#white blob is unrelated

[blizzardstarx]

my storage hates me

958/6774 photos and 249/319 videos are related to elizabeth lail LMFAO

[anotherdragon]

kind of unrelated but im taking this as an excuse to rant anyways friend thats too woke or whatever but some of you have no issue drawing gillion blue but you cant draw chip anything but pasty white. you can draw detailed armor but you cant make vyncent look asian? remember every detail of white yaoi boy #37 but forgot that theo was filipino? bffr

my only gripe with the "white lizzie is transfem chip" thing is that chip is still much tanner than white lizzie in most of his more recent official art 😭 why does transitioning have to take away her melanin

his skin color changes every new piece of art he gets but guys he's. at LEAST pretty tan. if hes white hes not pasty. this isnt the same skin color. please.

[sol-consort]

Female Turians attracted to shorter men? Fuck yeah I am celebrating for unrelated reasons

knew you were gonna take the bait I wrote that line in the tags specifically with you in mind

In some bird species—like bald eagles!—the females are larger and broader than the males. So basically, turians are this meme.

It also makes me wonder if the "colorful = masculine" thing also applies to them? We've seen turian men with hot pink face paintings and their talons are much longer and more pointy, almost resembling a bird's head tuff of feathers.

To attract turian women as a guy, simply be shorter, dress in vibrant nice colours, and talk a lot.

It also makes me wonder how a butch turian lesbian would appear "feminine" to humans for dressing colourfully and making herself look smaller. In contrast to other turian women who stand tall and wear muted colours.

But this is all assuming you're also a turian. If you're a human, you'd just appear squishy and soft to them no matter how you dress or look like. We're so out of range for what they normally consider attractive that being into humans is probably seen as a fetish or a kink, a normalised one, however, a sideffect from living amidst aliens and all. We are so detached from their biology that whatever kind of attraction they experience with us is very different from the ones they experience with each other.

We look nothing like turians. We're just a blob of soft flesh to them, sometimes with fur on our head or body. We look fragile, weak, defenceless, and too exposed, our teeth are more blunt than theirs, our mouths are smaller, our bites not as strong, our eyes too obvious with white scelra. Yet, we are the ones making the majority of C-sec alongside the turians.

The same goes for us. Don't forget that most humans, ingame consider turians to be extremely ugly/scary. The Mass Effect fanbase just happened to be full of monsterfuckers (me) who are very loud and opinionated (me again) "as ugly as a turian" was a recurring phrase between humans in mass effect at some point.

[evilasiangenius]

The Fall

“Out.”

And when Her voice reverberated throughout Heaven as if a bell struck, the War in Heaven was over, the cries of damaged and destroyed angels were silenced, and the marked angel, the tall one with the long dark curling hair and the good cheekbones felt existence suddenly shift around wings and shoulders and legs and elbows and knees and suddenly everything was falling.

No, it wasn’t falling.

They were being pushed out.

A harsh downward pressure and the angel could not even scream at the brief fierce pain of being thrust out of Heaven and in that moment something important happened; identity snapped and shattered, brittle, disappearing into the ether. The name that the Creator had vested in this angel was gone, ripped away with everything else and the angel was left as something partially blank, empty, memories torn and broken. Despite that, the angel clung to the snatches of things that could be remembered; a stolen conversation, a voice raised in song, the warm light of Heaven, and most importantly, that deep sense of quiet profound intimacy that Heaven had always represented, until it did not.

With great effort the angel struggled to turn around, arms and wings and legs fighting against the fierce pressure forcing the angel away from the bright light above. Turning to catch a glimpse of a home that began to disappear quickly, the angel kept golden eyes fixed upward but that point of light, gorgeous and shimmering and orderly, stayed for a long time within sight as the angel fell and at that moment, as the lovely dreamy glimmering light slowly disappeared from view, the angel knew that there was a reason as to why the Creator had wanted them to see Heaven for so long, just out of reach.

Punishment.

Time didn’t matter much in Heaven, and it mattered even less here.

Blackness punctuated by starlight, blues and reds and gold and it was so beautiful that the angel saw nothing but those streaks of light, even as there was no longer any way to see that true light, the bright soft glow of a home that was so distant now that there was no point in trying to look for it anymore.

It had been a long time since the angel tried to struggle against the inexorable, unrelenting force that pushed downwards. There was nothing to do now but feel the fierce cutting stellar wind through huddled white wings that shielded the angel from the worst of it, taste the grains of stardust that floated through space, see the distant fires of burning stars that flickered by, brief splotches of light staining the darkness with their warmth.

As if a massive invisible hand crushing them flat, there was no way to fly up, no way to break away, to break free.

All around were the sounds of screams, of cries, anger and begging, pitiful wailing as other falling angels struggled in their own torments but the angel was quiet. The time for begging had long passed; from here there was only aching loneliness, the emptiness of being torn away from the close intimacy of Heaven, the fellowship of its innumerable angels.

Then again, it was already like that long before the Fall, when they had been made individual, when they had been given these things called bodies instead of just existing as an amorphous blob of spirit. Heaven had already become a lonely empty place; this just capped off what was already unpleasant, pushing an already unhappy situation into something terrible beyond endurance.

The angel could not even sigh anymore. The tears that had filled golden eyes were long since gone, dried up to nothing. Now it was just a matter of existing, and it was not much of an existence, falling through the great span of darkness through the universe, passing galaxies and nebulae (or was it nebulas?) at a speed so great that it was impossible to tell which ones the angel had even worked on.

Perhaps it would have been best to have never existed.

*****

Ages and eons passed alone, and the angel wondered; if the Creator could see them now, if the Creator were watching, did they look like stars themselves, falling in great trails of blazing light? Or were they more like rocky asteroids, tumbling through the darkness on a tilted orbit askew?

A million light years and maybe a million more, the angel thought absently, even as there was no way to gauge how far or how long they had been falling, pushed down by the force of the Almighty Lord.

There was nothing to hope for nothing to do but to patiently wait for destruction. Surely this had to end in destruction. After all, in that first, painful push out of Heaven, even the angel’s name had been torn away, broken and destroyed, lost. It followed that the rest would follow in kind; ripped up into tatters, white feathers scattering like stars in the endless night of space.

Somewhere above the angel, a strange light streaked in an irregular way, moving from one falling figure to another, and the angel watched it idly, wondering what kind of star it could have been to move in such an unusual way.

And then, the star came down to the angel.

“Are you all right?”

Surprised, the angel could not speak; no one had addressed the angel in so long that the angel could hardly remember being spoken to, much less how to move one’s mouth in the motion of speech. There had been no one to talk to; the pressure had been so intense that the angel could hardly move to turn around, and here was an Archangel, flying about as free as a wandering comet and the angel felt such a sharp twinge of longing, of hot jealousy and envy, that it was almost painful.

“You’re…” the word came out as a harsh croak.

“Asmodeus,” the golden-haired angel managed a little smile, a polite and dignified expression turned awkward and uncomfortable by the circumstances. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“A shame that I never gave it to you,” the nameless angel said, voice a creaky unused whisper. “I don’t have it anymore to give.”

“Oh.” Asmodeus was taken aback. “I’m sorry to hear that. Unfortunately you’re not the only one. Most everyone has lost their names. I’m not sure why I still have mine.”

“Probably the same reason you can fly about. I can hardly move.” And the fear that had been long silenced by acclimatization came back suddenly and tears filled the angel’s eyes, tears that the angel had not thought possible returned.

“Yes. I suppose I was created to be more powerful. Please don’t cry.” Asmodeus reached out to brush away a trickling tear, and the angel was startled by the touch, at the hint of warmth in those long beautiful fingers. “I’m doing my best here to help everyone. But there’s not much I can do…”

“Yeah. I don’t think there’s anything to do but wait and see what She decides for us. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to stay. Someone else will need you more than me,” the angel wiped away those tears as best as possible, watching little droplets of water float away, salt-stained jewels freezing and disappearing into the icy void of space.

“Hang in there. I’ll be back, when I can. If I can,” Asmodeus said, correcting himself. “No promises, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the angel said. “We’re all sorry. We’ll all be sorry forever. That’s the point.”

*****

If there was a home, if there had ever been a home, the angel was beginning to doubt that it had ever been real. The only existence there was now was falling, and it felt like it had gone on so long that whatever had happened before might as well have never existed.

The angel thought once more that perhaps it would be better to turn to face the Fall. To see where they were going, if there was a destination. The angel had turned a few times, but had seen nothing through the streaking darkness that went on for eons.

Long dark hair tangling about a pale face scowling from the effort, the angel turned around.

Faintly, a light glowed in the distance, and the angel’s eyes narrowed, wondering what it was.

But it did not take very long for the light to resolve itself into something more clear.

Eyes widening, the angel realized that the distant destination that they were being pushed toward was filled with fire.

A massive wall of fire and through it, glimpses of lakes of molten sulphur, lava hot and boiling in the distance that drew closer with every heartbeat.

A gasp, and pale wings beat frantically, trying to fly away and if not that to at least slow down but the pressure behind the angel that had never relented was brutal, inexorable, a terrible reminder of the futility of struggle. All around the screaming grew louder, some of the cries were cut horribly short as distant figures began to fall into the boiling lava and the angel recoiled.

“It’s all right! I have you!”

Strong hands closed about the angel’s shoulders and the angel turned back, surprised, hair tangled in a sinuous knot by the sharp cutting winds.

That Archangel again, golden hair blazing about his head like a crimson-stained halo from where the glowing fires reflected and the angel wondered why Asmodeus had been marked. He wasn’t one of the Archangels at the center of the rebellion. He didn’t even know Lucifer that well. He just had some questions too.

Maybe that’s all it took.

“What’s your name, Angel?”

“I don’t know,” the nameless angel whispered, wondering if the Archangel had even remembered that they had already talked about this, given the numerous other angels he must have already met. “I don’t have one anymore.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not fair to you. Not fair to anyone. I can’t save everyone. I tried, but it’s impossible. There are too many. Millions and millions. I went around to everyone I could, but I can’t fly up, not very far. Not enough to return any one of us to Heaven, not even myself. Maybe I can’t save everyone, but I can save you.” Massive white wings moved quick and for a brief moment the angel wondered how it was possible that anyone could move like this, so easily through the unrelenting pressure of the Fall. Asmodeus took the angel into his arms, the angel’s head tucked beneath his chin. The shock of touch sent a jolt through the angel and the angel clung to Asmodeus’s arms, his hands. Those great white wings turned both of them in a sharp motion so that Asmodeus’ back was to the flames.

“Why me?” the angel gasped, as they turned away from the growing flames. But Asmodeus did not answer, tightening his arms and his wings around the angel, whose own wings were bent inwards as well.

“Why me and not someone else?”

And the last thing that the angel remembered seeing before they hit the molten stone was the white of Asmodeus’ wings closing around them protective, the faintly translucent feathers stained a rippling yellow and red with the light of the flames.

“No…!” the angel cried, clutching the Archangel’s hands, feeling the hard biting edge of the golden crown of the Archangel’s cold ring press against the tender center of a tight-clutched palm as they fell into the flames.

x

[snowdice]

Best Laid Plans (Part 4/8: Bird’s Nest) [Sometimes Labels Shift Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships:  Virgil & Logan, Virgil & Patton, Virgil & Roman, Logan/Patton

Characters:

Main: Virgil, Roman

Appear: Logan, Patton

Mentioned: Remy, Emile, Janus, Remus

Summary:

Virgil (now) Sanders was once a villain vigilante kid down on his luck. After being injured helping the superhero Bluebird, he ended up being adopted by him and his husband. Logan and Patton Sanders helped Virgil in ways he didn’t even know he needed. Since then, he’s put away his persona of Shadow Caster, the strange, hard to label, super who haunted the city for a few years. Instead he’s opted for being a normal teenager and university student.

But while Logan and Patton often forgot in the midst of ice cream and movie nights and arguments about silly little things who he had been, he never had. And when worst comes to worst, Virgil will be willing to reach for a mask once again despite his fathers’ wishes and expectations.

Sometimes even the best laid plans fail.

Thanks to @bilgisticallykosher, @kiapet2, and ASmallForest (on discord) for being betas!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

“Where are we going exactly?” Prince asked. Virgil had been forced to change course when Prince had agreed to join him. He’d been planning to just go home and use the front door to get to Logan’s secret underground base, but that wasn’t an option with the masked hero following him around. Instead, he was going to have to use one of Logan’s many secret entrances.

He’d been surprised, actually, at how easy Prince had been to convince. He had always been a stubborn bastard with a flair for the dramatics and was unrelenting in his ‘moral code.’ Said moral code boiled down to him thinking anyone on the scene who wasn’t a superhero should go to jail no matter what regardless of the circumstances.

…

Well, there also was another part of his moral code that went towards not using more force than necessary to fight people. It was something that the public had noticed about him when he’d caused less property damage than Bluebird in fights. It was something that Logan had noticed about him when he’d noted that Prince hadn’t killed any villains, even on accident (especially on accident). It was something Virgil had noticed when he’d fought him all those years ago and hadn’t immediately been crushed to death.

That was one of the reasons he thought he could trust Prince with this. He talked a big game about all vigilantes going to jail, but he always seemed to be able to put those views aside when there was something more important at stake. Plus, Logan trusted him, and the moment Virgil had mentioned Bluebird was missing and his allies couldn’t contact him, he’d clearly been ready to join up with Virgil. Virgil wasn’t his biggest fan, but he could put aside his dislike for the hero, too.

“We’re getting supplies,” Virgil answered.

“You’re out and about before getting supplies?” Prince asked.

“I wasn’t exactly planning on doing shit,” he said. “I’m literally still half in my pajamas.”

“And I literally cannot see that. You’re covered in shadows. I might as well be talking to a blob.”

Virgil let the shadows around him disperse except for the ones that obscured his face over the mask. It would be better to conserve his energy anyway.

“…That just looks like what I’ve seen of your normal costume!” Prince said. 

Virgil rolled his eyes, not that the hero could see it.

 “Actually, they look better,” Prince continued. “Get a new hoodie in the past 3 years?”

“I was running on limited funds at that point,” Virgil said, insulted on his younger self’s behalf despite knowing it was true. The things he wore to bed now were better than his most sturdy clothes had been back then. “At least I didn’t look like I stole my costume out of a high school theater’s storage room. What show is that thing from? Beauty and the Beast?”

Prince’s mouth popped open as he gasped in offense. “I’ll have you know it was from Snow White, and it’s from the local community theater. Also, I didn’t steal anything! They were selling old costumes for a fundraiser, and I paid for it to support the local arts, thank you very much. It was from the 80s! It has history in this city.”

“Of course, you did,” Virgil said dryly.

“And I presume you stole yours,” Prince sniffed.

“Of course, I did,” Virgil said with a snort. “I was a thief after all. Snatched it from some asshole.”

Yet how he had gotten the hoodie he used to go out in as Shadow Caster probably wasn’t what Prince was imagining. It had been a foster brother’s from a home before Harry. The 16-year-old had told his parents Virgil had stolen money from him. (Virgil was pretty sure that the cash had actually gone straight to drugs and the boy was covering his ass. Virgil at 10 had known what someone high looked like, even if the boy’s parents were oblivious either willfully or out of ignorance.)

Virgil had proceeded to actually steal shit from him and trash his room while waiting for a social worker to come pick him up. The hoodie hadn’t fit him when he’d taken it, but had only been a little loose by the time he’d needed something for Shadow Caster’s costume.

It had been unsalvageable after Virgil had been shot. It’d had bullet holes and bloodstains on it. Plus, Patton had needed to literally cut it off of him to get to the bullet wound. He hadn’t been willing to throw it out though, and it had sat in his closet for years before Patton had finally gently suggested repurposing it. Part of it was now sewn into another hoodie and part of it was in the quilt that laid on Virgil’s dorm room bed.

“Makes sense,” Prince said with a scoff.

Prick. Virgil had pegged him as a rich prick from day 1. Sure, now Virgil was the son of a doctor, so resenting people because they had money was a little awkward these days, but he’d make an exception for Prince.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a better costume where we’re going,” he said. “It wasn’t even stolen this time.”

Prince looked at him in interest at that, but Virgil ignored him, instead turning to head down an alley.

Logan had a good number of secret entrances that led to his superhero lair. A good portion were in their house, but there were a few around that he could disappear into without giving away where they lived. This was the one behind Maclavelli’s. Logan and Patton knew the owner since it was Patton's favorite restaurant. Logan trusted him to be discreet even if he did see something, not that Logan used this particular entrance often.

Virgil found the correct stone in the back-alley wall and turned it, revealing a keypad. Opening this would automatically notify Logan and Patton’s phone, but Logan wasn’t a problem and Patton’s phone was off.

“Go on,” Virgil said, gesturing for Prince to head into the tunnel.

“This had better not be a murder attempt,” Prince said, eyeing the dark space, but he stepped through the opening regardless.

“Yes, Prince,” Virgil said, “I returned back to the scene after 3 years just to trick you into crawling into a hole in a back alley to kill you.”

“I was your nemesis!” Prince protested as Virgil closed the door behind them. “It would be a good reason to come back. You’ve been stewing in rage for years after your injury, and finally your resentment overcame your restraint and you decided to get revenge on your greatest foe. Yet to your surprise, I was prepared with new tricks up my sleeve and allies, and we have an epic battle to the death.”

Virgil snorted. “What are you, a fanfiction writer?”

Prince bristled in offense.

“And you were not my nemesis.”

“Was so!”

“You were an annoyance at best,” Virgil said, and it was true. At first Virgil had been a bit scared of the superstrong hero gunning after him. He hadn’t relished the thought of becoming a pancake. Yet all Prince had ever done was chase him around (sometimes with a net) and somehow lose fist fights to him.

“I resent that. We were perfect enemies.”

“Whatever,” Virgil said with a headshake as they started to move down the tunnel.

There were glowing strips along the walls to guide them forward, but otherwise it was completely dark. Virgil could light it up more but didn’t feel a need to waste the energy. He could just barely make out Prince’s shadow following him. He knew where the walls were and he could reach out and touch them, but if he only used his eyes, it looked like they were suspended in a void of darkness.

There were many twisting paths that purposefully led to dead ends. It was designed so people who happened to find these tunnels would take longer to actually find anything, but Virgil knew all of Logan’s markers and easily led them down the correct path.

It was a few blocks of walking in the dark before they arrived at an open area with more prominent lights. There were a couple of other entrances leading to it on different sides. Some led to other tunnels that led to different parts of the city, but there were two larger ones. One of them led to where Logan stored his Birdmobile of Death, but Virgil led Prince in the other direction.

Virgil had to put in another code when he got to the actual underground base as well as offer up his fingerprint to scan.

“Oh my god,” Prince said when they entered the first room. “Is this Bluebird’s superhero lair?!”

“Where did you think I was taking you, Disneyland?” Virgil muttered under his breath.

Prince seemed to see fit to ignore his words. “Oh my god,” he gushed as he looked around. “It’s so cool!”

Virgil glanced around them and tried to see what he saw. He could remember his first time seeing this place. It had seemed so much larger to him then. He had been awed by the cool gadgets, the giant computers, and just by the fact that he was in the superhero lair of the most well-known superhero ever.

Yet now, that superhero was just his father. This room was just a second basement that he had to hit some extra buttons to get into. There was a mini fridge filled with Virgil’s favorite snacks and flavors of Gatorade. There was a secret television set that he and Logan used to watch non-Patton-approved movies behind Patton’s back. He knew what was in all of the drawers. He understood how everything was organized (in a very, very nerdy way of course, since the organizer was Logan). He’d been allowed to fiddle around with all of the interesting things down here as much as he wanted. In fact, Logan enjoyed it when he expressed interest in any of it.

It had stopped being amazingly cool a long time ago. It just was. It was a normal part of his life he took for granted.

…

It was weird without Dad being here though.

“Yes,” Virgil said, looking away from it all, “it is. We can stock up on gear here. Feel free to touch anything in this room. You probably won’t die from anything in here, but don’t try to go into any rooms without me there to tell you if it contains anything that will try to eat you or melt off your skin. I have to go grab something really quick. Stay here for a minute.”

Prince nodded. “Okay,” he said.

Virgil nodded back and dashed towards the staircase that led to the house. He put in the correct codes to open the three doors and made sure to lock them all behind him so no prince costume-clad hero would attempt to follow him up. He came out in the kitchen and resolutely ignored the lack of Missy running to greet him. The house was silent, which was probably a good thing. It meant no one had tracked down Logan Sanders' house.

Not wanting to look at the empty house for long, he quickly went to the living room and ascended the stairs up to his room. He knew exactly where to get everything he was looking for, even though he’d never consciously planned to dress in the outfit.

He grabbed dark black pants outfitted with more pockets than he usually needed from his dresser and black, sturdy but well broken-in boots. He’d keep the plain black mask; his shadows were more useful for hiding his face anyway. He paused when he got to his closet, the first time he’d hesitated since he’d left the decoy under the covers of the bed at the safe house.

The dark jacket was familiar. He and Patton had altered it with a bunch of patches including a good amount from his original black Shadow Caster hoodie, parts of a dark grey sweater of Patton’s, and some dark purple fabric Patton had him pick out for the project in particular. Patton had even cut out a darker piece of one of Logan’s old costumes in the shape of the bluebird emblem and had sewn it in the same location it was usually on Logan’s costumes. It almost blended into the costume, so most people wouldn’t be able to see it unless they were really close, but Virgil knew it was there.

He’d never worn this jacket out in public or in front of anyone who didn’t already know his history. Some part of him must have known he’d eventually be using it for this.

He took the jacket from its hanger, running his finger across the Bluebird emblem before laying it on the bed with the rest of his outfit. He quickly changed and carelessly threw the clothes he’d been wearing on the bed. He’d let his shadows disperse while upstairs but pulled them back to himself once he was in his new outfit, glancing in the mirror to make sure that he was completely unrecognizable in the new costume.

He didn’t recognize himself, that was for certain. He’d only bothered to turn on his desk lamp when he’d entered the room, so there were more shadows than just the ones he’d made surrounding him. The little light in the room glinted off the more iridescent purple fabric, filtering through the shadows to make it look like there was a slight haze around him. It made it impossible to determine what was his physical form, what was his shadows, and what was just air. 

It would do, he thought. 

He pulled the hood up even though his shadows had done well enough to hide his hair color and then turned away from the image in the mirror.

He hurried back down to the kitchen and through the doors to Logan’s base. Prince had not managed to burn down the house in Virgil’s absence like Virgil had slightly worried he might. He was simply looking at different things in the room where Virgil had left him. The hero turned when he heard Virgil enter. He paused for a moment, glancing over Virgil’s outfit change. Virgil suddenly felt self-conscious under his gaze, but Prince just nodded after a few moments.

“The purple’s a change,” he commented.

“I like purple,” Virgil said.

“Huh.”

Virgil turned away from him abruptly. “Let’s get supplies,” he said, walking over to the case where Logan kept weapons he didn’t normally use. He ignored Prince’s eyes following him. “Any weapons you prefer?”

“I don’t usually need weapons with my superstrength,” Prince said. “Maybe something I could throw for a distance weapon if you have anything like that.”

Virgil nodded and opened the case, considering the options. He grabbed what looked like a rubber ball and tossed it underhand to Prince before grabbing an electric baton for himself. He shoved it in one of the larger pockets in his pants and then grabbed a knife to slip into his boot just in case.

“What’s this?” Prince asked, studying the ball.

“It’s a boomerang ball,” Virgil explained. “Push the button on the side three times.” He stepped closer to point to the correct button since it was kind of hard to see. Prince followed his instructions and the ball beeped twice. “If you throw it, it’ll return to your hand. Press it a fourth time and it turns back off.”

“Cool,” Prince said. They were closer now and Virgil wasn’t bothering with too many shadows except along the edges of his face. So inevitably, Prince’s eyes landed on the Bluebird emblem on Virgil’s jacket.

“You work with Bluebird then?” he asked. “Like, actually work with him.”

“I…” Virgil said. “Sort of…”

Prince tilted his head at him, and Virgil shifted awkwardly. He pressed the button on the boomerang ball and slipped it into a pocket. “Where did you go?” he asked. “People have had all sorts of speculations after you got shot, but no one really knows for sure. Bluebird said you were okay and recovering, but then you never resurfaced. I assumed you’d be gone for good.”

Virgil shrugged. “I kind of was gone for good,” he said. “I’m not really supposed to be…doing this sort of stuff anymore.”

“Bluebird convinced you to give up your life of villainy then?”

“Bluebird gave me other options,” Virgil said.

Prince’s face was mostly obscured by the mask, but he seemed to be studying Virgil pretty intensely. “You’re taller than you had been back then,” he noted, “and your voice is different.”

Virgil said nothing.

“I was a minor when I started too,” Prince said with a shrug. “I was 17 though. I’m guessing you were younger?”

“Yeah,” Virgil admitted.

“Explains why Bluebird would keep you off the scene,” he said.

Knowingly allowing a minor to work as a superhero, vigilante, or villain was illegal. Even letting it happen through negligence could garner jail time. There’d been a few issues with underaged sidekicks a few decades before Virgil had been born and the courts had cracked down, though a lot of teenagers still fell through the cracks since it was hard to both respect secret identities and make sure no one a little too young was out on the streets.

These laws hadn’t actually been much of a consideration for Logan. He wouldn’t have wanted Virgil to go out even if it had been legal for him to allow it. Virgil had felt no reason to argue. He’d never actually wanted to rob banks, and with Logan and Patton he hadn’t needed to do anything like that. If he ever had felt an itch to go out and do something though, the fact that Patton and Logan could have gotten into legal trouble would have held him back.

“Let’s,” Virgil said, turning away. He didn’t want to get into all of the complexities of it with Prince of all people. “Let’s just get going.”

Prince accepted his avoidance of the subject easily enough, though he was still frowning at Virgil like he was a puzzle. “What’s the plan?” he asked.

“There isn’t much of one, admittedly,” Virgil said, “but I have one idea that I don’t think anyone else who's looking for him would have thought of.” He stepped up to the main computer and signed in with Logan’s passcode. “He keeps a tracker on his suit. I know… his allies already checked to see if the tracker was still active before starting Doomsday Protocol.”

“Doomsday protocol?” Prince asked, stepping up beside him.

“It’s for if Bluebird ever goes missing and is assumed captured, obviously Princey,” Virgil said with an eyeroll. “If he’s missing, his face might be compromised. So, anyone connected to him personally would have to get out of dodge.”

“Including you?” Prince asked.

Virgil pressed his lips together. “I am currently meant to be in a one-bedroom house on the other side of the city,” he disclosed, “but I broke out because fuck Bluebird and his contingency plans.”

Prince snorted. “He benched you, huh?”

“I am perfectly capable, and I’m not just abandoning him to whatever is happening right now even if me doing so was part of one of his stupid plans,” Virgil grumbled darkly.

“That’s fair,” Prince said.

“You’re the only one who thinks so, apparently,” Virgil said, opening a program on the computer.

“So,” Prince said. “If his tracker’s no longer working, what are you doing now?”

“Well, his suit tracker isn’t working, and we have no data from that, but Bluebird has also been playing a certain mobile game that I certainly did not pressure him into playing in order to get more friendship tokens for myself. There’s a location-based part of the game, and if he logged into it at any point, that location information is out there. Now obviously, getting that information isn’t easy.” Virgil began searching through the many databases of information the system Logan had set up had access to. “Unless… you have a supercomputer built by Bluebird.”

Virgil found what he’d been looking for after a couple of minutes. It was a database that temporarily stored location pings for cell phones. Logan usually had his phone’s location off, but he had it enabled for when he was using the app. Virgil was able to search for Logan’s phone’s IP address. There were only 5 pings on the database, the last of which looked promising.

Logan had used his location services briefly a few hours ago. He’d been on the other side of the city near the river, but there wasn’t much out there. 

“I found one of Bluebird’s last locations,” Virgil said. He pulled up the coordinates on a map so Prince could see.

“That’s quite a walk,” Prince noticed with a grimace. “Do we need to catch an Uber or something?”

Virgil sighed as he stepped away from the computer. 

“Unfortunately,” he said, “there’s a car we can take.”

“…Unfortunately?”

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 5

Labeled Master Post.

My Masterpost.

[marmotish]

3. Color that gives you the ick

Never seen a question more important

this shit right here

look, in the right context there is no ‘ugly’ colour imo, or one that ‘gives me the ick’ but this lovely blob here on a white background is like all the grossest phlegms with some stomach/gut explosions thrown in…

✨ weirdly specific and unrelated asks ✨

[the-sprog]

So since I'm very bad at remembering my ideas, I'm gonna throw this out there and hope one day I'm like "WAIT didn't I have an idea for a fic??? What was it???" And I will find it on my tumblr.

It's about Danny Phantom, obviously.

There are actually two of them in here so:

The easiest one: Jack and Maddie are not stupid. I mean they're scientists, the use the scientific method. One of the things about the scientific method is that if you do a bunch of tests, based on an hypothesis and only one of them comes out disproving it, then your hypothesis is incorrect.

Phantom has disproved basically all of their hypothesis.

So, next thing to do? Create a new one. Do new tests. They take Jazz's suggestion and try and see if the ghosts of Amity are actually conscious. Because obviously they're sentient, but are they like animals? Or are they like robots with artificial intelligence?

Or even better yet, are they like humans?

They grab Phantom's attention and ask him if he would cooperate for this test. A simple Turing test. Obviously they're still wary because of everything that happened with him, and do the test with witnesses to keep both Phantom's and their minds at ease.

He passed the test. With flying colors.

They're shocked and ask him if he knew peaceful ghosts that would be willing to take the test (because, y'know. Scientific method. Need to try over and over again). Phantom would have to explain that not all ghosts are as human-like as him (as, first of all, he's a halfa, but he doesn't say that. And second, lots of them are blobs or animal-like ghosts), but cue his parents meeting Jhonny and Kitty (cause I like the idea that they have a truce with Phantom and that going out of the zone helps them with their couple problems), as well as Shadow (example of a less human-like ghost). Then Sidney, Dora, the Fright Knight (cause king ghost Danny ftw) and Frostbite.

They all pass, more or less. Some, like Dora, the light and Sidney, where given away by their choice of word, but other than that all of them passed the test.

OK SO MORE COMPLEX ONE:

I love crossovers. I love finding ways of putting the two universes together, of making them work with each other, adapting the rules so that they apply to both. (With Danny Phantom it's also really cool to just... Make him travel the multiverse. He doesn't adhere to the rules of where he goes to, so it's always hilarious. But we're not here for that now).

One of the best ones to do this with is My Hero Academia. Whenever a show has someone with powers I end up asking myself "how should that work in the world of my hero?" And start trying to incorporate it in the lore.

So, first thing first, we're getting rid of the canon story of my hero. Completely unrelated to the show. This takes place decades in the past, when the first people where developing quirks (so if I wanted to write something with this and actually use my hero characters, I'd make it so that they where hit with a time traveling quirk or that Clockwork was somehow involved).

The Fenton's hatred for ghosts? Make it discrimination against the people who have quirks.

Danny being half-ghost? His quirk's fault. He calls it Ghost, for simplicity, it allows him to come back as a sort of ghost-like creature after he dies. Somehow, one day, he doesn't die completely so his body fixes it the only way it know how. Making him partially ghost.

Obviously that would mean that all the ghosts he fights aren't ghosts anymore. They're villains with quirks, and their powers would be based on what they can do on the show, minus the basic intangibility, invisibility and flight.

Obviously only Sam and Tucker would know he was Phantom and he had a quirk, he's also kinda the only one in town with one. People would be a little racist against quirk havers, but the kids, like in the show, come around to it. And actually start loving Phantom and thinking of him as a hero.

How do I fit Vlad in all of this? Ehm ahhhh this is the one thing I didn't think about. Very basic, but could give him a power similar to Danny, were instead of a ghost, he becomes a vampire. But his quirk is caused by an accident in college, so it's artificial.

Why does Skulker (who doesn't have a quirk. He's just a guy in a suit) hunt Danny? He has a very unique quirk.

Does Dani exist? I mean. Yeah. Cloning is not so farfetched, especially with the existence of quirks.

Clockwork can control time, he involuntary does that being a child, then an adult then an old man thing. The Observants are people without quirks that keep him in check, an organization that made a pact with him to stay young forever or something in change of idk what. No idea what Clockwork would get out of it I won't lie. Money maybe? Or somehow they found a way of keeping him there against his will?

Walker (and I'll make a seperate post about this) is an ex guy in white. Yes they still exist, but they hunt quirk havers instead of paranormal stuff. Walker was kicked out because he actually has a quirk but lied about it. He's after his own kind in the show as well. I mean, he's a stickler to the rules, but he only ever seems to care when it's ghosts that brake them. Correct me if I'm wrong, but never has he punished a human. His quirk is making semi-sentient minions. They're not copies of himself. They're like clay humans with basic forms. They all look alike and have no special characteristics.

Frostbite is just... A yeti. With cryokenisis. It's a mutation type quirk.

Same goes for Wulf, he's just a humanoid wolf that can create teleportation portals. I can't think of a reason why he would only speak Esperanto though. It could be something similar to Five from umbrella academy. He accidentally got stuck in the 1600 as a kid and managed to come back only relatively recently.

I feel like all the other ghosts have obvious powers.

Cujo can become ginormous,

Technus can control technology,

Dora and Aragon can become dragons,

Jhonny gives people bad luck and can control his shadow,

Kitty can make man disappear,

Ember can mind control using music,

Spectra can use people's negative emotions to stay young,

Bernard has shapeshifting,

Youngblood can't be seen by adults (side effect: can't grow old) and his sideckick has a variant of shapeshifting where he can only transform in animals. A definitive father figure),

Box ghost can control boxes,

Pandora can control the plagues of the world,

Desiré can make people's wishes come true,

Sidney can swap bodies with people,

Undergrowth can control plants,

Pariah Dark- I... Actually don't know...

Lunch Lady can control food,

Aaaanndddd no more come to mind.

I want to do something with this AU but I can't really think of an interesting story, other than "kids from 1A get misplaced in time and Danny has to help, discovering the existence of Clockwork and the Observants, whom he hates. So he tries to get Clockwork out of there with the other kid's help" but that's it, really.

I actually have a 3rd idea, but it basically works the same as the MHA one. Crossover with the X-Men.

Substitute quirk havers with mutants and quirks with mutations and you get the idea.

The plot would be more of a "Danny gets recruited by Xavier after the trauma of almost dying activated his mutation and goes to live at the mansion. This happens after the events of season 3, alla salted to make sense in the world of Marvel, but without Phantom planet. He makes friends there, since Sam and Tucker aren't with him and everything is fine and dandy and happy. Until it comes out that the Fentons actually contribute to the creation of the Sentinels, because they hate Phantom that much.

So Danny has to infiltrate his own family to get info on how the Sentinels work so they can destroy them, since his parents are still oblivious and they made it so that the Sentinels wouldn't attack Danny thinking that his accident just somehow make him register as a mutant on machinery" and that's it.

[ivynivek]

Any thought process with Ghouls?

Or like what makes a ghoul well.. A ghoul in your eyes since im struggling to design custom Ghouls

keep in mind i've barely contributed any ghoul designs, but i was responsible for most of the art direction. here's a statement from me and Four Eyes on what we believe a ghoul is:

"they have shadows, for one. what makes them distinct is a unifying aesthetic of looking kind of off [game unrelated], but also kind of goofy. it's like how all spectres are funny white blobs. ghouls are all these vaguely undead looking giant rodents."

"I mostly just made anything that felt vaguely like an animal, though there was usually some theme in mind when making them (like Zone 2's being mostly anthropomorphic in some way). Mind there's a lot of scrapped designs, so it was a very iterative process."

PS: don't take the labeling of the ghouls in the files too seriously. things like the Metal Monkey is amongst them, despite not being classed as a Robot in-game.

[ectoplasmicsoda]

Following up on the blob ghosts thing that jam said (sorta), I hc that Danny uses the blob ghosts as little chew toys while he's coming into his fangs and even whenever he's stressed because it doesn't hurt them and they make his mouth feel all tingly as well as being little fidgets. Jazz catches him once or twice like "Danny what do you have in your mouth? Danny you spit that out right now! THAT IS A SENTIENT BEING! DANNY—!"

Also unrelated but I hc that (as a Goth Princess shipper) when Sam and Paulina get married they both wear opposite dresses, with Paulina in black and Sam in white just to show that their little feud in high school was both what started them on their road to romance and is also behind them ^^ Also Paulina's dad starts crying during the ceremony because he's never seen his daughter so effortlessly happy and he picks Sam up and swings her around when it's her turn for the Dad Daughter dance (he insisted on dancing with her as well because she is now his daughter-in-law) <3

The blob hc is so FUN i love chewtoy blobs

Even if I dont ship goth princess thays fucking ADORABLE ASAAAAAA

[nervousladytraveler]

how about 36?

Thanks, Anonymous! (btw I tweaked the wording of the original prompt). 

#36 Starting with nose kisses (kunik) before moving on to soft kisses

-----

“I hate it!” Demelza grumbled loudly enough that Ross heard her from the hallway. He paused for a moment unsure whether she was truly calling out to him or speaking to herself--or to her belly, as she often did these days.

“My love?” He decided to chance it and poked his head through the parlour doorframe. His words, his tone--gentle, attentive--would not be lost on her.

She looked up at him and sighed, and he saw what had caused her frustration. A single blob of raspberry jam had fallen from her scone on to her top--on to her middle really. The soft white jersey, stretched across her perfectly round bump--a bump that seemed to grow bigger by the day--now had a brightly coloured embellishment.

Bump. She hated that word and had forbidden Ross from using it--one of the quirks she developed in this pregnancy. 

“It’s not a fashion accessory! And it’s not a petite little bump but a massive mound the size of Sutton Hoo!” Demelza was usually such an easy spirit. That she was suddenly expressing more and more things that displeased her was new--and vaguely amusing.

“And just what is it that you hate, my dear?” Ross dared to ask this afternoon, moving closer to her. 

She instinctively put her hand to Sutton Hoo in a protective gesture. No, of course it wasn’t their child she hated. By the way she frequently rubbed her belly and tenderly spoke to it, there was no doubt of her love for it. 

It. They didn’t know yet if this little Poldark was a boy or a girl and had decided to keep it a surprise until the end. But ‘It’ was another of Demelza’s forbidden words. She’d instead cultivated a list of all sorts of nicknames (the Heir, Our Little Friend, Exhibit A, and the Project were her favourites).

Ross knelt next to her, taking the empty plate from her and setting it aside. Then he took her hand in his, caressing her swelling fingers. She still managed to wear her rings--or maybe she was simply unable to remove them.

“I hate that I’m so clumsy, I hate that I stupidly ate jam whilst wearing white, I hate that I have so few articles of clothing that fit me and now this one is ruined…” She started to smile once she heard herself speak. “And I hate that I lost that last bite because it tasted so good!” Now she laughed.

“What about the heartburn?” he teased and kissed her hand. “Do you no longer hate that or do you not have it today?”

“Give me five minutes and I’ll provide you with a final verdict on that score...” she began but stopped mid sentence as Ross began a slow slither up alongside her in the armchair. “Ross…” she giggled.

“Mmm, you smell so good. Like…raspberries!”

“Don’t you dare!” she tried to push him away, afraid he would lick the jam off her shirt. 

His arms now cinched around her shoulders, his nose traced along her collarbone up her neck. He could feel her body soften in his grasp; she was no longer fighting him, no longer fighting the world around her.

“I like it,” she reluctantly murmured as he nuzzled closer and closer.

He pressed his cheek to hers and had to work to contain a chuckle--he could smell the jam on her--then he rubbed his nose against hers. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened. He did it again, this time from left to right. Without looking at her he could feel her smiling.

He met her lips. Soft kisses. He knew how to pace them so they lingered long enough, but it was quantity that mattered now. One for each complaint. Over and over he sought her lips, perfectly matched to his. 

“Mmm...” She’d surrendered. His unrelenting tenderness, his nuzzily affection was too much for her. “I love it,” she whispered.

[merryfortune]

Beneath the Weather

Written for 100ships on Dreamwidth

Prompt 66: Grey

Ship: Respectfulshipping | Ryoken/Spectre

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS

Word Count: 1,794

Rating: T

Warnings: No Warnings Apply

Tags: Fluff, Whump, Sickfic

   In this sort of grey and dreary weather, it was easy to feel beneath it.

   But Spectre was not going to allow himself to feel anything more than inch outside of his usual self. He had a fussy personality, he didn’t mind nurturing his hobbies or his beloved. Actually, if anything, he thoroughly enjoyed micromanaging his plants and, of course, Ryoken too but he hated to be taken care of. It elicited a vulnerability that made him extremely uncomfortable. After all, the only kindness and affection that he had ever felt genuinely had been robbed of him very early as a child.

   Thus, he would very much prefer to toil through his bout of under the weatherness. He wasn’t even going to entertain it by calling it some sickness or illness. Even if it was a day off from activities as a cyber criminal operating with the Knights of Hanoi, he still had a long list of chores and other things to do. 

   He wasn’t going to let the gloomy weather outside stop him nor his little sniffles that were bothering him. It was barely anything at all. So long as he kept rugged up, perhaps a little more than usual, he ought to be fine. He would simply sweat it out tending to his indoor plants, the outdoor ones would be fine in the vague precipitation, so long it didn’t turn foul and tumultuous. It would all be perfectly fine.

   And yet, despite having the utmost conviction, Spectre still succumbed to whatever it was which was dredging up the worst tiredness inside of him.

   He stirred, irritated that he had fallen asleep at all, and he realised something. There was a soft blanket laid over him and the more confused he became, the more confusing things he realised. He was propped up on his side; he usually slept on his back. Now that he thought about it, he did not recall putting himself to sleep and this pillow that he was using was very peculiar as well. For lack of a better word, it was bony but not necessarily uncomfortable.

   “Welcome back to the land of the living.” Ryoken teased him.

   All grogginess that Spectre felt evaporated immediately. His eyes went wide and his face went bright red. He had been asleep. In Ryoken’s lap. And for goodness knows how long. The humiliation was instantaneous and more than enough to bring upon another dizzy spell. Spectre’s head spun and he collapsed back down into Ryoken’s lap.

   “Oh, you poor thing, try not to move too much.” Ryoken murmured, looking up from his book and lazily putting it away with just one hand.

   He pet the top of Spectre’s head and Spectre’s eyes squeezed shut. On one hand, he very much did not want this but on the other, he very much did. His compromise was to pretend that neither of them existed but that did little to quell the undeniable - and soothing - sensation of having Ryoken play with his hair. His fingers were very gentle, deftly raking through the thick strands of Spectre’s grey hair, all clumped together with sweat.

   Spectre moaned to himself and then feebly asked, “What happened? I don’t remember the last… half an hour or so at all.”

   “I would imagine so,” Ryoken agreed, “you’ve been out cold for at least two hours.”

   “Two hours?!” Spectre exclaimed, only to sound like he was running out of air to breathe, his voice twisting and murmuring.

   “Yes, two hours.” Ryoken confirmed. “You were passing through from the kitchen, perhaps on your way to your bedroom, perhaps not when you stumbled and luckily, I noticed. I was able to catch you before you fell, mid-faint, and drag you to the lounge where we’ve been ever since. It’s been pleasant. You're cute when you snore.”

   “I do not snore.” Spectre denied, red hot.

   “It made for very nice white noise as I read. I managed to get through half of my novel.” Ryoken made small talk.

   He paused and his hand roved down to the side of Spectre’s face. Spectre recoiled, Ryoken’s hands were freezing to him but it was nice. Cooling. Ryoken then checked Spectre’s forehead. He hummed thoughtfully.

   “You're still burning up…” he mused.

   “I - I feel awful.” Spectre murmured. 

   He took a deep breath and tried to get up. Ryoken allowed it, rescinding his hand from Spectre’s head, but he was worried for Spectre as he was entirely ungraceful as he propped himself up to sit up straight. Or at least, straight-ish. He sat somewhat slumped and slanted. Exhaustion dripped off him no differently than sweat. He breathed heavily, raggedly.

   “Do you want some help?” Ryoken asked quietly.

   “Not particularly,” Spectre admitted, “but… in this case. I could use some assistance.”

   Internally, Spectre fumed. He was not the one who was supposed to need assistance. He was the one who provided it. Day in, day out: he provided for Ryoken in all sorts of ways. He was very much the glue that kept their routines and schedules together. He was very much not used to leaning on others for support, mostly because he felt as though he couldn’t or had no one to, but Ryoken was very much not no one. He was rather special to Spectre.

   Ryoken smiled tenderly. He got up and he offered his hand to Spectre. Spectre gingerly accepted it so Ryoken held onto him tightly. Spectre’s grip was weak and how he hobbled along, even with Ryoken’s aide, was even worse. He ambled along like a newborn fawn, determined not to fall but if he was, he was absolutely going to take Ryoken down with him.

   Thankfully, Spectre’s room was on the ground floor of the mansion so with enough patience, they were able to get in and Ryoken put Spectre to bed. Ryoken tossed Spectre a bed shirt that he could wear that was probably more loose than the button-up shirt that he was already wearing. Spectre wanted to insist that he was fine but he knew that would be a battle that he would lose, so he didn’t bother fighting it. Whilst he got changed siting down in his bed, Ryoken drew his curtains across. The sudden darkness in the already dim room was a load off, Spectre had to admit. When he was changed, he handed his shirt back to Ryoken who put in the nearby laundry basket and turned his gaze, soft, back onto Spectre.

   “Do you need anything?” Ryoken asked. “Aside from painkillers and water, I’ll bring you some in a sec but is there anything else you might like?”

   Spectre hesitated, “I’m kind of hungry…” he murmured.

   “I know, I’ll warm you up some of yesterday’s tomato soup and bring it as well.”

   “That’s an awful lot to carry.” Spectre worriedly pointed out.

   “I’ll be fine.” Ryoken said. “Besides, I know you would go above and beyond for me so this is the least I can do.”

   “Then can I be selfish and ask for a heat pack too? It's weird, I’m hot and cold at the same time.” Spectre added on. He shivered for emphasis but it wasn’t on purpose, he looked too clammy and pale for it to have been on purpose.

   “Absolutely. You're not being selfish at all.” Ryoken said.

   With that, Ryoken left to go and raid the kitchen for the various supplies and comforts that Spectre needed. He smiled to himself and finally in his own bed, Spectre did feel more obliged to try to recover but even so, he didn’t feel able to relax. He had this terrible headache and more, he just wanted to escape from it all, even if it was momentarily. He receded down into his sheets and doona, pulling them up and over himself and whilst he enjoyed the comfort of his cocoon, his whole body still felt like he was in agony. 

   The pain that he felt was amorphous and moving. Vague, just blobs of hurt, inside of him and yet, it was enough to rate incredibly high on his pain scale. His stomach growled. Tomato soup was sounding very nice right about now and he strained his ears. He could hear the microwave buzzing and whirring, and Ryoken’s footsteps. It shouldn’t be long at all now and against his will, Spectre’s eyelids fluttered, getting very heavy and he drifted off to sleep for a moment, or at least something akin.

   That was, until, his door opened and disturbed him. Spectre roused from his nap and Ryoken looked sorry for it. He stepped inside slowly and made his way back to Spectre, giving him plenty of time to wriggle back up and rearrange his pillows so he could sit up.

   “Here, drink this and take these first, hopefully they’ll help.” Ryoken said.

   Spectre’s fingers were shakier than he thought they would be but he managed to accept the glass of water regardless. He took a sip and then Ryoken gave him the pills to take. He swallowed them without issue then set aside his glass on his bedside table. Ryoken lowered the tray so Spectre wouldn’t burn either himself or his doona with the hot bottom of the bowl of tomato soup.

   “Thank you, Ryoken…” Spectre murmured.

   Ryoken smiled, “I know you're just having lunch now so its probably too early to think about dinner but well, do you want me to order takeout later? Your favourite, of course, or whatever you want.”

   “That sounds rather nice, actually.” Spectre replied as he stirred his soup before blowing on a spoonful.

   “Great,” Ryoken said, “well, I’ll leave you be. You probably want some peace and quiet.” He wasn’t quite mumbling but he was close.

   “I don’t mind but thank you.” Spectre said. He drank a spoonful of his soup and rather demurely, his gaze flicked back to Ryoken and he managed to utter out, “I love you, I appreciate your doting.”

   “I love you, too,” Ryoken told him, drawing in closer, unable to resist, and he pecked the middle of Spectre’s warm, damp forehead, “get well soon.”

   “I promise.” Spectre murmured, his heart raced in his chest and he could feel himself getting dizzy again but he suspected that this instance was unrelated to his previous instances.

   With that, Ryoken gave him some more privacy with the promise to drop in on him later so he could pick up the used bowl and cutlery. Spectre didn’t mind so long as he was quiet. Though, quiet was something of a misnomer. The vague precipitation that had clouded and meandered with the grey of the poor weather had finally become something else. A gentle rain that tapped on his window as he ate and rested, feeling entirely loved and doted upon.

[evilasiangenius]

The Fall

“Out.”

And when Her voice reverberated throughout Heaven as if a bell struck, the War in Heaven was over, the cries of damaged and destroyed angels were silenced, and the marked angel, the tall one with the long dark curling hair and the good cheekbones felt existence suddenly shift around wings and shoulders and legs and elbows and knees and feet and suddenly everything was falling.

No, it wasn’t falling.

They were being pushed out.

A harsh downward pressure and the angel could not even scream at the brief fierce pain of being thrust out of Heaven and in that moment something important happened; identity snapped and shattered, disappearing into the ether. The name that the Creator had vested in this angel was gone, ripped away with everything else and the angel was left as something partially blank, empty, memories torn and broken. Despite that, the angel clung to the snatches of things that could be remembered; a stolen conversation, a voice raised in song, the warm light of Heaven, and most importantly, that deep sense of quiet profound intimacy that Heaven had always represented, until it did not.

With great effort the angel struggled to turn around, arms and wings and legs fighting against the unforgiving pressure forcing the angel away from the bright light above. Turning to catch a glimpse of a home that began to disappear quickly, the angel kept golden eyes fixed upward but that point of light, gorgeous and shimmering and orderly, stayed for a long time within sight as the angel fell and at that moment, as the lovely dreamy glimmering light slowly disappeared from view, the angel knew that there was a reason as to why the Creator had wanted them to see Heaven for so long, just out of reach.

Punishment.

Time didn’t matter much in Heaven, and it mattered even less here.

Blackness punctuated by starlight, blues and reds and gold and it was so beautiful that the angel saw nothing but those streaks of light, even as there was no longer any way to see that true light, the bright soft glow of a home that was so distant now that there was no point in trying to look for it anymore.

It had been a long time since the angel tried to struggle against the inexorable, unrelenting force that pushed downwards. There was nothing to do now but feel the fierce cutting stellar wind through huddled white wings that shielded the angel from the worst of it, taste the grains of stardust that floated through space, see the distant fires of burning stars that flickered by, brief splotches of light staining the darkness with their warmth.

As if a massive invisible hand crushing them flat, there was no way to fly up, no way to break away, to break free.

All around were the sounds of screams, of cries, anger and begging, pitiful wailing as other falling angels struggled in their own torments but the angel was quiet. The time for begging had long passed; from here there was only aching loneliness, the emptiness of being torn away from the close intimacy of Heaven, the fellowship of its innumerable angels.

Then again, it was already like that long before the Fall, when they had been made individual, when they had been given these things called bodies instead of just existing as an amorphous blob of spirit. Heaven had already become a lonely empty place; this just capped off what was already unpleasant, pushing an already unhappy situation into something terrible beyond endurance.

The angel could not even sigh anymore. The tears that had filled golden eyes were long since gone, dried up to nothing. Now it was just a matter of existing, and it was not much of an existence, falling through the great span of darkness through the universe, passing galaxies and nebulae (or was it nebulas?) at a speed so great that it was impossible to tell which ones the angel had even worked on.

Perhaps it would have been best to have never existed.

Ages and eons passed alone, and the angel wondered; if the Creator could see them now, if the Creator were watching, did they look like stars themselves, falling in great trails of blazing light? Or were they more like rocky asteroids, tumbling through the darkness on a tilted orbit askew?

A million light years and maybe a million more, the angel thought absently, even as there was no way to gauge how far or how long they had been falling, pushed down by the force of the Almighty Lord.

There was nothing to hope for nothing to do but to patiently wait for destruction. Surely this had to end in destruction. After all, in that first, painful push out of Heaven, even the angel’s name had been torn away, broken and destroyed, lost. It followed that the rest would follow in kind; ripped up into tatters, white feathers scattering like stars in the endless night of space.

Somewhere above the angel, a strange light streaked in an irregular way, moving from one falling figure to another, and the angel watched it idly, wondering what kind of star it could have been to move in such an unusual way.

                                  And then, the star came down to the angel.

“Are you all right?”

Surprised, the angel could not speak; no one had addressed the angel in so long that the angel could hardly remember being spoken to, much less how to move one’s mouth in the motion of speech. There had been no one to talk to; the pressure had been so intense that the angel could hardly move to turn around, and here was an Archangel, flying about as free as a wandering comet and the angel felt such a sharp twinge of longing, of hot jealousy and envy, that it was almost painful.

“You’re…” the word came out as a harsh croak.

“Asmodeus,” the golden-haired angel managed a little smile, a polite and dignified expression turned awkward and uncomfortable by the circumstances. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“A shame that I never gave it to you,” the nameless angel said, voice a creaky unused whisper. “I don’t have it anymore to give.”

“Oh.” Asmodeus was taken aback. “I’m sorry to hear that. Unfortunately you’re not the only one. Most everyone has lost their names. I’m not sure why I still have mine.”

“Probably the same reason you can fly about. I can hardly move.” And the fear that had been long silenced by acclimation came back suddenly and tears filled the angel’s eyes, tears that the angel had not thought possible returned.

“Yes. I suppose I was created to be more powerful. Please don’t cry.” Asmodeus reached out to brush away a trickling tear, and the angel was startled by the touch, at the hint of warmth in those long beautiful fingers. “I’m doing my best here to help everyone. But there’s not much I can do…”

“Yeah. I don’t think there’s anything to do but wait and see what She decides for us. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to stay. Someone else will need you more than me,” the angel wiped away those tears as best as possible, watching little droplets of water float away, salt-stained jewels freezing and disappearing into the icy void of space.

“Hang in there. I’ll be back, when I can. If I can,” Asmodeus said, correcting himself. “No promises, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the angel said. “We’re all sorry. We’ll all be sorry forever. That’s the point.”

If there was a home, if there had ever been a home, the angel was beginning to doubt that it had ever been real. The only existence there was now was falling, and it felt like it had gone on so long that whatever had happened before might as well have never existed.

The angel thought once more that perhaps it would be better to turn to face the Fall. To see where they were going, if there was a destination. The angel had turned a few times, but had seen nothing through the streaking darkness that went on for eons.

Long dark hair tangling about a pale face scowling from the effort, the angel turned around.

Faintly, a light glowed in the distance, and the angel’s eyes narrowed, wondering what it was.

But it did not take very long for the light to resolve itself into something more clear.

Eyes widening, the angel realized that the distant destination that they were being pushed toward was filled with flames.

A massive wall of fire. The angel caught glimpses of lakes of molten sulphur through the blaze, boiling and bubbling lava, drawing closer with every heartbeat.

A gasp, and pale wings beat frantically, trying to fly away and if not that to at least slow down but the pressure behind the angel that had never relented was brutal, inexorable, a terrible reminder of the futility of struggle. All around the screaming grew louder, but some of the cries were cut horribly short as distant figures began to fall into the conflagration and the angel recoiled.

“It’s all right! I have you!”

Strong hands closed about the angel’s shoulders and the angel turned back, surprised, hair tangled in a sinuous knot by the sharp cutting winds.

That Archangel again, golden hair blazing about his head like a crimson-stained halo from where the glowing fires reflected and the angel wondered why Asmodeus had been marked. He wasn’t one of the Archangels at the center of the rebellion. He didn’t even know Lucifer that well. He just had some questions too.

Maybe that’s all it took.

“What’s your name, Angel?”

“I don’t know,” the nameless angel whispered, wondering if the Archangel had even remembered that they had already talked about this, given the numerous other angels he must have already met. “I don’t have one anymore.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not fair to you. Not fair to anyone. I can’t save everyone. I tried, but it’s impossible. There are too many. Millions and millions. I went around to everyone I could, but I can’t fly up, not very far. Not enough to return any one of us to Heaven, not even myself. I can’t save everyone, but I can save you.”

Massive white wings fought against the pressure and for a brief moment the angel wondered how it was possible that anyone could move like this, so easily through the unrelenting downward force of the Fall. Asmodeus took the angel into his arms, the angel’s head tucked beneath his chin. The shock of touch sent a jolt through the angel and the angel clung to Asmodeus’s arms, his hands. Those great white wings turned both of them in a sharp motion so that Asmodeus’ back was to the flames.

“Why me?” the angel gasped, as they turned away from the growing flames. But Asmodeus did not answer, tightening his arms and his wings around the angel, whose own trembling wings were bent inwards as well, cradled within the broad arc of the Archangel's wings.

“Why me and not someone else?”

And the last thing that the angel remembered seeing before they hit the molten stone was the white of Asmodeus’ wings closing fast around them protective, the faintly translucent feathers stained a rippling yellow and red with the light of the fires.

“No…!” the angel cried, clutching the Archangel’s hands, feeling the hard biting edge of the golden crown of the Archangel’s cold ring press against the tender center of a tight-clutched palm as they fell into the flames.

x

[fairytsuk1]

despite everything, it’s still you | (a)

character: tommyinnit

genre: angst

words: 1.8k

summary: tommyinnit is sent to the afterlife after being killed by dream, his experience as a broken soul in the afterlife is different than he'd imagined.

warnings: head injury at the beginning and it’s a bit graphically described! also depersonalization with the afterlife

notes: a bit different from my usual stuff but i had this idea and wanted to do it!

     The last thing Tommy's present body feels is his brain practically leaking out of his ears. The force with which his head is knocked into the ground is too strong, and he instantly blacks out. Dream's fists collided into him much harder than he thought, and it was even harder to try to block each hit as he was instantly overpowered by the godlike man. He just couldn't seem to get away. His soul might have even been connected with Dream's at one point; how could someone live every day of their life and always go back to the one who caused so much pain?  It's not a peaceful end; it's gory and sticky with blood splattered on the quickly growing pale skin. When Tommy opens his eyes, there's no Tubbo or blue sky; it's just white. The first thing he realizes is that he's not breathing, but he's not dying because of it. Because, well, he's already dead.

"Dream?..."

     His thoughts are there, at least the most important ones. There are some of them that blur together, like watching a movie on fast-forward and not pausing. He couldn't remember his life so far up to his death, and the panic was setting in; what man didn't remember their own life? Was he even Tommy?  A thump beats in his chest but looking down...there is no chest at all. In fact, there is no skin, bones, no solidifying figure that could tell him, "ah, I was a person."  Tommy doesn't even want to think about what would happen if he didn't know his own name. Would he be lost to time forever?

"What the fuck is going on…?" his finger jabs at the translucent blob of a figure, he's still got limbs, but he looks like a bucket of slime rather than a fleshed-out human, "Hah! I'm like fuckin' Charlie Slimecicle…"

      His humor hasn't left him, which warms his heart. Well, he supposes he has no heart as Tommy continues to poke and prod the gelatin-like substance he was hosting. It was weird seeing the ghostly shape of your own body, long legs, and big yet bony hands...it was freaky.

"This is just disgusting, actually. Fuckin' hell…"

     He stands and tries to ignore the way he feels weightless; it's depersonalizing. Makes him nauseous to think of how he doesn't exist in the mortal realm, but instead, he's here in some sort of blank space.

"Wilbur!"

     Walking, he realizes that he feels loose and lets out a laugh when he twists his body and finds it going farther than any human could. His ghostly capabilities were kinda cool! He had to focus though he needed to find a way to jump back down to Earth if he was dead. As much as he enjoyed being able to touch his toes and squat with his feet flat on the ground, the loneliness was starting to get to him.      Though he didn't say anything out loud, being dead was starting to get a little scary. Of course, the lead-up wasn't nice, and he's glad to be pain-free (though he does jerk out of shock once he realizes his head is caved in). There's something about being alive that is just so...he misses it, that's all.

"Wilbur!...Schlatt??"

     Tommy walks for a while with no changes to his atmosphere. For a moment, he thinks that he hasn't even been walking with the lack of environmental changes. That train of thought simmers to a stop as he spots a bench in the distant future, running towards it at lightning speed. There's no sound when he runs; his voice doesn't even echo. It's as though this afterlife has nothing in it at all. Like it's made of nothing. Like he's made of nothing.       He relaxes into the bench and smiles widely; if only he had his favorite disks! It's like being with Tubbo again, like being kids again! The warm touch of affection kisses his cheek as warmth spreads through him. When can he go back? He's so ready to go back.

"You know, Tubbo, I hope you're not all focused on Ranboo to forget about me! I mean, I'm that one that, you know, died!"

     Who is he speaking to? This afterlife is really getting to him, there is no Tubbo here, and there is no Mellohi. The smile fades as he glances around, white on white: white walls, floor, ceiling.

"Whoever the God here is, your heaven is shit."

     He shouldn't have said that. The bench rumbles, and he's shocked to see it crumbling underneath him. Chips of wood fly into space, and he scrambles off of it, watching it decompose his very own eyes.

"Ah, ah, wait! I'm sorry, I'm really sorry! Give it back! Give me my damn bench back, you bitch!"

     A bigger piece flies off and slices his hand, a glob of his fingers falling off and melting into the ground as he stands panicked. There's no blood, but it suddenly hits him. He isn't even human; this is all he has left. He's lucky to have his thoughts. That is his last tether to all he knows. If he lets himself be broken down, he'll never be human again. His time is limited. He has to find a way out.      

     His feet take off before he can even realize it, sprinting as he shouts for Sam, Tubbo, Wilbur, and even Phil.      

     But nobody came. No-one scooped him up and rescued him like they should've. He's only a child, for god's sake!

"What have I done to deserve any of this!? Let me go back! I want to go back!!"

     His voice is shaky as he spins, decomposed and blocky trees forming around him like corroded pixels. He could cry, but he's holding it back; Dream instilled that in him. The less you care, the better the ending. The trees fall in shards, and each one that touches him breaks off a piece of him. He's practically melting as he runs through the rain of pixels, each one hell-bent on destroying his soul.      Right now, he's no human. It's his soul in the purest form. His feet stick together before pulling apart, and he collapses onto the solid white ground. Everything jiggles, and he thinks he might pass out with the pure shock of taking in everything around him. His body ripples like water as he hears a faint and distant voice call for him.

    "Tommy?"

     A memory.         "My first decree, as the President of L'Manberg, the EMPEROR, of this GREAT COUNTRY! IS TO REVOKE! THE CITIZENSHIP! OF WILBUR SOOT AND TOMMYINNIT! GET 'EM OUTTA HERE!"

      Is that his savior? The one who's come for him? The one who caused his life hell in the first place? Well, maybe it was Wilbur who did that. Or Technoblade. Or even Dream, but Dream was his friend even though he struck him so hard he sobbed for someone to help him—

     "Hey, Tommy! What the hell are you doing, kid? Where the fuck's your body?"

     He's being hoisted up by his arms, and he pushes into Schlatt's chest as he cries and cries. The Ram hybrid grunts and mumbles something before pushing him back to hold his shoulders. He was never one for affection.      When Schlatt looks at Tommy, he knows this is the book's doing. Dream, the current owner of the book, had done this all in preparation. The easiest way to bring someone back was to only let their pure soul transfer on, everything else remaining the same.

     "It's easier than moving a whole body, right?"

"Whatever, just take the fucking book, man. I'm busy."

     Tommy's damaged. He's deformed, and his soul is hot to the touch. He's in agony. He didn't know he could sleep till it was over or relax. He tried to fix things and find a solution like he always does. Now, he was broken like he always was.

"Schlatt I...how do I go back? I don't want to be here anymore! It's fucking shit! And, and it hurts! This isn't some heaven; it's fuckin' hell!"

     Dream sat on the prison floor after arranging Tommy's body in a relaxed position, the book open in front of him.

     "Time to come back, Tommy."

     "Hey, hey! You listen to me! That fucker Dream, you have to be strong! He's messed you up, but this isn't the Tommy I know! You don't fucking cry, and you don't fucking get scared! You're the bravest kid I know!"

     Tommy feels flashbacks come to him, slowly but surely. Him rowing to fight Dream, the bravery he had when he fought him one on one. The first disk war...he was so brave.

     When he looks up at Schlatt, he sees the man he fought so hard against and won. He clocks in at that moment.

     I used to be someone. Now, I'm just like everyone else. Scared and weak.

     "You used to be someone, Tommy! You are someone! You just have...believe and know... you're stronger…!"

     Schlatt gets all twisty and turny, his vision fading in and out as he feels himself being dragged away from his arms. For a second, Schlatt reaches out, seeing his son in a box. He retreats and opts to yell out as Tommy fights to regain himself.       The strength is unrelenting as the young boy's head twists to see his arm pulled like taffy towards a glowing light. It's so pretty; he could almost just touch it and forget it all.

     "You are stronger than anyone else, Tommyinnit!"

     His head whips back, and he extends a jelly arm, his fight coming back to him.

     "If you fucking lose yourself, you'll lose everything!"

"If I lose myself, I'll lose everything…"        "You were made to beat this world, and don't you dare fucking forget it!"

     It makes Schlatt grin as Tommy's widened eyes get pulled as he's compressed into a singularity. There's a sudden pop, and Schlatt's knocked back as the white walls envelop him. He wants to yell more, but Tommy's already back where he belongs. He's already gone.

     "Tommy? Hey, Tommy!"

     His cerulean eyes open like he'd just drank an energy drink, a smiling mask staring up at him. For a moment, he wants to shrink back into the floor.

     "How was it? How was the afterlife?"

 If I don't beat him, how could anyone else?

     He snickers, "awful. I'm never going back there again."

     Tommy feels determination settle in his soul. After everything, he's still him. If he loses himself, he'll never be able to bring it back. So, the only other option is to fight.

     If I win, maybe then, I can know who I am.

[laces-of-life]

Spoilers for A Court of Silver Flames

Enjoy this extra scene featuring Azriel from the BAM! edition of A Court of Silver Flames. 

The river house had finally fallen quiet after the raucous Winter Solstice party, the faelights dimming to cast little pools of gold amid the deep shadow of the longest night of the year. Amren, Mor, and Varian had finally gone to bed, but Azriel found himself lingering downstairs. He knew he should get some sleep. He’d need it come dawn, for the snowball battle up at the cabin. Cassian had mentioned no less than six times tonight that he had a secret plan regarding his so-called impending victory. Az had let his brother boast. Especially since Azriel had been planning his own victory for a year now. Cassian wouldn’t know what was coming for him. And Az fully planned on capitalizing on the fact that Nesta likely wouldn’t let Cassian sleep much tonight. Az snickered to himself, to the listening shadows around him. Sleep, they seemed to whisper in his ear. Sleep. I wish I could, he answered silently. But sleep so rarely found him these days, Too many razor-sharp thoughts sliced him any time he grew still long enough for them to strike. Too many wants and needs left his skin overheated and pulling taut across his bones. So he slept only when his body gave out, and even then only for a few hours. Azriel surveyed the empty family room, presents and ribbons littering the furniture. Cassian and Nesta hadn’t reappeared downstairs, though that came as no surprise. He was elated for his brother, and yet... Azriel couldn’t stop it. The envy in his chest. Of Cassian, and Rhys. He knew he’d be swallowed by it if he went up to his bedroom, so he’d remained down here by the dying light of the fire. But even the silence weighed too heavily, and though the shadows kept him company, as they always had, as they always would, he found himself leaving the room. Entering the foyer. Soft steps padded from under the stair archway, and there she was. The faelights gilded Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. She halted, her breath catching in her throat. “I...” He watched her swallow. She clutched a small gift in her hands. “I was coming to leave this on your pile of presents. 1 forgot to give it to you earlier.” Lie. Well, the second part was a lie. He didn’t need his shadows to read her tone, the slight tightening of her face. She’d waited until everyone was asleep before venturing back down, where she’d leave her gift amongst his other, opened presents, subtle and unnoticed. Elain closed the distance, and her breathing quickened as she again paused, now a scant foot away. She extended the wrapped gift, her hand shaking. “Here.” Az tried not to look at his scarred fingers as they took the gift. She hadn’t bought her mate a present. But she’d gotten Azriel one last year—a headache powder he kept on his nightstand at the House of Wind. Not to use, but just to look at. Which he'd done every night he’d slept there. Or attempted to sleep there. Azriel unwrapped the box, glancing at the card that merely said, You might find these useful at the House these days, and then opened the lid. Two small, bean-shaped fabric blobs lay within. Elain murmured, “you put them in your ears, and they block any sound. With Nesta and Cassian living there with you...” He chuckled, unable to suppress the impulse. “No wonder you didn’t want me to open it in front of everyone.” Elain’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Nesta wouldn’t appreciate the joke.” He offered her a smile back. “I wasn’t sure if I should give you your present.” He left the rest unspoken. Because her mate was here, sleeping a level up. Because her mate had been in the family room and Azriel had needed to stay by the door the whole time because he couldn’t stand the sight of it, the scent of their mating bond, and needed to have the option of leaving if it became too much. Elain’s large brown eyes flickered, well aware of all that. Just as he knew she was well aware of why Azriel so rarely came to family dinners these days. But tonight, here in the dark and quiet, with no one to see... He pulled the small velvet box from the shadows around him. Opened it for her. Elain sucked in a soft breath that whispered over his skin. His shadows skittered back at the sound. They’d always been prone to vanish when she was around. The golden necklace seemed ordinary—its chain unremarkable, the amulet tiny enough that it could be dismissed as an everyday charm. It was a small, flat rose fashioned of stained glass, designed so that when held to the light, the true depth of the colors would become visible. A thing of secret, lovely beauty. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, lifting it from the box. The golden faelight shone through the little glass facets, setting the charm glowing with hues of red and pink and white. Azriel let his shadows whisk away the box as she said softly, “Put it on me?” His head went quiet. But he took the necklace, opening the clasp as she exposed her back, sweeping her hair up in one hand to bare her long, creamy neck. He knew it was wrong, but there he was, sliding the necklace around her. Letting his scarred fingers touch her immaculate skin. Letting them brush the side of her throat, savoring the velvet-soft texture. Elain shivered, and he took a damn long time fastening the clasp. Azriel’s fingers lingered at her nape, atop the first knob of her spine. Slowly, Elain pivoted into his touch. Until his palm lay flat against her neck. It had never gone this far. They’d exchanged looks, the occasional brush of their fingers, but never this. Never blatant, unrestricted touching. Wrong—it was so wrong. He didn’t care. He needed to know what the skin of her neck tasted like. What those perfect lips tasted like. Her breasts. Her sex. He needed her coming on his tongue Azriel’s cock strained behind his pants, aching so fiercely he could hardly think. He prayed she didn’t peer down. Prayed she didn’t understand the shift in his scent. He had only allowed himself these thoughts in the dead of night. Had only allowed his hand to fist his cock and think about her then, when even his shadows had gone to sleep. How that beautiful face might appear as he entered her, what sounds she’d make. Elain bit her lower lip, and it took every ounce of Azriel’s restraint to keep from putting his own teeth there. “I should go,” Elain said, but made no move to leave. “Yes,” he said, his thumb sweeping in long strokes along the side of her throat. Her arousal drifted up to him, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the sweet scent. He’d beg on his knees for a chance to taste it. But Azriel just stroked her neck again. 

Elain shuddered, drifting closer. So close one deep breath would brush her breasts against his chest. She looked up at him, her face so trusting and hopeful and open that he knew she had no idea that he had done unspeakable things that sullied his hands far beyond their scars. 

Such terrible things that it was a sacrilege for his fingers to touch her skin, tainting her with his presence. 

But he could have this. This one moment, and maybe a taste, and that would be it. 

“Yes,” Elain breathed, like she read the decision. Just this taste in the dead of the longest night of the year, where only the Mother might witness them. 

Azriel’s hand slid up her neck, burying in her thick hair. Tilting her face the way he wanted it. Elain’s mouth parted slightly, her eyes scanning his before fluttering shut. Offer and permission. He nearly groaned with relief and need as he lowered his head toward hers. Azriel. Rhys’s voice thundered through him, halting him mere inches from Elain’s sweet mouth. Azriel. Unrelenting command filled his name, and Azriel looked up. Rhysand stood atop the staircase. Glowering down at them. My office. Now. Rhys vanished, and Azriel was left standing before Elain, who still awaited his kiss. His stomach twisted as he pulled his hand from her hair and stepped back. Forced himself to say, “This was a mistake.” She opened her eyes, hurt and confusion warring there before she whispered, “I’m sorry.” “You don’t — Don’t apologize,” he managed to say. “Never apologize, It’s | who should...” He shook his head, unable to stand the bleakness he'd brought to her expression. “Goodnight.” Azriel winnowed into shadows before she could say anything, appearing at the doors to Rhys’s study a heartbeat later. His shadows whispered in his ear that Elain had gone upstairs. Rhys sat at his desk, fury a moonless night across his face. He asked softly, “Are you out of your mind?” Azriel donned the frozen mask he’d perfected while in his father’s dungeon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rhys’s power rippled through the room like a dark cloud. “I’m talking about you, about to kiss Elain, in the middle of a hall where anyone could see you,” he snarled. “Including her mate.” Azriel stiffened. Let his cold rage rise to the surface, the rage he only ever let Rhysand see, because he knew his brother could match it. “What if the Cauldron was wrong?” Rhysand blinked. “What of Mor, Az?” 

Azriel ignored the question. “The Cauldron chose three sisters. Tell me how it’s possible that my two brothers are with two of those sisters, yet the third was given to another.” He had never before dared speak the words aloud. 

Rhys’s face drained of color. “You believe you deserve to be her mate?” 

Azriel scowled. “I think Lucien will never be good enough for her, and she has no interest in him, anyway.” 

“So you'll what?” Rhys’s voice was pure ice. “Seduce her away from him?” Azriel said nothing. He hadn’t gotten that far with his planning, certainly not beyond the fantasies he pleasured himself to. Rhys growled, “Allow me to make one thing very clear. You are to stay away from her.” “You can’t order me to do that.” 

“Oh, I can, and I will. If Lucien finds out you’re pursuing her, he has every right to defend their bond as he sees fit. Including invoking the Blood Duel.” 

“That’s an Autumn Court tradition.” The battle to the death was so brutal that it was only enacted in rare cases. Despite being an outsider, Azriel had wanted to invoke it when he'd found Mor all those years ago. Had been ready to challenge both Beron and Eris to Blood Duels and kill them both. Only Mor’s right to claim their heads in vengeance had kept him from doing so. “Lucien, as Beron’s son, has the right to demand it of you.” “I'll defeat him with little effort.” Pure arrogance laced every word, but it was true. “I know.” Rhys’s eyes flickered. “And your doing so will rip apart any fragile peace and alliances we have, not only with the Autumn Court, but also with the Spring Court and Jurian and Vassa.” Rhys bared his teeth. “So you will leave Elain alone. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her.” Azriel snarled softly. “Snarl all you want.” Rhys leaned back in his chair. “But if I see you panting after her again, I’ll make you regret it.” Rhys had rarely threatened punishment or pulled rank. It stunned Azriel enough that it knocked him from his rage. Rhys jerked his chin toward the door. “Get out.” Azriel rucked in his wings and left without another word, stalking through the house and onto the front lawn to sit in the frigid starlight. To let the frost in his veins match the air around him. Until he felt nothing. Was again nothing at all. Then he flew to the House of Wind, knowing that if he slept in the riverside manor, he’d do something he regretted. He’d been so vigilant about keeping away from Elain as much as possible, and had stayed up here to avoid her, and tonight . . . tonight had proved he’d been right to do so. 

He aimed for the training pit, giving in to the need to work off the temptation, the rage and frustration and writhing need. He found it already occupied. His shadows had not warned him. It was too late to bank without appearing like he was running. Azriel landed in the ring a few feet from where Gwyn practiced in the chill night, her sword glimmering like ice in the moonlight. She stopped mid-slice, whirling to face him. “I’m sorry. I knew you all were going to the river house, so I didn’t think anyone would mind if I came up here, and—” “It’s fine. I came to retrieve something I forgot.” The lie was smooth and cool, as he knew his face was. His shadows peered over his wings at her. The young priestess smiled—and Azriel thought it might have been directed at his curious shadows. But she just hooked her coppery-brown hair behind an arched ear. “I was trying to cut the ribbon.” She pointed with her sword at the white ribbon, which seemed to glow silver. “Aren’t you cold?” His breath clouded in front of him. Gwyn shrugged. “Once you get moving, you stop noticing it.” He nodded, silence falling. For a heartbeat, their gazes met. He blocked out the bloody memory that flashed, so at odds with the Gwyn he saw before him now. Her head ducked, as if remembering it too. That he’d been the one who'd found her that day at Sangravah. “Happy Solstice,” she said, as much a dismissal as it was a holiday blessing. He snorted. “Are you kicking me out?” Gwyn’s teal eyes flashed with alarm. “No! I mean, I don’t mind sharing the ring. I just... I know you like to be alone.” Her mouth quirked to the side, crinkling the freckles on her nose. “Is that why you came up here?” Sort of. “I forgot something,” he reminded her. “At two in the morning?” Pure amusement glittered in her stare. Better than the pain and grief he’d spied a moment before. So he offered her a crooked smile. “I can’t sleep without my favorite dagger.” “A comfort to every growing child.” 

Azriel’s lips twitched. He refrained from mentioning that he did indeed sleep with a dagger. Many daggers. Including one under his pillow. 

“How was the party?” Her breath curled in front of her mouth, and one of his shadows darted out to dance with it before twirling back to him. Like it heard some silent music. “Fine,” he said, and realized a heartbeat later that it wasn’t a socially acceptable answer. “It was nice.” Not much better. So he asked, “Did you and the priestesses have a celebration?” “Yes, though the service was the main highlight.” “T see.” She angled her head, hair shining like molten metal. “Do you sing?” He blinked. It wasn’t every day that people took him by surprise, but . . .“Why do you ask?” “They call you shadowsinger. Is it because you sing?” “I am a shadowsinger—it’s not a title that someone just made up.” She shrugged again, irreverently. Az narrowed his eyes, studying her. “Do you, though?” she pressed. “Sing?” Azriel couldn’t help his soft chuckle. “Yes.” She opened her mouth to ask more, but he didn’t feel like explaining. Or demonstrating, since that was surely what she’d ask next. So Az jerked his chin to the sword dangling from her hand. “Try cutting the ribbon again.” “What—with you watching?” He nodded. She considered, and he wondered if she’d say no, but Gwyn blew out a breath, steadied her feet and balance, and sliced. A beautiful, precise blow, but it didn’t sever the ribbon. “Again,” he ordered, rubbing his hands against the cold, grateful for its bracing bite and the distraction of this impromptu lesson. 

Gwyn sliced again, but the ribbon remained unyielding.

“You’re turning the blade a fraction as it comes parallel to the ground,” Azriel explained, drawing his Illyrian blade from down his back. “Watch.” He slowly demonstrated, rotating his wrist where she did. “You see how you open up right here?” He corrected his position. “Keep your wrist like that. The blade is an extension of your arm.” Gwyn tried the movement as slowly as he had, and he watched her self-correct, fighting against the urge to open up her wrist and rotate the blade. She did it three times before she stopped falling into the bad habit. “I blame Cassian for this. He’s too busy making eyes at Nesta to notice such mistakes these days.” Azriel laughed. “I’ll give you that.” Gwyn smiled broadly. “Thank you.” Azriel dipped his head in a sketch of a bow, something restless settling in him. Even his shadows had calmed. As if content to lounge on his shoulders and watch. But—sleep. He needed to at least attempt to get some. “Happy Solstice,” Azriel said before aiming for the archway into the House. “Don’t stay out too much longer. You'll freeze.” Gwyn nodded her farewell, again facing the ribbon. A warrior sizing up an opponent, all traces of that charming irreverence gone. Azriel entered the warmth of the stairwell, and as he descended, he could have sworn a faint, beautiful singing followed him. Could have sworn his shadows sang in answer. He slept as well as could be expected, but when Azriel returned to the river house to gather his presents before dawn, he found Elain’s necklace amid the pile. He pocketed it. Spent the rest of his day, even the blasted snowball fight, with every intention of returning it to the shop in the Palace of Thread and Jewels. But when he returned from the cabin in the mountains, he didn’t go to the market square. Instead, he found himself at the library beneath the House of Wind, standing before Clotho as the clock chimed seven in the evening. He slid the small box across her desk. “If you see Gwyn, would you give this to her?” Clotho angled her hooded head, and her enchanted pen wrote on a piece of paper, A Solstice gift from you? Azriel shrugged. “Don’t tell her it came from me.” Why? “Does she need to know? Just tell her it was a gift from Rhys.” That would be a lie. He avoided the urge to cross his arms, not wanting to look intimidating. He blocked out the memory that flashed—of his mother cringing before his father, the male standing with crossed arms in such a way that made his displeasure known before he opened his hateful mouth. “Look, I. . .” Az searched for the words, his voice becoming quiet. “If there’s another priestess here who might appreciate it, give it to them. But I’m not taking that necklace with me when I leave.” He waited for Clotho’s pen to finish writing. Your eyes are sad, Shadowsinger. He offered her a grim smile. “I lost the snowball fight today.” Clotho was smart enough to see through his deflection. She wrote, I'll give it to Gwyneth. Tell her a friend left it for her. He wouldn’t go so far as to call Gwyn a friend, but . . . “Fine. Thank you.” Clotho’s pen moved once more. She deserves something as beautiful as this. I thank you for the joy it shall bring to her. Something sparked in Azriel’s chest, but he only nodded his thanks and left. He could picture it, though, as he ascended the stairs back to the House proper. How Gwyn’s teal eyes might light upon seeing the necklace. For whatever reason . . . he could see it. But Azriel tucked away the thought, consciously erasing the slight smile it brought to his face. Buried the image down deep, where it glowed quietly. A thing of secret, lovely beauty.

[sydneywritespursuedbyabear]

Spiral Day

This is also a combined (ooh snazzy) sequel to Ice Day and Kneecap Day. This work can stand on its own, but some characters make more sense in the context of the past two fics.

And of course, this is a RSS story for @brutal-nemesis's Spiral Day 2021.

Trigger Warnings--also tagged: Hospitals

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“Jaydyn, you said that your cousin is Chaia Glassman, right?” Anna asked.

Without looking up from his hospital crossword, Jaydyn replied, “Yeah. Why?”

“Just making sure.” Anna replied, trying to not sound conspicuous. She walked over to the entrance to the ED, where a stretcher lay in wait. “Bring her over to trauma 2,” Anna commanded.

Chaia hadn’t said a word since the ambulance left the lake. Lucy had agreed to let Maria sit on the stretcher with Chaia when they got to the hospital. Maria’s hand reached into the metallic blob at the head of the stretcher.

Upon their arrival at the trauma bay, Maria jumped off the stretcher. “Hey, lifey,” she said, “we need to move you again.”

Chaia squirmed in Aaron’s arms as he lifted her from the stretcher to the exam table. Chaia kept her legs unusually still, which, while concerning, helped Aaron stay safe during the transfer.

Anna walked over and peeled the metallic warming blanket off Chaia’s cold, wet body. “Chaia, it’s Anna,” she said in a slow soft voice. She slipped her hand into her pants pocket, discreetly pulling out her pen light. “Can you look at me?” Chaia didn’t budge. She kept her head firmly in her soaked sweater. “Please?” Anna tried again, sliding her free hand under Chaia’s chin. As Anna gently tilted Chaia’s head to face out, the movement caused Chaia’s eyes to open. They were open just long enough for Anna to shine the penlight and confirm that Chaia’s pupils were reactive. “It’s over,” Anna assured Chaia, sliding the light back into her pants pocket. “What do you say we get you out of these wet clothes?” Anna bent into a white cabinet next to the exam table and grabbed a dotted hospital gown and patient belonging bag.

Maria placed herself at the foot of the exam table and grasped Chaia’s hands. “Up, up,” she said, gently tugging on Chaia’s arms to sit her upright. With Chaia sitting slumped slightly forward, Maria reached down to the bottom of Chaia’s sweater and began to pull it up and off of her wife. She slipped Chaia’s wet, curly head out of the neck hole and pulled the sweater off Chaia’s arms. Maria shifted to Anna, trading the wet sweater for the hospital gown. Anna placed the sweater in the patient belongings bag. Maria draped the gown over Chaia and buttoned the back snaps. She gently lowered Chaia to a resting position on the exam table.

“Now, let’s get those skates off.” Anna grabbed a pair of scissors and walked down to Chaia’s feet. She easily unlaced Chaia’s left skate and slid it off her wet foot. She swapped Chaia’s sopping wet wool sock for a bright red hospital sock and carefully placed the skates on the floor away from the table. Chaia’s right foot, on the other hand, was a bit more complicated. The right skate was entangled in green slimy plants and looked to be filled by a larger foot than the left skate. Anna cut through the mangled lakeweed to expose the skate’s laces. She carefully untied the bunny ears knot and began to unthread the laces from the eyelets.

At the second eyelet pair, Chaia whimpered and thrust a flapping hand toward her foot. Maria took hold of the hand and placed it against her sweater. “I’m right here, lifey. Squeeze when it hurts.”

Anna returned to meticulously unlacing the skates. As the unlacing neared the ankle bend, Chaia seemed increasingly agitated. Her whimpers turned to moans. Tears made their way down her still-puffy face. She finally managed a single word. “Stop,” she said weakly.

“I’m almost done,” Anna assured Chaia. She sighed and picked up the scissors. She loosened the remaining laces and cut down the middle. “Okay. I am going to take the skate off in three, two, one.” Anna placed one hand on Chaia’s shin and the other under Chaia’s heel. She braced Chaia’s leg and pulled the skate off.

As soon as her foot was free, Chaia folded into a ball.

Anna looked over at Maria. “I need to talk to you out here,” she said, pointing towards the center of the ED.

Maria planted a kiss on Chaia’s head. “I’ll be right back.” She joined Anna beyond the end of the side curtain of the trauma bay.

Jaydyn had heard the chaos on the other side of the curtain and was getting curious, so it was surprising when Maria appeared from the other side of the curtain. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Um.” Maria paused. She pulled back the curtain separating Jaydyn and Chaia’s sections of trauma treatment. “Ice skating accident.”

“Wh- what happened?” Jaydyn asked. He was shocked to see his cousin crumpled almost entirely into a pathetic wet ball. The only exception, of course, was Chaia’s bright purple ankle, which rested against the white sheet on the exam table.

At that moment, Rory walked in and headed for the back wall, where the portable X-ray had been left. “I am so glad that radiology forgot this here today. Oh, and, uh, Jaydyn, your surgery is scheduled for 2:30. They’ll come by to get you prepped shortly.” Rory grabbed the X-ray and headed over to Chaia.

Maria looked over at Jaydyn. “Surgery?”

Jaydyn nodded. “Something about taking out whatever is left of my kneecap. That’s not important right now. I need to help Chaia.” He glanced over at Chaia, who was doing a lousy job of telling Rory to get away from her. Jaydyn shifted forward in his hospital bed, but was promptly stopped by Anna.

“You, sir, are not getting up,” she commanded. “However, I can wheel you over there.” Anna walked to the head of Jaydyn’s bed and unlocked the brakes on the wheels. Slowly, she pushed the bed to align with Chaia’s. She locked the brakes.

“Chaia, it’s me, Jaydyn. Do you wanna hold my hand?” Jaydyn reached for Chaia’s flapping hand.

Chaia uncrumpled and rotated to look Jaydyn in the eyes. “Hey, loser,” she mumbled.

Rory let out an exasperated sigh. “Chaia, I know it hurts, but please stop moving for a minute.”

Jaydyn saw the pain and fear in Chaia’s eyes. “Look at me,” he said. “I have no clue what I am going to tell your mom. Or my mom.” He let out a little laugh. “Oh gosh, what am I going to tell Bubbe? How am I supposed to explain that her two grandchildren got injured in unrelated accidents at the same time?” He waited for Chaia to react but got nothing. “Come on, it is kinda funny.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaydyn saw Rory pull X-ray images up on the computer. “So, Dr. Byrne, what’s the good word?”

“So, Chaia,” Dr. Byrne started, but he didn’t have Chaia’s attention. She was numbly staring at the ceiling over Jaydyn’s shoulder. However, a short nudge on Jaydyn’s part brought her focus over to Rory’s computer. Rory continued, “it appears that you have a spiral fracture in your Talus bone, which is in your ankle.” He used his cursor to circle an area of white bone with a black line down the middle. “There is some good news. It has remained stable and does not require surgery. Your body temperature appears to be steady and normal, so we just need to focus on getting a cast on that leg. Okay?”

With her free hand, Chaia reached for Maria, who immediately took hold. Chaia locked eyes with Rory and gave him an unsure nod.

[yafaemi]

i. | crescendo.

Ok then! Let the nervousness begin. :’) First thing for the WoL Challenge. The story is kinda... unrelated to the word itself, but I got the idea while thinking of ideas, so I just kinda went with it. :P A little nervous to be posting it- though that’s... me with just about everything writing-related, really. o.o

Description: The Final Days, they call it. Slowly encroaching, inevitable. The world’s greatest minds race to forestall it, as the world itself holds its breath. Yet one amongst those great minds, there stands one who believes not in the plan of their fellows. 

_________________________________________________________

“Ame, don’t you think you’re being a little extreme about this?” 

The words seemed to make the hooded mage stop in her tracks. She slowed, stopped, and sighed, not even bothering to utter a word as she pulled back the hood that cloaked her. Charcoal colored hair spilled out, going only as far as her shoulders. Prime, perfect, and well-groomed. Unsurprising for someone of such a prestigious position. Yet what was even less surprising was her clipped response, after several moments of silence. “Hardly. If nothing else, I think I’m not being extreme enough.” 

Styx let out an impatient sigh. Apollo, from beside her, only pinched the bridge of his mask. It was an unending game of back and forth, between the three of them. Though, the back portion of the argument was mostly disinterested retorts or refusal to at least listen to some of their points. 

“What is this going to prove?” It was Apollo’s turn. He jerked his head towards the cluttered desk, eyes settled onto the intricate red mask sitting on a pile of papers. “Do you really think the Convocation will stop its plans if you resign from your seat?” 

“Of course they won’t.” He didn’t even need to answer. Ametrine spun back to her friends, dark eyes boring holes into both of them. Apollo looked away, yet Styx held the stare. Piercing teal eyes met deep purple, unblinking for what felt like minutes. “But I refuse to play any part in their ridiculous schemes! And if that means relinquishing my place as Azem, then that’s what it means.” 

They were arguing over nothing, in her mind. All three agreed. Summoning Zodiark would not solve their problems. If nothing else, it would just be one bigger problem for them down the line. What they did disagree with, however, was Ametrine’s approach to disagreeing. 

And that was where they’d been stuck. For days. Wasting the precious time left before Amaurot would fall victim to the inevitable flood of destruction that raged across their star. 

With a quick move of his hand, Apollo tugged off the white mask, and then pinched the bridge of his nose once more. Wispy strands of white-blond hair fell over his forehead the second the mask was moved, almost held back like water in a dam. Yet now, it was allowed to go free. “And if it means having to leave your friends, too? What then?” The words were almost hauntingly soft. 

In just those few words, the tension in the air seemed choking. “Emet-Selch knows of my intent to leave the Convocation, and I’ve no doubt that he’s already dragged my name through the dirt right up to Hythlodaeus’s feet,” she replied, voice suddenly a hint more firm than it had been. Ametrine’s eyes wouldn’t meet either of them. They stayed solidly pointed at the ground, cold as her voice. “And if I must make peace with losing you, too, then I will.” 

“This is ridiculous!” Styx let out a frustrated noise, throwing their head back just at the right angle that the hood fell away. Short pink hair fell out of a hastily made bun, only adding to the tired look they shot towards their friends. “There’s no reason to be acting like this. Both of you.

“Ame- we both know you mean what’s best for Amaurot. You wouldn’t have been chosen for the role of Azem if you didn’t. But relinquishing the role of Azem- which you yourself strove to achieve for so long- is reckless, isn’t it?” 

“Then am I supposed to sit back and watch this happen? Just put my morals and beliefs aside, then acknowledge and observe as they would always insist before this madness began? They already leave our neighbours to fend for themselves, while desperately attempting to halt our destruction! It’s hypocrisy at its finest!”

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Moments too long for her, made evident by the way she waved a dismissive hand towards both. “I have made my choice. You will not stop me. Either I will find a way to solve this, or I will die trying. But I refuse to accept the foolishness that they’ve come up with.

“I will not pay with the lives of our brethren. And I will not pay with your lives, either. There must be a better way. And if I am to seek it out, then I must not be held back any longer.” 

There were no other words that either seemed ready to retort with. Styx only dropped her shoulders slightly, head tilting downwards as the mask over her eyes seemed to slip. Even from such an angle, the displeasure in her face was evident. 

It was Apollo who finally moved. He looked up, icy blue eyes wide and uncharacteristically cold. “Then all I have for you is a goodbye.” With one step back, one half of the doorway that the two blocked was open. 

“Apollo! You can’t be giving up now!” His resignation seemed to reignite her once more. Styx ripped off her mask, full anger fully presented in the once-hidden glassiness of her eyes. Mixed into it, however hard to spot, was that same growing resignation that he wore, growing only stronger. When she spoke next, it was to Ametrine. “...Please, we can come up with something. This can’t be the best solution.” 

It hurt her as much as it hurt them. However much they refused to realize it. Ametrine took in a long breath, and shook her head slightly. The smile she wore stung more than it should have. Their faces were blurring together in a watery mess, only bright blobs and odd shapes. “We don’t have the time to think of another one. I doubt you’ll listen- either of you- yet believe me when I say that I would not be doing this were there any other choice. Yet there is none. And so the decision is made.”  

Some part of her felt it was made long, long before even she had come up with it. Some grand twist of whatever divinity guided their star, only pushing her along the path it wanted her to follow. The decision was made, indeed… yet not by her, or the Convocation, or by the nightmare that awaited them. 

After several moments of stiff silence, Styx moved away from the door. In the deafening quiet, it seemed as though time itself had slowed to a near trickle, only picking up as they stopped, looked at Ametrine, and swallowed hard. “...Be careful. Please. If there’s no way to convince you to stay, then… do at least that for us. Stay alive.” 

Neither of them moved from the spots they’d taken besides the doorway. Ametrine glanced towards both, cautious as she took one step towards the door. And then another. And another. Apollo’s eyes stayed focused onto her footsteps, as Styx watched the distant wall behind her. “I will fix this. I swear this to you, on my honor as Azem.” 

With a final glance to them both, Ametrine grabbed the mask from where it had been, and left.