#ship: merciful obsidian

[the-unending-journey]

Ship asks: 14.: Who does fashion shows after a trip to the mall, and who watches and compliments them? (entire roster as applicable)

Oh God okay (also sorry it's taken me so long to respond, I passed out last night and today has been A Day(tm))

Honestly, with the majority of Kiyo's ships, it's probably her that does the whole fashion show bit while her partner compliments her. Though, she's extremely hesitant and needs encouragement to do so because of her terrible self-esteem. Leofard and Haurchefant especially so in this regard. Though, Kiyo also tries the same on the flip side and it usually ends up like

Leofard and Haurchefant: absolutely all for showing off and making her smile

Aymeric and Oboro: not as gung-ho about it as the other two, but they don't mind and are really appreciative of her. Especially in Oboro's case when she helps him get more acquainted with Eorzean fashion

Ardbert and Sidurgu: very reluctant, though Ardbert is more compliant to play along. Sid? Noooot so much and it takes a lot of prodding from Kiyo to get him to do it and he's not even really into it lol He thinks it's silly, why are we doing this? Can we be done now? (though he does love seeing her happy)

Erichthonios (though I guess in this case it would be Claudien): he's a little awkward about it, but he plays along and he's honestly pretty appreciative of Kiyo's fashion sense

With Panacea and Hythlodaeus they both show their clothes off to each other and have a great time

[depraveddame]

Ineffable Kinktober, Day 3: Authority ⚓️✨

Very loosely inspired by The Terror 💫

CW: Captain/steward relationship, D/s, boot worship, oral sex, come swallowing, mention of/referenced consensual flogging, wax play and human furniture

*

The polished glide of leather under his tongue is a more generous provision than Crowley ever might have allowed himself to hope for, and his captain’s tender, murmuring praise is another impossible gift entirely.

“Such a meticulous and fastidious mouth you have, Crowley,” Captain Aziraphale Fell whispers so affectionately that Crowley has to close his eyes, needing to scrawl that exact adoring tone into the walls of his heart along with the rest of the entries inspired by the man he serves with all of its beating strength.

There had been nothing particularly moving in regards to being a steward until Crowley came into the service of Captain Fell, who had greeted him with a smile and a handshake, the haughty countenance commonly adhered to great men nowhere to be found on his person. He’s since come to know that Captain Fell is indeed a great man, one that makes Crowley feel like he’s a precious thing, more treasured than any rare cargo or that insidious temptress known as glory, the one that seduces droves of men into her false promise.

Crowley has always had a talent for serving, and it had never been acknowledged as much more than a job he’s meant to do, but that changed as the steward of Captain Fell, who expressed such unfettered delight in him that Crowley could scarcely withhold himself from begging to drop to his knees in his presence.

Luckily for him, he didn’t have to resort to pleading, and now he’s exactly where he longs to be; on his knees, the planks of the ship cutting into them sweetly as he cleans his captain’s boots, which he keeps spotless anyway, but that he aches to burnish with his tongue nonetheless.

It’s a merciful largesse, as are the many excess acts of service Captain Fell grants Crowley along with his typical duties— to function as his footstool at the end of a tiring day, to splay across his lap, his naked back a writing desk or a stand for whatever book Fell buries himself in, offering a bare wrist to test the viscosity of the scalding wax used to seal letters, the pinkened skin they leave behind kissed and soothed by a comforting tongue that journeys upward to leave behind its own signature on territory easily concealed by a high collar.

Crowley shivers as a draft catches him, wearing naught but a long linen shirt, exposed feet and legs bearing most of the chill as he gazes up into eyes more fair than a clear autumn morning, the cold not registering beyond the haze of warmth surrounding him as he dutifully favors the obsidian leather encasing the feet he worships.

“You’re cold, dear boy,” Captain Fell extends a hand down to thread his fingers through Crowley’s hair, massaging his scalp and delicately scratching, causing Crowley to swallow his possibly impertinent protest of ‘no sir, not at all; I’m on fire, as I always am at your feet’, “and I cannot in good conscience abide such a thing.”

The hand in his hair retreats only to offer itself to him, palm up, a gentlemanly invitation Crowley takes with a trembling hand, getting to his feet and standing before Fell, who leans forward, pressing his cheek to Crowley’s stomach and slipping his fingers beneath the thin garment ending at his thighs, palming at his hips and lower back with gently insistent desire.

“S-sir,” Crowley breathes when Captain Fell nuzzles against his erection; he’s been hard since he’d begun his endeavor, his body responding to the position of being on its knees and his tongue servicing as it’s meant to do, “let me— please, allow me to—”

He’s trying to beg for the privilege to take Fell in his mouth, to implore him not to bother with Crowley’s pleasure, it’s not important and it’s beneath his dignity to even consider such a thing despite how divine it would feel, but he’s cut off by a warm palm taking him in hand, by a practiced thumb spreading the welling evidence of his desire over the length of his cock before fully stroking him from root to head, and Crowley shoves a fist in his mouth to stifle his nearly pained moan.

“I know you’d not deny your captain, hm?” Fell whispers as his hand easily slips and slides over Crowley’s cock, working him exactly as he likes, with just the right amount of pressure and a twist towards the head that has him whimpering helplessly into his hand, “you’ll permit me to savor my steward just as I like, I daresay.”

Crowley nods, hesitantly rocking his hips in pursuit of the friction of the hand pumping him that Fell briefly withdraws in order to lavish with his tongue, wetting it in a gesture that has Crowley fearing he may faint before it returns to its previous, gloriously expert rhythm.

“It ought to be a sin, assigning someone so beguiling and beautifully obedient to a selfish man such as me,” Fell looks up at Crowley before licking the head of his cock languidly, luxuriously lapping at the slit and making it impossible to breathe; Crowley reaches out to brace himself against a wool clad shoulder, gripping the fabric and trying to mumble out an automatic apology for doing so until his captain nods, murmuring, “yes, my darling, that’s it; lean on me,” he returns to sucking Crowley with a passion that’s dizzying, as if he’s relishing in a delicacy he’s not had in years, and it still feels wrong, being the one to receive such ardent attentions instead of giving them, but Fell is right— who is Crowley to deny his captain?

“Sir, I-I’m—” Crowley does as he’s told and sinks his weight into Fell, whose legs are spread and bracketing Crowley’s bare ones, protectively framing his shaking form; the hand not playing with his cock kneads all over Crowley’s lower body, and when its fingers trace over the healing, sensitive welts adorning his upper thighs that he’d pleaded his captain to bestow on him— the ones that when given made him come all over the cabin floor untouched— that’s when he loses the weakening control over himself.

“Please,” Crowley scrambles to grab Fell’s other shoulder, his fingernails digging into the navy wool so harshly it hurts, his jaw smarting with the effort to keep quiet, his voice quivering, “m-may I, sir, p-please, may I come—”

Fell nods before pulling back just enough to murmur, “come, my sweet siren,” his one hand not diverting from its course over his cock, wet and slick and lovely, his other still teasing along the tender wheals of what was a skillfully administered, devastatingly loving flogging, “grant me the pleasure of having you, just like this,” he takes Crowley back inside his mouth, the suction and glide of his tongue shattering the last of Crowley’s resolve, who returns a fist to his mouth, hoping it muffles his cry enough as he comes. He spills into his captain’s mouth and throat, collapsing against him in a boneless heap, pulled into his arms like a tide pulling the sea back into its heart once it wanders too far, just as his captain always draws Crowley into his strong, steady embrace.

@quefish77

[prettyboykatsuki]

Lately, Al-Haitham cannot tell the sky from the sea.

Sumeru is a land of jungles and dessert alike - but there is no ocean except for on the coastal line. A place Haitham has never been and never plans on going.

The quickest way to travel to Mondstat is to travel across the sea. You could go by land - but it would take you five days and five nights before you made it half way. With a ship, you can make it there in three days. If the Anemo Archon is merciful, the wind will guide you in two.

Sumeru does indeed have a sky. It's a vast one, clear of stain. You can see every single star in it from the highest point of the city. Specks of bright light glittering against obsidian, it's quite something.

Al-Haitham is familiar with the sky. He's bore witness to it more times than he can count, propped against the edge of his desk - deep into research and searching for some indomitable truth. Haitham learns to quell the curiosity that lurks in his stomach. It's easiest to describe it like a hunger pain. Dull yet gnawing.

Despite his demeanor, Al-Haitham is not dispassionate. He speaks clearly and concisely, and values reason over emotion. Progress over virtue. Al-Haitham had never been a very virtuous man and his research had never existed for that sake.

High on the list of things of traits he values within himself is his ability to be reasonable. To be pragmatic in the face of uncertainty.

Haitham can't find it in himself to be pragmatic in the face of this uncertainty. And the indomitable truth for now is that his heart is laying in the palms of your hands.

You hail from Mondstat, but your mother and father were from Sumeru. You visited on and off, and then settled in Sumeru after some years of traveling. An adventurer, you call yourself. The type that feeble academics hardly associate with.

You crossed paths because of a friend. At first, he didn't feel particularly bothered by your presence. He figured you were type to think with your heart not your head.

But eventually your presence stuck. Tangled in his fingers like a web. You always inquired about his research when you dropped in unattended. Opened his eyes to the vast world, stars littered in your gaze as you spoke of the unknown lands far from home.

Al-Haitham has never been especially compelled by life stories, but in the evenings - he would listen to yours and feel his eyelids get heavy with sleep.

Lately, there's not enough noise to drown all the silence out and he finds he can't rest without it.

There's many things that Haitham can longer seem to do without you. Without you around, the deep dark of the Sumeru sky fills with him a sense of longing for the ocean. When the wind catches and he smells salt, he wonders when you'll invade his quarters again. What you'll wear this time - a flower or a necktie or something else ornate.

Love is unreasonable. Knowing it is different it from feeling it.

Al-Haitham knows he's being unreasonable by wishing to possesses you. He knows that his yearning and subsequent frustration are all unreasonable without a sliver of doubt.

He knows deeply that in this moment, there's real danger in watching the curve of your neck as you lean your head back. Tracing the silhouette of your shoulders as you stretch on the bed in his room.

"Haitham," You hum, voice coarse like salt-water and sweet like morning breeze "Your bed smells like you."

"I sleep in it," He replies, deadpan. Instead of angering you laugh, soft like how bubbles pop. A smile cracks his face before he can hold i back.

"You should show me. How you sleep in your bed, I mean."

"Are you asking to bed me in such a crude fashion? Even for you-"

"You're so stiff. I don't mean it like that, Haitham. I want to hold you for a bit."

"Isn't it the other way around?"

"I know you're a scholar but stop worrying about semantics and hurry here already."

If anyone else would impose upon his life and his research so openly, he's certain he'd condemn them. Instead, Haitham shuts his book closed and collapses in his bed above you. He rests his palm on his cheek as he turns to lay on his side and feels satisfaction when you learn forward to meet his lips.

Al-Haitham cannot tell the difference between the sky and the sea. He can't remember where he stops and you begin.

[invisibleraven]

21 Wildcard Dealer's Choice!

Julie looked through her spyglass, grinning as she saw nothing but clear blue water. Most sailors would despair at such a sight, but to her it meant only freedom. Out here on the water she could be a fierce pirate, and not some grand lady. Here she could fight and swear, and wear pants instead of being demure, silent, and being sewn into a corset.

"We should head towards shore," Flynn stated. "There's a storm coming, I feel it in my bones."

"You worry too much," Julie scoffed, but another look through her spyglass confirmed Flynn's suspicions-there were dark clouds in the distance and the waters were growing more choppy by the second. "Give the order-we're not too far off Nassau, we might be able to outrun it."

However, luck was not on their side, as rain began to pour down, the winds becoming violent, and the waves pitched the ship to and fro. Julie tried to command her crew as they scrambled to secure the rigging and batten down the hatches, but there was fear in her eyes as lightning cracked the skies.

They had weathered storms before, but this one seemed angry, relentless, and determined to sink the Dahlia to the ocean's depths. Julie knew that their chances were slim, but she was determined to try and get them through this with no loss of life, even if it meant her beloved ship was naught but splinters.

Yet as Julie kept hold of the wheel, she could barely turn it and the waves knocked her down more often than not. The ship was tossed and turned as the storm raged on, and Julie felt her grip falter before she was swept over, the call of her name all but drowned out by the howling wind.

As she sunk beneath the churning waves, Julie wondered if it would be worth it to try and swim upwards, knowing the turbulent waters would only knock her under again.

Then she saw a vision-a siren with long flowing purple hair, obsidian eyes, and a toothy smile. Julie had heard tales of how they sang such melodious songs that made sailors willingly drown themselves. Maybe it was a mercy she couldn't hear under water.

The siren flicked her long violet tail, coming closer, looking at Julie curiously, then grinned, before pulling her in for a kiss. Julie was too terrified and bewildered to struggle, but wondered if she had already perished, because there was no way she could believe this was real.

The siren pulled away, gesturing for Julie to follow her further down, into the inky depths. But Julie couldn't go down further, surely her breath would dwindle any second, and she should at least try to surface, to gain air and see if she could spot the Dahlia in the storm.

Yet-she didn't feel the pressure of needing to breathe, and when she looked at the siren, she grinned once more, her teeth pointed and vicious, but the smile was strangely calming.

So Julie took her hand, letting her pull her deeper...deeper..deeper...

"Julie!"

Julie shook herself, eyes blinded by a bright light, and she hissed as her sight adjusted, seeing she was on a beach, her worried crew surrounding her. She coughed, the last of the sea water leaving her lungs. "What happened?"

"You went overboard," Flynn stated. "Thought you were lost, and when the storm passed, we spied this island. Providence seemed to have beached you here."

Julie kept quiet about her memories of the siren, and nodded, letting Flynn help her up. "Report Miss Taylor."

"Minor damage, no loss of life, but we did lose some cargo that was on deck."

Julie nodded, stretching her aching limbs. "Okay, I propose some shore leave to recoup our losses and make repairs."

"Aye aye cap'n!" the crew cheered, and they made their way towards the town that Julie could now see in the distance.

"Coming?" Flynn asked.

"In a second," Julie replied with a nod, looking once more to the sea. And smiled when she saw a far off violet tail disappear into the waves.

[fkitwebhaal]

FIC: Rigor Mortis

Ship: Durge/Astarion

Fandom: BG3

Warnings: gore, nightmares

Rating: M

AO3

Summary: 

Four months after they defeat the Netherbrain, a spell forces Astarion to confront one of his worst fears. Except this time, he's not alone. That's not a good thing.

Notes: Another Rune installment! Enjoy! Inspired by  Agrazza’s Blood and Music Discord Server!

Tumblr version under the Cut

He found himself lying in a dark empty tunnel with nothing but stone surrounding him.

Astarion could not remember how he got there, when he opened his eyes to see nothing more than rock and dirt both around him and under his feet. The tunnel was completely dark save for the slight glow of light from some lichen on the ceiling. It was just enough to allow his darkvision to function, though shadows still clung to the sides of the crevice like magical darkness would. The rock itself appeared to be a mix of gray stone he couldn’t identify, slate and a bit of obsidian, all minerals he’d grown used to seeing in the Underdark. The ceiling itself was dirt, barely high enough that he could fully stand up. 

“What in the hells,” he said, stepping forward and trying to steady himself. He felt off, his mind foggy, like it often was back when he lived under Cazador and a mix of hunger and pain took up whatever energy he could spare. The hunger was at the forefront now, gnawing at his stomach with a fierceness he hadn’t felt in decades. It made it hard to think past anything that wasn’t his thirst, but he made an effort of it regardless. 

What had he been doing last? Something with Rune probably, a job of some sort? They’d been taking more of those recently. He walked forward and pressed his hands against the stone that made up the wall behind him. It wasn’t too packed and when he pressed against it, some of it crumpled into his hands and fell through his fingers. Like it had when-

Oh no. Not this again. He was not going to do this again. He was free goddamn it. That meant he was done with beatings, done with using his body to keep feed and done with being buried fucking alive.

Buried alive probably wasn’t the right term exactly. It wasn’t like people got buried in tunnels, at least not intentionally. Cave-ins happened, sure, but it was much different than a coffin. Here, he could at least stand and pace a little. And given his undead nature, oxygen wasn’t a concern. But the low height of the roof, the smell of fresh grave dirt and the short distance that made up the width of the pocket of earth reminded him far too much of the coffin for his nerves.

Astarion tore his mind from the memory of wood splinters under his fingernails and streaks of blood above his head where he’d tried to claw himself free. This had to be a cave in. Not some intentional torture on Cazador’s part, just his own shitty bad luck. It had to be a cave-in. Which meant-

Gods he couldn’t remember what it meant. He couldn’t tell if it was the fear or the hunger that made it impossible to think clearly. Perhaps it was both. 

He scoured through the tunnel, looking to see if there were any places that could provide an escape. He held his hand to cracks in the stone, trying to feel for air, but he came back empty. If there was a way out of here, it had been lost in whatever collapse had befallen it. Astarion briefly considered trying to dig through the dirt roof, but as soon as the soil began falling onto the floor, he thought better of it. He had more space than a coffin, at least. Best not chance limiting that area. 

After three more pass through a to make sure he didn’t miss anything, Astarion sat down. Buried alive. Again. It wasn’t a coffin, but that wasn’t much of a mercy. It only meant there was more space here to claw at the walls until his fingernails bleed, that he could now hear his voice echo as his screams became the only way he remembered how to communicate. 

A part of him was aware he was panicking. In his defense, this was something worth panicking about. He let the feeling take him, deciding it better than the hunger, and lost track of time for a little while. 

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he noticed the corpse, but it had to be at least several hours.

It was hard to see, there in the dark, but he saw it all the same. Crumpled down the tunnel where the roof was lower, was a dead body. The lack of movement or sound of breathing made its status rather clear. It was facing away from him, wearing a robe, and given how it was positioned on the floor, rigor mortis must have sunk in. 

How he hadn’t seen it before was frankly astonishing. Had he been so caught up in his panic that he missed a whole dead body as he searched for an exit? He frankly doubted it; he hadn’t been here nearly long enough to lose all his senses. But he was positive he hadn’t missed any exits. His hunger had impacted his senses, sure, but he should have noticed a corpse with the smell of blood. Well, assuming the corpse had bled at all when it expired. 

Astarion squinted to try to better make out the corpse at the end of the tunnel. Even with his dark vision, he couldn’t see much of them, but they didn’t smell of decay yet. Dead bodies tended to start smelling after 24 hours for those without enhanced senses, but Astarion had found he could pick up the scent of decomposition within the first few hours. He couldn’t smell blood at first either, there was none split alright, but when he closed his eyes, he could taste the very hint of it on his tongue. Salvia pooled in his mouth in response. 

Gods was he hungry. It was frankly absurd how hungry he was. Even if he hurt himself in the cave in, he hadn’t craved blood like this since Cazador’s more brutal starvation punishments. It didn’t make any sense why he was so desperate. 

He dug his fingers into the dirt under him, puffs of dust coming from the movement. Blood from a dead body was consumable within the first few hours of death, but it had a nasty aftertaste.If he was truly trapped here for a considerable amount of time, it would be best to drink immediately while he still could. Back during that terrible year, Cazador had locked him away without even a rat to satisfy him. A full body, even if stale, would be something of a mercy, even should starvation soon take him. If it didn’t provide him some extra time to figure his way out of this hellhole, it would at least save him from his hunger if only for a day or two. 

The bastard was dead already, anyway. Might as well. 

He made his way to his feet and walked over to the body. Now that he was closer, he could make out some of the features of the corpse. It looked to be over five feet though it was hard to tell for sure given how it curled in on itself, and it wore a tattered robe, the kind Astarion usually saw on spellcasters. In the darkness, he couldn’t make out the color, but it was a darker tone, with flourishes of a lighter color to embellish the edge of the hood, the cuffs and the bottom of the garment. Astarion thought he could see some embroidery on the sleeves but it was hard to make out. Anyway, what use was paying attention to the craftsmanship? The most the robe could offer him was use as a blanket, if it wasn’t soiled with bodily fluids.

Another step forward and he could make out more of the body. A rounded pale ear was visible poking out from behind the hood; human then.  There was a curl of light colored hair loose in front of said ear and for some reason, Astarion wanted to tuck it behind the shell, like that was where it belonged. 

It wasn’t in great shape-the lobe was torn where a piercing was likely yanked out- but it didn’t seem off color, which could mean the corpse was poisoned.There was some dried blood from the remnant of that would, and whatever little thought Astarion still had in his mind vanished at the smell. 

The figure was on the lean side, he thought, as he bent down in front of the corpse. It was hard to tell with the robe in the way. He shuffled to get closer to the body and paused as he heard the sound of something metallic rolling over the stone. It was hard to see, even with his dark vision. Feeling like an idiot, he tapped his hand on the ground until his palm rested on a metallic hook and what felt like a crystal of some sort. 

The earring. Right, the corpse looked like it lost one. Astarion considered throwing it against the wall, pretty baubles wouldn’t help him here, until he considered the earring hook. Maybe he could use it as a tool, though he had no idea how it could be useful. But he couldn’t afford to waste any potential supplies. 

He’d gotten lax in his freedom. 200 years of Hell had taught him to waste nothing and after a year on his own, he’d almost forgotten that hard earned lesson. Stupid. 

He tucked the earring into his pocket and once again turned his focus to the corpse. Removing the hood and feasting from the neck would serve best, but for some reason, Astarion was reluctant to see their face. It wasn’t out of guilt, he needed to eat and the corpse wasn’t using it’s mostly fresh blood, but something in him screamed he needed to keep the hood on at all costs. So instead, he reached for their right wrist, and pulled it towards him. The pale skin was still a little warm to the touch; an echo of the life that once inhabited it. He barely waited for the sleeve to fall before he bit in. 

There was nothing like the taste of the blood of thinking creatures. Astarion had thought it was perhaps overblown as a way to cope back under Cazador, but once he’d gotten his first taste, he knew there was no comparison to animals. While this blood was a little stale, and he had to work extra to consume it without the aid of a functional circulatory system, it was just as divine. All thinking creatures had a different taste, even among the same races, but somehow they were all delicious. Astarion closed his eyes and luxuriated in the taste as the hunger that gnawed at him shut up.

The corpse tasted like a rich brandy, full of sweet notes that were just shy of being too much. He wasn’t sure what fruits it tasted like, all food tasted like ash to him, but it smelled slightly of apples, perhaps? That wasn’t the only smell. He could smell a hint of flowers to it: as a practiced perfumer Astarion could make out an undercurrent of begonias which was overpowered by daffodils and hydrangeas. It was an odd combination of floral scents, but he found it intoxicating regardless as he gulped down mouthful after mouthful. He could even taste the slightest tinge of mint. 

It was so good. As his mind cleared of hunger, the corpse below him almost drained, he could place another aspect to the flavor. A tingling of sorts on the back of his tongue, like harmless static. It was familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps it had something to do with casters? He’d tasted it before when he bit-

Astarion’s train of thought grounded to a stop as he drank the last sip of blood the corpse would offer him. He had tasted this exact flavor profile before. How could he forget, even under the haze of hunger? 

Rune had been his first after all. 

No. He couldn’t have. He’d mistaken the taste, lost in the memory of happier times. There was no way, even in his worst hunger that he wouldn’t-

Astarion pulled his teeth out of the now savaged wrist and his gaze fell to the sleeve of the robe. It had fallen when he fed and now that he was up close, he could make out some of the embroidery on the cuff. It was a pattern he knew well: he made it himself. 

It was a sun. Stylized to have the rays stretch out in waves, but obviously a sun. He couldn’t see the color in the darkness, but Astarion knew it was stitched out of metallic golden thread, from a dwarf outpost near an entrance to the Underdark. It wasn’t real gold, such delights were for the extremely wealthy, but it mimicked the shine just as well. The artist had used intersecting lines of thread to add depth, and Astarion ran his thumb across the beads that adorned the rays. Those beads were from a different vendor, a drow trader who he’d stolen them from when their back wasn’t turned. They were a beautiful yellow that gleamed under bright light, not that he’d known it at the time. It wasn’t until Rune cast lightning bolt, the day after he finally gave them back their robes, that he saw the bobbles glean in the blue light.  

( They’d asked him, once, why he’d made a sun on the cuff. He hadn’t been able to provide them a suitable answer. But he knew the rough outline of why, even if he couldn’t figure out how to put it into words. He missed the sun dearly, and despite Rune’s aspirations to return it to him, remained skeptical that he would ever enjoy its warmth again. But turning away from the Ascension meant he could still bask in the warmth of other more important things, like Rune’s gleeful embrace when they saw what he’d done with their worn robes) . 

His entire body froze, like he was the one undergoing rigor mortis. It couldn’t be. Someone must have stolen the robes, taken them as their own. Anything other than the most likely conclusion. He dropped the wrist of the corpse. With a trembling hand, Astarion reached into the pocket he’d placed the earring from earlier and looked down at his palm.

“Oh, those are new,” Astarion teased, leaning forward to poke the new gemstones that hung from Rune’s ears. They were at a larger town outside of one of the largest entrances to the Underdark, stocking up on supplies before seeking out the spawn. The sorcerer tried to hide their smile, but the mirth in their eyes was frankly obvious. 

“Got them from the market.” They tilted their head so the earrings swung, the torchlight glancing off the gems. “Do you like them?”

“Not as much as the wearer, but yes, they’re beautiful.”  Astarion leaned in to get a better look at them. Rune delighted in shiny accessories, so much that Astarion teased them with the nickname “magpie” once or twice. The earrings consisted of silver hoops with two red stones hanging from the bottom. The gems appeared to be rubies, or at least, very good fakes. He couldn’t see any air bubbles, at least. “I am surprised to see you choosing red, though.”

Rune rarely wore red, disliking the way it reminded them of their father’s symbol and blood soaked halls. Of the three sets of earrings they had in their possession, two were silver and one had charms spun from bright blue glass. The last set Astarion had acquired (stolen) for them from a dreadful woman back in the gate while she was still wearing them, much to Rune’s delight.

Rune reached up and pinched the gemstone in their right ear. “It reminded me of something I’m fond of.” Before Astarion could inquire about what, they leaned forward and pressed a kiss between Astarion’s eyes. “I know they’re not your original color, but I still rather like them.” 

It was nice to have his eyes compared to precious jewels rather than blood, Astarion thought. 

Back in the dark tunnel, in Astarion’s palm, was a ruby gemstone, attached to a silver hoop. It was a perfect match to the earrings Rune wore that day with one exception; these were crusted in blood. 

It was like time sped up again. Astarion lunged forward and pulled back the hood of the robe of the figure in front of him. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was someone else.

The world had dished out enough cruelty to him within 200 years, surely it could not do this to him as well.

The world did not care for his plight or maybe he was just made to suffer. Because when he pulled the hood free, Rune’s dead eyed gaze met his own. 

“No, no, no, no, no.” He felt for a pulse, even though the blood in his belly and the clouding over Rune’s eyes told him he wouldn’t find one. When he didn’t find one, he pushed down further, as if he’d missed it the first time. As if he hadn’t drunk their corpse dry. “Rune, wake up.”

Oh Gods. What if they’d been alive when he bit them? He’d been so sure the body in front of him was dead when he approached it, but he’d also been so out of it that he hadn’t recognized Rune at all. What if they’d just been badly hurt? If that was the case, then maybe they’d only died just now. If that was the case, then revivify-

(If that was true, then he’d killed them. If he’d been wrong, he’d killed them himself, without even recognizing them in his hunger. Like a mad dog that tore into anything in sight). 

(How cruel a situation, that he hoped he’d been the one to land the killing blow, if it meant he might be able to bring them back).

“Rune!” He shook them again. No response. Astarion almost ripped open Rune’s pockets as he tried to find anything that might help him. How much time had to pass before a revivify scroll would no longer work? Surely that timeframe was long gone, but he could try anyway. It was worth trying. He found a few spools of thread (likely a surprise for Astarion) some mint candies, and a few rags. No spell scrolls. As he reached for their next pocket, his hands shook. 

 “Don’t you do this to me, you absolute bastard,” he snarled as the contents of Rune’s second pocket fell to the floor. A compass, a map, their favorite lipstick but nothing else. Not even their journal, which they always had on them. Not only no scroll, but no remaining words that he could read. There was nothing here he could recognize that could help him.

With enough time in this pit, Rune’s body would cease to be something he could recognize either. 

(He’d seen a corpse decompose before. Once or twice Cazador had locked him in a room with one for a few days. Just Astarion, the corpse and the maggots and houseflies feasting on what remained. With his vampire senses, the smell of putrefaction was even worse than it would be if he was a human. Would he be forced to remain here and see Rune’s skin discolor, their body begin to bloat with the gasses building up inside? Would he be forced to see places he once pressed kisses to turn black with rot? What about when their hair fell out, and they began to-stop it, stop it, STOP IT).

He yelled again. He doubted anyone could hear him, but it was worth a try, at the very least. “Let me out. I need help. Godsdamnit, please!” He hated saying the word please. He’d screamed his throat raw with the word in that tiny coffin and swore to never say it again. It was a promise one couldn’t keep, not with Cazador pulling his strings, but he’d meant it at the time. 

No one answered. 

“Rune,” he said, shaking them again, but there was no force to it. Their eyes stared back blankly at him, and while he was sure he was imaging the blame there, it didn’t help the nausea in his gut. What would they think of him, treating their corpse not with grief or horror but delight at a means of sustenance? It was monstrous. He was monstrous. He resented the sensation of feeling full, the blood he’d taken thoughtlessly, the clarity it would torture him with as they rotted away in this hovel. At least if he was starving, his mind would be somewhere other than this nightmare before him. Tears began to pool from his eyes, and he held them back, taking gasping breaths. What right did he have to them, after this? 

He pulled his hands away from Rune, wanting to touch, but feeling like he hadn’t the right. It was always going to end this way, he thought, bending forward so his forehead touched the ground. An animalistic howl came from his mouth, almost unrecognizable. He gasped, thrusting his hands out to dig into the dirt for purchase-

-and there was moss under his palms. 

Astarion stared down at the ground in astonishment. He was still on his knees. Gone was the dirt, the darkness of the room, the corpse in his arms. Instead, there was a musty smell in his nose, the kind of overpowering aroma that came from the underdark, and a hand gripping his shoulder tightly. A hand-

“Astarion?”

Astarion’s head snapped up. Rune was kneeling in front of him, their hand on his shoulder, mouth turned down with concern. Not dead, not a lifeless husk he would be forced to watch decompose in a claustrophobic tunnel, but alive. Their earrings were still dangling from both of their ear lobes. They shook his shoulder again, and Astarion couldn’t help but stare as they moved. 

Alive.

“You got hit by a nasty spell,” Rune said, their frown deepening as Astarion continued to not say a word. “I think it was phantasmal killer. I tried to counterspell it, but-” They gestured behind them with their hand not grabbing Astarion’s shoulder, and a few meters behind them, Astarion could see the wizard on the ground, surrounded by shards of his skeleton minions. “I managed to get him, but it took more time than I wanted.” They moved their free hand back to their robes and shoved it into their pockets. After a moment, they brought out a rag and moved it closely to Astarion’s face. When he didn’t flinch away, they rubbed at the wetness under his nose. When the rag retreated, Astarion could see blood soaked into the fabric.

Right, nosebleed. A side effect from these types of spells. Given how much was on the fabric, he’d lost a significant amount. Memories started to return to him, memories that were lost to him in the spell of that stone room. They were on a job for some deep gnomes, who’d promised them a hefty amount of gold if they took out a human necromancer who’d been stealing their dead for experiments. The last thing Astarion could remember was aiming his bow at said necromancer when a blast of purple light overtook his vision. 

“Astarion, can you say something? You’re scaring me.”  Rune leaned forward just a fraction, brow wrinkled. Astarion still couldn’t find his own voice. Maybe he left it in that hallucination of a tunnel, where his world had collapsed just like the stone rocks around him. 

“Okay, plan B,” Rune said, their frown deepening into a determined grimace. Astarion watched as they rolled up the sleeve of their robe and shirt and thrust their wrist out towards him, right in front of his mouth.

Astarion recoiled so hard he backed up into the stone wall of the cave. His fingers dug into the dirt, and even though he didn’t need to breath, he found himself gasping for air. Rune dropped their hand, startled and before they moved closer, Astarion’s words returned to him.

“No! I-“ he sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Phantasmal killer. It wasn’t real. He was in the Underdark. Rune was alive. “What in the Gods’ name are you thinking?”

Despite Astarion’s sharp tone, Rune relaxed significantly. They didn’t extend their wrist again, thank the Gods for that.  “I thought you might need some blood. You lost a lot with the spell.”

“And waste a perfectly good dead wizard right there!” Even though Astarion felt unsteady, he managed to make his way to his feet. He wanted to embrace Rune, crush them close to his chest and listen to their heartbeat, but he resisted. Even with the necromancer down, there still could be danger about. His relief would have to wait until later. Astarion could almost feel Rune’s eyes on him as he made his way over to the dead wizard, who thankfully looked nothing like Rune. “You didn’t poison her or anything, did you?”

“That’s your thing,” Ruen replied, and Astarion could hear shuffling from behind them as they got to their feet. “Chain lightning, actually.”

Breaking out chain lightning for a wizard and half a dozen skeletons? He had scared them. Astarion brushed some of the dirt off his armor and leaned down to grab the arm of their attacker. He was pleased to notice his hand barely shook as he lifted their wrist up towards his mouth. 

“As soon as I’m done here, we’re going home,” he grumbled. He bit down and for once, he didn’t close his eyes to properly enjoy the taste of the blood. Instead, his gaze was too focused on the wizard’s face, the soft jawline, small button nose and blonde hair. This wasn’t Rune. It was a nightmare.

He kept his eyes open anyway, less the corpse in front of him become Rune when he wasn’t looking. 

******

He managed to keep it together until they were back home. 

Rune asked him once about what he saw during the spell, but Astarion avoided the topic, wanting to stay away from the false image as much as possible. Rune didn’t push, but he doubted they missed how he held their hand during points on  the walk back. He also didn’t doubt they missed how he had them take the longer path home that didn’t involve some more claustrophobic tunnels, but they didn’t mention it. When the pair finally made it back to the small hamlet they called home, he found himself thankful that Rune lacked darkvision. It was a nuisance to gadge how lit a place should be to support human eyes. But it also meant the house was surrounded by bioluminescent mushrooms, arcane lanterns and magical torches.

It was the opposite of the dank and dark space Astarion thought he was trapped in an hour previous. 

When they got inside, Astarion finally pulled Rune into an embrace. They fell into his arms with no protest despite the dirt and blood on his armor. As he pressed his face into their collarbone, he felt their right arm wrap around his side, while their left began to comb through his hair. It would likely ruin his perfect locks, but he didn’t mind, feeling their pulse thrum steady and sure.

Having a mortal lover meant he wouldn’t go hungry, but it also meant that one day, he would go without them entirely. He knew how long humans lived, and while he tried not to think about it, it was hard not to after a day like this. Rune thought they were in their early to middle thirties, give or take. How many years did that leave Astarion with, when he had forever? 

“Nasty piece of spellwork, huh?” Rune said, their fingers still tangled in his hair. Astarion could see the opening for him to speak about what he saw if he wanted to. He didn’t take it. Instead, Astarion took a deep breath that he didn’t need that felt steadying regardless. 

“Nasty indeed,” he said, pulling himself reluctantly away from them. He needed to change, badly. “You should make yourself something to eat.” With that, he pressed a quick kiss to their lips before he went to change. 

When he returned to the sitting room, Rune was already seated at the small table only Rune ate meals at, shoveling some sort of gruel into their mouth like they hadn’t eaten in years. While they were still on the lean side from years of malnutrition and lack of sleep, they’d finally managed to put on some weight. Astarion slumped down in the chair across from them, and placed his hands on the table, one finger following the grain of the wood.

“I have a question for you.” He didn’t mean to ask the question, truly, but the psychic damage must have rattled his senses enough to ask before he thought it through. Rune looked up at him, placing their now empty bowl on the table.

“I might have an answer,” they said, putting their spoon also in the empty bowl. Astarion considered backing out, maybe asking something inane instead, but the spell must have rattled his ability to lie too, because he couldn’t think of a possible alternative question.

 Well, he had asked Rune how they would like to be murdered within weeks of meeting them and they’d still slept with him. Surely they wouldn’t run screaming from a question like this. 

(A part of him had to know. Would they hate him, in that misery of a situation?)

“It’s a bit odd.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“And morbid.”

Rune chuckled. “That’s never stopped you before either. Or me, for that matter.” They watched him for a few moments, before a small frown pulled at the corner of their lips. “Astarion, what is it?”

It all came out in a rush. “If you died, would you be angry with me if I drank your blood?”

Rune stared at him for a moment, their eyebrows raising in a way that pulled at their forehead scar. “That’s what you’ve been thinking about?” Astarion nodded, trying to ignore the feeling of nausea roiling in his gut. It was truly unfair that he still could get nauseous in his undeath. it wasn’t like he still digested things like the living. There was a moment of silence before Rune spoke next. “Well, I guess I need more information first. I assume there’s no immediate way to revive me in this scenario?”

Astarion wasn’t sure how he felt about that being their first question. He would have hoped the answer would be rather obvious. Did they really think so little of him? “Of course. It’s offensive you’d think otherwise.”

Rune winced at whatever emotion they read on his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.  I know you would. I just wanted to make sure I understood the hypothetical. And I haven’t been dead long, right?”

Astarion bristled. Sometimes Rune’s tendency to get stuck on the details could be rather annoying. Didn’t he just say he would revive them if he had the option? He couldn’t think of another reason the amount of time would be important. “No, but I already said I have no immediate way to revive you-“

Rune waved their left hand in front of him, gesturing for him to stop. He did, but his objections lingered on the tip of his tongue, should their interjection not prove satisfactory. 

“Oh it’s not about revival.” Rune said. Astarion stared at them, rather lost, and they took his silence as permission to continue. “You told me blood goes bad after a while. I wouldn’t want you to get sick.” They paused again, their expression taking on that far off look again. “Actually, that was probably a stupid clarification to ask for; why would you bother if it would just make you sick?” They again, brow crinkling in thought. Astarion had often kissed that same brow when Rune made that expression, delighted by how the skin would untense under his lips. “Though I guess-”

“That’s what you’re focusing on?” Astarion managed to say. His pitch was higher than he liked. “How your blood would effect me!?”

Rune quirked an eyebrow and gave him a wry smile. “Well, it’s not like I’m using it and you need it. And if you drain me dry, it’s not going to make me more dead, so you might as well, even if revival is possible. Actually, it might not be a bad idea.” They tapped their fingernails on the table, something they did often when they were thinking. “The extra speed and strength would probably be helpful actually-“

He didn’t even notice the tears running down his face till Rune startled at the sight.

“Oh Gods, what did I say? Did I misunderstand the question? You wouldn’t have to, if that’s what you’re worried about. Like, it would be your decision, I’m just saying if you decided to do it, I’d be okay with it.” Astarion couldn’t find words, shaking his head and Rune got up and ran over to his side of the table, their robes catching on the wooden edge. There was the sound of fabric tearing but Rune didn’t even seem to notice. Astarion would have to fix that later, maybe add some new embroidery solely because he could. Rune’s hands fluttered in front of Astarion’s face, unsure if touch would be welcome. They were talking faster every second. 

“Was it the revival thing? I didn’t mean to imply you wouldn’t bring me back, I know you would, I’d just be a little put out if drinking was your first priority.” They stopped, closed their mouth, and seemed to think a moment before speaking again. Their voice had a more regular pace when they began, but it began to speed up as they spoke, words blending into each other without space to breathe. “Though I suppose it might be a waste of blood if you didn’t, so I can be convinced as long as we agreed on it beforehand. Ideally the situation wouldn’t arise in the first place, but a lot of things don’t happen ideally, and given our collective luck, maybe I should plan for things to go for whatever the opposite of ideally is. Is there a word for that? No that it matters but-”

Astarion snatched one of Rune’s fluttering hands from in front of his face, and grasped it in his own, before covering it with his other hand. Rune shut their mouth, the torrent of words ceasing with it, and Astarion bent his head so his forehead touched where he held their hand with his own. 

“I wouldn’t want to drink from you if you died,” he said. He felt Rune untense a fraction, and they placed their free hand on his shoulder, their thumb rubbing into his collarbone.

“You don’t have to,” they whispered, even only it was just the two of them. “I’m just saying if you did, it wouldn’t upset me. I don’t know what you saw in that nightmare, Astarion, but whatever it was, I wouldn’t hate you for it.”

Astarion sighed. He could leave this conversation here, he knew that, along with both the memory of the spell and the fear that underlined it. But if he’d learned anything over these last few months, including their time free of the tadpoles, it was that fears festered the more one kept them hidden away. Sometimes, you had to expose them to the light to confront them properly. 

He didn’t have the sun, but the human in front of him had proven themselves capable enough of providing that illumination when he needed it most. 

“I was in a cave-” He began, as Rune kneeled in front of him, their hand still both encased and covering his own.

Their touch was warm.

[godspeedmajortom]

Miscellaneous Malevolent musings now that I've caught up with the podcast releases...

Loved the "Dunwich Horror" vibes in season 3

Seasons 2 and 3 worked better for me than Season 1, I think because the shape of the arc and the overall goal was clearer

Could do without the amazement at "ruins older than this country," though. America is such a recent creation, and there were people here well before it. Ancient structures should not be inconceivable. Not that I want to go in the HPL direction of native peoples being corrupted by eldritch gods, more that it's ignorant to assume there was nothing here before the colonists. There are better ways to marvel at the impossibility of a place, like the scale of the structure or an unnatural texture or shine or echo or non-local stone (like obsidian in New England lol).

Not sure if this has been confirmed or refuted anywhere, but I headcanon that Arthur wrote the “Some Would Call It Madness” song

Arthur, John is not your conscience. He has no authority to tell you whether you're a good man. He's still learning what "good" means. He's a friend who can provide a second opinion at best. I know you're lonely and you want reassurance, but he does not have the human frame of reference to give you a valid answer. Sorry, dude.

On that note, Arthur seems to have two categories for beings: person and monster. Monsters are evil and should be punished, people deserve respect and can grow from their mistakes. I don’t think he has a clear philosophy yet for what distinguishes them, beyond his gut feelings or rationalizations for his actions (see: cultists are irredeemable and deserve what's coming to them, certainly not people who maybe made a bad choice, got in over their heads, and could use a second chance). Like, John is right that he and Yellow are fundamentally the same, however much Arthur wants John to be in the Good and person-like category. The main difference is that Arthur trauma bonded with one and came to like him, then expected the other to replace him immediately under different circumstances and was disappointed when he didn't. I'm not sure where Arthur puts himself on the person-monster scale. I mean, he considers himself a person, and he typically thinks he's in the right. But he toes the line with cruelty sometimes in a way that does concern him, and he still has so much guilt and shame about Faroe. He's complicated, that's the point of the story. I can see him going full "he who fights monsters," or embracing mercy and forgiveness as human virtues.

Arthur giving the cana water in the prison pits takes on a new light after hearing the whole "I am the captain of my ship" poem and hearing what happened to Faust

Petulant child John is still the best. He is especially childlike in Ep29. The movies! The handkerchief! He has so much ambition and so little agency.

On the other side of the John coin, I'm very curious about how John actually killed Emily and Parker, especially given his limited power on Earth. I imagine it's something that can occur in the ritual of opening his book. The details will surely be revealed at the least opportune moment.

Speaking of coins: Kayne, you sick fuck, I love you, what are you, what the hell game are you playing. He clearly has more direct influence on Earth than the King in Yellow, and he has some kind of influence in the Dreamlands/with the King to return John to Arthur. Presumably, he needs both John and Yellow, maybe also Arthur, for whatever he’s planning. Or maybe he just wants to be entertained by Arthur inevitably blowing up at John for lying to him and betraying his trust again. Fun times for everyone!

[precambrianhottopic]

Fires of the North

CHAPTER 2: THE CANNON

First ✦ Previous ✦ Next

There were no crows in Fell until the day Harkannon Hull arrived. He came from Thrax, the fourth-greatest and first-most cutthroat city in the world, and arrived in Fell like a creeping thunderstorm. His ship, a gigantic icebreaker named the Gossamer, hauled along the Stoll at a steady pace before grinding to an ominous halt a dozen miles upriver and holding there, for a day and a night, her whale-oil beacons burning like twin suns through the early autumn twilight. The policemen patrolling the high walls stood and watched her, off in the distance, pouring thick smog into the sky, and the people of Fell halted the comings and going and preparations for the winter ahead for just a moment to mourn the death of the old order of things; for, with the coming of the Gossamer, the cold and lonely city was about to be thrust into the fires of painful revolution. Great and dark murders roosted on lamp-posts and fences, their deep croaking voices audible on every street corner. The crew of the icebreaker came in through the gates and sat silent and shivering in taverns, huddled over pints of strong beer as the locals exchanged fraught glances. Harkannon Hull, who had now thoroughly foreshadowed his arrival, stood on the bow of a fine gondola and made his way into the city up the Corione, looming almost seven feet tall and clad entirely in black, a single lantern illuminating his stony features, indifferent to the whispers on the riverbank, like an inevitability- a force of nature.

Harkannon Hull was not known to Hyperborea, but he was already feared. In Thrax, his employees and competitors called him ‘the Cannon’, because the Hull Manufacturing co. was liable to rip through anything that stood in its way with all the mercy and grace of a high-caliber lead round. He’d come from almost nothing- orphaned by parents who would’ve still had nothing to give him if they’d lived, grown up penniless in a dismal backwater of an orphanage, arrived in the big city with only his clothes and a dream- and carved tooth and nail for himself a sizeable niche in Thrax’s ferocious industrial quarter. His factory employed dozens, churned out mid-quality kerosene lamps by the thousands, and earned him enough money to make a terrifyingly grand entrance to the city of Fell.

The boat whispered along the canal, a gondolier at the stern deftly cutting through the low-hanging fog. Its bow lists forward slightly as Hull leans in and tilts his black velvet top hat further over his brow. He is a frighteningly tall, lanky man in his forties, with long, angular features and sunken eyes that shimmered beneath his heavy brow ridge like chunks of obsidian. All along the shore, mothers pull their children indoors and windows are quickly shuttered and then opened just slightly, prying eyes emerging from every crevice to watch this haunting newcomer stand perfectly, chillingly still as his gondolier hitched the vessel to a mooring post and hopped ashore. Harkannon followed, a frigid gust catching his greatcoat as he stepped onto the street and thrashing the dark, heavy fabric about his narrow frame like the wings of a ghastly angel. He stood there for a moment, dark and haunting and utterly alone. Then the gale passed, and with a strange gait not unlike that of a heron with its eyes fixed on a fish Hull at last lurched into movement, steel-toed boots clicking along the cobblestone streets in time with the crows screeching overhead. Street-lamp flames flickered and the sky itself seemed to darken- the shadow from Thrax had arrived.

Already the most-feared man in Fell, Harkannon Hull proceeded onward to the warm lights and rich scents of the November Rain, a tight and jolly tavern nestled on the corner of avenues Brestle and Skaal. Taverns like this one are the very lifeblood of Fell, and indeed all of Hyperborea- many a reckless traveler finds his life saved by the familiar glow of a public house in the middle of a snowstorm. The Rain had found itself overrun in recent days with travelers seeking the oil field- the owners had quite unwittingly found themselves having the role of ‘local guide’ thrust upon them, and their establishment was now swarming with fools from the South drunkenly asking where the mayor’s office was, if there were ‘any beautiful women in this town’, or if they could go out and see the oil tonight, on what they insisted was extremely urgent business. Harkannon was a cut above this rabble; he entered with a sharp, clear purpose beyond inebriation. The doors swung open to welcome him and the entire bar went deadly silent, Hull’s long and pointed shadow sending a chill through the air. He stood in the doorway for a moment, cold air rushing in behind him, drinking in the moment, before shrinking away from the spotlight and letting laughter and light and music return to his rosy-cheeked compatriots.

The barkeep, however, kept his eyes on him. This was Agmund Skjorn, who had kept the November Rain since his grandfather’s day, a portly and weathered man who’d seen just enough winters to know the kind of trouble strangers like Harkannon Hull brought into his tavern. As Hull stalked towards the bar, Agmund kept his wary hands busy polishing a flask, and offered the newcomer a friendly smile.

“What can I do you for, friend?” He gave the standard greeting with monotone pleasure.

Harkannon reached into his coat, produced two silver coins, and set them down on the bar with a clink. “Absinthe.” He gave a furtive glance around the room before proceeding, hushed, “I believe several of my associates came in earlier. Would you be so kind as to let them know Mr. Hull has arrived?” Whatever civility may have been contained in his diction was snuffed out completely by a tone of voice so severe he may as well have been delivering the barkeep’s own death warrant. His voice struck a haunting balance between velvet and gravel.

“I’ll see right to it, sir.” Agmund nods, and disappears off somewhere behind the bar, leaving Harkannon with a small iron tankard of liquor and a ragged cloth napkin. His sharp dark eyes follow the barkeep until he slips out of sight into the tavern’s meager upstairs, at which point they turn patiently to his drink. No matter how colorful and disorderly it claimed to be, the attention of the November Rain is now firmly fixed on this newcomer, who seemed to each drunken patron to carry dark and terrible changes at his heels. A few shivering travelers from the East recognize his face and silently order another round of drinks in resignation- they will be gone, all of them, by daybreak.

By week’s end, Hull and Company had an office- anyone serious about winning the rights to this oil field had an office, clamored the sixty-one remaining businessmen- a serviceable two-room property above a tiny shipping company where Hull himself had a corner office and the Company confined themselves to eight or nine smaller desks out in the larger main room. Gloomy figures were seen coming in and out at all hours of the day, while neighbors and passers-by watched them and went on to taverns and dinners to murmur about grand conspiracies and the end of Fell as we know it. Perhaps the only one of these visitors that the Fell-folk took a liking to, the only one who wasn’t heralded as a sign of the end times- was a young, lithe man with sandy hair and tired eyes- Jack Marshall.

Agmund returns in due course with the promised associates, a grim-looking flock that hovered around Harkannon’s shoulders and whispered half-prophecies in his ears, while their master nodded along stoically all the while. The men were furnished with three rounds of drinks- although Hull himself spent the entire period nursing his single shot of absinthe- before they gathered themselves together to leave, by which point the rumors spreading around the tavern had painted this birdlike stranger and his mysterious accomplices as near-mythological figures. Silently, the brims of their hats tipped over their eyes, the company departed the November Rain and disappeared into the cold September night. They would find room, board, and supper at the North Star Hotel, and it was here, in dark locked rooms, that the plan Harkannon Hull had for the city of Fell was drawn into the light.

Jack Marshall came from an only marginally more favorable background than Harkannon. His mother was dead and his father owned a failing horse farm; together, the pair were about as rich as the horses they raised. It was through luck alone that an associate of the Hull Manufacturing co. came to the Marshall farm to buy a new mount- it was through Jack’s wiles and determination that he found himself as the personal assistant to Harkannon Hull himself three months later. A bright and righteous young man, deeply pious and doggedly loyal, to the people of Fell Jack Marshall might as well have been the only human member of Harkannon Hull’s little operation. He spent most of his time between Harkannon’s side, a squalid inn where he was staying- even if his job was stable, Harkannon paid him abysmally poorly- and the post office, once a week, to send back small increments of money to his father.

And so, the rat-race continued exactly as expected for the next several weeks, the comings and goings from the Hull offices never ceasing, the number of remaining opportunists steadily falling, and the death march onward to Winter as dreadful as ever. It was almost November by the time Jack Marshall went out Northward on horseback with a group of surveyors to see the land before it became too deeply shrouded in snow and ice, and the window was lost until the Spring.

The morning they set out was bitterly cold and startlingly clear; the blinding glare of the sun against the snow against the ashen facades of the city made the whole world into a dream that had become all at once terrifyingly harsh and lucid. It was twelve in the afternoon, and Fell was utterly silent. Marshall, since his rather unfortunate arrival in Hyperborea in nothing but a knit sweater and a pair of overalls, had practically added a new coat to his ensemble every week, and was now bundled up in no less than six layers of wool, down, fur and tweed. Inches-thick snowfall crunches beneath his steel-toed boots as he strode towards the stables at the city walls. Unlike Hull and the rest of his Company, Jack hadn’t sailed up on the Gossamer, claiming that boats made him ill- rather, he’d left well ahead of anyone else and brought three fine horses with him. These horses- Kismet, Gloriana, and Reveller,- now waited impatiently for him, braying and kicking at the frozen ground, flared nostrils spewing dragon-smoke out into the air. Jack smiled, just barely, and picked up his pace. From up on high windows and lavish apartments, Harkannon Hull, his Company, and the forty-eight optimists who remained watched Jack- no, not Jack- the silent attention of Fell was turned entirely to the stranger, clad in bright Southern colors, leaning with effortless intrigue against the stable doors. Jack Marshall, whose eyes had just caught sight of the figure, stopped in his tracks. It struck something akin to fear into his heart, although he wasn’t quite sure why; swallowing it down, he took a wary step forward.

He calls out- “Hello? Hello there!” A friendly greeting. “Can I help you?” A thinly veiled slight.

The interloper smiles imperceptibly and leans forward. “I don’t believe we’ve met, my good sir!” Even at a yell, his voice is delightfully elegant.

“Lazare Doromos. It’s an honor.”

[ritiual]

@wsteros said: “i know what you’re capable of— for better or worse.”

together, they were a jedi hammer that had crushed separatist infestations on scores of worlds. they had been heroes of the galaxy, no fear held within their hearts, the saviors depended upon for peace when in times of turmoil— complementary halves of one warrior, together. together, they had been unstoppable. [they had once been brothers, obi-wan being the closest thing to a father anakin ever had.] but on mustafar, they stand apart— there is no kenobi and skywalker, there is only the betrayal of family and brotherhood. they are enemies on this battlefield, not brothers. for old times' sake, anakin had given his former master a choice— get out of my way or die by my hand. [retire, go someplace far away, peace is finally here with my new empire.] the offer had been swatted away, synonymous with a master swatting its dog across the nose. there may be peace in the galaxy, but there would never be peace amongst them. brothers no more, their lightsabers ignited in sync, a battle to the death rising.

“then you recognize this is a mistake. walk away, obi-wan. this is your final warning.” with a voice deeper than stygian obsidian, a step is taken forward, minimizing the space between them. only the damage they had done to each other remained between them. there is no mercy for them— there is only death that lingers across the horizon.

“are you too blind to see it, or do you simply not want to? you have already lost, brother. you lost the moment you came here— you lost the moment you stepped off that ship. my empire has brought peace to the galaxy, and will continue to do so. you can rest now, get a good night's sleep.” [you will die here obi-wan, by my hand, if you stay. do not make me do this. walk away.]

[danadriel]

"We been in this road for years, we escaped shackles and whips just to find on another set of collars once again, even when you have nothing people still want to take from you, we were tricked, robbed, stabed and raped more times than I can count, no one ever helped us without taking advantage, the road teached us to never trust others, never turn our backs to strangers, be always ready slit someones throat at any sign of trouble, we traveled alone for so long…so far that I even question what is even the point of all of that? why don't we just end this, why we don't just shoot our own heads or even hang ourselves like many we found in our journey…why fight for survival when we will forever exist in misery? I don't know…we just keep doing it without even knowing it, like there was something telling us to keep going…but keep going to WHERE?

When I witnessed Danadriel coming out from his obsidian womb and slaughtering our captors,I thought it was the end, I was hoping it was the end, I was welcoming the idea of dying but he spared us, he joined us on the road and even when he had the opportunity to leave us to our deaths again he came back, in part I'm grateful but it disturbs me,we don't know where he came from or what is his interest on us, when we questioned him he just said "we are going to meet the one that strides in the dawn, I saw us there me you and your sister" he constantly mentions older worlds that never where and others that will be, he ponders upon powers of the universe he claims to feel, his sorcery disturbs and tears reality apart in ways that chills my spine,at the same time that he fights like a beast and we won battles we couldn't even dream about thanks to him, he is a magnet of conflict, we can't just walk undetected, every town and waystation we visit someone will provoke him and he will lash out in rage, at the same he is the kind of person that counts every drop of the water to ensure our survival he ses no issue in picking bar fights against a entire armed crowd, if depended only on me I already had parted ways, but Ji likes him, she believes he is some sort of angel sent by the gods to help us, that perhaps we suffered too much and they took pity on us…I don't trust the mercy of the gods specially if they sent a creature like this to aid us.

At least we are having progress in our escape of this dying continent, now we are 5, me,my sister, Danadriel, Trashdog and Kartola, I don't trust them completely but at least we are all in the same page, we are all united in the goal of surviving and escaping, we sail day and night in the pursuit of the ship that will take us from this place, for us being right or wrong…or even any deeper analysis of morality is utterly irrelevant, the ONLY thing that matters is to be the last ones standing when the fight ends,we will not seek to harm others who don't harmed us, but anyone try to hold us back, anyone who try to take what we have or to shackle or bodies will die… we are outcasts, no one want us around, no one want us alive…so we will answer in kind." (Jean)

another attempt to make a gory action scene, better than the previous ones but not satisfied yet

[saturnandhope]

All for You (Bonten)

SUMMARY: Mikey decides to watch as his Executives fuck you.

Content Warnings: pwp lol, dark content, gangbang, slight noncon, mildly dubious consent i guess, cuckolding, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, blowjobs, orgasm denial, voyeurism, noncon filming, spitroasting, breeding kink, explicit language, female reader

a/n: goodbye bonten, it was nice while you lasted :) anyway support and ship byler for clear skin, i haven’t recovered from stranger things yet.

“Excuse me—you want me to do what?" You stutter at your boyfriend, Manjiro Sano, Bonten's leader and titular head.

"You heard me." Mikey says, settling into his plush chair resembling a throne facing the bed. He is the epitome of elegant perfection, dressed entirely in black. "Let my executives fuck you."

"W-wouldn't that bother you?" You softly mumble as you whip your head to look at the seven expensive-looking men lounging around you and your boyfriend’s shared bedroom.

He only waves his hand as if dismissing something trivial. "I want to watch."

Your jaw drops at the thought. Your head is spinning so fast that you suddenly can’t tell what’s left or right. In spite of this, molten fire flows through your veins as your heart thumps in your chest. Your boyfriend? Wants to watch you get fucked? By his executives?

"Undress." Mikey commands

"Huh—" The immediate embarrassment and guilt at the notion of undressing in front of his executives makes your skin feel icy.

"Mikey." You utter his name so softly and quietly.

"I'm not repeating myself." He tells you. It's a one-time warning. Even when it comes to his own lover, Manjiro Sano is not known for mercy.

Tears well up along your waterline, and you take a deep breath before reaching towards your chest to unbutton your blouse.

Your fingers quiver as you slide your dress over your shoulders and onto the ground. You know better than to cover yourself with your hands; after all, who cares who looks at you as long as you're Mikey's?

Who cares about the men whose gaze is drawn down the length of your body which is draped in a tight bra and thong?

Your breath trembles as you unclasp your bra and bend down to remove the stringy underwear.

“Now entertain me.” Mikey calls as he points to the king-sized bed you two share, urging you to saunter towards it.

“Wait, please. Mikey…” Comes your small whisper. The pit in your stomach still begs you to ask him to stop whatever he plans to do, but his cold obsidian eyes pierce yours— a silent command to continue.

There is something utterly appealing about being hungrily stared at by seven men in the room who are ready to outright devour you; it sends waves of heat through your body and between your thighs, knowing what is soon to come.

Seven horrifyingly familiar men prowl around, slowly slinking towards the king-sized bed where you sat. They are eagerly waiting for the moment they’re able to pounce and take what they want from you. The pink-haired madman smiles widely, scars wrinkling at the corners of his mouth.

Impatient and eager, the slow, heavy footsteps of Mikey's most trusted men echoes in your ears as your stomach twists in anticipation of what they can give you. But the men didn't move on you yet, they are waiting for permission as their leader sits on his throne, watching, teasing you from afar without even lifting a finger.

"M-Mikey," you call again. Your eyes shift to him, full of questions and doubt. "Please, it's you I want—not them."

Bonten’s number two, Sanzu Haruchiyo clicks his tongue and shakes his head in displeasure, “Y/N, you heard the boss.”

The Bonten leader remains silent, however, and instead just leans back on his throne comfortably, crossing his pale arms over his chest. They're taking too long, these men.

The curl of displeasure on Mikey's lips sends a trickle of fear down your spine. This can't go on.

"I’m sorry—please," you suddenly say, and you cannot bring yourself but to be embarrassed when it comes out cracked and thin. Your voice immediately silenced the room as they all turned their attention to you. You keep your head down, eyes squeezing shut and arms trembling. "Please just fuck me already."

Those must have been the magic words, because all Mikey did was give a slight nod of the head before his executives came lunging around you.

"Can she take us though?" The lanky purple-haired executive from the corner wonders.

"She can and she will," Mikey says confidently. "Kakucho, since you're her childhood friend, you get first taste." The leader's command brokers no room for an upheaval. The remaining guys glower in envy when Kakucho got up from his position. In all honesty, Mikey is aware that Kakucho has been eyeing you. He's well aware that Kakucho has been pining for a taste of you.

As he splays you across the bed, Kakucho's eyes are widening and his heart is pounding like thunder inside his chest. With that, he lowers himself to his knees in front of you. Mikey stares cooly as he watches Kakucho pry your legs open.

His heterochromatic eyes remain on yours as he leans in and very slowly drags his tongue up. He only does that a few times before sucking the bundle of nerves into his mouth, sucking softly—teasingly—and swirling the flat of his tongue against it. Your thighs clamp around his head like a vice, a shocked cry escapes your lips. The first lick turns your muscles to jelly, and your hips immediately rock against his mouth.

"Fuck!" You let out a loud yelp as you grab the bedsheets on either side of your body. He continues by pushing the tip of his tongue between your lower lips and sliding it up to your clit, flicking against it. Part of him wants to tease you, to tell you that he's just started, but instead he keeps licking your clit, hungrily lapping at it.

So, as you come undone, your legs quiver on either side of Kakucho’s head as you grip the sheets, loudly moaning. Still, he doesn’t bother pulling away. He sucks on your clit even harder, his tongue roughly grinding against it as he did. His dick twitches in anticipation as you let out more wanton moans. He wants to be inside you so badly. Wants to bend your body—wants to see the woman of his dreams beg for his dick.

“Oh, God!" You shriek, squirming.

A quiet laugh escapes him, the noise vibrating around you as he continues, refusing to let go, though he soon finds himself wincing at your tight grip on his hair while you arch your back.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time," he confesses. His face is glistening with your slick. "I can't believe Mikey would let us."

"And you might never have again if you don't shut the fuck up," Kokonoi snaps. "Move."

Without warning, two fingers push into you, working their way to the last knuckle. The man with long silver hair starts roughly fucking you on his fingers, his arm quickly moving back and forth while the pads press and stroke at your sweet spot.

You start moaning right away at the sudden stimulation. Your back arches again, and your legs tremble beneath you while you attempt to stifle your moans. But Kokonoi doesn’t let up, he increases his pace instead, and the way your pussy tightens around his fingers tells him you are growing close to your peak again.

Just as you are ready to tip over it—just as you are right on the precipice—Koko pulls his fingers out, leaving you on the edge and clenching around nothing. And then his palm comes down on your ass, smacking both cheeks at the same time with a loud crack echoing off the walls.

You whine, your brows furrowing. "Oh please"

Leaning down enough so his lips are right beside your ear, his voice drops, "Only good girls get to cum. And you haven’t gained the boss's commendation yet, princess.”

He immediately sticks his fingers down your throat, tasting yourself and gagging you.

You can hear the sound of belt buckles coming undone as the next men start to pull their pants down, panting in anticipation. The first dick that came out was the ruddy one in front of your face, owned by the tall, smiling, gorgeous man with gelled locks, Ran Haitani. Kokonoi's fingers had been removed from your throat not long after they'd been forced in there. And after being hoisted up on all fours now, with Ran's cock in front of your face, you know your job.

You open your mouth wide, tongue lolling out, as Ran slides the underside of his shaft along your tongue, rubbing it against the wet muscle before pushing it into the confines of your mouth. He goes slow at first—which is surprising, if not annoying, because you need him to fuck your face right now and get this over with—but it doesn’t last long as he grabs a fistful of your hair and holds your head still while he starts fucking your throat.

Since you’re on your hands and knees, the angle of your throat was a straight path, making it much easier for him to slide right into it, and you had learned long ago to let your jaw go slack and to open your throat up so you wouldn't gag when in this position.

“Fuck, so damn good, ” Ran whispers to himself.

A second cock pushes inside your cunt, and that push isn’t a simple push, it’s a shove, and there’s no time to adjust before you are being slammed into over and over and over. You can’t hold back the keen that starts to leave you, but it is immediately cut off by Ran, who is fucking your face, his rhythm alternating with that of Rindou, his younger brother, who is fucking you from behind.

You can feel the cock in your mouth nearly pulsing as it keeps going in and out, in and out, and you know he is close; plus, he’s gripping your hair tighter, pulling your face into each thrust he makes into your mouth, even as Rindou behind you is pulling your hips back into each thrust he makes.

Ran soon comes, and when he does, he pulls your face completely against his groin to where your nose is buried against his bush and your chin is pressed against his balls as his spend spurts down your throat. You swallow around him, taking it all in, hearing him groan above you from the feeling of your throat constricting as well as from his climax; when he pulls out, you gasp for air before coughing, attempting to regain yourself.

A rough snap of hips against your ass makes you yelp. The cock fucking your cunt is pulled out as the man with the purple mullet moves around and is suddenly in front of your face. A quick glance upward told you it was Rindou Haitani before he shoved his dick in your mouth just like his older brother had.

"You look amazing," Rindou tells you. "So damn beautiful.

You can taste yourself on him; the slick from your core is strong and tangy and mixed with the salt on his own skin; it is intoxicating, to say the least, and you can’t help but swirl your tongue around his shaft to get as much of that taste as you can while he’s thrusting into your mouth.

Another cock is suddenly shoved into your pussy, this one a little thicker than the last, and you groan around the one in your mouth. Rindou curses beneath his breath as he hilts himself in your mouth just as the pink-haired man does in your cunt, grinding his hips against your ass teasingly and making you wiggle yourself against him, silently asking for more.

When they’re both beginning to fuck you again, your throat is already sore, but you can’t care less as you eagerly suck Rindou hard, your cheeks caving while you try to please him, hoping you'd get some sort of pleasure in return. Thankfully, Sanzu reaches around and beneath you, rubbing calloused fingers against your clit— the moan you let out just as your back arches is the end for Rindou as he spills inside your mouth, his spend salty on your tongue.

You haven't gotten the chance to swallow it down yet, however, before he slips his cock free and gently takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"Let me see," Rindou quietly orders, and when your eyes meet his—a pretty lavender they are—you open your mouth and stick out your tongue, showing his cum on the pink muscle; you close your mouth again and swallow it, before showing him your tongue once more that his sperm is no longer there. "Good girl," he purrs, brushing his thumb along your lower lip before he stands and starts pulling his pants up as he leaves the bed, but not before eyeing the grinning pink-haired man behind you, pocketing something.

You watch after the younger Haitani for a second before strong hips snap against your ass again and you yell, your head dropping, and there is a coiling of heat in your belly. You spread your legs a bit more for Sanzu, encouraging him to keep going, begging him to take you harder, faster, deeper, to give you more, more, more as that coiling grew tighter and tighter and tighter.

While Sanzu knew how he got to the point of you lying on your stomach, ass slightly sticking up in the air as he straddles your thighs and fucks you from behind, what he wasn’t sure of was how his phone ended up in his hands with the video camera turned on to the point where he’s recording himself fucking his boss’s girlfriend.

"Fuck, princess, you are so goddamn hot," Sanzu breathes, his words slurred. "Mikey is a lucky man." He focuses the camera on how his cock moves in and out of you while his free hand grasps one of your ass cheeks, pulling to spread you open and show exactly where his dick disappeared before releasing and clapping his hand down on your rear, coaxing a quiet yelp from you. "I’m going to watch this so much. You have—ohhfuck—you have n-no idea."

His thrusts are speeding up, garnering louder noises from you while his eyes focus on the way your ass ripples with each thrust; the sight alone is too good not to focus on, and he moves his phone around to get a shot of it. But just as you're ready to explode, ready to tip over that edge, his hands are pulled away along with his dick—

"No cameras." It’s Mikey who speaks up as he yanks Sanzu away from you before snatching the device and throwing it across the room, breaking it to smithereens.

You crane your head backward, bending your neck even when it’s painful just to see Mikey’s reaction. Irritated. Annoyed. That’s what he looks like right now.

A rush of fear runs down Sanzu’s spine as he gathers himself up, uttering words of apology to his king. You know better than to try to reach between your legs to satisfy yourself. Instead, you push through it, gritting your teeth as Sanzu, who'd just edged you, is now in front of your face.

"I’m sorry pretty thing. I should’ve known Boss would get mad." Sanzu apologizes, whether he means it or not, you do not know. "Now you’ve got a job to do, don't you?"

A soft whine escapes your throat just as you open your mouth, expecting him to push in, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands motionless, waiting for you to work his cock instead of him fucking your face; and while this is certainly a blessing, you still disliked him for what he did.

Your tongue comes out of your mouth again, this time to drag up his length before you slip the head of his cock into your mouth. However just as you did, Takeomi Akashi, Bonten's Advisor slips into you from behind, shoving deep in your cunt and making you keen around the pink-haired man's dick in your mouth.

You close your eyes at the admission, pouring all your attention on the cock in your mouth. You cannot do more than bobbing your head slightly and lapping at it. Every time Takeomi thrusts in, it moves your head to take Sanzu's cock further in. You're rocked between the two executives like that, used like a toy.

It doesn’t take long for either of the two men to finish; Takeomi—having done the same as Sanzu by rubbing your clit and bringing you so close to the edge, only to pull out and away just before you tip over into your orgasm.

Thankfully, none of them came inside you—Takeomi comes on your back while Sanzu comes on your face, his cum stringing along your cheeks, nose, and mouth.

"Mochi, your turn. I want you to show me," Mikey orders.

Mochi moves, but he does not understand immediately. You do. You bring yourself up to lean back against Mochi's wide chest and whisper, "Show him how you fuck me."

Mochi breathes in deeply. "Fuck," he exclaims. He sits on the ball of his heels, leaning back. He's a massive man, and you're folded in half as he lifts you up by your knees to sit on his cock.

Everyone can see his huge member inside your hole from this position. Kokonoi and Kakucho appear in your peripheral view, hand massaging in their pants as they look at where you and Mochi are connected, while the Haitanis are shamelessly stroking themselves beside you.

And then you hear somebody clapping. It’s Sanzu. “Excellent!” he cheers, “Give us a show.”

You throw your head back onto Mochi's broad shoulders, tongue lolling out as his cock drives in deeper than before. Slick drips down his cock to the sheets below, staining the places Mikey and you slept. With your legs spread out for anyone to see, you feel exposed, but it's also extremely arousing due to the way they look at you being treated like a sex doll.

You look for your lover, expecting him to look as cold as ever. When you find him with his cock in hand, pumping at the same rate as Mochi, the coil in your gut snaps.

Slick leaks from your clinching hole as you scream. Electric euphoria washes over you, and all you can say is "Mikey" over and over. Never once did you take your eyes off of him.

Mikey follows suit, seeing your lust-blown face, chest heaving with your orgasm. His seed spills down his cock, and all he can think of is your angelic voice singing his name.

Mochi pulls out and comes with a deep rumble of his chest staining the sheets. His cock was covered in your cum, the white streaks decorating his shaft. "There you go," he pants, once finished, he slowly and carefully lowers you to the bed and disappears from your sight.

All of the men leave you alone on the bed, you ache between your legs, the horrible feeling of being unsatisfied by the man you want is still present. Your head droops and you pant, trying to catch your breath.

Your boyfriend gets up cock still hard, quickly pacing towards you. Leaning down, his lips kiss yours roughly. "That's my girl, you did so well. "

"I need you," you whisper as he towers over your form. You'll let Mikey ravage you in front of these men. Let him feast on your body as he should have.

You’ve had fun, sure, but none of them is Mikey.

Mikey’s rough hand slides onto your back. His fingers touch the area where one of his men had cum on you, and you feel him wipe the spend from your skin before that same hand is brought up to your lips, two fingers held out as he waits, silently and expectantly.

You didn’t need to look at him to know what he wants. You open your mouth, dragging the flat of your tongue along his fingers to clean them off; and he does the same for the cum on your face too, ensuring he got every string of it before finally speaking.

"Good girl." he praises, and you feel your stomach flutter as heat pools between your thighs again; you rub them together to try to gain some friction. Mikey lowers himself to his knees then. "C'mon, love, on your back. I want them to see everything.

You are quick to obey, scrambling to lie on your back. You watch as he undoes his pants, pushing them down enough to pull his cock out. Mikey gives himself a few strokes—already fully hard and probably having been that way for a while now—before hooking his arms beneath your knees and pulling your hips up a little, then pushing himself into you in one quick, deep thrust.

A sigh escapes your mouth when he’s finally, finally inside you.

With your legs hooked over the insides of his elbows and his hands on your waist, he starts fucking you—his thrusts are somewhat slow but also deep as he hits that bundle of nerves inside you that immediately makes you keen; your hands go down and grab onto his wrists, holding them as a means to ground yourself.

He fucks you harder than anyone else that night. He fucks you hard and deep yet slowly, as if he's savoring the moment. He fucks in just where it feels great every time. Even though your voice is worn out, you continue to moan and gasp with delight. Your legs meet behind Mikey's back, and you hook them up to pull him in even deeper, you can feel him in your stomach.

Mikey starts speeding up his thrusts, his cock still rubbing against that same spot over and over and over again to the point where a familiar heat is coiling deep in your belly tighter and tighter.

"Oh god, Mikey," you breathe, your legs already trembling around him. "Harder, baby. Please fuck me harder."

Mikey's fingers dig into your waist as he grunts, taking you harder, his hips snapping against you roughly. "My men knew better than to come inside you, love," he growls, and you mewl from a combination of his possessive words and how he slams into you. "That's my place. That's only for me. You wanna get bred? You get bred by me and only me. Remember that you are mine. "

"Yes, I'm yours," you pant, your words breathy and combined with a light moan. He hikes one of your legs up to his shoulder as he curves his arm around your thigh, his thumb finding your clit between your legs, and you let out a sharp yelp at the sudden sensation. It brings you close to the edge almost immediately. "Oh, fuck, Mikey, I'm so fucking close."

"Are you going to come for me, my love? Gonna come all over my cock? Go ahead and show these boys how pretty you mewl for me. "

"Fuck yes. I'm gonna—"

His hips snap harder against you a few more times, and that’s all it takes to send you over the edge—nails digging into his wrists, and your body trembling, keening.

"Fuck, you sound so goddamn good," he breathes, his thumb still rubbing circles on your clit while your hips and legs jerk from sensitivity. His thrusts are beginning to falter, and you can tell he is getting close, but with the digit still touching your sensitive bud, he is about to send you straight into another climax.

"Oh, god," you gasp.

"How bad do you want me to fill you up, princess?" The hand that isn’t between your legs goes to one of your breasts, squeezing and groping and rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

"So fucking bad. Please, Mikey. Please come in me. "

Your mouth falls open, from the combined pleasure of Mikey's cock sliding in and out of you. You squeal loudly as your cunt squirts, throbbing, almost forcing him out. Through your half-lidded eyes, Sanzu, the Haitanis, and even Kakucho are all looking right back at your coupling with your boyfriend. You can't help but whimper when you see them lick their lips, even though you should be used to it by now.

"Fuck," the man above you groans, hips snapping faster and faster.

Mikey isn’t far behind. He slides the hand from your breasts to your throat where he wraps his fingers around the column. Your eyes open to look at him, but you don’t try to push him away; instead you just submit, allowing him to do as he pleases.

He pounds into you a few more times before burying himself balls-deep. You hear a guttural noise from him as his hips stutter, and he's coming, coming so thickly inside you. You can feel the warm liquid painting you filthily. When he's coming down from his high, he's still thrusting in and out, as if ensuring he's pushing his sperm a little deeper.

"Good girl." He pants above you, blissed-out eyes hazy as sweat drips down his neck. Your body aches as the afterglow of your orgasm petters away. Your body is used and spent, but for Mikey, you'd do it all over again.

[the-unending-journey]

Who is the more romantic one?

I'm not sure what ship you want, so I guess I'll do all of them lol

With Leofard, it's probably more Kiyo that's on the romantic side. Leo tends to be more sauve and flirty, though I guess that can be romantic too

With Oboro it's both of them. The two were kinda awkward about it at first, but they eventually got used to things

With Sidurgu it's Kiyo 100%. It's not that Sid can't be, it's just these sorts of things aren't something he's used to and he struggles with it and just kinda expresses his love in his own ways

With Haurchefant it kinda becomes a contest between the two, which Haurchefant usually ends up winning most of the time lol

With Aymeric it's both like with Oboro, but it tends to be more Aymeric, because Kiyo gets pretty flustered with the man's romantic gestures

With Ardbert it's mostly Kiyo again. Ardbert is another sort that's kinda awkward with this type of thing because it's not something he thought he'd be involved with. He has his moments though and he can be really sweet

With Erich (and Claudien as well) it's once again another where Kiyo is the more romantic one, but she gets what she dishes out in return... though very awkwardly at first

With Hyth it's both him and Panacea being romantic towards each other equally. Sometimes they even make a game out of it to outdo one another

[i-put-the-yan-in-polyandry]

Loves me, Loves me not

Warning: death, destruction, the works, minor allusions to cannibalism that you probably wouldn't have noticed, no read more bc I'm on mobile

The destruction of Teyvat had been a slow process, decaying it from the edges.

It had started with Snezhnaya. As resilient and powerful as the nation was, its unforgiving lands gave them little to fall back on as the fish rotted even in ice and the animals gave naught but disease. With only their perseverance to fall back upon, they took the energy of the fallen and fled to kinder lands.

Natlan burned. Fontaine drowned. Sumeru dried and withered.

Storms beyond the Raiden's power tore Inazuma apart. Where they'd once survived on the little left, the little left by the fallen, the storms disintegrated all. And as the fog returned, steadily consuming all in its wake, the remaining fled on boats and ships, praying there might be some hope left in the world.

Liyue welcomed the refugees. Though they too suffered and starved, they survived the end days better than most; a tribute to the Land of Geo's devotion, they thought. They welcomed the man power to continue their fight, believing their plight to be the monsters that ravaged the lands. But when the earthquakes came, they left nothing in their wake. They too were forced to flee.

To the final stronghold of life: the City of Freedom.

The lands still provided enough to live, and its people dared not refuse the in need, lest they squander what little grace remained in their home. And for a moment, it almost seemed like life could go on.

Until the deaths stopped.

Until the last land withered into stone and the survivors realized it was not by luck or skill they survived.

But that they could not fall into the sweet arms of death, that a hand kept them afloat in the agonizing waves of starvation and thirst. That their desperate methods yielded nothing but rejection.

For seven days, the people did nothing but beg at the feet of their God's statue. Their throats cracked, their bones creaked, their hearts ached, but they clung onto the only hope left; that the Divine Gaze would finally return. That the One Above would notice their plight.

On the morn of the eighth, flowers bloomed. Colors filled their dirty, grey world.

And florists cried.

Buttercups lined buildings and streets.

ingratitude, childish behavior, unfaithfulness

Yellow carnations peaked out from below the groveling citizens.

disdain, rejection

Orange lilies encircled the Archons.

hatred, pride, contempt

Blackened roses bloomed across the final statue, encasing their Beloved in thorns of midnight.

hatred, revenge, an ending

A gentle breeze carried a soothing voice across the lands.

"Loves me."

A black petal flew through the wind.

"Loves me not."

Another joined it.

"Accepts me."

A third.

"Accepts me not."

A fourth.

"To be forgiven."

And a fifth.

"To be punished."

A sixth.

"Mercy."

"Retribution."

"Continue."

"End the cycle."

"Free them."

"Destroy them."

"Let it go."

A thirteenth petal flew through the sky.

"Return in kind."

An obsidian stem dropped in front of the Archons, the so-called gods.

A figure dropped gracefully from atop the statue, a perfect replica in appearance and chill. They took three steps forward, crushing the stem underfoot.

"Then just as you forsake me, I forsake you."

Cracks, filled by gold, line their skin in horrifyingly familiar patterns.

"The people of Teyvat shall never know my blessings again."

The flowers fell to ash and the breeze picked up, taking the dust and you with it.

[emperor-kumquat]

Between the Space Adventure storyline to the Reformed Predator storyline, Predaking has been with the Autobots twice. With the Discovery storyline though, he and the Predacons wonder the wastelands. Do you write in order of location, by boss (Overlord, Sunder and now the DJD) or do you write this in kind of chronological order and there just so happens to be a coincidence?

I'm writing a bit chronologically to help myself establish the events of the world. On a timeline, the SA storyline with Overlord ends first (a few months postwar). I determined how Overlord is defeated, who returns to Cybertron, and when. The next story RP with Sunder goes past the Overlord crisis, introduces a few more characters and what the Decepticons are up to. The Discovery Storyline doesn't focus much on the civilized world so it's a bit detached and I have more freedom with the timeline. After this, more storylines will really establish Mercy events that always happen. What is important is to be consistent. For example, these events were established in SA and followed in RP: Day 1: Optimus sacrifices himself Day 1: New life is created, a lot of animals Day 3: Nemesis is partially repaired Day 3: Ripclaw emerges Day 4: Ripclaw found by now across all paths Week 1: Third Campaign returns (Autobots) Week and a half: Stray Decepticon ship arrives Week 2: Ironhide, Jazz, Prowl, Bluestreak Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Tracks arrive Week 2: Nemesis flight-capable Week 3-4: Moving the Space Bridge to Cybertron Week 5: Trip to Earth Week 5: Krok arrives Week 5: Rest of the Vehicons and Velocitronians and Junkions are brought back (Slipstream included) Week 6: Krok’s trial Week 7: Fourth Campaign returns (Autobots + prisoners) Week 7: Trip to Antilla Week 7: Obsidian’s and Strika’s trial Week 7: Trip to Arduria Week 8: Trip to Omnitron and Tsiehshi Week 8: Transporting Antillan Decepticons home Week 9: Seventh Campaign arrives (Autobots) Week 9: Trip to Thrull Week 9: Trip to Elba Week 9-10: Elba Week 10: Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Campaigns return (Autobots, Decepticons, and Star Seekers) Week 10: Elections, Trepan escapes and Sunder is revealed on camera Week 12: Overlord is defeated on Chaar/or/Overlord returns to Cybertron with Trepan

This is why it took some time before Slipstream appeared in RP. So now, the timeline will extend so that future stories can reference even people Sunder killed in RP (Shellshock, Vehicons, other Decepticons).

Because you gotta keep track of where your characters are so you can use them properly! And events must happen across all stories if Predaking can't stop them. The world moves on with or without him

[femurthief-fen]

REVIEW FOR GOLDEN SON, CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR RED RISING SERIES

**IF YOU’RE READING THIS AND GOING “why did they call ‘Sevro’ Servo??” I am dyslexic and fantasy/sci-fi names always get turned around in my head lmaooo

I have never in my life cried from joy, laughter, and complete despair through 100 pages straight

Rating: 5/5

Honestly this book deserves more than 5 stars in my opinion because holy fuck I have not been this invested in a book since Gideon The Ninth.

Pierce Brown crafts an incredible world filled with diverse and deeply intriguing characters who make you feel for their agony and understand the things they need to do. I already loved Red Rising but Golden Son did something different to me. It was a masterpiece.

The Plot: 5/5

We follow Darrow as he continues his journey through the world of the golds now under the wing of Augustus and fighting desperately for respect among the people who surround him.

“Hic sunt leones. Here be lions.”

Darrow experiences pain, loss, trauma, friendship, mercy, understanding, and love throughout Golden Son with a beautiful story of a man figuring out that what he thought was true is not to be believed, and this theme continues into the second book. Despite his blatant apprehension Darrow finds himself truly loving his gold friends and any other color who brings him joy.

Theodora is a brown who takes care of Darrow and dotes on him constantly and teases him. They have an adorable relationship that proves that Darrow is not only growing fond of the golds, but realizing that all the colors are just people, mislead, dark, dishonest sometimes, but people all the same. This book felt more philosophical to me than Red Rising, it dove more into the idea of "why" we are what we are. Why we do this to each other. The complexity of human morality and loyalty. Are our enemies evil or just mislead?

It is a deeply complex plot with so many interesting stories that show that humanity is far from perfect and things need to change, but people are still people with real pain and real fears.

“We’re all just wounded souls stumbling about in the dark, desperately trying to stitch ourselves together, hoping to fill the holes they ripped in us.”

“There is no morality to him. No goodness. No evil intent when he killed Eo. He believes he is beyond morality. His aspirations are so grand that he has become inhuman in his desperate desire to preserve humanity.”

I love how important friendship and love is in this male and war dominated plot alongside with powerful and ruthless female characters who still have huge personalities. By far the best relationship in the entire book (and series) being that between Darrow and Servo.

Servo is by far my favorite character in the series because oh my god he is incredible. Everything he says makes me laugh or cry or just be genuinely happy hes speaking. I love this goblin child. Every scene between him and Darrow sharing a moment of true sympathy for everything the other is going through felt honest and loving, something we don't see often between male characters.

Characters: 5. out. of. fucking. 5.

I think i could literally scream for hours about how well rounded and complex these characters are. They feel like real people. Messy, broken, and holding onto each other for dear life.

Darrow feels a lot more guilt for the things he does to the golds than he did in the last book. He wonders if he is becoming the very monster he's trying to defeat. Darrow has a subtle shift throughout this entire book from pride and vengeance to almost a repentance and understanding. He keeps people at a distance but he aims to inspire any color to be as eccentric and strong willed as possible.

This is shown most through Ragnar, an obsidian that takes to Darrow after they find him aboard a ship. Darrow does not order him or berate him like the other golds do, he asks Ragnar what he wants out of life. Ragnar becomes increasingly loyal to him as he realizes Darrow is not like the people who tormented him. But still Darrow is aware of his wrongdoings and that the innocent boy in the mines died with Eo. He is no longer a force of pure rage as he was in the first book, but now a calculated, thoughtful, destructive, and powerful leader.

“But that man is gone. I mourn his passing every day. Forgetting more and more of who I was, what dreams I held, what things I loved. The sadness now is numb. And I carry on despite the shadow it casts over me.”

Servo plays an even more prominent role in this book which makes me so fucking happy. He also takes on a complex character arc as he begins to understand what war really means for him and everyone around him. Servo's loyalty to Darrow as his closest friend and his genuine love and acceptance of both sides of Darrow make a beautiful found family/friendship.

“I’m Gold, bitch. What’d you expect? Warm milk and cookies just because I’m pocket-sized?”

Mustang also comes back to remind us she is a genius and a badass and to keep Darrow in line. We begin to realize how torn Mustang is between what she believes and her love for her family. She proves time and time again that she would do anything for her family but not at the cost of destroying the friendships she's built unless absolutely necessary.

Victra is chaotic, sassy, brilliant, and severely underused in this book, I love her.

Lorn, Darrow's tutor is a complicated and wise man who tries to keep Darrow from falling into the same path he did. He has large role in golden son because I think Darrow sees him as the father figure that he lost. And its clear Lorn sees the same familial relationship and love for Darrow.

“A fool pulls the leaves. A brute chops the trunk. A sage digs the roots.”

Augustus,the very man who killed Darrow's wife, is Darrow's Archgoverner and leader. He gives Darrow orders and keeps him at a distance but this develops into one of the most interesting parts of the story. Darrow begins to realize what Augustus is, a man trying to keep order and keep people alive in the only way he was taught how. Darrow doesn't condone what Augustus does of course but he begins to understand the perspective the golds have on life that has been ingrained on them since birth.

“Brutality.” Augustus lets the word hang in the air. “It is neither evil nor good. It is simply an adjective of a thing, an action in this case. What you must parse is the nature of the action.”

Ragnar is the final character I'll talk about because many of the other arcs are developed through major spoilers. Ragnar joins our little crew about halfway through the book. He's a powerful obsidian who takes to Darrow because he sees him almost as a kind and merciful god in the beginning, but a friendship blossoms from their and Darrow places a lot of trust in the tortured yet loving man.

The Gold spits. “You send a dog to do your fighting?” “I am a man!” Ragnar roars louder than the screaming engines of a passing ship.”

Anyways if you haven't tried the red rising series I highly suggest it. Seriously. Its incredible

[books-of-the-great-leviathan]

Chapter 3- Alois

***

"Marriage," he repeated, slowly. "To end a war."

His father stared down at him, unmoved by Alois's shock. A gust of wind scoured down the sea walk, and Alois shuddered. He steadied himself on the parapet. His father's expression tightened, lines drawn deep at the corners of his eyes.

"A marriage of politics," the king said. "The girl is the youngest child of Queen Sofia Valere. Princess of Lapide. Beloved by her nation. As your queen she will tie Lapide to us forever."

"But..."

"Do you not want this war to end, Alois?"

"Of...of course, I-"

"And won't you be king someday?"

Alois's gaze snapped up. Heat flooded his face. He leaned against the parapet and stared down, hundreds of feet to the waves crashing at the foot of the cliffs. The king gripped his wrist and jerked him back, so close Alois felt the faint heat of his anger.

"Look at me when I speak to you," his father said. "Do you hear me?"

"I- yes, I-"

"Do you have an objection?"

"I've...I've never met the princess..."

"I did not know your mother when I married her. She was little more than a stranger to me. The first time I heard her voice was when she swore her oaths to me under Bellana's eyes. I did not care to know her, not then. I was king. My father was dead. My country needed me. It needs you now, Alois, and I will not hear your objections. I will accept nothing but your agreement."

He released Alois's arm. Alois stumbled, the small of his back hitting stone. Seabirds danced overhead, scraps of shadow against the sun. Alois closed his eyes, counting his heartbeats, then opened them to his father once more.

"When?" he said.

"You're luckier than I was. You'll meet Princess Cereza in Valeris, in one week's time. Your ships are already being made ready. I will send men with you. Soldiers. Gifts. The agreement has been made. Now all you must do is honor it."

Alois nodded. His gaze shifted to his boot toes. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes. Myself and the Witchhunter have agreed you'll be taking the Belmont cup."

His eyes jerked up. A blade of ice seemed to lance through his guts, turning his blood cold despite the beating sun. "What? Give the Cup to Lapide? No-"

"They must understand this is no game, no trick," his father said. "The Cup is a gift that will strengthen us all in the giving."

"But..." He licked his lips. All his arguments clattered around his mind like startled glimmits. His father was right. He was more than right. If this was to be peace, and Alois hoped beyond hope it was, he had to be prepared for sacrifice.

The Cup, however precious, had not been enough to save his mother. It wouldn't bring her back. Nothing would. But maybe it could be enough to save Estara.

His head ached. His father watched him, folding his hands behind his back. His strong features were impassive, but Alois saw the look in his eyes relent. He swept his gaze out to sea, to the edge of the horizon.

"I know this isn't what you would have chosen," his father said. "It isn't my first choice, either."

Alois lifted his eyebrows. "...It isn't?"

"No. Bellana's mercy, Alois, you think I want Lapide's own princess by your side?" He gave a soft laugh. "She'll be building her pagan shrines in the Tower and dressing us all in blue come Arva's fall. No. No, this wasn't my first choice. But choices must be made, when a man wears the obsidian crown like we two."

The air seemed at once thin. Daval had never spoken like this to him. Not for a long, long time, not since his childhood. "I...I suppose not."

"Hm. I know you do." He paused once more. He hadn't looked down at Alois, his eyes yet fixed on the horizon. "I know these years have been...difficult."

A pang twisted into Alois's heart. He was ten years old when his mother died, when he woke with a start to find the nurses spreading the death-veil over the queen's body. He hadn't left her side for days, not since her illness had worsened. He told her stories when she was awake, and whispered them when she was asleep, like his naive faith could keep her alive when medicines and physicians, alchemy and witch-doctors and philosophers from the far reaches of the Inner Sea, had failed. That last night he'd failed too, and fallen asleep by the sickroom fire.

When he woke, nets around her bed had turned the sight of her hazy. The room reeked of death, of chalky medicine, of the thick oversweet smell of night-drop. Even through the veils, he could tell she wasn't moving anymore. He'd flung himself toward her with a cry, but an arm had caught him, holding him back even as he kicked, and screamed, and sobbed. The Royal Witchhunter, Severin Azare, clutching him like he was a tiny child.

Even the memory brought a wave of shame. At least, he told himself it was shame. A strong man, a true son of Estara, never let himself be made a mockery by his emotions. All the same, tears stung his eyes. Don't look. Azare had whispered that, and his voice was raw, the only time Alois had heard it unsteady. Don't look.

The king had not come. Not until the queen's body was veiled and washed, until the smell of death was obscured by perfumes. He'd had no words of comfort for his son then, when it most counted.

"Difficult," Alois muttered. "What would you know about that? Mother was barely cold in her tomb before you went hunting for a younger wife-"

"Alois."

"Even the Witchhunter has more heart than you," Alois spat. His heart hammered, his face hot. The sun was too bright. He should stop. He knew he should stop. But his traitor mouth kept moving, the words spilling from him like water. "I wish-"

The blow cracked across his face, shattering his burst of mad courage. Alois cried out, his father's slap still ringing in his ears. His vision pulsed; the side of his face blazed, no pain, just shock and silence.

He blinked, then looked up to where the king stood over him. No more sorrow in his eyes. The fury there astounded him, cowed him, drowned his words inside him. There was the warlord, the man who'd burn Lapidaean soldiers alive on their own ships, with their own spellfire. The king who was called the Bloodmonger, who decorated his warships with the heads of executed Lapidaean commanders, who left survivors floundering for the sharks in gore-streaked waters. The fellfox was the Estaran sigil, wrought in black and silver on a field of red, an animal ferocious when defending its den and kits against those who might do them harm. They had nothing on Daval Belmont.

Alois's vision blurred. For a moment he thought tears would come and he'd get to see disgust as well as rage on his father's face, but the blur didn't go away, and no tears fell. Alois blinked again. Spots swam in his eyes, gray and misty. Panic rose, swallowing his shock. The spots faded moments later, but the panic lingered.

The king saw it, registered it. For a heartbeat, confusion wavered. Alois imagined his prayers to Bellana: why would you shame me with this cripple son? Is he cursed? Am I cursed? Please, Sky-Queen, tell me.

The disgust came sudden, vicious as a whip crack.

"Make yourself ready," he said. "And get out of my sight."

"Father," Alois said. "Please. I...I can fix..." He gestured to his face, his eyes. "Please. Just give me time."

"I said get out."

He didn't need to ask again. Alois bowed and turned and got out, urging himself not to run.

***

Lapide and Estara. Maybe they existed to fight, like heroes and monsters of myth, unable to keep their teeth from each other for more than a short sweet time. Their two island nations had once been one, sundered by civil war, a conflict between heirs that ended bloody. It left the islands snapping at each other throughout the nine centuries since, animals on either end of a too-short chain.

Estara never forgot the battleground that had birthed their divided nations. The King's Hall of Pavaloir Tower was a shrine to it. Great slabs of volcanic rock were raised to its walls, set in frames of steel so they formed a vast relief running down both sides of the hall. The floor was rust-colored marble and cast a bloody gleam over the mass of figures carved into the slabs. They were centuries old, depicting the war between brothers that had first split Lapide and Estara.

The Sundered Empire. Falling stars blazed, marking pathways over battle-churned seas. Soldiers in archaic armor fought, and fell, and died. Alchemists weaved spellfire to swallow armadas. Alois moved down the main panel, following the battle as it raged thicker and bloodier. It ended with a single triumphal relief of Ardain, beloved of Bellana and the first of the Belmont kings. He sat astride his armored elk, sword lifted to strike off his traitorous brother's head.

The brother knelt below like a sacrifice, head bowed as if waiting for the blade to fall. It was said the sword was carved from a scale fallen from the Great Leviathan itself, though none alive could attest. The sword had been tossed in the sea, or broken, or made into table forks for all Alois knew. He stared up at the warrior-king. Ardain was fully twice his height and rendered in glorious, gory detail. His face, with its close beard and its nose like an axe blade, was all too familiar to him. He only hoped his father wouldn't end the way Ardain had: betrayed by his own friends and cast into the hungry jaws of a sea-ork.

Somehow he suspected not.

He let out a shuddering breath, then turned and hurried away, through double doors and down a broad flight of steps leading him once more into the full heat of the sun. The black walls of the Tower rose around him, the sun framed by battlements overhead so it stared down, the searing white pupil of a vast blue eye. Alois kept his gaze averted, kept his step swift, glad of the heat and the echo of his bootsteps on the flagstones; no thoughts could get through it. If only such things could be shooed away for good, like foxes from a pen of brushfowl. But thoughts were quick, like foxes; they always got in, and then there was ever a bloody mess in the dust.

Shouts and the ring of metal off metal echoed up to him as he turned down covered walkways, then emerged into the practice yards. They were attached to the stables and barracks, all built from the same dark stone as the rest of the fortress, and it shimmered in the drenching sunlight. The yards were full of flashing metal, billowing dust, guards at practice bouts and captains calling drills as squads wheeled through dust-clouds. Swordstrike rang through his skull like a blow. Alois' struck cheek throbbed. He hurried on before anyone in the yards could catch a look at him, headed for the long, low building now in the shadow of the Tower.

Within, the musky darkness was full of the whicker and rumble of elk. Horns clattered like dry branches, the smells of hay and animals mingling with leather and polish, slowing his pulse, steadying his head. Alois quickly saddled his elk and fastened his hood and scarf around his face. The last thing he needed was some sentry seeing him and reporting his movements to the king. He'd already acted enough of a coward today.

"Alois!"

He looked round as Marin rushed toward him, trailed by a harried-looking maid. His little brother's face glowed, his blue eyes wide. Alois grinned and caught him round the middle, hoisting him into a whirl. Marin laughed and threw his arms round Alois's waist as he came back down.

"Father says you've got to go," Marin said.

"It's only for a few days." He ruffled Marin's hair. "You won't even realize I'm gone."

"Yes I will. I wish I could go with you. I want to see a sailfish."

"Just be glad you don't have to cross Bellana's Arm." Alois made exaggerated retching noises. Marin giggled. "I'll spend the whole time trying not to be sick. No fun at all. You won't be missing anything."

Marin clambered onto the gate and began stroking Alois's elk. The animal snorted into his palm, extending its long black tongue to lick the salt off Marin's fingers.

"When you're king," Marin said, "will you let me go see the sailfish?"

"Anytime you like."

"Father wouldn't. He says I have to be strong. A soldier." Marin paused. "I don't want to be a soldier."

"I know."

"He says I have to be a true son of Estara."

Alois took a long breath. "And what would you rather be?"

"A fisherman."

Alois nearly laughed. "A fisherman? And have to gut fish all day?"

Marin looked down, then back toward his nurse, standing with head bowed. "I heard him," Marin said. "Father. Talking about Mother."

Cold rippled through Alois, despite the close heat of the stables. "What did Father say?"

"Him and the Witchhunter were talking. He said Mother wasn't strong. Said he'd chosen wrong. Like the last time." He blinked, hard. "He didn't choose wrong, did he? He's not going to take my mother away, is he?"

Alois couldn't look his little brother in the eyes. He busied himself with his elk's saddle, easing the girth strap tighter.

"You should get back to your studies," he said at last. "Can't be a proper fisherman without knowing your sums, now, can you?"

"Promise me you'll come back," Marin said. He tugged at Alois's cloak. "Please."

Alois let his breath out, gaze fixed on the saddle. His eyes burned.

I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen.

He knelt to Marin's level.

"Of course I'll come back," he said, and pulled Marin into a tight hug. His throat ached, but he held back his tears, squeezing his eyes shut as he buried his face in his little brother's hair. "I have to be king, don't I?"

Heat poured across him as he left the fortress, winding down the narrow switchback foot-path that faced the sea. Stones scattered from under his elk's hooves as the animal loped down the cliffs. Below, waves crashed, the chill sea wind his only relief from the heat. The waves were as vibrant as the afternoon sky; high overhead Alois caught the trace of one moon, the edge of a crescent standing ghostly against the cloudless blue.

Stara's northern coastlines were all crags and seabirds, raptors wheeling off the high spires of dark rock thrusting sharp and lonely from the scree. Alois wound away from Pavaloir, away from the thrum and chug of warship engines, away from the clamor and dust of the city's outskirts. Within the hour, his only companions were bird calls and the bellows breathing of his mount. He slowed his pace, and silence rushed in. The sea still boomed below, the wind a thin and winding thing sliding between rock spires.

Nothing moved in the burnt red landscape, nothing but Alois's shadow, like some lonely spirit lost to the wilderness. Here was a land of snakes and rock folk and seers crouching in holes, of monstrous cradle stories and ghosts loosed to the wind.

A chill traced Alois's spine. Not all these spires were natural, not all carved over centuries by Estara's winds. Towers stood on the high crags, crumbling things built from the same red stone as the rest of the land, windows empty, ramparts decayed. They were thousands of years old, built by the first settlers of Stara, the mightiest of the three sister isles. Statues, too, features worn and softened by time: winged figures, women with three faces and great many-eyed beasts. Only broken stumps remained of hands, of fangs, the statues listing to the side or collapsed entirely as they were devoured by the dust and sand.

He urged his elk on, heading inland, deeper into the maze of cliffs and rock formations. The horizon was touched with violet by the time he reached the shrine, its entrance a fold of rock in the base of a mountainside, hiding the hidden passage leading deeper into the earth.

Water rushed as he guided his elk through the low stacked-stone walls, into the cool, shadowed cavern beyond.

This was no grand holy place, nothing like the King's Hall in the fortress, nothing like the cathedrals of Pavaloir with Saints looming from the walls and the eyes of Bellana watching, always. Here was a place wept into being by water, shaped over centuries by countless wanderers. The walls were painted with arcane patterns in blue, pigment worn and flaking with time. Alois traced them with one fingertip. He recognized the form of the Great Leviathan, sowing monsters in its wake. The Leviathan, from whose blood all life sprang, and with it all power.

The spring gushed from the shrine itself, a pile of rocks scattered with small offerings: coins, charms on chains, twists of hair bound with ribbon or sinew, tiny figurines carved of ork-bone, candles melted to puddles of wax. Above all stood a statue, Alois's height, carved not from red stone but from quartz-veined rock black as night: a three-faced woman, wings curled around her body so she seemed cloaked in feathers. Each face was eerie, high cheekbones and almond eyes, elongated and alien.

Alois tugged off his scarf and hood, then knelt and plunged his hands into the spring. The water was frigid, clear, so pure it was like drinking starlight. He gulped palmful after palmful before he made himself stop.

He wiped his hands off on his trousers. "I didn't bring much this time," he told the three-faced woman. "Just this."

He drew his boot knife and set its point into one fingertip. He smeared an arc of his blood across one of the shrine's stones, where it glistened.

"I hope it's enough," he went on.

Stories chased one another through his head, whispered to him by his mother when the maids had left and the two of them could be alone. Alois had listened with wonder, his mother's voice soft and husky in the semidark, the scent of snowbloom round her like a veil.

Pagan tales, Alois knew now, not the word of mighty Sky-Queen Bellana, but more like the beliefs still practiced by the heretics of Lapide, with their three witch-goddesses and their barbaric rituals. Alois had come here with his mother when he was still a child, and had never stopped coming.

He'd not forgotten her stories, either. He didn't know if he believed them, but this was the last place he had where his mother felt, in some way, alive. That was holy enough for him.

He raised his eyes to the three-faced woman. She stared down, veins of quartz glimmering in what little sunlight reached these depths. If Daval had known his queen's true religion, he'd have had her cast out years before she'd had a chance to die. Maybe Alois was damned by coming here, by lingering, by leaving pieces of himself in this pagan place, but he didn't care. Bellana had never granted him anything, just this curse, and his father's shame. Just war, and loss, and death.

The princess Cereza worshipped gods like this. Alois tried to imagine her face, but couldn't; he kept seeing Marin, kept seeing Azare, kept seeing himself and how he must have looked to his father. Was Cereza doing the same, somewhere across the sea? Had she shamed herself to her mother, the queen, or had she accepted her duty?

"Will this end the war?" he asked. "Is this right?"

No answers came. Outside, night had come, and the dark crept in. He heard the scuff of his elk's hooves as the animal shifted, the jangle of its harness, his own hammering, uncertain heart. His blood had dried to a smear of rust.

He sighed, and, using the flint and steel set in a niche by the spring, coaxed one of the candles to light. The glow was a weird one, throwing strange shadows through the shrine, but comforting, too. This much he could control.

Please let this be right. Please let there be peace.

Please, please, please.

But he had nothing more to give. He raised his eyes once more to the three-faced woman's and knew that was not enough of an excuse for gods.

[echoghost1]

EchoGhost's Phic Phight 2021 Master Post

And in case you missed any, or just like seeing the whole gang together, here is every single fic I wrote for my first ever Phic Phight!

1) Perseverance

AO3 or Tumblr

Summary: While Maddie is helping Danny with his homework a notification from his phone becomes a major distraction.

Prompt: PR134 - Danny is sitting quietly next to someone. Maybe he's doing homework with his friends, maybe Jazz is driving him somewhere, maybe he's working on a group project with someone, maybe he's doing something else entirely. He suddenly starts *freaking* the heck out - Perseverance has just landed on Mars, and he just found out about it. How is his reaction perceived by whoever he's with?

2) The Reason You Wail

AO3 or Tumblr

Summary: An odd feeling he can't quite explain is haunting Danny. He wants it to stop but he knows it won't, he just knows now.

Prompt: PR054 - As Danny gets older, he doesn't just predict the appearance of ghosts. He starts predicting when someone's going to die.

3) Forget Your Life Story

AO3 or Tumblr

Summary: Danny woke up with no memory. He didn’t even know his own name. The doctor told him it would come back and his parents were there to help him. He trusts them, even if he doesn't recognize them. Even if some things didn’t quite line up.

Prompt: PR002 - Danny woke up from being in a month long coma with no memory of how he got there or anything about his past. Thankfully, the doctors said that his memory would return eventually, and he had his loved ones nearby to tell him who he was and his life story. However, as his memory slowly returns, there's huge, distinct differences between what he's been told and the things he's remembering.

4) Recreational Botany

AO3 or Tumblr

Summary: It wasn't her fault. She was merely curious, had only wanted to help. She didn't mean for this to happen. She just hoped it would wear off soon. (TW: Drug use - Weed)

Prompt: PR228 - Ghost weed.

5) Fool’s Errand (Ghost Prince AU)

AO3 or Tumblr

Summary: It had been hours since Danny flew off to fight Pariah Dark and Vlad took it upon himself to see what was taking the boy so long.

Prompt: PR065 - After their fight, Pariah Dark decides Danny has all the qualities he wants in an heir and forcibly adopts him. (Danny can either lose the fight to put him back in the Sarcophagus, or Pariah can get out again later.)

6) You Walked Right Into This

AO3 or Tumblr

Summary: Sometimes walking is more than just walking. (TW: Child Abuse)

Prompt: PR142 - Jack and Maddie seriously injure Danny Fenton, resulting in him being at their mercy and revealing he’s not exactly human. Now the parents have to decide wether to help him... or finish what they started. TW for serious injury and probably gore and angst.

7) What You Fear The Most (Scary Ghost Form AU)

AO3 or Tumblr

Summary: What if his ghost form was less human-looking? What if he looked every bit the monster his parents had always told him ghosts were?

Prompt: PR035 - Monstrous: AU where Danny's ghost form is monstrous and grotesque. On one hand, he doesn't have to worry about anyone recognizing him; on the other, it might be even harder to convince people that he's a good guy

8) Parallels

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Summary: It's amazing the things you learn on a field trip.

Prompt: PR047 - Wacky reveals (ex: Danny drying up too quickly bc intangibility, Danny's drink stays cool way too long, people's electronic devices are always more charged when they've been near Danny, etc)

9) Cast Into Obsidian (Blind AU)

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Summary: The accident sent Danny to the hospital due to the damage to his eyes.

Prompt 01: PR092 - Write a more traditional ghost story. How would things change if ghost powers weren’t super powers, but closer to old horror movie tropes?

Prompt 02: PR259 - The Accident didn’t turn Danny into a half ghost, but instead allowed him to see, hear, and physically interact with the very real ghosts that are now pouring through the portal (Alternative: Danny’s always been clairvoyant, but after the accident he finally sees all of the ghosts he’d grown up talking to)

10) Where The Lines Overlap (Parallels part 2)

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Summary: Maddie wants to know what her son has been keeping from her and today he finally decides to tell her. (TW: Outsider POV of PTSD flashbacks)

Prompt: PR091 - When he told his parents the truth, Danny had only ever bothered thinking about the stress of potential dissection. With that out of the way, and his secret fully accepted, he realised that there were a lot of unexpected things to adjust to... Write about something funny or awkward as the Fentons learn to live with a half ghost son!

11) Quoth the Librarian, “But I’m Alone?”

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Summary: Eleanor loved her job at the school library. She always made sure to come in early to make sure everything was just right before the students came. Today something beat her there.

Prompt: PR234 - Suddenly, there was a knock at the door...

12) The Baldr to My Odin (Ghost Prince AU part 2)

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Summary: Pariah has recently acquired a son and wants to get to know him better.

Prompt: PR121 - Pariah Dark wakes up from his slumber and tries to live a peaceful existence in his castle practicing his swordsmanship and rebuilding his castle with all modern luxuries. But ghost from the ghost zone keep trying to challenge him to become king.

13) Tagged

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Summary: Dr. Flora Santos and her partner Dr. Carlos Rodriguez have lucked out as they have finally caught their most elusive subject.

Prompt: PR090 - Something physical happens to Danny’s body that makes it impossible to keep his secret identity, well, secret.

14) The Paleontologist and The Princess (Dino boy AU)

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Summary: Danny had one true passion; Paleontology. So can anyone really blame him for getting excited when he thinks he comes face to face with a dinosaur? Even if it isn't a dinosaur after all.

Prompt: PR139 - "Actually, Dad? I wanted to be a paleontologist."

15) Lost In Transmission

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Summary: There's a Ghost Expo happening at Casper High and Danny thinks it'll be fun to see all the incorrect ways people try to find ghosts. He learns the hard way that just because is old, doesn't mean it doesn't work.

Prompt: PRO58 - Casper high is holding a supernatural expo. Supposed paranormal experts are gathered in their gym to show off their expertise. Thinking it'll be a flop, since most employ methods that aren't modern, Danny and his friends go for fun. Only, it turns out that traditional ghost hunting techniques are more efficient than they seem.

16) Dark Familiarity (Role Swap AU)

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Summary: Danny has been hunting ghosts for a while now. He has been ever since they ruined his life and a mysterious package arrived with everything he needed to exact his revenge. (TW: Character Death)

Prompt: PR095 - Danny and Valerie role swap (but not personality swap!!). How does Valerie fair as a ghost? How does Danny do as a ghost hunter (and what motivates him to do it in the first place?) [Shipping them is fine, but gen fics are preferred!]

17) I’ve Felt It Too

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Summary: Ember's having a bad day and Danny tries to help.

Prompt: PR079 - Phantom looked at Ember. Her eyes filled with tears. She gnashed her teeth and screamed. "You don't know what it's like."

And Phantom, with a heavy sigh whispered. "Yeah, I do..."

18) Repair All Of The Damage (Undead Danny AU)

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Summary: After the tragic loss of her son, Maddie vows to bring him back. No matter what. (TW: Death of a child)

Prompt: PR088 - tw; death of a child?

The Fentons had their daughter sure but they always wanted a son. due to an accident or complication with their son, Danny, died. They decide to put their ghostly knowledge to use and try to summon the spirit of their son back to them. They are ghost scientists. they know how to contain them after all. How much time that has passed between the death and the 'summoning' is up to you!

19) Out Of This World (And Into The Next)

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Summary: What if when Danny first fought the Lunch Lady ghost she actually noticed how young he was. What if she didn't know he was more than just another ghost? What if when she commented on how underweight he was, she decided to help him?

Prompt 01: PR113 - Danny has an existential crisis because he’s dead

Prompt 02: PR242 - somehow, he's gotten younger

20) Spirit Versus Spunk

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Summary: Mr. Lancer isn't sure how he's supposed to be reacting to what he's seeing, but seeing as he's the adult here, he better make up his mind.

Prompt: PR019 - Danny and Wes Weston fight over a harmless ghost. This happens during a ghost attack.

21) The Group Project From Hell

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Summary: Danny and Tucker get stuck working with someone that they really don’t want to

Prompt: Everyone hates group projects, and that’s even if you like your group members. Tucker, Danny, and Elliot/Gregor all get teamed up for a group project, and Tucker and Danny need to refrain from killing him.

And as an added bonus I did make a Spotify playlist for this too! There's a song for each fic that I felt best fit the vibe of each story.