#when they themself were nearly killed by the actual thing itself

[levaagrace]

I still need to write up why Tim’s emotions towards Jon, at least in regards to thinking of Jon as an untouchable monster, were completely wrong after Jon’s month of being non-consensually moisturized by the same entity that killed Tim’s brother.

Or at least the idea that Tim was so hurt by Jon’s actions because Tim thought of Jon as a brother.

[luulapants]

hi, i’m not the original anon but i get their point. you can legally kill someone in self-defense when they’re actively attacking you but it’s still possible to commit an illegal murder motivated by self-defense, i.e. by slitting a throat of a sleeping domestic abuser. and while the latter scenario is obviously a desperate solution in a situation that could likely be resolved otherwise, it’s understandable, even if not necessary acceptable. on the contrary, it’s much more difficult to imagine a scenario where a rape would be seen as an understandable solution to a threat. but i agree with you too, it’s offensive to the victims to consider rape the worst thing that could ever happen to a person since they are still alive. i think the worst crime is killing in a way that cannot be seen as self-defense in any way, regardless if it’s premeditated or not. and when it comes to exceptions for prison abolition, i think it’s more important whether the people are actively threat to others or not rather than what they have done because i live in a country where a serial killer went on for four different raping and killing sprees with prison sentences between them before he finally committed a homicide that could be considered a premeditated murder and got a life sentence

The bigger issue with this framing of "If murder is sometimes justifiable, then murder in general is not as bad as rape, which is never justifiable," is it's just bad math. It assumes that there are two big categories in your mind: murderers and rapists. These are immutable, non-nuanced identity labels immediately applied to people the moment they commit murder or rape. Therefore, to find the severity of the acts themself, we must take the average moral value of all murders ever committed and the average moral value of all rapes ever committed.

Except, 1) this is dumb as shit; 2) it's still only focusing on your feelings - usually of disgust or fear - about the person committing the act itself and completely disregards victims; 3) even if it wasn't stupid to try to do this math in the first place, it's bad math. You don't have the data to do this kind of math.

Except, they're not actually trying to do this math either.

I can't speak to the country you're from, but I'm guessing it's completely dissimilar to the US's massive incarceral system. Nearly one in a hundred people in this country is in a jail or prison right now. If you're not living under this system, you probably don't understand the nuances of the conversation we're having.

Because for folks in the US, here's the math they're actually doing: in the US as of 2019, 54.7% of homicide victims were Black (they are 12.1% of the population). White folks undervalue the moral severity of murder because it disproportionately does not impact them, and the people who are impacted are usually people whose lives aren't valued. Rape, on the other hand, has equal prevalence among both white and Black folks, and is much more likely to impact them personally.

That's it. That's the math. It's not "How bad is this?" or "How justifiable is this?" and it's certainly never "How much damage did it do to the victim?" It's "How frightened am I that it might happen to me?"

[that-gt-and-vore-stuffs]

Desires and Daydreams

Me: oh yeah I’ll have this edited and out by tomorrow morning! Also Me: Ha! Sike! Time fo post at night again :)

All in all I’m so sorry this took so long for me to get out. A busy week with ball fucked me over time and energy wise. However, I now have a full 7k word fic for y’all so that’s good! I quite literally just finished editing this so I hope it’s as good as my mind told me it was about two minutes ago. Especially considering it’s a little gift of sorts for the amazing @doodlevore (AKA I saw this gem of a drawing, flipped out for a hot minute, and then decided it was writing time) Anyway, I hope y’all enjoy and I hope I did your artwork justice Doodle :)

As always, Vore under the cut :)

“Aw c’mon Doc!” the man halfheartedly whined as he attempted again to grab the small ‘medic’. Once more 2b had ducked under his hand, glaring up at him through his goggles. The taller of the two just laughed at the sight, near daggers of teeth glimmering through his toothy grin. No way in hell could he take that glare seriously like this. “You act like I was planning to hurt you. You really think I’m gonna hurt ya?”

“No,” 2b started, halting his words momentarily to dodge another attempted swipe at him. Getting caught by the man wouldn’t be the worst thing, sure - hell, he could name several things automatically worse than being grabbed by him in this hellscape of Nevada - however that did not mean that he wanted to be scooped up like some doll and put through whatever his teammate had in mind for him and the other two who were both currently busy dodging the taller’s other hand. Again his glare settled on the younger hacker. “But that does not mean I’m going to keel over and let you do whatever, Deimos. Now would you stop trying to grab us for five minutes!”

“But what’s the fun in that?” Deimos protested, swiping at Hank only for the shrunken mercenary to vault themself over his hand. Go figure, he was still going to be difficult. Hell, they all were. When he was the smallest of the group he was at their mercy and even went with it half the time, but the moment he got to have some fun they all decided to be as difficult as possible. In all honesty it wasn’t as bad as he was making it seem. Watching them run around like little mice was pretty entertaining. That didn’t mean he didn’t have plans he wanted to follow through with though! Whatever, he’d play their games for now. He’d get them eventually, and when he did he’d have his fun. “I’d stop if you all would just stand still for five seconds, but no. You all clearly wanna play so I’m gonna keep up the cat and mouse game we’ve got going.”

“But that- Deimos, you aren’t getting my point here at all!” 2b yelled up at the man, ducking under yet another swipe at him made by the youngest of their little crew. He was fairly certain it was impossible to miss what he was saying so either Deimos was less intelligent then he had grown to suspect over the years or he was flat out ignoring the man’s request to quit trying to grab them. A brief comparison of the two had crossed out the former option rather quickly. That cocky, smoking son of a gun. “Sanford! A little help?”

“Why me?” The Chad of a man yelled back as he scrambled to his feet after having to get down to avoid being grabbed. In the back of his mind he already had a sneaking suspicion as to why he was asked. He wasn’t stupid after all.

“He usually listens to you better than me!” The older hacker shot back, nearly running into Hank as he prepared himself for the next ‘attack’.

“So we’re playing that card now. Good to know.” Sanford grumbled softly, no real venom in his tone. 2b was right, at least in most contexts. He probably was the closest to Deimos out of them all and the other two’s usual intimidating approach to get Deimos to listen really wouldn’t work with them the size of the man’s hand. A sigh tugged itself from his throat as he directed his words up at the seemingly giant hacker. “Dei, c’mon now. Can’t you quit with the whole trying to grab us thing? It’s- AH!- not all that fun!”

“Damnit.” Deimos cursed under his breath, having missed Sanford yet again. Who knew trying to just grab his teammates would be so difficult. It was definitely fun, this little game of cat and mouse like in those old cartoons he’d managed to pirate, but it was still harder than he expected to actually grab them. Guess not everything gets to come easy. Or maybe he was going too easy… “Maybe not for you. Just stand still and make it easier on yourself if you’re having such a bad time.”

“That’s- Dei, you chucklehead, quit the games already and stop trying to grab us like rodents!”

Deimos just shook his head, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. His grin still stood proud on his face in all its sharp toothed glory. This was too much fun to give up so easily. Really, they expected him to quit the moment he started having fun? Please. He’d gone through too much to waste his opportunity. Getting his hands on shrinking tech had to be the best thing that’s ever happened to him, despite the difficulties and hurdles he had to jump to do such a thing. What had been a normal, boring day with no missions had turned into him watching his three shrunken teammates dash across the worn table while dodging his attempts to grab them. He was going to enjoy this, whether they liked it or not. Call this revenge for all the times he was teased for being the smallest out of all of them, or call it him being an ass. He didn’t care. For once the younger hacker wasn’t the small one in the group and boy did he have plans for it. Oh he had plans…

“Mmm…how ‘bout no.” Deimos hummed, slamming a hand down on the table next to 2b. Just as he’d hoped the man tensed, trying to keep himself steady on the shaking table. His eyes locked onto the temporarily paralyzed unofficial medic like a hawk’s to its prey, smirk morphing into a full on grin. Without hesitation he grabbed the man in a firm fist. There was one of the three. “Ha! Gotcha Doc~!”

“Mmgh- I can see that, Deimos. Now put me down!” 2BDamned didn’t shout at his teammates often. There were a few times he did, yes. Prime examples of such times included (but weren’t limited to) tracking blood all over the base, doing something absolutely reckless and facing the consequences, not following the plans they had for missions, etc. Not once had he expected to ever be yelling at one of them, specifically the smallest of their team, to put him down. Hank? Maybe. Sanford? Long shot but not impossible. Deimos? No. And yet here he was, trapped within the grasp of the younger hacker with seemingly no way to escape. It’s not like the little wiggling that his loose enough to be breathable yet tight confines could do was helping much.

“But what if I don’t wanna, Doc?” Deimos hummed, resting his other hand on the table for the first time in the past twenty-five minutes that he’d been trying to grab the others. “What if I wanna keep you trapped in my fist for the rest of the day huh? Maybe longer. It’s not like you can exactly free yourself, now can you? Huh? You gonna wiggle yourself out of my hand, 2b? Claw your way out like some baby kitten?”

“I swear to Jebus, once we’re back to normal I am going to kill you myself.” The dissenter growled, trying again to free himself from his confines. He could only imagine how utterly idiotic he looked, wiggling around like some fish out of water in Deimos’s hand. Talk about humiliating.

“Sure you will. Sure.” Deimos rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he thought through his next moves. He could just grab the other two and get on with his plans but…oh that ruined the fun of the chase! His plans and stomach could wait, he wanted to enjoy this just a little longer. Now what could he do to achieve such a thing? “And besides, that’s an ‘if’ to you, Doc. If you get back to normal. Can’t do that without my help after all, so maybe you should let me have my fun~”

“I will. Don’t think I- wait. What?” Well now that wasn’t something anyone stuck at four inches tall wanted to hear. Yes, he could probably figure out how the hell Deimos shrunk him (assuming that the hacker had gotten the information and technology from the AAHW) however Deimos had at least a bit of a point. Things would be so much easier, faster, and less dangerous if he just reversed whatever the hell he did. He….he fucking planned this. He- oh the younger hacker was in some deep shit once they were back and he was the smallest again.

“Mmm you heard me, 2b. Getting you three back requires the help of me, unless you’d rather be crushed under the boot of some agent trying to get back to normal yourselves.” Deimos hummed, his words practically swimming in cockiness. “And I don’t think any of us want that. So either you let me have my fun, or you three get to stay pocket sized until you do.”

“Deimos, don’t you even think about it.” Hank growled, eyes narrowing behind his goggles as he stepped closer to the hacker. Being this small was bad enough. It wasn’t like a MAG agent where they weren’t completely dwarfed in size. No. He was stuck the size of a fucking mouse being toyed with by their basically gigantic teammate. And to top it all off the threat of being stuck at this size now loomed over the mercenary’s head. Just fucking wonderful.

“Aw but what if I did, Hank?” The hacker asked with a raise of his eyebrow, turning his attention from the medic in his fist to the shrunken killing machine that was now glaring at him over his arm. It really was something else to see them so tiny when they usually towered over everyone. How the tables turn. “I would think this is a nice situation for you. So long as you’re hidden it’s not like the Agency could find you now. No ones gonna look for a four inch tall Hank, now are they- Hey! Sanford!”

The mentioned man’s head lifted from where he had landed on the table, 2b now laying next to him after a less than graceful ‘rescue’ from the younger hacker’s hand. His feet scrambled against the old table, attempting to gain enough traction to allow for him to stand. For a moment he looked as if he were trying to stand on ice, feet slipping out from beneath him. The doctor beside him wasn’t doing much better in the department of getting to his feet. Judging by the disappointed stare he felt burning two holes into his chest once he finally got to his feet, Hank wasn’t all that impressed with their sudden lack of coordination either. Wait, no. Hank could come later. Right now he had to deal with the giant Deimos that was currently pouting at him.

“Sorry Dei, but I’m siding with Doc here. Just put us back to normal before Hank decides to find a way to kill you at this size.” As Sanford spoke a tone far less confident then he had hoped for laced his words. Something that probably doomed him to not be listened to. Judging by the new level of cocky smeared across the hacker’s face? He was right too. Well shit. That didn’t help anything.

“Hmm…maybe but, and hear me out, I’ve got a better idea.” No one had to ask exactly what Deimos’ ‘better idea’ was. He was all too happy to demonstrate it, Hank quickly finding himself laying flat against the table with the hacker’s hand pinning him in place. The small shocked grunt from the mercenary didn’t go unnoticed by the other two, their eyes darting to their now trapped teammate. Both failed to notice the brief warning look in Hank’s eyes behind his goggles until it was too late, a warm calloused hand pinning them to the rough grain of the wood. Well, there went the idea of escape.

A sharp laugh chased away the silence that had previously filled the air. Beneath the rim of his visor two eyes simply watched as the three small forms writhed beneath his hands. Proof of the point he had been trying to prove. The point that his three shrunken teammates had wanted to be false. No way to escape now. Not unless he allowed for it, that is. A small lightbulb lit up in his head at the thought. The idea was tempting, were he to be completely honest with himself. Give his friends hope only to crush it like a spent cig under his boot once more by trapping them in a new way. Oh but then there was the option of dangling freedom just in front of them. That was an idea…and there were so many more possibilities too. In the back of his head a small voice attempted to grab Deimos’ attention. Yelling at him in every way it could think of that even thinking about doing that to his friends was wrong, even if it was playful at its roots. He shouldn’t do such a thing to them! Though, thinking logically, there was no way they wouldn’t do the same or something similar were their positions switched. Deimos knew that much, being the shortest of their gang. A soft scoff sounded from his throat, mind made up on the matter. Unfortunately for the three pinned to the table, in the end the voice of reason was all too easily ignored by the younger hacker as he adjusted to lean forward in his chair. The smell of cigarette smoke grew in strength with each hum that passed the man’s lips, the three pinned beneath his hands only able to watch as things seemed to get worse for them.

“Heh. Much better.” Deimos said with a smile, gladly ignoring the glares he was now getting from his little friends. “Now what shall I do with you-“

Ggnnnrrrr……

“-three….”

Anyone with half a mind would think that after being interrupted by your stomach you would be embarrassed and most likely apologize. The three shrunken men on the table thought that after being interrupted by his stomach Deimos would be embarrassed and probably laugh it off. Maybe even give them a chance to run without thinking. What they didn’t expect was for him to start laughing. A deep chuckle from the back of his throat too, not just an embarrassed little giggle. It was a genuine fucking laugh. First off, why the hell was he laughing? Second, what the hell did that mean for them? After a moment of thought one thing became clear. As much as they didn’t want to admit it, the three knew what the answer to the second question was long before it was even asked. Nothing good. That’s what it meant. Especially not with that dumb grin still sitting on his face. 2b, eyes locked on Deimos’ expression, had opened his mouth to attempt prying an answer out of the younger. Before a single word could leave his lips, however, his world was flipped on its head.

Literally.

For a brief second everything stopped. The warmth and pressure from the hand holding him to the table disappeared, cold washing over him and sending a shiver down his spine. That’s when a new type of pressure appeared. It was still rough and warm, the grip of a calloused hand for sure, but it was much more concentrated than just smashing him to the table. Specifically around his right ankle. His eyes couldn’t go ‘dinner plate wide’ any faster than they did the moment he felt said pressure appear. The less-than-manly scream he had heard beside him roughly half a second earlier started to make a lot more sense by the millisecond. Especially once he was dragged backwards and up, a very similar noise escaping himself. For a brief moment everything spun before his sight leveled out. What he didn’t want to see was Deimos grinning at him. Upside down.

“Annnd there we go. Sanford, Hank, I hope you guys still have a good grip at this size~.” The hacker jabbed, grinning at the little chain his friends had formed once he started picking them up. Pinched between his thumb, pointer, and middle finger was Hank’s torso. They were currently holding onto Sanford’s ankle, looking less than pleased with the situation they were in. Sanford was gripping onto the ankle of 2BDamned as he dangled, worry painting over his features. Then there was 2b, dangling at the end of the chain upside down with a look quite similar to Hank’s plastered on his face. All in all, quite the interesting little chain they made up as he leaned back in the chair.

“Damn straight. You two drop me and you’re dead.” The ‘medic’ grumbled, all too willing to make his displeasure known.

“Aw, don’t you worry, Doc. If they drop you I’ll make sure you have a nice, soft, warm landing~”

“Well I’m sorry I don’t want to be dropped on my hea- Deimos, what the genuine fuck does that mean?” He shouldn’t have asked. The moment after the words left his mouth 2b knew he never should have asked what the younger hacker had meant with his words. Dangling over the man’s lap having to stare him in the face while upside down wasn’t ideal. Absolutely not. However, he found much preferred it to dangling inches above Deimos’ open jaws, the smell of cigarette smoke laced breath hitting him almost as hard as the realization of just how sharp the man’s teeth were. He supposed he never noticed with Dei a. rarely ever purposely showing them off, and b. him being smaller than the older hacker. That didn’t stop him from mentally smacking himself upside the head for not taking more notes of it sooner though. Especially when he was getting so…up close and personal with them now. Fuck he was close to those daggers.

“Dei- Dei, think about this!” Sanford shouted as he stared down at the sight of the man’s open mouth, praying that his friend would listen to at least some reason. Sure, they gave him shit for being the smallest of the group often. He especially did. Not once though had he, or the other two as far as he knew, expected that said teasing would lead to them possibly having to spend the day trapped in said hacker’s gut though. If they had, they would have backed off a little. But now the threat was more present than ever. And knowing Deimos? It might be longer than a day too. He wouldn’t put it past the man at all. Jebus Christ….

“Oh I have San. We’re past that point now.” Deimos hummed, his tongue lazily snaking itself over his lips as he glanced over the string of teammates that dangled from his hand. Slowly his stare became distant, his mind beginning to wander. Just how would each of them taste exactly? Would they all taste the same? But what if they each tasted different? Now wouldn’t that be something. Perhaps he wasn’t too far off picturing Sanford as a juicy sausage in his little moments to himself. Oh that would be perfect. The warm feeling of drool trailed itself lazily down his chin, each thought regarding the possible tastes of his friends encouraging an empty rumble from his midsection. He just had to find out now.

“Deimos, lower me any further and I’ll make sure you choke to death.” The man only laughed, eyes fluttering shut as he opened his mouth once more.

“Sorry Doc. ‘S too late to stop now.” Any screams of protest from his teammates fell on deaf ears as Deimos lowered the end of the little chain into his mouth. Immediately he was hit with the taste of black coffee, hints of iron, and oddly enough what tasted like whisky poking through and tickling his tongue. The soft, pleased hum escaped him long before he could even think to stop it, his mind far more focused on getting that flavor to coat his tastebuds than his actions or the saliva steadily dripping down his chin.

2BDamned had a different opinion on the matter. Specifically about the claim that it was ‘too late.’ It was not too fucking late. In fact, it was anything but. Deimos’s mouth, which absolutely reeked of cigarettes might he add, was still wide open. He wasn’t slipping down the tight tube he could see in front of him yet. He was being rolled around and licked over like some sort of candy, something which he apparently had to remind Deimos he wasn’t with a smack to the tongue. Sharp teeth surrounded the unofficial doctor on both sides, Sanford’s grip on his ankle still like iron despite the saliva now thoroughly coating his body. Try as he might to push himself out with his hands they only slipped and slid across the wet surface of Deimos’s tongue. Far too similar to how he was steadily slipping backwards.

“Dei…Dei, you can pull us out now…” Sanford yelled up to the man, ducking his head between his arms to avoid the feeling of daggers dragging down his head and neck. Jebus, his teeth really were sharper up close. The white knuckled grip he held on 2b’s ankle refused to budge as he slipped further in, eyes locked into the sight before him. Not once did he ever expect to watch the older hacker slowly disappear down his best friend’s throat with nothing he could do but hold on and pray. Yet here he was. Fuck. “Dei-!!”

“Sanford, don’t even bother at this point.” 2b groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose through his mask. Deimos wasn’t going to listen to shit. That much was clear now if it wasn’t an hour and a half ago when they’d woken up in his hands. He didn’t want to admit it, not by a long shot, however as he slid further back there wasn’t any way the dissenter could convince himself otherwise. He, and the other two, were doomed. “He’s not going to-“

Ulp~

“…..listen. God damnit.” What else was he to even expect at this point?

Try as hard as he might, Sanford found he couldn’t grip the unofficial doctor’s ankle any tighter. Not without the possibility of breaking something, considering that he most likely had already passed the ‘try not to bruise the man’ stage. No doubt the clearly handprint shaped black and blue bruise would be there in a day tops. A scolding was nearly cemented in his future now, however Sanford couldn’t find it in himself to complain about it. Compared to the hole Deimos was digging himself, with a smile on his face no less, he’d gladly take the talking to. Speaking of the hacker, either he was genuinely out of it for some reason or he was just trying to be a grade A dick.

“Deimos!! Cut it out, man!” He yelled, trying his hardest to squirm away from the licks and shifting of the man’s tongue. Unfortunately for him, nothing seemed to work. It started at his hands but all too quickly the sensation of a wet tongue dragging itself up, over, and around the pyromaniac’s arms and to his torso. The dark lenses of his signature glasses fogged over with each warm breath that washed over his body. Goosebumps dotted all exposed skin, any fabric quickly becoming drenched with saliva. The sensations slowly crawled their way down Sanford’s body, more of him no longer dangling and instead slipping across the hacker’s tongue by the moment. He watched his hands, and by extension Doc’s feet, slowly slip beyond his vision into the void-like entrance of Deimos’ throat. His arms followed not long after, the darkness enveloping more of his vision by the second. Talk about a way to spend your day.

Glk~

A soft groan rumbled around the shrunken men, the sound’s maker all too lost in his thoughts. Tastes of warm sausage, coffee, and the lingering hints of whisky and iron danced across his tongue. Each lick up the parts of Sanford’s body which remained momentarily in his mouth brought a shiver up through his spine. With each second the small body inched further back, pulling his hand toward his mouth. His fingers and the body pinned between them slipped past the hacker’s lips with ease. Layers of cloth, along with the occasional sensation of scarred skin, pressed against his tongue. The taste of a rare steak and a much stronger metallic hint, again not unlike that of blood but somehow much more pleasant, seemed all too eager to attack his taste buds. His spine seemed to reduce itself to jello in a matter of seconds, relying on the backrest of his chair for support. The smoker pulled his fingers from his mouth with a small pop, jaws shutting around his final shrunken teammate and leaving his mind to ponder over the tastes and sensation attacking his mouth and mind alike.

The word ‘still’ had been completely wiped from Deimos’s dictionary, if it had even been there to begin with. At least that’s what Hank would have told anyone who asked. His eyes had narrowed behind his red tinted goggles and now they seemed to grow thinner with each movement from the muscle beneath him. As if the heat and lingering cigarette smell from the hacker’s breath weren’t enough, the wet feeling of saliva continued to sneak itself into every fiber of his being. First his skin, then lighter clothing items like his bandana and mask, and finally seeping through his coat and multiple other layers of clothing. And just what was a better cherry on top then being rolled around near constantly. Every moment they seemed to find themself in a new position within the confines of the young hacker’s mouth. While their grip remained on Sanford’s ankles, the same could in no way be said for his patience with the man who had caused this hell by shrinking them. He swore, Deimos better enjoy his time being able to hold them like dolls because the moment they were back to normal the man would be getting a firm taste of his own medicine. Whether it be by him serving as lunch or by another form of revenge was yet to be decided. Hank could only plot so much, though. Despite how much more bearable he found thinking about a way to ‘return the favor’ to Deimos to be, he needed to at least show a little of his own irritation to the man. After all, he wasn’t just some snack. They were still Hank J. Wimbledon god damn it, and they’d prove it if they had to. How he would do that remained a mystery for what felt like hours of constant licking and flipping…until said proof came. It came in the form of a kick to the inside of Deimos’ teeth. A kick which sent him sliding backwards-

Ulk-

Glp~

And the oddly shaped lump in Deimos’ throat disappearing behind his collarbone.

Deimos’ eyes had widened in shock, a hand quickly pressing itself to his throat as it happened. In his opinion, it happened too quickly. All too fast the warm weight disappeared from his mouth, pushing itself backwards with force into his throat. Far too soon did he lose the previously vivid taste of barely cooked meat and metal, leaving him with only the memory and lingering fragments of it like the other two tastes. Too quickly had the lump in his throat been pushed down by two final swallows, disappearing down behind his collarbone. For a moment he sat there in silence, the room lacking sound except for his heavy breathing. With each rise and fall of his chest he waited. Waited for the one thing that couldn’t seem to come fast enough. Moments passed with nothing before the feeling he’d been waiting for rushed his senses. A filling warmth pooled itself in his stomach, moving around against the walls of the organ and pulling a warm chuckle from the man. His hand trailed to rest over his stomach, feeling the small bodies shift and fight beneath layers of clothing, muscle, and skin. Fangs glimmering in a grin once again as he poked at the squirming fullness in his gut.

“Well look at that.” He laughed to himself, relaxing back into his chair. His stomach gurgled under his hand, what he guessed to be a thank you of sorts now that he had what he wanted within it. Though something told him the others wouldn’t be thanking him all that much. “How are you three holding up in there?”

“Deimos, do not laugh at us or so help me Jebus- Hank, get your arm out of my face!” The words were quickly followed by what Deimos could assume was 2b pushing Hank off him and into his stomach wall from what he could feel. Those three couldn’t seem to stay still. Well, he couldn’t truly blame them if he wanted to. It had to be slippery, trapped in a wet, moving organ like his stomach and all. The mental image of his three teammates slipping around in his stomach, trying their hardest to gain footing or at least a comfortable position, drew another laugh from him. This was great.

“Dei, c’mon.” Sanford added, giving his own kick to the wall in case he had failed to grab the hacker’s attention before. Try as he might to stay out of 2BDamned and Hank’s little squabble fate seemed to have other plans as he was shoved back into them every time he got away. Or maybe that was just Deimos being Deimos. “You’ve had your fun, now spit us out you chucklehead.”

“Mmm yeah no.” Deimos hummed, drumming his fingers mindlessly on his belly as he took in the little shocks that each harsh kick or punch sent through his body to his brain. Each movement registered in his brain as a pleasurable little shock, but the harsher they were the more enjoyment they seemed to cause him. Not that he was complaining. Last he checked his teammates could tire themselves out with squirming all they wanted to if it felt this nice. “See, that’s not really the plan here. Not for a few hours at least.”

“What now?” Sanford’s voice had dropped its hopeful tone, now more monotonous and serious. Beside him he heard a growl, one he assumed to be from Hank. Was the smoker trying to get them killed? Again he punched the wall. “Dei, quit joking.”

“I ain’t joking, ‘Ford.” The young hacker replied bluntly, his shit eating grin more than audible in his words. A long, over dramatic sigh made its way from his mouth with ease as he adjusted his position to one more comfortable. Or at least as comfortable as one could get in an old chair. Smiling to himself he gave his stomach a little shove, feeling the three bodies inside shift and move under the pressure. “I just wanna sit and enjoy this for a while. It feels too nice to just give up.”

Silence fell upon the three currently held within the confines of the man’s stomach, each sitting there taking in Deimos’ words until the pressure from outside had lifted. Once it did, they all reacted their own way. Hank, for example, sat still for about ten seconds tops before a punch was thrown at the wall. Sanford, on the other hand, debated whether Hank’s approach or his attempts at reasoning with their ‘captor’ would be more effective at getting Deimos to spit them up. Then there was 2BDamned, who sat in what would’ve been an unnerving silence had they not known him. Knowing him, though, changed the meaning of the silence from ‘is this man insane to be so calm?’ to ‘Deimos just dug himself a grave’ in a split second.

“Deimos,” The unofficial medic started, “you have ten seconds to at least start spitting us up or I will force myself back up your throat simply to beat your ass.” Despite the warmth of their current confines, a chill shot up Sanford’s back. As far as he knew, the last thing you wanted to be was at the end of Doc’s threats. The man often had little to no issue going through with them, and Deimos wasn’t some special case. The laughter they heard (and felt shaking their ‘cell’ for that matter) was all it took to solidify that Deimos didn’t take them seriously at this size. Guess said threats don’t work when you’re four inches tall at best and your ‘captor’ is a smug ass bastard.

“Ha! I’d like to see you try, Doc.” Deimos chuckled, giving his stomach a firm pat which only seemed to serve to jostle around its captives more. “I might not be able to handle spice like San’ but I do know my way around feisty snacks~.”

“We aren’t food, Deimos.” Hank growled, kicking the floor beneath him. The flesh sunk under his boot, a sickening squishing sound heard as a result. A small shiver trembled up the walls, one which failed to register with the black-clad mercenary as in pain. Oh just wonderful. The sharp toothed asshole was enjoying this.

“Mmm you sure, big guy? Cause you seem like food to me right now.” Within only a few seconds of the words leaving his lips the hacker found himself met with a pleasant shockwave up the spine. Clearly a certain black-clad mercenary didn't like being called food, if the fighting he felt wash over him like a tsunami of warm, fuzzy electricity meant anything. A soft groan crawled out of his lips, his hand lazily tracing circles over his stomach. ”mm oh c-calm down in there. I didn’t mean it. I will let you out, Jeez.”

“Deimos, this isn’t funny. Spit us out.” 2b snapped, kicking the floor.

“Mmm sorry, Doc. Can't hear you heheh…” the hacker spoke, words blurring softly as he melted back into the chair.

“I’m serious!” The words fell on deaf ears.

“Dei, c’mon…” Sanford this time. His eyes drifted softly shut.

“Dei…” His grin turned into a simple smirk.

“Dei…” Didn't he get he wasn’t spitting them out yet?

“Deimos…” Oh full names now. How fancy.

“Deimos..?” Wait…that didn’t sound right.

“Deimos.” Was he losing it?

…

“DEIMOS!”

The hacker jumped, blinking rapidly as his eyes darted around. What was going on? Where were they? Who did he need to kill? Where were the others? Thoughts rushed through his head as wide eyes darted around everything in sight, looking for something they recognized. Anything to show him where he was or what was going on. Relief came to him in the form of Sanford standing in front of him, a hand on his shoulder as if he was trying to get his attention. Most importantly though they were in their base. Safe. No one was here. They weren’t under attack. He was just daydreaming. Sanford and the others were here and he was just…daydreaming- oh damn it. Go figure it was too good to be true. A groan, this time annoyed, rang from Deimos’ throat.

“Jebus- Dude, are you alright?” Sanford asked, eyebrows knit with worry and…an emotion Deimos found himself unable to name. Like he’d seen something. Something…weird. Almost like concern but not at the same time. For a brief moment an idea reared its head, only to be smashed down like a weird game of whack-a-mole within the hacker’s mind. There wasn’t any need for such an absurd idea. It’s not like Sanford could have seen his little daydream. Nope, that was safe in his head. The smoker shook his head to clear it, quickly flashing Sanford a sharp toothed grin.

“Yeah man. Just zonin’ out and daydreaming a little ‘s all. Nothing to worry about here heheh,” he laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder playfully. His eyes scanned the man’s face again, trying to see if his statement had done its job. Although the worry had dropped from Sanford’s face, the other emotion remained. Now what on earth was that for?

“Daydreamin’ huh? ‘Bout what?” The pyromaniac asked, raising an eyebrow. His eyes flicked from Deimos’ eyes to his mouth, then back again as he spoke. He didn’t seem to not believe Deimos when he said he was daydreaming, so what on earth was that look for? And why was he looking at his mouth so much? Giving into the call of curiosity the sharp-toothed hacker brought a hand up to his mouth, eyes widening mouth momentarily when his fingers found a trail of saliva dripping from his lips to his chin. He’d been drooling. Whoops.

“Eh. Nothing out of the ordinary.” Deimos lied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand which he then wiped on his pant leg. So that’s what Sanford had been looking at. Oh he must’ve looked downright stupid too. Well now wasn’t that just great? He just had to hope the Chad hadn’t decided to take a photo.

“Honestly I don’t even remember what it was about.” Liar, he remembered all of it. The vivid tastes, the squirmy fullness, the thrill-

Grrrnnnggg…

Ah shit. Busted by his own stomach. For a second the hacker sat there stunned, blinking dumbly as his cheeks heated up with a pink tint. Ok just play it cool Deimos. “….though if I had to make a guess? Food heh.”

“Yeah, that would make sense heh.” Sanford laughed softly, playfully jabbing the smaller man in the stomach. He seemed to buy Deimos’s story, bringing a sense of relief to the hacker. At least he wasn’t going to press on it. “Your stomach was anything but quiet, you know.”

“Go figure. And when I can’t say anything about it too.” Quickly laughter had found itself spilling from Deimos’ mouth, his mind having calmed down when he had heard the sound from the other man. He seemed less concerned, or whatever that emotion he couldn’t name right now was. As another grumble shook through his middle the hacker lowered a hand to rest over his stomach. He got it already. He was upset the daydream of his wasn’t real after all too. Not much more he could do besides try and find something to eat now though. “Say, I’m gonna go try and snag something to shut my gut up. Wanna come?”

“Nah, I’ll pass this time.” Sanford spoke with a small shake of the head and a smile. Try as he might to play it off as friendly, it seemed that odd emotion that Deimos couldn’t name was just bound to show itself in his words. “You just go shut that thing up before the Agency uses it to track us.”

“Oh ha ha. I’m going.” Deimos laughed, giving Sanford one last playful punch to the shoulder before running off. He had food to track down somewhere in this hellscape of Nevada, unless he wanted a beating from Doc that was. He just needed something small or, hell, even temporary if he happened to come across a shrunken grunt or agent. They would work out just fine so long as he didn’t let the others find out what he’d used to shut his stomach up. Couldn’t give away anything that could relate to his little hidden desires. The emptiness in his gut wasn’t something he’d wanted back, but alas, a daydream is only a daydream and he wasn’t getting any fuller just walking around. Now where would his best chance to snag someon- something be…

…

Sanford watched as his friend ran off, smile slowly fading as Dei disappeared from his line of sight. That look of caution slipped back onto his face as he slowly turned his back to head to his room. He needed a moment to think about what he’d just seen. Try as he might, he couldn’t just forget what was now burned into his mind. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the younger hacker had been daydreaming about if you had seen him while he was in the zoned out trance of his. Mouth wide open and drooling with a hand pretending to dangle something above it, an active stomach topping it all off like some sorta weird cherry on the sundae of his best friend’s little fantasy. Oh no, he knew what that meant. And hearing him mumble the names of their other teammates, along with his own, at least once through it all? It spelled out the man’s daydream in big neon lights. The very thought sent a shiver down his spine, despite how he tried his best to shake it off.

He wanted to believe it when he tried to tell himself that Deimos wouldn’t ever shrink them, much less try to eat them. He really did. All that he’d seen along with logic itself, however, pointed him at it with the firm proof that his words were lies. The man would no doubt take advantage of it, if he ever found a way to shrink them, even if he were to keep them as safe as possible. Just as he had with any unfortunate shrunken agents or grunts he happened upon when he was alone (or at least when he thought he was) Safe or not safe, the fact of the matter still stood. Sanford did not want to spend however long within the confines of his friend’s gut, especially if he wasn’t alone. Being in there had to be bad enough. Him not being able to do anything about it either only made the situation worse. Reasoning with the hacker was most likely hopeless and he wasn’t about to beg. What was left? Pray? God, if Deimos ever managed to get his hands on the Agency’s shrinking technology then one thing was downright certain. Boy were he, Hank, and 2b doomed…

[redrose-arrow]

Crowley/Duncan/Halt anon back again, sorry for the wait bhsdjs i was in the middle of babysitting and typing is hard on a phone

Anyways, i have a few things for the AU:

1) Halt doesn't hate Ferris. It hates what Ferris did, yes, but it sees what Ferris did as a product of their shared upbringing and the pressures put on them as royalty-- it doesn't think Ferris is a horrible monster. It used to put the responsibility on itself to keep its siblings safe, and it thinks of Ferris' actions as proof of its failure to do so. The hating Ferris bit only comes later when it sees how much of a spine he lacks once he becomes king of Clonmel. (But it also slightly blames itself for that, too-- if it were there, would it have been able to help Ferris be better? Not just a better person, but a better king for his people?)

2) Yesyesyes, Duncan and Crowley ABSOLUTELY gush over Halt together-- at least, in private (which was hard to find on a crowded ship of rowdy skandians, a second Ranger, and the captain who has suspiciously Ranger-like skills. Crowley asks Pritchard about this, and he simply says that he "Gave Halt a few tips and tricks" in his time with it when it was younger). At first, they just test the waters, seeing what the other might think if they talk about it-- but then eventually they aren't worried about what the other thinks, they're worried about being teased relentlessly by the crew if they get found out or if it gets to Halt

3) Halt eventually confesses after a bit more gentle prodding-- from Crowley, actually. And it only happens after Pritchard, who had figured out its secret soon after meeting it, encourages it to say something to Duncan. After Duncan crushes its lungs gives it a friendly hug and yells at it about just how much he missed it (which, suffice to say, was a lot), both he and Crowley agree not to tell anyone that Halt is alive-- that would cause chaos.

But...

"How are Caitlyn and-- and Ferris?" it asks. Crowley looks at Duncan, expecting him to have an answer.

Duncan shrugs slightly, not looking at either of them. "I never really talked to them. Felt like I couldn't, after your supposed death."

There's a small moment of quiet.

"I was there, you know," he whispers. "At your funeral. They said it was a boating incident. On the way to greet some lord in Gallica. I-I couldn't-- I couldn't believe you were dead, you know? They hadn't found your body. Surely you must've survived. You couldn't die that easily, even if you were... even if you weren't there, and there was no proof of you living," Duncan continues. Halt is silent, and he looks at it. It looks guilty. "I'm glad I was right."

"I'm sorry," Halt says. "I should've sent word that I was alright to you-- so you wouldn't have had to deal with that." But Duncan's already shaking his head.

"You were royal, too. You know how the system works. Your letter would've been thrown out. Or, if it weren't, it would've been read-- you wouldn't be safe," he says. "You're smart. Always were." He grins and adds, "I would've figured you to be smarter than me, at the very least-- and even I know what sending a letter would entail."

Halt elbows him. It's almost like things are the same, even if they will never be the same again.

But maybe that's for the best, it thinks. It looks from Duncan, its childhood friend, to Crowley, who is arguably smarter than Pritchard in certain regards. It remembers Crowley's misgivings about it since it was a sea wolf, after all, and the caution around trusting it with retrieving Duncan. They'd backed down with Pritchard's reassurances--after all, they could hardly argue against him when they barely knew Halt themself--but they were still willing to even threaten Halt if Duncan didn't come to the ship safely.

(And it also remembers Crowley's frustrated spluttering upon learning that Halt had done something incredibly dangerous and potentially lethal to get Duncan back multiple weeks after the fact-- not dangerous nor lethal for Duncan, but instead for Halt. And it remembers Crowley shoving it and lecturing it on "When I said to get Duncan back safely, I didn't mean to let yourself nearly get killed in the process, dumbass!" before quickly catching themself and simply glaring at Halt's smug grin.)

(And then, of course, he promptly tackles it when it says its obligated, "Aw, so you do care about me!")

anyways, moral of the story is: these three share one braincell between them and it's most commonly held by Crowley. your honor i love them

hey anon! don’t worry, this reply also took long haha. ANYHOW- back to business.

1) I love that!! it also seems very plausible considering Halt’s response to Ferris’ death - “He wasn’t much of a brother, but he was the only one I had.” I love the idea of Halt trying to see the best in its brother and kinda look past the murder attempts.

“it’s almost as if things are the same, even if they will never be the same again” I LVE FOR THAT, THANK YOU FOR THESE AMAZING PARALLELS BETWEEN HALTS UNKNOWN PAST AND UNKNOWN FUTURE

your brain cell theory is right 100% 😌

i’m sorry i’m a little distracted just thinking about crowley and duncan acting like teen romcom girls gossiping, halt getting secretly a little emotional over getting his childhood best friend back plus a red headed intelligent dumbass, and pritchard just watching these three young man and getting both annoyed and amused

[kai-borg]

Tisane - Tea party AU

Tisane was yet another of the Pale King’s countless failed children creations, why? Because they had mind to think, a will to break, they were a Vessel too impure to be his Hollow Knight that would contain the Radiance and finally halt the spread of her wrathful infection amongst his subjects.

In fact Tisane was so impure a Vessel they failed in all three of his rulings, because had they made it to the king they would have had voice enough to scream in pain, well, realistically more likely let out a choked whimper, as the Pale King snapped their neck, impaled them on a spear of light, or killed them in whatever way he chose to do to those Vessels that managed to pass his trials and stand before him but were too impure for their task, before throwing them back down into the pit of their other failed sibling’s bodies.

In a way Tisane was almost fortunate in the way that their early fate was laid out, as it meant they never even had the chance to try and attempt the King’s trial in the first place.

Though could it truly be consider fortunate they avoided meeting an end so young with what it meant for their future?

Tisane, as was said, never even had the chance to even try to attempt their father’s challenge, in fact they never even had the chance to feel the Pale King’s influence and know of said orders the rest of their clutch (and all those who had preceded, and later followed them) were told to follow, or at least enticed to by their fathers godly glow from so far above their dark and dismal birthing grounds.

This was in part because they hatched extremely late compared to the rest of their clutch, in fact had they hatched just a bit later they would’ve been left just as alone as they currently are, though that would’ve been only until the King lowered his next clutch into the Abyss to be... revived. That was because by the time they’d managed to crack their egg’s shell and emerge their father had already begun to ‘test’ their siblings, which was also entirely what caused the reason that they  never even hade the moment needed to feel their father’s influence to happen.

Because as they pulled themself out of their egg, and were shaking whatever... fluids would’ve come out with them off, they then immediately had one of their falling (and very, very dead) siblings slam into them so hard they pretty much shattered their mask like a sledgehammer would a fine china teacup.

In other words, pretty much killed them on the spot.

Or at least they would’ve been had it not been for their own natural affinity when it came to Soul because of being born of the Pale King, which was only increased because of the degree of their 'impurity’ meaning they were more Wyrm and Root than Void than nearly all of their siblings (both past and future), and, that... well, not only would they have absorbed whatever Soul remained in their dead sibling when they hit them, due to Soul’s own interesting characteristics when it came to... inflicting injury’s in fighting (not that a case like this could really be considered such even under the loosest of interpretations, but it still worked the same nonetheless), but they were in what was essentially a graveyard composed entirely of Soul, or at least what little still lingered in the countless masks made at least partially of it (a fact well shown by a Vessel’s ability to heal their mask, and it being the only part that remained when they died instead of reverting into their shade form like the rest of their body).

This didn’t mean they revived from their near death any time soon though, they weren’t exactly consciously healing themself in the first place, it was all just a purely instinctive reaction of their body due to the amount of accessible Soul it was surrounded by after it’s should’ve been near fatal injury.

In fact Tisane didn’t come back too until not only after The Hollow Knight themself had been chosen, but even after the few remaining living Vessel’s had escaped (or been taken as Nosk food in those unfortunate one’s cases). 

This also meant Tisane woke up in a pretty uncomfortable situation considering the usual schedule of events the Pale King had planned while he tried to find his Pure Vessel, i.e. a lot of dead children, which to be precise meant Tisane came to buried under who knows how many years worth of layers of the cracked & pointy masks of their dead siblings they had to dig themself out of.

Not a fun time at all.

Following this Tisane found themself... alone. 

In fact they were even more alone than their sibling’s practically mindless, death crazed Shades, because while their impurity may have let them have a voice to speak, in doing so it interfered with the innate hive mind-esque connection their other siblings have due to their Void based nature.

This didn’t mean they were incapable of ever being able to use it like their siblings, in fact they were just as well connected to it as any other Vessel, the issue was that it was entirely subconscious, sure they could learn things from it as other Vessel’s did, but they were entirely unaware of said knowledge until encountering something that involved it, and even then they wouldn’t consciously realize they shouldn’t have had any way of having the knowledge they just became aware of. 

All they needed really was someone to help make them consciously aware of their telepathic connections, like, really if they’d just had the time to hear their father’s voice calling for his creations to meet his challenge that probably would’ve actually been enough for Tisane to have woken up at least aware of the connection they had with their kind (as difficult it may have been considering their madness and rage was enough to cause the Void sea itself to act upon it)... not that they knew about that, so instead they were completely, entirely alone.

This was also a similar case when it came to their voice, they might have been able to vocalize, they were even aware of the concept of words, specific sounds with specific meanings, but that didn’t mean they had any idea how to talk, it’s not like the Vessel’s that weren’t dead had any reason to learn how to, and in the closest one’s case would’ve ever even been considered lessons they had any reason to be taught. And of course they could’ve talked if they’d had someone teach to them, or even at least been around someone else who could, but they didn’t, and they weren’t, so instead the sounds they did make could’ve been considered, and mostly like would’ve been to any bug who heard them, babble, nonsensical chirps, whistles, gurgles and like, baby talk in other words, just a little bit more refined.

As you can guess, being alone was not a fun experience for a literal child, Vessel or not. Sure, Tisane might’ve had an entire abandoned civilization to explore, so long as they avoided the strange, familiar feeling, floating, horned tentacle things that attacked them whenever they spotted them, or the sea of liquid that would sprout tentacles and try to swat them if they got too close, but there were plenty of ruins, broken statues, and strange odds and ends left over from the civilization that used to worship the Void, but they were still alone, and definitely getting pretty depressed because of it, not that they really knew what that was, just that they were sad and desperate for a... something... 

They didn’t know what exactly it was they wanted but for some reason they felt like they knew of some kind of... warm feeling they were supposed to feel if another bug put it’s arms around them which sounded... nice. (They couldn’t feel it when they did it themself but they still couldn’t help but try whenever the loneliness started to get too much)

It was also a bit maddening. Tisane might’ve been mature enough that they would be considered a child instead of a grub (spending who knows how many years subconsciously absorbing the experiences of others who were given the chance to grow tends to do that to one), but even to a child that kind of isolation would’ve been too much for their mind to try and adapt to.

All that combined with their subconscious knowledge sort of all compounded together once they discovered the cracked tea set that practically became an inseparable feature of themself following.

Why? Because of three specific little things in Tisane’s repertoire of subconscious knowledge, one lesson the Pale King gave his Hollow Knight while ‘programming’ it to have some basic etiquette even as a mindless automaton, and two little bits of childhood pretend even Hornet, the princess of Deepnest, daughter of Herrah the Beast, was immune to enjoying, both by herself, and especially when playing it with her sibling, though that didn’t mean it was just them, or in other words, Tisane knew what a tea party was.

And one can’t have a tea party without friends. And as they knew, they didn’t exactly have to be alive to be a friend, they mostly just needed some form of face.

And, well Tisane knew a place with plenty ‘friends’ they could have now, they just had to make sure they were still put together enough they wouldn’t break when they collected them.

After this Tisane, while now a lot more stable, and still just as no longer lonely, didn’t exactly recover from the sort of mental break, in fact they went pretty downhill.

Their life was dedicated to their ‘friends’, chatting with them (i.e. blathering nonsensical chirps & clicks at them with only the barest semblance of consistency) as they explored what remained down in the Abyss’ caverns, cleaning & fixing them, Tisane even named them (though they’re names only in the sense of them being sounds consistently used for them, though less as the sounds they only use for them, and instead as the only sounds they use for them), though with their limited vocabulary they of course came out as whatever mixes of chirps and clicks Tisane could put together, specifically (from left to right), Ctitch, Chirp, and Qirp, and of course Tisane always made sure to set aside time to have tea parties with them.

As time went on Tisane even began to gather new ‘friends’. Scavenging through the pit of masks they’d hatched, nearly died, and then dug themself out of for any mostly intact masks, and shards they could find, storing them in one of the more intact ruins/smaller side caverns they’d eventually chosen as their dedicated ‘home’ during their isolation, where they tried to piece them back together, though of course their first three ‘friends’ were always their most important, and always at every tea party.

On the topic of Tisane’s tea parties again, Tisane hadn’t just gone downhill because they were treating dead inanimate shells like they were alive, but also because they were so dedicated to the concept of having tea parties with them that they were putting themself in danger with every one so they could make it ‘authentic’.

How you may ask? Well easily, by having ‘tea’ to pour of course! Or in Tisane’s case as there was only one source of ‘liquid’ in the Abyss’ caverns, Void itself.

Yes, Tisane was so dedicated to these tea parties of theirs they would risk being consumed by the Void sea every time just so they could fill their teapot with liquid Void from it. They actually became quite good at it eventually, managing to figure out ways to... distract it in a way so it’s tentacles would strike elsewhere, and give them just enough time to dip the teapot in before running away.

Though that’s not to say they didn’t experience a number of close calls before, and following the learning of those skills.

As Tisane remained in the Abyss they also managed to grow, unlike the majority of the living vessel’s, their constant saturation in the Void’s energy and consumption of it (yes, they actually drank their ‘tea’) plus their consistent absorption of Soul they unknowingly gathered from their dead sibling’s masks during their frequent scavenging trips, provided just enough of the necessary conditions from them to reach their fully grown state like the Pure Vessel.

Though they weren’t in as... healthy a condition as the Pure Vessel had been when they’d reached that amount of growth.

While Tisane could subsist of of the Void and Soul energy, yet again because of their impurities it was not enough to fully support their body as they grew. This lead to them having a very ill-proportioned, malnutritioned looking build (and that’s saying something for a bug). Thin, weak looking limbs, dull, sickly chitin, hunched posture, and even a sunken, emacieted look around the eyes of their mask.

This was essentially what Tisane’s life boiled down to for the next however many years until the Little Knight, Ghost, finally reached Hallownest after the Pure Vessel failed, and the few remaining  Vessel’s were drawn back to Hallownest.

Though this doesn’t mean Tisane’s story had a happy ending following this, in fact I truly don’t think they could’ve had a worse end.

Tisane’s story ended as it began, with an object heavy enough, and falling fast enough to crush their head into nothing but shards, only this time there was no graveyard of Soul for them to absorb and survive with.

Sometime during Ghost travel’s, most likely once they’d taken the Kingsbrand from the Wyrm’s corpse and brought the spell that kept it from collapsing to an end, or maybe even once they’d used the combined Kingsouls to open the Abyss, the Abyss experienced heavy seismic activity, enough to cause the collapse of numerous stalactites, structures, and even side caverns throughout.

One of which was Tisane’s.

The event itself would’ve been bad enough because of it’s unexpectedness, but it just had to catch Tisane at the worst time it possibly could’ve too, right in the middle of a tea party.

They had barely any time to react, one minute they were ‘chatting’ with their ‘friends’, the next everything was shaking, chunks of stone were falling everywhere, and of course all Tisane could think to do was save their ‘friends’, and once they spotted the slabs of rock falling down in a way they knew they weren’t going to avoid as they tried to get away, well... you can guess what they did.

Later, as Ghost entered the Abyss, confronted their past, gained the Void heart, and collected the Shade Cloak they may have stumbled upon what first looked like the corpse of an insect that had been killed by a chunk of stone crushing their head, though once they inspected it they would’ve realized it was actually a hollow shell of nearly petrified dust and grime in the shape of an insect, as if it was from a bug that had never bathed, and who’s body had vanished in it’s entirety after death, that looked almost like it was protectively curled around something.

If they decided to give it a hit with their nail, or realistically just given it a light poke it a large portion of it would’ve crumbled to reveal a scattered pile of white, almost familiar looking shards of some kind of material, along with some clay shards mixed in.

Obviously whatever that bug had been trying to protect even as they died they’d failed at doing.

Maybe Ghost would’ve pondered how the bug had even been down there, maybe they’d wonder why the bug had tried so hard to save whatever they’d try to save, maybe they’d have wondered if there was enough essence left for their dream nail to tell them something that could help them understand only to get a desperate cry of ‘please... don’t leave me alone’ before whatever essence had remained around that ‘shell’ dissipated entirely, maybe they’d even have felt sorry for the bug who’s final act before they’d died in such a horrible way had been entirely in vain.

But in the end there were more important things they had to do than stare at the corpse, and it wasn’t even that, just a dirt and dust formed shell around where a corpse used to be, of a bug they’d never know.

-========================================================-

Little bonus section:

I actually have a number of other story ideas based around this character I might get around to writing sometime (if I ever get around to writing anything in the first place), tho a number of course were inspired by other fics I’ve read.

Like what if Tisane wasn’t ‘knocked out’ and did make it to the Pale King, but instead of being murdered discarded as a failure, the Wyrm decided to keep them as a gift for the White Lady once he realized how impure they were.

How would that affect the story? Would it force the Pale King to come to terms with the fact none of his Vessel’s were pure, not even his Hollow Knight? Would Tisane get infected instead? Or maybe even take on Hollow’s role to try and save their sibling? I dunno!

Or what if Tisane survived, but somehow missed the Little Knight entirely, and the Ghost ended up doing the Embrace the Void ending, or just outright fell into the Void Sea sometime, and due to weird timey-wimey Void stuff they ended up getting sent to an alternate timeline where the Pale King realized his plan wouldn’t work, and didn’t murder all his kids?

Like just imagine the While Lady having a picnic or something with all her children when all of a sudden a hole something tore itself into existence and spat out a new child (Tisane in their world having either not hatched, or having hatched late again and accidentally being forgotten about in the Void (so now they’re extra lonely because no mask friends for you!)) who are so visibly unhealthy they look starved, on her garden, and who’s not only pretty much feral, but also holding the broken masks of three of her children, a teapot, and all the while is screaming in very recognizable baby talk.

Now that’s a recipe for some angst, even more so if instead of them being relatively similar ages to how they should be, it’s younger Tisane and all of her other kids are older.

You know, just fun little story ideas with the potential for some horrible, horrible angst

[jenovahh]

Wild Greens Choke Tended Gardens -  Ch. 1 - Calendula (Marigold)

“A’yana!”

Blue eyes twinkle, searching for whoever wanted their attention.

The woman they belong to turns in a rush, her plentiful skirts swaying with the movement.

A’yana Salvia smiled warmly as the Leveilleur twins ran up to her, Alisaie nearly crashing into the older woman. A’yana bubbles with laughter as she slows the girl’s momentum in her arms, encasing her in an affectionate hug. “Well, that’s quite the greeting. Are you more eager than I to be out in the field?”

At first glance, anyone would wonder whether A’yana was trying to be as provocative as possible while somehow maintaining her modesty. Her skirts reached well to the ground, covering her sandaled feet, layered with a string of potions in case of emergency along with decorative feathers and trinkets. Her top was more scandalous, nothing but strips of fabric, artfully bound together to show her cleavage while maintaining her decency.

Her skin was a deep amber, so rich and brown that she seemed to glow whenever she stepped into the sunlight. White tattoos trailed down her arms and back twirling and curving in intricate patterns. With two, large, fluffy ears poking from curly, amethyst hair, A’yana looked like any other Miqo’te, but many underestimated her power.

Stolen from her crib at birth, A’yana has only ever known the teachings of a village of women, much like her. A village of witches, masters of the arcane and magic so old and powerful that they hid themselves in the bowels of the Gridanian forest. It was these witches that had sensed A’yana was born, erasing her existence from her parents’ mind and disappearing into the night to raise her.

The tattoos on her skin had been there since her birth, heralding her as a manifestation of the trees, the leaves, of life itself. Blessed by the spirits and Hydaelyn Herself, she was both respected and feared. Respected for using her powers for good, feared for the possibility she could turn on them and no one alive could stop her.

She had been more than helpful to the cause, even if her tendency to dive into things head first without thinking had landed her in trouble more often than not. Despite that she had made more friends than enemies, and what enemies she had knew she was a force to be reckoned with.

The young Elezen finally peels off of her, giving an exasperated groan. “I cannot deny I am a tad...antsy,”

“Is that what we call it?” Alphinaud can’t help but tease, flinching slightly as Alisaie turns to shoot him a quick glare.

“Now, now, be nice you two.” A’yana giggles, rubbing her head affectionately against the top of Alisaie’s head. “Goodness. I know it will be a few years yet, but I loathe to think of a time where I cannot nuzzle the tops of your snowy heads.” With a mischievous grin of her own, A’yana gives Alisaie a light nudge. “Or when you running headlong into me won’t result in you colliding with my bosom.” she sighs dramatically, breaking out into a full laugh as both twins go red in the face for different reasons.

“We’ll see how you like being teased when I am taller than you! Shall I play with your ears?” Alisaie huffs, clearly embarrassed. It was one thing for her twin to poke fun at her, but to have the woman she had come to view as the older sister she never had never failed to leave her flustered.

“Come now, I jest.” A’yana chuckles giving one last pat on her head. “Surely you did not run because you were excited to see me. Is there news?” A’yana asks, threading her hand with Alisaie’s as they walked through Rhalgr’s Reach. She offers her hand to Alphinaud who sputters for a moment but quietly accepts it, ears reddening as she flashes him a comforting smile.

While A’yana was aware that many would say that the twins were too old for such coddling, she could not help herself. Having no real siblings of her own, A’yana doted on them constantly, always asking if they were hungry, or needed a potion of hers for even something as small as a stomach ache. There was no hiding even outside the Scions that she spoiled them, and despite their best efforts to hide it, they loved every second of her attention.

“Well, on the grounds that you’ve finished your tasks of speaking with the recruits and such for Conrad,” Alphinaud begins, giving an encouraging smile, “he is actually ready to speak with us.”

“Ah, I would hope so after all the running around we’ve had to do.” A’yana sighs, to which even Alphinaud can’t help but laugh.

“While I’m aware that speaking with the masses is not as thrilling as fighting gods, I appreciate you going along with it nonetheless.” Alphinaud thanks, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Only because I have you two kids to look out for.” A’yana snickers, giving Alphinaud’s hair a ruffle, much to his dismay, the teenager leaping away from her teasing. “I’ll meet you over at the tent. Pray tell Conrad I’ll be there shortly.” Watching him nod, her eyes follow him as he walks the path back to the tent where M’naago and Conrad await them. Turning to Alisaie, she gives her hand a squeeze. “And you?”

Shrugging, Alisaie returns her gesture. “I think I will go check up on Y’shtola and Krile, and see how they are faring. I would end up saying the wrong thing I fear if I went with my brother.” Tilting her head, Alisaie gives her a scrutinous look. “Though you seem noticeably...excited today. Is all well?”

A’yana is not surprised, given how much time she spends in the twins' presence. Of course they would pick up on even the smallest cues on her moods. “Well...I’m not particularly familiar with how Elezen find their soulmates,”

Alisaie’s eyes widen before she can even finish the sentence, mouth flying open, “You mean your soulmate is---hrrmph!” she mumbles as A’yana slaps a hand over her mouth, pulling the young girl into what looks like a friendly embrace from afar.

“Quiet!” A’yana hisses, though it lacks any real bite. Alisaie licks at her palm and A’yana takes it off reflexively, releasing Alisaie with a pout.

“Why be quiet? This should be something to celebrate!” Alisaie whispers, at least being considerate to her feelings and keeping her voice down.

“I know, I know, but we’re in the middle of a full blown war, Alisaie. I want to be able to...you know. Have a chance to be courted without fear of some primal coming down on our heads.” A’yana mumbles, somewhat bashfully. For as strong as A’yana was, she was unfortunately (at least to her) a hopeless romantic.

“Oh, you big sap.” Trust her little sister to make fun of her for it. “Well how can you tell? I heard most Miqo’te born in Ul’Dah find theirs by being able to see color when they meet. Does that mean you can’t tell Alphinaud and I dress in different colors? If we swapped clothes--”

“I can see plenty well, thank you.” A’yana grumbles, giving her a playful smack on the head. “If you don’t mind, I’ve kept your brother waiting long enough. Off you go.” A’yana shoos, complete with a limp wristed wave of her hand. Alisaie sticks her tongue out at her, and A’yana is glad to see it. They should enjoy what years of childhood they had left, even if they were teenagers.

Trekking to the tent across the way, she offers a few more cordial waves as she passes by the soldiers stationed in the reach, her tranquil aura a soothing balm to all as she passes by. As she goes to meet with the others, she can’t help but daydream what her soulmate could possibly look like.

Are they tall? Short? Would they be a refined, Ishgardian, Elezen man or a brusque, Highlander woman? Would they be a match made in heaven from the start, or would they have to learn to love each other despite their faults? Though she has waited for her soulmate like anyone else, A’yana still experienced attraction. She knew she liked women, liked men, like those who did not conform to either. She wanted to love her soulmate no matter how they presented themself, and prayed they thought the same for her.

She always imagined her soulmate would be tall, someone who would want to protect her even if she did not need it. Someone who made her feel like an average woman despite her trekking across Eorzea as the Warrior of Light. She hoped they liked her cooking. The Scions all think it’s too spicy, except for Tataru, bless her heart.

A’yana envied other races and cultures that had more certain ways of knowing for sure when or where they’d meet their soulmate. Finding your soulmate varied from methods as vague as sharing your soulmate’s hair color, to as specific as having a specially crafted chronometer that would countdown to the time you would meet.

A’yana got stuck with the vague end of the spectrum, only able to sense when her soulmate drew near.

She had thought it wanderlust at first; a desire to leave her village behind once she had hit the appropriate age to do so. It was to her surprise that she would be discovered to be the Warrior of Light, beginning her trek across Eorzea to save it from certain doom. She had gravitated to Gridania immediately, feeling a strange tingling in her chest that would always call her back.

It is only after they crossed Baelsar’s wall had she realized that was no normal feeling.

She kept it to herself for a while, but with each passing day as she worked to bolster the Ala Mhigan resistance with Raubahn and Pipin, she could feel her soulmate drawing closer. She knew they were close, just not how close. Oh, how the wait was killing her.

One look at Y’shtola and Krile tells A’yana that as usual, Alisaie can’t keep her mouth shut. The two give her knowing, but hopeful looks. Alphinaud asks ever so politely on whether she is willing to try and storm the Castellum with Pipin, because she’s already done so much for the cause and he’d rather not presume. Ruffling his hair again, A’yana laughs that while she appreciates it, he needn’t ask. If there is a just cause to fight for, she will be there.

While this cause is just as bloody as the Dragonsong War so far, A’yana feels no less afraid to see it through. She does not enjoy killing, abhors it really, and will do what she can to spare a life, even those of an enemy unless they force her hand. Thankfully with her powers, restraining the enemy is not hard work, allowing for the capture of soldiers with minimal bloodshed.

It is better than sitting around running her apothecary, waiting for customers to stop by.

Fighting primals is much more exciting.

There are no eikons to slay yet though, Gyr Abania proving strangely tame compared to the struggles she endured during her time in Coerthas fighting the Heavensward led by Thordan. Where there was once the threat of dragons around every corner, able to fly and raze her to the ground if she let them, the only risk so far is an imperial ambush, which when next to her, was hardly a threat at all.

A’yana knew she was powerful and she tried to not let it get to her head.

Tried.

The trek back to Castrum Oriens is quiet and peaceful, the imperials most likely quaking in their boots from their last defeat by her hand. To the average person she appeared to be no more than a healer, thinking her an easy target as she balanced her astrolabe above her palm. And with skirts restricting her movement, many would think she would be incapable of hand to hand combat.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t dodge, though.

Bolstered by her own abilities, her offensive spells even as she healed were more than enough to weaken an enemy and render them unable to even lift a blade against her. And even if someone did manage to get close enough, she had worked hard to master the art of dodging a sword while in her skirts, having a few scars from some close calls.

A’yana makes conversation with M’naago until they reach the Castrum, where Raubahn and Pipin each give her a friendly welcome before getting down to business. A’yana’s attention drifts in and out of the conversation, ears flicking to and fro the only indication whether she’s actively listening or not. Thankfully M’naago is the only other Miqo’te present to recognize the behavior for what it is, and seems confident in her abilities to not comment on it. One doesn’t necessarily need the full scope of the plan when your friends usually chuck you at a primal.

Besides, she can’t help it; she feels her soulmate drifting ever closer. Could they be an Ala Mhigan? She’s never felt the buzz so strongly before, even when she had first noticed the feeling when she became an adult. If her soul mate was Ala Mhigan, she would’ve felt them this close years ago...right?

“You seem on edge.” Alisaie comments again, as they prepare to meet Pipin outside Castellum Velodnya. “Is your soulmate getting closer?”

Unable to hide her grin, A’yana nods, not wanting to burst with excitement when such a serious mission looms ahead. If scoping out the Castellum went well, perhaps she could spend the night searching for her soulmate. Surely if they are this close, they must be searching for her too? “Right now, I just wanna focus on our mission,” A’yana sighs, flexing her fingers anxiously. “I have yet to consult the stars about tonight...I’ve never consulted them about my soulmate actually. I’ve always wanted it to be a surprise.”

Alisaie gives her a teasing look at that. “Who would’ve thought the Warrior of Light would be such a huge romantic?” She sighs, complete with a dramatic roll of her eyes.

“Oh, be quiet you.” A’yana laughs, giving Alisaie a scathing look. “Don’t think I’ve not noticed you fiddling with that locket you think you keep tucked away. I believe Sharlayans often find their soulmates by a personal trinket that glows when their soulmate is near, right?”

A’yana can’t help but laugh louder as Alisaie turns as red as her gear, going on about how A’yana must’ve been spying on her. It takes Alphinaud calming both of them down (but not without getting in a few jokes of his own) to say they’re ready to head toward the Castellum.

Making sure her cards are ready and her astrolabe functional, A’yana begins to ease into her more serious persona. A’yana didn’t want to put up false pretenses when it came to her role as the Warrior of Light, but found that people took her seriously the sterner she looked. Around the Scions she didn’t mind joking and laughing, showing a side that precious few got to see. But when it came time to do battle, you would think she had not smiled in days.

With her feline hearing and the twins own sensitivity to sound due to their Elezen heritage combined, it’s nigh impossible for anyone to sneak up on them. A’yana follows close behind Pipin and the twins, careful to make sure her skirts don’t get snagged in the brush as they make their way through the forest and out to the more desert-like terrain. A’yana can’t help but be a little nervous as they creep closer to the cliffs’ edge, taking extra steps so that tripping on her skirts doesn’t spell in a long fall into the chasm below.

Winds tickle her skin, the buzzing in her chest almost turning into a light hum. It makes it hard to focus.

“...is exactly as expected. I will notify father.” Pipin’s voice drifts into her ears.

Alphinaud puts a hand on her arm, eyes silently asking if she’s all right. Thankful for his concern, A’yana nods, doing her best to push the humming feeling to the back of her mind. Whenever she did meet her soulmate, she was going to tell them they had awful timing.

“...fire! Where did it come from?” Pipin whispers harshly, turning this way and that. Panicked and feeling stupid for not paying attention, A’yana jumps to her feet, scanning the area for cannonfire she didn’t even hear. The humming is hard to push from her mind.

“Is that---” Alisaie’s voice drifts in and out as A’yana finally manages to turn to where Alisaie is facing. “Oh gods, it’s Rhalgr’s Reach!”

Doing her damndest to focus, A’yana gathers up her skirts and begins to move, before either of the twins or Pipin can say anything. “A’yana, it’s no use-- I think someone’s jamming our communications!” Alphinaud yells. Thankfully the pair are used to A’yana’s tendency to run head first into danger without thinking, quick on her heels.

“You don’t think...could this be part of a coordinated attack?” Alisaie ponders, the two of them heading North so they can cross the river and make it back as fast as possible.

Having caught up, Pipin chimes in, “It’s too early to draw conclusions. We must abort the assault and return to the Reach at once!”

Not that that wasn’t her plan anyway, A’yana trudges through the river, silently cursing that she is at such a disadvantage. Her abilities relied so strongly on a presence of plant life; and in the arid climate that Gyr Abania had, she immediately felt the loss. Whatever it was waiting for her at the Reach, they better hope--

The humming--

It almost feels like a full blown thrumming now.

She’s getting closer to Rhalgr’s which means…

Which means...!

“We have to hurry!” She cries, ignoring the discomfort of soggy sandals and damp skirts as she pulls herself from the river, continuing her run to Rhalgr’s Reach.

My soulmate...are they there? Are they hurt? She wonders, trying her best to not despair, but she can’t help but worry. Not when with every step she takes the thrumming gets more insistent until it is all she can feel, her very being feeling as if it knows her soulmate is near. She can hear the twins hurried breaths behind her, her feline eyes easily pick up on a few approaching forms in the distance.

“Krile!” A’yana calls, willing her feet to move faster. The Lalafellin woman’s eyes are downcast, only glancing up at the sound of her name being called. Her grim look only pushes A’yana forward, not even stopping to talk and hear what she has to say.

“Alisaie! Go after A’yana!” She hears Alphinaud call, as he and Pipin stay behind for a moment to talk to Krile. Alisaie is hot on her tail without even needing to be told, keeping stride with the older woman as they prepare to throw themselves into the fray.

“We have to save as many as possible!” Alisaie calls, drawing her rapier, having it at the ready. “Heal who you can. I will watch your back until the others arrive!”

Proud of her sister for thinking so fast on her feet, for knowing what she wants without even having to voice it, A’yana pulls her astrolabe from her back, the cards fanning around the globe in a flourish. Imperials meet them at the gate, A’yana able to feel the stars giving her strength as she pulls a Lady of Crowns from her globe. Channeling the energy to Alisaie, she watches as the young woman’s eyes light up, letting loose her battle cry as she takes the imperials on.

She fights off one imperial, making quick work of them and gets to calling upon her magic to cast a quick healing spell on a nearby recruit. Thankful that they’ve only sustained flesh wounds that won’t drain their life force, A’yana begins to put more of her focus into getting them a bit healthier. Only a few minutes pass before she can hear Krile and the others catch up. “Go on ahead!” Krile demands, already heading for the next of the wounded. “They need your help!”

Nodding, A’yana once again balances her astrolabe in her hand, having palmed a few cards to keep at the ready as she takes stock of who will be moving with her. Her heart is pounding; her soulmate is close, and she prays that because she still feels this thrumming, it also means they’re still alive.

“Y’shtola!” Alphinaud cries, seeing the Miqo’te woman on the ground. A’yana’s own heart stops as she spies Lyse tied up on the ground next to the unconscious woman.

“Not so fast!”

A’yana barely dodges a swipe of a blade, her skirts dancing around her as she quickly casts a Malefic at the offending enemy. More of the Skulls begin to surround her, snickering to themselves, thinking they have her cornered. Though there may be little plant life around, she knows she won’t even have to waste a fraction of her energy taking down a few mercenaries. A’yana’s eyes narrow as a young woman, hardly older than nineteen summers comes to the front, smirking as if victory is assured.

“Well, well. A rescue party, is it?” The woman grins, twirling her blade. “We’ll see about that!”

At the first step she makes A’yana easily dodges her, balancing her astrolabe in one hand while taking hold of her skirts in the other. Her pupils dilate, letting in more light on this already dark and tragic night. She dodges another swipe and hears the woman growl in frustration, making another blind charge at her. A’yana evades her once again, losing herself to the pull of combat, the humming of her soulmate’s proximity forgotten as she manages to put enough distance between her and the newcomer to cast a Malefic that sends her stumbling.

“Gah! Who in the seven hells are you?!” She snarls, her grip on her sword tightening.

“I would ask the same of you, but I remember you now...Fordola rem Lupis.” A’yana murmurs, twirling her astrolabe in hand. She’s fully dipped into the role of the Warrior now, eyes hard as steel, unforgiving in their gaze as she stares down the cause of this tragedy. “I unfortunately lack the means to restrain you properly...which prompts me to request you stand down. I rather there be no more bloodshed, even from the enemy.”

A’yana keeps her focus on Fordola, ensuring she makes no sudden movements as Alphinaud takes out one of the soldiers. “Alphinaud! I need your help!” Krile beckons, falling to her knees as she sets about healing Y’shtola and the other fallen soldiers.

Fordola makes to move toward them but A’yana is faster, casting a Malefic with just enough power to weaken her further and deter her from any foolish moves. Fordola grits her teeth, eyes burning hotly as she stares her down. “My lord, the prisoners!” She calls.

My lord? A’yana wonders, until she hears the shift of heavy armor, and the awareness of the humming returns tenfold.

“See to your men, Pilus.”

Fordola draws her sword, turning to the sound, giving the Garlean salute to whoever comes this way. Following her gaze, A’yana takes one look.

And she knows.

The armor is obviously fitting of not just a high ranking officer, but royalty. She can see strands of golden, blond hair trail from beneath the monsterish helm. She had heard stories and rumors, intel about the Garlean prince, but nothing could have prepared her for how intense his presence was--

Or the fact that he was her soulmate.

It can’t be, A’yana trembles, even as her soul sings at being so close to her soulmate. She can feel all the signs of love she had envied for so long. Her knees are weak, her heart’s beating out of time. She only has eyes for the twisted creature before her, the Prince of Garleans…

Zenos yae Galvus.

“Uh-- as you command, my lord.” Fordola stutters, rounding up what remaining soldiers she has and retreating as ordered.

A’yana is stock still even as Pipin comes up beside her, her throat locked up. She wants to say so much, but her mouth will not open. Her tongue is dry.

It can’t be.

Zenos turns to her, mood indiscernible from beneath his helm. One arm rests upon the odd sheathe that is fastened to his hip, carrying a familiar sort of confidence she recognizes in herself. A surety in your power.

The knowledge of your greatness.

“Your friends were a disappointment. But you…” The prince drawls, tilting his head slightly. “You will entertain me, will you not?”

A’yana can’t even swallow as he moves to face her, drawing a sword from his revolver.

It can’t be.

Alisaie brings up the rear at last as A’yana’s instinct is screaming at her to run away. To tell her friends to run for cover while she holds him off. But it is too late. The stage is already set.

“If we kill him, here and now, we can end this!” Alisaie roars, already launching herself at Zenos.

“As one!” Pipin cries, joining Alisaie in her attack.

“Wait-- no!” A’yana yells, finally finding her voice. Habit finally kicks in, fear an undercurrent to her movements as she begins to draw cards, ready to aid her friends where possible. He’s...powerful. I’ve never felt such strength…!

A’yana watches panicked as Zenos fights them off, expending little effort. It almost feels like looking in a mirror, watching the ease at which he dispatches her friends.

Is this what she looked like to everyone else?

“I have no need for this rabble.” Zenos sighs, unleashing an attack that sends the two flying.

“Alisaie! Pipin!” A’yana calls, having barely withstood the attack herself. Was that...magic? The prince is a full blooded Garlean-- how? Quickly glancing, she hears Pipin mumble something over the roaring in her ears as Alisaie lets loose a slew of curses, allowing her to take a breather. They’re both alive, thank the Twelve.

“Hm. You yet stand.” Zenos hums, once again drawing A’yana’s attention as well as her ire. At least now with her friends out of the fight she has to worry about no one save herself. “Mayhap you have potential.”

“Oh, I have more than potential,” A’yana hisses, beginning to draw cards. She can hear him chuckle, even from under the helm, illusionary swords appearing around her. Growling, she makes quick work of dodging their blasts while keeping her eyes focused on him.

Her soulmate.

Her eyes burn with unshed tears at how unfair this was.

For every blast she dodges, he’s quick on his feet, chasing her, hunting her, leaving her little room to even begin to cast. She’s unaccustomed to being on the run and she feels like he can sense it, can see how wide her eyes are from being on the losing side for once. She can hear the smirk from under his helm. “Better. Yet lacking nevertheless…”

Incensed, A’yana dodges his swords once again, edging herself near the water. It will take a good chunk of her energy, but if it means wiping that smirk off his face even if she can’t see it, she’ll do what it takes.

She watches him still for but a moment as her tattoos faintly glow, the water gurgling behind her. Balancing her astrolabe, she casts a Malefic with the intention of distracting him, grinning as he moves to dodge her magic. “I’ve got you!” she roars, veins shooting from the depths of the small river, launching themselves directly at Zenos.

He easily slashes at one set, but was clearly not expecting another set of vines to come up behind him, latching onto his sword arm. Regaining her confidence, A’yana cinches the vines as tight as she can around his wrist, frowning as the pressure does nothing to his armor. As a prince it would make sense he is only afforded the highest quality metal available.

Changing tactics she tries to wrench his hand behind him, but he’s far too strong for her vines to pull without snapping. She could strengthen them with magic, but she’s already using so much already since she is not touching any plants physically and relying on her own energy. She doesn’t want to use her reserves; what if she needs to make a run for it?

Would her own soulmate kill her?

Could he not tell they were soulmates?

Was she broken?

Her choice is taken away from her as Zenos gives a decisive slice of his blade through the vines, humming to himself. “An ability to control plant matter...though not without great cost to yourself.” While his tone hints that he’s somewhat intrigued, it still maintains a bit of boredom. “Come then.”

Before she can react he dashes for her, blade drawn. A’yana winces as she’s barely able to dodge in time, crying out at her blade cuts a decent gash in her side. Down, but not out, A’yana taps into her reserves by clasping his sword, using a burst of magic to snap the blade in half. As he withdraws, she falls to the ground, whimpering as she casts a small healing spell to at least stop the bleeding.

She feels him gaze down at her, feels his disdain and disappointment. Her heart still burns at his closeness, even as he draws another sword from his revolver. She glares up at him then, resolve burning bright in her eyes, even as she kneels before him. Instinct claws its way up to where she bares her fangs, her eyes become slits, and somehow that gives him pause.

All is silent save for the rolling of thunder.

“Pathetic.” He sighs, sheathing his sword once again and stalking away. A’yana watches him go, watches Fordola and her men follow behind him.

“A’yana!” Alisaie is at her side in an instant, trying to put on her best brave face. “We need to get you seen to,”

“I’m fine, Alisaie, I’ve slowed the bleeding.” Normally she’d have more than enough energy to stop it entirely. But not this time.

Not after being defeated so wholly.

A’yana was no prodigy; she had to work to her level of skill like anyone else. She was only bolstered by the fact she was a wellspring of power, and had a natural aptitude for magic and the arcane. She had long faded scars to show she trained like anyone else.

Only now, had her luck run out.

She was used to coasting on her talent, her hard work. That wasn't to say any of her battles up until this point had been easy, oh no-- taking down Nidhogg had been an arduous battle from start to finish. Even with van Baelsar she had been younger, greener, mostly sailing by on sheer adrenaline and pure luck. Overwhelming her enemies with how much raw, untamed power she held.

And now...she feels embarrassed. The infallible, unshakable Warrior of Light…

Thrown around like a doll by the prince of Garleans.

Even still, nothing made her more ashamed than the fact that he was her soulmate.

She couldn’t understand it. Comprehend it. She couldn’t deny she felt a little impatient. Not all races met their soulmates when they were young, but it was not unheard of for some soulmates to find one another even before their teenage years. She could not help the doubts that plagued her that by nearly twenty-five summers, she hadn’t felt as much of a tug. Something had to be wrong with her.

It is why she could not contain her excitement when after so long, she felt something.

It is why her heart is so heavy as Alphinaud and Krile rush over to her to help heal her enough to move.

Raubahn arrives soon after, devastated as he looks upon the Reach. He scoops her up effortlessly, balancing her in one arm as he rushes her to the infirmary, only adding to her shame.

“You’ve done well.” Raubahn assures her, hushed words only for the two of them to hear. Even though it is only for her ears, she can’t help but beat herself up for failing everyone so horribly.

She can’t tell anyone.

What would the others think of her, knowing that when they needed her most, she couldn’t fight her soulmate? That her soulmate was the very person they are aiming to defeat?

Even as she lies in bed and the chirugeons tend to her, Krile and Alphinaud having exhausted their energy just to save Y’shtola, she stares the ceiling and wonders--

What will she do?

She can’t kill her soulmate.

She already abhorred the thought of killing, but she could sense he was not a man who would allow himself to be captured. He would accept nothing less than total defeat.

Night falls over the Reach and she lies wide awake, thoughts bouncing off the walls like a child who has had too much toffee. She is restless at the same time she is tired, wanting action, wanting to do anything, wanting to prove herself--

“...Yana?”

A’yana gasps, heart nearly leaping up her throat as Alisaie’s head peeks through the privacy curtain around her bed. “Alisaie. I’m sorry. I was...lost in thought.” She moves to sit up but her gash is still healing. She’s yet to recover the strength needed to heal her wounds further, and her strongest potions were given to help Y’shtola and many others instead.

“You’re not overthinking your battle are you?” Alisaie questions, quietly reaching for a small stool to sit at her side. A’yana guiltily looks away, prompting the young girl to frown. “Yana,” Alisaie begins and A’yana can’t help but sigh. Alisaie only dropped her prefix when she was ready to chew her out.

“At least think about it from my perspective, Alisaie,” A’yana breathes, unable to even roll over and face her. “I’ve...never experienced a defeat such as that. In a way I suppose I am humbled, but I...I was also scared.”

They are both silent, Alisaie seeming to mull over her words. “Your soulmate…” Alisaie begins, causing A’yana to tense immediately. Thankfully it is still too dark to catch such minute movements. “Were they...did you sense them? Was it distracting you? They’re not…”

“No, they’re not dead.” A’yana cuts off, slinging an arm over her eyes, not wanting to show Alisaie her tears. She had to be strong for her. She had to be unshakable, an inspiration--

“Then where are they?” Alisaie presses, unable to see how A’yana’s fist clenches, how as much as she doesn’t want to, tears fall from her tired eyes.

“They’re not here. They left.” She lies. “I’m guessing they saw the explosions, heard the cannon fire from Rhalgr’s. And...I suppose that they don’t have a way to sense I’m near.” A’yana curses as she begins to sniffle, as sobs begin to wrack her body. She would never show this chip in her armor to anyone else.

“Yana…” Alisaie murmurs, reaching to hug her as best as she can with A’yana still lying down. The Miqo’te takes it, needing the comfort. She’s not surprised that Alisaie lets her think that she’s this immovable force, that she is not without flaws and fears. She knew Alisaie did not think any less of her for having weak points like anyone else.

But in her mind, nothing could make up for the fact that her soulmate was the enemy they were trying to defeat, and she just may not have the power to stop him.

[absynthe--minded]

opinions on the recent russingon meta? tbh i love russingon, i love black fingon headcanons, but i do agree that it's a little weird when fingon gets totally sidelined in fics as just Maedhros' Emotional Growth or the Black Nanny. i mean, russingon really lends itself to hurt/comfort, which is fine, but i think ppl sometimes neglect fingon's arc. thoughts as a russingon writer? (no accusations, love your work, but wanted your perspective on other ppls russingon works)

(Wow this got long, lol.

Full disclosure - I haven’t read the recent Russingon meta, or offered any substantial response to it. Quite a lot of people I know have, but I’ve not had the time and my brain hasn’t been cooperating with me to read large chunks of text over the last couple of days. I have opinions on your ask as I’m seeing it now, and that’s what I’ll be responding to. I’m also not black, though I’m not white either - my ethnic group is one that has troubling stereotypes associated with it of caring for white people/acting as sage dispensers of advice/etc, but I can’t speak to the breadth and depth of the black experience when it comes to being a ‘black nanny’ in fiction, and I’m not going to try to.)

So, Fingon being a cardboard cutout/emotional support animal for Maedhros and Fingon being perceived as black by large portions of the fandom are two things that arose completely independently of one another. Fingon being Maedhros’s support animal is a trope as old as Russingon itself, and possibly is as old as the published Silm itself. I’ve read Russingon fics that were almost as old as I am, Russingon fics published last week, Russingon fics that vilified the Nolofinwëans, and Russingon fics from the turn of the 21st century when the Fëanorians were seen as uncomplicated villains. Fingon being a cardboard cutout is ubiquitous through all of them. It doesn’t matter how old the fic is, it’s basically guaranteed.

The reason for this is that Maedhros is far and away the most popular character in the Silmarillion, and his pain and angst and mental strife and trauma are front and center in many writers’ lists of priorities. If it’s not Fingon propping him up, it’s Maglor, or another brother, or an OC - this is a very common genre of Silm fic and it’s not limited to Russingon.

But.

This is my least favorite Russingon trope and it’s the entire reason I’m writing Blessed Hands and why all my Russingon fics are at least majority-Fingon POV. I can’t fucking stand it, and it completely kills my interest in a story. I’m super picky with my Russingon fics because of this trope, and because of its ubiquity, and I’ve talked about it on my blog many times before. For me to love a Russingon fic, it has to be about how they anchor and support one another, and how their mutual and equal investment in their relationship is the foundation of their lives. This trope’s not nearly as common as it used to be, thank Eru, but it’s still around, and I cannot talk enough about how I Hate It, lol. It’s also old enough and omnipresent enough that the majority of fics feature it, and - interestingly - the majority of fics also feature white Fingon.

Alongside this, Black Fingon arose out of a non-Russingon intracommunity discussion among the artists of the Silm fandom, in about 2013. I saw this play out in real time on my dash, and so while I can’t source posts reliably, I can promise this is as accurate as I can make it.

The paradigm shift came as a result of content creators realizing that several of their number weren’t white, and quite a few people in the fandom weren’t white, and yet 100% of art and fics featured white elves with zero real diversity (and a number of very troubling, somewhat stereotypical older illustrations of Men as the only significant examples of people of color in Middle-Earth). There was concern as to why this was being accepted as the norm when there was ample opportunity for representing both one’s own ethnicity and other people of color (and a lot of concern about unexamined racism in white artists who found themselves unable, for various reasons, to picture heroic elves as anything but fair-skinned) and the general consensus was that we had more consistent information from HoME draft to HoME draft about hair color than skin tone, so why were we all picturing our heroes as white?

Fingon in particular was headcanoned as black due to a discovery by a fan (whose URL escapes me, sadly) who I’m certain was black themself. There’s a passage in The Peoples of Middle-Earth describing Fingon as wearing his hair in plaits braided through with gold, and this fan made the comparison to hairstyles worn by IRL black people. The idea was that he was the most uncomplicatedly brave, heroic, and noble person in the Silm, and look, he could be a man of color! There was also a sort of gentleman’s agreement to refrain from making explicit connections beyond that to real human ethnic groups/cultures/races. The logic behind this was that if the generic Eurofantasy aesthetic was kept, white artists would be encouraged to draw diverse elves without concern for cultural appropriation, as well as steering racists away from caricature and the ability to twist a well-meaning effort into a stereotypical attack.

When these ideas first emerged, there was a lot of resistance. Arguments were made that those of us who advocated for diverse elves and specifically black Fingon were discreetly accusing other artists of being racist, or were acting purposefully holier-than-thou, or just wanted to start drama. There were some people who claimed we’d attack anyone who didn’t agree with us that elves were brown. This was an exhausting mess to deal with and it was a major part of my disillusionment with discussing racism in the Tolkien fandom - the majority of voices were reasonable people but the minority was loud and obnoxious. I bring this up to say that diverse elves were genuinely progressive and forward-looking in 2013, even when it was more or less explicitly stated that they had no real ties to existing human races and they had no change to their characters.

Black Fingon, agreed upon outside the Russingon fandom, and Fingon the cardboard cutout, the most reliably present version of Fingon in Russingon fic, sort of ran into one another. No real change was ever made to Finno’s character upon making him black - this would have been seen at the time as unnecessary because his character was just fine as-is, and the whole point was that he could be exactly as he’d been before and be black or brown, that men of color had the exact same range of emotion and depth of character that he did when he was perceived as white. 

The problem is that there hasn’t been much examination of the idea that Fingon being a black man who exists to prop up a white man is uh. Really racist and kind of fraught.

All I have to say really is that this wasn’t a conscious decision by anyone to be racist - the opposite, actually. As I mentioned above I can’t speak for black people, or for other BIPOC, but my opinion is that it’s an unfortunate and unconscious choice that has nothing to do with Fingon’s race and everything to do with the fact that his character has been seriously neglected for decades now. It opens the door to a lot of really frustrating tropes and plotlines that smack fans of color in the face with how bigoted they are, and it’s something that I’m glad is being discussed, if only because I’ve been trying to push for a reevaluation of Fingon’s personality and general role for a long time now (though of course I’m also glad that this is actually getting acknowledged as a harmful thing real people now are at risk of doing).

My solution? Same as ever - “write Fingon like a real person with interests and desires and goals of his own, and treat his family like they matter, and flesh out the world he lives in. Listen to people of color if you’re white, educate yourself regardless, and learn to avoid harmful tropes.” If that becomes the fandom norm? I’ll be a happy Absynthe.

[askmalal]

Brother-Captain Kirek had been tracking this... thing... for hours. And now, here it was. In the one place it hadn't been seen on the sensors. And where, even now, more than a dozen false sensor images were being displayed across the reticles of his Tartaros model terminator helmet. So far, it had killed half a dozen Astartes, twice that many serfs, and slashed through eight servitors.

There were many other Legionaries available to the Captain, of course. Twenty of them. In their defense, the Astartes here aboard the frigate had hardly been prepared to repel a boarding action, and two were wounded men hardly in a position to defend themselves. Those who remained outside, unable to exit the Thunderhawk berthed in the hangar in the traditional way, had now cut their way out of the gunship and were now working their way through the bulkheads that lead to the autolift. But it was slow, laborious work, particularly with no access to breaching charges.

The beast-thing crouched in a corner of the great hologram chamber, its clawed hind legs resting on top of what appeared, distressingly, to look a great deal like what had once been Brother Velian. It almost certainly -was- Brother Velian. A section of the control panel had been sliced neatly in half by what could only have been Velian's chainglaive.

Nicolai snarled and leveled his combi-bolter at the thing. The walls of the precious, nearly irreplaceable holo-chamber, erupted in a hail of mass reactive rounds, flaking paint, and cracked glass. The beast thing darted away in a blur of motion, the rounds tracking it as if the Night Lord was firing a point defense mount at a flitting attack ship. None seemed to find purchase, though some struck Velian's body. That seemed undignified, even if Nicolai Kirek hadn't much liked Brother Velian.

When it was over, when the magazine was empty, Nicolai stood in the center of a cloud of debris and a thoroughly ruined holo-chamber. He growled, and slapped another magazine into the combi-bolter. As he did so, the thing was a grey blur, slamming into him with the force of a power maul. He was thrown to the floor, the beast-thing now resting atop his chest, regarding him curiously. Regarding him? Was that the right word?

For, while it had a fanged mouth, which remained impassive, there were no eyes to speak of. Leathery wings and a tail rose up behind a smooth, grey, animalistic form that was somehow a cross between a gargoyle and a cat, or was it a wolf? He wasn't certain. All he knew was that the thing had to die. Damn his temper. If he'd approached this with more guile and less ferocity, he might not find himself where he was just now, pinned beneath a thing that seemed far too light to have him pinned as he was.

"What... are you?" He growled, "And what are you doing on my ship?!"

The beast thing cocked its head at these words. A clawed, disturbingly humanoid hand traced an arc across the ceramite of his gorget, cutting a clear line across the lightning heraldry he had painstakingly refreshed countless times over the centuries of his service. A creature like that could easily kill him, in this position. That it was not, that it seemed to be playing with him, now, was a cruelty truly to the standards of the Eighth Legion.

"Your ship." The voice that came from the thing's small, fanged mouth was an uncomfortably close echo of his own, Nostraman accent.

Except... that the thing wasn't talking. And the thing wasn't coming from the beast-thing's mouth. It was coming from the ragged mouth of the thing that had been Brother Velian, or some approximation of it was, echoing through the cracked remains of a vox grille. It was not true, an actual lie, in fact, that Astartes were immune to fear; they simply processed the experience differently. Now, the ghost of fear began to play across the corners of his mind. He could very easily be dead in a few minutes. There was no way to get to the combi-bolter. Perhaps, if he could reach the vibro blade mag-locked to his cartridge belt...

"Velian..." Nikolai questioned, "are you..."

"...Velian... is not in any condition... to speak. It is fortunate that... the Night Gaunt left his vocal chords intact..."

Nikolai growled his displeasure. "You are wasting your time if you think I'm going to seize up with fear. Just get it over with if you..." he almost had his hand to the pommel of the blade. If he could get a grip....

"Spoken like every self-righteous Legionary I have ever encountered. No. You will live, Captain. If for no other reason than the need to ensure that My Master's message is understood."

"-My- Master's message..." Nikolai frowned, "will soon be very clear. Once the rest of my platoon enter this space, you will die. As painfully as is possible for..."

"At what point," the ragged vox grille continued, "did the sons of Konrad Curze choose to acknowledge Masters? Was it before or after you sold your Legion sold its souls to Abaddon the Despoiler?"

"I am no puppet of Abaddon. And I will..." Now his hands were on the pommel of the blade. If he could use the right leverage, he could easily....

"No." With unnerving speed and bizarre grace, the Beast-Thing traced a claw under the seam of Nikolai's helmet, uncomfortably close to his jugular vein. "Keep the blade where it is. It is a pretty thing. Crafted by true artisans. It would be a shame to waste it. No. You are no puppet of Abaddon, are you? Your Master thinks themself greater than the Warmaster. Curses his name. Do they not?"

"Your message, then," the Captain growled. "Out with it, then."

"The Night-Gaunt's Master wants -your- Master to understand something," the vox crackled. "And there should be no ambiguity in The Night Gaunt's message. The Night Lord will listen to The Night Gaunt. Understood?"

Nicolai Kerik swallowed hard. Furious. Unable to act. Humiliated. When he had the chance, if he had the chance, he would tear the thing to ribbons with his bare, bloody hands!

The Night Gaunt extended its free, right hand, and displayed the 'thumb' and 'index' finger thereof. Clutched between them was.... no. That was impossible, really. An illusion. A trick of the mind. It was very much like a miniaturized, perfectly created model of the Gloriana class battleship that his Battle Company called home.

"This frigate is not your ship," the Night-Gaunt, for that's what it seemed to call itself, echoed via the unfortunate Velian. "It was never your ship. It originally belonged to the Fifteenth Legion, if memory serves my Master correctly. You stole it from a party of rivals. Loyalists, you'd call them. No, even then, it wouldn't be your own ship. This..." The Night-Gaunt cocked its eyeless face toward the miniaturized battleship, "this is the ship that you, and your band of renegades call home. The center of your fleet. This, of course, is a mere toy. And to My Master... the same can be said of your home. Is that clear?"

"I..."

"I do not seek to intimidate you. Nor do I seek to instill fear. That is not my Master's wish. No, The Night-Gaunt wants you to understand the truth. You conduct yourselves like gods. But you are not gods. You are self-righteous, post-human abominations. Do you understand?"

Nicolai said nothing.

"You all think yourselves so pretty. So powerful. You throw proud challenges out to all who will hear them. You spit on the names of Primarchs and Gods alike. And yet, you are nothing like your gene-father. And yet, he was nothing compared to -my- Father. Do you understand?"

Again, the Captain did nothing but grit his teeth.

"To My Master, your home is but a toy and these can be thought of as his fingers. Never forget." the fingers closed down, crushing the toy as if it were a bundle of dry matchsticks. "Remember your place."

"What... is the point of..."

"Arrogance is misplaced in a band of genetically flawed post-human abominations living in a stolen battleship, using stolen weapons. Brave, are you? My Master suggests that you take yourself to Terra, and display that bravery. Or perhaps you would rather return to the fold of the Black Legion, to challenge Abaddon for his title to Warmaster."

"I am not interested in pithy nothings. You have delivered your message. Have you not? If you aren't going to kill me, then..."

"I have delivered my message. My Master now informs me that you may slay me, if you wish. My purpose has been fulfilled."

The claw was withdrawn, and within a second, Nicolai had drawn his vibro-blade, slashing the grey flesh of the Beast-Thing as if it was so much tissue paper. His armor was spattered with gore. And still, the thing gazed at him impassively, its chest a ruin, the color leaving its form. It whispered something as he kicked it away.

"What was that?!" He growled, "More threats?!"

Verian's vox grille gurgled and spat. "...It said..." the voice of Brother Verian choking on his own blood, ".... Ave Malice..."

[crqstalite]

do it for us. [mind blind]

HA yes I’m back again. With, unsurprisingly, more angst for Carmen Wiseman. Sort of sequel to do it for them, where Carmen gets some actual emotional help. Sort of.

carmen wiseman (they/them pronouns) + nick wiseman + salome alavidze. chapter 5 spoilers. words: 1,784

-

Black polish? Really button? Not even a little color?

Carmen groans, while Sally paints their last pinky toe black. No, they’re happy with the pitch black instead of something brighter. Matched their soul at least. The whiskey’s bitter while they sip out of it from a mug, and Nick had already berated them over drinking it, but at least it’s a good indicator of just how well they’re coping. They could’ve gone for the really hard stuff.

That’s not comforting, at all.

Comforting or not, no one said you had to comment either, Carmen thinks back before taking another sip out of the cup, the amber liquid burning the back of their throat, but otherwise numbing the sharper edges at the back of their mind. They’re better than they were when they were first in the hospital, sitting next to Nick’s bed with guilt drowning them like a tidal wave, but that didn’t mean that their emotions were making it any easier to process what was going on. Everything since then has been a blur. The Pollard Five is a welcome surprise, but something about it feels so...wrong. Like they don’t deserve it. Like they lost far too much to get it.

They’re not even sure they want it anymore, not after everything that’s happened.

At least have fun with Sally, after the days you’ve had, you deserve it. Though, you don’t have to be drunk to do it either, Nick responds back. His tone is getting testy, that much they know and it hurts them a little. He didn’t like them drinking, even when he was corporeal. Still, Button, it’s okay not to be okay. This isn’t my favorite situation either. But having an alcohol addiction as a newly minted adult and trainee MIV isn’t a great look. Or healthy.

I didn’t ask you for your opinion, Nicholas, They respond, their hands quivering when Sally hands them the remote. It isn’t as if one glass of whiskey was going to turn them into an addict, but they can’t really say they don’t like the taste. Better than what they’d had earlier at the cafe at least.

Fine, fine. I’m only saying, Nick answers.

Sally’s asking which movie to watch, maybe about Glitch in between titles.

Glitch.

Their cheeks warm at the thought of the man who’d held they in his arms this afternoon. It was nice. Very nice. The kiss he’d planted on their lips they’re still thinking about now. It’s the happiest they’ve been since...ever. He’d managed to loosen the tight ball of anxiety that’d wrapped itself around them for the few hours they’d been together.

And yet, when they split, they still felt cold. So cold. Their fingers are freezing, they can’t sit still. A flash of warmth flickers over their body, a cold sweat seeping into their clothes as they try to wrap their arms around each other.

Nick. Hooked up to too many machines for them count. Still. Not moving.

“Can I leave already?”

They almost left the hospital without visiting. At first, they hadn’t felt bad about the thought. They were tired, had been since then. The sirens had stayed in their head, ringing in their ears like an alarm. The antiseptic stuck to them, even after they left the hospital. All the wires, all the tests. The hushed talking, the grim outlooks.

Nick. Closed gray eyes. No jokes. No nagging them for being overly morbid.

Carmen...

It almost felt like they were watching themselves in the hospital room. They couldn’t bring any tears to spill down their cheeks like any distraught sibling should’ve been able to. They couldn’t bring themselves to want to stay any longer, like they should’ve. They couldn’t bring themselves to be the way they should’ve been, with their brother nearly dead and not even breathing on his own.

Nick. Blonde hair limp against the pillow instead of billowing in the wind when they went out together. Pale skin paler than it ever should’ve been.

He couldn’t squeeze their hand back, like when they were younger, and he would squeeze their’s to tell them that he loved them. They waited so long for him to.

Nick.

Their brother. The one who finished raising them.

They’re shaking now. They can’t get that image of Nick, their Nick, their big brother, their everything, on the brink of death out of their head. They can hear the machines again, they can hear the ambulance’s whine again.

They can hear that explosion again. Blinding, loud. Their phone had cracked.

Taking their brother with it.

A stove-in chest injury.

Trying to put the nearly empty mug on the coffee table, Carmen unfurls themself.

Nick was in a coma. And he’d just barely survived.

Instead of landing on the glass pane, it slips out of their grasp and falls to the ground shattering into a million pieces.

“Carmen!” Sally jumps from where she’d been sitting, removing her feet from the ground and turning to look at them with wide, worried hazel eyes meeting theirs, “Too much to drink?”

They feel more sober than they had been five minutes ago. Painfully so. Everything’s too clear. The TV is blinding them. The fabric of their shirt is rubbing against them painfully, their hair brushing the nape of their neck like nails.

Their toenails are barely dry. Some of it has smeared on their pant legs.

Their chest heaves before they let out a sob, tears filling their eyes and a loud cry filling the room, “I’m sorry!”

Sally looks bewildered, before carefully picking her way across the couch to wrap her arms around Carmen, “Hey, hey, it’s just a mug! We can replace it before Nick comes back.”

It isn’t just the mug. They couldn’t give a flying fuck about the mug.

It’s all their fault. They shouldn’t have left Nick with an angry goodbye, they shouldn’t have let their last words to him have been so hostile. They should’ve just taken the damn crockpot, they should’ve been nicer to him that morning. They should’ve just accepted the damn eggs and hot sauce, they should’ve been better.

They’re the failure here, the crack in the mug.

Button-

Their thoughts are only getting louder and more out of control. Their sobs only match it, growing louder and louder until they can barely breathe, their eyes burning and tears wetting Sally’s shirt.

“Carmen?” Sally asks, trying to soothe them by rubbing their back, “Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.”

“No it’s not!” They exclaim back, and Sally flinches at their tone, “Nick is gone because of me!”

“No he’s not!” Sally replies forcefully, gently pushing Carmen off of them to hold them by their shoulders, “This isn’t your fault, none of it is!”

“He’s my brother! It should’ve been me in that hospital bed, not him! He didn’t deserve this!”

Button!

Carmen only cries harder, Nick’s louder tone making them wince.

I don’t blame you for this, none of it! Whoever the hell did this, that’s on them, not you. Whether we argued this morning or over the phone call, that doesn’t matter and it doesn’t mean you should’ve taken this one for the team. You’re my sibling, and I love you no matter what happens.

I got you nearly killed!

Nick goes quiet, formulating a response before continuing. His tone is calm, but shaking just as much as their’s is. Maybe he doesn’t believe it as much as he tries to pass it off that he does, If that were the case, you’d be down at the police station. But you’re not, because you aren’t responsible. Sure, we press each other’s buttons, but that doesn’t make you the culprit for an accident that is probably the fault of some messed up terrorist, He pauses for a moment, Button, I’m still alive and mostly conscious because of you.

It’s going to be okay.

Is it? Will it ever be? There are so many unknowns and they’re scared.

Sally holds them like that for a while, until their breathing begins to slow. Nick reassures them and comforts them through the rest of it. The credits roll when they finally unstick themselves from her. 

They’re a little disgusted with themselves, they don’t cry. They never do. Nor do they ever have outbursts like this. They shouldn’t. They don’t want to be here anymore, not with their eyes puffy and red and tears still wet on their cheeks that they hesitate to wipe away.

You can’t hold onto all that grief by yourself, Carmen, Nick says, It’s okay to have emotions.

“We -- you, me and Nick -- we’re going to figure this out. You know we will,” Sally gives them a sad, but soft smile, “We’re a team, remember? And this,” She gestures to the pair of them, “Is a team sport.”

She’s got a point, Nick assures them, Can’t exactly get rid of your teammates.

Carmen hates relying on people, they let her down more often than not. They hated team sports as it was.

Okay, well, you get the point, button.

They take a shaky breath, glancing at the shards of glass on the floor, “I know. I’m sorry for...everything.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I would’ve been afraid if you stayed all cool and brooding all evening,” Sally jokes, before steadying her tone, “If you ever need to vent like that again, you can. Always. I’m here for you.”

“I couldn’t put that on you. Besides, there are bigger issues now, with Aeon targeted and all, and I can’t shield you anymore.” I couldn’t burden you with my problems. Don’t ask me to. I can’t. It hurts.

“Yes, you can. And you should. As many times as you’ve heard me complain and vent, I think you’re long overdue to do it yourself,” Sally says. She squints at Carmen critically, “You’re doing that thing again where you’re trying to deflect away from the real problem.”

“What?”

“Sure, Aeon was targeted. But y’know what else? That took a toll on you. And that’s fine. The shielding issue, we can figure that out, but I know you’ve been carrying around so much of...all this for so long. Promise me you won’t do it again? I hate seeing you in pain like this.”

She’s asking a lot. Twenty one years and only know they’re supposed to dump the protective habit they’d cultivated all those years ago? Sally knew them better than anyone, she knows how they are. She knows that they can’t just change like that. They’ve never been mentally healthy, ever, and yet...

It is a lot, and I know you can’t get rid of it all that easy. Though I don’t think she’s asking for you to give it up cold turkey, Nick explains, Can you try though? Try, and do it for us?

Nick’s hopeful voice. Sally’s equally hopeful expression.

They let go of a shaky, wet breath.

“I can try.”

[swannscngs]

𝒲𝐻𝒪  𝒟𝒪  𝒴𝒪𝒰  𝐿𝒪𝒱𝐸 : a case study on love and the five senses.

DISCLAIMER/TLDR: swann likes to think she doesn’t get attached, and this is basically saying X @ swann. please note that swann has a very warped and toxic perception of how to love and what it means to love another person. it is not healthy, point blank period, and her ideas regarding love have been primarily melted down to the idea that in order to truly love someone you must be willing to sacrifice your entire self for them ( see: what she’s willing to do/feels she has to do for roux ). because of this, i have decided to highlight the instances of when swann has allowed herself to be loved and cared for. / @embersrpg

１． ＳＩＧＨＴ.

𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗳 𝗳𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗻 looks like sunshine personified. you wish you could have just a bit of that bright light that he always gives off. really, you’re not even sure you can remember a time where he wasn’t smiling... though you have to believe it’s happened before. even at your reaping, there your friend stood, off in the crowd with the other kids waiting to be reaped in your age group with a small, reassuring smile on his face. ‘if anyone is going to make it,’ he told you, ‘it’ll be you, swann.’ 

he’s carried so much: for his family, for you, for everyone. the weight of their grief must be insurmountable, but however much it is, he never has let it show, at least not with you. if you’re being honest, so much of what you have learned — at least about feigning happiness and poise — has been from your time with reef. you’ve memorized the crinkles along the side of his eyes when he’s really smiling, the way his head shakes when caught off guard by laughter, and the way his hand reaches out to gently squeeze friend’s arms or hands as if to transfer some of it over to them. when you do it, it’s not nearly as natural as him, but the capitolites still eat it straight from your hand. in so many ways, you have reef to thank for keeping you alive this long.

２． ＳＭＥＬＬ.

content/trigger warnings: smoking, vomit (slight mention), nightmares.

𝘄𝗼𝗹𝗳 𝗽𝗶𝘁𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆, a legend amongst the capital, and the man you were lucky enough to call your mentor. if there’s one thing that always brings you back to him its the scent of pipe tobacco clings to him like a good friend with just a trace of vanilla. he’s rough on you. always has been, but if there’s anyone that knows you better than yourself ( outside of roux ), it’s him. 

the first time he lit a pipe around you was on the train to the training center from district four. the smell of thick smoke trapped in such a small area caused you to cough so hard you nearly gagged. you had begged him to put the thing out, even went so far as to ask if he was trying to kill you before you even got a chance to get into the arena. he simply laughed, patted you on the shoulder and told you that you’d understand if you won this thing.

and you did, didn’t you? the moment you came out of those games, you found him and joined him in those clouds of smoke, allowed him to be the first person to hold you like the small child that you were. 

you wish now that you could recall the point when mentor became family and when the smell of pipe smoke kept you grounded, reminded you of safety and home. was it when he heard you screaming in the middle of the night from one train car over and helped get you back to sleep? or maybe it was the time he caught you with some old fishing twine, your hands too shaky to do much other than hold it, and sat next to you in silence with his pipe in one hand until you could bare to get up and continue on.

you don’t see as much of each other anymore — you with your various invitations and he with his retirement settling in now back in district four... but when you do it’s a reminder that at least someone is in your corner. 

３． ＨＥＡＲＩＮＧ．

𝘀𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗹 may not have been one for fishing, training, or even trapping, but oh how they could sing. you two were quite a pair too. they would man the boat, making sure it didn’t drift off too far, while you would dive underneath the surface of the water searching for whatever food you could manage to find. their sweet, soulful voice, while beautiful in itself, would carry the fish right over to you as if under some spell. 

they used to joke that they must be part siren with their ability to lure your prey with nothing but the sound of their voice, or maybe they had ancestors that had been famous singers. you, in turn, would do nothing but tease them right back or give them a playful roll of your eyes.

when the sun would begin to set and it was time for the two of you to head back home, you would take the oars — despite your fatigued muscles that needed nothing but rest — just so their hands could remain free to drum along against the hull of the boat as they sang you both home. 

４． ＴＡＳＴＥ．

content/trigger warnings: (slight) nsfw, blood, grief, murder.

𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝗱𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄 is someone you haven’t been acquainted with in years. the two of you had been something close to best friends in your youth: one could not be found without the other. she had always been braver and more outspoken, but you had always been the one to keep her grounded, hold her down.

those feelings had not existed when you were growing up, but at some point — after the death of your friend during their games and before the victory tour for yours — grief and a need for comfort became displaced and misinterpreted as love. the remedy the two of you concocted had been one focused on two bodies gripping and holding onto each other, searching for something... anything. 

you had hoped that the taste of her skin — a mess of salt water and sweat — would wash away the blood from yours. 

but it didn’t, and you lost her. maybe one of the only friends you’ve ever had. maybe while you were trying to wash out the taste from your mouth, her mouth became stuck with the blood in yours.

５． ＴＯＵＣＨ．

content/trigger warnings: pregnancy complications, birth defect.

𝗺𝗮𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲, your dear sweet mother, was the one who taught you nearly all that you know about the ocean and the creatures that inhabit it. it was her gentle hands that would rub your back or squeeze you in for a tight hug after conquering yet another type of fishing knot. they are the same hands that would hold your face with a toothy grin on hers after you brought home your first handcrafted wind chime for her.

those hands that had celebrated and held you during your biggest childhood triumphs had also been the last one’s you’d gripped onto before being shipped off from district four. with one hand on yours and the other pushing back the hair that had fallen into your face, your mother told you how much she loved you, how she knew that she would see you soon, and — as she pressed her lips onto your forehead for a final goodbye — how you would always be her sweet girl, no matter what. 

𝗮𝘁𝗹𝗮𝘀 𝗺𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 was never the affectionate type. his affirmations came in the form of small nods and grunts of approval. the memory itself is so hazy because you were so young, but the only time you can remember him actually smiling in your direction was the day that you first learned how to swim. his rough and calloused hands from years of fishing held your tiny body up in the water as you kicked and paddled with all your might. you felt it, the moment his hands left your skin, and you were on your own with nothing but your own ability as it moved through the cool water. 

so surprised by your own accomplishment after having made it out just a bit by yourself, you had faltered and hesitated. your head popped up above the surface, gasping for air as you began treading water looking to your father for what to do next. but he was already at your side, smile on his face as he lifted you up above the water and letting you drop back down into his arms. compliments rained down on you for how great you had been, how you looked like a little fish.

your mother, hearing the commotion from back on land, had shouted out from the porch of your house asking if every thing was okay. your father then, still with a broad smile on his face, lifted you up and onto his shoulders yelling back, ‘she’s done it! our golden girl can swim!’

𝗼𝘆𝗻𝘅 𝗺𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 never touched you after you came back from the games, but you can still remember the first time you held them in your arms. the miracle child is what your parents called them when they were finally able to take their first breath. they had been so frail, so tiny in your hands that you almost couldn’t believe it when your parents told you they were your younger sibling and not some porcelain doll they were gifting to you. 

their tiny fingers couldn’t even grasp your thumb with the lack of muscle they had developed. you had thought then, with their soft, wrinkly skin pressing up to your own, feeling their own tiny heart beat against your chest — challenging the rhythm of your own — that it would be the two of you against the world.

and it was that way, at least for a bit, when they were still figuring themself out at least. they would climb into your bed at night when storms were raging on outside and making it hard to sleep, they would grip into your skin and wrap their little legs around you when entering into the water and learning how to swim screaming about the cold. 

but then one day, that all changed. they saw the way you were training, how you began to let go of so many things you had used to share with them in secret about your thoughts on the games, and they couldn’t stand to be around you anymore.

[skvaderarts]

Hiraeth Chapter 49: Structure

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Forty-Nine: Structure

Notes: LOL I’m deliriously tired today. IDK why. But anyway, I hope you enjoy it. And congrats to HunterJamie for being the only one I know of for sure to catch that little reference regarding the demon! I was so worried that I didn’t do a good job describing them.

(-~-)

Diving out of the way just in time, the intrepid group of young devil hunters realized very quickly that the foe they were up against was distinctly different from anyone that they had faced in the past. He possessed a certain calm diligence that was hard to put into words, but it made simply running up and attacking him infeasible, and that was before his weapon or his frankly ferocious summon was taken into account. Every step that one of them took towards this foe ended in him shifting to the side or back and blocking them, only for them to immediately be flanked by his absolutely relentless familiar.

The devil didn’t move like anything that the youngest of the Dark Knight Sparda’s descendants had ever faced in the past. It was cold and calculated, waiting for the perfect moment to strike as it pinwheeled in and out of the darkness. It stalked them with a methodology not unlike Shadow’s, but with a speed and fluidity that made it difficult to keep your eyes on where this creature was actually headed next. They couldn’t watch it at all times and also keep their eyes on the summoner it was protecting. That would literally require extra eyes. And while one of them possessed a set of wings that possessed an additional set of hands, none of them had any additional eyes. It backed them into a corner that they frankly didn’t want to be in, and they were resentful of that, fact to say the very least.

Jetting towards the train car, Flora slid underneath one of the downed pillars in an attempt to momentarily confuse her pursuer. It only partially worked, forcing the devil to bolt around the other side of the pile and search for her, but not stopping its pursuit. Not even a bullet in the back from Nero a moment later could succeed in that endeavor, distracting it for a moment as it turned to snarl at him in irritation, but not culling it in any meaningful manner. The young man cursed under his breath and hurried after it as he hurried to swap out a few of the rounds in his revolver. This might be worth breaking out something a bit more powerful.

Lucia blocked an oncoming attack from the summoner, locking their weapon in place for a moment as she hoped that V would take the opportunity to attack. Thankfully, he did just that, sending Shadow to attack their shared opponent in the form of a rush of black spiked tendrils that slammed forward out of the floor, destroying the already heavily damaged pavement as she leaped forward and towards the summoner’s throat. He managed to pull away from the guardian, turning his weapon on the demonic panther, a move that saw her retreat in mid-air in the form of a dusty black powder that retracted until it reached V. That wouldn’t have killed her by any means, but any harm that he could prevent happening to her he would gladly welcome.

A well-placed trio of thin, razor-sharp throwing daggers nearly found their mark as Lucia aimed at the mysterious individual’s head, nicking their hood, but nothing more. They seemed to pause for a second, looking over their shoulder to find the instruments that had nearly caused them to meet their end stuck in the side of the wall. This gave Nero the perfect opportunity to fire a charged round at them from his place across the room, succeeding in causing them to stumble, but not killing them or even wounding them, by the looks of it.

They slumped over towards the floor, looking down as they placed their hand on their face, something black dripping from within the confines of the hood. V could only assume that it was blood, but he couldn’t be sure from the distance that he stood. It was too dark in the terminal to see much of anything. If he was willing to make a guess -and he was- he’d say that the terminal had electrical damage. It was hard to believe that a major metro line wouldn’t have some sort of backup power capabilities.

Standing upright, the individual looked over at V, anger radiating off of them in waves that took the white-haired summoner somewhat by surprise. They seemed fixated on him, tuning everything else out. And as they did so, the sound of metal pulling apart could be heard from the other side of the room. Flora had reached the train, and she was using what seemed to be a great deal of power to force open the bent train doors. But as soon as she succeeded in getting them open, she let out a sigh of exhausted relief and was immediately beset upon by the unfamiliar devil. It launched itself off of the ceiling, slamming its two large hands like appendages down into the concrete in front of Nero and gripping it, ripping the concrete tile out of the foundation and sending him tumbling back into the train’s undercarriage. He fired a few misplaced shots at it in retaliation and most met their mark, but this only served to enrage the beast further as it tore tunning after him. Flora turned away from the screaming civilians that were running to safety from within the mangled train car to try and waylay it, but was struck down for her trouble, letting out a loud, agonized cry as she did so, clearly in a great deal of pain and totally taken aback by the sudden attack. It had turned so fast… 

V felt his blood run cold as he witnessed this, sharing a momentary look with Lucia. One of them needed to get to Nero and Flora as fast as possible, and he knew that it wouldn’t be him. They were in a hard spot, and would be in grave danger without assistance, not to mention the lives of the dozen or so people who were only now making their way to safety; a path that was intersected by an extremely dangerous fie that they stood no chance against. 

With a slow, prolonged blink, he silently asked her to go instead, choosing with much difficulty to allow her to save the both of them from what would otherwise be certain death. It hollowed his heart to do so, but he knew that he could handle their unwelcome guest on his own if she could handle that demon. And he knew without a doubt that that demon, as fast as it might be, couldn’t outspeed Lucia. She would see to that, and he would handle this mindless murder. V was certain that if he kept his cool and focused on the task at hand that he could defeat them. After all, he’d gone up against dangerous foes before, and many of them had been several times larger than him with powers beyond his wildest imagination. At least this opponent was the same size as him.

Stepping forward, the other summoner adjusted their stance in an obvious bid at attempting a follow-up attack. Part of V wondered if his opponent was clearly telegraphing this on purpose to mislead him or if they were simply starting to grow tired and were unaware of what their body language was giving away. Regardless, the young summoner would be prepaid for whatever this individual threw at him.

As they stepped closer to him, V took notice of something rather interesting to him. His opponent had a limp. It wasn’t especially obvious when they were standing still, but during the brief windows of time that they spent moving forward towards him, V had noticed that their right leg was clearly weaker than the left. It stuck out to him like a sore thumb, the young descendant of Sparda personally understanding the discomfort it caused and the detriment it could be at times. Injuring it during his fall several years back had sent him down a rabbit hole of continuous reinjury that broken bones seemed to be so prone to, but he made a point of not allowing that to stop him. He would manage. All in all, it wasn’t that bad, not to mention the fact that it gave him a convenient reason to explain the presence of his signature weapon. People didn’t like to question that sort of thing. He only really carried it at this point due to his pension for sudden bouts of weakness, but that insight gave him an especially devious idea.

Playing into what he assumed they might attempt, they rushed him suddenly as they had previously. The difference was that this time he was ready for them. Calling Shadow to his side, V easily phased past the pillar that he’d been pretending to have his back against, blocking the attack with his cane. Shadow went for the stranger’s back, a move that they seemed to anticipate to some degree as they sidestepped her, a slight graze that did substantial damage to the back of their coat being the only evidence of the strike. But just when they seemed to believe that they had dodged the attack, Griffon materialized and hit them with a wall of powerful electricity, causing them to step back right into the waiting jaws of a very enraged panther. They were taken to the floor in an instant, calmly raising their hand to signal for their familiar to return to their side. A loud demonic screech from the other side of the room, indicating that his request was being denied as the demon was pinned to the wall by Lucia’s twin blades, the guardian withdrawing them and spinning as she slashed their throat. She then stepped back and allowed Nero to put another charged round square in the demon’s head as a final act of overkill, the bullet detonating a moment later and ending the beast.

Looking over at their struck-down familiar, they craned their neck up at V, barely paying any mind to the fact that Shadow was standing with her right paw on their chest, severely restricting their movement. After a moment they exhaled, a breathless, soundless laugh coming from their chest as they did so. They nodded to themself, never taking their focus away from V as they did so. A part of him felt as though they were almost sarcastically impressed with his actions and those of his companions. They would probably clap if they were capable of doing so. But without the ability to see their face to be able to look them in the eye, he had no way of knowing for certain.

“Okay asshole, you’ve got a lot of fucking explaining to do,” Nero said, clearly furious as he stumbled over with Flora in tow. The young woman had her arm wrapped around his shoulders and he was supporting her carefully by attempting to hold her up under the arm, but she was at least still conscious and coherent. For his part, his head was bleeding from his tumble down under the train, but he was otherwise unharmed. She said nothing, her fury evident as they made their way over to the rest of the group. Lucia juggled a couple of her throwing daggers between her fingers, her eyes trained on the individual who had caused them so very much harm. She had no intention of allowing them to so much as breath too hard.

A procession of terrified but grateful townspeople shouted thanks at them as they passed, running for their lives in the direction of the stairs. The escalators might have been non-functional at the moment due to the lack of power to make them move, but they were still stairs either way and all that they wanted to do was get out of there as soon as possible. All they knew was that the train had crashed and that two strangers being attacked by a monster had pulled the doors open. That was more than enough.

Seemingly paying no mind to Nero’s emotionally charged question, they kept their eyes locked on V. He could tell that much just looking at them. They were most certainly human, that much was clear. And with that fact established, that only left two outcomes. That they possessed no emotions, or that they were so devoted to whatever it was that they were trying to accomplish here that they had forsaken them. There was no semblance of fear or concern anywhere in their demeanor. Even with Shadow holding them down, their own sumon temporarily despatched, and four powerful foes standing over them ready to strike them dead at a moment’s notice, they just didn’t seem to care.

“In case you didn’t hear them, they both asked you a question. It would be wise of you to answer it after everything you’ve done.” Lucia said patiently, her pleasant but firm tone belying the fact that she was rapidly losing her patience with this individual. Well, that was if one were to assume that she had ever possessed any towards them in the first place. She very likely hadn’t and was simply unwilling to jump the gun in a situation like this. Any information that this deranged psychopath could provide them may prove to be useful. So long as their existence might be useful, then they were safe from her ire. But for their sake, it was probably best that they start talking sooner rather than later.

Without warning, darkness suddenly enveloped the station. It was a sort of all-consuming presence that felt physically heavy. And from that darkness manifested a long, centipede-like demon covered in a hard, almost shell-like carapace. It bulldozed through the already mangled building, jetting up out of the ground and towards Shadow. The group was knocked back against the wall of the supports buckled under the level supports, a large hairline crack splitting through the ceiling above them. The horrifying creature coiled around the other summoner as the structure around them began to lose its structural integrity.

V called Shadow back to his side, sharing a concerned look with his companions as they realized that they needed to get out of there as fast as they could. Making a B-line towards the defunct escalators, they ran as fast as they could manage, the ground caving in on them as they went. Dangerous chunks of concrete and metal toppled to the ground above them as they made their way towards the exit. They were cutting it dangerously close and they all knew it but none of them dared speak a word in relation to it. Speaking that into existence wasn’t the best idea.

Instead, they all made haste towards the last exit that wasn’t obscured, diving and tumbling out onto the pavement as they managed to just barely escape with their lives. The sounds of sirens, collective speech, and emergency vehicles drowned out every thought that they might have possessed in their minds as they simply laid there for a moment and allowed the gravity of what had just happened to fully sink in. They had tried their best to face off against their unfamiliar opponent, and they had rescued as many people as they could from the wreckage caused by the accident. Everyone else had fled, but V and Nero especially hoped that once they left and the emergency services took over that they would be able to find as many people alive as possible. The area had seen enough death, and the people in that station had been innocent bystanders whose only crime had been being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

As they laid there catching their breath, V internally cursed himself. He now had a more concrete idea as to why that masked murderer might have been quietly laughing to themself. They had an ace up their sleeve, and it was quite the boon in such a short space. Had they been above ground, things would have no doubt gone differently. “And next time they shall. This won’t be the last of them that we see. I refuse to believe they are actually dead. It’s never that easy.”

“… That one I do know. Scolopendra. An infernal demon; as ancient as they are enormous. I believe that they never stop growing. Thankfully that one was relatively small by their standards.” She waited for a moment to see how they reacted, noticing that none of them seemed to respond in the way that she expected them to, she shrugged painfully, allowing Nero to help lower her to the floor. “They come from the deepest depths of the underworld and care little for our tawdry affairs. It’s exceedingly rare to see one in the human world. I’d love to know where that summoner got them from.”

“Well, what a wonderful fucking surprise. I hope we never see it again.” Nero said as he shook his head, unsure as to what they should do next. They needed to head back and talk to Vergil, sure… but then what would they do? Would they accidentally lead their enemy back to the office or to V’s house? They needed a plan. Perhaps it was best to track down a phonebooth and call the others to let them know that they were alright? After all, it stood to reason that they knew what had happened at the station by now. Vergil being injured probably wasn't going to keep him from going to search for them. They had to beat him to the punch.

But as they stood up and started to brush themselves off, something familiar caught their eye from the other side of the crowd that had started to gather near the station. All the shouting and commotion suddenly evaporated in the presence of something more familiar to them, a welcome sight after the horrors and near-death experiences that they had all just sustained.

Vergil had just arrived. And he had a lot of catching up to do. 

(-~-)

Sorry for any mistakes. I was super tired when I was editing this. Like, I got to the last two pages and I was falling asleep sitting up. It was bad. Anyway, I can’t wait to read your thoughts on this one. I had a blast on this chapter, and I hope you did, too!

[eriisaam]

Something something Tarot Card Project something.

---

Context under the cut, in order of appearance:

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Kyo - The Fool (  Hear me out.)

Symbolizing new beginning, adventure, opportunities, pleasure, etc. It reflects how when Lifonse and Kamui first met him (from his perspective), he suddenly took a drastic turn in his life with opening new opportunities (becoming a summoner, stabilizing his power to go from a ditto to a ditto-mew, getting his first legendary in Zacian and encountering others, finding his ex and making amends to be on surprisingly good terms with him, having lovers who immediately love him, etc), of which his stinkiness nearly self-sabotaged in his apprehension, his guardedness, and (more sympathetically) him managing his past experiences and traumas, of which had Lifonse and Kamui not been so patient, supportive and loving as they had, there were so many opportunities he could've ruined for himself. This incarnation of him even gained more lovers than his past self (in Eclair and then Kaze), and in a moment of humbling himself and realizing in full of the weight of his failings and foolishness, it had a profound effect in Zacian for her to knight him, proclaiming herself as his to officially train.

For the reverse, this also winds up heavily symbolizing his past-self, who became present-Kyo's fallen alt, who did wind up self-sabotaging things by causing a lot of trauma that lingered in Kamui and Lifonse, who went a completely different direction in life from the present Kyo, and was woefully apathetic and uncaring to Lifonse and Kamui as a whole compared to present-Kyo not only opening up and genuinely loving them more, but making strides to change himself for the better for their sake, too. There were many scars he left behind in Lifonse and Kamui that negatively impacted even present-Kyo’s relationship with them, and the only moment he had a saving grace was just before his death, and ruined just as quickly when Hel claimed him as one of her new cohorts. Worth also noting that unlike the present Kyo, whose power stabilized his ditto genes to be mew-like, past-Kyo didn’t develop nearly as pronounced a bond to do the same, and thus, lacked their connection to a mew.

---

Ephrel - The Chariot

In reverse, the feeling of defeat, being vanquished, lost, etc. Were all feelings that reflected how Ephrel was in the eyes of Sparrow's Order of Heroes prior to Sparrow's official status as summoner (of which Chrom's was unofficial before her). They were completely forgotten to the point they didn't even have a name attached other than "former summoner/previous summoner", the circumstances of why they were gone were almost entirely unheard of or guesswork, and there seemed far too much haste to try to forget them as much as possible in favor of moving on with Sparrow, satisfied to keep their fate unknown with very few to give a fuck otherwise (like Chrom, then Sparrow based on Chrom's own unwavering hope to find out what happened once learning Ephrel had a life after their robinsona).

The process of finding Spectabilis, then deciding to redeem them rather than kill them (which would be far easier and inconsequential), was what flips The Chariot upright: Reflecting the long, rocky road Chrom persevered to press forward to, and meet up to free Ephrel from a fate of stagnancy, rather than just leave it at accepting his replacement Robins and moving on without them like everyone else. This action was what allowed Ephrel's live to continue forward, and to reveal more of themself they didn't flesh out even in their robinsona days.

Initially, I debated on whether or not Chrom and Ephrel fit to be literally riding something, but I find it even more fitting that Chrom himself served as “the chariot”, having carried the toils and burdens from the point he lost Ephrel, to the long, exhausting journey to retrieve them again. 

---

Erin - The Hanged Man

As her supports (but especially Lif, Ryoma, and to some degree Camilla from the start) knew too well (and Hrid eventually caught up on and was rightfully horrified of and clingy afterwards about), Erin came from a very harsh life prior to being a summoner, where she was suffocated, controlled, manipulated, and worked to the ground, to the point she nearly made a very costly, risky mistake of her own self prior to her Breidablik summoning her (of which I'll remain brief and vague here as it's not the biggest point this time). The damage was still done, as she still was left a broken shell, fully welcoming anyone to pull her strings as she was heavily conditioned to expect, all with a weak will, self-worth and agency. All of which line up with the reversed Hang Man's meaning of useless sacrifice, unwillingness to change, and knowingly heading on to bad decision after bad outcome. The arms of her past try greedily to drag her back to the life she had once escaped from.

The upright version of this reflected readjustment, improvement, and rebirth: All of which carried the same elements to how her supports could see she was a completely different person underneath the broken mess she was initially left as, and needed support, love, and gentle coaxing to come out in her own accord. This then led to a very massive shift to what she later turned into presently from where she started off before: As someone bold, brash, more willing to show herself, and more engaged as her own self with her own decisions. Even in free-fall, she gained her freedom, and more, thanks to her supports, gained her wings figuratively and literally (as a manakete) to take flight by her own will.

---

Teru - Death

In reverse, Teru had indeed followed a lot of relationships that couldn't fully serve him or be as realized as he needed them to be at the time he needed it most (Kyo, before The Incident nearly ruined even their friendship, and definitely ruined their relationship. Then Ryoma, before Garon took that away from him as well.). His Order of Heroes failed him, his initial Askr was doomed, and he had to be a pillar of strength and protection to his pokemon and them in a time he himself desperately needed someone to rely on and protect him instead in his ailing strength and health. In the form he took prior to decimating his former connected World of Fates, one prominent feature in the missingno form he took at the time was carrying the fragmented headgear of his fallen past lover.

Upright, even in the point where Teru changed his life for the better, it took massive sacrifices and struggles on his part to get there. He has a chronic illness that can make him incredibly godly in power in the best of times, but also worryingly and critically frail and weak in most other times, all through his missingno powers he's still not able to entirely control. He had done the impossible in cheating death so many times from being a missingno, to surviving Conquest, to taking the Heart's Rite head on and living to tell the tale, but such bragging rights rang hallow for the sacrifices he made and the unspeakable levels of agony and pain he endured while subjected to them. He cheated death, yet at what cost? But even when he reached his lowest, his life did start anew as he grew past his traumas just enough to learn to grow and feel again, and for the better. After all, "third time's the charm".

---

Sparrow - The Star

Where she started, she was homeless, abandoned by the world, and left to die. Forgotten. Uncared for. Unconcerned. Just another number and another sad life wasted. Like the reverse, she started in a point she was made acutely aware how little her skills mattered (it certainly didn't spare her the life of poverty), how bad her luck was (despite her best efforts, she still failed), and her only future was one that was coming to an end (crushed dreams unrealized in favor of being left to starve to death to the harsh elements outdoors). In her hands were the concept of a Crest of Fate bestowed to her, marking her as a digidestined. But even this “blessing” was in actuality a fake crest of the Grimeal, and what led to long-term damage to her and her digimon when the ruse was up.

It was Chrom who summoned her, and it was because of his patience to help save her and get her on her feet again did her hopes turn around, and her card meaning with it. Upright, she had a second chance in a new life, a new environment, and with opportunities she only barely touched the surface of that were fully realized in looking to it again in Askr (her digimon, who she didn't physically interact with until Chrom upset her digimon partners upon realizing why Sparrow didn't check up on them (of which she downplayed her life cuz, well, she thought it was a game), revealing themselves in full). She found love, she found insight, and she found a new power she learned to harness to make a better use of her skills when she thought a more direct approach was lacking (a healer, when she wasn't physically strong enough to take up another weapon yet). She stayed calm, positive, hopeful, and tried to extend the same hope Chrom shared to her to others she found along the way, which led to Robin, Lyon, and then Ephrel finding their own hopes as well. In her hands was a digi-egg of Destiny (sometimes alternatively known as the digimental of fate), which manifested itself when Breidablik resonated with both Sparrow and Ephrel. As a united force, they finally gained the hard-earned role of digidestined as a duo legendary-mythic unit.

---

Eclair - Judgement

A lot of Eclair's point of major growth in power and character all fell back on Thorr's most powerful ability: Judgement. This power was the power that could completely and utterly decimate entire countries with the single swing of her hammer, and she isn't afraid to flex, and in ways Eclair saw for himself are fickle and self-righteous (particularly as she and Teru declared war on one another for the sake of protecting Nohr or wiping it off the face of Fates, but did nothing to interfere with the Nohr Teru himself destroyed in his own world). This fickle nature, this self-serving attitude and logic path Thorr decides when to enact her judgement or not, struck the biggest fear in Eclair and caused untold amounts of stress, worries, and panic attacks of being his greatest failure of seeing everyone wiped away from his life (like the fate he himself escaped as a forma) if he couldn't successfully stop his own mother. All of which are fears of the reverse Judgement. Even when she left her mark in other timelines and what-could’ve-beens, she struck fear in Eclair’s supports making such outcomes prominently known for them to stew on. Including an alternative outcome of her taking hold of some manner of Alfonse and overloading him into a temporal threat.

But upright, it also reflects awakening, renewal, a better health and mind fully realized. The point Eclair began fearing his mother and aunt most was also the point his powers started manifesting the most when his family, friends and supports made their own will clear of wanting to protect him. It was also the point he fully realized that form of will that comes from love and the power it held that heavily contrasted the will Thorr took interest in that comes from despair. This eventually was fully realized in his fully powered form, Magni, and his power as the Divine Shield to completely cancel out Thorr's Judgement attack, and thus, force her to bring herself down to the same even footing as the mortals when she can't simply delete them off the earth with a swing anymore. This resolve is also what resonated with why Zamazenta similarly trusts him, and thus, fully established Eclair's mythic alt.

[rubykgrant]

Because I keep thinking about all the potential stories revolving around “the Ring” have-

OK, there are two main things that either bother me, or or I feel like are just wasted potential when it comes to the Ring, and the various sequels/spin-offs we’ve gotten (this is not getting into the original source material, whoch is a whole other conversation). First is the thing that bothers me; almost all, but not quite, versions of the Ring have the same basic set-up of characters discovering the tape, being haunted/cursed, doing research to find out about Samara, coming to the conclusion that they need to find her body and either destroy her remains/give her a proper burial, only to find out that none of that even mattered, they are still cursed, and they have to do the copy/tape/share thing if they don’t want to die. This bothers me because lots of horror movies do that... they create a fake-out where characters think they are going to free a suffering sould, and thus appease it, only to find that the sould is now free to do more harm. That always seems so out-of-the way... the spooky entity was ALREADY haunting people/killing them and what-not, they were basically unhindered. Why did they need to be set free? The answer is, they didn’t, but we all just wasted a lot of time (same problem with that Ouija movie, and all those Conjuring/Annabelle films). It also introduces a “mechanic” that is assumed to stop the evil force, but then it just doesn’t. Why have the characters gather garlic if it doesn’t work on the vampires? Granted, that CAN be a useful twist sometimes, but if it just turns out that there is nothing that can ever stop the curse/demon/ghost/whatever, why should we care? It just becomes a long trip to get to a “none of that even mattered” ending. If characters misunderstood the meaning of a clue, or did something wrong, or were legit tricked, OK. That’s fine. That also means they could FIX it and do it RIGHT. Something has to actually kill the vampires.

Now, the wasted potential; we’ve seen that the video tape that was imprinted with Samara’s curse has become something of an urban-legend within the world that the Ring stories take place. Some people figure out how to pass on the curse so they don’t die, and some even play a dangerous game where they see how long they can last within the week before showing the tape to somebody else. Here is what I find interesting... imagine somebody who, from the get-go, already knows about Samara and this tape. They’ve heard all about it, and they’ve known a few people who cut it a little too close to the time limit and didn’t make it. They didn’t want other people to die over this weird cursed-tape chain-letter game, so they started taking the tape copies from people before they handed it off to somebody who is either innocent and ignorant or in on the game (meaning they’ll just keep the chain going). This person watches the tapes themself, so the previous person doesn’t die, but nobody else has to deal with the responsibility of “make a copy or die”. They accidentally discover something interesting; for one thing, each tape copy is somehow different. It changes for each person who records it. For another, watching a new tape re-sets the week. They could watch one tape copy, wait 6 days, then watch a different one, and the 7 days start over. By doing this, this person is basically out-running the curse and keeping other people safe. However, they are also tormented constantly, and much like Samara herself... they almost never sleep 

The newest Ring movie ALMOST hit on what could p[otentiall end the curse, it NEARLY solved the problem, but then it missed. For one thing, Samara, as in the actual little girl, is not evil. She even mentioned “I’m sorry... but it won’t stop”. She had little to no control over her powers, and after she died, it all became an evil curse. She is just as held captive by it as the people who watch the tapes. So yes, Samara needs to be saved or freed somehow. Then there is the issue of the tapes. Even if the person manages to gather every single on together and destroy most of them, the original won’t let itself. The curse would imprint on some random blank tape or DVD or whatever, and then it starts all over again. So how do we fix this? First, the person goes back to the well. Samara’s body isn’t there anymore, but her soul is still trapped. Imagine them going into the well, but also into the ever repeating nightmare Samara is trapped in (similar to the Ring 2, but y’know... not). They find the frightening version of Samara there, drowned and decayed, but this is only the “face” the curse wears when it hurts people. This person pushes back the wet hair, and the deathly image also falls away. Underneath is a little girl, just Samara. So they embrace, and the person carries Samara out of the well. The curse can’t feed on her anymore. Previously, each time the cursed tape was copied and shared, the curse grew. Now that the original source of it is gone, there is a new option. If one single version of the tape was shared with multiple people all at once, it would be spread too thin. It wouldn’t be strong enough to actually harm anybody. This person edits all the footage together, and they have to hurry because their time is almost up and there are no new tapes to watch. They put the footage online, and boom; it goes viral. It gest spread EVERYWHERE. Basically anybody who could potentially ever see it does (maybe people who will never watch TV or videos online won’t but hey, they’re fine either way). The news does reports on it. It is used as stock footage in horror films. People use clips of it for Halloween videos. Then everybody gets over it, old news. Maybe it gave a few people nightmares... but it isn’t strong enough to kill anybody. The curse is over

[theyellmanfan]

Okay peeps time to yell about some psuedo science, quirks, and a few headcannons:

SO the whole toe joint = more evolved homonids thing in bnha has bothered me a lot from a science perspective bc like.... humans are largely not evolving anymore. we've constructed this society where we are not killed by predators, and the risk of dying from exposure to elements, hunger, ect is unlikely for a lot of the population (referring to 1st world countries of course). in order for evolution to occur, there usually has to be some driving force. something to cause a portion of the population with a specific trait to be unable to survive, and thus not survive to go on to breed and thus their genes unable to reenter the gene pool. the only things we'd theoretically be evolving as a result of this are immunities to diseases and stuff like that

a person doesn't gain more survivability and thus more darwinian fitness from an additional toe joint.

like i get what hori was going for, the extra joint is vestigial at this point, remnants of feet that were far more articulate for climbing trees and stuff. its used as an indicator to show who is 'more evolved' and of course the homonids with super powers would be considered 'more evolved' and thus lack this toe joint

none the less, it is stated in the show that there is a correlation between quirkless individuals and the presence of this joint, therefore the location of the gene that causes the joint to be there would have to be physically close on the chromosome to the mutated genes that result in whatever quirk is present for the two traits to be linked and not disassociated during miosis (probably why this method is not 100%, there are such a diversity of quirks that not all of them would have genes near the toe joint gene)so like,,,, everyone likes to think of the loss of the toe joint as natural progress in human evolutionary history, that they are evolving 'past' their ancestors and thus quirkless individuals are of an era gone by

but the connection between quirks and the toe joint is arbitrary, the correlation is because it just so happened to be near the genes for many quirk related mutations.

a person shouldn't be more or less likely to survive society with or without a super power, or with or without an extra toe joint

meaning that despite hero society acting like the gradual increase in quirked mutations in the gene pool is something that is just bound to happen. that quirkless individuals were always going to just slowly disappear, in reality this wouldn't have actually happened unless there was a CAUSE.

quirked individuals used to be the minority, their genes wouldn't have overtaken quirkless individuals unless there was a reason for them to be less suited for survival than quirked individuals.

and the implications of this are so fucked up because that means that something HAPPENED that wiped out quirkless individuals. and no one is talking about it.

like even if you wanna argue that quirkless people were less able to defend themselves in comparison to quirked individuals and more likely to be wiped out in villain attacks during the rise of villains, there were still way more quirkless people than quirked, and for such a dynamic switch to happen in the span of like 200 years??????

either there was a mass extinction event where a virus or something that quirked individuals were immune to wiped out quirkless individuals, or they were targeted and discriminated against from the beginning and society as a whole/villains/both that led to the disappearance of quirkless people.

What if nuclear radiation caused this change and wiped out anyone that couldn't evolve to survive it?

Maybe. Just maybe. The way radiation kills is that it causes mutations to our dna, and if the mutations build up enough to the point where our bodies cannot fix them or the mutations affect a necessary function for living then we die due to exposurethere could be the explanation that the radiation is what caused the quirks to begin with, which makes sense since many people just kind of started developing quirks randomly sldkjfsifj but that still doesn't really explain the fall of quirkless individualsall living things have the same kind of dna so it's hard to imagine radiation that was able to damage quirkless human dna but not quirked ones if the radiation was persistant and humans were still developing quirks at all ages then that would be one thing. it would mean that slowly all quirkless individuals were being mutated into quirked indiviuals

but it isn't, developing quirks past like what 7? i forget the cut off age,, but yeah that is considered like Not A Thing

i just really don't like what all this says about how hero society developed like,,,, it seems like quirkless individuals were discriminated against right off the bat even when they were the majority hhHH

which still leaves me eyes at the fact that quirkless individuals are nearly non existent after only 200 years. that kind of evolutionary progress doesn't happen unless it's consciously done like with the animals we've domesticated (the different breeds). which aligns with the fact that we know at the beginning of quirks eugenics was a fuckin thing

So what if eugenics mixed with radiation was used to create a quirked society because there was a villain that was cursed with this fate and they became an "evil scientist" to turn everyone quirked just like they were to make people feel like they did - rejected by society - but when they changed socoety, their plan for revenge backfired because people exalted the quirked ones and made them heroes and thus was born the world of quirked villains as well

Someone used eugenics to make the first glowing baby and they were rejected by society as a freak and the baby grew up to be an evil scientist that did experiments on others because they were roped into the same group that caused their quirk to happen because they felt accepted there until they realized they were being used for other experimentations. So they started slowly turning the other scientists into quirked beings to make themself a team of quirked people to take over the group itself and they expanded their group to an empire to do the same to the world and it backfired and the hero society was born

i like the idea of exploring the fate of the glowing baby tho i always wondered what happened to them like everyone talks about them but where u at baby u good?

i know youre dead at this point in the time line but i hope you had a decent time of it you funky little infant

But also: Game changer

What if he was all for one?

The original villain

[florbelles]

❄️🔪🍂 for Lyra! Had to go ahead and get the sad one out of the way first, because I've come to accept that it is simply part of the Lyra experience whenever I ask these things. (The date is June 17, 2020 and I still have not recovered from "yes, darling, I know he's dead, do you think that makes me love him less?")

thank you lovely 💕 when i said i’d answer this in five to six business days i was fully joking but i’m pretty sure it has now in fact been five to six business days. embarrassing

❄️ What makes your OC sad, so sad that they can’t help but cry all day? How do they cheer themself up? Does their sadness upset any of their loved ones too?

we’re gonna subvert expectations, no dead husbands shall appear in this answer! 💕 

lyra would tell you it's cheap whiskey and gas station sushi and hope county street style, but honestly, she just desperately wants to be liked and loved and accepted, so rejection in any form -- from anyone, even those sinners and nonbelievers, even her sworn enemies -- wounds her. (she’s really out here at 3am like john? john are you up? because i don't think hurk sr likes me, he was extremely rude today while i was threatening him in his home)

(the rest is going under a cut because tolstoy has nothing on me. tw for references to lyra typical self-destructive behavior, drug, sex, alcohol, serial murder mentions)

having said that, it doesn't normally affect her -- she doesn't care or think enough of most people for it to have a lasting impact, and it just increases animosity and disdain where it already existed. when it is someone she cares about, though, or comes from someone who’s meant to care about her, it's emotionally devastating.

the most extreme instance came in the form of her parents disinheriting her when she was 16 years old. it was a formality more than anything else -- she was nearly 17, she’d run off the year before and cut off all contact -- and in many ways she’d expected or even attempted to deliberately provoke it, since it would force them to acknowledge what she’d always known, that they didn't see, know, or care about her. it was impossible for them to love her; her father was a narcissist who prized her insofar as he could project onto her as a version of himself, and her mother was so far gone on designer drugs she was apathetic to nearly everything else, her unwanted trophy daughter most of all.

still, receiving confirmation in the form of a notice that caught up to her while she was crashing at one of her favored ex girlfriends' family home -- that they went to that effort just to ensure she knew they no longer recognized her as their daughter -- gutted her. later she’d say that it was what she’d wanted, that they were already dead to her, and thank fucking christ she wasn't a member of that sick miserable family any longer. in actuality, she locked herself in the guest bedroom, curled into herself on the floor, and cried for three days straight.

and then she stopped.

she doesn't get cheered up, honestly, she just has to go through straight through it. if there's an action she can take or vengeance she can exact somehow, she’s eventually able to drag herself out of the comatose state she goes into when she’s grieving; lyra feels everything very deeply, so she’s physically crippled by emotional pain in a way that she never is by external injuries. (break her leg and she’ll drag it behind her, but if her heart’s broken, she won't walk for a week.) because of that, she absolutely tries to fight emotional pain with physical pain -- she doesn't self-harm in a direct way, but she does seek out risky or destructive behaviors (trysts in back alleys with strangers, binge drinking, drug use, getting in fights, reckless driving) until she finds somewhere else to channel that energy. god help anyone who's in her way when she does.

🔪 Has your OC ever killed someone? Ever had to defend themselves against violence? How did this make them feel? Or, alternatively, has your OC ever attacked someone? Seen someone die?

no,  lyra has never killed anyone in her life, why???

she killed seven men before she came to hope county. the first was a known predator at the strip club where she worked when she was 18 -- she propositioned him and then stuck a knife in his throat.

she fully believed that she was acting in defense in all seven instances, albeit not necessarily her own. each of the men she killed were especially dangerous or vile predators/abusers/otherwise corrupt and exploitative who were considered untouchable -- to the law, maybe, but not to her. (she never killed the relatively harmless philanderers who made up most of her targets; she just seduced, robbed and humiliated them).

her last kill before she flees to montana -- the reason she flees to montana, in fact -- is the man in idaho, and it’s a huge fucking mistake, one that almost gets her caught. it’s messy and impulsive and she does it because she’s shaken up and triggered af from her recent vegas trip. she’s fully spiraling. like this can't be it, this can't be all there is, this can't be all i am, this can't be all that's left for me, and part of her Wants to get caught on a subliminal level; some part of her Wants to die just to have an end. she’s tired. she’s jaded. she was at that gas station where she found him in the first place buying two bottles of tequila, but then she could just Feel the way he watched her and kind of hovered over her and she just. left the bottles on the counter and followed him out the door and stalked him for deadass fifty miles until he finally pulled off at a truck stop.

that and her first kill mirror each other in that they weren't calculated and she did it in a Rage.  she was purely driven by anger and hatred and adrenaline, she was shaking, her body just completely Flooded itself and so honestly? she’s a little hysterical about it -- both times she started to sob at first and then she just. laughed, she couldn't stop laughing, and that’s the only time she’s truly afraid of herself. usually she doesn't feel anything but relief and vindication when she kills; she’s doing it for a reason and she believes she’s justified so she doesn't feel any haunting guilt. she’s like this is what i am, this is what i can do, this is how i can be good even though everyone has always told me i was born bad -- maybe i was but maybe i can use that, maybe i can do what others can't

obviously in the holy war of 2018 she kills Hundreds of people, both heretics and defecting (or potentially defecting) peggies. she doesn't feel remorse about any of that tbh, she never will. she was protecting her family, it's not a question to her, it's not something she has to think about

🍂 What are their opinions on the different seasons? Which one do they hate and which one do they love and why?

lyra loves the summer best. she always has. as a girl,  summers were when she was home and could at least pretend her family wanted her, and if nothing else, she could go run free and become a menace on the island. she first ran away in the summer, she found her home in hope county in the summer, she fell in love in the summer.

(also homegirl's wardrobe is like. entirely sheer dresses with high slits and bare arms and plunging necklines she floats through life in silk and tulle and lace and strappy stilettos and she’s happiest in the sun out lying in a meadow or wading through the river or leaning out the side of her car with the windows and/or top down do you really think this bitch thrives in the colder months)

she’s a daughter of spring, she was born mid-march, and she does love it -- she’s a flower hoe, she likes watching the world come back to life and the smell of blossoms in the breeze and the crisp air in the mornings

same with fall, she loves her bonfires and hot coffee and her furs and her cider. she got married in the fall, the best months of her life were in the fall. she lost her heart in the fall. she dies in the fall.

winter can go fuck itself

i jest she thinks the snow is pretty aesthetically and she likes holiday events & attire & traditions and mulled wine and chestnut praline lattes and her furs are lovely and expensive and she might as well break them out, but the cold is Not her friend and neither is the snow. like. does a bitch look like she shovels. do you think she owns snow boots, do you think she owns thermal clothing,  no she does Not so overall winter gets like a 2/10

[theaurorfileshq]

L U C A   C A R O  /  A U R O R   S E R G E A N T

AGE: Forty

BADGE NUMBER: S62K91

BLOODSTATUS: Halfblood (No-Maj Born Father)

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Agender, They/Them

IDENTIFYING FEATURES: Bleached hair, various severing charm scars covering majority of body, stiff right pinkie and ring finger, numerous tattoos including: pair of dice with heart shaped snake eyes tattooed on neck, red rose with ‘jenny’ banner tattooed on left side of chest, skeleton virgin mary tattoo on right forearm, octopus tattooed on left hand.

STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

(+): Low-Grade Metamorphmagus, Combat Magic, Charismatic  

(-):  Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Impulsive, Arrogant, Cynical

BACKGROUND:

TW: Mentions of Torture

Before you ask them- no, “Lucky” wasn’t given to them as a nickname as a way to be ironic, although it seems pretty fucking ironic now. Lucky had instead been given to them as an infant, before they even had the concept of just what “Luck” was and why anyone would think they had enough of it to be named so. Just why it had been given to them, had more so to do with the nature of their birth. Born several weeks premature, Luca spent the first month of their life under constant surveillance by mediwixes at the hospital their mother gave birth to them in. The nickname would originate from their father, and quickly spread throughout their family, and stick with them into adulthood.

When Lucky turned seven their name took on a whole new meaning when it was discovered they’d inherited their father’s metamorphmagus ability. Much like their father though, their ability wouldn’t be a particularly strong one. They were able to do small cosmetic changes in appearances, such as coloring their hair, making their eyes blue instead of their usual nearly black hue. It was a parlor trick more than anything, nothing to the degree that a “high-grade” metamorphmagus could do, but they enjoyed every bit of it regardless, even if they couldn’t hold a morph any longer than an hour without getting a headache.

As a child, and as an adult even, Lucky was very much a rebellious youth, trouble often found them in some shape or form, until the point they learned how to talk themself out of it most of the time. This rang true when it came to their time at Ilvermorny, when the headmistress was no stranger to them, but somehow detention would be. They were a precocious child, but with a sharp wit and certain charm about them that they learned to use to their advantage. Despite the many various trips to the headmistress’s office though, they did do well and even succeed to some degree in their academics. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, transfigurations would not be their best subject, but rather the rough and tumble world of DADA. They were an adventure seeker first and foremost, and DADA provided them an outlet to explore the darker and more dangerous corners of the world. They’d known as a child that being an auror was something they wanted to be, but that dream was cemented for them as they learned more about the career path of those that spent their daily life constantly in motion and fighting off every manner of evil in the world.

When graduation came and went, they quickly joined the Salem Auror Academy. It would be in the academy’s halls where their strength in combat magic was finely tuned and developed, transforming them from the short and scrawny kid who could handle a wand well in a fight, and closer to the rapid fire and quick reflex dueler they are today. With their strong duelling skills, a position in one of MACUSA’s four auror squads could have been a goal well attainable for someone of Lucky’s caliber. Instead, their sharp tongue and habit for finding trouble would finally catch up to them, and instead of being cherry-picked by a squad chief after graduation, Lucky found themself applying to division after division until finally New York answered their call.

Although working in the division, initially as a beat-auror in New York City, didn’t exactly fulfill their dreams of one day being a squad auror, they learned how to better play the bureaucratic game of not pissing the wrong people off to get what they wanted. In their ten years on the NY Division, they would slowly rise from a low level recruit to finally a corporal, and began specializing in cases on organized crime in the New York City area. That would be where Lucky would finally find their niche within the division, and began to develop a reputation for an auror that could be relied on to take on the heavier undercover jobs, and cases that most aurors with families would shy away from. The dangerous cases were always the most fun for Lucky though, loving the rush of working along side some of the city’s most notorious criminals and finding a way to outsmart the lot of them. And for a couple years that was precisely what they did, jumping into undercover job after undercover job, until finally the case of the Starosta crime family fell on their desk.

The Starostas were a well known wixen crime organization in the city by that point, holding a monopoly on the wixen narcotics trade. It was the case that’d make their career if they were able to pull it off, plenty of aurors before them had tried to take down the infamous family, and while some were able to take down small pawns in the organization, no one had managed to infiltrate the higher circles. Which was precisely what they planned to do. Their partner on the case was a longtime friend of their’s, a fellow corporal by the name of Violet Wade. They and Vi had been working cases together since they were recruits, well matched in wit and their inability to take things too seriously until they were in a heat of a case. If anyone was going to manage to take down an important player out of the Starosta family it would be them and Vi.

When they first dived into the case, they focused on a Starosta grandson, someone they both felt they could easily manipulate and bend to their will in order to lure in a bigger fish. And for a time, it felt like they just may actually succeed in their goal. Nico Starosta was an easy target, and one that craved attention from others, which both Lucky and Vi were more than willing to help feed into. Two months into their case, they managed to become a part of Nico Starosta’s inner circle, a small group of wixes the young man would take with him every where he went. Eventually them and Vi began finding themselves being brought into Starosta hang-outs, and rubbing elbows with some of the family’s most prominent members. When they were finally introduced to one of Nico’s uncles, a high-ranking figure in the Starosta crime syndicate, they thought they’d finally found their fish to fry. And that as long as they kept playing their cards right, they’d get enough to put at least one major Starosta behind bars.

Just where they went wrong, and when they were found out still haunts Lucky to this day. Wherever they made their error though, it was three months into their investigation, and achingly close to finally building up a strong enough case on one of the Starosta sons, when suddenly the rug was pulled out from underneath them. Nico had told them he needed both them and Vi to pick up a shipment for him, which by that point wasn’t uncharacteristic of the grandson, who skirted any of his “family duties” by giving them to Vi and Lucky to handle. It was when they entered the warehouse though, and saw it was completely abandoned did they realize they’d been discovered.

The wandfire erupted soon afterward, and ended even sooner with Vi falling victim to a killing curse by their side, and them so distracted by their partner’s fall that they were unable to fend off the incoming binding spell. Laying on the cold concrete floor of that warehouse, bound up and laying next to Vi’s lifeless form, they waited for their own killing curse to come-

it never did though.

That was when they learned that death could be a blessing when living could be so much worse. Instead of killing both aurors the Starostas had discovered were living within their circle, they chose to only kill one of them, and let Lucky serve as the cautionary tale as to what would happen if anyone tried to take down the Starostas again. They spent what they would later learn was two months, but felt more like two lifetimes, in a small basement of a building they can still only guess was a home of one of the Starostas lackeys. What happened during those two months they still bare the scars (both physical and psychological) to this day.

After over two months, the Starostas either felt they’d made their message clear, or simply grew bored with Lucky, and eventually deposited them on the front steps to the NY auror division, a mangled and broken thing, and a clear warning as to the crime family’s true capabilities. As Lucky remained hospitalized, the division tried to build up a case at the very least against those who had tortured the auror, but with a mind scrambled both by magic and months worth of solitary confinement in a dark basement, Lucky had nothing to give them. And so the case would eventually find itself on the cold case files floor, where it remains to this day.  

After a month in a hospital, and another three getting re-acclimated to life again, Lucky tried to go back to the NY Division. Which deep down they knew was a mistake, but perhaps it was some part of them that thought if they made some effort to return to their old life, they could find themself again. Because whoever this new person was they’d become in their months both during and after their imprisonment wasn’t someone they liked. They’d become a paranoid and frightened thing, someone who was a ghost of their former self. And so they tried to force themself to be the old Lucky again. They pushed their metamorphmagus abilities to their breaking point, morphing away the marks the Starostas had carved into their skin. They did not want to serve as their cautionary tale, as the crime family’s walking billboard displaying their cruel message for all too see.

But even as morphed into their former self, which involved them relying heavily on headache tonics to get through an entire work day keeping on a morph, they still learned their face had become too synonymous with the events of only a couple months prior. Even then, the office that’d once been their home, and the faces of their coworkers that’d once been their family, now brought with them only a new source of pain.

And so the decision was made, that if they wanted to find any semblance of peace for themself and be able to move on from an event that’d scar them for life, they would have to go somewhere else- start fresh, and find some way to be able to live their life in their new skin that would always bare the marks of violence on it. They found this new life in the form of an open position on the California Auror Division.

Leaving New York behind, and its numerous reminders of a life that’d been ripped from them, was an easy task. With New York behind them, they were finally able to figure out and come to better appreciate this new version of themself. Instead of suffering through days filled with migraines caused from having to keep on a morph, they lived the majority of their day in their new skin. Some of the worst marks left by the Starostas they cover up with a new wealth of tattoos to accompany those they’d already had before. Their hair, they decide, to bleach with a beauty potion, something they used to do as a teenager and missed the look of. They learned the new ticks and triggers they now had, as they began working within the California division, and even buck up the courage to see a therapist routinely.

Before they knew it, life became livable again. It was not an easy thing to do, but with enough hard work and paying better attention to themself than they normally had before, they were able to no longer wince every time they looked in the mirror, or have to divert their gaze completely when they changed or showered. They still morphed when it felt necessary, such as when they had to interview witnesses, so to make themself less noticeable, or during the occasional (or not so occasional) hook-up, just for their own comfort.

Somehow in all of this they managed to impress the right person somewhere, and without even trying, they are offered the position they’d dreamed of since they were a child- that of a squad auror with MACUSA’s Pacific Squad. Time seemed to shift back into its usual pace at that point. Things became scarily normal again, sure their face would never make things completely normal. Even after working on the Pacific Squad for now five years, they still have to deal with the occasional stare or question they’d much rather not answer. But now instead of blowing them off, or getting irritated when someone asks about their scars, they rattle off a story that’s clearly not true, such as they lost a fight with a weedwacker, or fucked Edward Scissorhands, and move on from there.

They’re forty now, which is both scary and oddly comforting all at the same time. The small chapter of their life that marked them forever is behind them, although they continue to battle with the psychological trauma it left them with. Over ten years have passed since them and Vi first walked into that warehouse, and while a piece of them will always be there, they’ve learned to live with what pieces remain and live what they’d consider a pretty decent life for themself regardless.