#the worms were famished

[death-by-uwu]

Hey guys 👋🤓

Absence due to being a stem student BUT my classes are ending real soon and as a treat for surviving I blacked out and drew a bunch of rachbeck CUS I NEED THAT PATHETIC EXCUSE OF A SAILOR!!!

I'm so glad that selfshipping has gotten popular cus now I can unapologetically post them :•))

Expect much much more

-edit- I forgot to add the fic continuation of the first lil comic 💀💀

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #109!

Characters: Cyclonus & Tailgate (IDW)

Word count: 1.4k

There was nothing better than a good round of relaxing yoga after a long hour of strenuous exercise, said no one ever. Except maybe Drift, or even Cyclonus, who had become rather obsessed with getting himself back into working order as of late. Tailgate wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about, but he had to admit, he was starting to like it… the nice fat aft poised inches from his face, that is.

He wasn’t much for exercise regimens when the only things he was built to do were limited to his core uses, and that wasn’t a can of ener-worms the minibot was about to pop open. Still, he hadn’t passed on the chance to join his conjux in reaching out to their old CMO’s beloved partner after their not-so-pleasant annual trip to the medibay.

They were at peace now, which meant settling in for the long haul. Of course they were going to gain a bit of weight! Tailgate had expressed this countless times to Cyclonus, who had merely glowered at the reflection in the mirror while pinching at the fat on his frame with rough fingers every time.

This wasn’t like him, he’d say, picking at the piled up plate of food during their shared refueling sessions. He wasn’t built to carry all of this excess weight. Autobot or no, he had still been something bigger, something more powerful, a time before. He could hardly stand to look at himself anymore and witness the major damage just a few months of rest had done to his slim frame.

If you asked Tailgate, all that talk was nothing more than a pile of scrap. What was there to criticize? Cyclonus was finally settling in for a life of peace, and Tailgate was right there with him. So what if they gained a little here and softened a little there?

Cyclonus cared, though, and cared deeply. If getting back into shape is what he wanted, then Tailgate would do anything everything to make it happen—all while loving on that perfectly plump frame of his, of course.

A bit of intel from First Aid meant reaching out to Ratchet who talked with his conjux, and from there, the two bots found themselves the private members of workout sessions with Drift. Tailgate did what he could to join in, but it was almost impossible to focus on straining his small body when Cyclonus was bent over in front of him.

Stretching was just as much of a struggle as the exercising had been, given their long hiatus from running for their lives or clinging to the tendrils of existence. With years of experience in stony fronts under his belt, the condensation covering Cyclonus’ frame and the tremble of jiggling thighs almost went unnoticed… but not by Tailgate—not by a long shot.

“Focus on aligning your intakes with the rhythm of your spark,” Drift was explaining, his arms thrown up in a gentle arc over his helm. “Breathe in… and breathe out. Try to touch the tips of your pedes, then relax…”

Tailgate didn’t have to be told twice, as the air left his chest all at once in a startled wheeze when that perfect pear shape bent in half. Sculpted thighs had grown twice their size in their off-time, and with every jerky movement of his conjux’s frame, those fat masses of metal and mesh scraped together, the constant chafe producing the slightest of sounds.

He was happy to support Cyclonus’ journey towards regaining his strength and endurance. Really, he was. However, Tailgate would have been lying if he said he wasn’t secretly dreaming of slotting his helm between the negative space between those legs and begging Cyclonus to squeeze.

Drift was leading them into downward dog now, and Tailgate tried to copy their movements. He watched Cyclonus carefully, his intake catching in his throat as the plump mech bent low and stuck his aft to the sky.

Primus, what Tailgate wouldn’t give to call it a day and drag them both off to their quarters. He was practically famished now, starved of those thighs locked around his face. Popping his interface array open in the middle of their exercising was probably frowned upon, but he almost couldn’t take it.

He wanted—no, needed—to bury his face in the fatty buildup of that soft pouch on the ex-Con’s belly. Proper mouth be damned, he wanted to drown himself in the lubricants of that valve while his helm was crushed between those thighs.

He needed… yes, he needed Cyclonus to bury him under the weight of his frame. He wanted to feel those plump aft cheeks against his face, and he wanted to run his servos over the soft mesh of those thighs, and he wanted to nuzzle his helm into to rolls of that belly.

It was all he could do to not outright ogle that aft. Tailgate tried to catch a peek of Drift from over his conjux’s shoulder, but the longer he stared, the harder it became not to give up and go back to admiring the jiggle of those fat aft cheeks as he struggled to hold his pose.

“Remember to breathe,” Drift chimed in again, his voice gentle. “Relax into the pose and breathe… in—“

He could hear Cyclonus’ shaky intake, the tremble of his frame drawing Tailgate’s attention right back to that aft and those thighs.

“—and out—“

Click!

…frag. Ohhh, frag.

Tailgate fell to his mat with a squeal, his concentration broken by the sound of his array. In an attempt to save face, he rushed to cover up the exposed mess of the built up tension behind previously closed panels he’d tried so hard to hide. Unfortunately for Tailgate, there was only so much that scrambling to his pedes and holding both servos in front of the dribbling tip of his spike could do to hide the fact that he had most definitely been eyeing his conjux’s fat aft instead of joining in on the exercising.

“Sorry!” he managed to say in the middle of snatching up his towel and scurrying for the door. “Sorry, so sorry!”

While Drift sat in place with a confused frown, Cyclonus was already reaching for his own towel and glaring over his shoulder at the poor minibot with a poorly concealed blush. He didn’t dare speak, especially not when Tailgate was running this way and that, an incoherent blabber of apologies following his attempts at cleaning up and hauling his aft out the door at the speed of light.

Tailgate, at least, had enough sense left in him to head straight for their quarters to deal with… well, this. He’d leave Cyclonus to do the talking with Drift over their next scheduled exercise session, or yoga session, or whatever the hell it was they had planned with his conjux that got him so wound up.

He really couldn’t help himself, especially when Cyclonus looked so fragging hot. How could he not admire a frame like that, especially when it was perched mere inches from his face?

As he stumbled out the door, his towel hanging limply from his servos and only partially covering the embarrassment of popped panels poking up from underneath, he could hear Drift’s hesitation following him in a tentative request at their next possible meetup.

“Um…” the swordsmech began, sounding as though he were trying very hard not to bring up what had just happened. “Same time tomorrow?”

He didn’t stick around long enough to hear Cyclonus’ response, but really, he didn’t need to. Another round of intensive yoga meant getting a front row seat to the beauty of that mech’s stretched frame, and despite his little oopsie today, Tailgate wasn’t about to pass up on that opportunity.

Another round with Drift sounded promising, and the minibot was already figuring out just what he would say to convince Cyclonus to let him join again. First things first, though, as he still had to figure out how to take care of his current predicament, too. The solution to that was a simple one, though, and one involving a little bit of private time in their habsuite and a lot of that perfectly jiggly aft settling down onto his face.

If Cyclonus wanted to strengthen up and get back into shape, Tailgate was all for helping him get there. Still, that didn’t come without its own conditions… and the horny little minibot was more than happy to make sure they came to an agreement.

[mmmilkita]

my first WJ fic.

Tags: Painter+Religious+Demented Walter White, Muse Jesse Pinkman, Alternate Universe, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Necrophilia

The great Heisenberg had fallen a long time ago.

The man regains hope in the form of a young deer.

Motion by mmmilkita

An observer is always true to his words.

No cuts, no poetry, no twisting of terms. A straight line and little to no curves. Accurateness, limited to what the eyes can see, a man’s memory, his system of beliefs. A good liar is also observant; however, he lies. He lacks context, purposely twists the truth and covers the ugly or deepens the wound. This kind of man is untrustworthy yet artful in his ways. I am both, I am what you call; an artist. I have an honest heart but lying hands.

Even now as my fingers confine the wooden brush, arms dancing to the lines and shape of my muse, I contort what’s in front of me. A mirage of flesh and bones, pigments sinking into a pool of illusion. It’s almost as if I possess the power of the sovereign himself, except I am incapable of creation out of nothing. I have no other choice but to gather the finest materials, as a devotee of God.

Now while I confess that I was not one to worship or even grovel at anyone’s feet, miracles do change a man. Like so many of the others, I was but a lost soul searching for answers, the faintest light to guide me. Wandering the darkest of streets, as if a stray dog limping towards nothing at all. Carrying on with but an empty yet swollen stomach full of hungry worms, entangled and curled into a ball from their incessant writhing. They protested in language of rabid hunger, consuming whatever was left of me inside and perhaps, a fool stood no chance fleeing a scythe that was buried in the deepest well that is himself.

Angels were but a foolish concept to me until one walked on earth. The night when the heavens graciously opened its curtains to me, a hand fair as gentle snow reached out. The divine offering a gesture of forgiveness. Soft, slender fingers circled the tip of the protruding weapon and freed me of agony. As if it were King Arthur liberating the stone to claim his rightful throne. Darkness turned to day, bestowing upon me a blinding sight. It was not a King who brought me salvation, but a sweet Prince.

And in return, I have betrayed His kindness. Sacrilege. A sin of high price to pay.

Oh, jury of the winged, if you were to believe a folly, I do admit to one thing. It was the messenger to blame. Warmth radiated from every inch of his blessedness; it is simply justified that a famished mutt felt compelled to lie beside crackling firewood. Not a word of objection was heard, only the ringing of church bells in midst of pleasured cries. You see, my desecration was but to bathe away befouled spirit. If I had not done what I did, I would have simply perished.

“We are at your merciful palms.

May our pollution become a lesson.

For all I know, redeeming oneself is through sincere expression of regret.

What more could I possibly offer than an unclouded picture of thy gospel?”

Reciting my prayer, I am reminded of the disturbance growing in my chest. Creating the perfect piece is nearly unattainable, the pressure never fails to weigh me down. Mentors have praised me for having impeccable taste. How I stood among mankind much like the Christ. You know how it goes. Resurrection. Then followed by a fallout in my fruitless career which humbled a fragile ego. However, my punishment was undeniably well deserved, I had lacked intention to save anyone but myself. Selfish wishes equal to loneliness. And I was truly and utterly alone.

That is why I must repent, along with the fallen. Sickness runs in mortal veins. The desire to create is a relentless piece of us. To be sheltered in another’s flesh and vitality. How repulsive our nature is. How stubborn our hearts beat. How we break our words so effortlessly once the devil speaks.

Take a bite.

Listen to the sound of youth. Breathe.

In the garden of Eden, the forbidden tree calls out to me. From its fresh green to its healthy red seeds, I follow the hissing. My alluring Eve, betrayal is your forte. As you are not the detestable creature, I have read in my mother’s book but you are twice as mesmerizing. The cheap canvas which I replicate your beauty in shames your existence. And yet it is swarmed with overgrown flies buzzing ceaselessly. Because I continue to sully your figure, no matter the distance.

Just merely observing you inebriate my senses. Sending waves of virulent thrills stirred within a pot of boiling guilt, cruel pulsations threatening to overflow. Fragments of our shared passion flashed in a lazy, prolonged motion. Fervent haze and echoed vibrations harmonized the double visioned memory. A vivid recollection, replaying heavenly tenderness. Damp walls crafted of finest silk welcomed the dry and weary, laying out rivers of glistening sap, supple blanket overlapping my entirety. Electric blue gleamed and blazed. Those twin orbs the coldest of flames. Contrasting the gentleness of an embrace. Royal velvet lips bled against mine, crimson rose coating our teeth with a hint of metallic taste. In that moment, we were savages ardently marking each other. Sucking, biting, exchanging scents like animals. Revolting.

Albeit, it was the most pristine I’ve ever felt.

Breathless, indulging the past, the feverish rush plunging me closer to nirvana finally breaks. The face of purity watched me from across the dingy room without a trace of surprise nor disgust. I am relieved. Only innocence painted his gentle doe eyes, still and fixed on my disgrace.

A spare regret to pile into my mountain of vices. Temptation is certainly not an easy foe. The path to redemption is a rugged journey and a sinner walks barefoot. I digress. The hammering intrusion is giving me a headache.

Sauntering from my seat to the dust filled windows, I push the curtains to the side. Icy air knocked on my cheeks before enveloping my somber cabin, sweeping around powdery articles in the process. The bitter afternoon breeze encourages the flimsy fabric to sway. Flaxen, its color, the same shade as his delicate strands. I turn to him. And my, what a spectacle to behold. Not even the scenic overlook of the icebound mountain could compare to the image of a sleeping dove. Dainty and motionless. He is such a doll. Saturated hues tinted his pale complexion, revealing an angelic glow.

Breathtaking is purely an understatement. Every presented detail screamed perfection.

I promptly return, lifted and frantic, sitting on the stiff chair. Recording his ravishing figure mingling with euphoric radiance. I beamed upon witnessing a biblical history unfold. Surely, adding a second art piece is warranted by the gracious Himself, especially of this holy grandeur. Occupied of the newly found inspiration, the pounding disruption grew feeble. And the inexplicable, violating stench fades into the background at last. Bringing tranquility to the disturbed sheep, with a hopeful yearning to be forgiven.

[littleslithewhump]

Day 17 - licking 

V’s shoulder gives way, the strappado turning the pain of the humbler, the pain of the nipple clamps, into a throbbing, heartbeat undercurrent. He’s exploding. Red clouds his vision.

It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. 

It’s a mantra and a degradation. He coughs up bile and it wrenches his shoulder further. He loses consciousness and the pain on his joints when he collapses jolts him back. 

Timelessness–he’s not himself, he’s just someone who has been bad, in a hell that he himself made through his forgetting. 

-

The professor’s body–my pet’s body –is a ruin. Red and purple spills all over his skin, layered over healing yellow and greens. The fingerprint bruises embedded on his skinny thighs make my mouth fill with saliva.

He doesn’t even notice me approaching: just coughing and crying and whimpering, face turned to the floor.

One of his shoulders is purpled and bruised, dislocated after his hour to himself. The sight makes my cock twitch in interest. 

I kneel before him, hooking a finger under his collar. He turns his weepy eyes to me. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry–I was so bad–I’m sorry”--

It’s satisfying. Gratifying. He’s so broken down. Nearly turned to what I want him to be. 

“Beg me to fuck you.” 

He doesn’t even hesitate. He pleads and squirms, fucked-out eyes wheeling around wildly. 

I unhook his chains, releasing him from the strappado. He crumples to the floor like wet paper. 

I undo the rest of his predicaments–even unbinding his hands–listening to him whining on each exhale as he shivers and shakes like one of those damn rat dogs. I roll him to his back. His dislocated arm seems completely immobile, flopping uselessly. 

“Keep begging, pet.” 

He seizes up in fear, speaking breathlessly as I straddle him. 

I dig my thumb into his ruined shoulder. He shrieks, but keeps up his string of whining little pleas. 

I can’t deny myself the pleasure of bending down to lick his shoulder. To lap at the purple bruise, to tongue the place where it swells, where it bends in the wrong place. Even the gentle pressure of licking makes him cry out and shudder and melt under me. 

Weak. Weak when I caught him, weak now. Every part of him is famished, blushing, bruising weakness. And now he fucking knows it. 

I crouch in front of his face, my boot jamming the palm of his immobile arm into the cement, reminding him that even if he were strong enough to move his limbs at all, he would still be mine. He licks me, licks my balls and cock. Ground into the floor, like the sniveling worm he is. Sucking at me like I’m his final meal. 

When I shove my cock in his throat, he knows better than to bite down, knows better to do anything but just take it. His eyes roll back in his head when I finish.  

After I catch my breath, pulling my cock out his throat, I ask. “Have you learned your lesson?”

My pet nods. His bleary eyes and open mouth leak. 

I hit him round the face. His head swivels like his neck is made of rubber. 

“Speak.” 

He whimpers out a “Yes, sir.” Barely audible, but I decide to take mercy on him. 

“Good. I’ll even fix your shoulder for you.”

His eyebrows furrow. It’s…cute. How bad he’s become at protesting. 

When I pop it back in place, he screams and screams and screams. 

[tunastime]

HOW ABOUT.... 77 >:3

oh shepherd. ohhh shepherd. 77 is shark week and its really a shame that shark week is so low considering that everything everything was my top artist of 2023, narrowly beating glass animals and usurping their 5 year streak. so um this is about ben and tom to me smiles

(668 words)

It’s a busy night.

That bodes well for Tom, who makes his way through the halls of the lab, following stripes of color through the bright white light. He makes his way through groups of testificates, blocking out questions and chatter, putting his mind away from whatever they could be working on. He wasn’t focused on that, tonight. He wouldn’t be asked about his trip. Not that he would be in the first place—that’s what he got for being good at his job. Nobody asked questions. Well. Xephos asked questions. But his questions were always to the point, and they were always a wrap around to the answer he was expecting, so as long as Tom was on his toes, he could answer them without saying anything at all. 

Nevertheless of all of that, he slips his way through the halls of the lab, and through a few access doors, and to a room, where he stands for a moment, fishing for his keycard. When he swipes, the door slides open, letting in a bar of light. He steps in quickly, light disappearing for a short moment, until the lamp beside the bed clicks on.

In white-yellow light, Ben looks awful.

It’s not that he normally looks good, either, which is unfortunate, but he looks exhausted. The lines of his face grow darker in the low light, especially as he blinks awake, scrubbing at his eyes. Tom feels a sharp pang through his chest as he realizes he’s woken him, but the relief etched across Ben’s face as he locks eyes with him diffuses the guilt almost instantly.

“Hi, Ben,” Tom says, a smile worming onto his face.

“Tom,” Ben sighs, leaning back on his hands. His shoulders seem to relax almost immediately as he settles, as Tom steps more into the room. He sets his coat and clipboard on the nightstand, ruffling through the pockets as he does. He holds out a bundle of napkins for Ben. Ben cups his hands, holding the bundle for a moment before Tom gestures for him to open it. 

“What is it?” Ben asks, tilting his head. The corners of his mouth lift up just so as he looks up at Tom. Tom’s still grinning, eyes squinted behind his glasses. He gestures again.

“It's for you,” Tom says. Ben snorts, rolling his eyes as he unfurls the napkins in his palm. Inside, Tom’s saved bread and cheese, crushed together from being shoved into his coat pocket, but largely still edible, and no small portion either. Ben’s face lights up, eyes flicking from the food in his hands and Tom’s face.

“You’re serious?” Ben asks. Tom nods, folding his arms as he comes to sit on the end of the bed, giving Ben enough space to stretch out his legs. Ben tears into the bread, almost famished, sighing as he chews. He smiles at Tom through his food, as if he’s holding back a laugh, and that alone sets a warm thing turning in Tom’s chest.

“Thank you,” Ben hums, swallowing with some difficulty. He reaches for the glass of water at the bedside, taking a small sip. Tom kicks himself—next time. Next time, tomorrow, or the day after, or two days from now, he’ll bring a whole canteen of water. He’ll sneak him away. He’ll make sure he actually gets clean, that he gets rest, a warm meal. Anything he can sneak to him. Anything that the testificates, that Xephos won’t miss.

Until then, Ben eats, savoring the food like he’ll never get a chance to eat again. Even in the white light, his face regains a bit more color, warm in the high of his cheeks. Tom laughs a bit under his breath, the motion shaking his shoulders. 

“Of course, Ben,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows. “What else am I good for?”

Ben laughs, a solid sound from his chest, and Tom laughs with him. He’s not sure when he decides it, but he knows now, more than ever, that he’s leaving. And he won’t be leaving without Ben beside him.

(spotify wrapped ask meme)

[viktorgf]

—OCS AND VILLAIN SONGS

hey what’s up you guys welcome back to my channel— i did this post on my old blog ages ago which is unfortunately lost to time now and i wanted to do it again. so this has gotta be like, the third time some of y’all are seeing this but. fuck it we ball.

born from a post made by @unholymilf a loooong time ago that as more or less a question of if ur oc was a boss fight, what song would be playing and it struck me so here is ALL of my brain worms, including some new ones from the last post!

ANDIE— le soleil est près de moi; air.

POV: you’re bleeding out as andie is standing over you, burning white hot, hotter than the sun setting behind her. she is passionate and… reckless, and will swear this was self-defense. even if she struck first. even if she didn’t blink. even as she watches the life leave your body.

BIANCA— tricycle express; gaspard augé, mr. oizo.

POV: bianca is white knuckling her steering wheel, swiping her car against the side of your own for miles down the freeway. she is gonna run you off the road. she absolutely will; it’s unavoidable, and she’s gonna laugh while she’s doing it. this is the song she’s listening to.

CELESTE— vision; m83.

POV: “you will die soon. sooner than you were supposed to, now.” celeste deadpans as she hovers her hand over your forehead and waves. she makes a show of it, though her clairvoyance doesn’t require as much. you wish you had listened to her and thought better of asking in the first place. “it will be violent, and painful. give ares my best. leave my temple.” but you didn’t, and now it’s too late. your fate is sealed.

ELVIRA— old river; orville peck.

POV: you’re stiff, hairs on the back of your neck standing up. you’re being watched. this is a different kind of observation than the one you’re used to— the seeds constantly run surveillance on you, but this doesn’t feel as passive. you’re being hunted. and when you dare to turn on your heels to see elvira standing behind you with a crossbow bolt nocked with your name on it, you almost wish jacob was here to kill you instead. somehow, you know it would be more merciful.

OSLO— pennsylvania furnace; lingua ignota.

POV: oslo isn’t the deputy anymore. they’re the judge. eden’s gate is up a member who is worth a million and the resistance mourns a million more.

FAUSTINA— beyond the horizon; olivier deriviere.

POV: faustina is the last line of defense between you and the mother church. she’s a penitent, too, you must understand. the consecrated red ribbons she’s wrapped in are suffocating her the longer she takes to excommunicate you and she will try every prayer at her disposal to stop it—to stop you.

JEN— krack; soulwax.

POV: jen is chasing you through the fib building after she snitches on your whole operation to the iaa. you are an enemy of the state, but more importantly— you’re an enemy to agent jennifer daniels. she wants you dead, and you will be soon enough. especially if it’s up to her. and as of right now, she has you cornered in an interrogation room with nowhere to go and a gun to your head.

LOTTIE— arsonist’s lullabye; hozier.

POV: hawkins is ablaze, and lottie is at the scene of the crime staring into the flames.

LINDY— señor (tales of yankee power); jerry garcia.

POV: there’s barely anyone left to call a gang, and dutch knows as much. but he won’t admit it— that would require him admitting guilt for the losses, too. and he should be so lucky he’s still breathing; lindy wants to empty an entire revolver clip into his thick skull but knows she wouldn’t live long enough to feel the satisfaction. so she does the next best thing, and turns her back. there isn’t anything left for her, anyway. she would risk a lifetime of looking over her shoulder over having to look at him.

MAGS— change (in the house of flies); deftones.

POV: you’re being experimented on in an umbrella sanctioned lab and in walks mags— who you thought was on your side. after all, well fed devils behave better than famished saints. but not this one, she’s much worse.

MILDRED— god unbounded; uboa.

POV: you have just returned from the dead because some weirdo with a god complex and a proficiency in reanimating corpses decided that she needed the practice. and now that’s your problem, because you definitely have come back Wrong. but you’re back! surprise!

NICOLE— heart in a cage; the strokes.

POV: you’re witness to an absolute bloodbath as nicole goes crazy on the field. she’s completely lost herself, she isn’t in control anymore. she was always dangerous but now she’s lethal. she’s already gotten some of her own killed, and somebody needs to take her out before it gets worse. she’s a wild animal. and to her, you’re fresh meat.

SIBYL— summit song; nicole dollanganger.

POV: she drowns you in her scrying pool and you are never heard from again. it’s your own fault, really— anna henrietta told you to leave her be and you didn’t listen.

ROSALIND— goodbye; soap&skin, apparat.

POV: she begs mike for the coordinates of where it happened and he doesn’t budge. he never will. he doesn’t trust her not to take a shovel to the earth and dig him up. so in her state of delirium, she walks through the desert and screams and cries and repents. and becomes her own biggest villain.

ODETTE— graveyard; midnight syndicate.

POV: odette quite literally haunts her family estate, left to fall into disrepair. she’s a grief stricken wraith born of despair who brutally attacks anyone who dares step into her tomb. she’s a master illusionist even in death, so if you choose to fight her instead of just leaving, just make sure you first remove the mirrors from the wall.

okay whew that was a TASK but i’m gonna make this a tag game cs i wanna see Y’ALL make ur ocs evil and give them a soundtrack so hehe @florbelles @unholymilf @shellibisshe @ghostfvcker @benwishaw @loriane-elmuerto @leviiackrman @jackiesarch @rosayoro @statichvm @teamhawkeye @bloodofvalyria @red-nightskies @confidentandgood @simply-jason @scalpelsister @devilbrakers @lxmbert and you!

[arlecchinoprojectharbringerask]

||| The Solemn Knave - Harlequin |||

A curious little rat scurries about the ruins of Remnant Peak, where the Weaver fell-- Swallowed by the Abyss ever famished. Or really, the foolish woman with lofty ideals willingly marched right into the jaws waiting, put herself into the grasping hands. So devoted to her ambition for performance... Heheh. Honestly, that amateur was already mailable from the start, I'd only given her a little nudge.

Ahh, Illucia, Illucia, silly little Illucia. For calling herself a, nay, THE Weaver, she sure was sloppy. Ah well, it's all yesterdays' news on the mill. T'was hilarious watching her antics for sure. Just like this silly mortal over there prancing about like headless- Pfft, really now? Hehehe, such obvious ruse. Good grief! I've seen many actors come and go, but you're just not even trying there, are you, eh?

The second the human heard the merry song of the bells, saw his top hat emerge and the entertained sneer of laughter? Bolted off like a frightened, poor wee rabbit. And how could he possibly insult the worm, by not playing along, hm? Hah! Thus, the wolf of ink, shadows and mirthful mischief gives chase.

Heart thundering on the verge of leaping out of her ribcage, Alex darts through the ruins. Doesn't need to look back, vision zeroed in on making it to the circles that damn snide little mage has set up. ..Hounded without mercy, the monster toying and cackling as he bounces in and out of the ground. Sure, I been dabbling with the Syndicates who deflected from the Weaver, and my lot were lumped in with 'em back in the day-- Ugh, keep running. For gods' sake Alex keep running or it's not just you done for.

"Magister! Clown o'clock! Clown o'clock!" -The stench of something breathes down on her nape. The glare of a glowing maw, almost about to clamp down, those pits boring straight through- "Get outta there!" - The Archmage barks back, the elaborate circles flaring sharply right as the knight ducks out of range-

And the menace, terror, smacks right into the invisible wall. Caught, chains shooting as the runes lift off the ground- Ensnared. Firmly crashes onto the ground with a furious, startled and shocked shriek of protests, threats and insults unspeakable. But no matter how much the mischief-maker wildly thrashes and kicks against his binds wound around his gangly little body, squawking and screeching, it's futile. Merlin seals the incantation with one final shout thunderous, the spiral of colorful flames swirling above the fiend shooting down.

.... Should've been smidge more careful.

Out of all the shrieks and screeches- This last one howl ripping out of those jaws is the most ghastly. Wail that turns to a sequence of more wounded, distressed howls, the string of fire flowing into him like venom slowly injected. An arrow embedding itself deep, a disease. And then a 'thud' was the end, the Hypogean laying as if dead.

But Magister Merlin keeps on chanting, changing the spell to another-- Of binding, permanent and irreversible. Sealing the Clown and Fire, and yanking this new entity into a strict contract. Slowly flames of shimmering color rise, like crystallized blood, enveloping the jester like a cocoon of delicate threads. Until Berial, or what remains of the fool, is but a mummy.

As Merlin chants, within the chords, the Hypogean floats drifting in a void. Before him, stands a face he can't remember, never cared to. A lost descendant of a diplomatic dynasty, the phantom's eyes half-way a mirror of his own... Or are mine mirroring his..? The magic strings gripping and stitching them into conjoined 'twins' weave, and weave, ripping barriers....

Flowing their beings into each other like playing with cups of chemicals or colored water. ...Rising from the Abyss, borne to loving arms and a soft, sweet voice welcoming him into Life- Which ones are mine? Was I really healing? No, no- Not me. Not mine, His. Ioan's. ...Or me? Us? ....So that's what happened.. I....get it.... I'm loosing....the line.....

....Merlin...

The chrysalis ignites, the cocoon of threads having now formed wings not quite of blood nor fire- An amalgam. The gaps in between the feathers giving a glimpse of closed lids on a white face, eyes snapping open--- Blank. There are red vertical pupils in them, stern and grim, red and black paint around them of a harlequin. Thrown back, shoved out of the way and flared to full span, the rest of the figure is revealed.

Curly short inky hair now having a reddish taint and some streaks straight, snowy ..Like bloody tears or tar, inky wings ablaze with those dark, blood-alike flames crackling at the tips and melted parts, attire a tailcoat and mismatched on the garment under it. Red, dark grey and black, the thin long owl-like eyebrows furrowed into a somber, cold frown as the being lands onto his feet silently.

Stalking towards the Magister in that unnerving, dutiful calm. As he holds a scythe in hand. And his voice a rasp, reminiscing of Berial's... But not quite.

"Merlin."

"From this day forth, Harlequin, Knave of contracts-- Are bound forevermore under my cause. My will, is yours. Or cease to exist, should you rebel against your own will that is mine." Something flashes on that clinically devoid mask, subtext and context left unvoiced- Only between the Magister and Knave. The Arch-magus already thinking of adding the Puppet to the Heroic Order, as their hound, the decree added swiftly into the Contract's many numerous clauses.

A tiny pull back of the lips as though a wince or snarl, eyes narrowing in disdain and silent ire-- A lock finalized. The eyes go full dark blood-red almost black, then flash back to their near pearlescent color, pupils gone.

"Hm." You're smarter than I originally thought, Merlin. Didn't take you for the underhanded type.

No more games, Arlecchino. Time to get serious. Your oath, is to watch over Esperia in its whole, fight off the ones whom were your kin at all cost. Protect the world of Esperia, its denizens, me and my familiars, at all costs. This is your vow, binding oath and contract.

Merlin lifts a hand, a wordless decree--

And the Solemn jester disappears into a flurry of dark, bloody flames, flickering embers of gold, orange, scarlet and teal amidst them.

The Sentinel set on his eternal duty, a contract he can never fulfill nor escape and know freedom. A silent, cold-blooded, emotionless guardian watching over Esperia as his puppeteer's bidding, command. Any hypofiends and Hypogeans found would be swiftly, and efficiently hunted, dealt with.

[caffsy]

FFXIV Write #21 – Shade

During the investigation afterwards, it had been determined that the Moks’ self-immolation had been a byproduct of the spell that he had attempted to cast. It was found that it had great similarity to western thaumaturgy, but drew in a vast amount of aether from an unknown source. The great amount of power, more than he could handle, had sparked out of control and burned him alive from the inside.

Yusi was banking on that selfsame effect as she willed the selfsame spell into existence. The mixing of her and her target’s lifebloods and her magic tool embedded within the great sandworm gave her enough of a sympathetic link to alter the spell’s destination.

The sand worm attempted to burrow away but could not help but writhe in place as if it were shaking off a swarm of intangible creeping vilekin. Yusi’s spell had effectively lit a fire within its body, centred on the sceptre. She continued incanting the syllables turning the rhythmic syllables, which rent the air asunder and wrought countless sleepless nights, into a salvation. A keen shattering sound indicated the swift southward direction of this plan.

The simple bone sceptre had no chance of holding within the raw power channelled by the advanced spell and had shattered, scattering bone and crystal fragments. No longer with a focus to anchor to, the spell which had run wildfire once before did so again to its two participants. Yusi’s incanting had been cut off to protect herself from flying shards and she screamed as her blood heated. She laid flat against the cool sand and took deep breaths, making use of her wide vocabulary by stringing together an incomprehensible paragraph of multilingual swear words.

Yusi felt like it could have been seconds, minutes, or hours before the stupor of heat and pain waned enough for her to string thoughts together. She crawled over the dune and grabbed her spear, using the haft to support her as she shakily got to her feet.

She hobbled over to her backpack, which had gotten flung off in the entire ordeal, and tore into the few supplies she still had left. She was exhausted, famished, in terrible pain, deeply dehydrated. She was in no mood to plan or think critically, and so she unfurled another curio from the depths of her backpack. She pulled out the long carpet, laid it beside the carcass, and pushed with all her might to roll the sandworm onto it.

A small trickle of magic was all it took to get the carpet to lift briefly into the air. It would run out of its own power soon enough and begin unravelling – cannibalising itself for fuel. In Yusi’s opinion, it was going to hold. It would hold. Or else.

The lingering warmth, or deadened nerves, from the spell that doomed the worm shaded Yusi from the frigid desert air as she retraced her steps back to the entrance to Sector Phi. She could not have told why no further predators decided not to ambush, but in the moment, she felt certain that it was her terrible attitude.

[hologramblue]

wrt last reblog it was flight fucking rising of all things. okay so. years and years ago flight rising decided the background metaplot was going to be about how when the dragon gods reappeared in the world and made dragons, this caused a lot of trouble for the sapient "beastclans" already living on the planet, so The Playable "Faction" Is Secretly The Bad Guys Really and something something etc. naturally a lot of people were not super happy about being told that their dragons were violent colonizers by default. about a year ago the FR team went, yeah no that was stupid and we're sorry and we're gonna retcon all that, and developed a bunch of new lore with different sources of conflict in the setting that weren't Dragons Vs Little Guys.

i start with this background because like, the reason there needed to be a source of conflict in the setting to begin with - besides just "to help with RP" - is that FR has a coliseum mode where you stat up your dragons and go fight waves of enemies in different stages located around its world. which afflicts it with the same dilemma practically every fantasy video game has: you have gameplay involving beating the snot out of "enemies" and collecting the things they drop. what are those "enemies" and why is it okay to do that?

the ~classic~ answer is "because goblins are born evil".

one of the evolutions of that answer is "it's not actually okay and the player is morally compromised". for sure you can sometimes Say worthwhile things by taking this tack, but perhaps not through the medium of a dragon petsite populated by the kind of people who play petsites.

the other general path people take (short of rethinking the whole gameplay premise) is to move your "acceptable enemy" concept further and further away from anything with unfortunate real-life implications. they're robots/constructs/etc! they're REALLY buff vermin animals and culls are necessary to prevent loss of human life! they're, uhhh....undead and need to be laid to rest! they're possessed! and you're not actually killing them anyways, you're just smacking the possession out of them!

the latter is what FR went with, but as a text-only retcon that didn't actually change the composition of enemy packs in the coliseum, it sits kind of awkwardly on top of things.

FINALLY GETTING AROUND TO THE MAIN POINT within the last month, a new venue was released, the first new one to come out since the big retcon. and the story premise of this new venue, the "Silk-Strewn Wreckage", is as follows:

"Invasive glow worm and fire grubs have gorged upon massive amounts of flora and are preparing to pupate. Once they emerge, flighted and famished, they will continue to consume and proliferate. Large concentrations of these grubs have nested in the Silk-Strewn Wreckage. Dragons and Beastclans alike have come to control the population of these insects before they can do more damage, and to harvest the silk that they produce."

i saw this and nodded and thought yeah okay that's definitely a premise for beating the snot out of fodder enemies that isn't a war crime. it works.

but they specifically had to be invasive, which i thought was odd when you also have silk collection going on (and lots of familiars and drop items that establish this as a whole established industry rather than something new and disruptive like "invasive" suggests). like, it couldn't just be something that happens - these insects swarm, hunters go in and harvest a bunch of silk, that's just life in the setting. saying the bugs are invasive makes them into "acceptable enemies" in the vein of robots, undead, etc, more so than if they were just something that people hunt and whose populations are controlled by that hunting.

something about the state of public opinion here or whatever

[death-by-uwu]

1/?

What's up linebeck nation I've recently been inflicted with phantom hourglass brainworms that's now passed

HOWEVER during that time linebeck fell into my pathetic girlfailure bbg pile and I had to act accordingly by making an oc so now I'm dumping all the art I made here

[luimagines]

The only moment when Twilight would be kind of a mean bean, is when passing besides reader, leans down a Little bit to their ear and just growls, then leaves as fast as he appeared, leaving behind a very flustered reader.

Or, Or! Reader is browsing a shop, somewhat hidden by the stalls, and Twilight happens to be their shopping buddy for the day!

A shame He feels in the playful mood today.

So while reader is very busy assessing the freshness of a vegetable, Twilight stands behind them very close; you could feel those well toned muscles of his pressing against your back. The fact that he is one of the tallest Links pivoted at the front of your mind as he leaned down on you, his far much larger frame almost shadowing yours and rested his chin on the crook of your neck.

His hot breath graces your flesh as he sighs.

"What are you looking at, lamb?" He whispers. His lips brushed the feverish skin with each word that went out of his mouth.

The produce in your hand fell back on the pile as your grasp grew limp.

You sucked back a noise when Twilight didn't wait for an answer-- not that you were in the right state of mind to give one, anyways-- and gave the area a small kiss, his cool lips a good, refreshing contrast with how feverish you felt from his subtle touch. His hands came to rest at the curve of your waist on each side, shamelessly pulling you flush towards him. With that little remaining space completely gone now, you could almost feel how much warm his body irradiated with the closeness the two of you had. If you could feel the bumps of his chesiled front before then now you can almost count all the full set of muscles brimming with raw strength.

Your hands came to clamp over his own, trying to pry them off but he didn't budge an inch. The sudden awareness of being in a public space fell on you like a bucket of cold water. As quickly as your position allowed, you turned your head to your left, where Twilight's face was. But you soon will grow to regret that decision.

When the tip of his nose pressed against your cheek, you felt how the corner of his mouth raises in a snarl, barring his teeth and then just growls. The noise was but a background sound to you, your mind disconnected from reality as the vibration of his growling felt like the ever deafening roar of a thunder striking land, just as paralyzing. Your body prickled with electricity and your muscles twitch from the surprise as the rumble traversed and spread to your back and chest, leaving a tingly, pleasant sensation after each wave.

A small yelp manages to wrench free from your clenched lips. One of your hands darted from the top of Twilight's hand to you mouth, muffling as hard as you could any other noise that might escape you.

You blinked your eyes, trying to bat away the moisture that have gathered there before slowly turning to meet a pair of stormy, dark blue ones. Twilight's usually clear eyes resemble those of a famished beast eyeing a piece of delicious morsel; his dilated pupils took on every inch of face, brandishing with fire in his mind that expression of yours with your wide, glassy pretty eyes.

He acted on instinct. His mouth open and, ever so gently, took a nip of your cheek. The prick of his fangs just a touch shy from actually puncturing the flesh, it shouldn't have felt that good to you. Even with how animalistic Twi is looking right now, he still manages to refrain of actually causing you pain.

Twilight gave a small kiss on the bite then retracted back, letting go of your body. You took a big breath of fresh air, your lungs aching from all of your shallow breathing you were taking.

When he actually took a couple of steps back, you spin around to be face to face with him, one hand on your chest and the other cupping the tender cheek. As you two make eye contact, Twilight gives you a toothy smile before slowly, licking the tip of his canines.

He winks at you and chuckles at your stunned, flushed face.

"The old man want us back. Just wanted to tell you that" he simply states, even shrugging his shoulders like he just didn't almost defile you in broad light.

"I'd wait for you, but you look like you need a moment" his voice sounds a little bit deep while chuckling his words.

Twilight then smiled innocently, ruffles your hair then leaves like no ones business.

A trembly sigh leaves you. With that pelt of his, this encounter truly felt like him being a big, bad wolf that, if it wasn't because you were in a public place, he would have jumped you in a heart bit, devouring you until there was nothing left of you but your undying adoration for him.

You don't know what made him act like that, but you certainly wouldn't mind if he repeated that in a more secluded, private place.

-----------

oH GOD. I KNOW I AM ABOUT TO BE SNIPPED BY PINKY.

BUT. I KEPT IT SUGGESTIVE... I THINK.

IT IS ALL THE FAULT OF THAT ANON FOR SAYING TWILIGHT GROWLING IN READER'S EAR. IT LEFT ME WITH A HEAVY CASE OF BRAIN WORMS IXKEICIDIIC

But on a serious note, sorry if this infringe with your rules, Pinky 😟

THIS!!!!

HOW DARE YOU!!!

LIKE?!?!?

HOW AM I TO COPE!!!

MY FRAGILE WEAK HEART CAN'T TAKE IT!

YOU STAYED PERFECTLY WITHIN THE LINES, MY GOD.

[yandere-toons]

Yandere Kaa (Platonic Scenario - "Snake in the Grass")

Warnings: Famine, Child Abandonment, Blood, Violence, Mention of Religious Concepts, Animal Death, Toxic Mindsets.

A.N. – There is quite a bit of symbolism in this, and it is very much an interpretive piece.

The stalks of maize that had once swayed in the breeze and glistened in the morning sun like towers of pearls were, after a period of insect domination, reduced to brown stubs. Mouths devoured the sour produce of the jungle with famished enthusiasm, only to gag when writhing worms, drenched in the humid glaze of rot, crawled from the hollow core of the fruit.

Hungry villagers wailed for a solution to their empty stomachs, and as the sick and old fell before the healthy, those with enough strength to protest turned their desperation onto the vulnerable.

From the day the sharp stones, as jagged and unforgiving as the cliff from which they had tumbled, pierced your eyes and imprisoned your battered body in a cot for much of the earlier year's harvest season, the spear and dagger were no longer yours to wield.

Gathering water from the river that flowed where the safety of the village ended and the danger of the jungle began had become your singular duty, for the elders thought it too simple to be ruined. The trough that held the entire village's supply of drinking water had resided in the same plot of grass beside the crops until the night it was found overturned, its contents missing and termites gnawing the wood.

Struggling with the clumsiness that came from learning to experience the world through alternative senses, you were then the subject of great suspicion and disdain.

"A curse has befallen our land," declared the chieftain, standing above his people on a day when three fresh graves had been dug. His voice boomed with a strength much clearer than the parched grumbles of the villagers, and his face sported a youthful fullness rather than the cracks of dehydration.

"We must ration our numbers," was his solution. After the chieftain returned to his hut, a group of your neighbours escorted you to the river to replenish the trough. Weeping followed you to the edge of the village before the buzzes of mosquitos and the peeps of birds muddied it, yet your chaperones chatted as loudly as their dry throats would allow as if seeking to obscure the growing presence of nature.

The trek lasted much longer than those in the past had, tiring your body and depleting what puny energy still clung to it.

When your legs could carry you no further, you collapsed against a tree stump. "Please forgive us," begged the voice of a hunter, one who had accompanied you on numerous missions. A pair of footsteps approached from the opposite direction, and the bucket was snatched from your grasp. The reality of the chieftain's decision crashed upon you in a storm of helpless terror and fury.

"Don't apologize to them," snapped the voice of a farmer. "That water would've saved my wife." Frantic grunts and wheezing strained your lungs as you fought to stand, limbs quivering like twigs and sending you tumbling across the grass. The neighbours fled to a home that was no longer yours, and the cold aura of the jungle seemed darker than any night in the village.

* * *

"Ooh," muttered Kaa, his head quivering in mock umbrage. The snake narrowed his eyes as if expressing your inner bitterness and puckered his lower lip like a child pouting after their ice cream cone splattered on a slab of hot concrete. "Man sure plays a dirty trick, doesn't he?"

The snap of a twig crushed by an immense weight broke the unusual silence of the jungle like a firecracker, and the serpent retreated to the limbs as if banished from the ground. Claiming a low-hanging branch as his refuge, Kaa spotted a lean quadruped standing at the edge of the clearing. The blue-grey aura of the moonlight cascaded down the sides of the animal, outlining the long whiskers and shaggy mane of a feline.

Dread began to blossom in the heart of the Indian Rock Python. It ballooned and drew anxieties from an environment where he had declared himself the king. Before an instinctive apology ousted his last hope for a silent escape, the lush flora that shielded its face from the silver gaze of the moon could not disguise the black fur that hugged its body. The fear that was knotting his stomach turned to anger and humiliation, and an opalescent ripple of green and blue filled his eyes.

Kaa opened them to an unnatural degree and stretched the line of his mouth into a scowl. As he neared the collection of thick leaves and sweet-smelling flowers, the shadow of the cat grew fainter until it vanished as if it were a mirage. The snake dangled for a moment, stupefied, before plunging into a frantic search of the closest bushes. A cough, nasty and raw with disdain for the frigid air that blanketed the jungle, pulled Kaa to the sight of you vying for control of your legs.

The serpent's tail plummeted from an adjacent tree and impeded your attempt at fumbling into the thick of the herbage to locate the village. "It's best not to linger, man-cub. The jungle can be rather-" his head shook with a mischievous chuckle, although the warning was relevant to both you and himself "-unfriendly at night."

* * *

The world seemed to lay just beyond the veil that cloaked your vision, but no matter how many bursts of light or fuzzy shapes teased the idea of sight, the darkness would never lift higher than the occasional memory. What little you remembered of the shape of neighbours yielded flashes of strange faces that either lacked most features or were presumed to be correct but failed to assemble an image that your mind could understand. When Kaa spoke, green and blue circles would pop throughout your vision and cease once he, often with a twinge of frustration lacing his voice, fell silent.

His scales were like a cold piece of leather beneath your fingertips, pushing against your hands when the snake ascended a new tree and during turns, would tilt just enough for your palms to brush the glass-like scales of his underside. "Are we close to the river?" The spindly trunk of Kaa made for a turbulent ride, and the memory of how grass blades, dirtied and crooked from paws much larger than your own, would hook your toes had begun to fade into an imagined tingle.

The many voices of the jungle conversed in a tongue indecipherable to your ears. Tropical birds passed different fractions of the same story through the trees and earned a variety of reactions that ranged from uproarious caws to rapid chirps, while the distant laughter of monkeys echoed over a joke unknown to you from their kingdom in the height of the foliage. Vibrations throbbed across the darkness as if a creature were sustaining a groan in the back of its throat, spilling from the abysm of a cave and provoking the animals into a raucous chorus of howls and shrieks.

"The jungle is an awfully big place," whispered Kaa, easing his coils around a lower branch and descending with caution that had been absent from the rest of the journey. "It would be most unwise to cross it without a friend to guide you."

* * *

A white mouse scurried across the branch, its snowy coat glowing against the bumpy texture of the jungle wood. The creature rubbed its head with a set of pink toes, and its nose twitched with a squeak that was imperceptible to your ears but resembled a dinner bell to the greedy Indian Rock Python, who was drooping towards his next meal.

The rodent jumped, and Kaa snapped his jaws shut around its tiny body. It wriggled inside his mouth, squeaking and squirming in a desperate attempt to free itself.

"Kaa?"

With a surprised grunt, the Indian Rock Python turned his head to meet your confused frown. Your eyebrows were crinkled, and your eyes, however ineffective they may have been, were facing his own with a degree of precision that cast a shiver along his back. A wave of embarrassment had begun to wash over his thoughts when he recalled your earlier confession.

"What is that?" you asked with palpable bewilderment, which challenged his belief in his tact until the mouse rolled with a discordant screech. It was tossing and slapping the roof of his mouth with its tail like a baby having a tantrum. The cries of the doomed animal were silenced as it descended into the belly of the snake, and Kaa allowed a look of satisfaction to cross his snout as he flicked out his forked tongue.

"Oh, nothing, man-cub."

* * *

Sliding down the body of the serpent was an uncomfortable experience. Not only had your feet been unable to touch any sort of ground for several hours, but you also had no idea how close to landing you were until your hands plunged into the river. Water splashed your face, the hum of the stream bringing a calmness to your rapid heartbeat.

"Drink up, man-cub." Kaa maintained a coil around your torso but draped the bulk of himself over a branch. The amusement in his tone was negated by the weariness, and his grip loosened every few minutes until it was not unlike a hefty blanket.

Flabbergasted muttering reverberated through the riverbank. A combination of half-spoken prayers and assurances that 'the monster' was imaginary dribbled from a man idling further down the stream. When his voice rose in awe and dismay, you identified it as belonging to the farmer.

It was as if he were gazing upon a spirit sent to torment his guilty conscience. Your eyes, clouded like the winter sky, evoked a paranoid rage in the man. Where there was only curiosity, he perceived censure and a mockery of the plight that afflicted the village.

Superstition clouded his judgement, and horror contorted his face into a deranged glare. The farmer scurried to the jungle floor, thrusting his knees into the mud and cramming dirt under his fingernails. He jumped up with a stone the size of his fist and cast it at your shoulder. "Heathen, begone! Take your curse unto death!"

The impact was akin to a log descending from a hill and whacking your side. A gash spanned the length of your upper arm, and sanguine fluid trickled onto the grass. The pain swelled and gushed as if an invisible flame were enveloping the limb, hurling you into the river. The sensation of water lapping your skin and filling your lungs was unlike any other.

A metallic stench infested the air, which attracted Kaa from his resting place in the trees. "Man-cub?" came his groggy mumble. Smacking his lips together, the Indian Rock Python surveyed the riverside and expelled a cry of alarm at the sight of you dipping below the surface. He, cloaked in darkness, had slithered to the riverbank when a rock struck his jaw.

His snout wrinkling with a whimper, Kaa pivoted towards the culprit. The farmer had yet to notice the snake and was preparing to fling another stone at you. As your blood poisoned the water and flowed in the direction of the village, the man opened his mouth to condemn your name once more. "You killed my wife-"

He had just finished the last word before a sharp object jabbed his face. Upon tumbling down, the farmer realized that a crushing weight was squeezing his neck and causing his eyes to bulge from their sockets. His arms and legs, consumed by the panic of a body scrambling for oxygen, attempted to thrash but were inhibited by a rope-like entity.

"Ah-ah, no use resisting." A low voice echoed in his mind that silenced all other noises, and a tranquil numbness, the kind that guides the exhausted to rest, began to flood his system. Despite his eagerness to cling to the rage and grief that defended him from the shame of his crimes, the memory of his wife's death began to crumble.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save-" the farmer attempted to croak out an apology, but the force around his throat tightened.

"Hush," commanded the serpent, extending the word due to his lisp. Kaa plucked you from the frigid embrace of the river and lowered you onto a patch of grass with a level of care that was not offered to the farmer. The earth tickled your cheeks, and the onset of coughs that followed encouraged Kaa to devote his full attention to the man pleading for one breath.

As blue and green waves swallowed his vision, the farmer lost his grip on the blades of grass that once encircled his fingers. The world seemed to vanish from underneath his body as if he were drifting in outer space. A knife could have slit his flesh without consequence, for an overwhelming euphoria that drained him of all awareness swamped his being.

Massive shadows that resembled tendrils in the veil of the night lifted the villager into the privacy of the overhanging foliage. A solitary leaf wafted to the ground next to your head, a guttural hiss your only indication of the life extinguished above.

[jonspurpleskirt]

Perks of Beholding

Summary: Jon gets distracted from paranoia by learning he can now understand animals. This somehow solves all their problems. Or: Jon turns into a Disney princess the fic.

No Warnings apply. It’s just fluff. Heavily inspired by this lovely TMA comic:  ___

It started with the Admiral. Jon was about to read the first statement his mysterious benefactor had sent when he heard a small "Jon!" from the kitchen. It had a strange, rumbling undertone to it and sounded as though a human was trying to imitate a cat.

Jon startled so hard at the unfamiliar voice that he send the papers he had in his hands flying. Instinctively grabbing the tape recorder he sprung up.

"Who's there!"

The Admiral came out of the kitchen, rubbing against the doorframe and purring. "Jon! It's time for a midday snack."

Jon blinked hard, wondering if he had lost his mind entirely, while a much louder voice was screeching in delight.

"Admiral! I can understand you!"

"Give me food Jon, I beg of you. I'm famished."

The Admiral jumped up on his lap, claws snagging on the worm hole riddled arm. It should have already been healed, but Jon continued picking on it.

"Ah..ha. Careful please. I'm damaged goods."

"My apologies. Now food and then cuddles? I crave attention."

Statement forgotten Jon spend the rest of the afternoon debating with Georgies cat about the pros and cons of feeding the Admiral without Georgies consent, sneaking snacks anyway and cuddling on the couch.

To say that Georgie was bemused when she got home was an understatement. "You can speak cat now. Are you shitting me?"

"No. It's amazing! Georgie this might be the only good thing to have happened to me in years!"

Georgie rolled his eyes, grinning. "Don't be so dramatic. So what? Are cats really planning to overthrow us lowly humans? What is he saying?"

"I'm pretty sure he wouldn't tell me if that was the case. Admiral is there anything you'd like to say to Georgie?"

The Admiral, who hadn't budged from Jons chest since after he had been fed was staring straight at him. "Tell her I love her."

Jon turned to Georgie with the most serious face she had ever seen on him. "He wants you to know that he loves you." He announced gravely. And then, after a short pause. "But he loves me more."

"I didn't say that."

"He didn't say that!"

"No, but I know."

The Admiral bit at his finger and then immediately licked the raw skin as an apology. "Unruly kitten."

"I'm not a kitten!"

"You know I'm not sure if the noises you make are cute or creepy."

~~~

His language comprehension skills didn't only focus on cat speak, Jon found out soon after. He had been brave enough to step out of Georgies flat to go for a quick walk (and buy some cat food that Georgie refused to get for the Admiral), when a voice from above cooed at him.

"So shiny!"

Jon froze at the croaky exclamation, scanning his environment and trying not to panic. There was no police nearby. Which was good. But also bad if this was going to turn out to be a robbery. There weren't any people around at all, actually. Jon had gone out at an ungodly hour as to avoid big crowds and thus being seen.

The only being he could make out was a crow perched atop a lantern, gazing down at him. Jon pointed at himself. "Are you speaking to me?"

The crow tilted its head. "It would seem so, human."

"Oh. What is it that you find so shiny?"

It considered his question for a moment, then flew down. Jon flinched when the bird landed on his shoulder, a sharp beak tapping the hair clasp Jon had used to keep his mess of a hair out of his face.

"This. I'd like to have it."

Jon itched to stroke the black feathers that caressed his cheek. A childish excitement that he hadn't felt since uni thrumming in his chest.

"You can have it. Just let me take it out first."

The crow hopped on his other shoulder, nibbling at his scarf while Jon gently untangled the clasp from his locks, careful not to jostle his new friend too much.

"There we go. Here."

"Thank you. This kindness will not be forgotten."

Jon watched the bird fly off with his possession and wished his human encounters could go so smoothly.

Word did get around fast that he was a friend of corvids and provider of shiny things. Wherever he went at least two or three crows or ravens would appear within minutes chatting him up. Most of his spare change went to them and soon he found himself buying little trinkets for them to carry off.

In the weeks that followed Jon got out more and more, keeping to parks at unreasonable hours, driven to converse with all kinds of wildlife. He hadn't touched most of the statements he had been send, too fixated on the new, harmless ability he had been granted. This had improved Georgies and his relationship immensely. She had been worried that he would obsess over who could have murdered Leitner. Him going out and talking to various animals might not have been any less strange, but at least it felt harmless enough to her that she left him to it, sometimes even tagging along.

Jon had always felt it easier to communicate with animals. And this didn't change with his new ability. Interactions were simple and their stories were interesting, with a perspective foreign enough to catch his interest. Animals viewed the world rather differently, had different priorities and had less behavioral rules that Jon could mess up.

And they weren't shy to seek out his touch once they got to know him. More often than not these days Georgie would find him with a squirrel draped around his neck, a bird pulling his hair or a cat in his arms. He had even tried to talk to some insects once, but told Georgie with a look of disappointment that they didn't have the mind for idle chatter.

Like humans not every animal was friendly or even a good conversationalist. There was a white and grey pigeon nesting close to Georgies flat, who made for dreadful smalltalk and couldn't hold a thought to save its life. And Clara the sparrow loved to spew a litany of curse words at him, because she found they sounded funny.

In the end, however, his curiousity to learn more about his abilities led him to check out more of the statements and eventually, try and contact Jude Perry. They met in a quaint little café, opting to sit outside because of Judes flamability and Jons want to have a better chance of escape should anything go wrong.

Jon didn't shake Judes hand when she first asked. But after her statement and her willingness to give him the contact of an acquaintance he felt he had to. He reached out to take her hand when a crow dived down and crashed between the two. The ball of black feathers shook itself and snapped sharply at Jons hand.

"What do you think you are doing you lanky idiot! Do you not have any instincts left in your body! What are you?! A fledgling? Shame on you! You nearly gave us a heart attack!"

"I'm sorry, but you really should fly away. Your feathers are beginning to sizzle- Ow!"

The crow had squawked at him in a rather unbecoming manner for such a lovely lady, but had heeded his warning and flown onto his shoulder, opting to snap at his ear and pull it to get him to leave the firey lady, cussing him out all the while.

"I get it, I get it! Please stop assaulting my ear."

"What."

Momentarily having forgotten his audience in order to get the furious crow out of his hair, Jon send Jude an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. Marah seems to be quite against me shaking your hand. Ow. Would you stop that I'm not doing anything!"

"You can speak with animals?" Not even Jude - I'll burn everything you love to the ground - Perry seemed to be immune to the craziness of the situation. Her grin had turned from feral to amused. The air around her had gotten colder as well.

"Ah, yes. Wasn't Gertrude also able to do so?"

Jon had finally been able to get Marah out of his hair and was cradling her against his chest, patting down her ruffled feathers and let her play with the shiny decorative coins that hung from his scarf.

"I don't think I've ever seen her doing that. But then everyone Becomes differently."

"Becomes? Ah... right sorry, no further questions. I... I guess I've always had more interest in animals then humans. Could that... I mean that could be the reason."

"Could." She echoed him, eyes fixed on the crow nestled in his arms.

A flutter of wings made both of them look up and startle at the sight of dozens of black birds perched along the roofs staring down at them.

"Did you call them?" She hissed.

"No. It's not like I can control them. I occasionally give them stuff? And they make great conversation partners. I guess they're just pretty protective of me?"

"Fledgling." Marah huffed, winding one of his long locks around her beak and tugging.

"Ow. They call me fledgling for some reason."

Jude snorted into her boiling coffee. "Yeah that checks out." Her gaze skimmed the dark wall of feathers above them. People around them had become uncomfortable as well, hurrying to get out of the area. The waiter was giving them nervous glances, too.

"If it would ease your mind I doubt they'll try to attack you if you play nice?"

"You sound awfully unsure of that."

Jon shrugged as best as he could without jostling Marah too much. "I'm still not sure how all of this works. That's why I'm looking for other avatars."

Jude shook her head and laughed. "A Watcher not Knowing something. The world never ceases to surprise me." She took out her phone, which had a cracked display, the plastic scorched where her fingers touched, but miraculously was still functioning. "Give me your number I'll forward you some of my contacts."

"Thank you!"

"Don't. You'll pay me in cute pet pictures. Once weekly."

Jon smiled, that sounded like a much better price to pay than a scorched hand. "I'll do that. Any favourites?"

"Owls." Jude said without hesitation, then blinked and scowled at him. "You'll have to get a grip on that if you don't want Mike to throw you out the window."

"I'm sorry. I really don't mean to do... whatever I'm doing."

"Watch your wording then. Don't ask questions or whatever."

Jon sighed, holding out his phone for her to copy his number. "Right."

He bought Marah her favourite pastry as a thank you for saving him and promised to get her that pretty ring she had seen. It was quite expensive, but Jon thought it was worth it.

~~~

Jon was a bundle of frayed nerves when he went to visit Mike Crew. They had written back and forth a bit over the days and no matter how much Jon tried to coax Mike into meeting him somewhere more open the Avatar of the Vast never budged.

So here he was, sans crow support, knocking on the door of a serial killer. The young man that welcomed him in was only shorter than him by maybe an inch or two. He had donned a fake smile and was asking if he wanted some tea.

Jon didn't. He had a set of questions, hungered for Mikes statement. But Judes warning stopped him from immediately going for it. Drinking bland tea he didn't want was probably the better alternative to being thrown out a window. Not that that was still a very real possibility afterwards.

"I'd love to. Thank you."

Mike seemed surprised that he had taken him up on the offer. "Huh. Well then. Come in. I only have Lavender and Peppermint, any preferences?"

Jon tried to distract himself from the very obvious scar on Mikes neck by taking in the spacious flat he had just entered. "Peppermint sounds nice."

"Peppermint it is, then."

Jon trailed after him into the kitchen, a bit lost on what the etiquette was when being a first time guest. Was he supposed to wait somewhere? Go to the couch? Was he even allowed to take a seat before being told?

At least he had gotten better at small talk. True Mike Crew wasn't an animal, but Jon had found out that being nice was actually well received by humans and avatars alike. (What a shocker.)

"You have a lovely apartment."

Mike shot him what looked like a genuine grin. "Thank you! A gift from Simon. He's taking good care of all the new Vast avatars. Tends to try and adopt them, but I quite like my autonomy and the family parties he throws are dreadful."

Jon couldn't help but pout. The terminology didn't confuse him as much anymore. Jude had deigned to explain that to him via text, with a lot of gloating and bad puns. "I wish the Eye would be so welcoming. I swear for an entity that's all about knowing it doesn't tell me shit."

"Tough. You sure you work for the Eye and not the Web? Here. Come on don't just stand there like a bean pole the couch is a perfectly good place to sit."

"Good lord I hope so. I hate spiders."

"Cheers to that."

Not asking questions was hard. Jon was an impatient man, endlessly curious. And something within him craved Mikes statement. He opted to be honest with Mike about that, telling him without turning it into a burning question and the Avatar nodded in understanding.

"Alright I'll tell you my story then. Because you were nice enough not to ask and we short people should work together."

Jon hadn't been prepared for the sad tale that had been Mikes life. It seemed that he had only been able to somewhat settle down in the last few years. Being on the run for so long, Jon could only imagine what it did to a persons mind. He was only being wanted for murder for a bit now and the stress and paranoia was already killing him.

"Huh." Mike blinked when he was done, tea gone cold in his hands. "That was actually pretty therapeutic. I'm not opposed to doing this again."

They talked idly for a while after, Mike far less aggressive in his attitude than Jude, although he did lightly threaten him once or twice and gave him a horrible case of vertigo when Jon accidently insulted his taste in books.

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door and Mikes eyes narrowed. "I thought we agreed you'd come alone."

"I did." Jon defended himself, fear easily flooding back into his body.

They both stood and carefully inched towards the door. Just as Mike was about to open it, mouth already open to scold whoever had dared to interrupt him, a chorus of loud hisses, meows and a surprised shout made them freeze.

"Jon! A Hunter is here! We've got her handled. Run!"

Not thinking Jon snatched Mikes wrist and pulled him away from the entrance to the flat. The floor underneath him seemed to give way, but Mike at least hadn't fully thrown him into his domain. He dragged them both deeper into the flat. "Shit that's Tonner."

"Who?"

"The police. I ah... might be wanted for murder at the moment. I thought I've been descreet enough. But apparently not. Sorry."

He didn't like that Mikes eyes gleamed with a newfound respect after hearing that. "Oh yeah. I forgot that murder was illegal for a moment. Who did you kill?"

"I didn't." Jon scowled. "I was framed. It was Jurgen Leitner."

"Leitner?!"

"Hmhm. Turns out he was hiding below the institute the whole time. Honestly he was a rather pathetic old man."

Mike tsked. "Good riddance."

"Quite."

Mike eyed the window as the cursing from outside continued. They both flinched when there was a gunshot. Jon lurched forward, running towards the sound, only to be harshly janked back with surprising force. "What the fuck are you doing?!"

"She's shooting the cats! I need to save them!" There might have been a bit of static in his voice, fueled by the panic.

An inhuman growl came from outside and a layered voice shouting "Stay back!".

"That's a Hunter out there!"

Jon only let out a pathetic whine. His cats. He couldn't leave his cats! But the arm around his waist didn't let him go. Mike cursed behind him.

"You're crazy. And weird. You owe me for this."

"I can pay in cute animal pictures."

Mike snorted and let Jon go, leaving him to open the door. As soon as Daisy was in sight there was a loud Pop and a yelp, then she was gone. Jon knelt down in the mass of hissing fur, hands stroking over every body he could find, frantically looking for injuries on any of his babies. They came to him immediately, butting against his hands, chanting "Jon!" and started to purr up a storm.

"I think she just fired a warning shot." Mike mused, pointing towards the ceiling.

Jon heaved a huge sigh. "Oh thank god."

Mike tilted his head at the strange display before him. "Are those free of fleas?"

"Of course! They all are perfectly well behaved, clean angels."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Cool. They can come in then. I'm sure they just saved both of our lifes. Might as well reward them a bit."

And that was how Jon joined an impromptu sleepover at a supernatural serial killers flat, drowned in cats and delightfully tipsy, because Mike insisted on drinking to not dying.

The next morning greeted them with more knocking, which was nearly drowned out by the screams of the cats begging for food. Mike shot him a tired look.

"I deal with the cats. You open the door. You only presumably killed one guy. I'm sure they won't shoot you on sight."

Jon really didn't think that logic was sound, but decided against arguing with Mike, who turned out to not be a morning person at all. Some of the cats came with him as he greeted Basira, who frowned at his entourage.

"I didn't know Mike Crew was secretly a cat lady."

"Ah no, that would be me."

"Right. That sounds more believable. I just came by to let you know that you're in the clear. Elias Bouchard is the murderer. We have evidence now."

"Cool." Came the nonplussed reply from behind Jon.

Both avatars (could Jon count himself as an avatar at this point?) stared the police woman down. Jon unsure how to either continue or end the conversation and Mike probably trying to glare her to death. By the looks of it Basira had suddenly developed a very bad case of vertigo.

She stood her ground, though, clearing her throat and staring right back. "Would you know where Daisy is? She came her to investigate yesterday and I didn't hear from her since."

Mike giggled, Jon sighed and the cats purred in triumph, looking smug. This did not reassure Basira in the slightest.

"Your feral mutt was making a racket outside my flat, Officer."

"She was shooting at the cats." Jon was still upset about that, bending down to cradle one of them against his chest. The good boy immediately began licking his chin to soothe him.

Basira just about held herself back from snarling at them, keeping her cold, professional mask in place. "And where is she now?"

Jon glanced over to Mike in question. The Avatar of the Vast grinned. "Enjoying a long skydiving trip!"

"I'd like to have her back, please. We'll need her to confront Elias."

"We?"

Basira shot him a glare. "Yes." There was no room for arguement there.

Jons shoulders slumped and Mike patted his head in faux sympathy. There was a scream from outside.

"There. Done. See you around Archivist. Send pictures not Cops."

"If I survive this." Jon grumbled, the cats trailing behind him as he left with officer Hussain.

Daisy met them halfway down the stairs and nearly lunged at Jon. Basira took the whole car ride to calm her down. A task that was made even harder by Jon, who was unconsciously bristling with static, still very much furious about Daisy trying to harm his babies. No matter how many times either of the women explained that they would never and that Daisy hadn't aimed at any of them, Jon could not be calmed. This was the only reason why Basira allowed him to take a huge orange tabby into the car.

Really.

[alexius-fr]

Chapter 5 - The fires of betrayal

Click the link for the AO3 version, or enjoy below the cut :)

His skin was on fire.

His blood coursed palpably through him, searing hot when Rowan's wings spread themselves out wide. There wasn't enough room in the lair for the full wingspan of the large imperial, but that didn't seem to bother him. His blind eyes darted wildly, the blood magic churning in his veins. Sanguine couldn't move, the power of Rowan's magic binding him in place. It was a haunting experience, yet primal in it's nature, making every inch of Sanguine's body tingle. The sensations and the smell of blood were overwhelming, to the point that Sanguine nearly passed out, bordering on the brink of consciousness.

Vision going dark, he felt his whole body starting to lean more heavily on his legs, head spinning. He tried to signal to Rowan, but he was too caught up in the ritual and did not hear Sanguine's weak whisper, Sanguine's heart slowing dramatically, eyes fluttering shut and his body slumping to the squishy floor. The last thing he heard was a gasp, then darkness took hold.

When he woke, he was covered in something stringy, soft and warm. He jerked his head up, blowing the substance out of his face. It appeared to be Rowan's mane, the hair covering both of them as Rowan had gone for a nap right next to him. Had the imperial passed out during the ritual as well? No, he was positioned too deliberately for that. Sanguine felt strained, his body hurt, a tad cold as well. It was that cold part that made him stay where he was. Rowan was a living furnace, warming him up with his body, that was coiled carefully around him. There was no harm in staying put a few more minutes, recover from the whole ordeal.

Sanguine wasn't exactly sure what had happened, what Rowan had seen or done during the ritual, but he didn't feel different, apart from his weariness. Part of him wondered what had made him trust the ancient Imperial with this in the first place. Why had Rowan wanted to perform this ritual? What purpose did it serve? He supposed he would find out in due time, now that he hadn't actually been killed by it. He hadn't even really considered that he could die during this. And he was a bit shocked to find out he didn't actually care. He could've died, sure. But then what? His clan was rebelling against him, so what harm was there to just disappearing? Then they would finally find out how hard it was to lead a clan and lead it well. They thought Silas could do better? Let them find out the hard way how wrong they were.

But he was alive, and he was pulled from his thoughts of self loathing by Rowan's stirring body, a dismayed moan rumbling through him. Sanguine took a look at the imperial's scarred face, wondering what had inflicted such terrible damage to his eyes in the first place.

“Someone pressed my face into the Wyrmwound.” Rowan mumbled. Had he read Sanguine's mind? “Yes.” “Stop.” Sanguine said, frowning disturbedly.

“I can't.” Rowan yawned, lifting his head. “We're connected now. That's what the ritual did.” “What? Why?” Sanguine asked, worming himself out from under Rowan's coil. “I don't know.” Rowan said with a shrug.

“What do you mean you don't know?!” Sanguine snapped. “I didn't ask for this!” “Nor did you try to stop me. Or ask me what I was doing beforehand.” Rowan frowned with a hint of playful sass. He had him there, though.

“Tch.” Sanguine tisked and turned his head away from Rowan's peering white eyes. He had no answer for him.

“Were you hoping for an easy end by trusting a seedy seer to perform an obscure and possibly lethal ritual on you? Sorry for dissapointing.” Rowan said, his expression intrigued. “But it'd have been a waste of such a handsome dragon.”

“Who dunked your face into the Wyrmwound?” Sanguine asked, ignoring the attempt at a compliment. Rowan rose to his feet, yawning again. He shook his body, his dirty mane dropping several bits of old dirt and whatever else was stuck in there. Sanguine felt a bit antsy, knowing that mane had just been draped over his body. He'd have to bathe when he got back.

“I don't remember.” Rowan replied truthfully. “They're probably dead. At least I hope they are.”

“Or what, you'll kill them?” Sanguine frowned. “And how did you survive being dipped in acid?” “I survived through Her will only. I saw Her great eye blinking back at me under the surface of that horrible pool. It was the last thing I ever saw with my own eyes.” Rowan said, Sanguine intrigued.

“She's been speaking to me ever since.” Rowan leaned in closer. “She tries to speak to you as well, but you deny Her. Deny your legacy. It will catch up with you, wether you like it or not. You can't run forever.”

“But what if I no longer see the point in running?” Sanguine spoke, done caring about how weak he'd probably look if he admitted to his depression. “Or the point of even continuing?”

“So you're just giving up? Why? Sure your brother is rebellious, and your clan doubts you. Perhaps it is a blessing in disguise. Rid yourself of the doubters, continue with only those who are true to the cause.” Rowan said, as if it was that simple. But Sanguine found himself liking the idea, none the less. There wasn't a time he remembered that he was ever without Silas. And going back to face him almost felt stifling, like it was choking him. Would it not be nice to be free of him?  

Rowan looked amused. “You are considering it.” Sanguine did not respond, still in his head about it. Rowan cocked his head and observed, wings out slightly so his rune eyes could see. Sanguine looked back at them and found that he was no longer weirded out by their stare, instead finding something strangely comforting about Rowan's presence.

He'd gotten used to the carved runes, the blind stare, the slightly off focus angle of Rowan's head. And beneath that messy mane, and the scars, was a  smart, powerful dragon. Wether it had been the ritual or the fact that he'd not experienced physical contact for so long, he felt something drawing him to the imperial.

“Would you like to stay? Just a while longer.” Rowan asked, a warm tone to his voice. “We could talk a bit more. I'd like to know you better.” “Don't you already know everything?” Sanguine frowned. “Your blood, sure. But I'd like to listen to your tale from your mouth. You have a nice voice.” Rowan was hardly subtle, the years of loneliness had likely left him a bit socially awkward, but Sanguine did not mind. Instead, he smiled. “Thank you. I think I would like to stay a little bit longer.”

“I'll get us something to eat. I'm famished after that bloody ritual.” Rowan grinned at his own pun and Sanguine rolled his eyes as he made himself comfortable, but couldn't stop a little smile.

-

When he left Rowan's lair the following day he felt strangely rejuvenated, energetic. Rowan followed him outside, his wings spread as widely as possible to take in the environment. “It's been ages since I went outside.” Rowan stretched. “It seems the land has moved on, Her influence spreads slowly but surely.”

“It does feel good to be back.” Sanguine admitted.

“Does that mean you'll come back one day?” Rowan asked, a suggestive nature to his question.

“Maybe. If you promise to wash your mane.” Sanguine teased with a wide grin, Rowan pushing against him. “Fine. You may have a point there.” he admitted, blowing strands of hair out of his face self-consciously. Sanguine chuckled, pushing back with affection.

“I will come back.” he promised. “Soon.”

“Good. I'll miss you.” Rowan said, surprisingly honest. “I always thought I would hate having company in my lair, but..  well, I don't hate yours.”

“Just a mild dislike, then?” Sanguine suggested, Rowan chuckling.

“No. I liked it. Be careful out there, and come back in one piece.” he said, with a hint of worry.

“I've faced hotter fires than Silas, don't worry.” Sanguine comforted him. “I should leave if I'm to make it back in time before sunset though.” “Of course.” Rowan said, a little dissapointed. The two shared an affectionate headbutt before Sanguine stretched his wings and prepared for take off. Rowan watched him, echoing a soft roar of goodbye. He watched until Sanguine had become a dot on the horizon, sighing as he walked back into his lair.

It was awfully empty here now, without Sanguine's presence to fill it. But it wouldn't stay empty for long, Rowan smiling as he curled up, magic filling his mind and body with a gentle glow.

-

The lair was in uproar when Sanguine returned, Silas out front speaking to his clanmates. Khadiyah was next to him, the golden rings that decorated her horns gleaming in the sunlight. Sanguine was intrigued, landing a little bit further away to be able to listen in.

“We were not meant for this. We don't belong here. And to stay here because Sanguine's got cold feet about returning home? I say we don't have to take his leadership at face value anymore. He's been leading us for a long time, not always to the best of results. You know that as well as I do.” Silas preached. “We shouldn't be denied our home because of an old man's fears.”

“Aren't you just as old?” Lethe asked, with a frown.

“We are two months apart!” Silas snapped. “It makes a world of difference. I am clearly more fit to lead. He's old, traumatized, scared. He's outlived his usefulness. We can be better without his melancholy dragging us down.” he spoke passionately, obviously committed. “We do this the way we know how. Like Plague dragons. Because that's what we are. Weakness can not be tolerated. Even if it comes from our leader. Especially if it comes from our leader.”

The other dragons seemed unsure, though some were openly nodding. The fire in the pit crackled hard and cast high shadows upon the rock behind them, coating everything in a hard orange glow.

“Why are you so reluctant to stand up to him? Do you think he will harm you if you try? We are all faster, stronger, better fighters than him.” Khadiyah said, spirited. “He won't stand a chance if we all leap upon him. If we use the strenght of the pack.” She was supported by many, nods and murmurs travelling through the group. “His time is done. Join us, and together we will make a strong clan. A true Plague clan, under new leadership. A fresh start, with a Queen and King who honour our traditions!” she spread her wings and roared, others mimicking her.

Ever a flair for the dramatic, Sanguine decided now was a great time to emerge from hiding.

“Oh, am I interrupting?” he asked, glibly. Khadiyah pulled up her lip as a warning, but Sanguine was focused on Silas.

“Sanguine.” Silas said, surprised. “You're back. I thought you'd left.” “But I've returned, as I always do, to my clan. What is this?” Sanguine looked around. “Gathered to hear the heresy my little brother is spouting? Are you all really so eager to leave?”

“Honestly?” Almediha stepped forward, her gentle voice determined. “Yes. We were promised a new home. A new clan, a stronger clan. The wait has made us all anxious. Why do you even want to stay here?” “There is something here I must set right before I can move on.” Sanguine said. Nobody knew he was talking about Zephyr, and his mother Ziray, of course, but he didn't want to drag them into this now. So he kept it vague. “But we don't want to wait for that.” Azrael said, his gleaming green skin flickering in the light of the fire. Traitors blood.

“They want to go home, Sange.” Silas said. “Just like me.”

For a long, tense moment, the two brothers stared at eachother. Sanguine had taken comfort in Silas' presence from the moment they met, knowing he had someone he could always trust at his back. After all, who better than his own brother to support him? He always enjoyed their snarky banter, even if it grated on him sometimes. Had they truly changed so much that this was the only direction they could go from here? Silas seemed convinced it was, eyes gleaming with purpose, his mate directly behind him, and behind her, their child. He supposed Silas had different priorities now. He couldn't even really hate him for it. But it stung none the less. For five years, they had faced their problems together. But it seemed that time was at an end.

“Go, then.” Sanguine said, the words grave out of his mouth. “I don't want to fight you over this.” “Because you know you would lose.” Khadiyah hissed.

“No. Because I don't want to hurt the one dragon that has been at my side through all of it, despite his reluctance to do so. Despite his rebellion. You are still my brother, and I will not turn to fratricide. If you must leave, if that is what you really want.. then go.”

“Wait, you're not going to fight me on it?” Silas asked, taken aback. “You're right. I'm old. Tired. If you think you can do better, please do.” Sanguine said, shaking his head. “But I'd like to walk away with my life. Survive, adapt, overcome. I need this as much as you do. Perhaps to grow we need to go our own separate ways.”

“..Yeah. Perhaps that's true.” Silas agreed. “Well.. I guess, goodbye then?” he still seemed baffled, unsure how to hold himself.

“Goodbye, Silas. Lead them well.” Sanguine nodded solemnly, turning around. He retreated into the lair under the baffled stares of his clanmates, the silence respectful and stunned. This was not how anyone had expected this to go down. They were expecting a fight, or even just an argument. But Sanguine was done giving others what they wanted. He felt relief at the realisation that after tonight, nobody would be depending on him anymore. He could do what he wanted, truly, for the first time in many years. It gave him a sense of freedom, listening to his former clanmates leaving,  The sound of their wings slowly disappearing into the night.

[feely-touchy]

Are there any dung beetles in heaven

Do the sunflowers gaze downward

Were they not virtuous

Studious

Astronomers

Are there crows in cornfields

Weevils, worms, and cicadas

Harmoniously singing hallelujah

Do the bees and bats not garden

Could it be said that the ants of the world were forever and always without an Adam

Did the doves and pidgeons not witness great floods 40 days at a time

Had their feathers singed on fiery revelations

Have angels answered prayers of poppies

Bathed in rice paddies

Do they think saltgrass holy as snowy roses

Did the forest ever turn an ear

Have the lichen ever chosen to not listen

Is there not praise in the priories of coral reefs

Worship flooding out from the sanctity of the kelp forests

Were we not created to be sanctuaries?

Meant to heal and hold and eat

Safe for all of the little children

Were we not told to wash the mola mola's fins

Laugh with the robust and happy locusts

Sitting shoulder to shoulders

Forgiving the crying crickets and the ravenous chameleons

Could gulls and pelicans catch trout in the consecrated lakes

Or would they smash against it like concrete

Does the Lord of the Dancing Dragonflies not tap his toes with centipedes and goby

Don't sea lions dive as deep as their breath may take them

Were not the jellies given a means to stretch across an ever ceaseless ocean

How could they not be patient and pious fishermen

Did they need to be in Galilee for blessings

Are their schools not flock enough

Should they not be carried in buckets up the mountain

Was there ever a gospel good enough to hiss aloud to the cockroaches of Madagascar

What of the drowned tequila worms

Are they free to roam the dirt or is it golden pavement

Who lays the mortar between the riches in the kingdom

Must they always be orderly

In line

Are those stones cold enough for king snakes

Will they feel as cool and good on my bare, begging belly

Is there a place to shy away for tarantulas and folks like us

Or do they straighten out the shaded winding alleys

Will my messy kind of love be cut out for there

Or cut out of me?

Would I be cleaned up nice

Made pretty

Is there no home on high fit for skunks and possums

Have the cherubs saved a place for famished leeches

Is there a buffet for ticks and tapeworms

Do the sharks have enough teeth for eternity

Will the blood be sweet as wine and thick as bread pudding

Was the hunt and hiding not a study

Were all of our bodies not scripture

Did God forget to love us animals

Were the psalms not living?

[goldleafacrossyourlips]

Uneasy Lies the Head - Dark Lord/OC - CAOS - Chapter 1

Chapters - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13

Chapter 1 - Foxglove and Mint

Traveling had never been Samara’s favourite activity. Well, that’s not entirely true. Samara loved to experience different cultures and sights, however the long distance teleportation was always bothersome. The disorientation mixed with the power drain always made for a rough landing. So needless to say, Samara avoided long distance travel like the plague. This time though, avoidance was impossible.

Samara loved her Aunties, more than anything. Aunt Hilda was like the mom she never had; always there with a warm hug and sweets. She gave the best advice on matters of the heart. While Aunt Zelda was much the opposite. Aunt Zelda was the one Samara went to for quick, cold-hearted solutions to problems she was having. Aunt Hilda was the heart of the relationship while Aunt Zelda was the head. Both strong women had helped shape Samara into the young woman she was today.

So when Auntie Z had invited her to her wedding during their weekly mirror scrying, Samara had been quick to agree. Rarely had she ever seen her severe Auntie, glowing with happiness and pride. It made Samara warm with joy to see her Aunt Zelda so content. However, that warm feeling soon drained with dread at hearing the name of who her Auntie was marrying.

Faustus Blackwood was a worm of a man; at least in the eyes of Samara Spellman. With ridiculously misogynistic ideals and bullheaded to boot, he was the reason Samara had fled the Greendale witch community. Her Auntie Z, however, held the High Priest on a pedestal in her mind. In an abstract way Samara understood why Aunt Zelda would be proud to marry Faustus. The honor of marrying a High Priest on top of the power he held, would be attractive to any smart witch. His deplorable behaviour was enough to outweigh any positives there might have been by marrying the slug; in Samara’s opinion at least. Her Auntie Z, obviously, held a much different opinion. 

Knowing of the disdain Samara held for Faustus Blackwood, Zelda made her promise to be on her best behaviour and to not ruin this important event. The love and respect Samara held for her Aunt far outweighed the disgust she held for the High Priest; so Samara agreed to her Aunt’s request. Thus began the wedding preparations and planning. Samara was to arrive the day before the wedding and would be staying in the Spellman house with her cousins Ambrose and Sabrina. Aunties Z and Hilda would be staying at the Academy of Unseen Arts that night.

Which brought Samara to her current standpoint. A travel bag rested in the crook of her elbow while her familiar, Phlox, leaned against her calf. The red fox had become used to teleportation with his witch and assumed his usual position. Samara offered a small smile down to her familiar and adjusted the lapels of her long dark grey travelling coat. She ran through a mental checklist to make sure she had everything she would need and that everything in her tiny home was safe to stay. The fresh foxglove and mint hanging in the kitchen would hopefully be dried by the time she returned home. She had ideas for enhancing some potions that she wanted to try. For instance perhaps the use of mint would help mask the sickly sweet flavour in all sleep potions. Maybe dried foxglove was more potent in those sleep potions after it had a chance to dry and get all the unnecessary moisture out.

Samara shook her head as her thoughts tried to run from her. She was avoiding teleporting. 

“Say goodbye to Vail, Phlox. We’ll be back soon. Lanucae magicae,” As soon as the words left her lips, the world around them blurred and they were specs coursing through time and space. Teleporting felt simultaneously like the weightlessness of falling from a height and being shoved inside a tube that was 4 sizes too small; and the further the teleportation was, the stronger that feeling became. Altogether it was a very disorienting and unpleasant experience. Which was Samara’s excuse when she landed on her knees in the Spellman’s living room. The first sounds she heard were her Auntie Hilda’s squeal of excitement and her Auntie Z’s scoff of irritation.

“Honestly Samara. You’ve been teleporting since you were 16 and you still can’t land standing? What are you learning in Colorado?” Auntie Z’s voice was full of exasperation and fondness.

“Oh never you mind your Auntie Z. My darling Samara! My gorgeous girl! Look at you! All grown up! Oh my, you look famished! Come come, let’s get some yummies into you.” Aunt Hilda grasped her hand and coaxed her to the dining table. Zelda followed close behind. Before Samara sat, she encased her taller Aunt in a tight hug.

“I know I’ve already congratulated you on your upcoming nuptials but still, I’m happy you’re happy Auntie Z,” Samara’s grin was wide as she looked up at her stiff Aunt. Affection had never come easily from her Aunt Zelda. It was always a hard earned reward. Once Samara had grown older, she found it amusing to initiate gentle affections with her cold aunt and watch the woman grow uncomfortable at the suddenness. 

Samara had taken after her Aunt Hilda in many ways. Many of those being her ease with comfort and affection. Samara was always quick with a warm hug and soft words. She also took up after her Aunt in ways of cooking and potion making. Her Aunt Zelda had passed along her rational mind and Samara was ever thankful. It would’ve been too easy to let her caring nature rule her life if it wouldn’t have been for the sensible thinking that Zelda had drilled into her from a painfully young age. So Samara was able to keep her soft heart available for those who needed it most and not every bleeding thing she saw. Her family, though, would always be ones that she held near and dear to her heart.

“Yes, yes. The Spellman name will once again hold greatness and honour. The Anti-Pope himself is blessing us at our wedding. Isn’t that just marvelous?” Zelda’s head was held high as she spoke and expertly extricated herself from Samara’s hold. The young witch internally rolled her eyes. As far as the witching community cared the Spellman name was not in turmoil or despair. However in her Auntie Z’s eyes, with her cousin Sabrina’s recent antics, their name was. 

Samara had been kept abreast of any and all activities and schemes her dear cousin was up to. Between refusing to sign the Book of the Beast, her antics at the Academy and her troubles with her mortal friends, the rest of their small family was in quite the tizzy. Samara couldn’t blame the young witch though. 

She remembered her own hesitancies when she had to sign the Book. Much like her cousin she didn’t want to lose her freedom and choice. But at her Aunts’ insistences she had reluctantly ambled to her Dark Baptism. She could recall the night beginning bitterly cold. Her black lace dress had brushed the sides of her thighs as her bare feet crunched the dead leaves beneath her feet. The forest was abysmally dark besides the glowing in the grove she was headed. The arch of branches had lit and waited to deem her worthy of entering. Samara could remember the prey fear she felt tightening her spine and settling like a stone in her belly; the anxiety that constricted her chest and made her mind tingle. She had stopped before the branches, her eyes wide as they consumed they blue hellfire scared that she’d be deemed unworthy and burned for her troubles. Her thoughts had left her and all that’d remained was worry and fear. She’d been ready to turn and run. Run from the Coven and their expectations. Just as her foot had begun to step back, she’d frozen. In what seemed like a heartbeat, her anxiety and worry disappeared. In their place sat warmth and reassurance; like an ivy vine curling around her body. She could breathe. Where once she worried about her loss of self as a person, there was something there assuring her that she’d be safe, always. It had been enough to straighten her spine and walk through the hellfire that caressed her skin like feathers. She had stood beside her Aunties, two beautiful pillars of strength that they were. She had looked upon Father Blackwood, her mind screaming wrong, bad, stay away as the man approached her. She knew it wasn’t to do with the Dark Baptism but rather the man itself. Her shoulders had tensed as he drew a sigil on her forehead. Her teeth had clenched as he drew the blade across her palm. She had ignored his curious gaze as the wound healed near instantly once the blood had dropped onto the Book. Just as she had picked up the quill and readied it to sign her name, she felt it. The lightest caress at the junction where her shoulder met her neck. Knowing it was something otherworldly since Blackwood stood across from her. Samara had taken comfort in it and assumed it was what gave her strength to enter the clearing. With that renewed strength, she signed her name with a flourish. Intense joy and contentment has filled her as the sky ricocheted with bright lightning. In that moment, she had never felt more at home.

Her reminiscing was brought to a halt as her Aunt Z drew her attention once more.

“As glad as I am to see you Samara, I must head back to the Academy and prepare for tomorrow. I will see you then.” Her Aunt had nodded and away she went. Samara watched her walk away with fondness; able to see the nerves beneath her aunt’s skin.

“She really is happy to have you home, Samara. We all are.” Aunt Hilda placed a little cup of tea on a saucer with sweets. Samara happily nibbled on her Aunt’s offerings. She missed her Aunt’s cooking and baking the most when she originally left.

“I’m happy to be back Aunt Hilda. I’ve missed all of you so much.” Samara had looked up at her Aunt to show the earnestness she felt. Hilda was quick to smile and squeeze her hand at her seat beside her. Her smile turned slightly pleading.

“Perhaps, what with Zelda marrying the High Priest, you might be convinced to join us again. I’m sure there’s loads of things you could teach Sabrina. And we would be overjoyed if you’d stay!” Aunt Hilda squeezed her hand again, rubbing her thumb back and forth over Samara’s hand. Samara had chuckled and looked away.

“I think it’s for the best that I stay in Colorado. As much as I miss and want to stay with you guys, I couldn’t become a part of the Church of Night here. Besides, I’ve made a home for myself in Vain. The Coven there and the townspeople wouldn’t know what to do without my herbs and brews. On another note, even with Auntie Z marrying Blackwood, I doubt I could stay in the same room as him for long.” Samara’s tone had taken on a darker quality. Phlox had quickly come to Samara’s side as her mood started to shift. He was quick to rub along her legs and nip the cookie from her fingers. Succeeding in lifting her mood, he settled down with her snack as Samara laughed and lightly scolded him.

“I figured it was worth a try. No matter, luv. How do you feel helping me get rid of a problem for Zelds?” Hilda was pleased at the mischievous smile her niece shot at her.

“Anything for you guys. What’s the plan?”

“Well first, we’re going to have to visit the potion pantry, then we’re going to bake some biscuits.” Samara’s mind was quick to shoot off possibilities her Aunt was meaning. She had always loved helping her Aunt cook and bake. It was what got her so interested in potion making and with her Aunt’s help she had quickly excelled in that area. Samara was quick to gesture to her Aunt to lead the way.

“I’d be thrilled to share with you some of my experiments I’ve done with potions and food.”

“Well my darling, I’m open to suggestions.”