#so ready to see them fall to their own hubris—

[dent-de-leon]

feeling feral rereading all the Somnovum and Aeor lore in the Lucien novel—

Would especially love to see Fastidan’s fall after how he treated Lucien and all the other people he imprisoned—

[0bticeo]

lurk | feyd-rautha

part one of five. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary:

feyd-rautha. 

there he is, strong arms spread wide, dual blades stained black, basking in the glorious aftermath of combat. at his feet, atreides soldiers. dead.

you unsheathe your blade, the dull metal grinding against its sheath.

it is kill or be killed, and you intend to live.

wc: 2k

tw: blood. death. non graphic description of gore (this is a gladiator fight). mentions of eugenics. fighting as foreplay. reader may or may not have a blood kink. knife kink??? reader is more refined than feyd but don't let it fool you she's a freak. uuuh hubris? probable inaccurate handling of dune lore, esp with the voice (forgive me for the creative liberty of assuming the mother of the kwisatz haderach should be a freak. as a treat.)

many, many years ago, the sisterhood deems you ready for the gom jabbar. you enter the room, your mother a looming shadow, hands folded in her sleeves, head bowed before a long figure cloaked in shadows.

it doesn’t sit right with you, this intrusion in your mother’s parlor. how dare that old witch make a servant out of your mother in her own house?

“kneel.”

you do. you fall to your knees. before you, a phalto green box. in it, pain. at your neck, the gom jabbar, its deadly poison whispering into your ear.

it tells you about sweet, sweet little death. it tells you the reverend mother will not put your life in danger. not when you’re the culmination of nineteen generations of careful planning.

you are to be married to a harkonnen and bear the kwisatz haderach.

so you raise your head and put your hand in the box, eyes boring into the old crone’s. you see something flash in her depthless eyes. you think of the calm before mother-storms, the stillness of the air before pounding rain. 

it’s rage.

pain shoots through your hand. fire that burns and charrs and eats away at your flesh, consuming one layer of skin after another until you’re sure it reaches the bone below. you almost scream. instead, you bite your lip until metal-blood stains your tongue. 

you will endure this pain. you will not let fear consume you — you have nothing to fear, you shall not die, not here. fear is the mind killer. pain is the mind killer. you will let it wash over you and face the eons of bene gesserit knowledge standing before you.

through gritted teeth, you ask:

“am i human enough, oh wise one?”

you were. otherwise you wouldn’t be here, years later, rotting in a harkonnen cell. 

(there are things that have been kept a secret from you. you have been raised following your mother’s footsteps in the weirding way. the reverend mother denied you a place under her tutelage with harsh words and a harsher look. you’ve caught wind of her thoughts in shimmering fragments of dreams — what has jessica done?)

it will matter, in the end, that your mother decided to give your father a son. already, you’ve seen it, behind the web of your eyelids, the lone silhouette of your brother, blood of your blood, rising, rising.

he will gather them, the fremen, from the burning sands of arrakis, and rise, blade glinting under scorching sun. lisan al gaib, they already call him, hushed whispers lost in the shifting sands of dunes. 

your hand falls to your womb, empty still. 

they were scared, the bene gesserit. the atreides line was growing too powerful, too fast. you — the promised daughter, skilled in the way, with tongue and mind sharper than your blade — are to be bred and deliver the one.

but in came paul — beloved little mouse of a younger brother. too smart, too observant, too skilled, too much. your mother’s defiance, your mother’s love for your father led her to commit the unthinkable and defy the order.

it retaliated.

you’ve been betrayed. that, you’ve seen coming. so did your father. so did your mother. even your brother felt it, in his very bones, the low thrum of wrongness. something was bound to happen. something was bound to shake you to your very core. 

something happened.

the harkonnens came. house atreides fell. you can still smell it, the stench of death, the bloodied sands beneath your feet as you struck and struck.

all must die, and so they did.

you feel it still, the blood coating your hands, your forearms, dripping from your blade, the old scar on your forearm burning righteous fury. 

they caught you, in the end. you, who willingly put a target on your back, allowing your brother and mother’s quiet escape. you, beaten down, bloodied. grinning, voice warping the harkonnen rats’ perception.

“you will not see me as i am.”

the atreides have been set up. offering arrakis has been nothing but a convenient way for the emperor to get rid of your bloodline.

you scoff; in the quiet depths of your cell, your fingers dig crescent moons in your palms.

you’ve been taught to read behind veils upon veils of lies. the truthsayer suggested the eradication of your house. painted you a threat.

being able to breed the kwisatz haderach won’t protect you.

so here you are, eldest daughter of duke leto atreides and lady jessica, older sister to paul atreides. here you are, sitting with your back pressed up against the wall. cold seeps into your marrow, reaching bone. rage simmers low in your gut. you quell it. nurse it until it becomes a living beast eager to feast.

you will need it.

your body fails you. your sight is blurry, your hands tremble. they should not. duncan would have hit the back of your head had he been there. he isn’t. (dead.) breathe in. breathe out. focus what’s left of your attention on the too small bowl of food that’s been given to you, on the glass of water. empty, both of them. 

poison isn’t a problem — not with your training, not with the constant shifting and turning of lethal molecules within you. there. prana bindu — precise alteration of the body’s vitals. you will bear your condition for a time, weakened, but alive.

you clench your fist and slam it against the wall. pain surges through you, burning through your joint. good. if fear is the mind killer, pain clears the fog clogging your brain.

here goes: you’re rotting in the cell of your hereditary enemy, malnourished and poisoned. you’ve heard the guards, their off handed comments when they thought you too drugged to understand. your cell is below an arena. you will need to fight. perhaps, they’ll pit you against your men. the atreides house, dying by its own hand. fitting. 

you’re neck-deep in trouble.

the door slides open. two guards come in, all dressed in black. harkonnens. harkonnens everywhere, and you cannot do a damned thing as they pull you up, pushing you out of your cell. they’re laughing. those bastards are laughing.

one less atreides scum in the known universe — good riddance!

you will tear into them and rip out their spine with your teeth.

they drag you in a maze of hallways, each darker than the last. you’re ascending, a catabasis of twists and turns and sliding doors. there’s a low thrum in your gut. louder and louder with each step is a pulse. a chant. a name. 

the guards press a blade in your hand and push you forward.

the door slides up. shadows part. you blink with a low hiss. light pours down on you, all-consuming, blinding. sands stretch before you, unnaturally white.

the arena.

thousands upon thousands of people gaze down at you. the voice surges forward, eons of your foremother speaking through you.

“you will not perceive me as i am.”

something trickles down your nose. blood. you’ve overdone it. the voice isn’t meant to be used against that many people, not for long.

you wipe it off.

it will have to hold for the time of this fight. the harkonnen won’t rest until the atreides are completely and utterly wiped out. deceit is your only chance at survival.

the thought makes your blood boil. 

good thing the crowd is screaming for it. they're all screaming for it. a pulse. a chant. a name.

feyd-rautha. 

there he is, strong arms spread wide, dual blades stained black, basking in the glorious aftermath of combat. at his feet, atreides soldiers. dead.

you unsheathe your blade, the dull metal grinding against its sheath.

the noise alone has him turning towards you, head tilting to the side. he’s assessing you, na-baron feyd-rautha harkonnen. he glances up. for a split second, you follow his gaze. above, looking down upon you, is baron vladimir harkonnen, gargantuan mass of flesh.

you want him to collapse. to watch as his bones break under the weight of monstrous grease. you make out the movement of his lips.

happy birthday, nephew.

he’s on you before you can react. your blade raises. steel meets steel. you clench your teeth. his strength surpasses yours. you won’t yield, not to him. but by god is the bastard strong. you’ve got your hands full with just parrying his blows, the force of them echoing in your very bones. your feet slide on the sand below. any more and you’ll lose your footing.

his blades meet yours, again and again, their serrated edge slicing the corrupt air of the arena. they slice through you, too. a vicious cut on your bare forearm has you reeling back, your blade and sheath raising to parry.

this is bad. there’s only so much you can deal with in your decrepit state. fighting to survive isn’t an option — you must kill or be killed.

.

.

.

you draw in a sharp breath.  

watchful eyes bore down upon you. bene gesserit. the reverend mother herself has come to geidi prime.

something at your side — you let your guard down. there’s a flash, a metallic clang. feyd-rautha gazes down upon you, apex predator with your death written in the greedy sands of the arena. here, you’re precious prey. 

rage grips you by the throat and has you baring your teeth.

there you are, blades intertwined with harkonnen scum, a breath away from his lips. they part in a slow, assessing grin. you feel more than you see his appraising gaze raking over you. you, unyielding, matching him blow for blow, blood drip drip dripping down. under the black sun of geidi prime, it, too, has turned a velvety black.

from above your crossed blades, you raise your head and meet his eyes — twin pools of dark, abysses made to consume you whole. time slows down. you want to drown in the marrow of him and feel the warmth of his flesh beneath yours, lost in rapturous agony. something settles in your gut, low and warm.

you call it fury.

you pivot out of the way and nick him, a thin cut splitting open the skin of his cheek. he laughs. slashes at you with deathly precision. you duck, squatting down, leg springing forth, slamming at the back of his knee. he falls. catches you by the ankle and drags you to him.

you snarl. 

“let go.”

how utterly pathetic of you. his grip falters. you hear his blades fall to the ground. you twist, pivot until you’re straddling him, blade pressed against his throat.

there you have it. internal carotid, right below the sculpted edge of his jaw. five minutes until death. five minutes, with his lifeblood coating your hands, soaking your robes, sinking down to your skin beneath.

your hand cramps on the handle of your weapon, in a mockery of rigor mortis. nervous impulse. the tip of the blade pierces tender flesh, drawing a droplet of blood. you follow its path down the column of his flesh, until it reaches the edge of his collarbone.

his hands surges forward, seizing your forearm in a vice grip, yanking you towards him. you feel his breath on your lips with his next words.

“do it.”

his voice sends a shiver down your spine. low, gravelly, it calls for blood. if you don’t spill his, yours will be drawn. yet, you do not move, eyes riveted to his face, to the vicious impatience carved in his features. if you kill him, you’ll be hunted and put down like a dog. 

he shifts under you, the nervous twitch of a beast untamed. even through the hard edges of his ritual armor, you can feel the raw power of him.

you feel his thumb trace the edge of an old scar, up, up your forearm, a flash of black teeth and then— 

pain.

there’s something in your side, serrated, razor-sharp, twisting. your hand raises to your side. warmth trickles down your fingers. his hand wraps over yours, warm, blood a silky black against the porcelain of his skin.

he watches you, twisting the blade until yours fall to the ground, bloodied hand coming up to your cheek. you lean into it. welcome him, as his thumb smears blood across the edge of your parted lips.

“you fought well, atreides.” 

he pulls out the blade.

you fall.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @jaiuneamesolitaiire

[protagaster]

Part 4 of the Warrior!Penelope Swap AU

DID YOU GUYS SEE THE NEWS!?

VENGEANCE SAGA RELEASES ON OCTOBER 31ST!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Editor/Co-Author: @somereaderinblue (GeminiWillow on Ao3)

(Cross-Posted on Ao3)

Remember Them

528 left under her command… 

~

The scent in the air was full of metallic must. A river stream of thick red liquid flowed down the dirt floor, forming itself into a small lake made with that oh-so precious liquid life. 

Pebbles scurried down the cave walls, broken apart from the crumbling rock they were once one with. A cloud of dust, a combined mixture of rubble and sand, slowly built itself up and infiltrated the entirety of the cave. 

The origin of all this havoc, the very reason behind this devastation, slept soundly on the cave ground without a worry in the world. A cyclops, his one eyelid lowered in complete and utter peace; not a single nightmare plagued him once his eye shut.

If one had just arrived they would have not known of the events that transpired mere seconds ago. 

They would not have known this cyclops to have declared war on 600 soldiers. They would not have seen him wielding a club, striking and killing 72 women in the name of the livestock they needed so desperately to keep going. They would not have dove out the way of his collapsing figure, the impact of his fall so severe it left devastating consequences to his cave. 

Or perhaps they would have. After all, isn’t it obvious from first glance when looking into the eyes of a monster?

“...captain...”

Penelope stood mere feet before that sleeping cyclops. She couldn’t move. Frozen in her step, every muscle in her body painfully constrained… 

72. 

72 women she had kept safe in Troy and yet couldn't keep safe on the way home. 

72 women whose screams kept ringing in her ears.

72, including her Circes. 

“...captain…”

Penelope no longer felt like herself.

Right now, at this very moment, the captain was nothing more than a shell; a shell that found pain in its wholeness, for her kin were reduced to fragments left to rot like rubbish, like nothing. By the gods Circes wouldn't have a funeral or an obol, how would she get to the Underworld-

Suddenly, Penelope felt something from the real world make contact with her shell. 

Ctimene gripped her captain’s arm and pulled her close, forcing the leader to look away from the dreaming monster.

“Captain!”

Ctimene’s voice, finally louder than the silence, snapped Penelope out of her detachment. 

“We must move quickly, we don't have much time.” Penelope spoke with a monotone voice, not an ounce of emotion on her features. 

She spared a fleeting glance to the abandoned amphorae, the wine vessel from which the Cyclops drank. 

“He didn't notice I mixed lotus in his wine.” 

Penelope was still in a strange state, one she’s never experienced before in all her life. But, by some miracle, her limbs were no longer anchored to her state of mind.

She wasn't ready for battle. She was ready for vengeance.

She released herself from Ctimene’s grip. 

Penelope moved to walk past her best friend. The only one she had now. 

“Mark my words now, this is not the end…”

Ctimene, whose red puffy eyes were only just beginning to clear, looked up with a gaze filled only with worry and concern for Penelope, whose eyes were distant and far away. 

Ctimene placed a hand, so small but so scarred, so strong and yet so gentle, on her sister’s shoulder. 

“But captain, what'll we do with our fallen friends?”

Penelope paused, both from her sister’s action and words. 

72 women fallen at the hands of hunger and hubris. And yet it was 1 whom both women knew this question referred to. 

There she was, not so close but not far enough, laying on the dirt floor; pale and dirty and cold. Her signature ribbon was stained with her own blood; the light pink did not mix well with sinful red. 

Just like that, their group of 3 became one of 2. 

Just like that, the feeling of emptiness inside Penelope filled with a searing rage both familiar and not. 

Just like that Penelope’s impassive eyes slowly morphed into one of determination, welling up with tears that longed to make themselves known. 

“Remember them.” Penelope said with no waver in her tone, despite the few stray tears now streaming down her cheeks. 

Some thought her reaction to have been too late, whilst others knew it came when it was needed. 

Regardless, Penelope was no longer disconnected to the moment at hand. 

She was there, she was pissed. 

And she was not alone.

There were still 528 left under her command. 528 who still had the chance to return to their most sacred place. 

528 who were still counting on her.

Turning to face the ones who had not fallen to this monster, addressing them with her head hung in respect for the dead, Penelope spoke with no falter in her voice. 

“When the fire begins to fade, for the fallen and afraid, we are not to let them die in vain…” 

Finally their captain lifted her head. There it was, that raging flame in her eyes, the same one that got them through the war in the first place. The reason behind stroking those flames had changed, but the desire to burn was still the same. 

“Remember Them!”

Now, with her spear in hand, Penelope stood tall and regal with its support. Her spirit may have taken a blow, but the Gods and their creatures were foolish if they thought they could waver this mortal from finding her way. 

“We're the ones who carry on the flames of those who've gone,” Her voice was now booming, crying out her words like a lioness’ war cry. “And our comrades will not die in vain!”

Penelope strode to the Cyclops’ stray club, having fallen with its wielder upon his collapse. 

“I need all our hands on his club! This is how we're getting out of here!” 

Slicing its wooden flesh with her spear-point, Penelope unconsciously mimicked the action she had seen her husband perform many times whilst perfecting his craft. 

“Use your blades to sharpen the stub, and turn it to a giant spear!”

The rest of the soldiers had seemingly recovered from watching their sisters die, all thanks to their captain’s speech. 

Upon hearing Penelope’s command, each woman’s inner volcano built up to near eruption. Their anger, as hot and searing as molten lava, flowed amongst them all. Whether it be men or monsters, all in their path were naught but kindling for their flames.

These women wanted to avenge their friends. The only way to do this, they silently agreed amongst themselves, was to take an eye for an eye.

“Let's kill him!”

Penelope, though, sternly placed herself in front of their anger. 

“His body is blocking the path!” She pointed to where the Cyclops lay, behind him the cave’s only source of light and fresh air.  “If we kill him we'll be stuck inside!” 

Ctimene, the voice of the crew, looked to her captain for a solution to their dilemma. “Captain, where do we attack him?”

Penelope glared at the Cyclops, both angered and amazed at the serenity of his sleep. “We gotta stab him in the eye!”

“Yes ma’am!”

The crew immediately put themselves to work carving their wooden spear, knowing their time was running out.

“Remember them!” 

Thanks to their determination it took almost no time for the cyclop’s club to be no more. Now, reshappen to look like a crude replica of Penelope’s spear, the wooden weapon longed once more to feed on liquid life. 

“When the fire begins to fade for the fallen and afraid, we are not to let them die in vain…” 

The women carried the wooden spear to where their one-eyed adversary slumbered defenselessly. Along the way they passed by 71 bodies, unable to bear looking them in the eyes that are now forever filled with fear. 

Penelope paused her step at body 72.  

“Remember them…”

It was unfair. Nobody deserved to die today, but Circes was the least deserving of them all. 

Beautiful, optimistic, loving Circes…

Even though she had been given the right to bear a Goddess’ name, something that anybody and everybody else would use to their endless advantage, she only ever used it to emphasize the importance of mercy; of greeting the world with open arms…

“We're the ones who carry on the flames of those who've gone, and our comrades will not die in vain…”

Penelope removed that pink ribbon wrapped tightly around Circe’s hair. She then collected most of her own loose and wild hair in one hand, using the ribbon to tie it up in a messy but functional ponytail.

Before returning to the living Penelope leaned down, gently shutting Circe’s eyes to spare her from the view. 

“NOW!” Penelope ordered.

The entire crew, Ctimene at the front, thrust the wooden spear inside the Cyclop’s closed eye. 

“ROOOOOOOAR!”

The Cyclops woke with an ear shattering cry, one that dripped with pain in its rawest form. He sat up straight away, blood dripping down from his speared eye and mixing with that little red lake.

Quick to get a grip on himself, Polyphemus immediately took hold of the second possession stolen from him that day and ripped it from his socket. No longer able to rely on his sense of sight, Polyphemus tried to feel around and grab one the monsters that intruded on his home.

However, their leader had already suspected this.

“Scatter!”

The Cyclops heard this and attempted to stop them, trying to hear and feel his way toward their direction. But ants lack sound as much as they lack size and these women have long since learnt to hone stealth into an asset more deadly than any weapon.

The women ran toward the cave opening from whence they came, large rocks and the sheep surrounding them. Behind them, the Cyclops continued to roar and cry out in complete and utter anguish. 

Suddenly, another voice called out from deeper within the cave. 

“Who hurts you?”

The women froze in their tracks. Their blood ran cold, their breaths grew short, and goosebumps tingled from the back to their necks. 

Penelope and Ctimene were the only ones brave enough to look back. 

Right there, in the tunnel leading further down the cave, a single giant eye emerged from the darkness. 

“There are more of them?” Ctimene’s voice shuddered in realization. 

One monstrous voice became two, then two became three. More and more voices joined the original, more than could possibly be discerned by ear. 

With each voice came another eye appearing out of the darkness of that tunnel entrance. Just like with the voices, so many eyes emerged from the shadows.

“Who hurts you?”

Penelope placed a firm hand on Ctimene’s arm, looking from her second-in-command to the rest of her crew.

“Hide." She whispered. 

Each woman ran to hide behind one of the many giant rocks. They were clustered in groups of two or three, most holding onto each other in a desperate attempt to sate their fear. 

No one so much as took a breath. They were afraid that even the slightest movement, the quietest sound, would be all it took to alert the Cyclopes of their presence. 

“Who hurts you?”

Penelope and Ctimene hid together behind the rocks closest to the Cyclopses, closest to Polyphemus. 

Ctimene couldn’t take it. They had lost 72 women to only one Cyclops; how on earth would they be able to survive against an entire clan of them?

They couldn’t, Ctimene knew this. 

“Captain, we should run-” 

“Wait…” Penelope interrupted the other. 

“Who hurts you?”

Even more Cyclopses than before, how was that even possible?!

Ctimene tried to ground herself by gripping tightly onto Penelope’s arm, but it didn’t work. There was this genuine look of horror in her eyes, as if she just realized that her life was on the line with no choice in the matter. 

Ctimene had never felt this even when she was drafted to war in her husband’s stead. She had never experienced this even when fighting in the battlefields of Troy for over a decade. 

But now, with the weight of her soul in another’s hands, Ctimene couldn’t shake this newfound fear of death. 

“Captain, please!” She begged.

However, even with Ctimene’s hand gripping her flesh so tightly it would no doubt leave a bruise, even with the voice of her partner in crime pleading in her ear, Penelope did not falter.

“Wait.” 

Polyphemus, hands over the empty cavity that once housed his single eyes, answered the question his brothers demanded to know.

“It was Nobody, Nobody…”

With that as his answer, Polyphemus’ kin backed away from the dark entry. 

“If nobody hurts you, be silent.”

 And with that, the Cyclopses returned to the deepest recesses of the cave one after the other. 

“Don't go!”

But it was too late. Just as it had been his entire life, Polyphemus was left alone with no other Cyclops willing to stay by his side. 

And so, the blind Cyclops kneeled defeated in his lonesome. 

Penelope, seeing that their biggest threat was now broken, pointed in the way of the cave’s opening. 

“Let's grab the sheep and away we go.” 

The crew did just that, grabbing every single sheep the Cyclops had in his flock. By the end, almost every single woman ran out of that cave holding a sheep in her arms. 

Not every woman who entered that cave made it out. Every woman who did manage to escape with her life intact had her outfit stained with blood. For the first time in an entire decade, that blood belonged to a dead Greek. 

Penelope was the last to run out of the cave, and by definition was the last to board her ship. 

She had ordered the anchors to be lifted, commanded the rowers to set a course for open waters, was prepared to forever leave this awful place and once again be reunited with her old companion that was the sea.

 Only to feel a familiar dose of adrenaline rush through her blood. 

A sense of blind courage invaded her thoughts. It was different from normal though; this kind of divine courage was supposed to feel empowering, but right now it only highlighted her desperation. 

“Have you forgotten the lessons I taught you?” Ares manifested himself in front of Penelope, housing himself in her mind and thus visible to only her eyes. “He's still a threat until he's dead!” 

Ares aimed his spear back toward the direction of the cave. 

Though his eyes were covered to all the world, anyone who could look into them in that moment would see the expression of a man who cared only for the glory that would emerge upon the aftermath of bloodshed. 

“Finish it.”

But there was something the God of War just couldn’t comprehend, something that mortals knew to be all too true: once blood is shed, defeat comes quickly after. 

“No.” 

Ares stilled, dangerously so. He slowly turned to face his mortal, eyes alarmingly narrow from inside his helm. 

“No?”

Penelope knew her hands were not free of sin. Back then, during her time fighting the war, so many people who called Troy home had lost their lives thanks to her, be it her weapon or mind.

Men who bore arms for the sake of their honor, women who refused to stand idle and let their homes be destroyed, even a defenseless baby whose only sin was being watched by the Gods… 

All of them were probably cursing her from the moment they set foot in the underworld. 

But, even if her hands were stained with their blood, Penelope could at least justify it to herself at night by saying it was necessary. She was drafted from the Heavens themselves.  She didn’t have a choice. 

Here…

“What good would killing do? When mercy is a skill more of this world could learn to use…” 

Penelope looked down at her hands, faintly stained with the dried blood. Belonging not to the no-eyed monster, but to her dear, precious friend. 

“My friend is dead, our foe is blind, the blood we shed, it burns so hot!”

Penelope couldn’t handle it. The blood of 72 women who had thought their lives now secure, all on her hands. 

How many more would bleed out as a result of her desire for bloodshed?

 “Is this what it means to be a Warrior of the Heart?”

Penelope couldn’t let it end like this, she couldn’t let her sisters’ death end in such a meaningless way. 

The captain immediately grabbed hold of her spear, the very same one that granted her the gift of Ares’ guidance. She turned around, walking to the end of her ship. Walking where the cave stayed ominously quiet, fading slowly as 12 ships sailed away from its rocky hollow. 

Ares realized what she was planning to do. 

“Don't!” 

Penelope pushed his presence from her mind, but not from her body. She could still feel that rush of adrenaline course through her blood, sense that touch of mettle grounding her spirit. 

“Hey, Cyclops!”

Now, filled to the brim with pure resolved boldness, Penelope felt nothing but the high of courage. Courage to face the Cyclops one final time. 

“When we met, I led with peace, while you fed your inner beast! But my comrades will not die in vain, Remember them!”

The crew listened to their captain’s words, defeat and exhaustion trickling amongst them. Many shed tears of loss for their fallen friends, some still held on to each other for fear that if they let go they would lose even more of their sisters-in-arms. 

Ctimene was the only one who still had the strength to look up at her captain. Her eyes were wary and her fists were clenched. A strange cynic look, faint but still there, momentarily revealed itself; only for a second. 

“The next time that you dare choose not to spare Remember Them! Remember Us!”

Penelope held her head high and proud, her posture tall and straight and regal in all its glory. She lifted her spear…

“Remember Me!” 

And stabbed the wooden floor of her ship. A small crack in the foundation resulted from the captain’s attack. 

“I'm the reigning Queen of Ithaca! I am neither man nor mythical! I am your darkest moment! I am the unyielding…”

Penelope’s stray bangs, which could not be held back with the ribbon, flew in her face and framed her sharp, glaring eyes. For that one single moment, her face was unforgettable. 

“Penelope!”

With that, the boats were quick to sail away, not a sound or a song uttered amidst the giant sea. 

Nobody noticed Polyphemus' mouth split into a cruel, forboding smile.

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 6 - Enemies)

CHAPTER 6: ENEMIES | MEREDITH & GUYLIAN | WORDS: 531 | RATED: M

A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages. 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 (AO3 LINK)

On rare occasions, Meredith will dream about what had happened when her knight-commander had been hanged. Mercenaries acting on behalf of the tyrant, or so the official story claimed, but Meredith knows better. In the first two weeks after Threnhold’s arrest she’d spent most of her waking hours standing guard outside his cell. Even back then she could recognise a man being tortured when she heard it. The pleas, the wails. The crunching of cartilage, the breaking of bone.     

The sobs, the silence.

The sounds of a man realising he was all alone in the world. No allies, no friends. Not a single living soul would ever care that he had all but disappeared and nobody would be coming to save him.

By all accounts, Threnhold had been a despot deposed by his own hubris. The former viscount had risked igniting an Orlesian invasion and the Order had provided a ready response to the threat to Kirkwall’s sovereignty. It would be an impressive tale, if one did not understand the basic tenets of the templars; or, to be more precise, one did not understand the functioning of the Kirkwall Order under Knight-Commander Guylian’s leadership. Guylian had been the kind of knight-commander depicted in children’s storybooks: steadfast in his duty and apolitical to a fault. He’d confided in Meredith that the Chantry had requested the templars pressure the viscount into reopening the harbour. But most importantly: he’d told her how he’d refused them.

And now, he was dead. Hanged in his own stronghold, no less!

Meredith had once aspired to the same neutrality she had been taught by Knight-Commander Guylian and Ser Wentworth before him, but she was no idiot. That dream was dead now. Dead, like her mentor. Dead, like the knight-commander.

Dead, like she would be if she did not comply. She could already feel the noose around her neck, rough rope threatening to choke her.

The long arm of the Chantry, ready to pull the lever.

It was tempting to let them. It would be a small price to pay for freedom: fall, fall, fall, snap. But she had seen executions go wrong too many times before. Besides, if she were dead, she could not perform her duty: she had sworn to save the people of Kirkwall, just as she had once promised to protect her sister. She might have failed Amelia, but Meredith would not, could not, fail this city.

Why else would the Maker have rescued her that night if not for this purpose? If He truly had no plan for her, would it not have been better, kinder, to have left her there to die?

Instead, she had suffered, but the suffering had strengthened her. And it would continue to strengthen her, empowering her to do what needed to be done.

She could endure a thinly-veiled threat. She had endured so much already.

When Elthina finally dismissed Meredith from her post, the post outside the cell of a man whose worst crimes had been a terrible temper and refusing to bend the knee to Orlais, it had been with little more than a soft, steely smile and the words I’ll see you soon, Knight-Commander. Meredith had known better than to question the new title, relieved to finally be released back to the relative safety of the Gallows.

The Gallows, where her knight-commander had been hanged.

[waterfallofspace]

If you are still doing these (I know you already got two), could you possibly do 💀🔔and 🪶for an MHA character of your choosing? Thank you in advanced ;D

Yes I am! (Sorry I took a little break to sleep haha~)

I picked D/abi, with heavy h/otwings plot. It also gets a lil smutty, so I hope that's alright!! (it just kinda happened~ nothing actually gets described other than kissing/teasing, no actual smut but still~ fair warning!)

It's still a lil 'off the top of my head' drabble~ (drabbles can be 1k right 😭)

💀 No warning, 🔔 Interruption, and 🪶 Deliberate for D/abi. (cw: Swearing, Kink!Hawks, and some Kink~Indulgence)

~~~~~

You’ll pay for this one Birdie. 

If Shigaraki was saying anything worth listening to, neither of them would know it. Instead, Hawks meets Dabi’s glare across the meeting room, flashing a smile in return. The feeling that nestles in Dabi’s gut is immediate. Oh, you’re so gonna pay for this… 

He can admit, half of it comes from his own hubris. Watching birdbrain squirm is too good to pass up, especially when they have actual business to attend to right after. Seeing the pale tint to his normally tan face, the pink dusting he can’t seem to shake. 

Oh, and of course, Dabi’s favourite part; watching Hawk’s tongue slip out between his lips as he attempts to calm his breathing. Ironic, seeing as Dabi’s the one being forced to violently expel air. Though, to his credit, Hawks isn’t exactly a silent participant, especially not by the end. 

Normally it would be a pleasant distraction from the dull thrum of a league meeting. After a good session, they’ll both be left exhausted, Dabi ready to doze off as Twice rambles on. Maybe a bit inconvenient when the topics actually matter, but Hawks will fill him in after. It’s the least he can do. 

“eh’GNKT-!” 

Except neither of them is paying attention today.

Before they’d left for the meeting they’d been indulging in their… usual activities, when Hawks had built up the nerve to pitch a particularly deviant request. Ever the tease, Dabi had agreed, one on condition. First one to cave and leave the meeting loses. Their usual bet applies, winner picks the next challenge. 

Dabi releases his nose with a sharp exhale, offering a halfhearted shrug as Toga elbows him in the ribs. They’d built up quite the collection of nonverbal cues to get away with talking during meetings. That particular interaction was pretty straightforward. ‘You okay?’ ‘Yeah, think so.’ 

It’s the truth, though not all of it. He may be okay, but a single glance across the table confirms Hawks is most definitely not. Catching his eye, Dabi smirks, lips parting for a breath. Hawks echos the movement, his chest falling nearly as uneven as Dabi’s.

“Are you even listening, Dabi? Of course he’s not listening, you’re so annoying! I am not!” 

At his name, Dabi lazily raises a hand to his nose before giving Twice a nod. “Was a little caught up in… somethin’. What was it you wanted?” 

“I was wondering if maybe you wouldn’t mind- Stop rambling and get to the point! I’m not rambling, I just- You need to recruit more people!” 

Hawks gives a light chuckle as Dabi cautiously lets his hand drop back to the table before speaking. “Last time I checked, I was the only one wh- gnKKT’uh-!” 

The hands free nature of the stifle lets a low breath escape at the end, Hawks matching it with a sharp inhale. Dabi lets his gaze wander back over, nose gripped between his fingers. He can feel the feather still trapped inside twitch, only managing to subdue the tickle as Hawks lets it fall still again. 

“Are you okay? No one cares! I care!” Twice rambles, oblivious to the struggle his fellow villain’s trapped in. 

With a measured glance at Shigaraki, who seems utterly uninterested, Dabi releases his nose again. “I’m fine. As I was saying, I haven’t seen any of you bringing in new mem- ah’KNDT-! hh’EKKT-!” 

The feather twirls again, each fibre seeming to trace its own pattern around his twitching nose. Which, given the bloodthirsty look Hawks is pointing his way, may just be the case. Clutching his nose tight enough to leave marks, Dabi gasps as the feather dives deeper.

“B- birdie… hN’CHH-! eNGKTT-! ehh! eH’RTSHHuh-!” The last one escapes his grip, the rush of air through his flaring nostrils sending chills down his spine.

There aren’t many times Dabi would refer to Hawks as a bird of prey, he prefers featherbrain or mother hen. But there’s no other way to describe the look in his eyes. Hawks is hunting. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Toga chimes in, leaning against her hands with a pout. “You sound sick.” 

“I’b dot- eKRSHHuh-! I’b dot… hH’RRTCHHoo-! Fugk…” Dabi pauses to swipe at his nose again. The shudder he feels run through the feather is parallel to the one leaving Hawks breathless.

Birdie can’t hold out for much longer. 

“hk’TZSHH- RRTSCH’oo-!” Not sure I can either.

With a smile showing all his teeth, Hawks gives the feather one final command. It twirls itself around, the tip running along the inside of Dabi’s nose, before tracing a small circle around his piercings. 

They’re sensitive enough from the outside, from the inside? He never stood a chance. Dabi snarls in response, his nostrils flaring as the tickle surges. Hawks responds with a barely contained whimper, teeth nearly drawing blood from the ferocity he bites his lip with. 

“Go- gonna… ARSHH’oo-! huhh! hh’rrzshh- rtzchh- akkRSHH’choo-!” 

As Dabi leans against the table, one hand clutched over his nose, the feather suddenly trembles. It doesn’t feel intentional, but it’s effective all the same. He catches Hawks giving him a look, before glancing down at his lips. He’s mouthing something. ‘Give up yet?’ 

With a smirk, Dabi pinches his nose again, nearly whining as the tickle increases tenfold at the touch. “nGKKT-! INGKT-! DKXNT-” 

Hawks finally speaks up, his normally playful tone decidedly raw. “You shouldn’t stop them like that, you’re just gonna-” 

“eH! AZSRHhhuh-! RRTSHH’uh-! HETCHHUE-!” With the final burst, Dabi hears a faint moan slip from Hawks’ lips. No one else seems to notice, they’re pretty consumed in some sort of argument. What it’s about is anyone’s guess. 

“knch’uh-! nxt’chuh-! arrsh’ngt-! hH’RSHXGT-!” Sucking in another breath, Dabi dips his head into his chest as the string of half-stifles leave him coughing. He won’t be the first to cave, he can take this, this is nothing, this is- oh. 

Across the table Hawks suddenly stands, knuckles pale as he grips the edge of his chair. Without a word, he slides towards Dabi, grabbing his arm and pulling him from the room. Shigaraki raises a word of protest, but soon redirects his attention to Twice as he begins another presentation. Their absence isn’t exactly uncommon nowadays. 

As they get to the hallway, Dabi slows his footing, giving Hawks a smirk as their panting synchronizes. “This mean you give up, Birdie?” 

The answer comes in the form of a kiss, Dabi finding himself pinned against the wall. He leans into it easily, matching the lust with a hunger of his own. 

Hawks breaks first, letting his mouth hang next to Dabi’s ear, each breath sending waves of heat down his neck. “You win.” 

“As expected,” Dabi responds, aiming to lean into another kiss. He’s stopped short by the feather sliding out of his nose. Despite the act being one of surrender, the sensation of it rubbing his skin still leaves him gasping. 

“hNCHH’uh-! RRSHH- ERSHH- EKTSHH’oo-! Shit, Hawks.” 

“Sorry hotstuff,” Hawks chuckles sheepishly, “Didn’t think that one through.” 

Dabi smirks, pulling Hawks back in for a kiss full of teeth and tongue. 

“You’ll pay for that one birdie.”

[i-spilled-my-soup]

could you explain your asklepios au ? genuinely curious and invested in the solangelo -> asklepios pipeline

alright this will be long. tl;dr it's a greek mythology au about mortality and righteousness and hubris and has like. no romance at all. if this is written i plan for no making out; hugs and kisses probably but romance lies only in interpretation. tw/cw for death, corpses

will centered and will pov where he takes the place of asklepios/asclepius/ophiucus(constellation was asklepios to the romans) in a sort of greek myth universe, like a camp half blood in 300 bce ish? in the relative time of the popular tales like homer's iliad and odyssey, virgil's aeneid. setting where songs and hymns are well known (let me imagine a place where everyone gets the obscure balls jokes i so adore). and important detail about worldbuilding, there are no powers. only gods can control the elements, and its only in threats/blessings that in modern times could be written off as delusions but in characters' minds is concrete evidence. nico is just some guy.

will keeps his canon mom and siblings and medical prowess, his frustration with death is amplified to an unhealthy amount. nico is still just some guy at this point

assuming this is a finite to be written work, the story starts after will and nico have gotten acquainted. nico does his thing, begins as a weird unfriendly guy but after being acquainted becomes a good friend. they bond over losing their siblings and feeling responsible for their deaths, less of a "you did nothing wrong" and more of a "yeah that sucks balls" kind of empathy. then will learns that nico is a child of hades(the guy) and (after an orphic hymn infertility joke) has to fight the urge to use nico to bring people from hades(the place)/keep them from ever going there

in typical nico fashion he disappears like fully. will is reasonably concerned and tries to look for him whenever he isn't practicing and teaching medicine in case of impending war with a neighboring state? this part is funny and i want to say war is the conflict because battle is the usual conflict in the myth and history i've read and also in riordan's series itself. turns out the guy is dead. yippee! (probably some scene where will sees nico but its actually just the ghost or nico visits in a dream or will actually just finds the body preserved in snow. the last one's a little too intense)

so will takes it upon himself to help give nico proper burial rites as a last favor. he gives nico a drug/ritual to aid in the burial process and accidentally brings him back to life. they both recognize that they have, unintentionally or otherwise, defied the will of the gods reigning and primordial. will is reluctant to let nico just straight up die again (for selfish reasons) and argues that nico could regain the favor of the gods if he did good stuff in his new life (supposedly selfless reasons). nico is skeptical but dude's love language is acts of service at the cost of his own health and comfort so he agrees

no one else had known he was actually dead and they pretend that he was always alive. nico gets himself mentally ready to die at any moment (cause psychopomp hermes could pull up at any moment) but will can't let go of how he actually resurrected someone. and the power before him is tempting him to fall into hubris

augh something something something. probably a battle and will saves more people and he is slowly going mad with power against his own conscience, defying the gods for his own goals of helping people

uh. eventually nico dies again. the feds(god) got him. will goes out into a storm to look for him, and to forage more of the drug that brought him back to life, and gets killed in the storm, supposedly by zeus(asklepios moment)

since will succumbed to hubris and consciously defied the gods he gets a punishment, and that's immortality. with his mortal person taken away he can no longer practice medicine. he cannot save anyone anymore, he has become the lost sibling and friend he had sought to rescue. he loses the solace(haha) of joining his family and friends in the underworld, instead he is separated from them for eternity. he will outlive everyone he knows, and will not be able to see them after they die

so here i imagine a dual bad ending. nico gets a bad lot cause he will lose his life at the peak of potential, at the exact point where he could find peace and help so many more people than before. will gets the same, where he can no longer achieve his aspirations in life, discontent with a self-serving existence, but now separated from everyone he holds dear, trapped in the realm of those he defied

potential happy closure ending? will escapes to the underworld and works under hades and sees nico once and even though he's torn away from the shades as per his punishment he is happy that in the forever he exists there he could see his friends again, that they could both be assured of another's existence and history and regain the selves they became in each other's company

fear of death prevails. but they won over it because so long as they could know each others' names it proves they had once lived? mutual immortality sculpted in the eternity of death?

[ghostforwhat]

beckoning you to go on the spiel

ur an enabler <3 but also Hannibal Lecter & his relationship with death is so so intriguing. To start with, up until this point, he’s not open with anyone about his views on death as an escape choosing instead to focus on the other aspects and power he thinks he has constructed over it. But with Bella, he is beginning to unravel and so his actions and advice take on more and more drastic tones because he is, for the first time since childhood, in a situation he can barely (if at all) control. He needs to be pretend that he does, and can continue to, maintain it because he’s playing a very high risk game with a very low chance of it turning out in his favor and he knows it. By interacting with Will & the Team at all, he’s showing off hubris. And then he raises the stakes again, keeping Bella and Will’s illness to himself, one aware and the other not. Which okay we don’t see a whole lot of evidence for it but it’s heavily implied that he has started to grow bored at the beginning of the show, the Ripper had taken a hiatus and no dinner parties had occurred in some time. Will is a catalyst that drives him out of that, and instead of approaching it with a more drawn out manipulation the way he did with Bedelia or Chiyoh or even to some extent Margot, he immediately places Will in the same sort of do or die situation by calling Hobbs. Hes running off balance from the start and every action he takes, while it may have an air of calculation, is very much not thought out to the degree it should be. He’s essentially drawing up the plans to destroy his own life because he’s faced with the possibility of understanding. He wants it, I would argue he practically needs it, but he can’t allow himself to have it without upheaving everything because he works in extremes. For anyone else, there would be hesitancy and doubt but he doesn’t do either of those. He has full faith in Will from the beginning which is why in Mizumono, he accuses “You would take my life.” first because that’s what he was expecting, planning on. He never addressed his trauma in a meaningful way that didnt bring harm to others or himself, he does not use Bedelia as an actual therapist but rather a sounding board, he has to be aware that the words “Nothing happened to me. I happened.” cannot coexist with his behavior but he says them anyway. He shoulders heavy amounts of blame and unfortunately most of it rightly so because he cannot help himself or stop. Prison for Hannibal was the worst punishment possible and that he accepted it because Will deemed it necessary, shows us again that he continues to carry guilt with him, just not remorse. He’s away of how he hurts what he loves and feels bad about it but not enough to stop. The minute he stops, the minute he has to confront that he could have let himself die instead of eating his sister (in his mind) and he can’t handle that. He needs to have the fantasy of death being a motivator while also being a consequence, he’s driven to drastic actions and thrives there because anything less and he runs the risk of being forced to confront himself with no buffer and he’s hyper aware of that. “Suicide is the enemy.” And it’s one he thinks of often. He has survivor’s guilt and his actions in Mizumono made that ten times worse while also inflicting that same feeling onto Will. It’s also why I think he was so willing to let Will pull them off the cliff, beyond the culmination of everything he wanted, he had been prepared and ready to die since the beginning. His last action was to shield the worst of the fall from Will and then close his eyes, at peace with it.

[unearthlyfromage]

Chapter 2 is ready!

Huge thanks to @trangenderstan my amazing editor and @koraesdoodles my fantastic beta reader!

Content warning! This story has gore, body horror, major character death, psychological torment, etc. If that's not something you can handle, it's alright! Not all stories are for everyone.

AO3 link;

For those that want to stay here on Tumblr, the chapter will be under the cut!

There was an intrepid silence throughout the large and cave ridden wilderness. Crackle and squeal of odd logs under the blaze of a roaring fire, the man sat in his cave poking at the embers with a large metal rod. It wasn’t as if he’d been here long, no, he was merely hiding out. Away from his crimes, far from civilized people living off foreign lands. A forest of no trees, of no bark and leafy green. Instead, moss. Moss and stone and flowers as far as the eye could see, amongst rows and rows of large fungal brilliance. 

Setting the rod down with a huff, satisfied with the warmth, he checked the roast sitting racked above the flames as it was licked and tasted by pure heat. Some kind of three tusked and six limbed boar he’d shot down after it attempted to charge him. 

It would make a fine meal, Stan figured, digging through the many bags he’d kept tightly strapped down to one another for the sake of travel. 

He watched as it took out a leather bound tome, and sat in a criss-cross as it jotted inquiries and findings of this strange land, a way to keep its wits he figured. Document the places he’s been, the things he’s seen. Everything is quiet, peaceful. A silence he’d grown to love over the years, a change of pace from the whitenoise of other people surrounding him all his life until that swirling bright light dragged him in from the darkness of normalcy. 

He was so enthralled he didn’t notice the eye in the darkness. 

The creeping and lanky thing staring at him with hunger, claws digging deep into the fungus he’d been latched onto. The boar smelled nice, but he was more focused on the pig with its nose stuffed in its book. 

Sliding down the large, thick stock he left jagged lines down either side as he did. The large, black disfigured fingertips slicing through like a steak knife to warm butter, clawed and mangled feet doing much the same. He heaved a satisfied sigh. He had him right where he wanted him. 

Stan wasn’t a picky person, not by any means. He knew a tasty meal when he saw one, and it looked so helpless. Of course it was armed, the modified pistol beside him on his belt buckle quite obvious in the glint of the two moons. Slinking his way around the perimeter, Stan eyed this creature like the spectacle it was. Contemplating how he was to do this, he realized that he’d have to find a way inside the cave if he really wanted to have fun. It’s not the prey itself, but the way you approach it, that makes the moment.

Slinking off and into the darkness once more, his one unblinking eye bore into the other with a finality, he thought of a way to make him move. The sounds of wildlife were so loud behind him, the yapping and chittering howls of strange four eyed canines heavy in the air. They smelled food, and so did he. He was going to enjoy the spoils.

He took a moment to process the way these things sounded. The way they skittered. The whimpers and yelps they let out when fighting amongst themselves. Eye refusing to move from his target, he saw the way the other’s head lifted with every noise, that telltale fear yet intrigue. There was no better bait than giving them what they wanted. He fought back the urge to guffaw at past moments, times where he’d played with their minds and watched the way they ticked. Sickening as it was. 

Whispering a few trial runs to himself, his mouth curling to match notes, neck twitching in effort he managed to make rather convincing mimics. It was far easier to parrot human noises but animals weren’t too difficult compared to them, it just required a little more practice. Hunkering low he emitted these crowing howls in mocking gestures to the actual thing, on his fours to make adequate sounds in the bush-like moss growths, kicking it up as he circled.

At first there was panic, they all looked the same when they panicked. The way their eyebrows twitched up, mouth curled down and posture lowered, ready. Of course this was not true fear. He knows true fear, in their sniveling vulnerable faces pinned underneath him he’s seen it. An expression that spoke thousands of words. Second, it was curiosity, eyes narrowed and standing up straighter as if he were some kind of higher power. Typical, as they were never anything more than false Gods. Needless to say it got his attention alright, standing up with his gun out and aimed ready to strike. Stan was no dumb animal - he knew this thing was about to shoot, and made louder, more growling sounds to make hairs raise in that way he so adored. 

A marvelous, echoing bang rustled through the moss laden woods in a tremble as he fired. Stan eyed the charred greenery just a little up from where he was, a pained croaking whimper leaving Stan’s lips in the hopes it makes the man come up to see if he’s hit anything. Getting up on his feet to silently slink towards the cave away from him, he watched as the idiot took the lure well, boots crunching atop the small rocks to scour the area with a light, talking to himself. Stan paid no mind to it, quickly entering the open stony maw to clamber up the walls and wait on the ceiling, in a divot that goes just above the lip. 

Angry mutterings filled the empty echoes, the sounds of scraping and something settling as the other sat down to prod at the meat some more, talking of ‘getting better at his sharp-shooting’. He’ll have to help with his eyesight, staring into the back of his head. He could dig around in his skull a little, find what makes him so rotten. But only He could see such impurities of the mind. Stan was nothing more than a driving force, and he understood that perfectly. 

Dropping down slowly, silently, arms flexing taught as he gingerly set his weight towards the floor. Tips of sharp, gnarled toes brushing against rocky ground, he let go once he knew he could ease down silently enough to be masked by the roaring flames. They were so beautiful, even if they were the wrong color. Orange was angry, uncontrolled, unpredictable. Blue fits the dancing brilliance so much better. Tantalizing in the way they waved, every curve and curl exactly as He designed them. 

The softest click of talon-like digits against the ground was his only warning, face snapping backwards just in time to see Stan lunge, a yell of panic quickly turning to wails of agony as Stan buried him nose down in the burning embers, stomping down on his wrists to keep him from grasping at his weapon. Screams of laughter and deep, guttural wails filled the forests as Stan quaked with enjoyment, raising his head up to let him breathe the smokey air just to dig it back down, his blackened hands calloused and largely unaffected by the lapping and coiling heat that sunk bites and sharp kisses into the others flesh, melting glasses to skin and eyes as hair went alight in the struggle. He was yanking him by the hair so hard he was sure he tugged out most of it by the time he found it boring. Looking down at his feet, Stan loved the way that disgusting thing writhed and curled in agony, his cries quieter now, interlayed in horrific coughing fits of a man inhaling fungal spore laden smoke. 

Throwing him away, he grabbed the gun from its place on his body and threw it far into the woods. It misfired with its impact, but that was hardly of any importance. Stan busied himself with getting the boar off its rack, as the meat tried to crawl away, sucking in breaths like a newborn, grizzling like one at that. He didn’t think the man could see anymore, given the way his eyelids glued shut with melted plastic and tempered glass, but there was always the chance. He never knew why they tried to run at this stage, it wasn’t like there was an existence to look forward to past this point. 

Dislodging the metal skewer, he walked towards the crawling man, shaking six fingered hands grasping at the moss as if it would save him. Dragging him back by the ankles, he relished in the fresh sob of wordless mercy that left him, a plea that needed no eloquence. A plea that would ultimately fall on deaf ears, gripping him by the throat to steady him. Hands gripped at Stan's wrist, clawing at his face with desperation, weak legs kicking at him as he garbled and gasped with an agonal need to survive and yet none of it truly mattered. 

Despite all his struggling, Stan still plunged the skewer through his mouth, watching the way he went rigid at the searing of heated metal piercing through parts of him he’s never felt before, splintering through soft tissue and jutting out through him, just under his tailbone, moving muscle and bone and soft tissue to the sides. He twitched, flame-broiled mind attempting to process the input of so much pain, and Stan delighted in the little show as he propped the body up on the fire. 

Standing there, Stan regarded the scene, trying to judge on the twitchy jagged movements of his  whether or not it’s just his body reacting, or if he was actually still alive. Either way, he wouldn’t be for long. Sitting down, he flicked through the papers, one hand holding the heavy book as the other dug handfuls out of the boar to his side. It was a little raw, but he doubted anything living inside this thing would survive his body. Barely anything does, if the diseases he’d stamped out that were presumably “fatal” were anything to go by. 

It was generally boring drivel, the only thing irking him were the constant mentions of Him, all the words they choose to use blaspheming Him and His influence, claiming Him to be some sort of monster. Growing increasingly angry with every word, his claws dug rivers through the beaten leather covers, shaking in his grasp as he bore his eye into the corpse. 

Standing, he threw the tome into the roaring flames, embers billowing in plumes at the sudden intrusion. He stayed unphased, teeth grit tight enough to rattle his poorly mended skull. He spit on the mangled face as one last act of disrespect, and took his leave, stomping away into the dark woods. Scary and unclimbable to normal persons, but he could see quite well in the dark, not nearly as well as something created for the night but He had graced him with the privilege of such an upgrade. 

Moss was soft under his gait, the winds cool on his thick, marred skin. Opening his mouth, he smelled nothing more than an airy, earthy smell, ever so slightly sweet but pungent. Mushroom. Lights in the distance, an indication of life past the rustling of creatures behind him cawing and baying, he figured he could try to find another on the same planet, in the same universe. Though he knew he’d have to leave eventually, they might be cockroaches but they spread out far and wide. 

Stepping foot onto paved dirt, he rolled his shoulders. The town was sleeping, night gripping the souls of all the residents putting them under into sleep so sweet and enveloping. He loved towns like these. Silent, empty, the few odd souls up at such an hour stumbling about or slinking away. Criminals and grifters, people after his own heart though he could never place why - he was a man of intense and dedicating loyalty he had no time nor care to dabble in such a thing - it wasn’t as if his nose worked to begin with to take most narcotics. 

Taking out a battered photo, he stared down at the look-alike with hatred. An old wanted sign, detailing the high bounty of one Stanford F. Pines. It stained the bottom of his small bag for a decade now, and faded as it was; he found it quite useful to his goals. His steps were quiet for someone so large, lumbering over to a person-esq creature asleep on a bench, hat tilted downward and arms lazily crossed. 

Waking it up abruptly, slamming it into the wall it leaned against, he allowed it a few sputtering gasps before dangling the paper in front of it. 

“Hello,” he growled out, eye boring deep into the many eye-like dots it had instead. His lips split into a wide open grin. “Have you seen this worm recently?” 

~~

It just doesn’t make sense. There was no rhyme or reason to the death of all of these people. It had stopped for a moment, the track growing suddenly cold and dead and yet they always seemed to pop back up again. It was gruesome scene after gruesome scene, the same person. With no explanations, no leads, there was hardly anything they could do but document the phenomenon. 

Every town they visited shied away from them. Barred and locked their doors demanding they leave, talking about some great darkness that laid claim to their homesteads and haunted their streets, demanding to know where people that looked just like them were hiding. It was almost scary, in a way. Knowing you are being hunted like vermin. It was a sour taste in the back of his mouth, looking over the papers they had on the subject. 

It was dead for years, but the information gatherer they sent to one of the neighboring planets close to their home base grew silent. He already knew about all the natural dangers from the locals, so dying by them was low but never zero. Something about it made him intrigued, the question on his teeth asking if it really was this thing yet again, back from wherever it was hiding. 

Who was this thing, if it was a ‘who’ at all. It could be a ‘we’, an ‘it’. Anything. It could be a part of Bill's entourage, but all of their questionnaires rung up dead for that line of thinking. Setting them down, he huffed a sigh and drank from his mug of coffee, six fingers tapping against the wood in a rhythm. 

Why was it doing this?

[warhammer-fantasy-muses]

Qhi'zhek feels his limbs gain strength again at long last as he manages to haul himself up to one knee, overlooking the battlefield, or what remains of it. Zhubon's Khornates had been reduced to ashes, and the Deathaxe Monolith was still standing as his plot had worked... just as planned, was what he wanted to think, but no. He shook that thought out of his head. He did not want to fall to the manic hubris his 'father' had succumbed to since his first perceivable thought. It was not planned... it was a desperate gamble, and it had paid off. But at what cost?

He'd slowly stand up to walk among the rest of the Khornate and Slaaneshi troops, seeing them aid each other to recuperate, before he'd walk before the shattered, smeared, and smoldering remnants of Vhiarn's body. He felt... odd. As if he was somehow responsible for her death. Guilt is not something he should be feeling. Vhiarn died on her own terms, out of her own desire. He should not feel guilty... he noticed the shattered axe-blade of Vhiarn's weapon not too far away, as he'd walk to pluck it up with one hand, inspecting the blade from all angles. He'd blink his eyes, and a chain would spawn out of the aether, wrapping itself around the stump of what remained of the axe-handle near the blade's base, tying tight and welding itself to it, before it'd wrap around Qhi's neck as a necklace.

A memento of her, that'd live on in her absence.

He'd then sigh, and as soon as all the other daemons were ready to move out, he commanded them firmly to do so, as what remained of his warhost would begin to return to Infernus, to report back to whoever was there.

[herbeloved82]

Whispers in the night, Promises fulfilled

* Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior. 

Another evening fell upon the Earth and once again the Blood Drinkers arose from their coffins ready to roam the mortal world. 

Another evening, and more whispered words from immortal lips in a language unspoken to all others. Yet in the sacred shelter of his chambers, the old language of his human years filled the air, repressing the heavy silence that otherwise filled the room. In the absence of his words, such silence would have ripped the very air from the lungs of lesser men, throwing him into despair. 

Once the silence and darkness were left behind, Marius would wear the mask of cold indifference that made him look like a statue. A persona which many thought to be his real self. No one ever looked close enough to see the cracks in his facade. 

No one was ever allowed that close since he had lost everything due to malice and hubris. The first belonged to an old enemy who had long ago lost his power, and the second was his own. The one sin he could never free himself from and that which cost him everything he had ever loved. 

***  

**Mellitos oculos tuos, si quis me sinat usque basiare, usque ad milia basiem trecenta… 

After centuries it became his own personal ritual. Every evening, as soon as he left the coffin, Marius would reach his window and whisper words of love and devotion that no one could hear and yet they soothed his soul, somehow. 

Words that belonged to the one who stole his heart and never gave it back. Words that would now fall on deaf ears for his love was so disappointed and hurt by his actions that Marius didn’t have any hope to reach for him through the curtain of his rightful rage. 

Today as he gazed out at the Aegean Sea, his heart was heavy in his chest and he was filled with a deep loneliness few others could fathom. It was as though the burden of all the years he’s lived had compounded to overpower him. 

It was on evenings like this that Marius felt the call of the ground and yet he fought the siren song and kept walking the Earth, knowing he couldn’t give up. Not for himself but for those who could need him. Always the teacher, always the protector, Marius kept living even when all he wanted was to rest and allow his heart to be consumed by bittersweet memories of the one he loved and had no more. 

***  

***Iucundum, mea vita, mihi proponis amorem hunc nostrum inter nos perpetuumque fore. Di magni, facite ut vere promittere possit…     

It was almost morning. The sky upon them, locked away by marbles and gold, by rocks and tapestries that made the palace a place of marvel, was turning light with the many shades of lavender and pink. The sun, so close, was already calling them to sleep and yet Marius couldn’t find in himself the strength to turn towards the bed. 

What if it had been all just a dream caused by madness? What if, after so long he had finally lost everything that made him who he was and he was living in a dream that could be ripped from his hands at any moment? 

What if this evening of joy and delight, of old friends gathered together to celebrate Marius and his union never was? 

Those were the thoughts that tormented his mind. That was why, like any other night before this one, for five hundred years, he had whispered his love away, too afraid to discover he was still alone. 

***Atque id sincere dicat et ex animo, ut liceat nobis tota perducere vita aeternum hoc sanctae foedus amicitiae. 

Another voice, deep and hypnotic, finished the poem from him. The beloved voice came from behind Marius and when he finally turned, there he was, lying in their bed, his naked body tempting Marius, calling him back from the dark place to which his mind had wandered. 

“Come to bed, husband.” The same voice ordered and Marius was filled once again with love and marvel at the new title he now held. 

Husband. That he was. He took his lover in the dark union in front of their friends and the whole court. He promised to be one with him, always and for eternity. His one and only love was now his and Marius didn’t know how to handle that. 

“Come to bed and let me show you how much I love you.” Armand, his beloved Armand, said again and Marius moved before his mind could even catch up with his body.

Only when Marius’ larger body covered Armand’s, his husband tilted his head to one side, offering his neck and the forbidden nectar hidden under the smooth and delicate skin. 

Armand, who hated to have his blood taken, was freely offering Marius the rare gift of a taste and Marius was never strong enough to resist his cherub - not that he wanted to. 

His sharp fangs pierced Armand’s flesh as Marius kissed his neck with devotion and as the sweet blood filled his mouth, Marius’ mind was filled with fragments of thoughts and memories that had one thing in common. 

In the blood, whichnever lied, Marius saw Armand’s love. Past, present and future. A love that had survived the horror of the world and their incapability to communicate. Their time apart and the harmful words they exchanged. The flow of time and despair that both felt when they had believed reunification would be impossible, that their chance to be together was long gone and could never come back. 

They were different. Changed men from the Maestro and his apprentice in Venice. They were different from the cult leader and the cold, detached man who had craved silence and solitude. They were different from the Prime Minister and the still angry man who thought he had lost Marius for good. However they were still, and always would be, Marius and Armand, lovers and husbands.  

“I love you.” Armand whispered. “I love you so much. For all eternity.” 

With one last lap at the already closing wounds and a kiss on his neck, when the sun demanded their attention and yet Marius couldn’t allow himself to sleep, he smiled at Armand, whose eyes were already closing. 

“I love you too, my husband.” He whispered. “For all eternity.” 

Only then he followed Armand into darkness. 

* I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you ask? I don’t know, but it torments me. Catullus 85

** If your eyes like honey I was allowed to kiss, thousands of times I would kiss them. Catullus 48

*** Eternal and shadowless, my life, you promise our love to be. Gods almighty, may he have said it from his heart, without lies. May this eternal promise of love last for eternity. Catullus 109

END 

[pat-the-togorian]

Not Along the Shore At All

One week later, I made my way back to the shore. I hadn’t planned it. The bus had brought us to the same place as I’d caught the ferry last week, so full of joy and adventure.

The dock was only a little ways down the dike from me. The same ferry boat stood there, flags snapping in the wind, ready to carry another group across the sea to adventure. Not me, not this time.

I wandered outside of the restaurant with its bustling peers, all talking and laughing. I crept down to the water’s edge on my own. The sun was high in the sky, the wind played with my hair, the sun shone bright in a way that filled my bones with energy. Flags and sails mere meters from me whipped and fluttered in the gale. Birds stood still in flight, skillfully riding the wind.

How did everything change in a week?

Today, I wasn’t taking a ferry, but a bus, and a packed one with a long, educational itinerary. It was morning now, but I knew I wouldn’t reach home before dusk.

But it wasn’t their fault.

Even if I’d only seen the sea twice, I could tell you it doesn’t really change. It rises and falls, grows stormy and calm, but it’s always there. Maybe it was unusual, but I had always liked the constance of the sea.

Diametrically, I had lost my University ID, and my paper, which I had poured my life into came back with a failing grade. If I failed the rewrite, I couldn’t finish the course anymore. I couldn’t imagine explaining to my parents that I’d have to return home in disgrace when my shorter courses wrapped up, tell my amazing friend who I’d finally meet at Christmastime that I wouldn’t make it, explain to everyone why I’d started failing introductory papers at 25.

Some people compare life, their goals, their dreams to the sea. I couldn’t think of anything less descriptive of mine.

Dark clouds loomed offshore, pierced by a rainbow. A sign of promise, I thought. It must be promising someone else today.

Nobody expects the sea to dry up, but I felt as if my life was on the edge of pouring out.

The whole day, the bus carried us to different places, different waters. We saw canals that ran between two dikes, their water levels far higher than the land on which the farmers depended.

So precarious, I thought.

We saw houses built on artificial land, with seawater running between them. Back home, I would never have wanted to live next to the water in a floodplain, but my whole time here, I had been living on a giant floodplain.

So full of hubris, I thought.

As we walked back to the bus, my professor must have noticed I was different. Before the past week, I had always been excited for these trips, asking questions, cracking jokes. Today I had walked mostly alone, shrunken, letting my tears fall where no one could see them. He asked me a question, if we did the same kind of construction back home. I explained, and a little spring came back into my step. Even the people who failed my work hadn’t written me off.

The last place we visited was a small hill in the middle of the field, surrounded by nothing but grass and distant trees. A lighthouse stood next to a keeper’s house, and a small set of harbor piers arced around in a semicircle. It was an island, once, before they drained its water.

It’s an event center now. People have parties or weddings on this island, now high and dry. My professor explains that the buildings aren’t original; they’re reconstructions for the tourists.

That explains why there’s no salt damage, rust, or tar in those pilings, I thought.

Our professor asked us, “Does anyone know why this is a World Heritage Site?”

Three or four people threw out their hopeful answers. And finally, I did what I hadn’t done all day. I knew it.

I raised my hand, and when he called on me, I shouted through the wind, “Because it was a former island?”

With his affirmative, everyone clapped.

This island’s sea had dried up, but it was still a place. It became special, worthy of international preservation, after its sea had drained.

As we all walked back to the bus for the drive home, my professor asked me what my favorite part had been. I answered that it had been this last stop. I explained my fascination with islands, the complete surrealness of the place, even the uncanny pristine replicas of the island’s former maritime trappings.

Perhaps he thought I was joking, calling the last stop my favorite part of the trip. He doesn’t know how much my sudden understanding of that place meant to me, and that’s okay. But I hope I can tell people now.

I hope I can tell people that what they face, even if it’s stranger than the sea drying up, is not the end. Your answers might just be a little ways down the coast.

And they might not even be along the shore at all.

[the-force-awakens]

If I may ask just one more top five- pls lmk if I'm getting annoying. Top five favorite Poe headcanons?

definitely not getting annoying! I fell asleep and woke up wide awake bc in my hubris I thought I could stay asleep at 10 o'clock. Smh. I love this!

In Free Fall, it mentions Poe is kind of creeped out by droids until he meets Eevee, and while that could be because his primary exposure to them were medical droids while Shara had bloodburn — my personal fave headcanon is that a baby Poe went downstairs and accidentally watched part of a horror vid his parents were watching about evil droids (probably battle droids) and it scared him so bad that a) droids creeped him out for a long time after and b) he developed a dislike for horror movies from it

Jumping off FF again, I like to think that post break-up/taking down The Biggest Crime Syndicate at the time, 17 year old Poe winds up at the Colossus. My personal headcanon (that I think the math holds up on) is that immediately afterwards he gets into contact with L'ulo but... isn't ready to commit to seeing Kes again because he feels he's let his dad down so thoroughly, so L'ulo takes him to the Colossus and to Yeager to stay while Poe gets back up on his feet after everything that happened.

I also like to think it's there that he meets BB-8! I like to think maybe BB-8 was slightly disrepaired and about to be sold for scraps and Poe just used up all his savings to get him and spent months working on repairing him with Yeager's help — and from there, the story writes itself.

I think Poe's biggest draw to Suralinda in the Academy was how good she is as sussing out people's true intentions/how forward and direct she is. He got played and tricked before, and I think Suralinda's bluntness (for as much as it can be a fault) was a huge appeal for Poe, and I like to think he picked up a thing or two watching her, when it came to puzzling out what a CO's true intentions may be (aka....honing his own uncanny observation skills/intuition). I also think they were a Thing but it didn't last long because Poe wanted something serious and Sura....did not. They're amicable exes though.

I think Black Squadron has frequent movie nights with whatever movies they've illegally downloaded from the holonet, and anytime it's Jess's turn, she picks horror vids, so Poe very begrudgingly has a bunch of horror movie knowledge and gets playfully teased for how much he plainly hates/gets creeped out by the movies. He's very good-natured about them though, since Jess loves them so much

[rawmeknockout]

a little sneak peek at a thing i’m writing for ao3, it’s not done yet and i’m not sure how much longer it will be but i’m so excited to post it

cw: noncon

Bumblebee understands why Ironhide is worried Optimus ‘babies’ him. He knows that, eventually, being sheltered by the older mechs will only hurt him. Still, Bee thought he was ready for his responsibilities, to face whatever this war could throw at him. The only way he could prove his mettle was by going out and gaining experience, facing the realities of what haunts the mechs that look down on him. He wants to be just as reliable, just as respectable, as them. If only Bee could show them that he is ready to face the world. He’s starting to think that mentality is exactly what Sunstreaker meant by calling him pampered.

Thundercracker’s grip on his helm is too rough. Insistent. Servos too big to be gripping his helm horns and maneuvering him, but, by Primus, is he trying. The seeker’s glossa in his mouth is so thick, so large, compared to his intake that it feels like someone is stuffing mesh into his mouth. The Autobots he’s usually friendly with are nowhere near the size of warframes, especially flight-mode frames. Bumblebee has never realized how large they are, lucky to always be far below them when they are strafing over the battlefield. He never pondered before how fortunate it was to be the target of their evadable missiles as opposed to their servos. The seekers are known cowards, but Bee is built more like prey than a predator.

“You like this, little Autobot?” Skywarp is leering down at him, a cruel smile stretched across the sharp planes of his face. It makes him look like a sharkticon, like someone who wants to devour Bumblebee. His clawed servo grips Bee’s so tight the metal is surely dented, working it over his spike in erratic and rhythmless strokes. “You like having a Decepticon spike frag your little ports? I knew you Autobots were a bunch of shareware frames, but, Primus, you don’t have any dignity, huh?” Thundercracker’s laughter comes out in a loud bark, his own spike twitching and leaking transfluid across Bee’s abdominal plating. His processor isn’t sure whether to focus on the brutality of their words, on their looming frames, or on the sharp in-and-out of Starscream’s spike in his overly stretched valve. Bee feels both enraged and completely drained; sucked of life and fight.

“Don’t be so cruel Skywarp, you’ll hurt his feelings.” All three seekers fall into fits of laughter, as if Bumblebee’s emotions were, themselves, a joke. As if taking into account how he feels about his body being used by them was a joke. It makes indignant fury roil in his tank, but he knows there’s nothing he can do about it. That’s the most painful truth to swallow. Even at his most infuriated, he’s nothing but a bug to a group of Decepticons. Is this what Jazz foresaw when he told Bee he wasn’t ready for harder missions? Is this his deserved punishment for being ignorant? Did Primus see his hubris and attempts at glory, and decide Bee needed a hard lesson in reality? He would take it all back if he could. He wants to apologize for all the times he’s pestered and bothered and prodded at his superiors to take him seriously. He hadn’t realized just how merciless a mech could be.

“Tight little fragger,” Starscream’s high voice is just a hiss, sounding like an alarm. A warning. If only Bee had chosen to listen for it sooner. Every thrust from Starscream’s frame forces Bumblebee’s backplates into the hard, rocky Earth; the screeching of metal on mineral ringing in the air. As startling as a gunshot, as unnerving as Seeker claws on a blackboard. Bee wants to tear out his audials, but the clenching of his servo in frustration and pain draws a low groan from Skywarp. He can’t do anything, can’t do anything at all that won’t result in pleasure for his tormentors.

“I want in after you’re done, Screamer,” The purple seeker looks pitiful with how his frame curls around the servo on his spike, desperately thrusting into Bee’s grip. Even if they weren’t enemies, the pinched arousal on Skywarp’s face looks grimy and sick. Too open, too obvious, when Bee’s frame is aching and burning with every movement.

[pain-is-too-tired]

Okay-

1- completely didn't remember that he was more vocally aware of what it would really be like for humanity and other demigods if Kronos won. Like I always written him to have ignore the fact that Kronos and the Titans didn't really care about demigods. But to actually bring it up as the fact "of only those who the strongest and serve him-" MY DUDE. WTF.

2- Proving himself and hubris i think are very big contenders for his fatal flaws. Because he wants to prove he can do all of this, he wants to be remembered in the way the classical heroes were. By doing something knew to be remembered for. His prideful enough to until it's too late to think that Kronos would really give him any room in his new era after he destroys the gods. The gods suck, but Luke where you think they got it from? Titans see demigods much more like pests or entertainment than the gods do. But he ignores all that to get to his goal. Even demigods around him are constantly getting killed or worst for it. Which-

3. Another thing, he's at least complicit in buying demigods for the army. We don't know if the situation in TCC where the Di Angelo's nearly get kidnapped and taken to the army were include Mr Thorn getting paid after, but we do know that the ranch guy in BotL was ready to give Nico in exchange for money. So.

That means that a few, if not a lot of the Titan Army, might've been kids who never even went to either camps. Who found themselves finding out about the gods and such from the Titan Army. From Luke's army.

Can you imagine? Suddenly being told you're a demigod, and then immediately being pressured or maybe even threatened to fight against the gods. You don't even get a chance for maybe find out who your godly parent is. You lived your life thinking a normal mortal abandoned you and your mortal parent. Then it's like "nope! It's actually a immortal god with likely many other children like you! Okay here a sword and armor, let's go kill other kids who might be your half siblings! Yeah!"

Just. Wtf.

4. Luke, to me, is interesting because he's an example of falling into the generational cycle. He was angry at Hermes for a lot. But as he got older, and as he wanted to prove he was better than Hermes and other heroes, he lost his touch with his humanity.

His mom was driven insane and left on her own, he was scarred after being sent on a fetch quest.

Then he send multiple demigods on a fetch quest for the string, most of which are driven insane and left for dead.

He was fine with asking for someone else to lead when he knew he'd be used as Kronos' vessel. But he never thinks to send non demigods into the labyrinth instead to find a way through? Even though he knows their chance of survival is low.

He honestly it's such an interesting antagonist, who took his trauma and internalized his anger to the point he didn't really care who got hurt as long as he got to prove himself that he could take his dad down a notch.

His redemption was hardly a redemption. There wasn't any proper build up. No evidence of him questioning his decision outside for his own sake. His death just seems like a pathetic attempt to back track and try be remembered in a better light then just Kronos' vessel.

I think it he stayed an antagonist, it would've been much more interesting. Like him pretending to change his mind to get to Annabeth and Percy or something. Or being a lesson that just because someone claims to regret their actions and want to do better, doesn't mean you have to forgive them. Annabeth and Percy have every reason not to forgive him. And I think then acknowledging that would've so interesting.

Its kinda what I explore when I write Chris. That feeling of "i used to love and trust him. He was my brother but I lost so much of myself due to him and I'll never fully forgive that."

And, maybe it's cause I'm sucker for sibling angst, but exploring those he left behind would've been interesting. He hurt so many people and I think it does a deservice to them and his character to ignore everything he's done.

The Luke Castellan problem in PJO books and Fandom

I just finished rereading the pjo series for the dozenth time and I have so many thoughts about Luke and how the fandom woobified him.

Like no Luke did not have the right idea and executed it in the wrong way. He wasn't a misguided victim, although there is no doubt Kronos manipulated him. But him being manipulated does not absolve him of his wrongdoings. Hurt people can still hurt people, you can be abused and still become an abuser.

Most of Fandom's idea of Luke being a 'hero' because he did the right thing in the end is extremely doozy like ok he killed himself to stop Kronos but that does not absolve him the blame of killing innocent people.

While Luke's main goal was the destruction of Gods, that was not because he wanted the demigods to have better lives. He actively killed demigods.

In the Sea of Monsters, when Percy, Annabeth and Tyson snuck into Princess Andromeda; they saw 12 year olds being trained how to kill a 'dummy in camp half blood tshirts'. He was actively exploiting children and manipulating them into killing other children and saw nothing wrong with it.

He only considered deflecting from Kronos when he found out that he was going to be possessed by him.

He only worked and cared for him, he was so lost into power and revenge that HE became a monster.

"Oh but he cared for Thalia and Annabeth!!" I'll get into that later too

I think Luke's fatal flaw contrary to the opinion of fandom is The Urge to Prove Himself.

He had one conversation with Hermes which made him angry and bitter and Thalia even notes that after that conversation Luke got into more and more fights with monsters like he had something to prove which Annabeth didnt seem to see as a problem since he was her hero. They got into more skirmishes because of his recklessness, fighting more monsters since Luke wanted to pick a fight with each one he came across.

(Conversation from PJO, The Last Olympian)

His fatal flaw being to Prove Himself would explain why he took the failure of his quest so hard that the night he returned from the quest was the same night Kronos started speaking to him for the first time. It didn't help that when he returned from his failed quest, the campers treated him with pity.

He wanted to pull Olympus down stone by stone because He failed his quest that he didn't want to do because it was already done by Hercules once. 🥴

His endgame has nothing to do with wanting to help ANYBODY. He wanted to take down gods because he had a grudge against them and wanted to Prove that he could do it. Everything else comes secondary if it fits his agenda.

This is one of the reasons why it bothers me so much when people say that Luke had the right idea or that Percy would have joined Kronos if Sally had died like you fundamentally misunderstood the character of Percy if you think he would have joined Kronos.

He talks about "driving humanity back into caves, all except the strongest - who would serve him" THIS IS LITERALLY FASCISM???

(According to Merriam-Webster, Fascism is a political philosophy, movement, or regime that exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression)

Now onto the topic of Thalia, Annabeth and Luke

First of all, I absolutely hate that 'Thalia and Luke had a thing before she got turned into a tree bit' because Thalia was 12 and Luke was 14 when they met and Thalia was 15 and Luke was 20-21ish when they meet again in TTC ugh hate that.

Now TTC, where to begin, here I used to believe Luke had already bathed in river Styx as there are some narrations where Percy notes that Luke looked worse and like his scar was reopened and would certainly explain how he survived the cliff fall but on my rereading I realised that Thalia and Luke fought when Percy was holding the sky and Thalia injured Luke so nvm then.

It is however in this book that Luke began to realise Kronos's plan for him as it is implied by the General and he starts to fear for his life.

Mind you, what did Luke think would happen if Thalia did agree to join Kronos when he knew Kronos was looking for a host of body...

Luke is many things, he is cunning, manipulative, a great swordsman but what he is not is stupid. If Thalia would have agreed then Kronos would have used Thalia as a vessel 😬

And oh boy the can of worms that is Luke and Annabeth. I've seen many Luke fans/apologists deny that there is no canon evidence of Luke being romantically interested in Annabeth BUT THERE IS?? they refuse to believe and call Annabeth an unreliable narrator because otherwise their uwu white boy would be a Pedophile. Even if he wasn't a Pedo, he manipulated Annabeth so many times to make her sympathise with her and use her emotions against her.

(excerpts from various books: TLO, TLO, BoTL, MoA annabeth's pov)

^ Annabeth was 15 almost 16 or already 16 I believe when Luke asked her to run away with him in a romantic sense and he was 21-22.

also another evidence adding to the theory of his fatal flaw having proving himself.

Now, onto the topic of CHB and Luke:

Luke being hesitant to attack camp half blood in BotL has less to do with him suddenly growing a spine (as some fans suggest) and more to do with the inevitable possession.

When Kronos informs that he will himself lead the attack, Luke advises to use Hyperion instead because he knows for Kronos to attack it in person, he would finally possess Luke.

(first one is from TTC, the other two from BoTL)

One of the last things I wanna talk about is Silena Beauregard & Luke and Luke's portrayal in the new Percy Jackson series:

Luke was 17 when Kronos started speaking to him and 19 when he left the camp. Silena was 17-18 when she died which makes her 13-14 when Luke left the camp in TLT and 11-12 when Kronos first started talking to him. Adult Luke charmed an underage girl, and promised her that she was helping the demigods and then when she tried to stop, he started blackmailing her. [excerpts from TLO]

According to the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children UK, Grooming is when someone builds a relationship, trust and emotional connection with a child or young person so they can manipulate, exploit and abuse them. The relationship a groomer builds can take different forms. This could be: a romantic relationship, as a mentor, an authority figure, a dominant and persistent figure. They might use blackmail to make a child feel guilt and shame or introduce the idea of 'secrets' to control, frighten and intimidate.

So canonically, Book!Luke is a fascist groomer pedophile.

Now on the new Disney+ Percy Jackson show, it seems that Rick Riordan is subtly rewriting the character of Luke and removing the more problematic aspect of him (pedophile and grooming). Let me explain why I think that:

Even though in TLT the book, Luke describes Annabeth as his little sister we know how well that lasted but I don't think they are keeping Annabeth's crush on him on the show from what I've seen (though I could be wrong).

Secondly, the casting of Dior Goodjohn as Clarisse puts Clarisse on the same age range as Luke, maybe a year or two younger but in the first book Clarisse was 13-14 and she was 17 in TLO, so they have aged her up. It is my assumption that they will also age Silena by casting a 17-19 yr old actress as her.

And they have made Luke far more sympathetic in the show than the books (him not calling a hellhound during capture the flag and no pit scorpions in the finale), but we wouldn't know how sympathetic or villainous they are making him until season 2 comes out. Charlie Bushnell gives an excellent performance imo

Though this again reflects the double standards it comes to PJO, they have given much grace and praise for the changes made to Luke's character and little to no complaint for ageing up Clarisse but the hate Walker and especially Leah are given is so cruel. Leah has been so much racially targeted though I think she's an excellent Annabeth, just something to think about.

Also, before I forget-

We don't give enough flack to Rick Riordan for writing two weird age dynamics without recognising as grooming and pedophilic nature. (Lukabeth and Caleo/Capercy)

The characters are never made to realise (especially Annabeth) that an older person having feelings for them as a minor is not a normal behaviour.

Especially in regards to Calypso who may take the form of a 15 year old but is actually more than 4612 (according to the riordan wiki) and her having a crush on 14 year old Percy and 15-16 yr old Leo Valdez, not to mention how rudely she treated Leo. Also her cursing Annabeth because Percy left her. Not only is it plain nasty but she's never called out. Its actually so disgusting🤕.

Anyways this turned into a long rant but I would love to read your opinions, especially on Luke's fatal flaw.

I know for some people it may seem like I'm too hard on him but this is just my opinion.

IMO I have no problem if you like a morally bad or gray person, an antihero or a villain as long as their bad deeds aren't swept under the rug and pretend they never happened or glorify their good deeds.

I actually think villian's bad things make them more interesting.

Luke is an antagonist and a villain of the PJO series and a part of being a villain is that some people are going to hate you and that's ok.

Me personally, I was never a fan of his and that's ok.

I know some people are going to bring up the fact that Percy in MoA sympathises but the PJO characters are complicated and Luke was very skilled at making others think of his reason to destroy the Gods the way they would sympathise the most and we see that multiple times.

[blankerthought]

every, oh, four months or so i fall into the same hubris. it works in the same way, every time.

i remember i have a white canvas, a meter or so tall, laying around. it is not presicely white, given that it bears a failed attempt at a painting, but for my purposes that's the same thing. (remember the failure part of this. it's thematically important. or something.)

i spend a little too much time looking at pretty photos. sometimes this includes a painting from at least seventy years ago. sometimes it doesn't.

i remember i've been gifted a set of oil paints; i have the means to paint with them. some of it bought out of my own pocket, even.

i think about it. "it would be nice to put something on my wall" is always an argument. my current only painting is an ugly rabbit i've painted once and left as it was, because once i knew where the cliff edge of hubris was.

i hate that stupid fucking rabbit to death. every day i see it and every day i would love nothing more than to never see it again. but it reminds me i'm a failure sometimes and that my hubris looms like a shadow above me. so it stays.

the rabbit ceases to be enough, so a ray of inspiration hits me.

"oh! i should paint something on that canvas. surely, this time it'll go better."

i am a watercolor painter. both parts of that noun phrase do not, and have never, implied any skill whatsoever with oil paints.

i get everything ready. somewhere in the back of my brain, a feeling of looming hate awaits.

i start painting.

everything after this to the moment i stop painting is an abject and absolute failure. it does not matter what i think while it is happening. once i stop, i will realize the truth: either i burn this painting, or i grab a weapon and go kill people outside.

i do neither of these things.

i cover the painting with whatever the darkest color on my pallete is at the moment. i wash my brushes. i try not to cry.

i sit at my desk and stare at the rabbit. its ugly fucking everything stares back.

i aknowledge that this is partly because i lack practice. the idea of practicing makes me want to learn how to torture people.

giving up.

trying again. hubris may be there to nudge me off the cliff but i walked there all on my own.

repeat.

[imagine-darksiders]

Here's a request, how would Strife and Samael react to accidentally seeing s/o naked for the first time? Like they are getting ready to bathe or something and thought they were alone. They didn't know anyone would be there, and when Strife/Sam do see them, s/o is oblivious. Like they realize very quickly "aw shit, s/o is cute...", Inner monologue stuff about s/o and their new feelings. I have a thing for pining. Real romance fluff with a suggestive hint. Nothing happens, this doesn't have to be nsfw if you don't want it to be. I just want your take on their reactions cause I think they would both range very differently. I chose those two cause they are my favorite. If you don't wanna do this one, that's ok too. I just really like your writing and how you interpret things. Thank you again.

Samael:

It's a common assumption among those who don't know him personally, that the Demon Prince, Samael, is a debauched and lascivious snake who would only relish in the chance to catch a human unawares.

It's a common assumption. But so often common is confused with correct.

He's a prince. Be that of Hell or Heaven or any realm in-between, he knows how to behave like a gentleman when needs be.

To his own surprise, he's found himself falling more and more into that courtly conduct ever since he managed to get his claws on the Horsemen's little human, swiped by his own claws right from underneath their noses.

'Nothing personal,' he'd told you while you thrashed and beat at the vast, scaly fingers wrapped around your torso, 'This is all tactics, you understand.'

With the Horsemen focusing all of their efforts into tracking you down – they've yet to work out that he's behind your disappearance – Samael is free to move his players across an unguarded chess board. A classic – if risky – slight of hand.

Oh, he imagines they'll try to kill him once they discover you hidden here in his fortress at Shadow's Edge, but that's hardly of any concern to a Prince of Hell. If he thought the Horsemen were a genuine threat, he wouldn't have provoked them by taking their precious, little human.

They won't be able to deny, when they eventually find you, that he's been nothing if not a most gracious host. You aren't a political enemy, after all, you're an innocent bystander in his game of cat and mouse.

He's placed you in one of the Eastern towers - under guard and lock and key, of course – where every amenity has been made available to you. A spacious chamber, adorned by a luxurious bed with silken, ruby-red sheets. An adjacent nook that boasts a king-sized bathing pool for you to maintain your hygiene....

If anything, you're less of a prisoner, and more of an unusual guest, though such 'special treatment' has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that your affinity for story-telling far surpasses the talents of his own subjects.

All you have to do is recite Earthen fairy-tales to him, plots of films you can still remember, stories from the books you used to read at school, and every single one of them is eagerly eaten up by the demon Prince, specifically those that have happier endings.

Those very stories are the reason Samael finds himself striding down the corridor to your chambers now, with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, the impressive claws at the end of each of his toes clicking sharply against a black-stone floor.

Last night, you'd half-finished a tale of a caterpillar with an absolutely voracious appetite, but you'd fallen asleep just before the most crucial climax. He'd half a mind to shake you conscious again and demand you tell him how the gluttonous little insect earns his downfall through hubris and greed, but in the end, he permitted you your scant few hours of fitful sleep.

Perhaps the ending you have in store will have been worth the wait...

The phantom guards posted outside your room snap to attention as he passes them by, though their master doesn't spare either of them so much as a fleeting glance, stepping leisurely up to the tattered, scarlet curtain that separates your chambers from the corridor outside.

And that's when he hears it - a sound so seldom heard in Hell, it actually startles the Prince into slowing his gait as his scowl comes undone, softening the deep-set creases carved between his brows.

He pauses at the curtain and twists an ear towards the noise...

... Music?

Slowly, he eases his crooked knuckles beneath the curtain and lifts it aside, hesitating for another moment to discern that his ears really aren't deceiving him. That's music he's hearing. More specifically, it's singing.

You are singing.

He's spoken with you enough times by now to recognise your voice in spite of the melodious notes of a song that drift into his ears from somewhere beyond the bed chamber.

But then, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Of all the denizens residing in his fortress, who among them is the most likely to burst into song other than the human?

Eyes of liquid fire scan the room and find it devoid of his prisoner, until they land upon the arched entrance that leads into the adjacent bathing quarters.

He recalls how you'd been stunned almost speechless the first time he showed you the enormous pool cut out of an obsidian floor.

He'd taken the liberty to drain it of lava before filling it up again with clean, un-poisoned water – a rare commodity in Hell, given the rate of its evaporation.

“Why?” you'd asked, squinting up at him dubiously.

Samael's face had remained perfectly set like the stone underfoot as he hummed his reply, “I assumed humans preferred to bathe in water. Not molten lava.”

That wasn't what you'd meant, and he knew it, but you'd been sensible enough not to look a gift demon in the mouth, as it were.

Lifting his nose to take a whiff of the air, Samael pads like a graceful predator across the chamber, following the sound of your voice.

Until the day comes when he no longer sits on the throne, he'll staunchly deny that his footsteps fall just a little more softly against the stone in his endeavour to remain unnoticed by the room's occupant.

Deftly, he manoeuvres around a scattering of garments that have been strewn haphazardly about the chamber, quirking one solid, scaly brow at them as he passes. 'Odd,' is all he muses.

Under normal circumstances, you're never seen without your flimsy attire.

Finding his curiosity piqued, Samael ducks his crooked horns and steals into the dark doorway, casting an eye languidly across the baths, only to freeze in his tracks, his whole body going utterly still from the horns on his head to the tip of his long, sweeping tail.

As if the singing weren't enough of a shock, you suddenly come dancing into view, swinging your hips to and fro like a pendulum. You're facing away from the doorway, thank the Void, but that's hardly what the demon Prince is focused on.

Standing there on the first step of the bath, bobbing your hips to the tune of your own song, he sees you.

All of you.

There isn't a shred of clothing present to preserve your modesty, no undergarments, nor a single strip of cloth, not a thread to your name.

Samael's silvery pupils dilate, expanding out of slits until they sit soft and round in his yellow eyes.

Rather perplexingly, he doesn't wheel himself backwards out of the entryway as soon as he registers your state of undress, though he chalks this up to being struck with simple, scientific curiosity at having stumbled upon a human in their most natural state.

Why, any second now, he's sure he'll feel that familiar wave of disgust surge up like bile and turn his stomach, because what is the human body if not a small, featureless sack of squelching meat?

Any second now...

Surely...?

Despite the weak-willed voice in the back of his head trying to convince him to turn away, the demon's eyes remain firmly adhered to you, and his ears twitch and flick towards the sound of your voice, anxious to catch every note you sing.

What is the human body...?

It's very.... gentle, he observes through a sudden haze that knocks him ever so slightly off-kilter.

A golden stare roll up the length of your legs, tracing the path of your spine and lingering on the back of your fragile neck.

There isn't a single, sharp edge to your body. No jagged horns or spines jutting through your skin, no tough and unforgiving scales to protect you from the elements, no natural weapons in the form of fangs or claws.

A body like yours was never intended to cause hurt.

What a flawed design.

What a brave design.

Before he can keep it at bay, a memory of Lilith pushes to the forefront of his mind – of her cruel lips that twist into a smirk and her hateful glares that try to poison his heart as she lays underneath him on their shared bed, claws like knives cutting into his scaly forearms to draw as much pain from him as she can, all in the name of 'making love.'

But what if....?

As the demon Prince gazes down at you, transfixed, the image of your naked body slips seamlessly in to replace Lilith's in his mind's eye. Her feral snarl gives way to something kinder, something sweeter, welcoming.

And suddenly, there you are, spread out in his Queen's place on the red, silken sheets, surrounded by the treasures he's draped you in during a wild and scandalous courtship. For the first time in his life, he doesn't want to ravage the body under his, though maybe he'd remind you that he could, if you'd only ask him to.

No. Perhaps, instead, you'll prop yourself up against the mountain of pillows he'd given you to nest in, and you'll cradle his head in your lap, your clawless fingers stroking gently up and down the space between his impressive horns as you tell him stories well into the night, listening to the crackle of the wall sconces together.

'Is that what it must be like?' he wonders, 'to take a lover who has no interest in power or status?' That must be what the stories mean, when they talk of love for love's sake.

Ah... But that kind of love has no place in Hell. The selfless kind. Altruistic. Here, one either loves to gain power, respect, and to rise through the social ranks, or one simply doesn't love at all.

In all the years he's sat on the throne of Hell, never once did he think he'd find himself so captivated by the sight of a human with no clothes on.

The leathery membrane folded between his wings starts to creak as they gradually spread open, driven by an ancient and well-buried instinct to appear bigger, stronger, more suitable than any other demon in the fortress...

He doesn't even notice that his tail has begun to sweep silently from side to side in perfect tandem with the swing of your hips.

Regardless of his imposing presence lurking just behind you in the doorway, you still don't seem to have noticed that you have an audience, and you likely would have gone on with your oblivious dance had the demon Prince not sabotaged himself moments later.

He never meant to do it. He's certainly never been caught doing it before, not even when he was trying to court an impassive Lilith.

Somewhere deep inside his almighty chest, the demon's muscles begin to quiver, pulsing together as they work to push a strange sound up through his throat - something between a contented hum and an unmistakable, mortifying purr.

You notice the sound before he does, but his reactions are sharper than your own.

Your song trails into uncertain silence, there's a whoosh of air and an enormous shadow flits backwards through the doorway just as you turn around to investigate, curling your arms around yourself in anticipation of finding a peeping-tom.

… The entrance is empty.

The Phantom guards scramble to attention when their master suddenly comes storming out of your chambers, his tail lashing like a whip and his mighty chest heaving in and out as if he's trying to stoke a fire in his lungs.

Gleaming fangs crush themselves together as he thunders aimlessly down the corridor, his only concern in distancing himself from the room of his prisoner.

What was that?

What the Hell was that!?

Of all the ridiculous, humiliating, puerile things for a Prince to do.

A purr...

A purr!

At his age! And one directed at a human no less.

He's Samael! Accuser, Seducer. Prince of Demons and Lord of Darkness. He's well above the feeble allure of the flesh.

... But it wasn't just your flesh that tempted him, was it?

Samael's lips curl to bare his teeth as he viciously swipes the thought away with another lash of his tail.

It doesn't matter, he tells himself resolutely. You hadn't seen him, nobody witnessed the event, you'll carry on none-the-wiser while he strikes the whole mishap from his memory.

The Horsemen will come and take you away, as he intended.

Yes... Just as he intended.

EDIT: Holy shift I just realised I got so caught up in Samael's story, I never wrote Strife's!!!!!!! I'm so sorry!!!!