#VERSE. ( you are a weapon; not a shield. )

[lifefcrged]

@ultimatecaptain sent a meme.

“And isn’t it just so pretty to think, all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?”

She had been ill at ease since being leveraged into her position at SHIELD for a slew of reasons, not the least of which was how hard she had tried to leave her past behind... and with the proof positive that HYDRA had, in fact, infiltrated SHIELD to its core had just proven to her that nothing and nowhere was safe from its grasp. Even those like Fury and Coulson who had led the charge to purify SHIELD and had in theory always led with the best of intentions, humanity was flawed and those that meddled with the powers of gods, of aliens and technology beyond their understanding were only inviting corruption and strife.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

"Agent Walker... With all due respect, and bearing in mind that I do not know what you know of my past, I would very much appreciate you refraining from using any allusion to me being on anyone's tether in the future." She trusted him about as far as she could throw him. "That being said, I am happy to assist you in any way that falls within my role here at SHIELD, but I find the idea of predestiny to be ... unlikely at best, at laughable, at worst."

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi again, i am in need of you help. How do you write a loyal knight character? A true devotee of their charge, but not so much it turns dog-like.

Writing Notes: Loyal Knight Characters

Hi, you can consider using some character tropes as a guide. Found a few examples for you:

"Knight in Shining Armor" Trope: The medieval knight who fights baddies, whether villains, knights, or dragons, and in The Tourney, charms ladies without deliberately seducing them, behaves honorably, and saves the day with his sword; but also, any hero who behaves similarly.

The "shining" originally referred to the way his armor and weapons were kept in good condition, as opposed to the rust that accumulated for less competent knights. Most knights will be depicted wearing plate armor, despite it appearing relatively late in the era of knights. Them using a Knightly Sword and Shield is also pretty likely, though the usage of plate armor with Knightly Sword and Shield is actually historically inaccurate since shields were considered redundant while wearing plate armor.

"Lady and Knight" Trope: The brave, chivalrous knight defends and falls in love with the fair lady.

"The Paladin" Trope: Paladins are warriors dedicated to furthering the cause of all that is good. Holy crusaders, they combat the forces of evil wherever they are found, and defend the helpless as much as possible. Above all else, paladins are good.

"Knight in Shining" Tropes

This is the set of tropes that cluster around Knight Templar: the forces of light in hardcore mode, excessively or otherwise.

This mentality is all the way over on the Idealistic side of the Sliding Scale of Idealism Versus Cynicism.

The Trope Codifiers are the Chivalric Romances of the medieval Matters of Britain (Arthurian Legend) and of France (Charlemagne) — especially the innumberable fantasy novels and verse epics of the 15th through 17th centuries which were based on, set in, or vaguely inspired by the older Carolingian myths.

The Arthurian myths have a less militantly idealistic style than the Carolingian ones; the Arthurian work most completely of this style is Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

This pattern is rarer outside of Europe (and before the Middle Ages) than within it.

The closest analogue to European chivalry was bushido, the code of the Japanese samurai, but the Japanese code emphasized loyalty to one's lord, even to the point of doing evil,

while the European one emphasized loyalty to one's conscience, even to the point of treachery.

Of course, that doesn't mean that non-European heroes can't act like this—and it doesn't mean that European heroes always do, either.

The Roman-derived tradition of "My Country, Right or Wrong" was always present in Europe.

Originally, the word knight was a job description with no connotation of high birth or status: it merely meant a warrior who was skilled and wealthy enough to fight on horseback, and owed their service to someone powerful.

The English word knight is derived from an Anglo-Saxon word for "servant", while most other European languages use a word meaning "horseman" (e.g. German Ritternote or French chevalier).

The word began to take on new meaning in response to social changes at the dawn of The High Middle Ages: the flourishing of merchants and cities gave them new wealth and power to compete with the nobility, while the increasingly independent Catholic Church became more assertive in trying to curb the misbehavior of the warrior class.

In order to maintain their distinction from the class of people who worked, and to reconcile the violent nature of war with the ideals of courtesy and piety, the nobility and gentry absorbed the military role of knighthood while turning it into a more exclusive and regulated order.

A noble child would usually start as a page in order to learn discipline and manners, spend their teenage years as an arming squire taking care of a master's horse and equipment, and when they had grown into a fine warrior, they would be recognized as having earned their spurs. Not everyone became a knight through such careful grooming, though.

Commoners could be rewarded with knighthood for exceptional service, and rulers facing a shortfall of heavy cavalry would sometimes make laws requiring anyone who possessed a certain amount of property to present themselves to be knighted whether they liked it or not.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps with your writing! More research might be needed for literary/historical accuracy.

[n1ght0f-nyx]

pt 3 of my royal au! cod series

warnings/tags- this will end in poly icl!! eventual smut, not much rn just warnings ahead, these are just introductory drabbles!!

knight! kyle 'gaz' garrick x princess! reader

The training yard is blanketed in morning fog, the chill mist curling off the stone tiles like the exhale of some slumbering giant. It weaves between armored legs and the clangor of steel meeting steel, swallowing the sounds into a soft hush. You shouldn’t be here. This place—raw, loud, alive with sweat and calloused hands—is no place for royal silk and bloodline.

But still, you come.

Because he's here.

Sir Kyle Garrick, knight-commander of your personal guard, cuts through the haze like a blade through shadow. Each motion he makes—sword arcing, shield lifting—is refined, deliberate, disciplined. There’s an artistry to him that the court’s bards could never put into verse. Perspiration darkens the linen at his collar, glistens along his brow, dampens the curls that cling stubbornly to his temple. And yet, his poise never slips.

When he catches sight of you at last, he lowers his weapon and dips into a bow, his chest rising and falling with the deep rhythm of exertion.

“Your Highness.”

You cross your arms over your bodice, chin slightly tilted in mock reproach.

“Sir Garrick.”

He straightens with a lopsided grin, eyes alight with mischief beneath the edge of discipline.

“Spying on your knights again?”

“I prefer the term ‘inspection.’” Your tone is smooth, but your eyes flick to the sword in his hand, fingers twitching with curiosity.

His chuckle is low, warm, almost intimate. “Then what’s the verdict, inspector?”

You step forward, the hem of your cloak whispering over the dew-slick stone. You reach out, trailing your fingers along the weathered hilt of his sword. The leather is worn smooth where his hand has held it a thousand times, molded to him like a second skin.

“You fight incredibly,” you say softly, barely above the hush of the mist.

He blinks, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. His voice, when it comes, is quieter.

“Thank you.”

A heartbeat passes. Then, a flicker of something playful in his gaze.

“Care to try?”

You hesitate, eyes on the sword, heart thudding. “I might fall.”

He moves behind you, the heat of him bleeding through your layers of fabric. His voice is low, a promise.

“Then I’ll catch you.”

You don’t answer. You just take the sword.

[therobotsarestuckinmyhead]

♤|♡ "BARGAIN" — Overlord [IDW]

Post Overlord’s Defection, Pre-G-9! based off of my HCs you can find right here.

summary: Overlord left the Decepticons and word spreads fast in the Decepticon ranks. You could've cared less. And you realize that mistake a little too late when someone crashes in your ship on a fine day.

warning: robo-gore

cross posted on ao3!

Overlord was in here just to find a functioning ship and Decepticon ships were ones he was well-versed with, just about every model so it’s no surprise he chose the nearest one he could find at the moment. Overlord was an educated mech, many may have the notion he's merely a mindless brute with nothing in his helm other than destruction and while that is true, the mech is keen on educating himself. With adequate knowledge on Decepticon engineering; he knew what circuit was beneath which panel on the hull’s exterior so it was relatively easy for the behemoth of a mech to break a few panels using his abnormal brute strength, rip out the ship's shielding circuitry as well as weaponry, rendering the crew defenceless. Not like the ship’s weapons were doing much against his standard Warrior’s Elite ununtrium frame to start with but he did find being fired at slightly annoying at the moment. His own little ship was running out of energon which was the only reason he was honestly here for… and maybe a good old chaos session. The mad warrior was insane enough to jump from his own ship to the hull of this one, holding onto it for dear life as the rather skilled pilot of this ship tried to shake him off to no avail.

His pedes make a loud metallic thump as he lands onto the floor, stretching his servos a bit as he looks around. The ejection bridge, just where he wanted to be. This was probably the type of ship to have a little more skilled Decepticon personnel given the size and model but he's more than prepared for a fight, he's craving one if anything. But firstly, Overlord thinks about what he should do for his ‘fun’. He takes his blasters and aims at the escape pods, damaging them enough so that they wouldn't be able to eject; chances of escape left in flames as he walks away. The silence within the ship confuses him; there's none of those usual pleasant sounds that come along with his grand entry— no screams, no begging, no panicking, no blaster shots. Just utter silence.

No matter, he'd have his fun somehow.

Now, he could just go directly towards the storage and take all their energon but where’s the fun in that? The doors were wide open; as in whoever ran this ship had a feeling he was here for fuel and thought he’d be sane enough to just take what he wants and frag off. But Overlord’s been itching for his daily dose of violence, the one good thing about being a Decepticon was that it meant he had a daily quota of violence ensured for him always. Generally, he’d get a kick from the mortified faces of the crew members as they try to shoot him down trying to defend their ship. All in vain of course, no standard Decepticon blaster was powerful enough to pierce through ununtrium but it seems the crew of this ship was much smarter, not even a shadow of their presence in his line of sight. Or maybe they were cowards, cowering and hiding like the rest would.

At least Overlord loved a good game of hide & seek.

He roams the desolate hallways of an eerily familiar ship as he hums a tune, only alarms blaring and the echoes of his pede-steps could be heard. There is nothing but malevolent intent radiating from his frame. He can’t find the crew so far, they must be huddled up somewhere. Overlord found that slightly strange given most Decepticon commanders would’ve probably fled to a safe room, or the crew would fight over escape pods and leave the weak to fend for themselves… But this was a ghost ship. Perhaps they’ve all used the escape pods, Overlord muses. However, he knows that's not the case. He made sure to break in the exact area where the ship’s escape pods would be and he made sure to note the exact number of escape pods. Not a single one had left the ship. Decepticon engineering had gotten far too predictable for the Phase Sixer.

All in the meanwhile, you and the rest of your crew huddle in the common room, the make-shift break room. You’ve managed to calm down all of your crew, hushed whispers between them as they discuss the situation at hand— there’s all sorts of bots with you; combatants, engineers, pilots, medics, M.T.O.s and even a few of the ship’s drones for the sole purpose of keeping track of the ship’s systems. It was a tactical decision on your part; the security drones allow you to access the cameras of the ship, at least the ones that weren’t broken by his entry. There's an overwhelming sense of responsibility surging through you when you look at the twenty or so fellow ‘Cons under your charge as you struggle to compute, struggle to think of an idea to make this better somehow while you watch Overlord humming a tune as he walks through empty halls.

Why was he here? What was he here for? You have so many questions but all you know is that Overlord isn’t a Decepticon anymore and that means you have absolutely no assurance for whatever he’s planning. You know what he's capable of very, very well and it does nothing to ease your anxieties.

But you don’t have the right to panic. You can’t. You have to put up a strong face for your crew. They all rely on you. You tear your helm off the monitor to just make sure everybot was here for a moment. A little relieved you made it this far. You SIC, Faust pats the armour plating on your shoulder for a moment to calm you down— Decepticons generally don’t comfort or accept it when offered but you can't help but appreciate the action, evident from the soft smile he draws from you. You turn your helm back to the monitor of the drone, watching the hulking blue and pink mech intently with an understandably worried expression on your faceplates.

Now, usually, Overlord would’ve gotten bored by now but the mystery of where the crew went is rather intriguing to him. The captain of this vessel was intelligent; he’d give the mech that much, you had managed to sound the emergency alarms as well as override the lock systems. That meant each and every door was locked and Overlord would have to waste his time punching through doors to find the bots of this ship and this ship wasn’t exactly small, large if anything.

What a pain. But it would make his victory all the more sweeter.

He’d made his way to the safe room, he knew where those were on almost every Decepticon engineered ship at this point and he’s a little surprised to see no one inside after he rips through the door effortlessly. Overlord’s patience is wearing thin now, a small frown over his face as he storms back out onto the hall. He turns his helm to a rather… familiar door. He brute forces his way through it— it’s a CO’s workstation and he can’t help but sneer at the realization as he stands by the metallic doorway. He hated them. Having to report to those clearly less than him… but something’s familiar about the metal desk in front of him. He inspects it, long strides helping him get close quickly around the dull room.

Those datapads. Those desk stands. The hyper-specific method of file arrangement. A datapad with roll call list with ticks next to names.. Dates penned down next to it…

The realization of who’s ship he’s in sinks in and an absolutely dastardly smile spreads across his face, crimson optics gleaming with dangerous intent. He walks out of the room with a wide smile— he’s going to be dealing with you. Of course he couldn’t expect his usual routines or methods to work on you. You were far above those regular brutes that call themselves Decepticons and that meant a new experience for him, maybe even a challenge and Overlord wouldn’t refuse that. Overlord was going to enjoy this, throughly.

And the best part? He didn’t come here initially for you. This is a bonus.

He hums in thought, knowing you… you probably told all your crew to hide in their respective quarters. Of course, that would be something you would do. Not only did living space rooms (as well as weapons storage & ammunition) have doors thicker than the rest but also could only be opened by the ones who live in said respective habisuites of living space wing. He could punch the doors out too but it would take slightly more effort. He guns straight for the captain’s quarters, hoping to find you there. Overlord’s always wanted to be in your quarters before, he’d got a rather giddy look on his face only to be replaced by a scowl the moment he smashes the door open along with the HUD to see an empty room. But despite his annoyance, he lingers there for a moment longer than he should just to admire what you’ve done with the place; it literally screams out your designation to him with how boring it looks to him. He walks away, not willing to lose this game yet.

Your crew seems to go increasingly restless but you’ve managed to calm them down with Faust’s help. A quick flash of fear passes through your faceplates as you continue monitoring his actions, he is getting closer to the common room, entering the living pace sector only to tear through various habisuites for his amusement. His strength scares you, how he effortlessly rips through standard reinforced titanium doors like it's a datapad. It just makes your growing dread at what's impending worse as you continue to try and figure out what his intentions are.

Because Overlord is not a mech you can fight off; it's not even an opinion, it's a fact. But, you could mislead him. At least that you could do. Make him think and search while you keep scheming for a contingency plan. You know he gets bored easily and that’s just about the only thing you can rely on. You’ve made sure to leave the doors of the fuel storage and weapons storage open, hoping Overlord would take what he wants and leave but clearly, the mech can’t do fuel without entertainment. Besides, you were able to send Axel and Argon to grab whatever heavy artillery there was to keep with all of you as you hid in here, you knew Overlord would break through eventually and you weren't going to take any risks. It paid off.

“You know, I find myself enjoying this little game of ours, deary~” Overlord says out loud in his usual smug tone, frustration from before skimming down to none. He honestly impressed you’ve lasted this long, the other ships he’s taken down lasted about... what? Ten minutes?

You feel a primaeval fear grip your spark. He knows you’re listening. Somehow, he knows you're listening. You try to make it seem as if you weren't scared. Faust, Axel, Argon and the rest were busy whispering as quietly as they could amongst themselves.

You listen to what he’s saying, focused, on the lowest volume setting possible as your highly tuned in audio receptors take in his words. You make sure the rest of the crew can’t hear, solely in order to avoid making them panicked because the moment they are, they’d make enough noise for the Phase Sixer to figure out you’re hiding in the common area. You can’t speak back to him currently given your… compromised position so you listen to every word intently, studying his figure keenly.

“I must admit, most don’t last this long, dearest Commander…” He sighs out, making sure to stay loud. You can see he suspects that you can hear him. You can’t help but furrow your optical ridges, optics never leaving his figure as you observe him. Not daring to look away as you lean in towards the monitor on the drone. From what you can tell, he suspects you’re in the main console room because that's where he’s strutting towards, carrying an air of idyllic malice you knew him well for.

“Making me think. But that’s what I like about you. You make sure I’m never bored~” His digits scrape against the metallic walls as he walks along the lonely corridors. Now, that wasn’t good. You have a visible frown on your face. Your entire plan was to: A. let him take the weapons, ammunition and energon he needs without resistance so he would go quickly or B. make him bored out of his mind if he was looking for a fight so that he’d take whatever it was that he needed and leave.

But you made two fatal flaws: you underestimated his tenacity; you left out his inability to accept defeat and his unshakable want for something more than what he came for.

He enters the main console room and you can’t help the hitch in your vents as an idea of what he might be doing crosses in your processor, he seems rather unfazed when he doesn’t see you there; as if he wasn’t expecting it and it unnerves you, because until now, he seemed to get frustrated with all of your disappearances. The others hiding behind you seem to take notice of your subtle shift in demeanor, exchanging panicked glances amongst themselves but not daring to make a noise. You gave them a strict order to ‘keep quiet until you can hear your own internal systems’.

Overlord is the most dangerous when he thinks outside of brutality— you knew that well. You refuse to take your optics off of the screen, the reactions of your cowering crew going unnoticed.

He’s at the surveillance console. You can’t help the shallow vents that leave you but you try to keep your composure, you can't afford to panic, you keep telling yourself. Was he trying to access the ship’s camera feed? You’re certain he can’t… Only the Surveillance Officer and CO could; and your Surveillance Officer, Eris, was cowering under a desk with some of the other crew like you asked them too. But the disappointed huff you hear from the monitor's speakers as Overlord bends over to access the surveillance console has you letting out a relieved sigh. He can't access it.

Overlord walks over and sees red flashes over at the communication panel, a small beeping noise from it and walks up to it, crimson optics widening. “Oh, you are vile...” Overlord laughs as he sees the communication log. You sent a distress signal to the DJD.

::Ambushed by armed assailant in a M-18 model— Decepticon manufactured, recognized as a Decepticon, identity unclear. Thrusters damaged, ship immobilized. 12:87:09, Kimera Sector.::

::status: sent, unread.::

Unread. Narrow luck was on his side and it made him smile. Tarn and his bootlickers must've been too busy with a hunt. Even if the DJD does see the distress call, it would take them time to get to these coordinates and Overlord knows full well that The Peaceful Tyranny does not have a Transwarp Engine because of their ‘encounters’, perhaps you weren’t aware of such a thing. A miscalculation on your side. But you still had him on a timer and Overlord wasn't even aware of it.

He would’ve busted a fuse from sheer rage if he weren’t actually impressed with all that you’ve done within the time he managed to break through into your ship. Not only that but you’d manage to send a description of the ship he had arrived in. That would mean he was going to be tailgated for an annoying span of time… But unidentified? Every damn bot on this ship knew who he was the moment he recklessly made a landing on the weak point on your ship's hull. Why didn't you mention his designation? Surely, the DJD would be coming faster in that case. Unless you want to buy time… But for what?

You're a puzzle to him, a complex one. One he intends to solve. He admires your thinking. Maybe this was a slip up from your side? Not enough time to type out his designation? He sincerely doubts it. Meanwhile, you continue to watch with growing trepidation. Optics never once tearing themselves away from the monitor screen.

He takes a seat by the captain’s chair although it's a little small for him, his servos lay on the armrest of your chair, it irks you but you let it be. You had more pressing matters. His helm leans down on his servo, helm supported by his servo as he seems to be… thinking?

“If I were my dearest Commander, where would I go with my crew?”

Overlord always believed that a good tactician is half psychologist and half sadist, which is why he made sure to try and understand the way you think… but you were truly something else in his optics. He remembers seeing you read a datapad on ship mechanics during breaks and he remembers your answer to his snarky inquiry on your choice of reading: “I believe it's important to be educated on a topic before you make a decision.”. Wisdom, he might’ve said if he weren’t so prideful. It was why you were the only other mecha in this entire faction to have at least a shred of his respect. He was getting frustrated as he tries to think but masks it with a chuckle.

“Hm… I’d be with my crew… Not because I’m one of those bot that babble about ‘honor’ but because I know that they would give out positions of every bot on-board if I’m not there to keep them in line.” He muses and you scowl from where you sit and watch because he was right. If you let one of them out on their own, out of their sight and Overlord found them, they would sell all of you out immediately… and you wouldn’t blame them. Overlord was beyond sadistic.

“But… where could my dearest Commander hide with the whole crew? Judging by the number of habs in the living space, I’d say there’s maybe… eighteen? Twenty if I’m pushing it…”

Overlord says out loud, you know what he’s doing. He wants you to listen. Overlord rises up from the chair, heading out of the main console room, strutting down the corridors with an unreadable expression. He’s saying his thoughts out loud, he’s not talking to himself but to you, to make you panic, you know that. Fear is a powerful tool and Overlord is counting on getting you on edge; you can tell it's not only for baiting you to do something brash but for his own enjoyment as well.

“Now, the only rooms in the ship's layout that could fit that many would be…” He takes a turn and you continue watching as that nagging trepidation continues to build up in your frame. Your circuits feel unnaturally cold.

“One, the engine room, but you’d rather face me directly than let me near volatile engine parts with your whole crew around.” Overlord chuckles as he continues, his stride unnervingly calm and patient. He’s near where he breached through the hull and you can’t get a live security feed, earning a curse from under your ex-vent.

“Two is definitely not the main hall, I quite literally walked past it…” You can hear his voice with slight static over it but you’re able to make out what he says. The security feed returns and an immediate look of temporary relief floods your face as you continue keenly observing; however, you remain acutely aware that you cannot feel relieved yet as this threat to civilizations itself continues roaming your ship. He walks and he is getting closer to the living sector again.

You prepare yourself for the worst.

“Three, the mess hall. Plenty of space to run around in but in most Decepticon warships? Mess halls don’t exactly have doors…”

You can hear his pede-steps now. Heavy. Measured. You can’t help the fear that engulfs your whole frame as you watch in horror, glancing across to your crew. An expression that clearly conveyed the situation at hand and they all understand that look. Some whimper and some pray like they never have before to deities they relinquished when they became Decepticons as silently as they could while they remain huddled behind you. Some cling onto each other. Eris and Faust are, in hopes of some sort of comfort. Anxiety and dread continue to bubble up from deep within your frame at the sight— you don’t blame them for hiding behind you as you stand near the door. Pedes quietly shuffling away from the large metallic door as you hear Overlord’s loud, measured pede-steps right outside.

He’s here.

“Lastly, that would leave us with four, the common room.”

All of you remain prepared, your crew huddling behind you as you face the door. They really did believe you could save them from this and it just makes your tanks churn with a sense of… melancholy because of this situation… Overlord, he was far out of your control and you always had everything under control. You see a balled up servo punch at the door, about to break through. The door can only last for so long, some of your crew have hidden behind furniture in the common room and many remain huddled around you as you back away from the door. Putting the cannons and whatever artillery they had in their servos in place, knowing it would be futile.

But what choice do they have against Warriors Elite? Going down with a fight is better than mindlessly being slaughtered like cattle.

Overlord can hear the audible flinches and it just fuels him even more to take this slow and build this up so he could see the faces of mortification. But a part of him is excited at the prospect of seeing you again. There’s a wicked grin on his face as he finally bursts through the metal door and the sight makes him laugh— you at the forefront as the rest of the crew remains huddled behind you, pointing cannons and cheap Null Rays as if they could do anything against his superior frame.

And he knows they won't shoot, he can see it. Servos shaking like cowards, even if they did shoot, they'd miss and end up hurting one of their own. A pathetic attempt at a display of hostility against a force of nature like him.

Soon enough, his hulking figure looms over you, malicious intent practically radiating off of his frame.

“Got you.” He can’t help but feel smug as he purrs it out, that was absolutely fun and the result was a hundred percent worth it because he can see the absolute terror that grips all of your sparks. It took a while and that's what made the end result all the more sweeter.

His optics lock on to you as you stand on the forefront, it was humorous to see you like this now given you used to shoot daggers at him. You were supposed to look at him like this back then. Even if your optics only subtly betray your emotions, Overlord can tell you’re scared despite the stern glare you give him, he can see that you’re trying to stop your lower derma from trembling slightly.

“Aww. What’s with this face, Commander? Aren’t you happy to see an old soldier? A good old comrade?” Overlord gives a deceptively cheery smile as he leans down to you, keeping an uncomfortable closeness. You say nothing but your crew seems to take that as a signal to further huddle behind you and move back, away from him. A good call. Your crimson optics narrow at him and he can’t help but laugh at your display, he can see the swirling defiance and fear behind your optics all too well; he’s seen this look before. Many times. Though, he liked the look more on you.

“You should be proud, dearest. Not many have succeeded in making me resort to actually thinking for once… Or lasting this long, really.” He pats your back with little force but you continue to stand tense, refusing to fall into his ploy of false security. Overlord was treating this as if it were a game and he’d won in good sport. Mocking you. You uncomfortably purse your derma into a thin line, trying not to recoil from his touch; even if it was light for the metaphorical weight behind it was heavy.

“...What do you want?” You manage to speak, you try to make sure your tone isn’t shaky.

  Overlord comes to appreciate your cunning even more after making him run around circles in your ship to try and find everyone as if it were some hide & seek royale. As frustrating as it was, he will admit one thing; no mech other than Megatron himself has managed to get him to resort to using his intellect as much as he did in this situation because if he were any other somewhat sane Decepticon, he would’ve given up and just taken what he came for initially. But now you and your whole crew are basically his prisoner now.

“Why I want to have fun, catch up with an old friend maybe.” He says in a mockingly non-threatening manner with his eerie yet cheery smile but you can feel malevolence basically enveloping your frame as his intimidating stature stands upright, looming over you. Overlord chuckles as he sees you’re not buying it, a hard glare from your crimson optics. He can see the distrust and defiance. You don’t even have to use your words to tell him what you feel.

“You think I would crash a party without having some fun of my own?” He leans close towards you, his helm moving towards your crew and looking back at you with a wide wicked grin and that gleam in his crimson optics. You knew damn well what he was planning.

And you were afraid that it would indeed work.

“Don’t you dare.” Your words fall onto deaf audials as you catch on to what he’s saying

“Firstly, I want to know a few things.” He quickly snatches up one of the bots that cowered behind you, a small green bot that maybe reached up to your chassis at best and you recognize him, it was Axel. You prepare yourself for the worst. This was going to be one hell of an interrogation.

“You send a distress signal to the DJD saying that your ship was under attack, why?” Overlord asks as he holds a shaking Axel in one of his large servos, wanting to know if he was right about his previous assumption. Was it because of orders? What went through your helm? The questioning clearly caught you off-guard and he could see that in your crimson optics despite your stoic demeanour, he assumes you thought he would ask something classified which he would but… not yet.

“They aren’t too far from this star system and they could deal with you for treachery.” You reply rather blankly but he can sense your disdain, Overlord hums. He can easily feel the venomous edge in your tone. You were making it seem like you were following protocol.

“Partly true. But the real reason, not the painfully obvious.” You did not mention Overlord even once in the signal. Why give a description of his ship but not say that it was Overlord’s?

Without a second thought, Overlord’s free servo clutches on Axel’s servo, almost half his whole limb in his large servo as he begins slowly crushing his servos in front of you, his arm components giving a grinding crunching noise. Your optics widen, a scream that could freeze the energon in any mecha’s lines rips through his vocalizer. The metal of his arm slowly gets compressed, flattening in Overlord’s grip as the rest of your crew stands stupefied, far too fear-stricken to do anything as sheer horror flashes onto all of your faces. You’re no exception.

“Fine, fine, fine! I-I’ll tell you! Just… Just don’t-”

You fumble around, clearly distressed. It was a rare sight from the oh, so stoic Commander and Overlord, that sadistic streak of him, relished it. But, it was too late. You hear a horrifyingly loud crunch noise. To every bot’s sheer mortification, Axel’s entire servo gets flattened and ripped off of his frame as he writhes helplessly in Overlord’s gasp, screaming so deafeningly loud that his vocalizer cackles static and energon splurts out from where once his shoulder was. His faceplates contorted into one of utter agony and for a moment, you feel… frozen. His energon slashed a little on your faceplates and you just kept that look of horror.

You have never felt this helpless your entire functioning.

“For every lie you tell, I rip off a limb, fair?” Overlord keeps his menacing cheery smile on, as if he didn’t just mutilate a live bot in front of them.

You usually don’t feel bad when you witness Decepticons commit atrocities. Far too desensitized. Besides, you can't be a Decepticon without being either apathetic or sadistic. But the fact that this happened to a bot under your command, under your watch… it makes your tanks churn as you let out a shaky ex-vent. As if you've failed your duty as a commander. Failed to keep your crew safe as their captain. You honestly expected Overlord to kill him but of course, the sadist would only make someone suffer as much as he could before finishing them off.

“I signalled the DJD and gave a description of your ship. The model, the colours and the fact that it’s Decepticon manufactured. That way, you won’t be able to just… slaughter us all and run off. And all Decepticon communication lines contain the ID of the ship the message is sent from. So even if you wanted to use our ship instead, they would track you down.”

His smile falters, his dermas now pursed as he listens on keenly. That meant he could just kill all of you without an issue, he just had to make a rather daring escape and he could do so with an escape pod from your ship after he blows up the main console, not really convenient considering he was rather low on energon however it still works in his favor... nonetheless he listens on. Since you mentioned his ship was stolen Decepticon manufacture, it was without a doubt that wet blanket Tarn would assume Overlord’s ship had some second-rate opportunistic traitor… but why not mention Overlord? Tarn was practically aching to get his servos on him, that fanatic would come a lot faster if you did though it would take time regardless.

“But, the signal can be… shut down. You can cut off a distress signal. The receiver will only be able to save the ship’s location from where the signal was sent, not the ship’s identification. They can note it down, sure but they won’t be able to track or tell who the ship belongs to. The DJD will come here but they won’t be able to find our ship, they’ll assume some other ship already assisted us but they’d still keep a look out for the ship we described.” You speak, studying his face as carefully as you can. Optics narrowed at him. Trying to figure out anything that he’s feeling. Anything at all. But he just… stands in front of you, a shaking Axel clutched in his servo like some sort of doll missing a limb.

“Location is not an issue because you didn’t damage our transwrap-drive when you entered. We have enough energon in our ship to make one warp.”

You add on, trying to make sure your voice doesn’t shake and somewhat succeeding. You were going to break many, many, many lines of protocol for this but… it's either Overlord or Tarn. And that is basically the same thing but one of them comes with four others to deal with. Sure, Tarn would not be very happy with you and he was honestly just as scary as Overlord but you’d rather deal with a harsh lecture from the DJD leader about how important his time is (if he doesn’t find out you covered up Overlord, you’re sure that would get all of you on The List) than watch your entire crew get mutilated by Overlord. Overlord’s optics wide slightly as you’ve outwitted him yet again. You’ve managed to get quite a sweet deal and the better of him in a situation where you’re supposed to be compromised because you knew damn well he can't pilot an entire Decepticon battle cruiser without a crew.

“However, I can’t do that alone, I’ll need my Communication’s Officer and technicians to help me because I don’t have Decepticon communications protocols in my memory banks… and you don’t know which bot does what duty either. You can't pilot this ship entirely by yourself. Plus, this sector of the galaxy is practically abandoned. You won't be able to find another ship here for vorns.”

Overlord can’t help but smirk at that, you really were something else. His optics subtly lights up when your quick wit finally registers in his processor. If you had mentioned Overlord, Tarn would certainly come quicker but it would take time regardless, space travel was not as quick as all those engineers boast about… and he would have more than enough of a reason to leave behind a mess for Tarn. Not only that, but then Tarn would have a description of his ship and know that it was his as well. What's the point of leaving Overlord over to the DJD for their 'justice' if it meant all of you would die?

You left out his designation so you could buy time. Not only to put Overlord on a time constraint.

“That means, you can’t cripple or terminate any of my crew if you want to hitch a ride. Otherwise, you can take what you want, kill us all, leave and have the DJD tailgate you for vorns.” You finish off, looking at an impressed and near awestruck Overlord with a convincing but fake blank look. You don't want him to know just how scared you are, though you know he probably does. From one tactician to another, he had to applaud your thinking, he wouldn’t have seen that coming. Ever. He drops Axel haphazardly as the ‘Con continues groaning in pain. But you don’t dare to help him as you continue looking at Overlord, you can’t afford to show weakness in front of him.

Meanwhile, the crew behind you mutters amongst themselves with understandable skepticism. Some try to protest, intakes agape to say something. Overlord as a houseguest? Insanity! That would never work out! Not to mention, harbouring a high-profile traitor was practically treason. You’d get them all on The List. But, they’ve come to trust you. You wouldn’t go this route unless there was no other alternative. You know what you’re doing.

Right?

“Well played, Commander.” He claps, you’re not sure if he’s mocking you or if he’s being genuine but you’re honestly… surprised. Surprised that he even considered; Overlord was not a mech of reason. The energon from Axel splattered across his servos dripping as tiny droplets onto Axel’s frame as the ‘Con weakly groans, crawling away as quickly as he can away from Overlord. The sight is… unsettling, straight out of those circuits and wires gore montages, you keep your focus onto Overlord as much as you can. He is actually genuinely impressed.

You’ve managed to secure your own safety and your crew’s in a matter of moments as well as manage to evade confrontation with him for this long. He can see how startled you look, as if you didn’t expect him to ever agree. However, you're well aware that this will only be forever the time being and that any promises with Overlord wouldn't last unless you had leverage or an offer. But he wasn’t going to let you win so easily.

By agreeing to do this for him, you were going to keep him under the radar, Overlord wouldn’t have thought his old stick-up-the-aft commander would ever even fathom about harboring a fugitive… but if it came at the assurance of your life… Overlord can see what you’re offering. You’re basically giving him a choice to remain hidden; to return to his ship, take the energon he needs and frag off to the farthest corner of the galaxy as if this never happened. Or even stay for an indefinite period. You’re giving him a major advantage in exchange for the mere promise he won’t kill you.

And lately, Tarn’s been getting a little too close to him. Regardless, Overlord has his own plans.

“Fine. But I’ll leave, only after you and your mystery Communications bot distorts that signal.” Overlord completely accepts this, folding his servos over his chassis as his figure looms over you and it… somehow feels more strange to you. You were honestly prepared for him to just shoot you on the spot. Overlord can see your crew more at ease as well. But it’s a mystery.

He has something he wants from you, you feel it.

But you can’t tell what it is.

A silence fills the room, almost as if all of them can’t believe that you managed to actually talk your way out of this with Overlord of all mechs. All of them honestly can’t believe that they have a chance of walking out of this functioning. Your processor races, millions of possible reasons flashing through. The silence is deafening as you continue to stare up at him, surprised and studying.

“Well? If you wait around, the DJD is going to show up and your sweet deal will mean nothing, commander.” Overlord unceremoniously breaks the silence with a frown as he stands with his servos on his hip struts.

“...Right.”

You can’t believe that worked but you and a group of technicians and your crew’s Communications Officer hurry to the main console, working on it near immediately as Overlord walks around the room. He moves around, seeming… bored. His optics are fixed on you, its unnerving. But almost nostalgic. It used to be one his many, many ways of annoying you.

You're mostly silent as he looms above you.

"...how do I know that you won't kill us off after we disable the signal?" You muster up the courage to ask, looking at him. Overlord would definitely do something like that. But he just smiles, again, a deceptively cheery one.

"You'll just have to see." Vague answer. This isn't a solid contract. You're gambling away lives on the basis of a chance. You know that. You're safe as long as he's not having his itch to do something heinous. He looks as bored as ever.

But his boredom is short-lived when his optics befall the navigation panel behind you. You move away as he's bending over slightly to get a better look. A flash of worry on your faceplates but its quickly replaced with the strong cold stoicism.

“Garrus-9?” Overlord mumbles, reading the location this ship was supposed to be heading to rather curiously. Why the prison planet? You freeze. You’re not supposed to say a word but.. There is a chance he might go back on his word if you don’t let him have what he wants and you still don’t know how you managed to bargain for all of your lives.

“Lord Megatron wants us on stand-by.” You say, not revealing too many details of your benefactor’s orders as Eris and the others work on the console. Too risky. Too sensitive. Your faceplates do not betray a hint of what you feel.

How Overlord wished to change that. But he pushes such thoughts away for now. Seems like the two of you had a common destination.

“Interesting.” He says, sounding disinterested. He doesn't feel like murdering all of you anymore. Even if seeing how downright devstated you would be in such a situation would be a sight for his sore optics but…

Now, at least he will know where to find you later.

this is one of my stuff back on ao3, i'll post each of them onto here one by one.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

15 Beautiful Lover-to-Enemies Dialogue Prompts | Betrayal Prompts

"Do you remember the vows we made under the moon's gentle glow? How quickly they turned to ash, scattered by the winds of deceit."

"Your words were once my solace, but now they cut deeper than any blade forged in malice."

"In the labyrinth of our love, I found myself lost, only to realize you were the minotaur lurking in the shadows."

"Every kiss we shared was a dagger coated in honey, sweet yet deadly."

"The stars witnessed our passion, but they now mock our folly as we stand on opposite sides of a war we ourselves ignited."

"Our hearts beat as one, once upon a time. Now they drum the rhythm of discord and resentment."

"I thought I knew the depths of your soul, only to find abysses of betrayal waiting to devour me whole."

"Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I emerge from the ruins of our love, reborn as your adversary."

"You were the melody to my symphony, but now your discordant notes shatter the harmony we once shared."

"We danced on the edge of oblivion, oblivious to the precipice that awaited our descent into enmity."

"The echoes of our laughter haunt me, mocking the innocence we thought would shield us from the venom of betrayal."

"Our love was a tapestry woven with threads of gold, now unraveling into a tangled web of lies and deception."

"I offered you my heart on a silver platter, only for you to feast upon it with the appetite of a ravenous beast."

"We were poets of passion, crafting verses of devotion with every whispered promise. Now our words are weapons, dripping with venomous intent."

"The sunrise that once painted our love with hues of warmth and hope now heralds the dawn of our animosity, casting long shadows of regret across the battlefield of our hearts."

Short Note From Me!

Many fans of Enemies to Lovers often overlook the possibility of exploring Lover to Enemies. This underrated trope is one of my favorites and I believe it has the potential to make a novel truly stand out. If you have space in your story for this unique twist, I assure you it will result in an amazing read.

I created these dialogue prompts to inspire writers to explore the theme of lovers turning into enemies, showcasing a different form of betrayal.

Happy writing - Rin T.

[slowd1ving]

EAT MY HEART, I'LL EAT YOURS ⁺ 　 . ✦ MOZE

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides,  Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles,  The moon grins once again tonight.  He hates you. He hates your plans, how you talk, how you work. He loathes being stuck with you: detests it to his very core. But that's great, because the feeling is mutual with you! Tied to an ill-omened crow of your own, what's there not to abhor? continuation of tales of a disgruntled corvid art by @ RMavio on x!! pairing: moze + male reader warnings: blood, death, violence, yall HATE each other bro, v slow burn, pre established relationship (if you don't count the relationship of HATING each other's GUTS) wc: 6.3k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Copper defiles the carefully manufactured oxygen that circulates this tiny starship. Its stench pervades the past the clean air, past the distinctly alkaline tang of bleach, and past what little protection your visor affords you. In fact, the clear nanocomputers pick up on a distinctly sanguine hue to the air: labelling tiny crimson specks as biological matter—human blood (tentative). 

“Adult Foxian male, died approximately forty hours ago,” the man crouched before you narrates, oblivious to the you who stares up at the ceiling of the small room—as if the gesture could possibly shield you from the horrifying reality at your feet. No matter how many times you’ve stepped into a situation like this (too many to count ever since your career path practically merged with the Shadow Guards’), you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this. This is Moze’s sphere of knowledge: Moze’s work that intimately twines and dances with the very cesspit of vice and umbrage. 

“Died from presumably loss of blood caused by the deep lacerations across his abdomen and throat,” he continues—the details, unfortunately, seep into your brain as you try your best to tune him out. Thank you, Captain Obvious, you’d bite out, but unfortunately opening your mouth in these conditions would make you sick. “Or at least, that’s what the perpetrator would want us to think.”

There’s viscera splashed even on the very walls. Messy streaks of scarlet contaminate the aged wallpaper in the small room: capricious strokes, as though a child painted them, form characters and seemingly random lines of verse that register as unusual on your visor. That’s your area of expertise. 

Like clockwork, your gaze remains unwavering on the riddle presented on the structure. That’s how you’ve dealt with being in such proximity to Reapers: by pretending the wall is a block of stone and its red ink is precisely that—ink. That’s how you separate yourself from the victims of these gruesome cases; bit by bit, you’re slowly growing accustomed to the nauseating reek of metal that wafts before you. 

And so, when you finally glance down at the glazed-over eyes of the latest victim, it is with startling impassiveness that you assess his cadaver. He’s gone, you accept. Your little ritual has worked, as it oft does. 

“Same sigils as the other bodies.” You finally regain your voice, and the silver-haired man turns his sharp gaze up at you. “But the last line to the verse is different.”

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides, 

Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles, 

The moon grins once again tonight. 

The characters rest heavy on your tongue—foreign meanings straightening themselves out as you slowly sound out the snippet. It’s a verse from a children’s book of poems: a short tale about an obsolete, oceanic planet and its restoration by few brave souls. 

“The moon slumbered tonight,” you mutter the original line to yourself. This ancient script doesn’t suit the naïve phrases, but it’s commonly used for rituals—both antique and modern, you’ve unfortunately found. 

With a heavy sigh, you pull out the gun in your holster; it’s warm, humming to life which seems terribly ironic to you, considering where you are. You’ve not used the weapon for quite some time: the flickering it emits seems both familiar and unfamiliar. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” His clipped speech warily assesses the ease with which you handle the arm you never seem to use: preferring the glassy, almost invisible blade currently strapped across your back when in combat. 

“Xiaoze,” you sigh tauntingly, infusing the firearm with quantum energy that briefly glows indigo in this dim room. “Shut up and let me do my job.”

“Ew,” his face sours almost immediately at the nickname, embittered by both how it drips with condescension and no real affection, and how off putting it is for you of all people to be adding things to his name. “Don’t do that.”

“Then shut up.” You line the sights experimentally, having successfully blackmailed the Shadow Guard into keeping mum for a few minutes while you turn the qualitative verse into quantitative data. Perhaps he does feel threatened by the promise, for you only feel his heavy stare on you and not his words. 

The bullet careens and phases through the wall where the verse is located, and with a shimmer of data, the strings of numbers behind the verse reveal themselves: meaningless to all but yourself. It’s a temporary display, containing important information about the very foundations of this riddle. Or, at least, it’s a shortcut since the verse has already been decoded. 

Seek the answer ‘neath the tides: a reference to where the power ‘current’ of Madam General Feixiao is absent. Or at least, these murder locations point to that; they’re in the areas least looked over in the Alliance: namely, not aboard the Flagship. 

Madness shall prosper, forget her wiles: a crude depiction of Moon Rage, as well as the shedding of a ‘Foxian’ identity. Considering all these victims have been Foxian, it’s no far-fetched assumption to think that these have all been building up to something sinister. 

The moon slumbered tonight: a reference to the plaguemark hung over the Yaoqing—a moon left behind by Yaoshi. Past tense. Sleeping.

But that had all changed with this particular murder. Whatever goal the perpetrator hoped to achieve was finally coming into fruition with the awakening of this ‘moon’. 

The data transmitted onto your visor is as elapsed: the time of writing, the exact coordinates relative to the Flagship at the time of writing, as well as some background noise of little relevance to this current predicament. These numbers are duly inputted into one of your pre-created ‘equation’ sheets: linking abstracts together in their own relationships to receive a divinatory variable. It’s one of the few successes you’ve had with qualitative equations; linking energy and mass and speed is easy, but linking feeling together is not. 

In this case, tying down the exact time and coordinates to a specific intention. Any organic creature or ingenium leaves behind a trace of intention, whether it be through actual thoughts or a pre-programmed function. But in this case, the result comes out void. 

Thirty-two hours since verse was written. 

“How long did you say the man has been dead?” you ask, urgently. Moze snaps back to attention at the specific tone in your voice. 

“Forty hours,” he answers. When it comes down to the bloody aspects of this job, he returns to his laconic, reticent ways—it’s truly a shame he can’t keep it up in other aspects. 

“You’re sure about that,” you probe, half a question in your voice.

“It’s my job,” he deadpans, and you scowl as he uses your words against you. 

“Well, this verse appeared about eight hours after the man died,” you comment wonderingly. The strokes of the characters for grins once again appear a bit messier than the rest—almost like a map. Well, it’s not a deduction; your visor picks up on the strange wording right before you do. “Unlike the others that were written manually by a perpetrator.”

“So, this sacrificial lamb was finally the success,” he mutters darkly. 

“But the trail is no longer dead.” You sheathe your pistol back into its holster with a touch of relief, because finally this set of murders is coming to its conclusion.

⁺ 　 . ✦

You take back whatever compliments you had of him focusing on his job when it came down to it. As you pilot the star skiff along the trail of data outputted from your visor and the crude map from the bloody drawings, he’s practically talking your ear off about the garbled string of answers you sent him from your visor. 

“And what is beef’s relevance to this case?” he asks, each syllable drawn taut with what could only be mockery. 

“Typo,” you grit out, tilting the control wheel starboard. Now is not the time. 

“Egg, too?” he taunts. 

Your eyes flick to the top left of your visor, where you did in fact merge the contents of your grocery list with the file meant for him. 

“Use your common sense,” you bite on the inside of your cheek, hard, to prevent any insults from slipping past your lips. “You do still have that, right?”

“So what’s for dinner tonight?” He leans back against the co-pilot seat, and you can feel his gaze prick your face—much like you feel the tiny, irritating smile he wears. 

“I will crash this skiff if I have to, and you’ll have to explain to the General why the cryptologist exploded into itty-bitty pieces, Xiaoze,” you seethe. 

“Not if they don’t find your body,” he returns—far too accustomed to the patronising name for someone who blanched at its usage just an hour prior. Worst part is, he’d definitely make do on this vaguely-worded threat. 

“Madame General and A-hua would know it was you.” You propel the stern forward, if only to feel his hands grip the sides of his seat tighter. He courts death daily as an assassin, but wouldn’t it be a treat to die because of reckless driving. It’s not like you can entrust the programmed visor to him (and it’s not like you want to send the decoded map to the skiff). 

“Would they, though?” He pares away the dirt beneath his nails with his knife, and you hope the sudden jolt in the vehicle gave him an injury. 

“Jump.” A single syllable, gracing the space with your tender command. His brow raises minutely. 

“No one will miss you,” you add. 

“Since you’ve got no friends,” you tack on with an air of finality. 

⁺ 　 . ✦

He hates you. He hates you: hates the way your hands deftly turn the control wheel on the skiff; hates the way you trip and stumble through life, leaving countless messes behind yet still managing to have Feixiao’s approval to work with him; hates your facetious and conniving and sly insults. But most of all, he really fucking hates your plans. 

“This is so stupid,” he mutters in your ear; invisible to all but the tell tale outline on your shrunken visor. You’d reply, but you’re already conspicuous enough in the tailored suit you’ve donned—all sharp lines and a cut too bittersweet for your home planet. So actually, fuck that, then—there’s no point in being all Spy-like and Inconspicuous any longer. 

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, adjusting the cufflinks beneath the rich jacket—then subconsciously running a thumb along the edge of your fake identification card that’s pinned to your collar. Unlike that weirdo, you can’t turn invisible—so you’re left firing quanta bullets at the hull of this rig right outside Yaoqing airspace (or technically, space-space) and gleaning whatever information you can to assemble a persona for yourself. 

 <Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> how do I look < 1:34

The message pings to him from your visor, and you know he’s seen it—from the caustic sigh that leaves his lips, because if he ever blows his cover while he’s invisible, it will have been because of you.

< Weirdo > 1:34 > Focus on the damned mission.

Lukewarm, you scoff, brain sounding out your response. How… do… I… look, you type out once more.

1:35 > Terrible. 

Aggravated, you clench your fist, and you swear you can hear the space behind you warp and distort when he snickers. Terrible! What a joke, you seethe—jabbing the code into the airlock that you’d worked out by the little tones left on the verse, as well as reading the intentions left by people at this door. 

Your job is simple—getting to the bottom of these long-standing murders while also planting a bug on the ship that would allow the Seat of Divine Foresight of the Yaoqing to monitor the situation. Nothing more, but maybe something less if something went wrong. This was only a two-man operation, after all. 

Of course, you neither kept optimistic nor pessimistic. Though there were only two objectives,  those that underestimated the simplest missions oft suffered the brutal brunt of defeat. And of course, the former term being negotiable showed just how difficult it was. Or at least, if you managed to find the office of the higher ups, the data you stole would allow you to reconstruct the space virtually—though what you needed were concrete files that pointed to clear motives. 

No—not the office. 

You squinted as a rough plan of the building popped up from the continuous data you fed your visor—a general prediction of where the lab and computer room would be located, which were simulated as being in the same wing as the office. Perfect. 

<Weirdo> 1:40 > Done all your shopping already, or are you just tired of steak?

You grind your molars as you travel past the small throngs of borisin and humans alike: you don’t look entirely out of place as they’re dressed in a medley of different outfits, from IPC uniform replicas to Penacony garb to even the long robes found on Herta’s Space Station. Point is—your Earthwear doesn’t stand out, and there’s enough people that your badge does not go noticed. 

<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> gonna shoot you how about that < 1:40

It takes the time of twenty-seven heartbeats to stride through the corridors (tunnels) that make their way around the aircraft. Twenty-seven heartbeats, three checkpoints and one smile shot at presumably a ‘coworker’—before you finally make it into the final stretch. He knows, though you don’t, because he’s counted: listening to the rhythmic beat of your organs as you calmly navigate the ship like you know what you’re doing. 

It’s devoid of souls, except for the two of you as you pad down the corridor. Even the very lab and big office seem abandoned—but Moze’s urgent text alerts you of the presence of someone in the office, just not the lab. 

Guess we’ll start there then. 

A quick swipe of your falsified keycard, and you were in—slipping on one of the freely available lab coats and extending your visor to cover your eyes at the entrance. You do respect lab etiquette, after all; erasing even your thoughts about food and drink as you press through the automatic glass doors. 

<Weirdo> 1:43 > You almost look like a scientist now.

You can hear his exhales—they’re so obviously deliberate, because no way would he blow his cover by accident. He’s snickering, that sod is. 

I am a scientific doctor, you senile fuckwad. < 1:44 

1:45 > Thought your default display name was just a joke. Did you hit your head and hallucinate some credentials?

You seethe, since you can’t exactly scroll through endless files to locate your dissertation on ancient science and qualitative formulae. Over sixty-thousand words, reduced to mere mockery by this cretin. 

It’s a triple entendre < 1:45 And I’ve got the creds < 1:45 prick < 1:45 

1:45 > moron

He types this lightning quick, not even pausing to stop walking—not even pausing to capitalise and punctuate his stupidly mocking text like normal—and you can still hear him because he’s letting you hear his normally silent steps, he’s letting you know he can fulfil the mission while shit talking you to your own face.

this is why you have no friends < 1:46

1:47 > this is why you don’t have friends outside your job. no one actually likes you

You rummage around in the large filing cabinet besides all the gleaming equipment: large centrifuges, safety cupboards, fume hoods, and weird display cases filled with samples of what can only be blood. Swiftly, you snap several photos of the evidence with your visor, then mindlessly write a response. Talk about a call coming from inside the house, you think. 

name two people who voluntarily spend time with you < 1:49 [<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> sent index.finger.pointing emoji] < 1:49 [<Doctor, Who is slightly Strange> sent laughing.crying emoji] < 1:49

He’s no longer in the peripheries of your earshot; so you know he’s gone off to investigate the other areas of the small lab—beyond the equipment and into the computer room. Good, you exhale—at least he respects lab protocol. 

1:51 > name a time feixiao actually talked to you outside of work

I will…. lend you… my gun so… you can shoot…. yourself, you type, then quickly hit backspace before you can send it by accident. 

yesterday. eat shit xiaoze < 1:52

1:52 > that was charity work don’t flatter yourself

Hastily, you scan any files in the weird stronghold that look even remotely related to borisin and Foxians and especially the one you cradle: labelled only with the icon of a moon and containing eerily similar rituals to the crime scenes you found. 

oh you want to talk about charity work? lets ask the crowd bro < 1:55 everyone who interacts with you is doing charity work.. < 1:56

1:57 > ok at least my job wanted me

Wow. Wooow. You stare incredulously at the message—he’s dragging the Intelligenstia Guild into this, knowing you got put on leave for ‘engaging in querulous behaviour’ and ‘lacking in real life experience’. Low blow. 

…and no one else did so what now < 1:58 name a single friend you have < 1:58

1:58 > .. 1:59 > Jiaoqiu 

Jiaoqiu. How cute, you scoff, resuming your hate typing while you flick through the last few files hidden around in drawers and cupboards. 

idk how to tell you this but you are NOT the friend bro you’re the test subject… < 2:00 I think he pitied you or smth.. < 2:01

2:02 > ew 2:02 > don’t call me bro it’s sickening 2:02 > we are not alike

it’s exposure therapy < 2:03 since you don’t have any friends you don’t and probably never will be called anything endearing < 2:04 aren’t I so nice < 2:04

Pausing, you glance up at where the glass doors lead right to the computer lab; a dim glow washes over the space. Nothing much to worry about, you think—copying data is a far less burdensome task than rifling through pages upon pages of reports and then arranging them back into their rightful place. Though, if you were worried about anything, it was that the virus and bugger installation would take longer than they had to. 

Maybe it’s the paranoia getting to you. 

Or maybe, maybe, it’s the faint click of footsteps against linoleum floors—getting louder and louder and louder. As does your heartbeat: thundering deafeningly in your ears. You can’t turn invisible. You don’t get the luxury of slipping into the shadows like your colleague (to put it very politely) does. 

And so you swallow—tongue thick and leaden within your suddenly too-dry mouth. There are two courses of action you can take (hurry, the steps are getting louder): the first being to hide away in the little storage cupboard and take the escape from there. You will not be able to fool a scientist who knows their colleagues far more intimately than the grunts in the lobby. Moze has worked alone before. He’ll figure out how to get the virus downloaded and the data copied before the person even gets close to noticing him. 

Or—and your eyes flick to the computer room clearly visible from the lab—you could put on an act to save both your life and Moze’s time. You could… probably do that, right?

Heart moving renditions…. Never mind that your heart was pounding right out of your chest—never mind that your glassy sword could not be wielded in this narrow hallway, never mind that flipping the switch on your gun was not quite something you were prepared to do. 

They were almost at the corner, and you made your decision to step out into that narrow corridor. One hand in your pocket and the other raking across your face as you yawned. The epitome of casual. 

And Moze’s ears pricked as he watched you; though you’d never know, and he’d never admit that he did so. He heard the sound of sharp shoes, and was honestly expecting you to turn tail. 

But you didn’t. 

You’re taking lazy strides as he hears the researcher approach—counting on the secrecy of this organisation being tight enough to operate on a need-to-know basis. In other words, you’re operating on the high-risk gamble: that this particular person would be unaware of changes in personnel. There’s no time to read the data streaming from their steps. Ordinarily, from their intention you could figure out their rank in the pecking order—but you are plumb out of luck. 

He rounds the corner: wearing a suit far more well cut than yours, though his tie sits loose at his throat and his jacket is slung over one shoulder. From one glance, you can tell immediately. You’re screwed. Still, it’s too late to run now: far too late to leave Moze to figure out how to download the data faster. 

“Who are you?” The drawl is heavy with a cadence far too confident. Just your fucking luck, you momentarily scowl—of course the lab would be frequented by some clear higher-up. Not a regular degular scientist you could simply sweet talk, but someone not in the lower strata of this shady organisation.  

He’s handsome: black hair that sheens prussic, eyes glinting practically amber even in the frigid lighting that washes over this space. Something you’ve unfortunately learned while traversing the galaxy is that this guy cannot possibly be a grunt; and if he is, there’s something seriously wrong with the corporation. He’s eye candy—which makes this situation so terrible. You are screwed. In that moment, your lazy smile wavers somewhat; you are utterly and irredeemably fucked. You could shoot him, but that would no doubt put the rig on immediate lockdown with the sound of the gun. 

Fuck. You want to slam your head against the glass, but that would no doubt screw you over even further. 

You’re not built for this. 

“Oh, are you part of the research team too?” Naive. Your qualifications have just landed you this position, and you’re not quite capable of discerning if you should be divulging that information or not. That’s the mindset you centre this particular character around: just some random guy who’s a bit gullible. 

“Just got transferred,” you lie through your teeth, shamelessly. It’s a sin to lie, but you’ve committed bigger ones before. 

“No wonder I’ve never seen a cutie like you here before,” he murmurs—leaning in as though to inspect your face. And so, you freeze; naturally, this was not the direction you thought this conversation would take. Maybe sweet talking is not entirely off the table, but you sincerely doubt you’ll actually get away. 

You swallow. How much longer do you have to stall for? Is Moze done? What the fuck do you say next?

“Uh.” Thanks? I guess? You’re pretty cute too? You find your hand inching towards your holster—minutely, of course—while potential replies whirl through your mind chaotically. Miniature storms wrapped up in slimy brain matter and miniscule neuron connections. 

It’s only when he lets out a short laugh that you realise that you might’ve let out your thoughts, and you curse at yourself in your mind. 

“Wow, you’re bold,” he comments, closer: until you can almost taste the lingering iron and manufactured scent he has. Like wood. Earth pine. A bitter pang goes through your heart at that: someone from the surviving fallout of Earth, here of all places. In a clean, sterile lab dedicated to sacrificing Foxians—for what? Money? Stupid credits? Humans are rotten creatures, cut from a cloth macerated in cesspits. On Earth, it was no exception. 

Still. Your lips press into a line at his clothes, the particular way the tie is knotted. You’ve never seen another survivor prior to this. 

You may also be completely mistaken. Penacony and doubtless others have the same strands of fashion—but this. This is wholly Earth. 

“People do tell me that,” you return, unbuttoning your lab coat since you’re no longer in the lab boundaries. Moze, hurry the fuck up. You’re already regretting it, but you need to confirm it. Alien everywhere, what other choice do you have?

His eyes don’t widen like you expect, and you feel a stupid ache at the realisation that you’re once again alone. But rather, they flicker to your breast pocket, where your falsified keycard peeks out. Closer. His fingers pluck the plastic as though it were a flower, and you’re much too astounded to stop him. 

“What a shame…” he murmurs, and only the nails digging into your palm remind you fitfully of just how near he is—practically tasting the fucking lies on your breath. 

“Sir, back up a bit,” you grimace. This sucks. The perks of keeping the guy from witnessing the glow in the computer room is slowly fading away the longer you keep this up. Should’ve left Moze to get caught. 

“O strange doctor, do movies of the bygone era really interest you so?” 

You freeze. Shit. Shit. You’d let down your guard—attempting to gauge his reaction to your attire and getting caught out yourself. Really, was there any spy worse than yourself? The falsified card was hastily put together with the help of your visor; of course it autofilled that stupid alias. 

It’s not the first time your mistakes have cost you. 

“You…” This guy. You should’ve run. You suck at gambling. 

“How odd. I should’ve been aware of one like me being transferred.”

“Who the hell are you?” Cautiously, you take a minute step back. He notices—of course he does. 

“The head of the research department, who else?”  Fuck, fuck. Your heart is entering arrhythmia: pounding flush against your eardrums like some goddamn hammer against piercing nail. You’re dead meat. 

“It’s unfortunate that I can’t buy you a suit to replace that cheap one—if you hadn’t infiltrated, we might’ve been good friends.” He’s still putting up a front, but you can tell he’s close to a fight. It’s the snarling instinct of a cornered human—fight or flight activating almost immediately at every minute movement of his. Each shallowed breath, each minute shift in sinew. All of it. 

“No, definitely not,” you retort in disgust. “Most people from that planet sucked.”

It’s true, but your heart twinges blue just the same. Millions of years, all for that stupid molten iron planet to just cease. None but you—all alone amongst the cold, dead stars. 

It was a graveyard of the giants: hulking Jupiter, so wretched and broken; stars slowly winking out one by one. Even the massive silhouette of the Sun had finally been conquered. Had the universe ever been so lonely for the wandering?

“Even you?” And now his fists punctuate the empty space with his words. 

“Especially me.”

How foolish. How foolish, as he’s barely breathing on the floor beside you. How foolish, as you let your teeth grind in stupefied frustration. How foolish, that you wanted to communicate with a remnant from that obsolete planet. 

You’re an idiot as you clutch at your side: warmth seeping between your fingers as you prop yourself up against the wall. Shallow, heaving breaths come ragged—though the fight didn’t last even five minutes, courtesy of your visor working overtime to electrocute that fool by your feet. He looks fried, but you don’t look much better: being stabbed does that, after all. 

You don’t know what you’re doing here. 

What were you trying to accomplish?

Iron tastes especially caustic today. Ah, you realise with a start—this stupid endeavour was all to buy time. Maybe it was all pointless. Maybe you’ll slip into slumber here—tripping over the sleeping man at your feet and seeing your planet once more, if only in your dreams. 

The flicker of lights reminds you of your wretched childhood apartment. All concrete and dilapidated structure, but it was your home. A cruel and cold home—though it was also one where the sun touched the horizon just so, in a way that erased pain for a singular moment in time. 

Stupid. All this to fulfil your stupid mission. 

Your legs wobble, and you would’ve slammed right into the wall were it not for the cold arms wrapping around your ribcage—gelid hand splayed on your chest. 

“Idiot.” Moze’s voice is low and angry; practically shaking while he supports your body. He’s pressed right up against your side—making the smell of blood ever more pungent. Slippery, metallic copper—all coming from you and ruining that stupid suit for good. “Are you illiterate too?”

“Huh?” You don’t know why he’s upset; he got the job done, didn’t he? Maybe he’s mad he has to prop you up while navigating the dim tunnels of this building—his teeth are gritting, after all, even if you can’t see him. You can hear the molars grind together. 

“Are your eyes just for show, or do you occasionally read your messages?” he seethes. Your trembling heart is far too loud to register the final death rattles of the man left behind in the corridor—courtesy of a blade thrown right into his jugular. 

“Hah. Muted them to not read your irritating texts anymore.” You close your eyes as he guides you past the chemicals, past the cleaning supplies in the closet that leads to a hidden path outwards. He’s more… gentle than you would’ve expected; grip firm on your arm slung over his shoulders rather than constricting. 

“I didn’t need your help,” he informs you: tone boreal as ever. “You blew our cover.”

Still, you cannot see the furrow in his brows as he peers down at you; neither can you see his lips pressing together. His heart’s pounding weirdly: focused on you rather than leaving this stupid place far behind. 

“I didn’t do it for you—” you grit out, stumbling the last few steps to the concealed star skiff while alarms blare on the ship the two of you leave behind. And he’s grasping your waist as you lean against the rocking vehicle—but you were not going to fall. Blood seeps onto his clothing, though he pays the mess no heed for once. 

“Don’t need your help either,” you scoff, returning his words back to him as you lean against the worn seat. It’s cold. So cold, but you’d rather die than admit it hurts. “Get off me.”

“I’ll drive.” His rich voice finally has a body once more as he settles into his copilot seat. He can visualise the path back to the Yaoqing already—back to the messy, warm place you call home. Where you linger on all those stupid trinkets, the decorations you put up, and the food simmering in the pot on your stove—he knows the route like the back of his scarred hand. 

“I’m fine. It’s not that deep, and Jiaoqiu will take a look at it anyway.”  Jiaoqiu. His lips curl into a sneer as the dashboard lights up—flipping switches with such harsh precision it’s much too apparent that he’s in a terrible mood. 

“Or A-hua,” you add, and his heartbeat becomes something twisted and wretched as he hears the dimmed affection in your voice. You’re tying off the bandage tight around your side—very rudimentary first aid, but the priority is to get as far away as possible from this facility while their systems go down.

“Neither of them will be in when we report to Feixiao.” 

He doesn’t quite know why he lies: syllables rolling off his tongue like a blunder, yet he manages to keep his voice steady. 

“Then I’ll give myself stitches.” So damn stubborn, he thinks. He’s irritated, for reasons unclear to him. 

“No, this was because of me. I’ll treat you.” He doesn’t know why he insists either; one thing he knows for sure though, is that he can’t help but cling onto the scent of your embodiment. Blood and sweat, laundry powder and soap. You. It’s nothing like the damp of his cell. 

“No thanks. You’d probably—hah—use this opportunity to get rid of me,” you wince out. Well, he cants his head in thought—you’re not wrong. He might’ve left you behind: no regrets, no more dead weight. 

“You think so little of me?” 

“Yes. Why else would you come close?” On edge—that’s what he can hear in the tremulous pulse beneath the flesh, all torn and never at ease. It’s not fearful, precisely, but gone is the casual annoyance in your tone—it’s more of a void acceptance, as though you’re stating the obvious. 

To answer your question, he doesn’t know. He’d normally recoil at the sight of the dried blood on his clothes—scrubbing at his skin the moment he could—but he’s absent-mindedly pulling at the threads laved in you with a hand not preoccupied by steering. 

“Anyways. If you keep pushing it, you’ll be permanently dubbed that nickname you so hate.” 

“Don’t care.” He meets your eyes through the reflection of the glass window. One gaze—flinty and stubborn. The other pair of eyes—silent and unyielding. “I’m treating you before we report to Feixiao.”

“Little A-ze is all grown up now, huh,” you mutter, and the prefix you put in front of his name is cold and distant. It tastes quite bitter, and for that reason he doesn’t deign to speak for the rest of the flight. 

For once, he’s truly living up to his description of being reticent. 

⁺ 　 . ✦

“Why’d you do such a stupid move?” With each agonised beat of your heart, the needle jabs into one side of your flesh and extends past the other. This may have been taken as to mean he’s fast with your treatment—but your pulse is as sluggish as barely molten lava, burbling and gurgling like you’re on your last legs. “Look after yourself first.”

The towel he painstakingly placed on your couch is spattered with sanguine. Unfortunately, you’re a bit too lost in delirium to realise the gravity of this situation: Moze, kneeling by your side as he carefully stitches you back up. So delirious, you don’t notice his heavy gaze and scarred hands that reverently handle the tools that pierce your body. 

“A-ze,” you slur, half-conscious as you bring a scalding hand to press against his boreal face. He freezes, like he really is made of ice. But alas, your hand falls back to your side just as quickly and his expression settles back into a scowl. 

“I could’ve escaped,” you murmur, eyes heavy with slumber. “But then you would’ve been in trouble.”

I wouldn’t have been, he wants to say back. You and your idiotic plans. He’s thought it before and thinks it now—he really fucking hates them. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he instead grits out, tying off the last stitch with the scissors with a clinical professionality that you’re quite astounded then. “Look after yourself, and I’ll do the same.”

“Shut up and get out then,” you retort—and he plucks the roll of bandages you were planning on winding around your side. You blink: taken aback once more. 

“No.” 

No? 

“Fuckface,” you comment bitterly, though there’s a certain decrease in volume as he winds his arms slowly around your torso to wrap the cloth around you. Like this, his silver tufts of hair brush past your chin—strangely clean smelling for an assassin. And when you rest your palms on his upper back to alleviate the tension in your side, you swear he freezes. 

“Idiot,” he slams back; though, there’s a certain rapidity to his pulse as your chest is right in his eyeline. It’s steady, rising and falling with each even breath you have: naked muscle just about grazing his nose. For the first time in ages, his fingers waver in his task. 

“Call Jiaoqiu then,” you shrug. He’s tucking the ends of the bandage into itself, so you miss how the faint flush on his face immediately fades. 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. 

“Call who over?”

The foxian stands in the doorway with a pleased, close-eyed smile—much like the cat that finally got the cream. He’s grinning, Moze realises with horror; he saw the vulnerability in his shoulders, even if for a brief second.

Shit. He didn’t even notice. 

“Jiaoqiu?” You take your hand off his shoulder to wave; the man can no longer suppress the irritation in his expression. 

“In the flesh!” 

“Wow, you really don’t look good,” he continues, voice drawing closer as he inspects your bloodied torso. 

“Yeah, because I’m stuck with the fucker who lied about you not being—”

Moze presses his palm against your mouth—heart erratic at the feeling of soft lips against his hand, though it has nothing to do with you. More of the fact that he’s never been so close to someone like this. Yeah. That’s the reason. 

“Why are you here, Jiaoqiu?” he replies in your stead, ignoring how incredulously your gaze pierces into the side of his face. 

“So cold! You two are late to report even though you arrived half a system hour ago! But I totally understand, Moze.” Jiaoqiu’s smile does not quite reach his eyes as his gaze flitters between you and the assassin. That, perhaps, would be the usual description of how the foxian smiles regardless, but especially so today. “He’s injured, after all. Why not let me treat him before the two of you report to our Arbiter-General?”

“Pah–!” With a gasp, you finally wrench his hand from your mouth—glaring at him all the while. “That would be great, Jiaoqiu, thank you.”

Thus, the assassin is left simmering on the other side of your living room: daggers jabbing right into the other man’s back as he finishes your treatment off with a bowl of scorching hot broth. And though he doesn’t outright say it, Jiaoqiu is evidently amused by this turn of events—much like he’s amused with every irritated tell of Moze’s as he inches ever closer to you with his sly smile. 

Sorry, friend, he surmises. Not much of a chance you’ve got. 

It’s a great day for the fox, but not so much for the crow who seethes in the corner. 

⁺ 　 . ✦

[illyrian-dreamer]

Dance with the devil – Part 1

Rhysand x fem!reader series

Summary: You attempt to rob the High Lord of the Night Court.

Words: 3.3k

TW: Violence, death

Notes: Morally grey Rhysand below the cuff 😈😈😈

»»——-　★　——-«« ★ »»——-　★　——-««

Tick, tick, tick.

That stern voice nagged in your mind, laced with forewarning and impatience that only frustrated you further. 

You had just minutes to find the scroll and get out. 

With gritted teeth, you leaned closer, drowning out that voice - likely your mothers - as well as the drumming of your heart, waiting for that final click. 

You were versed in charming locks, picking them when you had to, just as you did now. And what waited on the other side of this door was worth every swallow of bile, every rise and swell of panic that begged you to think of the consequence - of what would happen if you were caught. 

It was only a half-moon prior that you had snuck into the infamous libraries of the Day Court while the city slept, hunting concealed maps and etchings of Helion’s castle. You studied the corridors and winding staircases of the impressive home, squinting through the flickering glow of the small fae light you had allowed yourself to cast, anxious eyes lifting reluctantly every so often, humouring the phantom furl of a page or shiver down your spine. 

So you pressed those routes to memory – sewers, plumbing, hidden passageways marked in some maps and not others. They were your only true salvage if things went wrong.  

Weapons were now strapped to every part of your leathers that would allow, layers of magic shielding your scent and sound so strong it made your joints ache, as if buckling under their weight.

Easy in, easy out, quick on your feet and don't look back.

That mantra was your only comfort as you silently slipped into the lavish guest suite, a breath of relief that its layout matched your efforts of breaking into the libraries. Because although night never found this court, there was only a small window in which the High Lords were away from their suites, and time was a persistent foe. 

It was incredibly risky to break into the guest quarters of the High Lord of the Night Court, especially after Hellion had declared his home a neutral grounds for the High Lord’s meeting. But what Rhysand possessed was invaluable – that scroll of ancient tongue, the only one of it’s kind. It was worth the risk of your own life, of certain death if you were caught.

Careful, gloved fingers sifted through the papers on the desk, making sure not to leave anything out of place. 

The details you had gained on the High Lord were valuable – he was neat, more than neat, really – his room immaculate and organised. A paper left rippled, a chair at a slight angle, even a stray hair on the sprawling marble floor – all were things he would surely notice. 

But you could tread lightly, could play to that game of fine detail. Nimble as a mouse – that’s how your father had always described you, affection warming his face as he compared you to your boisterous brother. 

With a clench of your heart, you forced the memory out. Once you had that scroll – soon. You would be together again soon.

As you crouched low to sift through the chestnut draws, mahogany carved with the kind of finery that made you sick, a hint of gold gleamed from the corner of the room, the light catching your eye. 

Padding with quiet creaks from your boots, you allowed yourself only a moment to admire the array of scrolls that lay in the wooden chest – it’s lid tipped open, beckoning to be explored. In the centre perched the most exotic of the artefacts. Boring rings of gold, it winked at you, a true diamond in the rough. 

With gentle inspection, you traced the characters etched in it’s casing, a cryptic ode of ancient tongue. 

A whisper of magic kissed your face, stray hairs dancing as goosebumps prickling beneath your leathers. It was waft of excitement, danger, magic aged by civilisations – this was a powerful scroll indeed.

With a hand on each end of the casing, you gently lifted the scroll into your satchel, careful not to knock it or disturb the casing. You would return it after all, once traced.

There was a shift in the air then, and a sinking feeling rippled through your abdomen, like a stone dropped into still water.

Get out – that voice urged. 

You had spent too long here already. 

Swallowing the fastening hammer of your heart, you raised from your knees, eyeing the unsuspecting cupboard  – behind it a hidden door, and behind that a winding pathway would lead you clear to the gardens.

You almost scoffed – this was easier than you had thought.

How could the High Lord be so reckless to leave something of this value lying about? 

The pit of your stomach deepened. 

Too easy – much, much too easy. 

An open, gaping well. 

Oh gods, this was a–

And then darkness – everywhere. 

You gasped, catching glimpses of red and blue as you staggered back. Your back hit something solid – no, someone. Strong arms gripped yours wrists, pinning them behind you. You tried to yell, but your breath hitched as violet eyes glowered amongst the tendrils of midnight smog, choking any sound that whined in your throat. 

“Well well, what do we have here?” a sultry voice purred, a refined silhouette emerging from the darkness, tall and broad. 

A gleam of teeth pulled with a feline smile, the figure prowling closer. Dangerous, lethal, ever knowing with a hint of cockiness.

And as tendrils of night magic cleared around their master, the High Lord of the Night Court was revealed.

Rhysand’s eyes danced with amusement as he watched realisation set in – your own features taut with horror. 

“Hello, Y/N darling.”

You were dead meat.

A heavy, intrusive sensation caused a shiver to rack through you as phantom claws tore through your useless shields, and you were suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of your own fear. 

Rhysand’s pretty grin only grew.

In a hopeless attempt to flee, you barely moved an inch as you tugged against the impossible grip on your arms.

He was closing in, coldness seeping from him as his magic curling in on itself, devouring any hints of warmth from the room, from your own veins. 

And then he stopped, just one agonising pace shy from your heaving chest. 

Here he was – High Lord of the Night Court. Wickedly cruel, arrogant and unnervingly calm, a cat who toyed with its food. The legendary villain of whispered rumours and horror stories exchanged amongst children of your village in the court of Dawn, parents so tired from their youngens loss of sleep that he was a banished name from many households.

Your eyes danced with a panic as instincts forced you to look for any chance of survival. Dressed with finery, but not a weapon on him – that was good. 

But as the shadows began to clear, another male was revealed perching patiently against the wall behind, blue siphons flickering as he stood with wide legs, arms crossed and face stoic. Azriel, the Shadowsinger and Spymaster, waited patiently for your attempt of escape, his own shadows at the ready. 

Fuck.

That meant the male that bound you was Cassian – Warlord and Chief General of the Illyrian armies. 

You were as good as dead.

Your breathing stuttered as you swallowed the plea for mercy begging at your lips. They were going to kill you, that was certain. You could only hope they would do it quickly.

“My my, Y/N,” Rhysand drawled, his voice playful and sensual. “We weren't certain if you were going to take the bait.” 

Placing hands on knees, he lowered himself to your level, those violet eyes captivating you, their depth incomprehensible. You tried to break Rhys’s gaze, but you rendered helpless, realising the cruel use of his magic. 

“But I’m so glad this is how we get to meet.”

He was expecting you? 

You glared back, your breaths quickening at the dangerous proximity.

If not at his mercy, you would have spat at his condescending manner. But instead you fought aimlessly against Cassian’s hold, the male pulling you back against his chest with a jarring tug, his grip tightening until you felt your pulse in your wrists. 

Your mind was scattering with each second, frantic eyes dancing at the High Lord before you. You hadn't expected him to be so… handsome. 

“Why, thank you,” Rhys cocked an eyebrow at you, that cat like grin exchanged for a lob-sided one. 

Had he just–? You scowled, cursing him silently. His abilities as a deamanti also deeming true.

Rhysand chuckled at your foul words, his laugh unexpectedly soft. “Such a feisty thing you are,” he commented, raking his purple eyes down your body. You suddenly felt incredibly exposed, despite the layers of leathers and weaponry you wore. 

“Let me go,” you spat hoarsely, heaving against the General once more. 

“You’re not in any position to make that request,” Cassian huffed, pulling back on the little distance you had gained. His voice was gruff as it hummed through your back.

You turned your head to look at the Warlord for the first time. He too, like the other males in the room, was noticeably handsome. His long hair fell into his face as he looked down at you, his eyes almost as amused as his High Lord. 

Were you just a joke to them?

“Oh, sweet Y/N, you’re not a joke at all. We’re actually quiet impressed by you,” Rhysand toyed, his eyebrows raised with a mocking tone. “We know you’ve been trailing us for months, Azriel here picked up on your movements in our court a whole quarter year ago.”

You flicked your eyes to the Spymaster, his position and face unmoving at his mention. You couldn't help your scowl at the male who was responsible to securing your death. 

“What we didn't expect, was for you to make it this far,” Rhysand continued with a chuckle, his head shaking in playful dismay.

Great – now on top of everything else, you were completely insulted.

“That’s why we set this trap for you. So we could finally meet.”

You frowned at Rhysand. You had been so careful, so stealthy about all your work in spying on the High Lord, slaving over maps and reports until you could no longer keep your eyes open, using the little money you had to buy off secrecy, and always covering your tracks. But it still hadn't been enough.

“Don’t look so disheartened, little mouse,” Rhysand purred, before he picked a piece of lint off his fitted black jacket. “The fact that you were able to break into my quarters alone is incredibly impressive.”

It had in fact, taken a lot of work. To sneak into Hellion’s home had taken three disenchantment spells, and compromised a suite of his guards who were yet to rise from their enchanted slumber. The locks and spells on Rhysand’s chamber were another thing in itself. 

“What will you do with me?” you gritted, glaring between the males in front of you, desperate to know your fate.

Rhysand dipped his head back and laughed, his posture too calm, too casual. 

“What will we do with you, hmm?” he repeated, and a shrinking instinct finding you, one that you hadn't felt since you were a child.

“Perhaps the question is, what would you like us to do with you?” It was a lovers voice, sensual and suggestive. 

You couldn't help the thunder of your heart as his scent filled your nose, crudely laced with arousal as it found you with a phantom wind.

Rhysand was on you then, his face inches from your own as swirls of night filled your vision, his violet eyes the only light you could see. 

You gasped at the sight before you – it was beautiful, but so, so deadly. 

“I don’t like having my things taken from me, Y/N.” Rhysand growled, his voice now cold, unforgiving. Those same claws that tore your shields now traced the outskirts if your mind, talons sinking slightly in warning. 

Despite the little pain, it was instinct to scream.

You tried to make quick peace at the thought of his violet eyes being the last thing you would ever see.

Open your eyes, he commanded mind to mind. 

Without realising you had closed them, you found yourself unable to disobey.

Rhysand withdrew as quickly as he had pounced, his darkness disappearing with him as he slid his hands into his pockets, rocking on fine shoes. His behaviour was erratic, such a contrast to the moment before. 

“Of course, it would be such a waste of good talent.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t toyed with your very consciousness just moments before. 

You watched him pace, your eyes flicking to the spymaster once more, before noting the exits of the room you knew well. 

“You don't stand a chance,” Azriel spoke plainly, his hand fingering one of many blades strapped to his strong frame. A warning, from one spy to another.

Rhysand grinned between you two, running a smooth hand through his black-blue hair. 

Was he entertained by the idea that you were willing to give a fight? 

You felt a low rumble from Cassian’s chest, all three males daring you to challenge them in their own way. 

Azriel was right – it was suicide to try. 

Rhysand hummed with pleasure, reading your submission as your body sagged every so slightly. 

“I’ll tell you what, Y/N. I’ll make you a deal.” 

A bargain, a promise, and perhaps a riddle from Prythian’s deadliest High Lord. 

“I’d rather you kill me,” you said tightly. 

Rhysand laughed again, and you felt the movements of Cassian’s chuckle from behind. 

“Oh, sweetheart. Surely there’s a tad more fight in you than that?” 

You scowled in return. 

Rhysand approached you again, now holding the scroll of ancient tongue. 

“What do you know of this scroll?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

You winced. “I don't know anything.”

Rhysand tutted. “Little liar,” he grinned at you, his violet eyes sparkling with challenge. “I’ll ask one more time,” he sang.

You felt them again, and it took all you had to not crumble at Cassian’s boots at the flooding pain as Rhysand dragged a singular, scraping talon across your mind and back. 

“Resurrection!” you yelped – a half breath, half scream escaping you as your legs gave out. Cassian held you up, your body rigid as Rhysand’s talon pierced your mind further. The pain was blinding, eliciting a howl from you as your vision flashed with white. 

Yet Rhysand’s icy threat cut through. “I have a lot of enemies, Y/N. I don't suppose you are hoping to fetch a pretty penny for anyone who might seek to bring back the rightfully dead?”

“No, n-no!” you gasped, your body spasming and contorting as he continued to toy with you. “Please, it’s for m-my family!”

Rhysand left your mind as quickly as he had entered it. You sagged in relief, Cassian gently setting you down as your crumpled to the floor, your body shaking and twitching. 

You had just enough energy to raise your eyes and meet the High Lord’s stare. Gone was his expression of cruel amusement, it was now replaced with a frown of serious, deep thought. 

He had seen them – your family, their smiles and laughter as your memory flashed at their mention. That meant he had also seen their deaths, their limp bodies piled for you to find in your own home. 

“You wish to resurrect them?” Rhys asked softly. 

All you could do was nod. You were sure you weren't noting a sense of sympathy from the male.

Rhys shook his head, his eyes closing. “If it were that easy Y/N, I’d have the missing kin to my own family here today.”

You looked up at the High Lord through heavy lids, exhaustion overcoming your body with an occasional twitch. 

“I have to try,” was all you could offer, your voice small and unsure. 

Rhysand stared down at you with furrowed brows, serious yet unreadable. After a few moments, he blinked, a few stars returning to his eyes as he raised them to Cassian with a quick nod. 

Strong hands unfurled from your arms, and Cassian stepped back, providing you some space on the marbled tiles as you shook.

Death then, at last. May the Mother have mercy, let it be quick, you prayed silently.

A gentle pull of your hand from your face, and your fingers were forced to close around a ovoidal object. 

Rhysand was crouched in front of you, his face unreadable as his cold hand kept your fingers pressed to the scroll

“I’ll tell you what Y/N. You find a way to decipher this scroll and bring back your family. And when you do, you share that information with me, so that I may do the same.”

You pulled your hand back, eyes darting between his violet ones as if you read the trick that undoubtedly hid beneath his offer. 

“And why in Mother’s name would I trust you?”

He smirked humourlessly. “Unless you prefer the alternative –“ Rhysand’s eyes blackened instantly, and your heart skipped a beat at the promise of death that beheld them. “– I don’t believe you have a choice.”

Make a bargain with the High Lord, or die. Not in a thousand lifetimes could you have predicted an ultimatum so soulless.

“Do we have a deal?” Rhysand offered his large hand as he still crouched before you, his eyebrows raising with a hint of impatience.

You flicked your gaze between Azriel and Cassian. Both of them watched patiently, their stances neutral, obedient of their High Lord’s business. It bothered you – how were both of them so complicit to his evil? 

Looking back at Rhysand – you ignored the voice inside you that screamed at you not to trust him. 

Letting out a short breath, you lifted yourself to your knees and clasped your hand in his. “It’s a deal.”

A gasp escaped you as a stinging heat spread across the hand held in his, and etched it’s way up your forearm. With wide eyes, you watched the burn and itch of a ink-like pattern forming on your skin. Swirls now covered your once naked arm, the picture of one hand shaking another stark on the inside of your palm. It was your hand in Rhysand’s – a symbol of the bargain you had just agreed to. For eternity, or until you deciphered this scroll you realised, with no lack of nausea.  

Rhysand grinned, marvelling the matching tattoo that now tainted his skin. “I’ll be checking in on your progress frequently, Y/N darling.” 

Unable to find the right words for you distaste, you snatched your hand away and pressed against your stomach, willing your self not to be sick.

You were now indebted to this hellish, sinister being.

Rhysand appeared as unfazed. “Perhaps you would consider a job in my court with Azriel?” he mused, flexing his fingers as he continued to take in the impressive detail of your bargain. “Again, we were quite impressed with your work.” 

He was teasing of course, and Azriel’s hazel eyes winced with humour as all three males watched for your reaction. 

You scowled at Rhysand, glaring up at him again. “I prefer my freedom, actually,” you snarled. 

Rhysand laughed in his sensual way, before grinning a wicked smile down at you. “Or what’s left of it. 

He straightened then, his wig men moving to his sides with grace – a practiced dance for all three. 

“I suggest you excuse yourself from my quarters the moment we’re gone Y/N, I’ll know otherwise.”

With a clasp to his shoulders from Azriel and Cassian, the three males were gone in a ripple of odourless night. 

Until then, little spy, Rhysand’s voice echoed in your mind.

»»——-　★　——-«« ★ »»——-　★　——-««

AN: Ok new series let's gooooo!! Welcome to DWTD! Hello morally grey mosthandsomehighlordofthenightcourt 💞😈 I am so so excited to explore this series with y'all. Pleeeeease let me know what you think of part 1, I wrote this over so many months lol I hope it tied together. General tag list is tagged, but if you'd like to join a tag list for this series (DWTD), comment below! La la love you guys, hope you're all safe and doing ok 💞

[energ00n]

Hope the new blog account goes well! Just wanted to ask something, well, more like a few questions(please forgive me if you answered some of these already😅)

1. Does D-16 use any other weapon other than a spear? Like a mace, archery, sword, shield, maybe a gun?

2. Are there any other events held within the Primes other than balls? I can totally see a an Olympic Royale between the Apprentices and whoever wins is declared the best house of Prime for a year. Plus rewards for the winning Apprentices. (Insert cute imagination moment of Orion cheering both Jazz & D-16 on)

3. When B-127 & The High Guard do make a showup, would they wear anything representing they are the High Guard? Like special armors or a sorta symbol? (Totally not asking for drawing details 👀)

4. If B-127 does get introduced to Orion, since you mention between them it be Bee himself having a sorta one-sided crush on Orion, would Bee be the little yapper/show off he is and try to be Orion's bodyguard in a way? Which would totally annoy D LMAO

5. Will we get to see any moments between Megatronus and Prima? Or a moment where they watch their Apprentices Orion & D-16 bond, and have a talk over it. Prima might actually be glad to know Orion is friends with Megatronus' best Apprentice(if D-16 is his best one, idk)

6. Will we get to see Orion train in any form of combat? I can imagine him getting hurt from trying to train and Prima just like, "OH PRIMUS NOT MY CYBERKITTEN!"

(That's all I got to ask. Sorry if you already answered these and feel free to ignore any you may have answered)

D is well-versed with most weapons as he's been trained for most. His current training doesn't involve with firearm yet, he's shown to be quite gifted with his aim but chose to stick with spear as his main weapon to be like Megatronous

They do! Sentinel handles those. Also depends on circumstances, an apprentice's cog ceremony is also a grand event (D will get one)

Gosh I thought about it and I don't think they need any BUT I can't disappoint High Guard fans out there, I'll figure something out for them

I never said Bee has a crush on Orion, it was a random example

I've said this before but we will see them eventually, just for a bit. This AU is D-16 and Orion first and foremost but honestly Prima just doesn't meet with Megatronous often

Yes, not for a long while however if things go as I planned

[ If you have asks, send them to @ene-ask ]

[eternlmoonshine]

my aaron hotchner headcanons/backstory ᯓ★ˎˊ˗

warnings: mentions of physical and emotional abuse by parents, allusions to parental death, homophobia, internalized homophobia

He was raised in a household where discipline was law and love was conditional. His father was a well-respected prosecutor in their Virginia town, a man who demanded obedience both in the courtroom and at home. His word was absolute. His punishments, swift and severe. Mistakes were not tolerated.

Hotch learned early that silence was safety. If he was quiet, if he obeyed, if he didn’t provoke anything, maybe, just maybe, his father would look past him. But he rarely did.

His father’s faith was not one of comfort but of control. The Bible was a weapon, wielded to instill fear and discipline. Hotch was made to memorize entire passages, reciting them before bed, before meals, and before punishment. If he hesitated, stumbled over a word, or faltered in any way, he had to start over, or worse. Verses were used to justify his father’s wrath. “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” The scriptures became ingrained in him, not as a source of guidance, but as a reminder that missteps meant failure, and failure meant pain.

Physical discipline was common, but the emotional wounds cut deeper. His father’s words were sharp, calculated, designed to break him down before building him into the son he was supposed to be. “You want to cry? I’ll give you something to cry about.” Spilling a drink could result in a bruising grip on his wrist; crying over a scraped knee was met with scorn- real men endured worse. Hotch learned that control was survival, that strength meant never breaking, never letting anyone see weakness.

Somewhere in all of this, his mother faded.

There is no grave he visits. No stories he shares. No indication of what happened to her at all. Maybe she died when he was young, leaving behind only vague memories of warmth and a soft touch on his forehead. Or maybe she left, walking away from a household built on fear, leaving him behind, whether by force or choice. He doesn’t know which is worse: the idea that she abandoned him or that she had no choice but to go. Either way, after she was gone, there was no softness in that house. Just his father, his rules, and the ever-present weight of expectation.

His younger brother, Sean, grew up in the same house but took a different path. Rebellious, free-spirited, unwilling to conform, Sean pushed back against their father in ways Aaron never could. As the older brother, Aaron tried to shield him, but how do you protect someone when you’re barely keeping yourself together? Sean was their mother’s favorite- at least, Aaron thought so. Maybe that’s why he resented him just a little. When Sean started sneaking out and talking back, Aaron was caught in the middle. He couldn’t rebel, couldn’t afford to, but he envied his brother’s courage.

But even as he tried to follow the rules, tried to be the perfect son, something lurked beneath the surface- something dangerous.

Aaron Hotchner learned early that there were certain things he was never supposed to be.

His father never said it outright- he didn’t have to. The rules were unspoken but absolute. Masculinity was strength, discipline, control. Anything outside of that was suspect, weak, wrong.

So when Aaron was twelve and found himself staring too long at the older boys during gym class, he forced himself to look away. When he was fourteen and felt something unfamiliar when his best friend smiled at him in a way that made his chest feel tight, he buried it. When he was sixteen and heard his father talk about “those kinds of people” with disgust curling his lips, he told himself he wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t be.

He memorized the Bible, absorbed every passage his father forced into him, let the words settle into his bones until they felt like his own. He learned to be what he was supposed to be.

He dated girls. He married Haley. He built a life that looked exactly the way it was meant to. And for a long time, he believed that was enough.

But there were moments- small, fleeting moments- where something cracked. A lingering glance. A fleeting thought. A feeling that rose up in his chest before he could shove it back down.

He never let himself name it.

By the time he was old enough, far enough from his father’s grasp to untangle those pieces of himself, it didn’t matter anymore. He was a husband, a father, an agent. His life was already written.

And maybe he was never really one of those people. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just another thing he buried, another part of himself he never had time to examine.

Or maybe he was just too afraid to face it.

When their father died, Sean walked away from everything- the name, the expectations, the weight of it all. Aaron stayed. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t reach out much anymore. Sean is a reminder of everything he could have been. Everything he sacrificed.

Aaron Hotchner became a prosecutor, like his father, but he vowed to be nothing like him. He built a family with Haley, desperate to give his son the kind of love that he never had. But love is hard when all you’ve ever known is conditional love. He doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t break. Because breaking is weakness, and weakness is dangerous. He is good, not because he believes he is, but because he is afraid of what happens if he isn’t.

Even now, he still remembers the verses, still hears his father’s voice in his head. But he has spent his entire life proving that he is not the man who raised him.

And maybe that’s the real tragedy- because deep down, Aaron Hotchner isn’t sure he ever really escaped at all.

[dancing-dawn]

The heartless cur, with heart ablaze

a sskk psychoanalitic canonical angst poem by yours truly!

Summary:

A question, rid of doubt, Met a spirit most devout. “Just the two of us?” he pondered, Yet conviction never faltered.

A poem from Knight Akutagawa's POV, a dive through his mind and heart during the events of chapter 119 onward, until the post-credits scene of S5.

Read on ao3, here clicky.

Or if you prefer here:

A knight reborn with purpose clear,

To rid the world of death and fear.

He strikes with newfound resolve,

For the sins of man to be absolved.

Until he hears a panicked voice,

Begging him to make a choice.

To save himself from slaughter

And protect his treasured daughter.

And his hand shall not be reckless,

If he wants to free the helpless.

But his prowess would be bested

By a creature most detested,

A mortal turned a god,

A truly wicked fraud.

In the vile vessel’s grasp,

With a faint and muted gasp,

He falls a pray to beast

Who’d relish in his feast

Of cursed souls, corrupt;

A pure world to construct.

A sudden slash would catch his eye,

The strangest phrase, perhaps a lie.

Till he’s pinned aghast in place

By an almost tender gaze.

Eyes that have entrapped the sunset,

Bearing not an inkling of regret.

Familiar words, a recognition

Of a far forgotten mission.

A sacrifice, his heart ablaze

For companion he couldn’t chase.

A scream tearing through space,

Through time and pain’s embrace.

A heartless cur.

Mind a blur.

In need to be stronger -

Mayhap no longer.

Trust. Sincerity.

Become a Singularity.

Shared affection, 

Mutual protection.

A feeling unnamed,

That couldn’t be tamed.

But now left fractured and torn,

For he just lost half his soul.

. . .

The fight was cruel, frightening, 

Enough to send him spiraling,

Grasping at the memory

Of a long forgotten enemy.

A shadow of the past,

That wasn’t meant to last.

But now a close companion

He wouldn’t dare abandon,

Not until his cursed lungs

Have sung their final verse. 

He swore he would protect him

From the fate forever grim - 

To be a weapon of destruction,

Devoid of human function.

The knight revealed his shield

Amidst the haunting barren field.

Soft-spoken words of reassurance,

To preserve his friend’s endurance.

A question, rid of doubt,

Met a spirit most devout.

“Just the two of us?” he pondered,

Yet conviction never faltered.

“Do we need any more?”

To win this godforsaken war.

They were bonded as a pair

In a world most unfair.

But through love unshaken, trust,

The devil shall be turned to dust.

[galaxy-fleur]

Does Leon has any feelings of love or regrets towards Ada in remakes? Are the differences between this and original games?

Love? I personally see no hints of that in the text itself. Regrets? Now that's a more open question worth discussing. Here's a link to my post breaking down their relationship as a whole in remake-verse so far, if you're interested in checking it out!

Overall, I think everyone has noticed how snappy and cold Leon is to Ada in RE4R. In a way that feels almost totally unnecessary at times. And it is. That's the entire point of it. For someone who is now - seemingly - more weapon than human, Leon goes to great lengths to demonstrate his one-sided grudge, almost childishly so. That's partially why Ada later points out how he hasn't changed in the first place. His attitude towards her screams of it. He may believe that he is now a soldier with a clear head on his shoulders, but he wouldn't be nearly as fixated on their past if he had really lost his humanity in Racoon City.

He most likely isn't even aware that his actions are solely emotional. He thinks he's being fair and rational, considering what Ada did. But he's not. And Ada is definitely more than aware of this.

And that grudge truly is purely one-sided. Ada's manipulation of him back in Racoon City wasn't particularly harsh or callous on her part. In fact, time and time again, she went out of her way to either shield him away from the truth of it all, or to push him away for his own sake. More on that in this post of mine!

Ada's deception of Leon six years ago is not the real reason Leon is still this upset and resentful. It's only a representation of it. What he's actually angry about is his own inability to see through it and make the 'right' choice at the time. Or what he thinks was the right choice. Ada serves as a physical reminder of everything he did wrong that night. It just so happens that all of these feelings of frustration, anger, and hurt are all directed at her. Because it's easier that way. It's easier for him to be angry, petty and snappy with her than to admit to himself what he's really feeling here.

He's not as angry with her for betraying him as he's angry with himself for falling for it in the first place. His every action in RE4R is connected to his lingering feelings of regret for Racoon City. And yes, Leon is angry with Umbrella. With the US government. With Ada. All of these things are true. But who gets the most of his anger? Himself. His inability to let go of the past, to let go of these regrets for failing everyone on that night feeds directly into his illogical attitude with Ada. Inability to move on.

That's the main inner conflict he resolves with successfully saving Ashley by remaining true to himself.

So, does he have lingering regrets when it comes to Ada? That depends on what you personally view as regrets. I suppose you could say he does, in a way.

[lifefcrged]

TAG DROP. ( verses. )

VERSE. ( you are a weapon; not a shield. )

--> MCU / (reluctant) shield recruit.

VERSE. ( you are a weapon; and weapons do not weep. )

--> HYDRA (or equivalent)

VERSE. ( the world was not created in a deluge; it was covered by it. )

--> Waterworld (crossover.)

VERSE. ( a world divided; what a world it might have been. )

--> XMCU (geneticist. mutant / ally of the x-men.)

VERSE. ( if death is justice; what is injustice. )

--> TOG (crossover.)

VERSE. ( women do not forget; women do not forgive. )

--> HotD / GoT.

VERSE. ( i am become; what you have made me. )

--> post hydra au; mercenary / villain verse.

VERSE. ( peace is a lie; there is only passion. )

--> SW. ( dark side force user. )

VERSE. ( Ex Astris; scientia. )

--> ST.

VERSE. ( victims; aren't we all. )

--> unspecified fandom. vigilante.

VERSE. ( no man is above the law; nor no man below it. )

--> on the run, post hydra.

VERSE. ( don't open; dead inside. )

--> TWD / generic apocalypse / post apocalypse.

VERSE. ( this lonely road; trying to make it home. )

--> JUSTIFIED.

VERSE. ( such things must happen; but the end is still to come. )

—> DOMINION.

VERSE. ( the only thing necessary for evil to triumph; is for good men to do nothing. )

--> THE BOYS.

[dagaz-s-disastrous-descent]

I had to make this post or I'd explode. Death Korps of Krieg and Vostroyan Firstborn are really similar, yet they show how your experiences shape you as a person.

Lets start with the Krieg boys and girls. They are a uniquely dour bunch that are willing to give their lives just to buy some time for their allies or to gain mere meters of ground in prolonged conflict. Contrary to what popular memes will make you believe they are not suicidal (hell during the Vraks conflict there is one recored instance of krieg soldiers executing their commissar because he ordered a suicide charge on enemy positions), they and their generals just see themselves as assets to be spent atoning for sins of their past. In one of the best books from 40k verse i've ever read "Dead men walking" it's portrayed briantly. Local populations inducted into DKoK regiments are stripped of their personalities and made to forget their names, their past lives and faces of their brothers and sisters to turn them into perfect meat shields ready to kill and die for smallest of advantages. Honestly, that book was brutal and it showed how dehumanising the training regime Kriegans go through really is, and to think that they are shipped off to active war zones at the age of (at most) 16 is really horrifying.

Now, about Vostroya: they too are spending their lives atoning for the sins of their forefathers; they too are a siege regiment focused on CQB and positional warfare; and they too have cool gas masks. Yet, despite all of those similarities, they could not be more different. While DKoK needs commissars just to talk with other members of the Empire because they are so devoid of common humanity, others simply feel uneasy around them. Vostroyans are one big family, ready to kill and die for each other. They are the firstborn sons and daughters of their world, being welcomed into the regiment by their aunts and uncles, who are taking care of them and keeping an eye on them on the battlefields of the dangerous galaxy of the 40k's universe. Their distant brothers and sisters prepare mastercrafted equipment, knowing fully well that the lasguns they create will be used by their kin. They are fanatical to the point of madness and their effectiveness is on par of that of the Dead Korps of krieg yet their attrition rate is much, much lower, and I think that it's not only owed to differences in equipment but also to the fact that they are loyal not only to the empire but also to each other. After all, blood is thicker than water.

Now a word about irl inspirations for both regiments: contrary to popular belief DKoK are based off FRENCH soldiers of WW1, not Germans and no, they do not use shovels more than any other regiments. A mace is a much better weapon in trench warfare because shovels have a nasty tendency to getting stuck in things that go squish. Vostroyans are a blend of cossacks, russian streltsi, Polish nobility, and professional soldiers of XVIIth century, as well as a healthy dose of Nikola Tesla-inspired dieselpunk. It's criminal how underrepresented slavs are in popular sci-fi IP's btw.

[oxygenbefore1775]

I haven't seen anyone else discuss this before but — the Armored Titan is supposed to have a bad eyesight, at least in comparison to the other Titans.

It's been shown throughout the manga&anime that the shifters use the eyes of their Titan to observe their surroundings whenever they're inside their Titan and for obvious reasons can't use their own. In the same vein, the damage to the Titan's eyes results in the impairment or even the loss of the vision for the shifter, like it was shown with Zeke in RTS when Levi slashed the Beast's eyes or with Annie during the Battle at the Port when the majority of the Female Titan's head was blown off with the thunder spears.

Because of this, all Titans have eyes with a similar anatomy to that of a human. The only exception is the Beast but primate vision is basically identical to human so the difference is negligible.

The Armored Titan's, however, are a bit different in that the eyes are shielded with a thick lense, as seen here

The normal eyes are there, it's just they're covered with a layer of protection (cuz it's an Armored Titan and his thing is to be armoured)

Now, the thing about those lenses — they're most likely made of carbon since all the life is carbon-based. I'm not that versed in all of chemistry but to my knowledge, there is no naturally derived carbon compound that is thick enough to protect the Titan's eyes from various weapons (up until now, the only thing powerful enough to break those lenses was a thunder spear) and at the same time transparent enough to allow for a clear vision. You have to sacrifice one or another.

For the Armored, clearly the latter factor was neglected for the sake of the impenetrable armor. Even in the anime itself it could be seen that the Armored's eye is cloudy and it's features are obscured.

So that has to mean that Armored's design has a predisposed advantage of a bad eyesight (right?)

[viaetor]

okay, but since today is sunday...

smash or pass ?

hehe, made you look, but this is still a super wip! on the left, it's aether in his sword form. ~ i also commissioned his bow, spear and shield forms. i LIVE for the day that someone will hold him as a weapon... / and on the right, this will be my aether's appearance more or less for most of his verses ! pretty happy with the thigh-up details. i tried to maintain some of his crop top, so you have a little bit of a peak on hiss side abs. ~ i'll probably work on the gloves and shoes designs, but that's all the creative juice i have for now. FOR SURE THOUGH, he'll have that cheek scar, the one-side laurels and pointy/elf ears with earrings! his hair will be loose and wavy too. i'm tempted to give him a half-braid in some verses.

anyways, would ur muse hold him. bats my eyelashes at you.

[tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors]

🎉

hi unfortunately you opened a can of worms with this one

there is something like an olympics in this verse - Bealdmos, a 2-week summer festival on a 3 year cycle. year 1 is regional games, year 2 is principalities, and year 3 is nationals.

the title of "athlete" in this verse is afforded to those who perform some sort of bloodsport - the idea is that to be an "athlete" one must have courage to face dangerous challenges. competitive games that are not blood sports, like say, basketball, are considered games for children, not "Sports"

some sports are played similarly to how they are in our world - american football, castling, trapeze - with the caveat that they specifically preclude safety measures. trapeze is done with no safety net - contact sports are played without protective gear.

the tournament is split into, broadly, four parts - the Bestaria, the Paritura, the Gladiatora, and the War Games

The Bestaria or "Beasting" is combat against animals - each principality has its specialty.

Providence (Royal family Laurent) is Billy goats (of large, heavy-boned and muscular meat varieties)

Edmeyer (where the fitzroys live, Royal family Holst) is Stags,

North Riding (Royal family Archambault) is bears

South Riding (Royal family Greenburg) is Rams

and Ashdown (royal family Bryton-Mortcombe) is Bulls.

and every level also does lions, wolves, and boars

The Paritura is dueling - combat between two opponent with the same weapons. fencing goes here, as well as boxing and wrestling, jousting etc

the Gladiatora is combat between two opponents with different weapons, which are standardized but have a lot of variety - everything from six shot pistols to knuckledusters to sword and shield

and finally war games, which is anything involving teams - american football goes here, along with a variant of capture the flag that often results in maiming, aforementioned trapeze, castling - any team sport where you could get extremely injured by not taking proper precautions, which they dont, on purpose

also, nobility are never athletes, of course. its the courage of the common man that makes a proper athlete :)