#Dam Mantle

[monasdiabolica]

i think about whatever's going on in the heads of heaven's angels after gabriel leaves a little Too much

[yaut-jaknowit]

V and U x male Reader

The reader is a hunter, who mostly specializes in hunting down bad bloods and traitors, having a large collection of trophies. Hunting them in plain sight but never seen, most not knowing the one that killed them is a human. V and U made it their mission to court this hunter.

(The reader mainly uses the smart disks)

Hiding In Plain Sight

Pairings: Vic'tao (Male Yautja) x AMAB!Reader x Uihoy (Male Yautja)

Word Count: 4159

Summary: A return trip to the home planet of your species offers more than what you were expecting. Earth holds many treasures. As an enforcer, you hunt down the traitors of your adopted kind. After the hunt, you find yourself in a predicament.

Author Note: A human enforcer would a perfect hunter amongst the enforcers. Many not knowing that this human is here to hunt them. Vic and Uie would absolutely love a human like this.

Masterlist

Ao3

Earth is a main attraction for any Yautja. Bad Blood or Honored. It brings any of those who are to be blooded or already are to the bountiful lands. It has much to offer. Including the birthplace of yourself. Yet, that’s all you have in common with the planet. You try to stay as far away as possible, but it seems like fate always wants you to return.

Human but not. You were raised Yautja. You were blood bound to the honor code, scared forever. For this honor, you took up the mantle as an enforcer. Many disapprove, many looked down at you. Small, weaky, human.

They all thought you would perish on the first hunt. A human couldn’t go against a trained Yautja. Yet, when you returned with the head and proved to the elders that not only are you capable, but worthy of the title. They had no choice but to bestow the title on the first human in history to you. Your adoptive dam was beyond proud of your new status among the clan. It was seen that she had raised you right, leading for her to have plenty of suitors for the next season.

More trophies decorate your ship. Many from the heads of Bad Bloods you’ve taken down. A proud sight you happily showed to those who come to visit. There was no need to hide away the fact you may be human in your core, but you were Yautja. Raised this way and shone through the darkness of what once shadowed you.

Like times before, this hunt was no different. This Bad Blood drags himself to earth. Some believe hiding amongst the intelligent species will be their shield. But now, the Yautjas had you. You could move amongst your species with ease. No one suspecting little ol’ you could do much harm.

You were the perfect hunter.

With the needed supplies loaded onto your ship for the journey, you take to the universe. Stars and planets alike whiz passed while jumped from one end of space to the other. The ship appears close to a planet called mars by the humans. The red planet acting like your shield for only a moment before you can pull yours up.

Now, invisible to any of earth’s detection systems, you continue forward. There was no need to rush the hunt. Your prey always falls into your trap. Time will only tell when.

The blues, whites, and greens of earth’s surface had grown boring after the third trip that had taken you here. The colors disinterested you. All passing in blur.

A screen in front of you located where the Bad Blood was last seen. You guided your ship towards the direct spot. This Bad Blood was known for his tricks. He likes to dig into a spot. The chances of him still being here were high. If he didn’t need to move, he wouldn’t. Not until you come for him. The perfect predator on a planet like this. Home to humans. Your species.

Yet, with him dug in like tiyt in your skin, it would be difficult to pierce his defenses. Any other Yautja would be far off worse. His scopes on the look out for a Yautja… not a human. You grinned to yourself as you set down the ship. It came to light drop on the earth’s ground in the middle of an abandoned parking lot.

A wire fence built around the space. No one could easily discover your spacecraft this far out on the edges of the massive city. A concrete jungle as the elites and elders call it back home.

The hunt begins.

.

The high pitch ding from his gauntlet has the Yautja stopping in his tracks. An alert to a Yautja entering the vicinity. He glances over at the hidden form of his partner. Uihoy, too, has paused and was pulling up the screen on his gauntlet. A known name popping up.

Both of them perked up at the sight. This human has been the talk ever since they were allowed to stay on Yautja Prime. It shouldn’t have been allowed by many peoples thoughts. Yet, when you became an Enforcer, all hell broke loose. That had been the end of the world in many peoples eyes. A human? As an enforcer? But you progressed and became one of the top. Your name would be written in the stars before your death.

And that’s what caught their attention. Such a small, weak thing able to best a Yautja. Not only once or twice, but countless times. Your trophy wall was stuff of legend not even Uihoy, as a nearing elder, could compete with.

Purrs escaped each male’s throat at thought of your proximity. The eyes of their mask flashed at each other. No words needed to know they had to hunt for you, find you and show you they themselves were worthy to be in your presence. Maybe even get you to join their group, become their mate. It would be an honor.

Each dip their head at another, barely noticeable with their cloaks activated. The concrete jungle full of eyes that could endanger them. Then, they press on.

The hunt begins.

.

Your pants were controlled as you leaped or grappled from roof top to roof top. The rush of blood filling your veins was exhilarating. Despite your human nature, your blood sung for the hunt. Called for the need to bring down prey twice or thrice your size. You may have been born in a human body, but you were meant to be a Yautja. Some elders have told you so.

Unlike some of your prey before, this one decided to find the heart of the city and claim it. No fool would chase after him. It could risk the exposure of Yautjas to the humans. But they had you. Able to walk among the humans like you were one of them.

Those would have to wait it out, until the Yautja needed supplies or slipped up. Many have run out of their patience and forfeit their pride to you. The human. Here you were, smirking to yourself as you walked through the streets. The skyscrapers too tall for your grapple to reach.

At this time of night, the streets were lacking of bodies. Only a select few would dare to walk. You didn’t know of the Bad Blood was asleep. Earth’s rotation cycle was different. It was shorter than Yautja Prime. By two hours. Who knows if he would be sleeping; the perfect time to slither your way into his hidey hole and take care of the issue at hand.

A grand building sat in front of you. The lights were off as if it slept itself. You peered up and took note of any weakness, anywhere to slip through. But, this was city hall. It was locked down tightly. You hummed quietly to yourself and searched thoroughly from the front, pearly gates.

This side was empty handed.

Then, you began your search of each side. All exterior doors were tested.

One offered you entrance to the space. A grin spread across your face as you slipped into the building and activated your cloak. The last thing you wanted to do was alert a night guard to your position. That’ll only cause a domino effect you really didn’t want to deal with. It would end with the Bad Blood making his escape via his ship.

That’s how you know of his position. There is an abandoned train yard under the city hall. Enough space for his crappy little ship to fit. It wouldn’t be hard to track the craft but the chase through space wouldn’t be exciting. Just jump after jump until either of you lose the other or you run out of fuel. Boring.

This though, was gold. To hunt him on his own territory that he’s called home for the last six months? You were giddy at the feeling.

With the safety of your cloak, you snuck around the quiet and dark hallways. There wasn’t a sign of life. You pulled up heat signatures on your biomask and found only a human nearby. A guard standing close to the entrance. A quiet huff left your nose. Such a weak warrior. Blind to what was around them. No wonder the humans have become so weak. Not worth the prey they used to be seen as in their more primitive age. Not that this era isn’t fairing better. Their medicines were horrors of stories. That only scratches the surface.

Viewing with different visions on your biomask led you to a locked door. You rolled your eyes before pulling out a helpful device. The tiny mechanism attached to the door handle. It made a small buzzing noise as it began its work. You glance over each of your shoulders and came up empty handed. Nothing on your radar as well.

Once the door clicked open, you softly pushed it open. It swung open on its hinges and revealed a darker stairway that lead down. The direction you were hoping to go.

If his craft was underground, he had to be nearby. Any rational Yautja would have their escape plan close by.

Death happens all the time within the species, but an unnecessary death aided no one. A tactical retreat is preferred to see the light of day and collect more trophies.

As the hunter you are, you pierced the darkness with heart full courage. It swallowed you hole and lead you down two flights of stairs. That’s when the real work began.

.

Uihoy’s radar led him in the general direction of a Yautja ship. If you were on earth, it meant you were on a hunt. One you couldn’t be distracted from. So, the two took decided to search for your craft. Either you would be there or not. These two were established hunters. They could wait you out until you decided to appear.

The two of them controlled their panting. They landed down harshly on worn asphalt that nearly crumbled at their sudden force. It cracked. Each standing up on their own accord and scanning the area.

In the middle of an abandoned space devoid of life sat the cloaked spacecraft. It holds no tags but the shape was unique. Unique to you. You had earned it. Long and hard battling years. Uihoy smirked to himself, proud of finding it. He came to realization there was no one aboard. The purple, cloaked male turned his head towards his partner and grunted.

Vic’tao’s camouflage flashed before retreating to reveal his yellow and blue hide. “He isn’t here,” Vic grumbled with disappointment at the situation. He was raging to finally meet such a figure. Even the best of his collection hung mindfully off of his belt. He hoped it would be enough to gain your favor. It’s not like Vic’tao knew what he was doing.

There was little courting he’s experienced with. Uihoy was the one who pursued him. Vic’tao never expected to fall for a permanent mate let alone a male. But, it had happened. That felt the yellow Yautja struggling to truly understand how to court another. He’s barely experience it himself on both ends.

Under a half-moon, Uihoy’s purple scales drank in the light once his own cloak fell victim to lack of power. The short, stout male moved towards a building that connected to the parking lot. He saw it as the perfect place to hide away until the time you decided to reveal yourself.

His partner and mate followed closely, at his side. Their strides matched. They would wait, they will finish their hunt. Predators waiting for their prey.

.

Throwing knives passed your head and sliced off lonely strands of your hair. You leapt up into the air just in time for three cross bolts to pierce the air you once stood at. They embedded into the wall behind you. You had to force your instinct of adrenaline rush to stop. It wouldn’t aid you when your energy would quickly leave in a moments notice.

Despite the darkness that became your hunting ground, you found your prey on the other side of a boiler room. Dug in worse than a tiyt. Little bugger would be difficult to kill. But you were determined to win. Another trophy, to add to a wall that continued to grow.

The familiar thang of a string filled the air. You dodged to the side by turning your torso out of the way. Another bolt sling shot to embed into concrete right behind you.

Snarls and hissing sounded from the anger Yautja. His sneak attack hadn’t worked neither did his back up plan to attack you afterwards. You smirked with fire alit in your eyes.

One of your smart disks was pulled from your belt. It was made for your smaller hands, designed for you specifically. It whirled to life at your command while you readied to throw it.

Another arrow launched directly at your chest. You rolled forward and let it skim above you. Then, the disk soared after the panicking Bad Blood who had the misfortune of facing you. He choked on a noise barely had to time to use a boiler as a shield. You stood back up to your full height and let the weapon fly back into your hand.

You tsked at the weak actions of this traitor. “You hide like a weakling. It will be freeing to rid you of your life. You won’t dirty the gene pool,” you hiss into the air and calmly walked towards the last spot you saw him. “A lame dog is best to be put down.” Those who are weak don’t deserve to live. Either nature will ensure this or an enforcer themselves.

“As if you can speak! You are a weak, ugly ooman. You have no right to walk among the Yautjas,” he spits back at and snatches a peek around the boiler. His bright red form on your biomask was on the verge of blending in with the heat that sweltered around you. He was smart, smarter than you gave him credit.

Words you’ve heard countless times. Demeaned for your nature. Only to shove those words back into their throats, choking them as you gained rank over and over.

The smart disk hums against your fingers. “I’ve earned my title countless times. I’ve been the one to make it in here and find you. I’ll be the one to carry your head out as your body turns into nothing. You’ll be forgotten while my name is written among the stars.” Your name has been sung with praise by the elders and ancients.

A snarl ripped from his throat. The Yautja launches himself as a weapon from behind the boiler and blind sided you. His heavy weight knocked you to the ground and pinned you underneath him. You swung with the smart disk at his bowed head. A crazy look in his eyes. His plan was to take care of you. Permantly. His eyes said it all.

He’s able to jerk his head back just enough. The sharp blades of the disk skim across his scales, nicking him. Bright green blood drips down onto your face. Some of his dreads are sliced off and caused a spray of blood. The Bad Blood hisses from the sensitive tresses loss and sends a punch flying for your head. You blocked the hit with your forearms.

Pain radiates up the bones. A good sign. Pain was good. Meant you were still alive, still fighting.

Another fist is launched at your head. You lean to the side. The fist cracks the concrete at the side of your head. You turn and latch your teeth into his skin. All of your strength was put into the bite. You felt the tall tale sign on your tongue and tasted blood.

The Yautja rips his arm back but left behind a chunk of his flesh in your mouth. You spit it out at him and used the distraction to your advantage. The disk is shoved into his chest and pierced his belly scales. He howled and reared back, losing his balance. His body tips over onto his back. You were on your feet and following the traitor with each step. There was not an open opportunity of space between you. You wouldn’t allow it.

Blood stained the floor while he dragged his body back. You grinned like a mad man with his green life essence dripping down your chin. Fear entered his golden eyes. The Yautja finally saw his death near.

Like many before, he will fall to the weak, meek human.

His back met the wall. Trapped and at your mercy. You placed a foot on his chest and pressed down. “Say your prayers to a god you bretrayed. Maybe Cetanu will forgive your transgressions,” you growled.

The disk lifted high above your head.

It was brought down with a great force.

The gruesome sound of flesh tearing echoed back at you. His head lolled to the side, nearly pausing for a second. Then, it flopped over onto the ground. Blood, bright and vibrate in the darkness, glowed. You stood to your full height and took a deep, calming breath. The hot air in here stifling.

You began the cumbersome cleaning of evidence. Not a drop of blood could be left. Not unless you want the Yautja species to be discovered. An action that would damn you and turn you into a Bad Blood. Anyone trigger happy and ready to kill the human would be free to hunt you. More than ever before.

It didn’t take long though for the blue acid to eat away at the body and left nothing behind. Nothing to be discovered. The blood, you took it upon yourself to scrub away. An action your brain has been engraved to remember. Those who taught you ensured you would never forget to pick up after yourself. Leave nothing behind.

Before finishing up, you headed towards another door that led you further underground. Towards the abandoned train yard.

.

It had been hours since the two of them had taken roost in the abandoned building. The younger of the two was growing bored. Why couldn’t this damn ooman hurry up?! The trophy on his hip grew heavier. Vic’tao dug himself a deeper grave with each subconscious thought. Maybe it wasn’t good enough? Would it even turn your head towards him? Would you give him a piece of your attention? Paya, he hoped.

Movement at the edge of the fence caught his attention. The yellow and blue Yautja sat up higher and stalked towards the broken window. The cool night easily showed your blazing heat signature. You were jogging swiftly and leapt over the wired fence with ease. Your body moving with grace that only a hunter could perfect.

The male sighed and watched you slow down to a walk. Vic’tao looked over at Uihoy. The two of them nodded at the other. Then, they were on the move.

Out of the building, uncloaked, they strutted side by side. Vic’tao rounded the ship first. Your eyes immediately narrowed on him.

A warning snarl left your throat as you paused. One of your hands, the one not carrying the head of your prey, went to your belt. The smart disk just waiting to be used.

Your eyes scanned over their forms. These weren’t Bad Bloods. Their faces aren’t ones you recognize on the list. Neither did you recognize the markings on their bio-masks. You stayed weary, prepared for anything. Your head lifted as if silently challenging these two to speak.

An old elite and an average, young hunter. A strange duo.

Each of them pulled their masks free from their faces and respectfully bowed their heads. You hummed quietly to yourself. They know who you are. Not that many don’t nowadays.

The purple, a nearing elder, raised his headfirst and met your eyes in a calm manner. There was no challenge, nothing to provoke a battle. He was the one of few who wished to talk rather than fight you’ve met before.

“It is an honor to meet you, enforcer. We are lucky that we meet at the same time,” he spoke in a higher voice than you expected for a burly Yautja. All you did was raised a brow and looked at them, disinterested.

There was more important things to worry about rather than these two… fans? Is that the best word for them? You eyed the yellow one. He was nervous. He would meet your eyes but his fingers twitched. Youngsters.

Before you had the chance to just continue onto your ship, the yellow male dropped to a knee. Your fingers slid into the holes for your smart disk. In his hands, he presents a skull. Moderate in size but a creature you would rather not mess with.

“I present the skull of a Xaq-oew!” he exclaims by bowing his head and fully presenting the skull to you. Your shock lasted longer than you would like to admit… but no one has ever tried to court you before. Let alone, you having the chance to court a female. A great enforcer but the species was entirely wrong. A fact you’ve been belittled since you could remember.

In your state of shock and silence, the purple male dropped down as well. In a calmer manner, he offers a different skull. Another creature. One you have had the misfortune of meeting. An encounter you nearly lost.

“We understand that courting a male is unheard of. Yet, your skills and abilities…” the shorter male trails off.

“Once we heard of you, it was our goal to court you!” the other one butts in. It seems his anxiety was getting the best of him. Something he needed to rid of if he is to survive further in his life.

Purple glared at him for a fleeting moment before returning his gaze to you. “It would be an honor if you became our mate and join our group.”

Your heart beat hard in your chest. This surely couldn’t be happening. You’ve been told countless times you wouldn’t be able to court anyone since you’re human. No one would want you. But… here are not only one but two males presenting skulls to you in the traditional Yautja way. They want your hand as their mate.

A few more seconds passed before you took a breath in to speak. “I accept your challenge to court. Show me your best skills and I will think about joining you,” you responded in a cool tone despite how fast your heart was beating. It felt like you were on your first hunt again. All by yourself with no aid. Just you and the jungle.

On the right, the yellow and blue Yautja cheered, still knelt in front of you. You raised a hand. His excitement came to a halt. “First off, I believe names are in order. Second, I shall give you my information. I want to hunt with you. See how well you could provide for me.” Any male vying for attention should know they must prove they are the best. Their genetics are top of the line. Not that genetics is a play for this courtship, you didn’t want to mate with two weak males. You wanted someone who could keep up with you.

Each gave their names. The purple one was Uihoy. The yellow one was Vic’tao. Then, you gave them your contact so the three of you could set up a time for a hunt. You were looking forward for this but kept yourself calm.

This would be your first hunt in over a year with another Yautja.

You took their skulls and felt their weight in your hands. Now, you would have to find a space to put these. A section for courting skulls. “I shall find these a good home in my trophy room,” you said and looked up at them.

“Are we able to see it?” Vic’tao asks. The nerves in his system had finally calmed.

A brow was raised at the male. “When you deserve to see it,” you retorted back with a firm voice. You’ve barely met the males. The needed to earn that right.

Uihoy smirked. “We will. We will show you our skills and awe you.” You weren’t impress with the words and continued to look at him, uninterested.

Each skull was latched onto your belt. You hefted your earned Yautja head back over your shoulder. “The next time I should see you two will be on fresh hunting grounds.” Then, you bided them a goodbye before taking your leave.

There was an unknown feeling that swarmed your chest. You pushed it back and closed the ramp behind you. Now, you had to prepare for a hunt.

[thewisaaaaad]

AWWW FUCK

In my sleep deprived state, I have created YET ANOTHER AU by smashing together several ideas in my head, along with being inspired by @kamodofilez bells of the dammed au. Sorry for pinging you, but CREDIT IS DUE.

When am I going to run out of these oh lamb

Anyways here's the au. I call it the Regretful Hunter AU, no idea if i am going to continue with this.

In this AU, neither the lamb nor Narinder really wanted to fight.

As soon as Narinder heard the new prophecy through Ratau, he knew exactly what would happen.

Five becomes nothing? He wasn't stupid. He was going to fall too, just like all his siblings.

Good. It was what he deserved. It was what he wanted.

Narinder did the fight because he was actually tired of being the god of death, saw that the lamb was way better at being god than any of his siblings were, and wanted to pass the mantle. Of course, due to pride and family trauma, they couldn't just hand it over, so he tried to goad the lamb into killing him. He... doesn't really consider how Aym and Baal would feel about it. He forgot they were people, honestly, until it was too late to care.

The lamb, meanwhile, was totally chill with dying. They felt that they were OK at playing leader, but was ready to hand over the reins to the god that gave them the opportunity to take revenge for their people.

They were fully ready to let go, and see their family again in the afterlife. After all that had happened, they were just. So. Tired.

However, fate has ways of getting what it wants- including puppeting its victims. The lamb was conscious the whole time as they were forced to fight the person that gave them everything they had ever wanted and slay his guardians. They were just glad that they didn't have to kill him.

Narinder was less than pleased with the mercy. When the guilt of what he had done set in, he ran away from the cult before the lamb could explain what happened.

He planned on going out, finding a nice cliff with some sharp rocks at the bottom, and ending it once and for all.

Turns out, ending your life by your own hands is a lot harder than he thought. It can be pretty scary, standing at the edge.

He blames his mortality, of course.

Lamb, meanwhile, goes into a depression induced stupor, the young god just going through the motions of running a cult. ???'s arrival makes it a little easier, by giving them a goal to work towards, but they never stop hoping to find Narinder again. They know hes not dead yet.

They would feel it.

Narinder continues to survive in the forest, hunting critters using plumbata, or throwing arrows, made from stolen arrows. He goes around, surviving while cursing his cowardice, until one day he wanders through Silkcradle, looking for spiders to hunt.

Instead, he finds a panda and a skunk in mortal danger. Before, he would have let them die, for obviously if they had wanted to live then they would not have come here, doubly so for the panda who could have just never come to the lands of the old faith at all.

But now? Now he understands the fear of the end. How it can creep up on you without knowledge of its presence, how a foolish decision can seem like the best one to make in the moment.

So he saves them. They, of course, ask for his name.

He does not give it. Instead, he gives them the location of paradise, where they will be safe. When asked why he does not go there himself, he answers that "I had lost my right to that place long ago."

When Jalala and Rinor arrive at the lambs cult, they tell the lamb of the kind stranger who saved them, the cat with three red eyes.

The lamb gets excited. He's still out there. And he wishes he could be here.

They just have to talk to him.

[hope-to-hell]

When the dam breaks (carry what you can). John Wick x August Walker, aka the crossover that nobody asked for but is happening anyway. Two bedraggled men meet in a bar. They’re cold. Wet. Miserable. It’s a good time to find a warm willing body. Smut, oral, handjobs, angst (dammit this was not supposed to happen), over abundance of water metaphors.

———

John and August are unlikely companions, if you can even call this companionship. It’s the natural outgrowth of a chance meeting, two souls brushing against each other in a bar that’s seen better days. It’s silence, save for the soft thump of glass on wood after each sip. It’s the faraway drone of rain and the droplets sliding down John’s cheeks before he pushes his hair back with a sigh and folds himself down onto a barstool. You look like shit, he says, with a sideways glance that cuts to the bone and spreads out warm beneath August’s skin.

Says the drowned rat. August isn’t exactly fresh as a daisy either; he’s been drifting, friendless, washing his socks in one motel sink after another for weeks. Can’t go home to Langley, can’t go crawling back to the Apostles and beg to be accepted into the fold. Either way he’s a traitor; either way he can expect a long imprisonment somewhere far from the light, followed by an unmarked grave and an eternity of rotting into worm food. He rubs thumb and middle finger together and considers his next words. Buy you a drink?

Yeah.

Of the two of them, August is the talker, all bravado and schemes within schemes within schemes. He can weave a tale so riveting that he’s long gone before you notice there’s nothing at the center of it but empty air— or at least that’s how things used to be. Poor fucker doesn’t have a soul loyal to August the man anymore; he’s been written off, 86’d, thrown to the dogs. John Lark the myth is another story. There’s probably someone already stepping into those shoes, shedding their old name and taking up the mantle of Lark the Apostle, Lark the world-ender, Lark the killer of innocents. He’s got revolutionaries lining up around the block to suck him off while he reads from his beloved manifesto.

You really believe that shit?

Yeah. No. I mean. What he means is that he wants— wanted— to excise the rotten core of the world, to cauterize the wound and find a new way forward. What he wanted was the impossible. What he got was— what? Chucked off a cliff, crushed and incinerated in a lonely valley? Nah. If he’d done that, then he wouldn’t be here, bottle dangling from his hand, doing his damnedest not to let his leer slip into a grimace. Fuck it. If I wanted to spend the night feeling sorry for myself I’d just sit here until I float away. Nevermind the chorus of coward coward coward that stands behind his every thought. Nevermind the moment he lost his nerve and bailed on the last leg of the mission.

Was it cowardice, though? To stand on the precipice of the world’s undoing and feel that gnawing sense of wrongness? August says it is, but he’s a liar even to himself. Easier to tell himself he was too shit-scared to go through with it than to face the years he’s spent doing it all wrong. Come on. August leaves the bottle and makes his way upstairs. John follows a half step behind, shedding pieces of his suit until he’s no longer bulletproof, heart hammering away with only a sweat-stained shirt to keep it contained. And soon enough that, too, is gone.

Everything in this room is tinted red from the neon sign that blinks and fizzes outside the window; its light pulses in time to the need that ratchets their breath higher and faster; the slow steady exhale-inhale-exhale that leads up to the kill shot has no place here. This isn’t a dance; the burn of stubble is artless, honest, cutting swaths of mine across their skin. There’s a scar below John’s clavicle that still carries that strange sensation that vibrates between numb and burning; August fills its shining red hollow with tongue and teeth, biting down and working his jaw to make John buck his hips and growl.

(What’s the last thing you want to see? To hear? To feel? What sensations are you going to carry with you when you leave this world?)

Fucking and fighting are much the same at their core. There’s the sweat and straining limbs, the tight-knotted elation of movement, the rough raw physicality of it all. And there’s blood smeared on the sheets, scabs torn off from the friction of bodies sliding across the bed; John looks down at August and there isn’t a sneer or a smirk or any kind of twisted lip to mark his conquest but it’s clear all the same. And so they stare at each other, wild-haired and panting, until August speaks because of course he’s the first to break the silence.

We gonna fuck or what? There’s no waver in his voice, of course not. Probably not. Aw hell. He hears it plainly and maybe it’s just been too long. Maybe he’s still burning from the inside. But it’s strange: there’s no shameful heat across his cheeks, no ache from grinding his teeth in the aftermath of cracking himself open like this. Maybe it’s the way John watches quietly, somewhere between assessing and patient, free from judgment. But he is thinking all the same, lips parted around words that have yet to take form. He speaks like he moves: thoughtful, purposeful, much like the sea in the moments before nascent islands break its surface.

It’s…been a while. Seems there’s always gravel lodged in John’s throat these days. The pad of his thumb is rough and callused; he draws it over August’s mustache and down, arousal sparking through him at the feel of August’s teeth as he bites onto John’s thumb and grins. It’s easy enough to shove his way further, pressing down hard on August’s tongue; need glazes those pretty ocean blues and maybe it’s a risk but he’s going to spit right onto August’s tongue, blood and bourbon leaving their sting.

The thing about taking a risk, about actions that could have repercussions beyond your wildest dreams, about taking a bat to a beehive for that sweet sticky honey, is this: you have to ask yourself, is it worth it?

(That’s the problem with you, John. You know what the fallout is going to be and you do it anyway. You’re a damned fool.)

Yeah, it sure as hell is worth it, if only for the unh that rips loose from somewhere deep in August’s gut. And maybe it’s been a while for John, but he’s not the only one. August’s hand reaches out and it’s shaking, maybe mildly enough that in any other situation it would go unnoticed, just like the gnarl of breaks set and reset, the fingernails that never grew back quite right, the deep white line across his palm. But it does shake. John sees it all, and folds it into his understanding.

John rests his forehead against August’s belly; he breathes and thinks only of this moment, savoring the twitch and jump of muscle beneath him, shoving away thoughts of anyone or anywhere other than this. Easy, he mouths, clever fingers reaching down to grasp August at the root. Gotta want it bad enough.

Didn’t. Ah. Didn’t realize you knew how to be patient.

I got a little perspective. It’s a hell of an understatement, coming from the guy who wakes still wrapped in dreams of the world beyond the world: not white clouds and angels, not burning agony, but merely quiet— until the waking world filters in with its noise and chaos pulsing bloody at the edges of his thoughts. But still, somehow, he walks back into the world. Better days may never come again but he shrugs back into his suit and finds his way from one day to the next.

(Don’t rush it. Time means nothing except the long stretch between stab and scar.)

It’s— oh, fuck. It’s been a while for me, too. Laced between August’s words are the hitched breaths of too much, too soon but he is sweating from ears to asshole and when he says I want it’s the wrecking ball before a failing dam; when he says I need it’s the shiver and groan of cracking concrete; he closes his hand tight over John’s and his fourth finger slots into the gap between John’s third and fifth. Their grip skips and stutters; it’s rough with calluses and scars, the marks of lives hard-lived. But their hands are strong, steadying and falling into rhythm; the susurrus of skin-on-skin is the sound of river stones tumbling as the current carries them along.

It’s a dry burn, and this time when John spits it’s to ease the way, to give brief respite— and perhaps, a bit, to admire the way it slides down August’s shaft— mingling with precum, foamed white with friction.

Orgasm isn’t even the point of all this, although it’s good— better than good, with August’s eyes first screwed shut and then opening muzzy and unfocused— and though John pulses hard and wanting, he holds back; he drinks deep from the well of a mind devoid of thought and for a moment he, too, finds himself purely empty and still. Their hands are still joined, sticky with seed, til August disentangles and reaches out. His hand is almost steady when he says now let me get at you.

And now their places change; the coverlet crumples beneath them as John rolls to his back and hooks one arm behind his head; neon light pools in his navel and in the hollows of his many scars. Words unspoken hang about his lips, caught against sharp fangs. Easy there, he mouths. There’s nothing to prove and nowhere to hide here; their lives are written in tightly shining ink across their skin, and the sum of all those scars is this: we’re here. We survive no matter how we feel about it. He strokes a hand over the back of August’s head, not pressing down but weaving through soft hair. And there— just there, right at the base of August’s skull where every nerve seems to converge— his hand settles in a weightless grip.

August laps up salt and musk, letting the taste burn its way onto his tongue. If his eyes are wet it’s from the effort of swallowing John inch by inch. The red streaked across his cheeks and throat is just from the strain of cataloging every twitch, every rolling groan. It can’t be more than physical, it can’t. It can’t. Absolutely not. Aw, fuck.

Alright? John’s voice is level despite the hitch of his hips, chasing after warmth and that slick clever tongue.

Yeah. It’s just. Just what? It’s like I said. Just been a while. August’s lips are spit-slick and shiny and when he speaks the words are roughly prickled. Now zip it. Gonna give you something you won’t forget. He descends again and keeps his word: he is artless, messy, and above all unforgiving. There is no room to breathe, no finessing John to the edge and back; he swallows hard and with a press of his tongue he ends it. His mouth is filled with bitter come that drips pearlescent from his ruddy open lips; he glances up and he is caught— they are caught— bound and drowning in this moment. He is seen, and in turn he understands.

(Nothing is permanent. How can you stand it?

You don’t. You hold on to what you can and grieve the rest.)

There is time, tonight, to take it slow; the room is paid through the night and anyhow it’s lousy weather. Here beneath the burning shower spray, draped over the back of a chair, tangled in the pile of their own discarded clothes, stillness waits for them. And rain is falling on the river somewhere far away.

[storiesbyjes2g]

3.151 Farewell

Mama was right about traveling with a baby. We take so long to get out of the house now because we have to pack what feels like luggage for a week-long vacation. We've gotta bring the portable crib for nap time, toys to keep her entertained, snacks, and the back carrier in case she gets too heavy for us. And this is just us leaving when we're already dressed. I can't imagine how much earlier we'll have to start our days whenever we go out in the future. It already takes Sophia forever to do her hair, and now that I've grown mine out, I've added a few extra minutes to my routine too. And now we have a little one to throw into the mix.

Since the cemetery was close to the house, Alessia and Mama went home to change and check on the babies while we packed up everything we needed for Desi. They met us there, and everyone looked to me for guidance on how to proceed. I always felt like the de facto man of the house when we lived with Mama, and even sometimes at Dad's house. But now that he is gone, that mantle has fallen officially on me, and I feel weird about it. On one hand, it feels familiar. But on the other, it's yet another reminder that I'm flying solo. His shoes are huge, and the thought of trying to fill them is intimidating. If I'm honest, I'd rather not. But if I can channel even a fraction of his wisdom, and Desiree grows up more confidant and stronger than me, maybe it's worth a shot.

"Mama, do you want to say anything?"

I might be the leader of this family now, but I can sure defer to my elder while she's still here.

She nodded.

"I never stopped loving him, and I'm thankful for the good times we had and wish there could have been more of them. I'm thankful for the children he gave me. Most of all, I'm thankful for his forgiveness."

I look at my sister.

"Less?"

At first, she shook her head as I expected she would. But when I turned to Sophia, a flash of panic flickered on her face as if to realize the opportunity she was about to pass up.

"I love you, Daddy," she said.

Alessia's tender side was a rare treat, and it almost broke me. Sure, it was just us, and I could let it out in front of my family; that was the reason Mama suggested we make this moment private. But the pressure of "being in charge" made me feel like I needed to keep it together.

"Ali was the first one I met when Luca and I started dating," Sophia said. "One of my favorite things about meeting parents is seeing what your partner, and even your friends, will be like in a few years. Not just what they're going to look like, but how they'll be and where they get their qualities from. I saw all of Luca's gentleness and charm in Ali. He gets his care and concern from you, Emmy. I knew Luca was the one pretty early on, but when I met Ali, I was extra confident Luca was the right man for me. I didn't get to know him for long, but I'll still miss him."

I squeeze her hand like Maira did for me earlier. I could talk all night about how great my dad was, but it seems like the more I open my mouth, the more I feel the pressure that's been building all day. Besides, I already spoke at the house, so I take the urn and place it on the plot next to Gammy, grandpa Winston, and Mama's dogs. We stand there, gazing at it in silence, not wanting to depart just yet, but the rain Mama alluded to finally began. It's light at first, not even enough for an umbrella, but Sophia wanted to get Desiree home. It's a good idea, especially because the temperature is much cooler in Newcrest today. We gather ourselves and take a step toward the gate. That's when the pressure breached the dam, and I could no longer hold it together.

[commanderhorncleaver]

❓🩹🗑️ for Gaius~

Ask Game

❓: Estranged family/relatives they've never met

Gaius is the oldest of his sire Oryen's brood, but because of his dam's escape with him to Iron when he was 2, he's unaware of most of his siblings prior to IBS, and even Oryen himself really, with a few notable exceptions.

🩹 : Someone who was a source of trauma

Among his family, the World's Freakiest Dad award goes to Oryen. Technically speaking, he doesn't know much about him personally prior to Citadel of Flame, but knowing your sire is a war criminal shaman is typically more than enough, growing up. Coupled with the understanding that Oryen is the cause of his dam's Final Patrol (abstractly; Gaius remains unaware that Oryen is also literally made her do it) all of this shaped Gaius into who he is at the start of Personal Story.

🗑️: "It's complicated"

Among his siblings that he knows, some of the more complicated relationships go to his brother Wrygle Lifedrinker, younger by 3 years, and his sister Artificer Lucasta, younger by 32 years.

Wrygle is a complicated situation because he is the start of their sire's "project" to breed a better shaman, and is by Oryen's open and vocal measure, a failure--something Wrygle has been reminded of his entire life. He finds himself simultaneously envious of and disgusted with Gaius for how his absence has shaped his life.

Lucasta, meanwhile, Gaius has known since she was 12, when her dam, an Ash Legion spy, pulled a similar escape to his own, getting her daughter out of Flame before returning to her own mission. For a period, Gaius is her primary guardian while she struggles to adapt to the Iron Legion fahrar, trying to support and instill Iron-typical values in her in much the way he had to find for himself. When she goes missing, he may or may not have looked for her. When she returns some two years prior to Personal Story, pushing 16, a member of the Priory, and with an asuran scholar in tow, he seems plenty content to resume his mantle and see how willing she is to adapt now, and failing that, he'll teach her rat in her stead.

[gisellelx]

Twilight Advent Calendar, Day 3

Dec. 3 - Pick one deceased Twilight character to draw or tell us more about. How would the Twilight universe be different if they were still alive?

"Or Does It Sag"

(~2,000 words)

December 3, 2023 Ashland, Wisconsin

Bella had been the one to break this particular dam.

It was a problem they all suffered from, if Edward were honest. The world changed so quickly around them, and it was easy to lose track of new possibilities on offer, especially when they were personal. An advancement in engine mechanics; sure, Rosalie would keep on top of that. A contemporary pianist rising to new fame; Edward would be aware. And with his daughter, these days, it was simple to be aware of other things he would once have not noticed: memes and new phrases, fashion trends too pedestrian for his sister to pick up on, Greta Gerwig and Christopher Nolan opening polar opposite films on the same weekend.

They all would forget, often, that the world changing might mean that certain things they had taken for granted needed reconsideration. That over time, the arc of history bent toward making the impossible possible.

His wife was sitting with their daughter on the the piano bench, Renesmee’s hands aglow from the white Christmas lights his mother had strung on the banister in the foyer. The tree would come later—Christmas Eve, their tradition since that very first serious fire hazard Carlisle had lit in the room of an inn on the shores of the Bay of Fundy, trying to coax, if not joy out of Edward, at least something a bit more like delight—but the house was already filled with other greenery, the air thick with the scents of white pine, ripened pinecone, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Across the room, Alice and Esme discussed the tree’s placement, how big it would need to be, as they hung ten stockings on the mantle in order by their entrance to the family: J, R, B, J, A, E, R, E, E, C. Although Edward knew Carlisle and Esme always hung them all anyway, this would be the first Christmas since the pandemic had begun that all ten of them would be filled. Jasper and Emmett had taken their Christmas cheer outside on Esme’s orders, and Rose had followed them, the living embodiment of the saying that behind every great man was a woman rolling her eyes.

And then there was Carlisle, whose newest schedule thrust him into two weeks of boredom at a time, curled up into one of the wingback chairs in his socks, staring at a page dense with text in the smallest font on his Kindle, but only pretending to read.

It had been earlier this year. Seventeen years of marriage, nearly nineteen of a relationship, and somehow Edward had never mentioned this crucial fact to his wife. They had been at the Toulouse house, discussing their next visit to the States, when Edward had mentioned something about his sire’s past; the knowns and the unknowns, and had let slip a crucial bit of missing information, a basic fact everyone had always taken for granted would forever be irretrievable.

Bella had just blinked at him a few times, and then, in the cutting way she had, offered, “Edward, haven’t any of you ever heard of Ancestry dot com?”

It had taken Bella all of twenty-four hours. A new account. A deep dive into church registers in London, 1600-1650. The parish records of one Saint James Aldgate, kept from 1625-1668 in a cramped handwriting that looked for all the world like Carlisle’s, which, when remarked upon, had only earned him a large eyeroll from his wife. “Edward. I know you think Carlisle sprang fully formed from the head of Zeus”—this time it was his turn to roll his eyes—“but you do realize that at some point someone had to teach him to write?”

And so they had pored over the records of births and marriages, baptisms and deaths, until they found her. Married, just barely twenty-two. Dead, just shy of twenty-four. One child, baptized the day she died. And the name, lost to the centuries until now.

They had presented this information for Father’s Day. Printouts of the pages; the dates, the eerily matching handwriting. Carlisle had swallowed deeply, thanked them, and shortly thereafter, left the room.

He hadn’t spoken of it. Edward hadn’t been sure if it had been an offense.

The composition under his daughter’s nimble fingers was over forty years old now, otherwise sounding like any other contemporary piano piece except that something about it sounded wintery, a musical affectation of the rapid whooshing of the Wisconsin wind against windows Esme had insisted upon keeping single pane. And as Edward listened, he let his mind drift along with his family's. It will need to be shorter. Esme, contemplating the tree. An expensive pair of earrings, no a necklace, no earrings, and…goddamnit, Emmett as Jasper tried valiantly to hide his holiday thoughts from his wife.

Pride, in equal measures, Jacob and Bella, listening to Renesmee at the keyboard.

And then…a little girl. Well, no, Edward realized at once. Not a girl, a child. Blond hair hanging in ringlets down to thin shoulders, a hat in the child’s—his—hand. The hat, falling to the ground from an open fist, as the dress swung around the child’s ankles, the hair flying in the wind as the child—the boy—giggled, racing into a woman’s round, pregnant belly.

“Carlisle,” the woman scolded gently. “You’ll wake your sister. Quiet, child.” A glance across a room, firelight dancing from the hearth, where a cradle sat on the floor, a warm glow across the cheeks of a plump toddler. Then the warm laughter again, a hand caressing the swell that was to be the third child. A boy, Edward knew somehow, through that strange alchemy that was his own mind and the mind he knew almost every bit as intimately. Then the boy, scooped up, held tightly to the ample bosom even as he giggled and squirmed. The imagined scent—roses, fresh air, sweat, soot.

As quickly as it came, the whole scene vaporized, replaced with live piano music, the scent of resin, Esme’s gentle laughter, the glow of LED twinkle lights. Edward looked up, catching eyes from across the room. A muttered excuse, and the sound of denim on upholstery as his sire excused himself, nonchalantly, as though he’d forgotten something.

But when he hadn’t returned ten minutes later, Edward also made soft noises about needing to find something, pressed his lips to the crown of his daughter’s head, and said, “Keep it up, Sweet.” His wife, ever perceptive, looked up from the bench.

Carlisle? she mouthed, and Edward nodded.

The house wasn’t large. The two of them had chosen it for themselves a hundred years ago, only later to share it with the woman Carlisle had, in all his impulsivity and to Edward’s initial dismay, saved from her own attempt at death. Following a scent—especially this most familiar one—was easy, and a moment later, Edward found himself in the study. His father’s chair was turned toward the wall, staring at a bookcase full of all manner of tomes organized in some system which after a century, still remained impenetrable even to Edward.

He didn’t say anything; it wasn’t as though he could sneak up. They both said nothing, the only sound in the stillness of the room their inhalations and exhalations.

“A sister?” Edward said finally. The head turned, and two pairs of golden eyes met.

“And a brother,” Edward added, and Carlisle shrugged.

It was the 1640s. Six would have been common.

“That’s not at all what I was commenting on, and you know it.”

Carlisle gulped. Edward came closer, perching himself on the perpetually messy desk.

“I wasn’t even sure you appreciated the gift,” he said quietly. “You’ve said so little about it.”

The blond head shook furiously. “I’m sorry. I’m grateful. It’s just—”

A flurry of images. The boy, giggling again. Older, hair shorter, wearing breeches this time. The sister, just as towheaded, her long ringlets dancing behind her as her brother pulled her through a small churchyard, scattering the handful of hens which lived there. The woman, a stern and wry look on her face, bouncing a toddler in her arms. Then blankness, again, the cutting off that Edward knew, like the slamming of a steel door, as Carlisle closed off his thinking to protect Edward from things he did not wish Edward to be privy to. Then came the sensations: the twist in the pit of the stomach, the raw, searing grief as fresh as it ever had been.

When this quiet had continued for several minutes, Edward spoke up. “You would’ve died, you know.”

A nod.

“And none of us would be here.”

Rosalie’s face swam suddenly in Carlisle’s mind. Not necessarily a bad thing.

Edward raised his eyebrows. “You’d trade us? Esme?” A pause. "Me?”

His father bit his lip, an uncannily human fidget that had once been put into his repertoire on purpose, but had now become so ingrained it was just part of him. The image shifted again: a series of flashes, rapid, one after another. The boy, school-aged, holding bravely still while the woman bandaged a knee. A teen, lifting a playful toddler out of the sacristy of the church—the sacristy remembered, the toddler imagined. A fourth child, Edward realized. The towheaded boy grown tall, his face the face of the young man Edward was used to. Clutching hands with a woman in white, anxiety and adrenaline and joy as he stood before an altar, the woman beaming at him from the first pew. And finally, the woman, older, her hair graying, as the young man placed a squashed-face infant into her arms.

Edward knew this part now, understood that Carlisle was so deeply content that he lacked the ability to imagine a family other than the one he had. That his dreams had a way of mixing the present with the past with the imagined, as though all of it were true. That if Edward had been able to lift the imaginary bride's veil, he would've seen the woman whose voice he could still hear floating down the hallway. That the infant being handed over in the memory now was the only infant Carlisle had ever imagined having: even though he had met Edward at age 17, he had a firm idea of what he would’ve looked like at six pounds. No hair—redheads were usually born bald—a grip surprisingly firm for a one-day-old infant. He saw the way the imaginary Carlisle beamed as he handed the bundle over to the woman. The way her eyes halfway closed in delight. Edward felt in the memory the way the baby felt in the hands, and recognized the way Carlisle’s mind was mixing this imagined baby and his imagined weight with a concrete memory from September, seventeen years before: Edward’s daughter; Carlisle’s palms.

I wish she could meet you.

Swinging his legs off the desk, Edward let out a bark of a laugh.

"Carlisle, you’re the one who believes in heaven. You really think she hasn’t?”

The image which surfaced this time was so similar, it was hard to tell if it was Edward’s alone or Carlisle’s, or both. The woman, fully gray haired now, her face wrinkled and her hands beginning to show liver spots. Sitting in their living room, laughing and giving tree advice to Esme, listening attentively to Renesmee, joking about Edward and Carlisle with Bella.

“Come on, Carlisle. If she’s anywhere, she’s here.” He hopped off the desk. “And you hiding in your office is probably not what she’d want.”

The nod came slowly. I suppose you’re right. He ran a hand through his hair and attempted a smile. Standing, he placed a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “I am glad you’re here. All of you. Even though the house is way too crowded.”

He chuckled. “We’ll leave before New Year’s.”

“Is that a promise?”

Edward punched Carlisle in the bicep, but they both laughed. Carlisle gestured to the door.

Come. Let’s see what your mother has figured out about the tree.

Edward nodded, and followed Carlisle’s steps. But at the door, his sire stopped, gazing back toward the desk where Edward still stood. The young boy resurfaced, lying against the woman, the girl, still asleep, the unborn infant a flutter under his brother's rib. Slowly, the boy's eyelids, too, grew heavy.

Carlisle blinked, snapping his mind abruptly back to the study. The boy was replaced by books. Thank you for giving her back to me.

And Edward saw it. Obscured by two pieces of mail, but still on top of the pile, the scent of Carlisle’s fingers still fresh, as though he’d rifled through it as recently as this morning. The envelope that he’d prepared, lettered in Bella’s handwriting, given for Father’s Day. The name, lost to time, resurfaced with technology, and with it, memory, imagination, grief, and somehow, love. As he moved, he brushed aside the bank statements on top, leaving the whole envelope visible as he exited the room.

Sarah

it read.

Closing the study door, Edward turned out the light and headed back toward his family.

Masterpost/Prompts Montage Masterpost

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

Sewuel to ascended penny ask.

The jabberwalker attack the doll that was penny, does ruby snap out of it grab her weapon and save her?

If ruby dies save her does Penelope call ruby mom?

Yang and Blake were the first of the group out, ready to hop into the action. Weiss followed them, taking only a moment to watch Ruby and ... Penelope? before running after her teammates.

Ruby: Jaune ... killed you?

Penelope?: It ... It Hurts! To! THink about it!

Ruby: I - uh! - GGRRR! Little, Try and comfort her! I gotta - I gotta!

Jaune: (Outside) RUBY! Come HELP!

The reaper took off quickly, running outside leaving the the Doll and the Mouse alone.

Little: Wait! Ruby! Uh! Hello! P-penelope?

Penny?: I! DOn't KNow! It hurts!

Little: What hurts?!

Penelope?: It hurts to Remember!

~~~~~

Ruby: (Unholsters Crescent Rose) Okay ... Just ... Fight.

Grimm were overrunning Mantle, and she couldn't do anything

~~~~~

Little: Remember what?

(Ironwood): You are the Official Protector of Atlas. Congratulations Ms. Polendina.

Penny?: I - I have to help my Friends! I was made to protec-

(Jaune): P-Penny?

(Penelope): Close! I am Penelope! It is A pleasure to meet You! Thank you for Saving Me!

~~~~~

Ruby: C'mon Ruby Just ... Fight! (She Flinches as Crescent Rose unfurls)

~~~~~

Penelope?: Father Will Protect Me if I'm in trouble! I should stay here and let him fight!

(Pietro): You're a very special girl Penny. You've done well in training and The General has said you're readying to go to the Vytal Festival!

(Penny): Sensational! Do you think I can make Friends?

(Pietro): With a little bit of luck, yes. Anyone it'd be lucky to have you as a Friend!

~~~~~

(V1 Ruby): Keep Fighting! Forever and ever, against an Invincible Monster the Took. Your. Mother.

Ruby: (freezes as panic takes over)

JabberWalker: (Charges at Ruby)

~~~~~

(Who is She?):What ... Do ... I DO!

(Penny): I'm combat Ready!

(Jaune): Stay Behind Me! I'll protect you!

(Penelope): Thank you Mr. Knight!

~~~~~

JabberWalker: (Leaps Over Ruby, continuing toward the Cabin the Doll is in.)

Jaune: RUBY! GO PROTECT PENELOPE!

~~~~~

(Who Decides that?): What ... am I?

JabberWalker: (Breaks the door down)

(Does Anyone?): EEEEEHHH!!

~~~~~

Ruby: (Slashes the JabberWalker, making it Shatter)

Neo: (appears, Grabbing The Doll)

Jaune: PENELOPE!

Neo: (Dissappears, taking The Doll and Little with her.)

Ruby and Jaune: ...

Weiss: (from Outside) The Dam's Breaking! Get out of there!

[scalproie]

ok I slept hi good morning anyway I see we're still having a november 5th situation in the tags and still arguing over which sub zero it is so. let me tell you why Im not that bothered until we see names and the actual plot

WHY MAKE THEM BROTHERS IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Let's start with scorpion. what makes scorpion scorpion? Being a ninja, a shirai ryu to be precise, a yellow outfit, fire, dying and coming back for revenge with said fire, the rope spear, and the funny catchphrase.

mk12 scorpion is lin kuei, he has a lin kuei badge. This strikes me as more wrong than being brothers with a sub zero because the lengths OUR scorpion went to in the previous timelines are heavily motivated over how scorpion loves and grieves his family AND CLAN. so why is he shown to belong in his enemy clan at the beginning of this game's story? Why would firegod liu kang create a timeline that robs his fellow pyromancer of his identity?

My theory is that this scorpion is gonna be the founder of this timeline's shirai ryu. He even has a scorpion tattoo. It would make sense for the clan to adopt the emblem that was on the skin of their founder.

It would also keep in line with the theme of choice in the game said by liu kang in the first trailer: will you fight as enemies or united as brothers? If the game starts with the brothers fighting alongside one another, maybe you will have a choice to keep the family united, but maybe you can make the heartbreaking decision to break them appart, which would result of this lin kuei scorpion defecting, and found the shirai ryu we know, and also kickstart the clans rivalry... you'd keep things as they were, but there's a tragedy in doing so as the brothers would fight each other.

And THAT'S a sub zero thing. Brothers fighting each other.

Now what makes sub zero? Being an assassin from an ancient chinese clan, wearing a blue outfit, being a cryomancer, having brotherly drama, and the conflict of tradition vs change.

Bi-han is a pure product of the lin kuei, he was the top assassin, he liked how things were or at the very least didnt questionned them, he was ruthless and cunning, he changed against his will when he was killed, but that change just fed into his worst traits.

Kuai Liang welcomes change, its how he was able to get the sub zero mantle after all, also please note that his desire to avenge his brother is fairly recent as it was almost an afterthought to him in the og timeline. Anyway he is the sub zero that wants to change the lin kuei for the better after he deems they went too far with the cyberization (which shows he still values a bit of tradition as well), and in the most recent timeline, he's the one who offered peace to hanzo and the shirai ryu.

If the backstory of both clans is still legit, kuai liang and hanzo's generations were the closest at uniting the clans after a rift between them happened at one point. And if Im right, we will be able to experience that rift first-hand in the upcoming game

Again I think thats what the game is gonna go for. Will you make this sub zero more like bi-han? or more like kuai liang? So far in what we've seen he has a bit of that bi-han edge, but I really dont think its meant to literally BE him.

Also for the argument that "Dam, if the lin kuei/shirai ryu division is even legit, it happened ages ago and we just saw johnny's alive huge ass with his huge modern villa and kenshi in a suit" well the timeline is already funky anyway: kitana and mileena are in free edenia and mileena is undergoing tarkatanization in the presence of kenshi in the trailer. It looks like everything is happening at the same time.

Maybe thats the point of this game: firegod liu kang wanted to create a timeline as peaceful as possible but some things will just have to stay the same, so hes giving us the choice: to keep the peace as weird and ooc as it feels or to let tragedy happen but tragedy we know.

[blackmetalsnake]

What happened to Damienus after Lucien died? Did he stay with the brotherhood, or go to the Shivering Isles, or?

Ooooh, thanks for the question about Dam! I'm happy to answer.

After Lucien's death, Damienus became a Listener while continuing to help Martin with the Oblivion Crisis, which was emotionally and physically draining for him. He probably wouldn't call Martin his best friend (himself, at least) because he was wary of getting too close to him, and after the Purification and Lucien's death he acted rather repulsively, but he still received support from Martin and he was kind to Dam, which tied Damienus to him anyway. But then Damienus lost him too, which added to his mental anguish.

Damienus then returned to his duties as the Listener. He's like a faithful dog and couldn't leave the Dark Brotherhood, and besides, he takes his work quite seriously. And he tried to drown out his pain and guilt with the amount of work that fell on him and the more diligent worship Sithis (and drinking too). And he hoped that Lucien somehow saw his diligence and was proud of him.

For the Shivering Isles, I'd like to give Dam a relatively quick, almost-happy ending where he ends up in the Void at the end of his mortal life and meets Lucien and the rest of his dark brothers and sisters. But the idea of ​​making him suffer more, so that he gradually, while still a Listener, begins to merge with Sheo's personality and lose himself... It's quite tempting. He could go to the Shivering Isles and remain Sheogorath until the next Greymarch, until the real Sheo returns or someone else mantle him, and then become a Vestige like Haskill. He could have found himself in fifth era Cyrodiil, lost and remembering nothing more than his name, but slowly restoring his personality and memories piece by piece. And, well, when his memory returns, he probably would like to die and finally get into the Void, which will be impossible while he's still a Vestige. Sooo he would try to somehow reclaim his soul from Sheogorath in order to find his peace? If we had a TES game in the fifth era, I would headcanon helping Damienus die as a big sidequest for the protagonist lol.

Anyway, both options can be, AU still exist.

...It was quite depressive, sorry about that.

[doomalade]

Hey doom I just realized something about rwby arrowfall game.

Since it is canon doesn’t that mean settlements, villages in the mountains are screwed?

Think about it: settlements on Solitas are pretty much dead. A kingdom falling from the sky, untold grimm swarming the mountain and no support or backup coming to save you.

Team RWBY did screw over an entire continent of people, who will be left to fend for themselves and freeze. Regardless of the portals used to save people I see the numbers being pretty sadly.

Either the grimm gets the settlers, bandits, starvation, cold etc. eventually they will die horribly.

Yeah this was my thought exactly.

The dam blew up and now here comes the flood.

And Team RWBY knew that those villages existed, they could have at least tried to warn or evacuate them. All of that worry on Mantle but there’s at least like 3-4 settlements out there.

So as far as we know, those villages have been left for dead, just waiting to die out as RWBY “saves the day”.

No wonder Vacuo is pissed off, they know that they’re next.

[cricktoon]

Imagine being in your early 20’s and your mom and dad are high monarchs to an entire planet and you have to accept that mantle eventually. But also at age 18 you accepted the role that only like 6 other dudes have accepted over the last hundreds of years (timeline unclear) where you hold up an ancient sword and it turns you into a massive beefcake with a tan. You’re considered the epitome of masculinity. The only other more understanding father figure and the guy who saved your life when you were like 8 who you grew up with and the bird sorceress you met like 4 years ago know it’s actually you. The love of your life doesn’t. Your relationships are failing. Everybody thinks you’re a massive failure. You’ve literally saved the planet like 1000 times at this point and you have to treat your alter ego like he’s the best when he’s YOU. Your dad is not proud of you anymore but your mother suspiciously still is. The love of your life constantly rags on you for being a coward. She’s probably in love with your alter ego. The closest you are to her is when you’re him. You can’t come up with any excuse more feasible then “i was over here the whole time.” Somehow accepting this role has made your life in utter shambles but there’s nothing you can do because you have always had a very strong moral code. The sorceress who lives in the ancient castle which seems to affect the lives of everyone around you can contact you telepathically and you have to interrupt whatever you’re doing because somehow on a planet full of warriors, you always have to be the one to fix shit when like, a dam breaks or something. You can make glass by rubbing sand really fast. Y

[butterflyintochains]

We Three Together

This is kinda based on a convo I had with @mikathemad earlier, kinda angsty, but here she is.

The rush of the number retirement ceremony has begun to abate a slight since last night. But, there's something wrong, Sid can feel it in the room, something is not entirely right in his team. And, no, it's not the abysmal powerplay... yet. He looks around the room at his team, eyes falling on Kris and Erik. The duo are deep in conversation, heads close together, looking at something on Erik's phone. Sid can feel that Kris is holding something in, eighteen years have honed them on each other's cues. So, he gives Geno a nod, and he closes the doors to the dressing room after Ned and Tristan leave. ''Sid, what's going on?'' Erik asks.

Sid says, rubbing his hands together. ''I think one of us has something on his chest. And, I think we all know who it is.'' Geno sits at his stall, and says. ''Legend, are you okay?'' Kris, a kind of confused look on his face, smiles and says. ''Yeah? Of course I am, why wouldn't I be? Why?''

Erik places a hand on his partner's knee, feeling like the shittiest partner in the world right now. ''Kris... hjartat.'' This seems to unravel him a slight. ''I dunno, maybe this weekend has just... brought a lot into my mind, that's all.''

Sid gently asks, knowing not to press his best friend too hard lest he pounce. ''Like what?'' Kris is silent, staring at the whiteboards, his glassy brown eyes would be hidden a mere month ago by his hair. ''Kris, we're your family, talk to us.'' Geno says, trying to sound as calming as possible. And, that's the problem, they've never had the thoughts Kris has had on quiet bus trips, they've not almost died because of a fucked up heart, he loves them both so, so much. But, this is just too big, too messy, too... not Kris. ''Kris, look at us, please.'' Erik says softly, and Kris slowly turns to face his partner and brothers. ''Promise me that no one but us four will know this?'' Sid, on behalf of all three of them, says. ''We promise. Now, talk to us.''

Kris steels himself for this conversation, one nearly a decade in the making now. But, he's safe with them, right? ''Seeing Jagr's number raised, the number I wore my whole childhood, just got to me. I just... what if that's as close as I get, y'know?''

Sid knits his brows together, a knot of pain for his best friend forming in his stomach. ''Kris, what d'you mean?'' Kris swallows heavily, trying not to put pressure on his heart. ''Sid, come on, I'm not exactly anything special, am I? Michel Briere died, Mario is Mario, Jaro is Jaro. You and Geno are living legends, so is Flower.''

Geno says, still keeping his voice level so as not to aggravate the situation. ''Kris, you've won three cups, all of them for us.'' Kris scoffs, and says. ''And, how much does '17 count really? I only stepped on the ice once the entire time.''

Erik says, not even he's heard any of this, not even at home during late night chats in bed. ''Your name is on that cup all three times, that ring sits on our mantle with the other two. Sully told me you all but coached the team that spring, with the surgery and all.'' Geno adds, remembering 2016. ''And, remember '16? You scored that goal, Kris, neither Sid or me have ever scored a cup goal, you have.'' Kris sniffs, the dam is breaking, and he doesn't like it. ''I've not won anything for Canada, either.''

Now, it's Sid's turn to scoff. ''That's because the assholes never had the guts to give you a chance, Kris. I begged Babcock to add you to the Prague and World Cup teams, he refused. No idea why, he just did.''

Kris fiddles with his baseball cap, needing something to occupy himself with. ''I've got one individual award to my name, one I didn't particularly seek out, no one wants a Masterton. I'm so proud of it, but, not even being considered for a Norris, just... hurts.'' Erik says, because he does know, he's always known, ever since he won his second, how hurt Kris has always been at being passed over. ''Kris, you don't need a Norris, you've already cemented yourself as this team's greatest ever defenceman. I mean, I looked at all the records for our position on the walls when I got here, you are on all of them.'' Erik says, because only a fellow defenceman can ever understand this feeling. ''As much as I love you, I never wanna play against you again. But, so many forwards in this league hate having to face you, and so many dmen want to be you.''

Sid adds, hating himself for failing his role as both best friend and captain where Kris is concerned. ''Then: you made sure we were all vaccinated against Covid, you are the driving force behind our charity work, you helped get the Bubble Playoffs and return to play going. Played 1000 games after all you've been through.'' Sid catches his breath. ''Sure, I have the C, but, when things get really bad, we all look to you.''

Geno simply asks his best friend. ''Kris, what do your gloves say?'' Kris furrows his brows, confused. ''Legend, G, why?'' Geno rubs his hands together. ''That's there for a reason. That's how we see you, you're our Legend. Our survivor.''

Erik adds, holding Kris' hands in his. ''Our conscience.''

Mario swoops in, the quiet father of the team. ''Kris, son, 58 will be up there with 87 and 71, and hopefully 29 too. No one could ever carry it with the dignity, humility, and style you have. As soon as you three hang them up, we're having the ceremony.''

Sid asks, incredulously. ''Wait, day of our retirement? All at once?'' Mario nods, and says. ''Within the week, actually, I've had the ceremony planned since 2017. But, this is my promise to all three of you. Now, Sully is waiting, should I tell him you're on your way, or not?''

Everyone looks to Kris, who picks his helmet up, dries his eyes, and says, ''Let's fucking do this.'' Sid and Geno embrace their best friend, Erik kisses his partner, and the four musketeers take to the ice. ''Kris, why didn't you ever bring this up before?'' Sid asks on the way to the rink. Kris shrugs. ''It just didn't ever feel like a good time. I promise, though, no more secrets.''

Sid says. ''Good, because it's we three together, okay?'' Kris nods, his chest feeling a million pounds lighter. He just hopes Flower can be added to that ceremony, whenever it happens.

[downwithpeople]

ran two sessions of delta green on the weekend - back to back, same scenario - and had a blast. here's what i got to say about it.

all of my players were fantastic, first of all. great team players, getting involved in the shit. big shout out to the dude who rolled sheets of paper into 'cigarettes' of various lengths and would periodically swap them out between scenes.

each game was 4/5ths complete newbies to delta green and one ringer, one absolute hardcore veteran of the system who miraculously hadn't read the scenario that's included in the handler's guide. i appreciated having an auxiliary GM to coach players with the mechanics.

i was running sentinels of twilight. the hook is that a missing kid returns after 40 years, hasn't aged a day and his parents are on their way to pick him up right now. the enemy are the k'n yani, twelve-foot tall giants who can control minds and phase through matter, plus as many zombie versions of the original kid as you care to throw at the PCs. it's a good con scenario because you can run it as a crazy siege with the massive storm as a backdrop. the k'n yani have a few too many things going on with their statblocks but you can drip-feed reveal their powers in a way that really scares the shit out of people. it's bad enough when they're outside destroying the cars, but gets much worse when one climbs onto the roof of the building and phases through the ceiling. little brandon mcgill is human enough that the players are normally driven to save his life and every time someone has gone to interview him they so quickly adopt the mantle of child counselor it's like they're talking to an actual kid. that didn't stop the veteran DG players from trying to give the kid to the giants as soon as the shit goes down, but that's to be expected.

i pretty much ran this as a spooky house of horrors, slowly ratcheting up the tension before the first encounter with something supernatural. the PCs behaved almost identically in each game, in ways that were fairly predictable. i think there's a few too many things going on and considering the extremely short timeframe, not enough time to reveal them all. no one's ever gone to the dam, no one's ever found the etzilac (the mysterious white ectoplasm in brandon that the k'n yani need as part of their machinations).

next time i think i'll be a little more cautious with the pregens. they're good pregens, effective and handpicked for relevance to the scenario, but their listed equipment is crazy if you let them have it all and it's on me for not checking it. one of the players was bemused by the inexplicable inclusion of 'doorstops' as a thing on his person, while another was pleased to find out that he actually brought scuba gear to yosemite national park.

[pcttrailsidereader]

The Ghosts of Kentucky Camp

"Deep in the heart of the Santa Rita Mountains lies a ghost town called Kentucky Camp.  It was once a bustling mining town, abandoned after a freak accident that killed the lead mining engineer.  Some say the town is now haunted by the ghosts of the lead engineer and miners who lost their lives.  The locals say that on quiet nights you might hear the sound of pickaxes and shovels coming from the hills, but be warned, if you hear the sound of a lone miner's whistle, you certainly are not alone."

Dave Baugher, a regular contributor to this website, started his multi-year thru-hike of the Arizona Trail this year. Dave estimated that 30 percent of those on the Arizona Trail had either left the PCT or altered plans to walk the PCT because of the epic snowpack on the PCT. This story is based upon a stop early in his Arizona Trail walk.

Ever see a ghost fly?  No?  How about a man about to become a ghost as he "flew" off the third story of a newly constructed hotel in Tucson, AZ?  No?  Neither have I.  However, my buddy Ed and I spent some time in the old gold mining town of Kentucky Camp.  Let me tell you about the "Ghosts of Kentucky Camp."

Gold.  The yellow metal has driven men mad, sent conquistadores over the oceans, and even led to war between nations.  However, much of the gold on Earth is thought to have been incorporated into the planet since its very beginning, as orbiting debris formed the planet's mantle early in Earth's creation. 

About 55 million years ago, during earth movement and mountain building, hot solutions bearing gold and other minerals worked their way into the faults and fissures of folded and compressed rock.  Later, these mineral-laden veins eroded along with the host rock,  freeing the gold.  Long before any people arrived on the scene, water and gravity began the gold-milling process better than any human invention carrying and concentrating small particles of gold along the bottoms of streams and gulches.  These are placer deposits: water-laid sand and gravels that contain eroded and redeposited particles of valuable minerals.

Gold was discovered in the Santa Rita Mountains in 1874.  In the following years, up to 500 miners worked in what became known as the Greaterville Mining District.    Early on, the miners had to haul their pay dirt to the few running streams in the area or haul bladders of water to their claims on the backs of pack animals.  At first, this laborious effort was worthwhile, but by 1886 the easy pickings played out, and most miners moved on.

In 1902, a charismatic California mining engineer, James Stetson, had an idea to solve the water problem.  He believed collecting seasonal runoff into a nearby reservoir would be possible, thus creating a permanent water source and making placer mining again profitable.

Stetson sold his idea to investors and formed the Santa Rita Water & Mining Company.  Kentucky Camp in the Santa Rita Mountains was the Company's headquarters.  It was an attempt to get the land to give up its gold with placer mining.  That process, successful in California, uses water cannons to break up desert hillsides so gold can be washed out and recovered in sluices, a sort of industrial-sized gold panning.  Stetson believed the California process would work in Southern Arizona.  Californian George McAneny put up $150,000 to get things started in 1902 and was made president of the new Company, with Stetson as the manager.

Stetson designed a dam near three streams with over eight miles of pipe and ditches to get the water to the mining site at Kentucky Gulch.  A company office building, a house for Stetson, a barn, and two other buildings were constructed.  The 40 to 100 workers lived in a nearby tent camp, and the operation opened in 1904.

Unfortunately, it all washed out.  Only about $3,000 was repaid to McAneny, so a meeting was called in Tucson on May 22, 1905.  McAneny and several other stockholders were to meet at lawyer Samuel Kingan's office.  However, around 3 o'clock the afternoon before, a maid working on the 2nd floor directly below Mr. Stetson's room heard a thud on the windowsill of the room she was cleaning.  She went to investigate.  She leaned out her window and saw Mr. Stetson's dead body on the concrete sidewalk below.  Stetson mysteriously fell, jumped, or was thrown from a third-story window of the Santa Rita Hotel and died.  The truth of his death was never determined.

McAneny's health and finances fell apart after that day.  He got divorced and claimed that ghosts were ever after him.  He died in 1909.  The Santa Rita Water & Mining Company ended, and the land was used by ranchers.  Kentucky Camp was abandoned in the mid-1960s, and the U.S. Forest Service took it over in 1989.  

Renters around the ranch sometimes report ghostly noises, and a ghost-hunters group has spent time documenting the strange happenings in the cabins.  But seasoned visitors say it is mice in the place and skunks making a winter den under the house near the propane heater that account for the mysterious night sounds.  A resident jaguar living in Santa Ritas may also visit the area.

On the hot afternoon of Friday, March 31, 2023, Ed and I dropped our packs on the covered porch of Mr. Stetson's house.  There was water for us to fill our bottles, electricity to charge our electronics, and displays describing the past history of Kentucky Camp.  I'll be honest, we did not stay too long.  There were still miles of trail ahead before we could call it a day.  However, we enjoyed the shade, and several other visitors joined us on the deck to cool off from the sun. 

Ghosts?  We did not see or hear anything that afternoon.  Later, camped by a small lake, Ed and I talked about the place, and we both thought it might be exciting to return to in the future.  Calling it a night, we dove into our tents as the cold chilly wind ran down from the Santa Rita Mountains high above our camp.  Tired, I did hear things in the evening twilight.  Shovels and pickaxes?  No.  Whistles?  You could say that the cooing of doves in waning light or the soft chirps of quail in the brush might resemble a whistle as I drifted off to sleep thinking about the ghosts of Kentucky Camp.

[acesofspade]

5? :D

(Hello!! You're the first off anon to request a snippet!!)

I have nicknamed chapter 5 the Sad Boi Essek Chapter, because Essek is really going through it in this chapter lol. So, have some Sad Boi Essek

“Good. I look forward to it,” Essek said, finally stepping out of the Dim’s Inn to leave. Once he was far enough away, he teleported back to his tower, slipping out of his mantle and cloak. He hung them up in their usual spot, floating over to his favourite couch. He practically collapsed into the plush purple fabric, pulling his knees up to his chest. His hips protested the motion, but the pain subsided eventually. Pressing his forehead against his knees, Essek felt a mix of panic and heartbreak swell in his chest, catching in the back of his throat. He hadn’t cried over Ilmryn in 25 years, having finally made peace with their death, but everything was coming back full-force as tears formed in Essek’s violet eyes.  Silent sobs wracked his petite form, his hands finding his hair to grip tightly as he cried. After bottling up his emotions for a quarter of a century, the dam had finally broken as everything came spilling out like a fresh wound, not a wound so old it had finally started to heal. Silent tears continued to pour out of Essek for an unknown amount of time. Ilmryn had always known what time it was, despite Rosohna’s artificial darkness. It was their special trick, one they had perfected as a child in the Marble Tomes wanting to know when breaks were. They had always been clever, and it was one of the things that had endeared Essek to them.