#well done you got him cursing in infernal

[yourfavoritetiefling]

@fortune-feather sent

A mischievous grin was forming on Age's face as the idea struck him out of the blue, his tail flicking as he rested in the shade. Era looked around, spotting Bernard and locking in on him to help her caster aim. Suddenly a somewhat small bubble of cool water, about a handfuls worth, would appear other the ochre tiefling's head before drenching him!

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   𝙻𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂 .   unprompted interactions ────────────────────────

      It must have been his devilish heritage,      not as badly being bothered by this heat wave which now also swiped over the camp. Few companions would consider doing a little work-out in full midday. But we were talking about Benny  &  he took his role as their self-proclaimed guardian very seriously. The tiefling could not afford to get out of shape just because of a little rise in temperature.

He was about to make his last few reps of sit-ups when the cold wet hit him   —   right above his head, drenching both hair  &  a good portion of his shoulders  &  chest. Naturally, Bernard flinched from shock, red irises almost disappear in black scleras.     ❝ HYDDW KYDAS- ❞    The cleric whined out a little too loud, head flicking around, gaze on a mission to find the person responsible for this assault.

Well, he was in luck, didn't wear anything of importance. Just a white, loose tank top, which ever so subtly became translucent from the water seeping into the fabric.

    ❝ Age   ? ? ❞     Bernard called out, mood not as sour as before when the man put two  &   two together. Merely a defeated chuckle, shaking his head while brushing the sassy lock (which now clung to his forehead) aside.

     ❝ Helm above, you did not have to cool me off, you know   ?   Endured Avernus, will endure some flimsy little sun rays, easily. ❞

[eastwindmlk]

Did this just pop into my head this morning and did i write this instead of cleaning? yes and yes. But here is a slightly longer something for today. 1k for Jilyweek. Hosted by @kay-elle-cee and @sunshinemarauder

Petunia had been right. This was not a sentence Lily thought often, at least, not as she got older and her sister had drifted further and further away. Her views follow the same trajectory. Just thinking about it made Lily’s heart ache.

But she’d had a real point the last time the sisters met. “It’s easier like this. I can’t remember the last time I had time to wash my hair,” she explained after Lily had commented on her new, sleek bob cut. Which Petunia had undoubtedly modelled after Lady Di, completing her royal look with their mother’s double string of pearls and the chubby, red-faced infant pressed to her chest.

Harry was two weeks old now and Lily had forgotten what the inside of their bathroom looked like. She always found something to do. Even when, or maybe especially when, her husband told her to rest. Guilt gnawing at her while he maintained the house, did their groceries and indulged her strange cravings, like roasting her chicken at ten in the morning or somehow producing fresh chocolate chip cookies while she fed Harry at three.

All this while, she could not even manage to wash and brush her hair regularly. Lily kept the tangles hidden in a bun that also served to keep the greasy strands away from grabby hands. It was fine. It was something she would deal with when… Well, sometimes she was certain.

This thought persisted until one fateful four in the morning she couldn’t take it anymore. Shifting uncomfortably, itching at her scalp and cringing at the coarseness of her usually soft hair. Lily carefully moved out of James’ arms, cursing the creaking floorboard that was far too close to the crib while she sneaked out.

She rummaged through the kitchen drawer until she found a pair of scissors which she marched to the bathroom. Lily tried to not pay too much attention to how tired her reflection looked, her fingers carefully working the hair elastic free from where it had twisted into the infernal knots that were driving up the wall.

Eventually resorting to pulling at it hard, yelping when the elastic snapped but finally free from her hair. Though it seemed to do very little to move the mess. Scissors in hand, Lily had the urge to just start hacking away and clean up whatever she had left after.

If it had not been for the sleepy voice from the hallway she might have done it too. “Lils? What are you doing?” James’ voice was adorably raspy with sleep and it soothed the fire in her veins enough to nudge the door open to let him in. He rubbed his eyes against the light, blinking the world into focus as his eyes landed on the scissors in her hand. “what are you going to do with those?”

Lily swallowed, clicking them open and shut for a moment before her shoulders sagged in defeat. “Cutting my hair,” she admitted a little sheepishly and watched his features shift through the five stages of grief before settling on concern.

“Any reason in particular?”

It was a fair question and one that she could not really answer with anything more than a non-committal shrug. “It’s a mess and I don’t have the energy to sort it out,” she admitted after a moment of consideration and once more raised the scissors up to start hacking away.

James appeared in the mirror behind her while his fingers wound around her hand. “Darling,” he cautioned and her eyes met him in the reflection. “Do you want help sorting out your hair? If you still want to cut it off after that we’ll get you to a hairdresser.” His fingers slipped down, fingers skimming her wrist and came to rest on her shoulder.

The reflection grew blurry with tears feeling his thumb rub soothing circles into her shoulder blade. She drew in a shaky breath in the hopes of keeping her emotions in check. Something that had proven rather difficult ever since Harry, the pregnancy has wreaked havoc on her restraint. Her heart was on her sleeve whether she wanted it to be or not.

“You’re already doing so much, I c-can’t ask you to sort out my bloody hair too.” She tried to refuse, placing the scissors on the sink with a metal clang. “It’s too much.”

“Nothing is too much, Lily,” he answered so immediately it was almost jarring. “If anything, I am sorry I did not notice it before.” She felt his lips kiss away the tears that rolled down her cheek and his hands steered her towards the bathtub.

With a flick of his wand, it filled and the soothing scent of lavender and oleander swirled around her. Tempting her into the warm water. “I suppose if you insist.” With that, she slipped into the the tub, her body more achy than she had realized before.

With patient fingers silently worked through the knots in her hair, not once did he so much as mention the mess it was. He just worked, slowly and methodically. Lulling her into a meditative state, more restful than she had been for months. Before she knew it the small window started to filter in cool morning light. Which was the only indication of how long they’d been there.

Lily shifted, trying to turn to James to look at him and maybe suggest he take a break. That she could still just cut it all off. But then she realized something. His fingers were slowly running through her locks, smooth and soft. “One more minute. Just need to rinse and you’re good as new.”

Her hand shot up, fingers sliding through with ease. She combed her fingers through once, twice and then again. “Oh, James,” she sighed, her voice trembling with emotion. She could not express how much this meant to her. Lily swallowed the tightness in her throat, her fingers brushing the back of his hand gingerly. “Thank you.”

James lifted her hand up to his lips, kissing her fingertips and she could hear the gentle smile in his voice as he simply answered. “I love you.”

[viennacherries]

Hiya!! I finished Kiss the Cook a little bit ago and loved it!!! Your writing has such good pacing to it, I really enjoyed reading it!

I also have a request, if you're interested: Rolan (or Gale tbh, works with any spellcaster) is in the middle of casting a spell but Tav/reader wants to tease him so they either 1, pin his hands together so he can't do somatic components, or 2, stick their fingers in his mouth to keep him from doing verbal components. This ofc leads to some nsfw shenanigans lmao

(My ao3 is Nightreader13)

Hope you're having an amazing day, and tysm for making such wonderful content, love ya 💜💜

tried to post it as a gift but it didn't let me! sorry about that.

this got away from me a bit but i hope you still like it! as requested: fingers in mouth to shut up a spellcaster. rolan/tav because i have brainworms.

thank you for the lovely message and prompt and for enjoying my writing! hope u love it <3

read on ao3 here

~~~

Summary:

NSFW, Rolan/Tav

"His hands curl into somatic shapes by his sides, and you realise he's speaking the incantation for Ice Storm. You're both backed into a corner like fish in a barrel, if he lets the spell loose you know you're done for.

You don't think. You shove your fingers into his mouth."

~~~

Rolan's temper lands you both in an alleyway, hiding from Flaming Fists, and you do what you have to in the name of shutting him up. In the end, neither of you stay very quiet.

~~~

Rolan has a fierce temper, when it comes down to it.

It surprises you somewhat, after seeing how he let Lorroaken walk all over him. Sure, he'd backed you and Aylin up when it mattered, but it had taken weeks for all of the bruises from the previous 'master of the tower' to heal. Though, you suppose you saw hints of it at Last Light, when Cal and Lia were missing.

It has its uses, admittedly. When you were ambushed by Bhaal worshippers in Bloomridge Park, and an innocent woman was struck down by one of them, his subsequent attacks were absolutely devastating. You could've stood back and left him to it, and he would've more than managed.

The fact he looks rather pretty when he's angry is an additional bonus; all tense muscles and sharp breaths. You blame your physical reaction to watching him fight on the fact he's the first male tiefling you've been around for an extended period in years. Your stupid infernal hindbrain had been telling you to bed him since he first raised his voice in front of you at the Grove.

Unfortunately, his temper has its downsides too. Like right now, for instance.

The two of you split from the group to search for Mol, who still hasn't turned up after being snatched from the inn in the Shadow-Cursed lands. Pairs made the most sense; more discreet than the whole troupe travelling together while still ensuring everyone had back up. Astarion had smirked when suggested you and Rolan pair up, arguing it looked less suspicious if the tieflings travelled together.

"If anyone asks, you can pretend you're lovers," he'd chortled. "Oh! And if you need to hide you can stuff yourselves into an alley and-".

You had elected not to let him finish that sentence, dragging Rolan away from camp before he had a chance to protest.

It had actually been reasonably pleasant. Despite initial impressions, Rolan is rather delightful company. Sure, he's still a dick, and nearly every other sentence that comes out of his mouth is an insult, but that just makes things more interesting. You'd found you were actually enjoying spending time with him.

Well. You had been. Until now.

It was your fault. You were distracted. He'd laughed at something you said, and you were busy looking at him. You could see a peek of his canines as he threw his head back, and the movement had pronounced the sharp line of his jaw and the muscle in his neck. You'd been so struck with the sight, and the awful realisation that you were actually starting to become attracted to him, that you'd smacked straight into the chest of a Flaming Fist.

"Oi! Devilspawn! Watch your fucking step!"

The man's voice was laced with malice. It's been years since you've been to Baldur's Gate, and it seems in your absence the city has become remarkably less tolerable. You suppose it's something to do with Elturel's descent, but the casually thrown slur stung either way.

"Sorry," you'd averted your gaze in a display of faux meekness. Usually you'd have him out on his arse for talking to you that way, but the streets are crowded and full of Fists. It's not worth the hassle. "Won't happen again, Manip."

"You sure as shit better hope it doesn't, or I'll put you and your Hellspawn boyfriend in the ground where you belong." He sneered around every word, flitting his eyes between you and Rolan. "Fucking foulblooded freak."

You'd grit your teeth, and started to nod, but just as the mercenary was about to step away Rolan had piped up.

"What the fuck did you call her? Watch your fucking mouth, Nul'zereb."

And now you're here. Next to a seething Rolan, in front of a Flaming Fist Sergeant, being slowly surrounded by other Fists as they take note of the commotion.

You raise your hands up in front of you defensively, "easy, please, he didn't mean it. We've had a long journey and-"

Rolan scoffs, seemingly intent on digging his own grave. "Bullshit , I meant every fucking word. They call us Foulbloods but these imbeciles probably can't tell a shit from a stew."

You shoot him a glare, but he doesn't look at you. Clearly he plans on dealing with this the hard way. Idiot. You feel your core twist. He's going to get you killed, for sure, but the fact he's willing to fight a crowd of people because they insulted you is unfairly attractive. Stupid. Dangerous. But really fucking attractive.

"You cheeky demon bastard!" The Fist shouts at him, and yep, the hard way it is. "I'll fucking flay you!"

Rolan is shouting back now, and his tail whips around violently behind him in a display of his mounting rage. "I'd like to see you try, you spoon-eared piece of-"

Okay, yep, that's more than enough of that.

You grab his wrist and utter the incantation for Dimension Door as quickly as you can manage, teleporting the both of you out of reach of the group of mercenaries surrounding you. As soon as your feet hit solid ground again you break into a sprint, dragging Rolan with you as he makes an indignant noise behind you. You hear the group shout, and the thunder of footsteps on the pavement as they pursue you.

Luckily, clad in robes compared to their metal plating, you and Rolan are quicker. You drag him through a few side streets, and then at the last minute you duck into an alleyway. It's a tight squeeze, but it's better than nothing.

You hiss your admonishments through your teeth at him in an attempt to keep your volume down. "What the fuck were you thinking, Rolan? I thought wizards were meant to be smart! You almost got us fucking killed!"

His eyes widen in shock, and he hisses through his teeth back at you as he argues. "Are you joking? What was I doing? You're the one that fucking walked into him! Besides, did you hear what he fucking called you? I can't believe you just-"

"Shut up!" He's raising his voice with every word and you have no idea how close behind you they are. "Of course I heard, but the middle of the street isn't the ideal spot to pick a fight with a group of Flaming Fists! They would've fucking flattened us!"

He scoffs, "as if, I fucking had them."

"Oh sure , sorry, I forgot how great and mighty you are. You obviously could've taken on a crowd of twelve blokes with military training."

He grits his teeth, "I still will if they fucking find us, what sort of hiding place is this anyway? If they spot us we're fucking cornered."

"You didn't give me much choice, did you? It's better this than-"

You cut yourself off at the sound of footsteps in the street. Rolan opens his mouth to say something but you place a finger over his lips to shush him. His mouth clamps shut reluctantly.

You can feel your heart beating in your ears as the footsteps get closer. They're right within earshot now, the slightest noise will alert them to where you are. You hold your breath.

Six of the Flaming Fists round the corner, and suddenly you're peering at them from the alley perpendicular to the street they stand in, barely 10ft away. You're shrouded by darkness, but if one of them happens to look this way carefully you're sure you'll be spotted. You daren't move.

You hear muttering and turn to look at Rolan, and you realise he's preparing a spell. His hands curl into somatic shapes by his sides, and you realise he's speaking the incantation for Ice Storm. You're both backed into a corner like fish in a barrel, if he lets the spell loose you know you're done for.

You don't think. You shove your fingers into his mouth.

His head whips back around to look at you, eyes wide in shock and anger. It suddenly dawns on you that. Well. You've got your fingers in his mouth. Three of them.

Not the most elegant solution to a problem you've come up with, that's for sure. But hey, it works.

He tries to draw back to free himself, and you can tell from his eyes that he's absolutely seething, but you can't risk him speaking and alerting the guards. You press your fingers down on his tongue and push them further into his mouth. His head backs into the wall, leaving him nowhere to go, and he writhes around the digits in his mouth. You press a little deeper. He makes a quiet, strangled noise in the back of his throat, before he finally resigns himself to his fate.

You stare back out of the mouth of the alley. The mercenaries are still there, pacing through the side-streets searching for you, but they haven't spotted you yet. After a few moments, they're all out of view, and you hear their voices disappear into the distance.

As soon as you can't hear them anymore, you let out a sigh of relief.

It's at this point you remember rather suddenly that your fingers are, in fact, buried in Rolan's throat.

You turn back to look at him.

He still looks angry, absolutely. But his eyes are softer around the edges, a little glazed over, and his tail whips around wildly where it's pinned behind him. He's panting a little around the digits, and you realise there's a weight against your thigh that wasn't there before. You raise your eyebrows and smirk.

"Is that a quarterstaff in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

He scowls, and makes a noise as if he's trying to speak, but you press down a little harder on his tongue and it turns into a whine.

This is an interesting development. Not an unwelcome one, but definitely unexpected.

You feel the smirk on your face widen, "you know," you say, as if you're pondering something, "you're much less annoying with your mouth occupied."

He scowls, but his breathing harshens. You grin.

"This is the problem with wizards," you know you're goading him, but you can't help yourself. Your hindbrain has kicked in, and he's right where it wants him. "They're all talk, aren't they? Take away your hands or mouth and what are you? You couldn't even cast a simple cantrip right now, could you?"

He makes a noise like a growl, and you can feel yourself rapidly approaching the point of no return, but you're finding it hard to care with his length pushed rock hard against your leg. You push your weight against it experimentally, and he whines around your fingers.

"Gods, you make some pretty noises. You look fucking delicious when you're angry, you know that? Defending my honour in front of all those people, spitting infernal curses at them. You wanna be the only one who talks to me like that, huh?"

His eyes are locked on yours, and he hesitates.

"Go on, now, tell me the truth."

There's another brief moment of pause before he shuts his eyes and nods.

"Good boy." He groans at that, and the noise sends heat rushing to your core. "Maybe you'll get a chance, but not til I'm done with you. Wanted to fuck you since I heard your petulant grousing in the Grove, I'm gonna fucking enjoy this."

He's writhing against you now, seeking pressure against his erection, but you pull back enough that he can only brush against you. The noise he lets out is pitiful.

"Shit, Rolan. You look lovely like this. Mouth wrapped around my fingers, all needy and desperate underneath me. Suck my fingers, show me how much you want this."

He responds instantly, hollowing his cheeks around you and stroking the length of your fingers with his tongue. You moan at the feeling. His mouth is hot and warm and his tongue is enthusiastic in its movements. Your noise seems to spur him on, and his eyes roll into the back of his head as he closes them, redoubling his efforts as he works your digits. You can feel slick pooling in your small-clothes.

You adjust your stance, rearranging your bodies so that his cock is rubbing against you between your thighs. The friction is delicious, but not enough between all the layers of clothing you're both wearing. Even so, he still moans as you grind into him.

Undoing the clasps of his robes is difficult with just your non-dominant hand, but eventually you free him from the confines of his robe and undergarments, gripping his cock in your fist. The noise he makes is completely lecherous, and it has you tightening your grip and twisting your wrist on the upstroke. He's not sucking your fingers anymore, just moaning around them, but it doesn't matter. He sounds fucking obscene and you're completely addicted as you wrench every lewd noise you can from him.

He's grabbing at your own robes now, trying to undo them, but he's struggling between the movement of your hand on his cock and the distraction of your fingers on his tongue. You pull your hand from his mouth, and the minute you do he groans and pulls you into a bruising kiss. It's feral and uncoordinated, both of your hindbrain's completely running the show now, overcome with the need to rut into one another. You release your grip on his cock to give him better access to your own robes.

He makes quick work of them, pushing them out of the way and pulling your small-clothes to the side to rub his cock against your slit. You both groan, and you lean backwards into the wall behind you as you hoist a leg up to plant it on the wall opposite.

He leans into your ear, hissing in a low tone that has your walls fluttering, and you bring your hands up to clutch at his chest. "Is this why you really dragged us down here? You're that desperate for my cock that you have to accost me in an alleyway? Fucking sorcerers. So full of yourself, when what you really need to be full of is a nice fat knot."

You moan wantonly and he groans against the shell of your ear, rubbing himself against your clit. The action has you keening.

"Gods, Tav, you're fucking dripping. Not sure you even deserve anything after pissing around like that earlier. Tell me how much you want my knot, maybe then I'll consider giving you it."

The logical part of your brain knows he's as desperate as you are, hard and heavy against your core, but the feral infernal instincts that have taken over would rather die than risk him stepping away without fucking you. The words spill from you easily without a second thought.

"I fucking need it, Rolan, need your fucking cock in me. Need you to bite me and mark me up while you split me open on your knot, need your cum inside me."

He teases his cock against your entrance, but he doesn't sink in. His words are breathless. "Yeah? Yeah you need it? Need my knot?"

You wail, "yes, fuck, please I fucking need it. Had me so wet, defending me like that, wanted to mount you then and there-".

The noise he makes is absolutely ruinous, and you moan back in answer. There is absolutely zero upper brain function going on in your skull anymore, you need him to fuck you into this wall right now or you might actually die.

He seems to feel the same, and slowly he eases his length into you. He buries his face into your neck and you wail and shudder as you feel the ridges on his cock drag against your walls with every inch he sinks further. By the time he's sheathed fully inside of you, his pelvis against yours, you're panting and writhing around him. His tail reaches around and wraps around yours, and they snake together in a tight coil.

He's shown remarkable restraint given the circumstances, sinking his cock into you slowly, but as soon as you clench your muscles around him his resolve snaps. He pulls his hips back and snaps them back into you, setting a brutal and rapid pace that has you sobbing. The angle, with your leg hoisted up, has every thrust hitting the soft spot inside your walls, and when you close your eyes at the sensation you swear you're seeing colours that don't exist, that's how intense and all-consuming the pleasure is.

He teases the soft skin at the base of your throat with his canines, and the sharp drag has you whining and baring your throat to him on impulse. It's pure instinct, your body begging for a mating bite, and he growls into your skin as he gives in to his own instincts and sinks his teeth into you.

The pain shoots through you like ice in your veins, but your mind and core sing . The pinch and sting is the perfect crescendo to the mounting pleasure, and with several shaky, panting moans you come undone around him, crying out as your whole body tremors. It's the most intense orgasm you've ever had, and your toes tingle as your release crashes over you.

He cries out, releasing his hold on your throat, and his hips stutter and pace falters as he chases after his own release. You feel his knot growing every time is catches against the rim of your cunt. Just as you start to cry at the feeling, half convinced it's going to rip you in half, he sinks it fully into you and it pulses and expands as he empties himself into you with a loud shout of pleasure. With every rope of hot spend he spills into you, his cock twitches hard into that perfect spot inside you, and without warning you're met with another orgasm which has you squeezing around him as he finishes. He groans at the feeling, low in his throat, and grinds himself into you as his cock finally gives its last, valiant pump of seed.

He groans into your neck, nosing his way up your throat and planting open mouthed kisses under your ear. You whine, and slowly lower your shaking leg back down to the floor. The change in position pushes his cock into you again, and you both grunt, overstimulated and spent. You stand there, locked together and panting for breath. He laves his tongue over the spot where he bit you, sucking a mark over it. The pain is almost too much, but the primitive part of you loves the feeling and you moan despite yourself.

There's silence after that. It stretches for a long moment as you both attempt to catch your breath, stuck together in the tight space of the alley with Rolan's knot keeping you tied together. When you speak, your voice comes out hoarse and blissed-out.

"I'm sorry for. You know. I didn't actually mean to, if you believe me."

He laughs into your throat, and rubs his nose into the pulse point under your ear in an uncharacteristically intimate gesture, "I'm not sure I do, but I'm not sure I particularly care anymore, to be frank."

You laugh too, "fair enough. I'd do it again, to be frank."

You both break down into warm, breathless laughter as you hold eachother. Slowly, you feel his knot shrink and he slides out of you. His spend gushes down your thighs, and he bends sideways to look, before moaning and throwing his head back against the wall behind him.

"That's absurdly hot. Fuck . You're lucky I just knotted you or I'd have you again right here."

You rub your thighs together, and whimper quietly, "I'd let you."

He moans again, "don't fucking say shit like that. That's not fair at all."

You shrug, "wasn't trying to be fair. If you don't like it, maybe you should do something about it."

He rolls his head forward to look at you, opening his eyes and levelling you with a hooded-eyed look that has your core pulsing. "Shut your mouth, or I'll have to shut it for you."

You shrug, then smirk. "I dare you."

In hindsight, you think Rolan was onto something earlier. Doing things the hard way is much more fun.

[punderdome]

Infernal Jurisprudence: Chapter 3

Summary: Raphael finds more things to covet.

[AO3]

Chapter 3: The Orb of Karsus

Raphael was in an excellent mood.  Several important deals with various patriars had been signed with another dozen or so ready for final drafts.  He smiled to himself, pleased at the level of depth and brilliance his contracts wrought.  Loopholes closed and souls to be harvested.

He put ink to a new scroll of infernal parchment preparing a first draft for the most important contract yet.  He needed the infected band of adventurers to bring him the Crown of Karsus.  Raphael was toying with ideas of how to claim both their souls and the Crown, flitting between different ideas that he noted in the margins.

The Little Mouse would see right through anything he wrote, and he couldn’t trick her so easily.  If he wanted her soul, and he very much did, he would need to find another argument or method of enticing her.  The feather of the quill tickled against his cheek, and Raphael replaced his quill in its holder, examining the fiery orange runes on the scroll.

Raphael lifted his scrying mirror to see what else the adventurers had done on their grand quest towards granting him the Crown.

Some sort of Tiefling child was in trouble for theft of a druidic idol and being threatened by a viper.  Raphael rolled his eyes.    Raphael’s Little Mouse spoke quickly with the ornery new leader of the grove over the life of the careless child, and Raphael wasn't sure why she was wasting her precious time.

The death of a child.  A timeless tragedy that never grows old.  

Raphael wanted the snake to bite and reveal its full lethality.  The victim was only a little girl, but that did not matter.  The most satisfying violence was always amongst the least expected victims.  The girl’s parents could easily bear another little brat.  Maybe that one wouldn’t be so stupid.

To the delight of her companions, Tavara managed to convince the druid that the girl was no danger to the grove and would not act out again.  Such a pity, death by poison tended to be an entertaining sight.   The Little Mouse brought the girl back to her parents, and as thanks they gave her a scratched and dusty locket.  They should be groveling at the Little Mouse’s feet.  She was the only reason their child was still alive, after all.

The wizard, Gale of Waterdeep, caught Tavara’s elbow.  “Why don’t we take a little break?  Allow ourselves a few moments of rest.” he asked motioning for them to seek privacy away from other tadpoled adventurers.  “This gives me a chance to talk to you about something, well, rather important.”  Raphael was intrigued at what types of secrets the wizard would reveal.  Hopefully, something that Raphael could use to blackmail him into Warlock service.

As the pair of them slipped away to privacy beneath a tree, Tavara spoke.  “You said it was important,” she started.  “What’s the matter?”

“We’ve been on the road for a while now, haven’t we?  We’ve survived some perils, overcome some obstacles,” Gale started his speech.  Raphael was simultaneously bored and intrigued.  When Gale of Waterdeep became his Warlock, Raphael would see that he abandoned his long-winded speeches.   “Ever since you freed me from that stone, I’ve seen you display remarkable guile and courage.”  Finally, someone admitted how capable the Little Mouse was.

The wizard continued.  “The way you defused the tension between Zevlor and Aradin.  The way you stood in front of a crossbow to prevent a murder.  The way you got Kagha to release the girl-” Where was he going with this list of the Little Mouse’s deeds?  She didn’t need a reminder, she had been there handling the situations while the wizard merely watched events unfold before him.   “-The way you handled Nettie when she poisoned you.  In short-” It wasn’t in short.   “-I’ve grown to trust you.” 

Raphael would definitely have to curse the wizard’s tongue to inhibit his ability to be so long-winded when he became his Warlock.

“That’s quite lovely, thank you,” the Mouse said graciously with an air of confusion.

“The reason I make a point to say this, is that I have grown confident enough to tell you something that I have yet to tell another living soul, well, except for my cat.”  The wizard was trying to avoid a confession that Raphael was salivating over.  Blackmail indeed.

“You see, I have this condition… Very different from the parasite we share, but just as deadly.”  Probably some plague the wizard picked up in a dirty brothel.  

“Is it contagious?” Raphael was pleased at the Mouse’s prudence in her question.  He didn’t want her to pick up whatever brothel plague had infected the wizard’s nether regions.

“No, no, nothing like that,” the wizard assured her.  “Though if I fail to treat my condition, the consequences will not be felt by me alone.”

The Little Mouse raised an eyebrow, but she looked sympathetic.  An incurable malady was always such a solid foundation for a Warlock pact or claiming a soul.  So many souls in Raphael’s care had been terminally ill.

“What it comes down to is this: every so often, I need to get my hands on a powerful magic item and consume the Weave inside.”  Interesting.

Raphael thought of all of the possible afflictions that would require consumption of Weave.  It could perhaps be a curse of some kind.  It could be a tribute required by another devil, but Raphael hadn’t detected any indication that the wizard had existing connections with the Hells, unlike the newly-horned Warlock who stank of Mizora’s filth.

The only other thing Raphael could think of that consumed Weave had come from Netheril.

Netheril.

Netheril.

The wizard had been an archmage in Waterdeep and one of Mystra’s chosen.  He was now in disgrace, but why?

Raphael picked up his scrying mirror and moved the focus from the Little Mouse chest to the wizard’s face.  He had a strange tattoo or mark that went from his left eye down to his chest.  Raphael would have to investigate this further.  If the mark was what he thought it was, it would change everything.

“Of course, I’m happy to help.”  The Little Mouse offered.

“Thank you!  I see my trust was not misplaced,” the wizard responded with delight.

Raphael set down the scrying mirror.  He would need to wait until nightfall to test his hypothesis.  He paced in his study, looking forward to a visit to their camp on Prime Material.  Being so close to what he wanted, Raphael could stand to wait a few more hours.

***

Raphael waited until his investments had all fallen asleep in their tents.  He approached a tent that obviously belonged to the wizard.  Telescope.  Alchemy equipment.  Books stored outside the safety of the tent ready to be soaked in the next downpour.

He silently approached the tent and opened the tent flap.  The wizard was asleep in his bedroll, wearing nothing but an enchanted pair of smallclothes.  Such a waste of Weave.  If he needed to consume so much magic, he should start with his undergarments.

Raphael took a close look at the scar on his chest.  It wasn’t a scar at all.  It was a void.  It was a storage container for arcane power, ready to store and hold power for use at another time.

The Orb of Karsus.

Raphael felt incredible glee at the discovery.  The Scepter.  The Orb.  The Crown.

The full Regalia of Karsus was nearly within his grasp.

It took everything in Raphael’s power to resist touching the scar to feel its power and hunger.  The Orb was the final piece of the Regalia that Raphael hadn’t located.  The Scepter was stored safely in his vault.  The Crown was perched atop an Elderbrain.  The Orb was buried in the chest of a wizard that he wanted in his service.

Raphael could fix it all for the wizard, should the need arise of course.  Raphael would even give the mage a favorable deal for the Orb.

Karsite relics of considerable power,

All the Weave want to devour.

The last hidden within a wizard’s chest

To be extracted upon request.

Raphael was giddy.  One or two contracts and he would have everything he had ever wanted.  The Nine Hells of Baator.  The Little Mouse would bring him the Crown of Karsus.  The full Regalia of Karsus.  

Raphael made the correct investments, indeed.

With a snap and a flurry of embers, Raphael left the campsite and got back to his work.

***

Tavara had been calming a goblin camp, asking for entry.  After a few short discussions about a fictional goddess and Tavara being her divine instrument, Raphael’s investments had been let into the front gates.

The wizard didn’t look well.  Sweat was dripping from his brow, and he could barely hold himself upright.  He was clutching his stomach tightly trying to stop it from aching.  Tavara offered the wizard some water from her waterskin, as she placed her hand on his shoulder in support.  The rest of the adventurers appeared concerned as to what sort of strange malady was affecting the wizard.

“My affliction is worsening, and I fear-” Tavara thrust the dusty locket she had been gifted into his palm and tightly cupped his hands in hers.

“It has an enchantment, and it should hold some Weave,” Tavara let go of his hands and went to rub the wizard’s shoulders.  “It’s ok, and I can always get more items.”

Raphael watched closely.  The wizard brought the locket to his scar, and Raphael watched gleefully as the enchantment from the locket drained and the wizard seemed to absorb it with a dark aura.

The Orb of Karsus.

While he was gleeful to have the Orb under his watchful eye, Raphael was less than excited, as he watched his prized investments approach the goblin camp and immediately fall under the influence of the Absolute.  With a drawn out show of the Astral Prism the Sharran cleric held in her hands, the Absolute quieted its assault on their wills.  Raphael knew this was bound to happen.

The Sharran and the Gith quickly started fighting over the Sharran’s possession of a Gith relic.  Tavara tried to soothe the conflict, but it was clear neither party was willing to bend.  While Raphael would have been entertained watching them fight to the death, he needed both the Sharran and the Gith alive for now.  One of them was likely to be expendable later.

After a quick look around the Goblin camp, the Little Mouse looked worse for wear.  She started to develop a sheen of sweat and look of general malaise.  She indicated the adventurers should seek their camps for the evening's rest.

***

Raphael paced, and Korrilla had indicated through a Sending that the adventurers weren’t well and were likely on the edge of ceremorphosis.  He could fix it for them, but then he would never get the Crown of Karsus.  The Scepter.  The Crown.  The Orb.

The Hells.

He hated it.  He needed to let the mindflayer in the Astral Prism take control.  It disgusted him that he had no real say in the matter.  Should the mindflayer fail in his task, Raphael would take the Orphic Hammer and smash the damn Prism to bits himself.

The Mouse was sweating and restless by the riverbank, trying to cool a fever with the running water.  The Gith ambushed her and held a blade to her throat.  “Ch’k’l ghaik Vlaakith m’zath’ak!” If she uses that dagger, Raphael would have to kill her with Hellfire out of spite and put her ashes in the chamber pot for the chamber pot debtor to clean with his tongue.  

“Don’t be a damned fool,” Tavara warned angrily.

“We are transforming,” the Gith protested.

“We are ill!  This is just a fucking fever, and it will pass by dawn.  It’s probably just the result of eating that weird meat that Astarion found at the side of the road.  Don’t do something stupid that you can’t undo.”  The Little Mouse ripped the dagger away from her throat as soon as the Gith hesitated.

Tavara stood, weary and sweating.  As the Gith rose again, she snatched the dagger away.

“Go to sleep, Lae’zel,” the Mouse ordered, pocketing the blade.  Raphael beamed at how easily the Little Mouse controlled the situation.  The other fools would be truly lost without her leadership.

They returned to their tents for the evening.  Raphael was uneasy.  His pet adventurers were soon to meet the disguised Illithid.  Raphael would have to show them the correct being to trust.

A/N:

I'm definitely looking forward to get out of Act I because Acts II and III have so much more fun Raphael stuff. I want the devil man to have more opportunities to be active in his own story. He is a patient devil. More smut next chapter (which I'll probably post tomorrow or Friday). Enjoy!

[happy-emmdings]

“I don’t want this infernal hand anymore, it’s taken possesion of me.”

About Killian Jones, mind games and wanting to be a better man

I want to talk about this…

Specifically, about the effects of Killian’s reattached hand and the lengths he went to be rid of it once again.

And just a disclaimer! Let’s set aside all those metaphors about inner darkness that OUAT loves so much. This show got way too deep into the metaphors and euphemisms about darkness as some kind of sentient entity, almost like a parasite taking possesion of the person that it lives inside. I would be very careful with using this narrative. (There are instances in the story where it is appropriate because sometimes that is how magical shenanigans work, but unless you are actually seeing and hearing demons that are bound to you and are directly influencing you, the only darkness you can blame your actions on is your bad decisions.) 

[LONG POST AHEAD]

So, what’s up with this “cursed” hand?

Killian comes to Gold’s shop to demand his hand, that the other man had amputed almost two centuries ago. There’s a whole another discussion to be had about insecurity and disability but I won’t dive into that here. The point is, you can clearly see he really wants that hand back, as he risks blackmailing the Dark One, his nemesis. He’s being cocky, and maybe he’s too in love to think about concequences. I find it interesting that he’s managed to live without the hand for so long, he’s used to the hook and though it certainly does hinder him at times, he manages quite well with one hand. But now he wants it enough to think about asking for it. And you can see the joy on his face when he moves his fingers and they actually obey his mind, it’s surreal to him.

But here comes Rumplestiltskin’s ominous warning, and that’s what I actually want to talk about. Gold tells him, that the hand will have unpredictable effects on him because it belonged to the cunning, selfish pirate he used to be. Of course, Killian laughs it off and thinks he’s just messing with him. But not long after, the second he gets nervous, he acts out. 

“Apologize to the lady, mate.” 

Certainly an overreaction, grabbing the poor guy was aggressive and overthetop. But no actual harm was done (yet) and Emma lets it slide. But from this moment on Killian becomes wary and he can’t get Gold’s warning out of his head, he keeps looking at the hand and even interrupts the goodnight kiss to stare at it broodily.

The whole situation comes to a climax when he meets Will again, drunk and attempting to break into the library. At first he’s just annoyed but when Will tries to push him away, he gets violent to the point he’s terrified and startled when the other guy calls him out on it.  And now we get to the point when he goes back to Gold, horrified and desperate, so much so that he begs his nemesis to take the hand away. I want to stress how significant that is. He comes to the very guy that cut his freaking hand clean off, after wishing to have it back, he goes as far as to strike a blind deal with him to lose his hand again, after only having it for a day. Why? Because now he believes Gold’s warning. He believes that the hand is acting out on its own, or causing him to act out. And that scares him so much. Because he doesn’t want to be the guy he used to be, he wants to be a better man and he was starting to believe that was who he was. This instance shows just how much he actually despises his past self and his past actions. He regrets them and feels ashamed of them, as is shown on numerous occasions throughout the show. He has turned his life around, mainly because of Emma, but he doesn’t just want to be a better man for her, he is choosing to be a good person for the sake of being good. You know, the whole “what kind of man you want to be” thing. And the thought that he could regress, slide back into past bad habits, bad behaviors and bad, selfish decisions… that terrifies him. He’s not willing to let that happen. He’s not willing to risk it, to allow for the slightest chance some external influence might ruin the progress he’s making. And he shows how much he’s willing to give up to make sure it doesn’t happen. Mind you, this is a man that suffered the loss of a part of a limb in a very traumatic way and wanted to have it reattached even after living for almost two hundred years without it. After all that time, he still wished to have two hands again (and who would blame him), but if losing a limb is what it takes for him to ensure he doesn’t get possesed by his past “darkness” (as he’s seeing it at the moment) then that is a sacrifice he is willing to make.

Except I would argue, that he wasn’t possesed at all and as Rumple said at the end of the episode, the hand was nothing more than a lump of flesh. I choose to believe this explanation over the first one, even though he could have lied at both occasions. I know it was kind of the point of the episode, but I feel like sometimes OUAT gets so tangled up in metaphorical narratives, that it’s a little unclear what is actually happening and how much of it the character is actually responsible for. I believe that the hand was not cursed at all and it didn’t “give him permission to be ruthless” or whatever. The only thing that was actually controlling him was his subconscious fear.

Even though he laughed it off, when Gold warned him about the hand being dangerous, from the moment he heared that, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He didn’t believe it at first, but the shadow of that fear of backsliding stayed with him and festered in his subconsciousness. Add to that, that he must have been somewhat nervous about his first date with Emma bloody Swan who finally officially asked him out eeeeeeeee! (That’s the sound his brain made when the dart hit the wall) Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, in response to the stress that the subconsious apprehension caused him, he started overreacting to the slightest disturbances. And you can see the dread on his face when he stares at the hand each time. He’s shaken. He doesn’t want to act like this. And it is the very fear of being selfish and unnecessarily violent, that causes him to lash out, the way immense stress sometimes does. It doesn’t speak so much to his personality or behavior as it does to the fear itself and the desire to be better. It’s so deliciously ironic.

The thing Gold said about the hand belonging to a selfish pirate didn’t even make sense in the first place. Sure, young pirate Killian was a douchebag and a bit of an asshole but it was only after witnessing Milah’s murder that he was at his worst, consumed by one thought: revenge, and willing to compromise his principles for it. He didn’t have his hand anymore at that point. The hand didn’t affect his behavior any more than the hook did. They were just a body part and a prosthetic, simple as that. The hand may have belonged to a selfish, cunning pirate, but that wasn’t all that pirate was, was it? He was also a gentleman and a man revolting against a corrupt monarchy. And before that, it was the hand of a naval officer and a hand of a troubled young slave. You could just as easily say “Watch out, that hand belonged to a young starry-eyed lieutenant, it will make you abstain from alcohol and you’ll wish to be a hero.”

Equating the hand only to his worst qualities, which he still succumbed to one-handed, and which he managed to overcome, with effort and active, conscious decision simply doesn’t make a lot of sense if you really think about it. But Killian didn’t think about it this way, because he had a very different point of view. He was reminded of the past sins that still haunted him in the back of his mind and his brain freaked out.

It is trully ironic how in his desperate effort to ensure he would not revert to his old self but instead stay on his path of redemption and improvement, he actually results to blackmail and blindly helping the Dark One with whatever dark schemes he’s doing and sacrificing some old man (although he had no idea that was going to happen and was surprised and appalled, when it did… but he knew it wasn’t going to be anything harmeless, so he wasn’t totally innocent).

On one hand, he is desperate enough to not be, and I quote: “selfish” and “ruthless”, that he’s willing to do literally whatever it takes and he almost begs his enemy to rid him of his hand. On the other hand, he ends up using kinda shady means to achieve that, which is just ironic. I personally don’t think blackmailing Rumple made him much of a bad guy, since a lot of the characters on the show would do that, given the chance (e. g. Emma using the exact same leverage and blackmailing him in the exact same way in season 5), but he did get careless and foolish with it, abusing the same argument too many times. Not telling anyone about the magic hat sucking people in and Rumple obviously having some secret evil plan was the actual issue. But again, he tries to come clean the moment he realizes it might have actually put Emma in danger and the voicemail he leaves her is so touching and just so telling about what kind of man he really is.

“I hope you never forgive me, because that means you get this in time to save yourself.”

But alas, by then it’s too late. He was playing with fire and he got burned. He knows that, he knows that the instant he sees the mess he’s gotten himself into. First for his hand, then for his redemption. 

Rumple was clearly toying with him and playing mind games, which somehow seems to contradict his own point of view (I’ll get to that in a moment). Rumple tells Killian that he did him a favor, that he made him remember “the darkness that lies beneath”. And I would like to also just as a sidenote mention Killian’s reaction where he threatens Belle in response. I don’t think he actually meant that. He doesn’t even have a way to crush someone’s heart (it’s probably more of a reference to Milah’s death). I think that in that moment he was emotional, desperate and backed into a corner, grasping for straws, anything to use against the man that was taunting him. And as it goes on this show, poor Belle is the only leverage they have against Rumple. I have serious reservations about the way everyone (not just Killian!) often uses Gold’s dishonesty to Belle to manipulate him, instead of being a good friend first and telling her about it out of solidarity and seeing her more as a person, than Rumple’s oblivious wife. Although I think Killian stops doing that after this. So yeah, I don’t think he was serious about the “that darkness crushing Belle’s heart” line. You could compare it with him saying they should have “driven that dagger through [Gold’s] heart when [they] had the chance” when he learns Rumple’s back at the beginning of season 4B, especially when he retorts that he wouldn’t mind if that would mean his name would be written across it. We all know very well that he would mind that a lot, so he was clearly just upset and saying things he didn’t mean and I think the same goes for the threat to Belle in the “inner darkness” discussion with Rumple. But I digress.

It seems to me that Rumple wanted not so much to teach Killian a lesson as to make him pay for being bold and arrogant enough to start messing with the Dark One. He saw an opportunity to psychogically torture him a little bit and get blackmail material on him instead (because really, Killian’s participation in that deal was just seating the apprentice down, that was it, he did almost nothing, Rumple just needed to get him involved to gain leverage on him).

He made up a lie about Killian’s “past darkness” possesing him and anxiety did the rest. But this doesn’t show that Killian is “still the same ruthless pirate”, it shows something else and that is that he is a good person at his core, more importantly, that he wants to fight for that goodness now. And yes, he slips up, he doesn’t always go about things the most heroic and honorable way, but he tries so hard and it really matters to him. So yeah, I’m still astounded by the beautiful, flawed complexity of this character and his redemption arc. Mind you, I am not trying to make excuses for any shady or straight up bad thing he did, but rather, I am looking at his motivation and the inner desires that drive him at the point of his life when he is trying to make amends, grow and stick to good form.

Just let me end this with saying this guy would lose his freaking hand a second time, to the same dude for fear of losing his progress on his path to be a better person.

And that’s how you do redemption.

[etherealvoidechoes]

Dinner Offer: Coasting Gigs - Pt. 1 of ???

Goro eventually takes Varsha up on her dinner offer sometime after the warehouse infiltration. After having the twins help decipher and clear up his misinterpretation of her texts from that night.

Well, I've been sitting on this for a bit and finally feel like I can post it. Maybe a 3 to 4 parter, not sure yet with how chapter 3 is slowly coming together. Hopefully, the characterization isn't too far off. Need to give the game another go for the other lifepaths.

Ao3 || Fic Wiki Hub

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Appox. 4.6k

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Goro’s brows furrowed, knitting tightly together as he scrolled through his phone, searching for the “note” app to double-check some information for future endeavors. “››Infernal device…‹‹” He cursed under his breath for the fifth time as his quick fingers accidentally activated another app he did not want. How he missed the phone and the familiar interfaces he once used. With a mere thought, he would have what he wanted instead of aimlessly searching like a toddler. 

“Hm?” He felt and heard that familiar ping of an established hidden connection in his modified Internal Agent before seeing an equally familiar icon take over the screen before a button press would transfer it to his internal hud. A portrait of Vargus’ face — the right side obscured by stylistic smoke billowing from an elegant cigarette holder held by two fingers. Goro’s cyber eyes lit up orange as he looked up and out from his windmill perch. “More targets incoming, I assume?”

It had been a few days since Goro and his unlikely former Corpo compatriots had infiltrated the warehouse where the Arasaka parade floats were being stored and infected the target float with the malware. 

Today, he was assisting the twins in a gig they got from Fixer Dakota. More or so, the twins roped him into joining them when they overheard him mumbling about needing more cash so he could procure some more gear before the parade happened after a quick meet-up. 

At first, he declined, partially him still being cautious with his fugitive status and then he didn’t want to get roped into the possible shenanigans they would be getting into in the Badlands. But the cut they offered — half paper, half digital — made his judgment wain just enough. And it wasn’t the first time they had managed to do so.

“Heh, yes’em!” Vargus softly laughed. “Eyes up, Goro. More Wraiths coming in hot. More to dust.”

Goro set his phone down on the grating before lifting the Techtronika SPT32 Grad sniper rifle, one the twins let him borrow, from his lap. Military training kicked. Good habits to always have. Magazine check first. Still a fresh one he had swapped to once the first round of their business was done. Black-tipped armor-piercing rounds greeted his eyes. Then the chamber. Loaded, locked, and ready to fire. Repositioning himself, raising his left knee higher than the other before placing his left arm on top of it and nestling the rifle in the crook of his elbow. Lowering his head and raising the scope to his face, he scanned that parched landscape around the Wraith camp they had wiped out 15 minutes earlier.

Towards the southeast, he spotted a massive dust cloud rapidly charging their way. 

“Hm.” How many this time? His finger gently turned the dial, feeling each subtle click until it reached the infrared vision. “A convoy of ten vehicles from the southeast. Rapidly closing in on our location.” He relayed to Vargus.

“Got four more coming from the west.” Vargus said. “Oh ho! They ain’t happy about losing this catch. Time to zero these fools.”

Shots rang out. An explosion followed by the sound of metal grinding and twisting in the distance.

“Mhm.” He nodded. He steadied his aim on the lead car. Lining up those crosshairs to the driver’s head. “How much time does Višnja still have?”

Another familiar ping rang in Goro’s head. This time, he saw the ID appear in the corner of his vision. A sleepy cartoon bat with massive ears and connection cables crisscrossing over it like a spider’s web. That portrait was quickly replaced with Višnja’s and that concentrated hacker face — scrunched brows and bitten lip — he had come to learn. 

“Secured the important data slates and caches, but still digging through this ICE of these kleptoid deckheads.” A second caller window opened, showing the inside of the garage she was currently in. It was a pig’s sty. Various boxes and containers were strung about, as well as half-eaten, near rotting food. Fresh and dried-up blood stains were splattered across almost every surface. The people of interest were in a nearby bath — with barely a hint of ice floating — with a mass of cables weaving back and forth between them and the nearby servers.

Višnja’s fingers rapidly tapped away at a console as her eyes glanced back and forth between the two net runners and the monitor. A low rumble of a growl entered her voice. “Gonks really had to make their rescue harder with some of these daemons they have set up.” 

“Hm.” Goro pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. Two shots rang out. One for the driver, another for the engine block. Seconds later, that silhouette of the driver slumped over the steering wheel. The car took a hard left, careening into another vehicle before the two crashed into a boulder. “Is the option of ‘delta-ing’, to leave these two overzealous fools to their fate still available?”

“Yeah.” Višnja answered. “But…”

“But?” 

“We get more eddies if we bring ‘em back alive.” And extra money was always nice. A second later, she cursed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! What do you mean there’s another layer!?”

“Told ya, ya should’ve asked Varsh to lend over Chroma, batsy.” Her brother butted in. “That spunky AI would be done lickity split compared to you, slowpoke.”

“Can it, Varg or I’ll shut your brain off for a week!”

“Nuh uh, feedback will knock you out, too.”

Their squabbling continued into more name-calling. Like most siblings would do.  

A soft chuckle left Goro’s lips. Though he could find the young ones’ conversations grating at times, he did enjoy the sibling squabbles they would get into from time to time. Something refreshing for the pressing times. It reminded him of childhood friends. And to think he was slowly considering the two to be entering that territory. 

“Think you two kids can save your sibling ‘love’ for ‘nother time?” Johnny’s voice joined the call. “Gonna get flatlined with all the distractions.”

The twins; squabbling stopped like a bullet drop. “Shut it, Johnny.” They spoke in unison.

A snort slipped from Goro’s lips. How that construct could make everyone laser focus to shut him up. It was strange hearing the voice of that dead man when they linked their Agents like this. 

It was strangely alluring, as a few times he couldn’t help but pick at the “samurai’s” brain when they all would meet to discuss future plants. More often, Goro would make disparaging comments due to the terrorist’s vexing, often vulgar comments. Loose lips and barely a filter Silverhand had. But it was also a constant reminder of that every pressing time limit. Varsha’s mind would be overwritten by the construct’s or outright killed from the information they receiving from Hellman. Then the potential brain-damaging feedback the twins were receiving the longer they had their neural oscillation synchronizer linked to Varsha’s systems. 

Each Relic malfunction was bringing all of them closer to the grave.

Goro fired several more shots, causing four more cars to crash, but the others, looked like they had reinforced windshields and hoods. “Hm.” He grumbled, tugging on his collar. He would have to deal with them once they arrived. His free hand went down and unbuttoned the first three buttons of his sweat-soaked shirt. 

“››Blasted heat.‹‹” Muttering, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Update on our situation. Four vehicles are closing in on your position, Višnja. Mere seconds away. The other vehicles are disabled, but some of their occupants still live. Those that can walk and wield weapons are making their way here on foot.”

“I’ll engage them.” Vargus said. “Deal with the others and want to see what my new spine can do. Doc Roth let’s see how good your daughter’s work is.”

“Hey, didn’ V tell you to be careful with that new Sandy of yours with the whole ‘potentially catastrophic’ feedback from you and ya sis’ synchro horn things?” Johnny interjected. Though he usually sounded dismissive, this time he sounded genuinely concerned.

 “Doc Roth, Mithra, Višnja, and I fixed up some limiters and warnings. We good.” Vargus said, confidently. “Goro, you can provide me support, but focus on those stragglers.”

“Affirmative.” Goro responded. Pulling away from his rifle for a moment, his eyes darted over to the windmill Vargus had made his perch. 

Eyes zooming in, he saw him holstering his rifle on his back before pulling out a knife and revolver. The next second, he jumped over the railing and landed on the ground below with a hard thud. The fabric of his pants flared out, most likely in response to the sections of his cyber legs flaring out in response to the impact. Raising himself up, he broke out into a blur of a sprint towards their enemies. 

Goro shook his head. “Insane.” A bold move to only use those weapons against dangerous odds.

Goro shifted his focus back to the vehicles he had disabled earlier and made quick work of the ones pulling themselves out of the wreckage and the others moving on foot towards the camp. 

“Hot damn! They don’t know what hit ‘em!” Johnny exclaimed.

With them taken care of, Goro shifted his focus over to where Vargus was once he heard Silverhand’s excitement. The construct was right. He barely had to provide support for the cocky edgerunner. Even with partially reactivated(jailbroken) cyberware, his mind could barely process the speeds Vargus was moving at. Strategically activating his Sandevistan in short bursts, Vargus was a blur dancing across the battleground. One second he was plunging his blade handle deep into the neck of a startled Wraith. 

Next, like a flickering flame, he appeared behind each individual in another group, placing the barrel of his revolver to their heads mouthing “bang” as he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, as he quickly moved on to sink his blade into the gut of one with a machete that tried to sneak up on him. 

BANG BANG BANG BANG

Goro heard the delayed shots. Blood, brain, and bones flew. The bodies dropped. Vargus was wearing a cheshire grin that grew wider as he repeated the cycle of violence against the rest.

The engagement barely lasted for a few more minutes before the desert grew quiet once more.

“Whoo! Mithra’s got miracle hands. That is ex-hil-arating.” Vargus was pulling his knife free from the last Wraith, having to give it a firm pull with how deep he buried it in their skull. Blade free, he wiped the blood and brain matter against the dead’s shirt before gently sliding the blade against his black fingernails. A few ribbons of the polish rolled up against the wicked sharp edge. “Hun’dred miles better than my old chrome spine.”

“Don’ let it get to your head, kid.” Johnny said.

Feeling an unexpected “heavyweight” dig into his back shoulder blade, Vargus lurched forward. Gritting his teeth, his head snapped around, eyes nearly closed tight in a glare. No one was there. To the visible eye, that was. “Oh? Gonna be a killjoy now? Thought you liked being gung ho? A little reckless?” 

“The construct is right.” Goro said, agreeing with Silverhand. That made Johnny laugh with surprise. “One should not lose oneself to the dangers of bloodlust in the heat of battle. Keep your senses sharp.”

“The ronin and terrorist agreeing? Hell’s getting colder…” Vargus grumbled. 

There was probably a smirk on Johnny’s face, even more so with Goro agreeing with him. “Kinda am in a kill joy mood ’n’ making sure you ain’t going cyberpsycho.” 

“I ain’t hexed. Ain’t that chromed.” He rolled his eyes. He took a step forward, letting Johnny “fall” before rolling his shoulder. “No plans to be, ever.”

Johnny made a halfhearted “aaaaaah” and “oof”.

Goro continued to scan the landscape. 

The desert was still clear. No reinforcements in sight.

An excited exclamation from Višnja. “Finally!” She was beaming from ear to ear. “Cracked the ICE. Both are free. Applying the coolant since their temps are high. Get the truck, bro!”

“On it.” Vargus replied. He was off.

Hearing that, Goro began to gather all his gear before leaving his windmill perch. “Coming to assist.”

Once Vargus brought the truck around, they tossed the unconscious netrunners in the back, along with the other items they had come for. Before leaving, they made their way around camp to gather whatever weapons and gear were salvageable from the Wraiths. Just another way to secure some quick eddies unless there was something they wanted to keep for themselves.

The trip to the rendezvous was uneventful. Goro stayed in the truck (though he didn’t need to) as Višnja and Vargus did the handoff. The netrunners and items were handed over. In return, they got their eddies and some extra goodies for a job well done.

“Aaaaand your cut, choom.” Višnja sang as she entered the passenger seat. Reaching towards the back, she placed three stacks of 10,000 €$ on the middle seat. Then, her eyes glowed blue as well as the lines in her neural oscillation synchronizer implant — the horn — on the right side of her head.

Goro glanced at his phone first. A smile crossed his face as he saw those numbers in his account rise. He then picked up the stacks. Old and new bills glided against his fingers. After a few flicks, the amount matched the band. And it was more than enough for what he needed to buy. 

“Thank you two, again for allowing me to join your… gig.” His mind still had some trouble comprehending some of the slang of the city.

“No, probs. We have a few more lined up and ain’t hurtn’ for the cash.” She said.

“Actually, have another gig we’re about to hit next if you’d like the join?” Vargus offered. “Deals with an annoying Maelstrom branch. They got their hands on something they shouldn’t have and the owner wants it back and doesn’t really care if half the block hears us. Says it’ll get a point across or sum’n’.”

Višnja tilted her head back and forth as she giggled. She leaned forward towards Goro, placing the side of her hand to her mouth. “That’s code for zero ‘em fools to send a message.”

“Hm.” Another gig? Goro wasn’t so sure about that. He had his money now and had some final planning he needed to do before the big day. Besides, he felt like he had been out long enough, though nobody had seen him. And the possibility of this next contract could be quite loud and bloody.

“We’ll give you a fair cut agaaaaaiiin.” Višnja playfully sang. Her wide smile soon turned into a sour sneer as her eyes focused on the empty seat next to Goro. “Oh shut it, Johnny! He deserves the cash and a bit of a break from being on the run.”  

Goro stifled a chuckle. He wondered what Silverhand had said this time. 

He tapped his fingers together. Another fair cut? More eddies were always nice. Maybe he could use the extra money to buy some new clothes? 

“Where too?”

———————————

The trio’s next gig went on into the long night. But was another successful venture, even if they ended up more banged up due to close-quarters combat.

“››Will need to buy some new clothes. Or mend these.‹‹” Goro muttered to himself as he used his sleeve to wipe the blood dripping from his nose. 

His shirt was littered with tears and holes as well as blood, synthetic blood, and other questionable viscera painted it. Feeling stray hairs tickling the sides of his face, he took a moment to fix his equally disheveled hair. A hiss slipped from his lips. Something felt off with the joints of his fingers and knuckles as they ran through his hair. There was one metalhead that snuck up on him and Višnja that he had to punch dead in their borged-up face. 

Hair slightly neater, he took a look at the offending hand. At a glance, it looked fine, but moving his fingers slightly, there was an odd bend in the digits and the gaps between the knuckles were slightly off.

“››Out of joint.‹‹” A hiss shifted into grunts as he popped his dislocated knuckles back into place before flexing his fingers several times. “Ah… and may need to pay Viktor a visit to make sure there is no damage. Or maybe Dr. Rothschild, if he has an opening.” 

He was waiting for the twins. Vargus was gathering up weapons and gear to strip or sell, and Višnja was turning in the gig. Feeling his phone buzz, he brought it out. Another hefty deposit of eddies in his account. Good. Since he didn’t know how long he would have to wait, he tried locating that “note” app once again. There were a few fumbles before he finally found it.

Eventually, the twins made it back. Vargus got their spoils of war loaded into the truck before he and his sister started discussing their plans for the night. Višnja gave Goro the other half of his payment. 

“Yo, Goro, where do ya need us to drop you off for the night?” Vargus asked, rolling his jaw a few times. The segments to the armor plating that lined his cybernetic jaw and part of his neck flexed open and closed.

“Hm?” He glanced up from his phone. “The same place you picked me up from for the first gig.”

“Alright.”

“Unless ya wanna grab a drink and bite with us?” Višnja said. “It’s a low-key joint. Pretty preem soul-food style grub and breakfast. Waffles and fruit sound real good right now.”

Goro raised a brow, inadvertently wrinkling his nose. He had still yet to find anything in Night City that his palette found remotely palatable. Though there were a few places he was growing a soft spot for. Tom’s Dinner. 

“I think, as you two say, ‘I’ll pass on that shit.’” Though he would never admit it, around the twins he let that air of sophistication wain and let their “city lingo” infiltrate his speech. “I have preparations I need to make.” His eyes winced as his body tensed. A hand went to his stomach. There was an audible rumble coming from his stomach.

“Sure about that, choom?” She grinned. He only glared in return.

“Don’t needle the old man.” Vargus nudged his sister’s arm a few times before roughly tussling her hair, which made her threaten that she’d hack his brain.

The three hopped into the vehicle and started their drive.

Goro fiddled with his phone. The talk about food brought a text conversation from the night they infiltrated the warehouse. A few taps, and he found his conversation with Varsha. 

He quickly scrolled up to find their discussion from that night. A dinner offer for real food. A private dinner offer. At her place. The viper’s den. And perhaps sex? The stressful circumstances made it tempting and his mind could only imagine what she looked like under that dark emerald dress she often wore. Quite pleasing to the eye. But Varsha didn’t seem like that kind of woman. 

From his observations, she was the complete opposite, especially when that one ‘associate’ of hers attempted to court her at every interaction whenever they crossed paths. She ignored every gesture, every word uttered by that silver tongue. Everything was strictly business to her. But there was always the possibility his assumptions were wrong. She was harder to read than most of the Corpos he dealt with during his service to Arasaka. 

“Višnja. Vargus.” He said as he leaned forward and perched himself between the gap between the driver and passenger seat. “Can you help me decipher this message from Varsha.” He moved his phone into their view. “I am not sure I understood her offer.”

“Driving.” Vargus said.

“I got it.” Višnja was about to pluck the phone from his hand but noticed those fingers tightened. Right, trust is still tentative. She read the text.

“Let’s see, let’s see.” She read it over a few times before mumbling Varsha’s portion of the text history. 

[Varsha]: What would you say to a little dinner together? Real food. I know some places that may fit your refined palette and the owners can ‘look the other way’ for you. If that doesn’t work for you, how about my place? I can order some food or cook it myself. Think you could use the company for one night. Perhaps we can get off on a better foot? 

It read like Varsha. She was always generous to those she considered friends, or those who stayed on her good side.

She then read Goro’s response and Varsha’s response to that and held in a snort the best she could. Where was this old man’s brain going to misinterpret her offer for food like that?

“What’s so funny?” Vargus shot her a few glances.

“››Think the old man thought V was offering sex in exchange for dinner besides not wanting her to go through the trouble of hiding his identity and he has ‘no appropriate wear’.‹‹“ Višnja slipped over to that machine language she, her brother, and Varsha liked to converse in if they didn’t want people listening.

The car jittered for a second. Vargus’ grip tightened on the steering wheel to steady it. He bit his tongue to stifle snickers breaking through.

Goro narrowed his eyes, even more so noticing those horns of theirs pulsing softly with color. He had his suspicions about what was shared between the two, but wouldn’t press. “So, what do you think?” 

“She offered you dinner.” Višnja said, pushing his phone back to him.

“And?”

“Just dinner. Nothing else, mate.”

“Are you sure?” He reread the texts again, especially his response. “Was she not offering…sex?” He almost didn’t want to say it.

“Sex? Hell no!” Vargus laughed. He slapped the steering shelf with each laugh. “Geez mate, and you said we could be fools, ya gonk.”

“Are you sure?” He just had to ask again.

“V wasn’t doing some tit for tat for dinner and sex, Goro.” Višnja shook her head, doing her best to keep her laughs at a minimum. “She’s not like that.” 

He looked at the two before closing his eyes. Shaking his head, those shoulders dropped. He sighed. So he had misinterpreted her message. He felt like such an idiot.

“No hard feelings, Goro.” Višnja said. “I can somewhat see how you read it like that. V still needs to work on her people skills.”

“Really, don’t think Varsh is even interested in sex. Hell, don’t think she’s wired for it.” Vargus said. “Don’t think we’ve ever seen her with somebody since we’ve known her. Minus anything for an Op.”

“She’s not. Remember the dollhouse story she told us?” Višnja said, corners of her mouth lifting with a little sticker. 

Her brother, in turn, lost his composure, breaking out into a deep laugh as he threw his head back. He was laughing so hard that his eyes glued shut; he had to pull over and wipe the tears from his eyes.

“H-her co-workers, her nosy coworkers wanted to learn about her sex life and instead witnessed a therapy season!” His fist pounded against the steering wheel.

Goro slowly tuned the twins out. He didn’t feel like he should be privy to that information. Besides, there were more important matters he needed to handle. How to apologize to Varsha for misinterpreting her offer? Perhaps he should accept it? As an apology? He was unsure. Hearing the sound of snapping fingers in front of his face brought him out of his brooding thoughts.

“Yo, Goro.” It was Vargus. Composure regained, he then motioned his thumb to the center seat. “Before I forget, check the cooler next to you. Center seat. Varsh’s got a gift for ya.”

“Shoot, I forgot about that.” Višnja said.

Goro raised a brow. He put away his phone and went to open the cooler. “A gift? Why?” 

“Just open it, you’ll figure it out.”

With the cooler open, Goro spotted several things. A few drinks, a backup handgun, an assortment of boosters, and then a few turquoise bento boxes.

“Those bento boxes are for you.” Višnja said.

“Really?” He asked as he picked them up. They had some heft to them. He closed the cooler and placed them on his lap. “Why?”

“Even though you turned down V’s offer, she’s been feeling sorry for you and your refined palette. Made ya some food. Home cooked and ordered something from a friend’s restaurant.” She said.

“Her cooking is the best. Real preem, you’ll love it.” Vargus said.

“Hm…”

Goro cautiously opened the first box. What greeted his eyes was a blanket of white rice, an assortment of vegetables elegantly cut and folded into shapes, and what he could tell was a few small cuts of raw fish with vibrant red meat. Fish. Real or fake? Raising the box to his face, he took in several sniffs. He prepared himself for a questionable, if not repugnant, smell. Eyebrows raised, his eyes lit up. There was nothing but a faint oceanic smell. Perhaps it was real? His stomach growled again. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“Yoooooouuuuuu’ll looooove iiiiiiiiiit.” Višnja sang again, dragging out every word to a nearly obnoxious degree.

Goro rolled his eyes. He opened the second box. His nose wrinkled not out of disgust but from the strong spices emanating from the second meal. It was nearly overpowering to his senses. There was more rice and next to it looked like reddish-brow curry and what he assumed was chicken or coconut chunks in it. His fingers found the silverware in the lid. Perhaps a taste test wouldn’t hurt? And it would silence his stomach for some time. He’d save the fish for later.

With the spoon, he carefully grabbed a portion of each piece of the meal, he finally took a bite of it. His eyes lit up, glimmering with surprise. It was all so flavorful. And the textures all felt right. The rice was light and fluffy. The chicken was firm and juicy, with the coconut only enriching its flavor. And the curry, his mind couldn’t describe it, but it was good. Nothing tasted like sawdust and plastic, and the meat wasn’t a chalky, stringy mess. He was already going for the second bite.

“The ronin likes it.” Višnja said.

“The ronin likes it.” Vargus agreed with a laugh.

Despite their Agents being disconnected, he felt a faint tickle in his ear like he could hear Silverhand joining in on their teasing. He ignored them. Best not to fall to their level. It would be foolish. He ate about half of his meal.

———————————

The rest of the ride was uneventful. The two dropped him off where they had picked him up earlier that day. 

Slipping through the shadows, Goro made his way back to his safe house, not before stopping to buy some replacement clothes and ammunition. Back home, he meticulously laid out his gear and went over his plans. As he did so, he snacked on what was left of the curry meal and took a few bites of the other and was pleasantly surprised it was real fish. Salmon from what he could tell.

As he was winding down for the night, his mind drifted back to the meals and that text conversation with Varsha. He shook his head and sighed.

“I need to apologize for my swift assumptions… and thank her for her generosity, this kindness. I do not deserve it, as I have been more judgmental towards her than the twins.” He mumbled his thoughts as his hand reached for his phone. “She deeply cares for those two. How she became complicit in this foolish chaos.”

For another hour, before sleep would finally take him, he made several drafts of the potential text he would send her in the morning.

[himbodruid]

Just a blurb from a Dammon x F!Tav (tiefling) fic i may or may not finish lol

This is the first time my Tav and Dammon met

“I-I’m sorry to interrupt, but you…you’ve got an arrow here,” Dammon said, gesturing to his chest just above his heart. Tav’s eyes opened wide and her head jerked down.

“Oh. Shit. I forgot about that,” was all she said as she assessed the broken shaft of the arrow that punched through her armour, and embedded right into her chest. “Hmm, well this poses a slight dilemma. One moment, please, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

She was just so blasé about it, and her face so expressive, that Dammon couldn’t help but find the situation amusing. Though, his smile died as her and her crew set to work extracting the arrowhead- a series of cringes flitting across his face instead as he waited. There was….much cursing coming from her once her adrenaline wore off,  and the one called Shadowheart had to remove the damaged armour before the arrowhead could be extracted. But once it was done, she turned back to him in her blood stained and damaged tunic as if nothing had happened. The arrow had been from one of the goblins just outside the grove, and Tav broke the shaft close to her armour to prevent knocking it while fighting.

And then casually forgot about it.

From that day on, Tav and her crew always made it a point to bypass the druid’s shop at the mouth of the grove and always gave their business to him. Over the course of the next several weeks, Dammon found himself eagerly awaiting her patronage and always had some new items prepared for her. When she brought a new companion to him with an infernal engine for a heart, he jumped at the chance to help her and her new friend. He admired Tav’s strength and kindness, and even adored her hard-headedness.

[tugoslovenka]

While I personally disagree with the Forgotten Realms' strict interpretations of their vampires as this anon wishes that BOTH angles could be possible (a vampire struggling and mourning their loss of humanity and vampires who embrace their newfound monstrosity). Especially since they've done it before.

One of Strahd's enemies, a sun elf turned vampire in the older Ravenloft editions named Jander Sunstar, was never directly given an Evil alignment and was clearly empathetic and remorseful regarding his condition. He shows up in 2e as a CN vampire with noticeable CG tendencies, 3e labelled him CE but his personality reflected that less, I feel. He technically is a CR13 creature in 5e as well (Monster Manual after all).

All that said... Ascended Astarion is clearly the latter example. He wanted power. He got power. Power doesn't corrupt---it reveals a lot of the time. If you, Tav, don't encourage him to see that you DON'T need to be a dominating power hungry monster (aka. all he's known and seen from Cazador)... then he becomes a power hungry monster. 🤯🤯🤯 SHOCKING.

It feels like a lot of woobifying and wanting him to still be better than he actually is. Having your cake and eating it too, if you will. Plenty of vampires can be neutral or even good in behaviour with enough discipline and they have been in the setting. If anything, they are probably just the Planes and Detect Alignment spells always pinging them as Evil. But... Ascended Astarion is not that LMAO. I'd even argue he starts the game as NE or CN, and no shit he does. Why would he think to show any vulnerability when he tells himself that killing SEVEN THOUSAND INNOCENT SPAWN IS JUSTIFIABLE because HE had no power and he DESERVES to do this. In a lot of ways, I can still see someone being sympathetic and wanting him to have that chance, not perhaps realizing the gravity of what that does to his soul.

Almost like... he committed a horrendous act and became a worse person for it. The curse and added Infernal component just adds to it and as interactions are as they are ingame for Act 3... like, WHY are people so shocked by the consequences of their own actions?

Sorry for filling your box with random thoughts. Your takes are thought-provoking and fun to read so I hope this is okay!

oh god i see a big anon message and start sweating but i'm so glad you're at least here to discuss and not preach kkjgkshg

i feel like the point of vampires being monsters isn't just a d&d thing, its just a general mythos thing. the good thing about d&d is that you are well within your right to create whatever story you want with your group, the rules and guides are there to just give you some basics. but obviously there are outliers within every race/monster/class. that's what makes stories exciting. so yes having someone like sunstar is an interesting juxtaposition to strahd but he is also an outlier, an exception if you will.

do i believe vampires can be good? no. do i believe they can be neutral and work towards a better alignment/not becoming genocidal dickwads? absolutely. there is nothing that says vampires can't drink animal blood for sustenance, there is nothing that mentions they will die if they don't fuck with humanoids, there is nothing that makes it so they have to have spawn/consorts/puppets. so with that in mind, do as you wish with your own vampires.

some races are meant to be evil for lore/gameplay purposes, that's just part of it. drow are naturally going to align to evil, but that doesn't mean drizzt can't exist to break the stereotypes and work towards something "better". goblins are also the primary evil bad guys in every low level campaign, but that doesn't mean they can't work for something "better".

my point was more general there, that people like to take away everything that makes vampires vampires (in every universe, not just d&d) and twist it just so their little babyboy can be slotted into the "good ones" category which is what i despise. astarion will never be good aligned no matter what happens. he is a chaotic neutral at best.

but yes, exactly as you said. not only does the game constantly hint to, point to and expressely tell you what is going to happen when he gets these souls, and give you very clear answers POST ascension/spawn of who he is and what he would have/has become, but you would have to be willfully ignorant to deny it. you can understand why he would want to get power, you don't have to approve of it or encourage it. i feel like people are missing that difference, it's as though they are trying to convince others of why astarion wants this outcome, and i feel most people can understand that. the problem is what happens after it and what it causes not only to him but to others around him.

ty for the morning discourse, i'm typing this with one eye open.

[ladynicte]

i’m too lazy to write the percico songfic to all my friends know by pinkpantheress but infernally i’m screaming about nico&percy& the opening line….did you ever want me no worries if not x_x

Anonnie! First of all, I'm so glad I got this ask, cuz it is the first ask this blog gets, and it's even about my OTP! Also, I had never heard this song before and I actually really liked it, which got me inspired, which got me to write this, and that's why this ask took so long to respond to, sorry! But hope you enjoy this mini fic regardless

Did you ever want me? No worries if not It's just that I, I told my mom, she thinks we're still going strong She knows that I, I stay fond of you That she can't ignore How every day she knocks but I don't answer my door

Whenever Nico closes his eyes he's right back in that little spot, with his feet planted right on the soil, feeling the bones and riches underneath.

He's looking directly at Percy and Annabeth, and the words roll right out of his tongue, like he's bleeding out, or more likely like he has got a concussion, and he's saying truthful yet incoherent things, that he's hoping he won't remember once his brain starts working properly again.

But of course, he remembers. Nico always does.

He remembers The Shade of Patroclus, resident of Elysium; former hero; man who was once a boy, in love with the most powerful demigod of his time; now reduced to sitting around, surrounded by riches, and glory, and beauty: and still only staring longingly at the River Lethe.

Once Nico hadn't been able to hold back any longer, and had asked him, Why not just drink from it, only a few droplets, that's all it would take.

He could lean down, and scoop some of it, on his rough, calloused, well-trained hands, drink only a little bit, and that's it.

Freedom.

He could be reincarnated, and hopefully, live a less tragic life this time around. 

But, The Shade had only looked at him, like Nico should already know the answer to his own question. Nico almost wanted to laugh, yeah, of course, he did, he just wanted somebody to tell him off about it, for once.

His hands weren't just well-trained, they had been well-loved as well, and that was far more than Nico could tell on its own. 

Nico rather hold onto the memory, if it's the last damn thing he can hold onto, than ever let go, and truly become disconnected from Percy Jackson. 

He had meant it though, when Nico said he was going to make them one last favour, and then let go of Percy, the same way The Achiles’s Curse Nico had given him, had washed right out of him, a strange sort of baptism.

And he was doing it, Nico had let go of Percy, so now there was nothing left to tie him to that Camp, no obnoxiously bright, orange shirt, or string necklace to hang around his neck like a noose.

So instead, here he was, allowing himself to be consumed away by the one place he had always felt welcomed in, like all other dead people. His Father's realm. 

He promised himself he's done with it, but when Styx, the Nymph, who for some reason had decided to take an interest in him, would rise from her waters, while he floated along them, on top of a lame little raft, crafted from the same materials as Charon’s own.

She would rise from her River of all things oaths, and all things lost, and speak to him about hatred, and about love, and Nico could only nod along, and give her an understanding glace, because they both knew far too well, how it was like, to love someone, completely out of reach.

Delegated to The Underworld, devoted to what was completely impossible, because such was their nature.

Only in those moments, would Nico allow himself to settle down, and he would feel the ache of his jaw and teeth, as his bones were finally allowed one moment of rest, and unrated, Nico would hurt in all sorts of different, yet familiar ways. 

If anybody else asked, he would never answer, curse him and kill him, and end him first, but he would never say it out loud, Styx was the only exception to confirm the rule. 

And there, Nico would tell Styx everything she wanted to know, about his hatred, but mostly about his love, and about how it had been years now, yet nectar only tasted like blue birthday cake for him, and literally nothing else, and he hates it, but it is his favorite. 

It will always be his favorite. 

She would nod, answer, then dip back into her domains, every time, Nico would wonder if that was it, their last conversation, and every time, he would be proven wrong. 

Styx always came back, more than anything else, Nico didn't know how to stay away. He never had known, truth to be told.

He wondered what exactly Styx thought about him, and Percy. 

Did she think that they were like herself and Phlegethon, actually in love with each other, even if betrothed to another, simply unable to be together because of their natures.

She sure thought Nico was still in love with Percy, she sure was right, but beyond that, she acted like Percy was still a real presence in his life, and not a ghost, more akin to the phantom pains an amputee gets. 

Something more than a constant pain that he had to cut off somehow, from the core out, but somehow, even after sawing it off, it still managed to hurt. 

Sometimes, Nico allowed his mind to wander, into dangerous territory, even if it had been washed away, Percy had still been bathed here, and everything that ever touched the Styx becomes part of her, one way or the other, forever.

But, if Styx actually could sense, or know anything about Percy, up there living his best life, like a Hero during the first act, right before all the tragedy befalls. 

She never told him. Nico knew it was for the best. Getting any more bad news about Percy would wreck him open, leave him ruined, and destroyed.

He would disperse his reflection upon the River, it felt mocking, like telling him he already was all of those things, to be fair, Styx was right, but she didn't have to rub it in. 

Nico would slap his own head, whenever he divulged, and thought about it too long.

He remembered what Octavian had said back then, when Nico had found him being Judged.

Nico had simply stood there, to serve as Jury, and Executioner, that Nico's way of loving was disturbing, it was far too intense, more akin to the mad, dangerous, devotion, that the old followers of the Gods possessed.

Octavian had sneered at him, he had said it loud and clear, Who's gonna bear a person like you, Nico had wondered for a minute, if he had misheard Octavia, but he already knew that, that what he went through wasn't a delicate, nice thing, it was a dangerous, terrible, poisonous, seething with desire, like the River of Fire that Styx was so fond of.

Terrible but enough to live off of eternally. 

Afterwards, Nico had escorted Octavian directly to the Fields of Punishment, and that had been the ending of Octavian's story. 

Every time I look outside my house, I try to make myself believe (I can look at nature and feel good again) She just called and texted to say I want to talk but I'm too scared to meet (is that why you think the worst of me?) You say we'll make up, why'd you say that? Why'd you break up? ('Cause I never got to teach myself at all) How to not show myself let go?

He was fine with life that way. Working around The House was fine by him.

Nico had promised to never go back to Camp, maybe, not ever back to the living world as a general, he didn't have a motive to go there anymore, after all, did he.

And yet, here he was, standing on the hill, staring at that tree, as the grass dried, and died off beneath his feet, he would have to apologize to the nymphs later.

He was here, because Hazel had asked him to come here, and who was he to deny her (And if Nico knew this was the only place he would ever see Percy at again, that was his own issue.)

Nico blew his bangs off his face, the sunlight hurt. Thanatos would describe the surface world as poisonous, and sickening, he would tell Zagreus that he couldn't stand it. 

Nico sighed, yeah he could relate, there was this thumping in his chest, and shaking on his bones, like somebody was whispering against his ribcage, trying to pop open his heart with an acoustic attack. Probably Apollo thinking about it.

Nico hated the living world, because, unlike Thanatos, he needed it so badly, and he could never have it.

He walked in, helped with the job, tried to ignore those blatant looks Percy would give him, like he just couldn't believe it, that Nico di Angelo was a real person, who had simply decided to disappear off the surface of the world one day, and not an imaginary friend he had outgrown at some point.

Nico looks at Percy, only sometimes, and he thinks, No way this guy is real. It's just a tad bit too much, isn't it?

Hazel had once described Percy as a Roman God, if only she knew half of what Nico has always known.

Nico would look at him, wondering, if he were to drown, would Percy save him, say something corny, like, how he couldn't stand to lose him too, no matter how helpless it all seemed, Yeah, Percy seemed right like the type to do something like that.

Nico decided, he couldn't stand Percy, and his soft, consistent, overly-loyal way of loving, where Nico could sit him down, and spell out in every gory, glory, detail, every single damned thing he ever did, and somehow, the only thing Percy would hear was about that one time Nico had betrayed him.

He couldn't stand the idea of getting what he wanted, if he couldn't get it for real, couldn't stand the idea of being touched once by Percy, then never again, he wanted his whole fill of it.

When Percy would tell him one more time, that he just wanted to understand him, treat him like a friend, if it wasn't enough love to drown in, Nico didn't want it, as selfish as he was, he only wanted love from this one boy, and if he couldn't have all of it, he didn't want any of it at all. 

They finish the issue together, it's like Questing together, almost. Percy reassures him time and time and time again, everything will turn out alright and Nico doesn't know if Percy is talking to him, or to himself.

Either way is fine, he supposes.

They come back, Nico speaks to Hazel, Jason dedicates him a sad glance, like C'mon man, I thought we were already through this. By this point, Nico just shrugs. Really, what else is there to be said by now.

Silent and mystic, as he always is, he veiled himself in the darkness, without a word of explanation, or justification, to anybody.

He's almost back at The House’s Gates, before his whole world comes crashing down once more. 

All my friends know that you think the worst of me Even when you broke my heart Now we're living worlds apart Now I thought you said I'm smart (never got to teach myself at all) Now that all that's done and said I see all the time I spent Not talking to my best friend 'Cause I thought the worst of me

Nico doesn't stay, and Percy chases after him. like he always does, and they are back on the edge of Camp, and Nico thinks Isn't this the palace I always receive the worst news I possibly can.

Percy tugs on his arm, asks him to stay, and Nico wants to push him away, because Percy's very touch burns. 

Nico knows there was a very real time, where his anger would have given him enough strength to yank his arm away from Percy's, but never enough to yell at him what he truly wanted to say.

But, not anymore, he's way too tired for it. He's already fought so much, in every possible War, he thinks, he just doesn't have enough of that fire in him left, definitely not enough to fight back, even against Percy himself.

Percy tells him, he should at least try to stay for The Campfire, at least only this time, and Nico wants to tell him, just you touching me is already enough to kill me, how could I ever stand to stay, I think I might melt away if I do. 

But he doesn't, he doesn't say anything at all, nothing Percy hasn't already heard.

And that's that.  

Nico goes back to The House, the only place he knows any calm at, he almost touched the River Styx on his way back, but Charon is watching over him, (His father's orders), and Hypnos is standing at the door, and he really doesn't want to explain why he's deciding to swim on the River of Hatred tonight, mostly because he never really learned to swim, after all.

Instead, he greets his Father, his Step-Mother, and he goes right back to his room. Nico decides that when he opens up his eyes again, nothing will have changed. He will go back to his tranquil, tedious, dead life.

And, when he wakes up again, he doesn't know if it's day or night, and it doesn't matter, either, because he's already halfway dead, and the grand room is the exact same, and it's way too grand for him, because he's just a Demigod, who never arrived to Person status.

And he's debating, whether to actually wake up and go tend to his duties, or get the scolding of his life for the dozenth time for failing to show up at all, when the decision gets taken for him one more time, because The Fates are cruel, and Nyx is a very harsh boss, or maybe, just because he's Nico di Angelo and his life has got to be the worst due to his bloodline. 

But the tiny package, that he hadn't even processed was there, with everything, and that dumb Hermes Express Sticker, grows wings and launches itself against his chest, completely dismissing that ‘Careful Delicate Object’ stamp by its side.

Nico doesn't want to open it, but ever since when does what he wants matter, so Nico does.

He has to laugh, and he wonders how he looks like. One time Percy had told him that he scared, that sometimes his face would contrast, into this tiny red pupil, the same colour as the Styx, and a maniac grin, lost somewhere between prodigy, and madman, would overtake his features.

He figures, he must be making a face like that one right now, as he laughs without any humor.

As he stares at the beads necklace, with far too many ornaments, to truly be his in any way, and Nico almost gags, because he hasn't smelled the outside world in so long, and he had almost forgotten how the essence of the sea is like, that heavy, salty, corroding smell, is like.

But, how could he ever forget it, just like Camp Half-Blood, just like this necklace right here, just like Nico, his whole life, it was Percy's.

And Nico could never dismiss anything by Percy, and truly that boy is so dense. 

Nico tries to tug at it, or throw it away, and he can't, he knows this is Percy's way of sending a message, whether it's a Medusa’s head, or a sentimental necklace, it is a very clear message.

Don't ignore me. Get back here.  

And Nico knows, really, he does, that he could break it, or throw it into any River, and what could Percy ever do about it, come down here himself, and fight every army of the undead, he probably would, he would win, Cruse or not, Nico would find it fun, even. 

But the thing is that, even if he threw the necklace away, and drank the waters of The River Lethe with his mouth full, and this time, he would leave for real, to live a hopefully better life this time around.

He would still be stuck with it, his well-trained hands, and his dead heart, which only ever belonged to Percy, and after Percy, what would Nico possibly do with them, anymore.

Nico shakily puts the necklace around his neck, and it is a noose by all means, he hasn't felt this weak in so long, then he shakily steps out of his bed.

He already knows where he's going to land, when beneath his feet, the Camp’s grass is already dying, and drying off, and he's gonna have to say sorry for it, real soon.

Nico sighs, really, why does he keep doing this to himself.

He walks directly to the Poseidon Cabin. 

[greenlodgecypher]

In The Case Of The Ring, pt. 2/4

Part 1

"As a result, the Martel family holdings slipped into the Whitstones' keeping. All that untimely death, and the subsequent change in fortunes, cemented a legend.

The Devil had enticed the women of the Martel family and eventually won, stealing the Martel family riches away for more infernal purposes. It became quite a specific story over time. The ring was spoken of as a warning, given to Lady Martel to mend her ways; it would prick her finger to remind her. Instead, she cursed the ring, and her daughter completed the Martel ruin. "And the Whitstones, who got the fortune, completed the story as the Devil's beneficiaries. They certainly played that part. Their money was the only thing keeping them in polite society. Even in an era where corporal punishment was common, the Whitstones were spoken of as brutish and violent to each other, their children, and their servants. They once had a stake in the slave trade." “Is the current owner such a gem?” Anne said. I smiled. “Not exactly. The Whitstones came down in the world—as many British families of note did—and necessity finally drove the heir, in time, to South Carolina. That man’s grandson, a rather quiet young man named Jonathan, left home promptly at eighteen and became an architect. The family inheritance meant little to him. He didn’t think he would get much of anything, and in the end, he was mostly right. "It was from him that I learned the story of the ring. His mother wore it often. She herself had told him the story, in fact. From the sound of it, she didn’t believe any of it, and neither did he—except for the part about the Whitstones being rather nasty. She liked to wear it because the witchy aspect of the story appealed to her. Theirs was not a happy home life, you see, and he thought it helped her feel like she had some power in her life. His mother died while he was in ninth grade, and his father grew increasingly abusive towards him. Jonathan was happy to leave his home, and family history, behind him. "Jonathan is in his sixties now. My mother had the ring in a lot of old oddments from him—all hand-me-downs that he'd inherited and didn't care about keeping. All small objects that his father had kept. He told her the story about the ring; said he'd be well rid of it.” "I thought it wasn't for sale?" Sayers said. "I'll come back to that." I settled back in my chair. “With a story like that, of course, Mother was insistent that there must be some evil influence about the thing. I will spare you, of course, the initial run of tests. I found nothing; nothing unusual at all about the object itself. It disrupted no electrical field; it evoked no reaction in my ghost-light; it didn’t respond at all to my circle. It had some stains on the underside of the band; there had been a bad filing-job done to it, too. That was it." “It had something, then?” Eliot asked. “Or you wouldn’t have it still.” I nodded. “I had had the object for a couple of days when it happened. Mother wanted a clean bill of health, and you know I can’t really be sure about something without a couple of days of signal to go on. I’d left it in the monitoring box downstairs and gone to bed. “It was my absolute surprise, then, to wake up in the middle of the night with a companion,” here I paused. “That wasn’t how I meant it. But there was indeed a woman in the room.” I accepted the general round of amusement and continued on after a moment. “She was tallish, and rather unhealthy-looking; but she was furious. She glared at me with absolutely righteous anger. And then I blinked! And she was gone. "Remarkably, I fell back asleep. I wasn't very awake, you see. Well, when I woke up, I saw my warning-glass still standing up. I keep it for dreams, you know, to see whether a dream has significance or not. If she was a dream, she was only a figment of my own mind. But I had been certain I was awake. "The next morning I went straight to the library to get a sense of her clothing. You may not be surprised to learn that she was wearing high-class British clothing, of the decade of Simon Whitstone's death.”

Part 3

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

I feel very guilty for saying this as what I could handle reading was amazing and you should feel proud but, well, I think you misunderstood my request.

I was thinking Childe protects the reader and I'm doing so becomes a traitor, and then is cursed.

In other words I meant hurt/comfort, not angst.

Personally I can't really handle angst and had to stop after the mention of the reader's friends possibly dying, but you did good on it! It's just not really what I meant, and I'm sorry I wasn't clear.

oh it’s quite alright!! i got a little carried away while making the first version of your request, and i was actually really excited to try again!! i hope this is a bit more to your liking!

~ * ~ In Pursuit of Happiness

Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Angst, Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Body horror, slight gore, ice, allusions to injuries, crying

~ * ~

The Tsaritsa’s halls were always cold. Bathed in bright light akin to crystal facets, the shining walls of marble played with one’s vision and casted flickering illusions across the rooms, submerging the palace under imaginary frozen waves. Citizens and Fatui alike look upon the snow-covered spires and smile in relief, reassured that their Archon’s power and rule will never be diminished, and outsiders shiver, desperately hoping that the god of Snezhnaya would never turn her power against them. The Tsaritsa’s halls were always cold, a cold Childe could never feel. To him, the ice and frost lining the floor glittered like the brightest stars, the permanence of it all keeping him warm on the most biting of days. His shoes tap merrily against the pavement as he navigates the winding corridors- left and right and up and down, occasionally backtracking or switching halls, all to receive his next assignment from Her Royal Highness. Having been summoned alone specifically, he couldn’t simply ignore her request. Then again, did he ever? The doors to the Tsaritsa’s meeting room loom menacingly before him, but Childe pushes them open without so much as a wayward glance. He’s been here before. There’s nothing to fear, only him and Her Royal Highness and her commands. And of course, the one rule. Kneel before the throne. Childe kneels, and suddenly he’s no longer Childe, but Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, member of the Fatui and one of many right hands of the Tsaritsa. Her previous ideal, love, shone through in the way that she extended her hands to the helpless and gave them a home. Tartaglia bows and she tells him to rise and she smiles and it feels like home, a home away from the home he so sorely misses, a home away from his family. A home away from you, wherever you go. It’s a recent home, made only on his visit to Liyue, but a cherished one all the same. Her Royal Highness speaks amicably to him, and he basks in her presence- yes, he had done excellently on his previous mission, despite the slight mishap in the Golden House. Even if Signora was the one to present the Gnosis, Tartaglia did all the work, and he is acknowledged for that. Alas, the only gift the Tsaritsa has for him is another mission. Another mission? Tartaglia blinks. Normally he got at least a few days to plan and perhaps rest before his next assignment- although he never rested, only training to block out the infernal voices in his head. Her Highness smiles apologetically. Yes, this is a bit spontaneous- not even she was aware of it until just recently! But the mission was vitally important and quite simple; she had no doubt that he could complete and excel at his duties, and afterwards he would have ample time before his next task. Tartaglia nods, looking up, but not into her eyes. Never into her eyes. He’s ready, give him his mission. There’s ice in the Tsaritsa’s smile. “You’ve been distracted, haven’t you, my dear Harbinger? Find the distractor. Get rid of it.” Time stops as the Eleventh Harbinger’s blood seemingly freezes. He blinks, hoping for Her Highness to laugh and say it was a joke, against all odds, but her expression remains the same: serene, sweet, coldly smiling. She knows that he knows exactly what she means, who she means. You. You’re not part of the Fatui nor one of the Tsaritsa’s subjects. You’re a distractor from Tartaglia’s missions, nothing but an annoying fly. To her, you’re nothing but a bump in the road, and you should be the same to Tartaglia. But you’re you. He can’t, he doesn’t want to get rid of you. And she knows this, but he’ll do it anyway, because he’s a loyal Harbinger. Until he grits his teeth and says no. The Tsaritsa’s brows raise ever-so-slightly as he looks her dead in the eyes for the first time, and says no. No, he will not just “get rid of you”, not when you’ve settled in his heart like a warm secret to hold against the snowstorm. You’re like family to him… more than family! He adores you, every part of you, and he’s not letting the Fatui take all that makes you wonderful away by forcing him to put you six feet under the ground. His gaze is defiant, he’s made his choice. Her Royal Highness clicks her tongue. “So, a betrayal.” Her expression doesn’t even twitch as she waves her hand in Tartaglia’s direction. Something flickers in his vision, a chill running down his spine as the pressing silence surrounds both him and the staring Archon. Something cracks and shatters. Tartaglia doubles over, a shock of pain electrocuting his limbs, shards of false ice digging themselves into his skin. It’s familiar, he’s felt this before, the magic of cold and calculating stars furling around his body, but this time it’s different, mixed with the Cryo magic of the Tsaritsa. His bones snap and contort as he screams, voice drowning into a gurgled wail as his fingers reshape into talons and horns sprout from his head. It’s a shape he knows well, but now it’s heavier, permanent, as if it’s sticking and not coming off. He slumps to the ground, mind fuzzy and white around the edges- he can’t think, it hurts too much. Someone speaks, muffled, and his instincts jolt and shake the icy chill from his bones and he leaps to his feet, trying to tell materialized people to stay back, stay away, but all that leaves his maw-like mouth is a harrowing shriek. He’s going, he’s going- the floor is cold beneath his feet but the doors slam open and he’s out, he’s escaping to- to where? Somewhere without ice, with sun and grass and… you. He remembers you. You’re safe and warm, he remembers your smile and your laugh- will you remember him? He has so many names, how many again? He can’t remember, he’s tired… You… Think of you… Where are you…? In Liyue, of course, weeks later, surrounded by sunshine and stone as you tend to your chores. The garden needs weeding again, you really need to strike up a deal with a florist for some weedkiller! With an irritated huff you snap on your gloves, armed and ready to do some dirty work, which is just some digging and pulling out fragile little roots. The breeze ruffles your hair and you sigh, slightly melancholy, but for what you don’t know. Something weighs on you, poking your mind gently until you turn to confront it, only to find nothing there. Your gloves splotch with dirt and mud as you pull up plant after plant, flinging them behind you with all the annoyance and irritation that you’ve accumulated over the years. It’s the little things that help you get your anger out, really. The task has you so in its grasp that everything else in the world slips away, only you, your gloves, the soil, and those fiendish little roots. Something cries from beyond the trees. You flick your head as if shooing away a bug, but it sounds again. And again. And again, until you yank off your gloves and throw them to the ground, so annoyed that you don’t even think about being afraid. You rustle around in your house to find your weapon, determined to put whatever poor, suffering animal is making that noise out of its misery. The forest near your house is dense but not packed, and you slip between the trees with ease, following the sound of pained whimpering, footsteps light on the thin grass underfoot. There’s a faint wail to your left, and you push aside foliage with a sigh, ready to help an animal towards its next life with a heavy heart. You come face-to-face with a beast. Almost dropping your weapon out of shock, you jump back with a startled gasp, inching away as the creature raises its head. You can’t deal with this on your own- it’s an Abyssal monster, you need to get help- But it reaches towards you with such a pathetic whine that you stop, despite your mind screaming at you to run, run as fast as you can. You let the creature crawl towards you, its shoulders shaking with just the effort as the adrenaline in its veins wears off and it slumps into your lap. You raise your hands, only to lower them when the beast makes no move to harm you, petting its mane of ginger hair and the curious ring of fluff around its neck. It curls its limbs around you, shivering from an unseen chill as you attempt to support its considerable weight on your legs, shaking off the dew from the monster’s silent sobbing. He purrs as you thread your fingers through his hair. He didn’t even know this form could purr, this… Foul Legacy. He remembers, he remembers you, his home, and Childe. He is Childe. Perhaps more, but to you, and now to him, he is Childe. Your legs feel quite crushed as the beast weakly nudges its head into your stomach, whining softly at the sensation of you stroking its mask-like face. You shift, and the creature cries out and hooks its claws on the fabric of your sleeve- please don’t go, please don’t go! Quietly you shush it and settle back down, allowing it to lean into your touch further and look you directly in the eyes. Please be happy, I will be happy with you, it seems to say as Childe sinks back into the soft fabric of your clothes, injured and exhausted but reunited with you, his light against the icy cold. I remember, I remember now. I wanted to be happy with you. It was a dream to chase, and I paid the price, all in the pursuit of happiness.

[ziorite]

herongraystairs and a true nephilim lore analysis

So I’m reading the infernal devices again, y’know, as one does, and I’m getting all emotional and sad because will, jem, and tessa!! They were a tragedy not because they never got to love each other, but because they did get to be together. They were just separated from a part of themselves every time. that really just shatters me every time I read about wessa in tlh, or jessa in tda/twp content. And so I got to thinking.

what were the obstacles that stopped the three of them from being together? (barring societal expectations about heterosexual monogamy being the norm, and the three of them having inevitable hangups about being a Thing) i came up with three main things: Will and Jem were parabatai, Jem’s addiction, and Will’s curse. Now, the curse sort of resolved itself, so that leaves us the parabatai bond and the addiction.

and so I was heeing and hawing over the topic while in the shower, and then I very belatedly remembered just how Jem was cured in city of heavenly fire. (It’s been a while since I read tmi and the details are a bit fuzzy 😅) He got stabbed with glorious and the yin fen got burnt out of him! So, all we have to do is find a way to access heavenly fire in 1800s London and we’re golden.

here’s where my hopefully-a-stroke-of-genius-probably-just-lack-of-proper-nutrition brainwave comes into play. When we learned about the parabatai curse in the dark artifices, what happened to Emma and Julian and the end of qoaad? THEY BURNED WITH HEAVENLY FIRE. now, I wouldn’t just copy that plot line and have both Will and Jem both turn into twenty feet tall flaming hot Cheetos, because that’s boring. So I dug into what lore I could find with a lazy Google search and a five minute session of shuffling through my copy of qoaad, and apparently, true nephilim, (the aforementioned fiery giants if you didn’t know), were actually induced to defeat more powerful demons, though most died afterwards. Those who didn’t were grounded by parabatai, so they could return to their earthly form. So now, if we can get Jem to turn into a true nephilim, we can use Will to ground him, bring him back, and that’s the addiction solved! (I might have the fire burn out the parabatai bond like it did for jemma, so that’s be two birds with one stone— can’t have Jem and Will turning into giants again)

and here’s where things get a little hand-wavey, and I start to speculate, so definitely don’t take any of this as canon, though it isn’t technically canon divergent? Since they didn’t tell us much about how the ancient shadowhunters actually went about turning their buddies into demon killing infernos, I started to theorize. And then during my reread of city of bones, I come across clary’s introduction to seraph blades. As jace says, you don’t name a blade Raziel. Ever. why? They don’t really know. Y’know what else most, if not all, shadowhunters also didn’t really know? Why parabatai weren’t allowed to fall in love— it just wasn’t done. So logically, I could draw the conclusion that both reasons were unknown because they had both been covered up by the clave of long ago in the same way. Wait, zio, why are you going on about the curse and seraph blades? However could they be connected? I hear your chirpy voices in my ear.

because, my friends. what if. What if the Clave banned the naming of a seraph blade Raziel, because doing so would make you a true Nephilim? We know that they banned parabatai from falling in love because true nephilim were too powerful and dangerous, so it makes sense that the ”regular” method of turning shadowhunters into true nephilim would be covered up as well.

and thus, we have it. According to this funky little theory of mine, if Jem was to name a seraph blade Raziel, turn into a true Nephilim, and then return back to his body, both the addiction and the parabatai bond would be burned away and there you have it!! the possibility of herongraystairs in the nineteenth century without disregarding any significant canon lore!

I’ve been fiddling with this, and I’d like to turn it into a fic, but I still haven’t worked out a truly coherent plot beyond what I’ve slapped together here, and I kind of wanted to gauge interest, so please let me know what you guys think. If you see any holes or flaws in my thinking, please point them out— I’m always up to working my brain over, and I found it quite satisfying to come up with this little analysis !!

[ikeromantic]

Piano Lessons

An ObeyMe! Lucifer fic, approx. 1800 words. G/N MC, Fluff.

The infernal grand piano squatted in one shadowed corner of the music room. To any human, at first glance it looked no different from the version in the human world. A dangerous assumption, you knew. If an easy one to make. This instrument was capable of compositions that would drive a mortal listener mad, or even cause death.

You thought that would be reason enough to be given a pass on your Devilish Music I, but Lucifer didn’t agree. In fact, he considered your ignorance of the instrument and its compositions an opportunity. And that was how you found yourself in the House of Lamentation’s music room every afternoon when RAD let out.

Lucifer was already waiting on the bench. He looked up as you came in, lips compressed in an expression of near-constant disapproval. “You’re late.”

“I’m on time!” You glanced at the clock on the wall.

“If you aren’t five minutes early, that counts as late. Now come here and sit next to me.”

Arguing with Lucifer was futile. Besides, you did want to sit next to him. During your time in the Devildom, you’d developed a bit of a crush on the eldest brother. One that had you working hard to be on the receiving end of his rare smiles and sparse compliments.

Today you were hoping to impress Luci with your rendition from Certovski, Faust’s Mistake. It was one of the mortal-safe pieces you could attempt without risking your mind or your soul.

“Fingers on the keys.” Lucifer’s red eyes followed your hands as you tried for the appropriate position. “Elbows out. Move your left hand in.”

You did as instructed, but apparently you were still off. He reached for your hands, positioning them. Part of you wanted to fight him on it. The rest of you just enjoyed the feel of his hands on yours. His skin was always so warm and smooth.

He frowned. “Focus.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled. With your hands in place, you ran through the demonic scale. Some of the tones were too low or too high to hear. You could feel them though, shivering your bones and raising the hairs at the back of your neck.

Your warm-up didn’t get any objection from the Prince of Pride, which meant you were doing well. A quick glance showed he wasn’t frowning any more. Good.

Lucifer stood and began to pace behind you. “What are you going to play for me?”

“I’ve been practicing Faust’s Mistake.” As if he didn’t know.

“Then begin.”

You take a breath. This is it. You try to psych yourself up. All that practice will pay off. All those evenings you gave up gaming with Levi and Mammon, the weekends you stayed in instead of going out with Satan or Asmo. You could play this in your sleep.

Your hands float across the keys, the melody pouring from the hidden strings, describing the terrible bargain Faust made. The fast, tripping notes gave way to the long, slow sounds of regret, and finally, to the clashing finish.

Sweat beaded your forehead as you lowered your hands to your lap. The tension in your chest stopped your breath as you waited for Lucifer’s judgement.

“That was . . . not bad.”

From anyone else, you’d take this as a criticism but from Luci? It was a gold star. You smiled over your shoulder at him.

The left corner of his lip turned up in a slight half smile. “I’m impressed you memorized the whole piece in such a short time. I can tell you’ve worked hard.”

You felt like if he gave you one more compliment, you might completely melt.

“But -”

Your heart sank.

“I didn’t feel the tension, the passion of the moment in your rendition. You were too focused on technical mastery.” Lucifer sat down beside you, his hip brushing yours. “The Faustian epic is classic. It must evoke the emotion of the moment, the story, that birthed it. Let me show you what I mean.”

His hands went to the keys. “This is from earlier in the story. The Fall.” He began playing in a low octave, a heavy, slow rhythm that made your heart pound. Or perhaps that was just from sitting so close to him.

Lucifer kept that going as he began to layer higher, lighter notes atop it. These sounded almost playful, innocent. If not for the ominous beat beneath it. “Here we have naivete. The mortal at play, unaware of the trap laid for him.”

You nod.

“The music is the story, the story lives in the music. Now -” The lighter notes began to slow, creeping closer to the lower octave. “The mortal becomes aware of the nearness of death. The lingering, slow demise that comes to all men.”

Your breath slows in time to the music, and you can almost feel the weight of your years, few though they are. It is as if you lived a century and now your bones are heavy and your body is weary. Your eyelids drift half closed.

Lucifer continues to play, the ominous chords grow louder and the higher tones fade until both melodies close in on each other.

There is a subaudible component now, and though you can’t hear it, you can feel it move with the pulse of your blood. An arrhythmia that pulls you into the moment. The music surges beneath your eyelids, a spiral of red across a dark abyss. A false light.

“Here Faust decides his soul is worth less than his earthly pleasures, and denies Death its due. You can hear the strains of rage from Death’s denial beside the demon’s triumph. And there, Faust’s -”

The music stops but you can still feel it inside you. Something slick and warm slides down your cheek.

Lucifer’s voice, demanding. Trembling. “Wake up. Open your eyes this instant.”

You wish you could obey. You’d like to but the music holds you where you are. Limbo. A space bereft of everything but the music. Death and the demon, Faust’s lust and greed.

“Please.” Lucifer’s voice is gentler than you’ve ever heard it before.

You feel the pad of his thumb against your cheek. A sudden burst of magic like static on a distant radio. Then silence. Your mind slips under a dark, quiet ocean.

The water is warm. Peaceful. You can feel it cradling you. Stroking your hair, your cheeks. The touches become more insistent. Pushing you toward the surface. Toward wakefulness.

“I am sorry. Please. If you open your eyes, I will do . . . I will do anything, anything you want. I won’t make you practice anymore. I’ll give you a - a bigger room.”

The voice belongs to Lucifer, you’re sure of it. But it doesn’t sound like him. When has he ever pleaded, begged, for anything? You realize it is his hands on your skin, stroking your arms, your face. Then it hits you. The music. It wasn’t safe for your mind and now . . . was this real?

You open your eyes.

Lucifer’s face is the first thing you see. He is so close, you can feel his breath on your cheek. His eyes are wide and damp, and full of concern. You are held tight against him, like a child.

“Can you hear me? See me?” His fingertip slides along your jawline, a delicate touch.

“Yes.” Your voice comes out throaty and low. Rough as if you’d been screaming.

His relief is palpable. He squeezes you tighter, pressing your face to his chest. “I . . . I apologize. I got carried away with the music. And you’ve taken injury because of it - because of me.”

The words are halting, stiff. Hard for the proud eldest to say, and yet, for you, he does. “It’s okay,” you croak. “It was beautiful.” And it’s true. Some remnant of the cursed melodies still echo in the chambers of your heart. Haunting you with a promise that has no words.

“I will see you are fully recovered.” The briskness returns to Lucifer’s voice.

You try to push yourself up, off his chest. He doesn’t loosen his hold on you.

“Stop struggling. Are you uncomfortable?” Lucifer adjusts his grip, sliding your head to the crook of his arm. “Is that better?”

It isn’t, really. But at least you can see you aren’t in the music room anymore. Lucifer must have carried you to his chambers. He must have been worried, but you don’t know why. You feel alright. You try to sit up again.

With an exasperated look, Lucifer partially lifts you. He doesn’t release you. “Didn’t I say to stop struggling? You need to relax until you are . . . repaired.”

“I feel fine,” you tell him.

He frowns. “You are still bleeding from your ears.”

You lift a hand to the side of your head. It comes away red and wet. “Oh.”

“It will take a few days for the effects to wear off.” The concern in his scarlet gaze frightens you more than the blood.

“Will I be ok?”

“Mostly.” He looks away. “Until then, I will keep you here and see to your needs. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Does anything hurt?”

You shake your head. This, you discovered, was a mistake. The shadows of the room move with your vision, growing one direction and then the other. Wide swaths of darkness that catch your eye.

“Are you seeing things?” Lucifer looks back at you. His thumb caresses your cheek.

“N-no.”

“Rather, tell me what you are seeing. And don’t lie about it a second time.”

There is a flicker of warning in the crimson depths of his gaze. You tell him about the shadows, and the way the music still sings in you.

He frowns. “If the effects do not fade, I may have to keep you in my rooms forever.”

You note that he doesn’t sound annoyed at this prospect. But he didn’t ask you, and his assumptions don’t sit well. “You can’t lock me up, Lucifer.”

“I can.”

Wrong tactic to take. You amend. “It probably isn’t a good idea to burden yourself with caring for me. You have a lot to do. Diavolo needs you.”

Lucifer knows what you’re up to. He has millenniums on you, after all. He smiles and brushes the hair back from your forehead. “I have informed my brothers, and the Prince, that you fell ill yesterday afternoon. I’ve taken time off to care for you.”

Your mind takes a moment to catch up. “Yesterday?”

“Yes. I cast a spell to knock you unconscious when I realized what I’d done. It helped, briefly. But you started screaming some time in the night and . . .”

You realize he’s been sitting here, holding you, for hours. Warmth blossoms in your chest. A happiness completely out of place, all things considered. But despite the blood loss and possibly permanent madness, you feel loved. Cared for.

Lucifer seems to read your mind. He says nothing, just places a light kiss on your forehead.

Neither of you need to speak. He knows and you know and words just complicate things anyway.

He stands, still holding you, and carries you to bed. When you drift back to sleep, it’s with your head on his chest, his arm around your shoulders to pull you close.

[jamespotterthefirst]

Mi Reina Bree. I must know, if you haven't done this already, Ethan and Lilac and their babies go to Disney World hcs? Would they bring someone to babysit while they get some alone time? Ethan in mickey ears after his babies ask? What rides? Queen Lilac and her babies and big baby 😏 fav activities? The fireworks? Only if you have time/energy my lovely. I cant get enough of my 🐰🐰s and their 🐰🐰🐰🐰s. X

My queen, dklfjkdjfksdjlkfjdlkf YOU KNOW ME SO WELL. 

I adore Disney so much. Thank you so much for sending this in! I had so much fun! 

Happiest Place (Disneyland HCs)

Ethan is 100% going to end up on the “DILFs of Disney” Instagram page (edit at the end)

They are going to Disneyland in California with Lilac's family for Jonah’s eleventh birthday

Her sister, Laurel, made him a shirt that says “Birthday Boy” in Disney font

And she made everyone else shirts that say “Tia/Auntie”, “Abuelita”, “Abuelito”, “Mamá/ Mom”, “Papá/ Dad”, “Hermanita/Little sister”. They are a bilingual family ftw

Ethan is grumpy about wearing his shirt that morning in the hotel room.

When his mother-in-law greets him outside the park, she looks a bit disappointed that he’s not matching with everyone else.

Ethan hurries to throw the shirt on because he cannot stand to disappoint that kind woman

Lilac rolls her eyes and texts him: “Kiss ass.”

Because they don’t curse in front of the kids

The first thing their overly excited children do is drag everyone to the nearest store for Mickey Ears.

Jonah gets a Goofy hat, Dolores gets unicorn Minnie Ears, they get Minnie Ears hair clips for the twins because their heads are too little

The kids spot the Bride and Groom Mickey and Minnie ears and beg their parents to wear them

“It's not our wedding.” Ethan tells them.

“Yeah, but we weren't there to see the real thing. Dad, pleaseeee.”

They do it.

They ride a few attractions, the twins staying outside with their grandparents for the ones they are too young for.

After Big Thunder Mountain, Jonah immediately notices his dad barely reacts

“He doesn't scream or anything.”

“I am. Internally.”

So it becomes their mission to make Ethan scream during a ride.

Aunt Laurel mutters something to Lilac that no one else hears. 

Lilac slaps her sister's arm and says through gritted teeth, "Keep it PG”

They go on every single ride, even It's A Small World. 

Ethan almost got out of going on that infernal thing, but a single pleading look from his daughters made him agree to it.

He might as well kiss his free will goodbye for the rest of the trip

They also do Meet and Greets with the characters.

Everyone taunts Lilac for being a tad bit jealous when Belle takes an interest on Ethan and informs him he reminds her of her prince.

“You do realize who her prince is, right? She essentially called you a beast.” Lilac tells Ethan much later. So much later he almost forgot what she was talking about.

He leans in, careful no one is around to hear, and whispers, “I prefer it when you call me that.”

Jonah makes a Lightsaber at Star Wars: Galaxy's Edge. He makes his father get one too for their epic battles at home. Dolores makes a cute little droid. The twins each get a Porg. 

The ride that finally makes the reticent and ever stoic Ethan Ramsey break is Guardians of the Galaxy: Mission BREAKOUT.

Though that is still, to this day, a disputed fact.

It is difficult to tell with certainty if Ethan was screaming since there were over twenty people in the gantry, all shrieking while free-falling repeatedly from several stories to the tune of Give Up the Funk by Parliament.

Jonah insists they go again to get a different song (they get Hit Me With Your Best Shot by Pat Benatar that time). 

But really, he wants to see if Dad was really screaming.

He was.

They also take Dolores to see the stage adaptation of Frozen, which everyone ended up enjoying.

Right before sunset, Aunt Laurel and their abuelitos offer to take the kids to Pixar Pier so that Ethan and Lilac can have some alone time.

It works out perfectly because Ethan has a surprise planned.

They stop at the hotel room to change

Which

Takes longer than anticipated because they are taking full advantage of this rare moment of alone time

They take advantage of their alone time twice

When they finally make it out, Ethan leads them to the exclusive Club 33 for dinner

(Yeah, the same one that has a waitlist of over 10 years, a joining fee of $33K, and an annual fee of $15K)

Ethan doesn’t fuck around. 

“How did you—” Lilac begins to ask, but stops. At this point in their marriage, she doesn't question her husband's influence anymore.

“A friend of mine is a member.”

After a luxurious five course meal and some drinks, they meet their family outside the castle just in time for the fireworks.

The twins are long asleep in their stroller, but both Jonah and Dolores grin with barely controlled glee as they wait for the show to start

Ethan hoists Dolores on his shoulders

Lilac does the same with Jonah, even if she's not as tall as their father. Her son doesn't seem to mind.

Ethan glances at his wife, looking ecstatic in the excitement of the warm night.

Right there with his perfect little family, right before the first firework bursts against the sky, he is happier than he has ever been before.

Note: LOL! that DILF page is so stalker-y 

Thank you again, Queen Preet, for sending me this! Thank you to everyone for reading. Also, thank you to everyone who sent me requests! I have two done and scheduled for when I’m on vacation :)

[sitaarein]

None Stand Equal In This Dark World

A/N: Officially my largest ever fic so please. Just read it and be nice sob because I’m kinda proud of some of it

Written for @grishaversebigbang 2021!!!

Corporalki: @homicide-depot​

Materialki: @generalnabri (x), @kolarpem (x), @aivicart (x), @maximumbluebirdpatrol , @niadrawing (x)

 (Summary: A murder mystery AU featuring Zoyalai, twists and turns, moral dilemma, and then some more

Read on AO3

Chapter One

The apartment door was wide open.

 In retrospect, that alone should have set off the alarm bells in Zoya’s head. No one left the door to their place wide open. She can’t imagine why she simply dismissed it. 

 Scratch that, she knew why. She’d been tracking this idiotic Grisha for a month now. She was tired and desperate. 

 But it appeared that- who would’ve thought- not being at the top of your game has consequences. 

 Consequences like staring down a man who’s been tied to a chair and gagged in the middle of, what Zoya guesses is, the lounge, eyes wide with terror.

 Zoya is mad at herself for not managing to guess it was a red herring- the damn door - and very, very mad at the Grisha who has, once again, slipped right through her hands. 

 She nods to one of her men, and he immediately drops to the man’s level to untie and presumably interrogate him. Zoya doesn’t stick around for the details- she trusts her people to give her good reports. Instead, after a cursory look around, she tips her head back to face the ceiling, taking in a deep breath, and leaves the apartment. 

 The weather outside took a dramatic turn in the fifteen minutes she was inside- it had been sunny before, or at least as sunny as Ravka ever could get. But now, the sun has all but ceased to exist, and the bitter cold is back once more. 

 Zoya prefers the cold. 

 (She doesn’t, not really, but no one needed to know that.)

 Zoya starts walking, pulling her coat tighter around herself. Her mind races, trying to connect all the dots, trying to figure out where her investigation had gone wrong. Start from the beginning. Don’t miss anything. The most minor of details are the most important.

  The beginning. A woman showed up to their headquarters about her missing family. Those cases were usually dismissed completely, handed over to the police forces- Zoya’s force was Grisha-centric, other cases, no matter how large or important they were, did not concern them. But this case was different.

 The woman was Grisha. 

 Her family weren’t, evidently- and neither did they know that she was. They’d been missing for six weeks, and the odds were pretty heavily stacked against them still being alive. The woman was detained (she was Grisha, this was Zoya’s job ) and a group of officers were dispatched for a search and rescue.

 The officers never returned.

 Alarm bells were now ringing, and the General assigned Zoya to the case. In the time since she officially took over, twenty more disappearances were documented, and all of them in Os Kerva alone. Saints knew what was happening in the rest of the country.

 But Zoya had never believed in Saints, so she found out what was happening in the rest of the country.

 The total number of disappearances in all of Ravka that had this case’s signature mark- an eclipsed sun left wherever the victims were seen last- was an estimated three thousand . Zoya couldn’t believe no one had connected the dots before her. Then again, the entire of the force were filled with incompetent idiots, so maybe it shouldn’t have surprised her. 

  The series of events . Zoya travelled up and down the country with the best of her underlings, talking to anyone who knew the victims, searching their last known places with tooth combs, building up working hypotheses, using all the resources they had available. Zoya was not an idiot. She knew exactly how capable she was. 

 And she also knew when she was fighting a losing battle.

 And so, when she got a call from one of her top detectives about a confirmed Grisha she’d been trailing for some time now who’d begun suspicious activity, she was clutching at straws and willing to take anything that came her way. She met up with her agent, and a few days later, they got the address of the apartment she was currently pacing in front of.

  The present . This part could be summed up fairly quickly. Zoya is, once again, at a fucking dead end . 

 Before she can kick something (or someone) out of frustration, A faint ringing reaches her ears, and frowning, Zoya stops in her tracks. Her phone is never not on silent. Calling Zoya Nazyalensky for anything was utterly pointless- she never picked up. 

  But the GIA has ways of getting into contact with its members regardless.

 Muttering a curse, Zoya digs around her pockets, looking for the infernal device with its grating, high-toned ringing. Finally locating her phone, she jabs the answer button without looking at the caller ID.

 “Yes?” she asks bluntly. 

 “Zoya,” Alina’s voice greets her.  

 Zoya immediately forgets everything that had been on her mind. When Alina calls, it’s rarely for a friendly chat. 

 “What’s wrong?”

“You need to get back here. As soon as possible.”

 “Understood. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

 Alina hangs up immediately, and Zoya pockets her phone, mind racing.

 She orders one of her lackeys to send her a report when they're done, grabs the keys for the van they’d used to get to the apartment from a rather distracted officer, taking off.

 Zoya reaches the Grisha Investigation Authorities in approximately half the time she’d given to Alina, and she may or may not have disobeyed quite a few traffic laws to get to her destination as quickly as she did, but that was frankly unimportant. 

 She strides through the doors, not bothering to acknowledge the many who’ve halted their paths to nod to her or, in the case of a few particularly stupid (or courageous, however you wanted to see it) people, attempt to strike up a conversation with her. She didn’t break her pace even once, until she’d reached the door to the meeting room they usually used to meet up for serious issues. After taking a moment to compose herself, Zoya pushes the door open.

 Inside, she finds all of her fellow Commanding Officers assembled- Adrik, Leoni, Alina, and Genya. Frowning, Zoya scans their faces, and mentally shifts whatever’s happening even higher on her scale of terrible shit to take care of immediately.

 Because not even Leoni, who can find positivity at a funeral, is smiling right now. There’s barely a hint of her optimistic and eternally cheerful personality in her countenance. 

 Zoya carefully takes the seat left for her around the circular table. Her gaze flits from one worried face to another, and she decides to be direct.

 “How bad is it?”

 The question seems to jolt Alina out of her reverie. She looks up, and Zoya feels her breath catch, because she looks so… helpless. Terrified.

 Genya takes it upon herself to answer Zoya’s question with another question, her mouth set in a grim line. “How’s your investigation going?”

 “We lost the suspect,” Zoya admits, her earlier frustration returning with the reminder of the infernal case. “We’re right back to where we started- but without the hope and the general idea of where to start.”

 “I’m not surprised,” Adrik mutters. “Considering who your delightful suspect is…”

 Zoya furrows her brow, and glances back at Genya. “Explain.”

 Genya looks as if she would rather do anything else, but after coming to the realisation that no one else is about to, she sighs and does so.

 “I’m presuming you remember Alina’s case that went cold about two years back?”

  A little too well. Even years later, that case haunts her- the truly horrific killings, from corpses with their body parts stuffed down their throats, to children who had clearly been still alive when burnt, the utter dead ends, Alina’s far too close brush with death, and… the person behind it all.

 “You don’t think it’s the same person??” Zoya demands, horror spreading through her veins.  She can not handle another Kirigan. 

 In lieu of replying, Genya nods to Leoni, who pushes forward a large envelope. Dread pooling in her gut, Zoya opens the package to find pictures from Alina’s investigation.

 “We revisited these when your disappearances started,” Genya says. “And… found more similarities than we’re frankly comfortable with.” 

 Zoya shifts the photos around, and then freezes at one, having caught sight of a mostly blurry but still distinctive calling card. “That’s…”

 “The eclipsed sun,” Adrik provides grimly. “You’re screwed.”

 “Hey, now,” Leoni protests. “We don’t know that.”

 Adrik snorts. “Don’t we? Need I remind you of the damage this person wrecked to the GIA and our country?”

 “How do we know this isn’t just a copycat?” Zoya breaks in. “None of the bodies of the victims this time around have been discovered,”

 “Copy cats still tend to have their own twists on kills, a signature, a mark that’s theirs. While none of the killings for either case have many similarities, they also don’t vary in terms of said signature.” Genya says.

 “Killers are proud creatures,” Adrik inputs.

 “And this one’s no exception,” Leoni says, eyes grim. 

 Zoya looks up. “What do you know?”

 Leoni hesitates, but then gives in. “We got a note this morning. A photocopy should be in the envelope too.”

 Zoya overturns the envelope, and sure enough, a piece of paper falls out. She picks it up, reads it, and crumples it up. 

 “You’re sure this isn’t a stupid joke?”

 “It was in the Director’s office.” Leoni says. 

  Shit.  Zoya glances back down at the crumpled mass she’s still clutching. You will burn on your mistakes. What mistakes? 

 She ignores the faint voice in the back of her head. You know what mistakes.

 Zoya takes a deep breath, focuses her thoughts, and then exhales. “How’s the Director doing?”

“He’s terrified.” All of the COs seemed to be equally startled to see Alina was the one to speak. Her mouth is set in an angry line, and Zoya can guess the track of her thoughts, because they were the same ones that had crossed her mind upon hearing the words- who is he to be terrified? What right did the Director even have to feel scared, when he himself never so much as interacted with the cases???

 Adrik sighs, leaning back in his seat. “Which is what has led us to our current predicament.”

 “And what do you mean by that?” 

 Genya exhales in a huff. “He wants the Mentals on this case along with all of us.”

 “He what.” 

 Alina, lips twisted in a sardonic smile, gestures to nothing in particular. “You heard correctly.”

 “Why ??? This is my case, and I will handle it.”

 “He doesn’t want a repeat of the bad press that came with my failing last time, I’m guessing.”

 “Bad press,” Zoya spits out. “I wonder how much bad press he’ll get when I-”

 “Do not,” Genya warns. “This could be helpful to us.”

  But also a personal disgrace , Zoya finishes the sentence in her head. The Mentals were practically a legend of the GIA- they were special, elite investigators, a whole mix of people ranging from scientists to- if the rumors were correct- ex-spies, who ended up with the cases no one else in the force could solve, and somehow, without fail, solved each of them within a week at the least. 

 It was irritating as hell.

 And having them assigned on your case meant that the Director did not trust you to be successful on your own. 

 Absolutely wonderful.

 “So when are these... spectacular detectives arriving?” Zoya asks. 

 Genya opens her mouth, and then closes it, before starting, “Well-”

 “I hope I’m not too late to this marvelous party?”

 Zoya swivels to see who this truly abnormally cheerful person is, and then blinks. She turns back to face the others once more- Adrik still looks glum, Leoni is smiling her most polite smile, Alina seems to have perked up and Genya is genuinely smiling. They all look… unsurprised.

 Of course they were hiding more secrets up their sleeves.

 “ What,” Zoya finally breaks and asks. “Is the damned PR guy doing here?”

 The aforementioned PR guy pouts. “Is that really what I’m known for around here? My PR duties? That’s quite depressing. Why would you focus on that when you could talk about my stunning good looks, or my undeniable charm, or even my ability to-”

 “Nikolai,” Alina interrupts. “Shut up.” she looks at Zoya, a hint of dry amusement in her eyes. 

 “Zoya, this is Nikolai Lantsov, and he is indeed our PR guy, but he’s also… head of the Mentals.”

 Zoya blinks. He’s what??? And then, wait… they knew who the special investigators were? How long have they known? Why was I not informed?

 She doesn’t voice any of her thoughts, choosing instead to stare, unimpressed, at the blond, who grins at her in response. 

 “If I had known you possessed such astounding grace and beauty, Miss Nazyalensky, I would have made your acquaintance sooner! I’m sure these upcoming days will prove to be an absolute pleasure, provided I get to spend them in your delightful company.”

 “Saints save me,” Zoya utters faintly. “The Director assigned an idiot to my case.”

 “Hey, now!” Nikolai protests. “You haven’t even met the rest of my team yet!”

 “An idiot who talks too much,” she deplores. 

 Genya and Alina both snort at that. In fact, all of her fellow COs seemed to be taking far too much pleasure in this situation. Zoya hates all of them. 

  “Well, now that we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way,” Nikolai says, to which Zoya distinctly hears Adrik mutter “pleasantries?” under his breath, “I think now would be a wonderful time for me to introduce you to my brilliant team,”

  Genya sits up immediately, looking eager. Zoya wonders what that’s about. 

 She finds out fairly quickly.

 Nikolai ushers in a group of people, and she recognises one in particular, one who she has, in fact, known since her college years -

 David. Genya’s husband, David Kostyk, is a part of the Mentals. Harmless old David. Zoya can’t believe her eyes. 

 She scans the rest of the group, but the others barely seem familiar. The two Shu right in front of David look similar enough to be twins, apart from the height difference. Right next to David is a woman that, with a jolt, Zoya recognises as Adrik’s sister from what she’s heard and seen of her. Bringing up the rear is a man who vaguely resemblesNikolai himself, ducking his head shyly as he enters the room. 

 “Now that your merry party is all assembled,” Adrik says glumly. “Any ideas where to start?”

 “Shouldn’t we at least get to know each other first?” Adrik’s sister asks.

 Adrik stares at her. “I’ve known you since I was born.”

 “We’re not the only ones in the room, Adrik.”

 “Oh, aren’t we ? I can’t say I noticed.”

 Nikolai interrupts their glaring match to finally provide Zoya with names to all the unfamiliar faces. 

 “Tamar, Tolya, Nadia, and Isaak, meet the officers we’ll be working with for the next few weeks or longer- Alina, Genya, Zoya, Leoni, and Adrik,” he gestures towards each person in turn. Zoya briefly wonders how he already knows their names, before realising that just because the GIA didn’t know who the special investigators were didn’t exactly mean they didn’t know the GIA either. 

 “And now,” Nikolai beams. “Let’s get comfortable. It’s time to discuss our present conundrum!”

[kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay]

I don't hate you

Summary: Ransom hated you. He did. He had to. It was the only reason for tormenting you all these years in school and then haunting you even later in college.

What else could it be other than hatred?

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x reader

Warnings: 18+, language (like, a lot. Seriously), mentions of bullying, shouting, mean Ransom, stupid Ransom (look, both of those are warnings), teasing

Word count: 2.2k

Author's note: I wrote this for @infernal-fire. I hope this not so little drabble brightens your day between all the studying and other things you have to juggle 🖤

I tried my best to fit some enemies to kind-of-lovers into this like you asked. The Chris Evans character is obviously Ransom. I do hope I got this right ☺️

...

Growing up with Ransom Drysdale really wasn't an experience you would wish upon your worst enemy.

Seeing his stupid mug in school every day, from primary school up until the very last day of high school and even in college after that...

It was a never-ending punishment and it wasn't unusual for you to ask yourself if you had died somewhere along the way and descended to hell. That would explain everything that had happened up to this day.

Because sometimes having that smug, privileged fuck around sure did seem like your very personal hell. Your personalized torture chamber disguised as an average person's life.

Why Ransom loved to pick on you so much? You had no idea. Sure, the fact that he came from old money, got spoiled with everything he could ever wish for and was raised to think he was better because of it may have something to do with it.

And that you weren't everything that he was. Your place in those fancy elite schools was hard earned and not easily kept. It took work and time and more studying than any student should be forced to do.

And Ransom just loved to rub it in your face. He had bullied you ever since fourth grade. Before that, the two of you had gotten along just fine. You weren't the best of friends, but you still played together with all the others.

Just what exactly had you done to make him hate you?

A question you asked yourself yet again as you poured over your notes for the upcoming exams. Your days were spent in your dorm room, head bent bent over the papers sitting on your desk in a haphazard pile.

Markers, pencils and crumpled up paper littered the table top, your phone sitting amongst the mess, the little light at the bottom blinking to let you know you had new messages.

"Might as well," you muttered and reached for the phone. As soon as you opened the messenger, you wished you hadn't.

Rancid: Hey, smart ass. You gonna come to the party tonight?

"Fuck's sake..." you cursed under your breath. You didn't know why he even bothered. If he hated you so much, why did he always come back to taunt and torture you? He could just ignore your presence like you did with him. But noooo, he had decided to torment you for what seemed to be the rest of your life.

You: No, I have to study. Not all of us can pay for good grades...

Tossing away the phone, you tried to concentrate on your notes. You had to write top grades to keep your scholarship so you couldn't settle for anything less than excellent.

-

You had just gotten your tired brain to focus on the content you were trying to memorise, when a loud knock shook your creaky dorm room door in its hinges.

You jumped, heart racing as the pounding came again. After getting over the initial scare, you groaned in frustration.

You had just managed to get back into the flow, your tired and sleep deprived brain running on pure caffeine while your eyes brunt with exhaustion. You hadn't had a good night's sleep in at least three weeks and you were really stretching yourself thin this time.

And then, whoever it was outside your room, had the audacity to ruin flow of productivity you were able to force yourself into. You were ready to cry.

Getting up so forcefully that your chair fell over, you stomped over to the door and almost ripped it of its hinges with the barely restraint wave of rage currently working its way through your burnt out body.

"WHAT do you want ?! Can't you knock like a normal fucking person, or even better, not knock at all and leave me the-"

You cut yourself off when your tired brain finally registered who was standing outside your room.

Ransom Drysdale.

Ransom. Fucking. Drysdale. Dressed immaculately, expensive but worn clothing fitting his broad frame perfectly. His dark locks were effortlessly styled back and his creamy skin was as spotless as ever.

The only thing that was not as ever, was the absence of his usual smug smirk. He looked startled instead, eyes widened slightly at your almost violent outburst.

Much to your disappointment the surprised look melted off his face all too soon to be replaced by that fucking smirk.

"Smart ass, what's got you all hot and bothered," he taunted, stepping closer and crowding you back into your room while he leaned against the doorframe.

You tried to take a steady breath. You really did. But the weight of the situation was crashing down on you, all the responsibilities you had, the work that needed to be done, the tests you had to score perfectly in, the fact that you hadn't showered in more than four days and you felt disgustingly greasy everywhere just crushing you and finally breaking your hard built walls.

"Wow, you look like a mess. You should really take a shower every once in a while, grease ball," Ransom pushed when you didn't reply to his first taunt. "I'd help you with it-"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

This time Ransom visibly startled.

"If I hear one more word out of your stupid mouth I am going to rip off your balls and stuff it with them," you raged.

"Whoa, princess. Calm your-"

"I AM NOT GOING TO CALM MY ANYTHING!" you shouted before he could finish. Your voice was wavering as the anger subsided and your frustration and the pure stress you had endured for months was swamping you.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, you chanted internally.

In all the years you'd known Ransom, he had never made you cry. Sure, he had seen you do it when you were little and scraped your knees or things of the sorts. But you had never let yourself cry because of him when he was around to see it. You wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Over your dead body.

"I have been working my ass off for weeks. I haven't slept or eaten properly and I still need to study for several upcoming exams. I can't- I cannot deal with your bullshit right now, Drysdale so go and take it somewhere else," you said, tears brimming in your eyes and then, to your shame, flowing over and dripping down your hot cheeks. So much for 'Over your dead body'.

Ransom looked absolutely horrified. He stared at you with parted lips and something akin to fear in his eyes as he quickly whipped his head to the left and then to the right to see if anyone was witnessing this absolute shitshow.

When he couldn't spot anyone he turned back to you and stood straight, backing away a little with his hands raised.

"Uh, okay. Calm down," he said in a hushed tone, his head ducked down as he backed further away. You only cried harder.

"Calm down, will you? I didn't mean it like that, fucking hell. I was just trying to get you to go to the party," he hissed under his breath, groaning when you still didn't stop to cry.

"W- Why would I- would I wanna go to the party with you?" you asked between sobs, hands coming up to scrub away the tears rolling down your cheeks with the greasy sleeve of your old sweater. "You h- hate me."

"What? I don't hate you. Come on, it's way past time to finally drop this hard to get act. We're not in high school anymore," Ransom said sounding equal parts annoyed and bewildered.

His unexpected and to you completely nonsensical statement caught you off guard, the instant confusion even stopping the steady flow of tears pouring from your red and swollen eyes.

"What?" you asked dumby, looking at him with teary eyes and a frown. When the words started to sink in deeper you let out a gurgle that passed for a disbelieving scoff.

"You- You think I'm playing hard to get? Is that what you think this bullshit is? You have tormented me ever since we got into the same school more than FIFTEEN years ago, Ransom. You hate me and you have made it abundantly clear, so stop this shit and piss off!"

Now it was Ransom's turn to scoff.

"Please, I didn't torment you. I just wanted your attention and you weren't giving it to me. So I had to take some measures to make you see me. 'S not my fault you're too oblivious to see it," he defended.

"Wanted my attention for what? And in what way does that justify how you've treated me?" you ask, incredulous and hurt. Tears filled your eyes once more and you sniffed angrily.

"Well, what else was I supposed to do? You always got together with the other kids. I had to do something, Ransom shot back.

"You could've just TALKED TO ME you complete idiot! What exactly do you have inside that thick skull of yours?! Grass, stones, dust?" you almost screeched. Then you dropped your head into your hands and chuckled. A watery and ironic sound.

"I can't believe my life has been made one big pile of shit just because a spoiled brat doesn't know how to communicate his feelings with others. I can't fucking believe it."

"Well, I tried," the spoiled brat in question piped up.

"You didn't try shit, Drysdale. You're a fucking prick." More tears rose to your eyes and trickled down your cheeks.

"And you're still a smart ass. Not everyone can be a social butterfly like you," Ransom retorted.

You leaned heavily against the doorframe and sighed, wiping your running nose on your already grimy sweater.

"So, what now?" Ransom asked.

"I'm not going to that stupid party. And I want an apology. A very elaborate one. Handwritten on paper and at least 50 pages long. Also some therapy to work through the years of your crap I had to endure," you mumbled, voice sounding strange because of your stuffed nose.

"Fine, no party. And an apology. Not sure I can do anything about the therapy part but I'll ask Linda," Ransom said, surprising you yet again.

"What?"

"What, what? You asked for an apology and therapy. I'm saying I'll try to arrange both. What is there not to understand?" he asked, brows raised and a hint of his usual smug smirk on his lips.

"I can't believe this is happening," you mutter under your breath. This whole situation was becoming more surreal with the second.

"Well, better start believing because now that we got rid of that misunderstanding I am not going anywhere," he stated. Then he reached out his hand and offered it to you.

You eyed it for a long moment, eyes sweeping over big, soft palm and long fingers. Your gaze darted up to his expectant face.

The fingers of your left hand twitched as you slowly lifted it and slid your palm against his.

Ransom immediately tightly grasped your hand and pulled at it, sending you stumbling into his frame face first with a startled 'oomph'.

He wrapped an arm around your middle and held you close, chuckling in that unique Ransom aka asshole way that had you both melting and raising your hackles.

"Let go, you ass," you complain and then took the chance to get back at him for this move by wiping your nose and tears all over his coat.

"Gross," he said and pushed at your head. You grinned evilly.

"You stink and you're snotty," Ransom commented with a wrinkled nose, loosening his grip on you to gold your wrinkled ans greasy form at an arm's length.

"I haven't showered in longer than I care to admit. I can lift my arms and give you a noseful," you teased. Ransom made a disgusted face and mock gagged.

"No thank you. I can smell it from here."

"Told ya I need to shower," you said and stepped back, turning to step back into your dorm room and leave him standing on the doorstep.

"I'm sure I could give you a hand with that," Ransom suggested. You could hear the smug smirk in his voice. He stepped close behind you, hovering but not touching.

"I don't think so. Also, I thought you had a party to attend. I'm sure all your spoiled little friends will be very disappointed if you don't show up," you taunted.

"I prefer your company," Ransom immediately said. You sighed and turned to close the door behind him.

"Whatever. Make yourself at home. Don't touch my stuff while I shower or I'll make sure you never touch anything again," you threatened and then dragged your tired ass towards the door in the corner of the room that hid the tiny bathroom.

As you closed the door and began to strip you couldn't stop thinking about what a horrible idea this - whatever this was - was.

When you were naked, you stepped into the shower and bent down to retrieve the shampoo that had fallen of the shelf. The creak of the door made you shoot up straight.

"RANSOM!"

...

I did not proofread this in the slightest, so I hope there weren't too many mistakes in there 😅

And even if there were, this was made with love and I hope you like it anyways @infernal-fire 😂🖤