seen a single one, Majima thinks. He nods once. “Gods keep ya well.”

Hattori departs. The remaining ninja refills his pipe, holds it out for his spirit to light. Their eyes meet as she cups the bowl. Returning her hands to her lap, she arches her spine backwards, mask tilted upward. Her flames blaze larger and hotter, licking the ceiling until someone on the roof beyond yelps in pain.

Minami swings in through the window. Clad in the black apparel of a shinobi, he immediately prostrates himself, forehead on the floor. “Boss! How’d you know I was there?”

Majima sighs, eye narrowed. “You can be a shadow at midnight, but if ya have footsteps, you’re not foolin’ anyone.”

The apprentice swallows hard. Only dire consequences can come from this. “And – Hattori?”

“Knew you were there before I did. He’s not the leader of what’s left of Iga for nothing.”

Minami presses his head down harder. “I confess, boss! I heard everything! That you survived the Demon King’s invasion, that you want to fight Sir Anjin again, that you’re not going to Osa–”

“You make me sick.”

The words are expected, though they sting no less. “Forgive me, boss.”

“I look at you and see myself.”

Minami’s face snaps up. “What?”

His apprentice is painfully predictable. Majima rolls his eye. “None of my good qualities, of course. I see a stupid kid who’d sooner kill himself with what he’s learned than use it in any real capacity.” He breathes deep of his pipe, letting Minami squirm. “Life has yet to come at you hard and fast. Now’s your chance to practice your skills or die tryin’.”

Despite the spirit’s presence, Minami is frozen. “You don’t mean–”

Majima turns his gaze to the sky, where the beginnings of sunset pink the horizon. “I’m going to Osaka.”

“But…you said–”

“Anjin-chan is smarter than you. I said I don’t work for anyone. I’m goin’ on my own terms, and one of them is you. Wanna get your hands dirty?”

Minami bangs his head on the floor. “Yes, sir! I won’t disappoint you, sir!”

Goro smirks. Years and years ago, he was a fearsome assassin, known in dark circles as the Flame in the Night. As he imagines holding Toyotomi’s severed head high above Osaka Castle, he feels the spark rekindled.

[rawbiredbest]

It me. U kno 6 or 20 for Djura / your choice

Djura does not take losing an eye well.

Edwin can fix many things, but the mechanisms of the body are beyond him. Shapes and shadows, Djura told him, Black vermin with reaching claws. He’s tried everything. Checking nooks and corners for scurrying fiends, holding a palm over the bloodied bandage, assuring him again and again nothing’s there, nothing’s there.

Pavel seethes at Edwin to be quiet. The Church is hunting for them. For this reason, no torches are lit. No flames drive away the tendrils and spikes.

Djura is often too exhausted to struggle. At those times, Edwin sits with him, cloak enveloping them like a wing, and does what he can to distract him. Djura is unaware of his embrace, of the kisses pressed to sooty skin.

Edwin will bear the pain for them both.

[rawbiredbest]

Gigil + kiryu/nishiki :v

the irresistible urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute and adorable

“It’s not bad,” Kiryu told him, “I got mine done and I’m still standing.”

“Kyoudai, you could brush off getting hit by a train,” Nishiki replied.

The tattoo parlor finds him anyway. He won’t be a proper yakuza without some ink.

There wasn’t much small talk. Nishiki told the artist what he wanted, stripped off his shirt and jacket, laid down on the bench and held as still as possible. The buzz of the needle is the only sound now. Arms folded under his chin, Akira keeps his eyes glued on the violet light gleaming through a crack in the blinds. Kiryu was right -- it doesn’t hurt like a punch or a bat, but the constant deep scratch is distracting.

And then, suddenly, there’s fingers pinching his cheek.

“Oi,” Kiryu mutters, “You awake?”

Akira is glad the bench is padded, because he buries his face in it while giving his kyoudai a hearty double middle finger salute.

[rawbiredbest]

The Lifeline of Tsukuyomi

Hello, and welcome to the first installment of Amrita Memories, a collection of crossover vignettes between the Yakuza (Ryu ga Gotoku) series and the game Nioh, re-imagining your favorite professional criminals as 17th Century samurai, ninjas, and mages, with a dash of demonic invasion and protective spirits.

IN THIS EPISODE: Saejima's found something precious, and could use some assistance.

WARNING: contains graphic, canon-typical depictions of violence, body horror, the supernatural, and war flashbacks. 

Shoutouts to @taiga-saejima for putting up with me brainstorming this universe.

Read here or on AO3!

- - -

“You a magic man?”

Akiyama looks up from the pot of boiling broth. The new arrival almost fills the cave mouth entirely. Only the barest light, already filtered by the gloom of the storm raging outside, squeezes past his bulk. The ring of fur around his neck has long since drowned; rain drips from every channel of his armor plates.

“I prefer the term yamabushi,” Akiyama says, shifting to face the stranger, “But yes, I’ve been known to write the odd spell or two. That what you here for?” He suddenly chuckles, flashing a grin. “Sorry, sorry. I forget myself, it’s become so routine. Please, come in.”

The arrival stoops to fit inside the cave, tracking mud and wet behind him. Something nudges Akiyama’s hand. He looks down. It’s the white twin of his tonfa set. Hana, sitting nearby, pushes it closer. Shun gives her a comforting smile. He’s dealt with oni before.

The newcomer drops to the ground and Akiyama flinches, half-expecting the whole mountain to quake under his weight. By the campfire’s light, he can tell he’s a samurai. Was, at least. His garb is battered and broken in places, stained with the toils of a journey. What could be dirt is more likely blood. The enormous hammer on his back looks like it’s heavier than he is. Shun is glad it either hasn’t been used recently, or has been washed clean from the deluge. He doesn’t like the sight of brains.

“I have soup coming up in a second,” Akiyama says, “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

The stranger hesitates, grappling with his own thoughts. He climbed a mountain for this. Might as well trust the so-called yamabushi. “My name is Saejima Taiga,” he finally says, “I need your help.”

Akiyama glances at Hana. See? his look says, You were scared for nothing.

She shoots him a frown right back. The moment yokai know we’re up here, we're ruined, it replies.

“What kind of help? I have charms for money, luck, clarity of mind. I’ll tell you now, they’re not guaranteed to work. You can’t slap them on your head for an instant fix. You have to want them to work.”

Saejima shakes his head, spilling droplets across the cave. “Nothing like that. You can get crap like that from anybody.”

Akiyama’s eyebrow twitches. “I like to think they’re not cra--”

The samurai lifts his breastplate. Sitting inside, sheltered from the storm, is a spirit. The smallest one Akiyama’s ever seen, it could fit in his palm. Just a fuzzy ball of nigitama -- positive energy.

“How do I care for him?” Saejima asks.

Shun swallows his heart. “Put it back,” he says, nodding when Taiga tucks his armor back into place, “How long have you had it?”

“A day. Bad things were picking on him. That wasn’t right, so I stopped them.”

The yamabushi glances at the hammer.

“Couldn’t leave him behind,” Saejima continues, “He’s so little, you know? So I picked him up. Put him somewhere safe. Heard rumors you could help, so I came here. Can you?”

Akiyama touches his chest. “Did you know to put it there?”

“No. Seemed like a good idea.”

Shun thinks for a moment. Extracting three cups, he ladles soup into each. “Tell you what. Let’s sleep on this. I’ll have a better idea what to do in the morning.” He gives a cup to Hana and offers one to Saejima.

The samurai takes it, looks at the contents. Pieces of rabbit, plant roots, a few vegetables. He can’t be picky. Few people are willing to lend even wilted greens to a wandering disgrace.

“Cheers,” Akiyama exclaims. Everyone drinks. He spoons seconds and thirds for Taiga before he subjects himself to the shame of asking for more.

- - -

Hours later, when the storm has calmed and Saejima is twitching on a bed of straw, Akiyama goes to work. He feels a tad wretched for drugging his pilgrims, but how else can he judge them at their most sincere?

Tasogare bumps his fingers. Shun interprets it as comfort instead of the common sleepy wobble the baku calls a gait. He strokes down the pillars of stardust along its spine and feels the simultaneous sensation in the back of his mind. Touching his spirit is like putting his hand to a mirror and sinking into it like the surface of a pond. Touching himself and, at the same time, not.

Tasogare knows the drill. Despite the glow from its fur that paints the cave walls in shades of galactic violet, Saejima doesn’t stir as it approaches. It sniffs his skin, ox tail sashaying, and places the end of its trunk over his ear, mindful of its tusks.

Akiyama watches a bulge travel up its length. When Tasogare has collected enough, it slips its trunk into its mouth and swallows deeply. When it reaches for more, Shun kneels, extracting three talismans from inside his joi.

The first is for divination, for the wisdom and empathy. The second is for healing, for apologizing for what he has to do. The third is for protection, for a suit of armor around his mind. Just in case. They are far more potent than anything he gives his visitors, and he feels their effects the instant he casts them on himself. He is within and above his consciousness, watching it expand and drop roots, the cave and the mountain beyond coming into hyper-focus. 

“Ready when you are,” he murmurs.

Tasogare turns to its host. Not a hint of a sway in its step this time. This is their duty, solemn and sacred. Akiyama gives the spirit’s paws a gentle squeeze. I’ll be fine.

The eye on the baku’s forehead opens and the cave is obliterated with consuming light.

- - -

It’s a battlefield. Akiyama has seen them before. A musket round sails past his face slow enough for him to spot the gases it trails from exploding gunpowder. He lets it pass, and wanders on.

Dreams are always slippery. A combination of his self-protective onmyo magic and the simple fact that the dream isn’t his makes them liquid and loose. This one is made worse from the smoke in the air, belched from cannons and untamed fires. Deep gouges made from stomping hoof and sprinting boot rake the earth into ash-topped waves. Men hide behind barricades, peeking out to raise their rifles. The bodies -- piles of corpses everywhere, thrown together to make way for soldiers soon to join the ranks of the dead.

Movement ahead. It’s Saejima.

He is fury incarnate. Swarmed by infantry, he pays no heed to the swords and spears clanging off his armor. Men fly with each swing of his hammer -- ribs crushed, limbs smashed, blood spilled. A soldier rushes in with his blade. Taiga knocks it up and brings the hammer down on his head. Red mud conceals the worst of the pulped skull.

Eighteen. Eighteen men destroyed for the sake of Lord Sakon, who doesn’t know he exists.

Saejima is on number nineteen when it happens, almost too fast for Akiyama to see. It comes from behind the yamabushi, the sound of flesh splitting open giving it away. He turns to face it. There’s no mistaking what it is. A snake the color of gore, tearing through the smog, whipping from one haggard soldier to another, bashing through their chests with jaws wide open, no hesitation, no remorse.

A spirit.

Akiyama raises his arms, braces himself, staring as the serpent barrels down on him with rows of fangs and a ravenous maw--

It blasts past him.

Shame flares hot in Shun’s chest. A novice mistake. This isn’t his dream. He isn’t here.

But Saejima--

The snake makes a lightning-fast revolution around Taiga, plowing through the men surrounding him, and it is out of sight, slashing over the battlefield for more prey. Ankle deep in the dead, Saejima tries to take hold of his thundering heart. He looks toward Sakon’s camp, toward some sign of order.

The ground jolts beneath their feet as huge crystalline spikes erupt from the earth. Akiyama stumbles to a knee and dirt grits against his palm. His breath catches in his throat --  if he can feel the dream, the protection talisman has worn off.

The sky turns crimson. From a crevasse in the earth the demon rises, bones from countless dead creeping together to form its six arms, its whip-like tail. Amrita lies caged in its chest and embedded in its skull. Two-thousand feet tall, born from hatred and magic blacker than midnight, the gasha-dokuro roars its rage.

Saejima flees.

Akiyama, shocked to his core, almost doesn’t notice. He turns and Saejima is gone. The pile of bodies shifts. It’s victim nineteen. Miasma pours from the ground, seeping into the gaping wound the snake spirit left in his chest. He looks at his fallen comrades even as aratama consumes him, swallowing his humanity in a thick case of orange hide, bristling horns, and jagged fangs. The newborn yokai bellows and lifts its blade.

Akiyama runs.

All around him, monsters are arriving. Soldiers rise to their feet, flesh sloughing off in thick, gray sheets until they are no more than skeletal wraiths. A one-eyed giant wrenches itself through a swirl of darkness. From the corner of his eye, Shun spots a heap of deceased mold themselves into an oni larger than a house. He tries to ignore the fire in his lungs. This isn’t really happening. He isn’t here.

Saejima--

He almost passes him. Taiga hasn’t found shelter -- the charred wood of a fallen tree is no barrier against devils. Still, he hides behind it as well as he can, curled into a ball. Akiyama kneels, reaching for him while around them the twilight of humankind looms.

Cannons blast from the Tokugawa camp. Saejima clasps his ears as four shots fly overhead. Three miss their target. The gasha-dokuro bats the fourth one out of the air. The round explodes uselessly against its hand. Shrieking, the demon counterattacks, spitting a volley of ghostly energy. Saejima bolts, scrambling as the air itself seems to harden around his feet.

Akiyama’s talismans splinter like twigs. He has no idea what will happen -- if the nightmare is so potent it will chew him up, if the underworld will rot him from the inside out. He bares his teeth, hands balling into fists. So be it, he thinks, If I die, I die helping my fellow man.

Golden eyes open as the the gasha-dokuro’s attack rains around him -- Tasogare’s eyes--

He’s in a forest. A dirt road. A decaying sign, nearly impossible to read in the mist that clings to his clothes and drips from the trees, points the way to the nearest towns.The only sound is wind through the leaves. It smells pungent with new, fresh growth.

Ten years have passed.

Shun breathes deep, reaching out with his mind for Tasogare’s presence. Cut it a bit closer next time, won’t you? he thinks. The baku stays hidden, but he feels it turn. He follows its gaze.

Saejima, walking through the undergrowth. Armor beaten and bashed, black hair slipping out from beneath his kabuto, the old soldier moves without destination, hammer leaving a furrow in the dirt as he drags it behind him. Anything to stay away from the aratama hounding him. Wriggling legs and a core of yellow energy propel them through the air. There are eighteen in total. One scurries ahead of Taiga, brushes against his cheek. Flinching with disgust, he slaps it away, and it joins the rest of the pack.

Lord Mitsunari is dead. Lord Sakon has vanished. Saejima is a ronin.

Akiyama follows him.

Emboldened, the aratama stage another offense. Weaving under and around each other, they nip at Taiga’s ankles, his fingers -- digging into gaps in iron plate and sinking needle teeth into his skin. “Enough,” he grunts, “Leave me be.”

We will never have enough, one of them whispers.

We had wives, another murmurs, We had children.

We became monsters, they say, So monsters we become.

Jaws find a tendon. Saejima chokes on a cry, crashing to the ground.

He imagines he will lie here forever. Perish and sink into the earth. He knows he is bound for the depths of the Sanzu River, for the cold waters to trap him for eternity. He deserves his fate, and so he stills, face in the mud, and waits.

Something growls.

Saejima knows he’s going to die, but he isn’t interested in being eaten alive. He lifts his head and sees a small shrine carved into a tree.

Within shines the prettiest light he’s ever seen.

A group of foxes circle the tree. The once holy creatures are shot through with amrita. The stones jut from their bodies like tumors. Their muzzles are coated in dry blood. Two of them are small, but the third is huge, easily the size of a bear. They snap their fangs and pant and whine, purple tongues swollen and hungry.

He reaches for his hammer. An aratama breaks a tooth through his fingernail.

Cringing, Saejima staggers to his feet. He’s already cursed. Nothing can worsen his situation. “Hey!”

The foxes turn toward him, hackles raised.

The ronin holds his hammer. “Pick on someone your own size!”

It’s over shockingly fast. Something activates in Saejima, a conduit wide open between his weapon and his soul, so blinding in its brutality that the foxes are defenseless. One catches a hammer to the back, spine broken backwards. Another is smashed upside the jaw, sending it crashing into a log. The third, the largest, spits an orb of foxfire.

Saejima reaches through it, oblivious to the heat splashing against his chest, grabs the fox’s throat, and slams the steel-hard horns of his kabuto onto its head, caving in its skull.

The corpses dissolve into shards of amrita and noxious gas.

Taiga slings the hammer onto his back. The little light in the shrine is unharmed. It’s truly beautiful, a pearlescent egg of a substance he can’t identify. Otherworldly and terrified.

“Sorry you had to see that,” he mutters, “That’s how it is.”

Realization hits him like a rock slide. He hasn’t felt this good in a decade. Even the blood dripping from his ruined nail isn’t painful. He looks over his shoulder. The eighteen aratama are staying away. Milling around each other in restless channels, and keeping their distance.

The light. They hate the light.

Saejima makes a decision before it even occurs to him to do so.

“Um,” he starts, unsure how exactly to speak to, quite frankly, the supernatural, “Listen. It ain’t safe here. You got lucky this time, but I have to keep moving. You want to come with me? If not, uh, smite me. Or something.”

He scoops the light into his palms. No bolts of lightning, no chasms opening beneath his feet. It weighs nothing and everything simultaneously. He slips it under his breastplate beside his heart.

If there’s a shrine out here, he thinks, there must be a village nearby. Somewhere to beg for a meal and pray no one recognizes an old enemy. He finds the dirt road, aratama trailing behind him.

“You have a name?”

No response.

“That’s fine. I don’t talk much either.”

Akiyama watches the reincarnated soldier until he fades into the murk of the dream. The forest comes undone. Trees and grass and ground meld into a hazy slime. Tasogare wraps its trunk around his hand, and as its third eye shuts, Shun knows what he has to do.

- - -

By morning, the rain has stopped. Saejima awakens to sunlight and clean air. He sits up and yawns, stretches his legs. Hana sits nearby, boiling water for tea.

“Mornin’,” he says. A hint of a smile twitches his lip. “Maybe there’s something to being a weird recluse. I haven’t slept that well in years.”

He turns deeper into the cave. Akiyama leans against a wall. The yamabushi’s face is pale, his eyes hang with shadows, and his clothes are covered in dust. His fingers are red and sore.

Taiga scowls. “What’s wrong with him? Get into some bad mushrooms?”

Hana purses her lips. “No, not this time. Must’ve been something he ate.”

The ronin stares at her, a hand touching his chest. Reacting to his heartbeat, the spirit pulses against his plate. “So now what? I came up here for noth--”

Akiyama startles awake with a cry. Hana nearly topples over. Saejima grabs for his hammer. They left it within my reach last night, it occurs to him.

Shun rubs his eyes, groaning. “Sorry, sorry. I...didn’t get much rest last night. Wanted to catch you before you left though.” He shifts to his knees, reaches into his joi.

The magatama is sunset orange. Though in the proper teardrop shape, its edges are rough and sharp. Freshly chiseled. There is a leather string through its hole.

“You don’t need my help,” Akiyama says, offering the charm with both hands, “You’re doing just fine. This is my gift to you. It’s a ward against evil, an enduring shield, and fuel for growth.” He bows his head. “And it will work, whether you believe me or not. Always. You have my word.”

Saejima hesitates. A purple thing sits behind Akiyama. Although it’s almost too sleepy to stand, tilting on its striped paws, the gleam in its eyes, open just a crack, is knowing. Taiga knows it’s a baku. And it’s been in his head.

He could kill them. They know who he is. If they squeal to Tokugawa’s forces, he’s as good as dead. He could kill them and throw the bodies to the crows and keep the cave as his lair.

Tiny mouths gnaw at his flesh.

He takes the magatama and slips it around his neck. It might be his imagination, but did the spirit kick against his chest? “Thanks.”

Shun looks up and smiles. “Don’t mention it. If you need anything else, you can always ask.”

“Yeah. How do I get out of here?”

The yamabushi explains. Turn right at that rock, make due west at that bush, mind the sheer cliffs and loose gravel. When he’s confident Saejima can make it off the mountain, he bows until the ronin leaves.

Then collapses face first to the ground.

A tug on his shoulder helps him sit up. “Nightmare?” Hana asks.

Akiyama sighs, pinching his brow. “The worst I’ve ever seen.” He stares at the ceiling. “I saw Sekigahara, Hana. The rumors are true. For a brief time, the yokai realm conquered ours. What does this mean about our shogunate? They’ve covered it up for years.”

“Is that a bad thing? Most people think yokai are just superstition.”

Until they turn up at their front door, he thinks. After a moment, he says, “Hana, would you hate me if I became a member of polite society again? Just for a while?”

Hana smiles, petting Tasogare’s trunk. The spirit leans into her touch. Akiyama feels it too, both as a comforting hand on his cheek, and a kind push to follow his dreams. “Only if you forget to bring me back a souvenir.”

[rawbiredbest]

@hotmilky / @bangage puts up with my niohposts and helps me make dumb gifsets so here, my friend, this is what you get for enabling me

- - -

William wakes up naked as the day he was born, cold, and in the presence of a drunken god.

“You terrible fool.”

Sober god. Which is not a great improvement.

William sits up, despite the moaning protests his shoulders make. His bed is a piece of burlap, his chambers are a circle of bushes, and his hearth is a meager pile of brush. “Okatsu--”

“Is fine,” Lautrec says. Toulouse sits a few feet away. Sparks glint as he runs a whetstone over his twin blades. Stolen, no doubt. “Scampered away like a little bunny. You, however, drowned. Fool.”

That would explain the emptiness Adams feels, his head as hollow as a chestnut shell. The muzzle that would greet his palm is at the bottom of Edo Bay. He pinches his brow, digs the heel of his hand into his eyes. This waterlogged, newborn feeling is a sorrow he hoped he would never experience again. William looks for a handhold in the flood.

He sees the salamander draped across Lautrec’s shoulders. It’s blue as sapphires and coated with spots of gold from its spade-shaped head to its broad tail. A whirlpool churns in its throat, and William tumbles into it helplessly.

He sees a farmstead thousands of miles away. A man, a boy. The boy holds a sword.

Lautrec speaks to him.

My fate has never been my own. I was ever guided by another’s hand.

The boy brings the sword down through a straw dummy. It splits in half, spraying filaments. The man looks on, unimpressed.

Father was a knight, as was his father before him. I was to murder and pillage for the good of France, for powers in the clouds.

No longer a boy, a young man kneels before a bishop. He tenderly kisses the rings on his hand. One jewel, a ruby, is the same color as the streets of Paris, August 23, 1572. Hundreds are dead, more are being chased from their homes and slaughtered. Fire rages on rooftops. The young man splashes through pools of blood, away from the killing.

Nothing good came of that night. The plot was foiled. The king made a verdict. And Hell came to Earth.

He gallops away on horseback from the burning city. A woman clings behind him. They find shelter in a small cottage in the woods. For a few days they stay. Supplies grow short, and the young man sneaks back into Paris.

It was not to be this way. There was never supposed to be war. But tension was high, resources were few, and all we could do was dance in our limp strings.

He is scrounging for some meager scraps of food when he is found. A mob of victims, relatives of the massacred. Their bodies gleam with the unmistakable shine of pure, powerful amrita. The young man draws his blades, but they are many. He is overwhelmed, stabbed, pinned to the ground as boots come down on his sides. Through the blows, he longs for his wife. Wishes he could see her face one more time.

Blood was shed for God. But it was a goddess that answered my prayers.

The explosion takes out the entire city block. The young man lies in the remaining crater. A glowing woman with a serpent’s tail helps him stagger to his feet.

I should have known it was no blessing. My miracle was seen by the Church as witchcraft. I would be hunted like a dog. I could not involve Ana in that. Not when it happened, and not when my goddess burned with jealousy, demanding tribute in her name. So I fled, alone, stripped of my humanity. Hollow.

He takes work where he can find it. Assassinations and mercenary ploys quickly suck away his youth. He wanders across France, Germany, and Belgium before crossing into England. It is there he embarks on a ship called the Hoop. The expedition departs in June, 1598.

One of his fellow sailors has golden hair, a piercing gaze, and a feather close to his heart.

The salamander lets William go. Adams catches his breath, touches the new spirit-shape in his mind.

Its name is Osanshouo, the long-lived.

Lautrec slides the end of a sword beneath William’s chin, tips it up. Despite the samurai’s disheveled appearance -- his beard is unkempt, his cheeks are streaked with dirt, his hair is long and shot with gray -- there is fresh life in his eyes. “Why,” Toulouse asks, “does fate smile upon you, yet treat me like manure? You too have loved and lost, and what have you found? Silver, steel, and the company of a man who would see himself emperor. I survived the storm only to become neck-deep in demons.”

Despite the blade’s position, William scowls. “You’re mad if you believe I had a say in your situation. Perhaps we’re both passengers on this voyage, but at least I do something about it!”

Lautrec nicks Adams as he puts the blade away. Wincing, William clamps his knuckles over the wound as it seeps into his hair.

“I have no choice but to do so myself,” Toulouse says. Petting Osanshouo under the chin, he continues, “The spikes that plague the castle required fuel, and none burn brighter than my Fina. The man you pursue -- Kelley -- he--” He hesitates, anger choking him. “He has her. So yet again our paths converge, Adams. It will not be a pleasure working with you.”

Glaring, William stands, holding the burlap over himself. “You cannot even try to work with someone, can you?”

“I can.” Lautrec gets to his feet. “On two conditions. One--” From a belt at his waist he plucks a brown bottle.

William stares at it. Of all the things to recover from the bay -- his weapons, his tools, Naomasa’s armor (Ii’s wrath is a problem he doesn’t want to think about) -- Toulouse saved his sake.

The Frenchman uncorks it, takes a quick sip. “This is mine. And two--”

The palm on Adams’s behind makes him jump. Burlap hits the ground.

Lautrec cracks a deadly smirk. “So is your ass.”

[rawbiredbest]

doctor doom, and something that ruins his good day. or he has a bad day, and something/someone makes it better.

Things do not follow the king back from Hell very often. Things do not thrive on Earth for long without his detection and eradication very often either. But when the moon gleams crystalline blue and different matters weigh heavy on his back, things find cracks in the pavement, put down roots, and metastasize.

Which is why every street in Doomstadt has been gutted, state-of-the-art sewers exposed to the sun. Crews of workmen twenty strong cleanse the pipes with flamethrowers.

It isn’t very often pest infestations eat children whole and regurgitate partially-digested limbs on the royal doorstep to taunt him either. But…

From a rampart of the castle, Victor von Doom watches tiny jets of fire sweep through the city. He has hand-picked the men and women for the task, and trusts they will complete their duty to his utmost satisfaction. They believe they are exterminating self-replicating nanobots planted by SHIELD agents. Maybe a few of the brighter sparks have wondered why they would spy on the sewers, but they know better than to question their leader. Why should they? He is paying them handsomely for their work. He is protecting them.

It is his fault they are down there in the first place.

Doom retires to his quarters. He does not want to observe anymore.

The demon comes to him instead.

He hears scuttling in his bathroom. Treading across the marble floor, he stares as it crawls out of the sink drain. Its body is gelatinous and black as night, and freed from the tight squeeze of the pipe, it’s about the size of a baseball. Eight legs uncurl and start to clamber out of the basin when it looks behind itself with its single purple eye.

Victor looms over it, his mask a vicious snarl. The egg that somehow missed spell sweeps and nitrogen flames to hatch this monstrous infant has landed in the worst place possible. And the demon knows it. In the back of the king’s mind, a tinny voice squeaks:

s  p ar   e m e.

Doom smells wildflowers. Thyme, yarrow, bindweed and bedstraw. Meadows of blue, white, yellow and pink, grass tossed in a summer wind. Mountain ranges eternally topped with snow, worshiping the sun. A circle of carts and wagons, goats chewing cud, someone’s laundry on a rope, hanging to dry.

A much simpler, peaceful time, offered up on an onyx platter.

Victor extends his palm. The demon cautiously creeps into his hand. It flexes its fangs. It does not notice his fingers closing until it is too late, and though it struggles to escape, soon it is nothing more than fistful of grape jelly leaking over metal alloys.

It screams when it dies. Doom feels it more than hears. The sound goes for his eye, falls short, scratches like a paper cut against his cheek. Defiant to the very end.

The king channels power to his gauntlet. Eldritch slime sizzles into a rotten egg and licorice steam.

There is far more work to do, yet Doom smiles. If the hellish spawn’s final cry could penetrate his defenses, perhaps Mephisto heard as well.

- - -

@sacredkarcram @doktorvondoom @bangage

[rawbiredbest]

I was browsing @sacredkarcram‘s blog instead of working today and this post caught my eye and so here you go

@doktorvondoom this is probably relevant to your interests as well

- - -

Sensors capture the creak of the royal bedchamber fourteen minutes past one in the morning. Six-year-old footsteps patter across the plum red carpet. Small hands and knobby knees scuttle between the heavy curtains of the four-poster.

“Father,” comes a whisper even the hidden microphones cannot detect, “I must borrow your cloak.”

The king, lying on his side, finally sighs in his slumber, releasing a long, exhausted breath. A hand rises slightly, waves his assent.

It is only after the heir has left does the monarch realize the muted pounding against the stained glass window is rain. Groaning, he sits up, rubs his eyes. Damn it all, it is too early for mischief. A sense of duty drives him to grab his fox fur robe and follow the child.

It would not suit Doom for the boy to somehow drown.

There’s no trouble finding him. Though the castle courtyard was often shielded -- not only against attack, but for climate control -- the falling drops this night went unimpeded. A lone shrub sits in the midst of the lawn, a lumpy outcast from the rose bushes and willows. Ten pink roots wriggle in the grass.

Victor gives Kristoff some credit. Though the cloak swamped him, he had kept it from the mud.

A cold wind whistles over the ramparts, and the rain falls harder. Unwilling to raise his voice over the weather -- it was not yet two, and there were proclamations to make tomorrow, as well as the chance of lurking enemies in sore need of some intimidation -- Doom steels himself. If Kristoff doesn’t have a very good reason for ruining a pair of thousand-dollar nightclothes, the dawn will bring a valuable lesson in chores.

The king steps out of stone cover and grimaces at the unpleasant shock of chill rain, wilting animal pelt, moisture seeping through the soft material of his night mask and suckling at his face. Oh yes, there will be chores. Nothing too strenuous, but certainly a reminder about waste, both physical and temporal. Lock him in a tower, make him copy esoteric occult texts, force him to watch his efforts burn--

Hearing a squelching stride behind him, Kristoff turns, cloak gathered in his arms, and smiles up at Doom. “Good evening, father,” he says, “I’m glad you are here. I find the rain peaceful. Do you?”

Victor stares down at the heir. And all thoughts of punishment leave him.

Memory, he finds, is a brutal sucker punch. This boy, barefoot in the muck, finding simple pleasure in nature’s motions, his future surrounding him like a cloak... He has made the right choice. Kristoff is the only one who could ever replace him.

Doom picks him up, allowing forest green cloth to puddle against the grass -- it can be washed later -- holds his son close, and looks up at the dark sky.

“I do,” he replies.

[blizzardrush]

( I don’t really do munday things but a lil bout me:

I’m Rawbi, I’m 30, I work full time at a zoo summer camp teaching kids about animals (a gig that ends in about four weeks and then uh oh no job :^) ), I’ve written several fighting game muses before sergei and I picked him up as a muse to try writing a character who rarely talks )

[blizzardrush]

Get To Know The Mun!

REPOST DON’T REBLOG

———  BASICS! ♡

(PEN)NAME: Rawbi

PRONOUNS: she/her/hers

ZODIAC SIGN:  scorpio

TAKEN OR SINGLE: video games

———  THREE  FACTS! ♡

I’ve worked in AZA-accredited zoos around the US as both husbandry and education, conservation is a big deal to me so expect Animals™ in my writing a lot

some of my favorite musicians are Genesis, Thomas Dolby, and David Bowie

I love Path of Exile but the fanbase for it here on Tumblr is next to nonexistent, press F to pay respects

———  EXPERIENCE! ♡

I’ve been writing stories since I was like 13?? totally amateur stuff so far but I won $100 from a horror contest once :y

———  MUSE  PREFERENCE! ♡

I tend to pick up muses that have enough characterization to go off of but are lacking in the backstory department. I like to fill in the blanks.

———  FLUFF / ANGST / SMUT! ♡    

FLUFF: in moderation.

ANGST: angst for angst’s sake is.......eh. I’ll make drabbles for it and such but build-up is better.

SMUT: probably not. I’ve written hawt prawnz before and I don’t think I’m very good at it :v If sex ever comes up in threads, I prefer a “fade to black” and continuing post-coitus.

PLOT / MEMES: hell yeah plot with me. tekken has a pretty vibrant world for a fighting game series, with things like ancient devils, sapient bears, and mega-corps flying around, and one russian mute who isn’t getting paid enough in the middle of it.

tagged by: @floralcetra

tagging: by the nine, he hit the dab