#t: sons of theseus

[unbrydledfury]

                                                          - - -

    The world's largest celebration of an ex-corpse turned Hollywood Boulevard into a teeming sea of cheering crowds. Countless arms pumped and snatched at the rainbow of confetti snowing from the flawless blue sky. Excited screams punctuated the trumpets blaring from mariachi musicians stationed on rooftops like heralding angels. The day was seventy-five degrees with forty percent humidity.

    The doors of the Chinese Theatre burst open and Bryan Fury stepped out into Southern Californian paradise. His audience roared with praise as he tugged the lapels of his suit jacket, his grin gleaming like the sun off his designer shades. Flanked by a cadre of slim supermodels in slimmer dresses, the cyborg descended amongst his adoring fans.

    Arms spread wide, hands brushing and being brushed by jittering, shrieking devotees, he approached the blank concrete square in the sidewalk. Kneeling before it, he thought about what to inscribe. Simple was best. With a finger he drew his name, all caps, bigger and bolder than life with underlines like missile trails.

    The crowd exploded, bodies bobbing in seismic waves as the music swelled to a crescendo. Bryan rose to his feet and thrust his fist skyward, a triumphant cry tearing from him that hundreds echoed back. Cameras flashed like starbursts while cannons cascaded streamers and silver glitter and a glowing warmth he hadn't felt in ages filled his mind. He was seen. He was known.

    A pair of arms curled under his own, hands resting on his sternum. Bryan could recognize their scars anywhere. A face pressed briefly, affectionately, into the back of his shoulder, and lips softly brushed his ear.

    "Well done, darling," Dragunov murmured.

    Despite the postcard weather and rock concert crowd, the pit of Bryan's stomach turned to frost. Never once had he heard Sergei speak. That was not the soldier's voice. That was his own.

    Pale fingers trailed over his throat.

    Fury swung a punch behind him, and the vague shape there broke apart into streams of navy mist. The sounds and smells of the Walk of Fame felt as distant as his plummeting mood. What the fuck was that? He tried for steadying breaths, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

    A heartbeat he did not have.

    He looked to his entourage. They were nothing but smears of peach and tan, brushstrokes emulating hourglass figures and beehive wigs. Whirling back around, he saw his audience was a wall of faceless blotches and stains, an endless LSD trip projected on suffocating wildfire smoke. The music stuttered and skipped. Impossible. Wasn't it playing live?

    Trying to blink the insane mirage from his eyes -- no use, it was still there, its cheers warped long and low into funerary wailing -- Bryan reached to remove his shades. Something larger than lenses stopped his fingers. Bulkier. Pulling on it, he felt it press against the back of his head. He grabbed the crown of his head, arms straining to rip his skull apart.

    CRUN--

                    -

                        --nch.

    Still breathing hard, it took Fury a moment to gather himself. He was in a small white room, standing on some sort of small round treadmill. Mechanical arms attached to the machine and hanging from tracks on the ceiling lashed cuffs around his ankles and wrists. In his hands were two pieces of some sort of helmet, cracked down the middle with technicolor wiring exposed.

    Two men and a woman in white coats stared from an observation window, eyes wide and mouths agape with fear. A fourth researcher stood in the room with him, frozen in place, laptop clutched to her breast.

    Bryan looked himself over. Left arm and right leg devoid of synthetic skin, check. Camo pants, check. Ocular HUD reporting normalizing respiration rate, adrenaline levels, and latency between brain and limbs, check, check, check.

    He couldn't help but chuckle.

    It had been a whirlwind, even by his standards. Receiving word from a Hollywood studio that wanted to tell his story was unexpected but interesting. He remembered walking into their office and shaking hands with the director -- yeah, that was him in the observation room, wearing a nametag from a private military company -- mindful not to crush his bones. They wanted to try a new technique, he said, a type of VR AI that captured and generated visuals from memories. Always willing to play my greatest hits, Bryan recalls saying. They'd strapped him in and turned it on. The next week had been a tour de force, carnage reimagined: gunning down insurgents in Middle Eastern deserts, plowing through waves of Zaibatsu even as his flesh tore like fishnets, a second extinction of the Manji clan.

    Grinning, he loosed a nostalgic sigh. The little black box between his lungs was worth its weight in diamonds. He sent it a kind, simple query: where would I be without you?

    He interpreted its response as followed: here, where you've been for the past one year, four months, and eleven days.

    The researcher inched toward a door in the corner.

    Still smiling, Bryan craned his head toward her. "Oh, you clever bastards," he muttered, and threw the broken helmet through the window, impacting the director's face with a spray of blood.

    As he slumped to the ground, the others bolted. Seconds later the room was shrouded in red as an alarm blared. The woman with the laptop had her hand on the doorknob.

    Pain exploded down her side as Bryan grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her close. She could feel his breath, hot and humid, on her neck. "No you don't," he snarled, "You have some explaining to do. Looks like I've been out of the loop for a while."

    Guards are coming, she thought, trying to contain her panic and her bladder, It's okay, it'll be okay. The guards had guns. They'd take him out.

    Yet he held her in front of him, his grip like iron. She had seen for herself Bryan's opinion on collateral damage.

    Jackboots thundered closer.

    His words like beetles in her ear: "Start talking."

[pjohoo-reclists]

30k+ Completed Percy - Centric Fic Recs

Request: Anyone have any good, long, finished stories that focus on Percy? Really any variation, other than him killing everyone. No Percy/Nico, Percy/Jason or Percy/Rachel.

Here's a few. Just a heads up, a couple of these fics are completed but their series aren't. Posted 11/8/23. Enjoy!

I am not what I expected (The poison just didn't take) by dcninja for Sappho_of_Space

M | 30k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Hermes, Percy Jackson & Hades, Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Kymopoleia

Post Second Giant War, Powerful Percy Jackson, Ascension, Hermes is a good friend

After the War against Gaea, Percy finds himself struggling in the life he worked so hard to get back to. The more he tries to fit back in, pushing down his powers and emotions after the war, the more things seem to fall apart. As Olympus prepares to officially reopen at the Winter Solstice, Hermes takes notice that something is off with the Savior of Olympus. But when he asked for help from Hades, none of them could imagine what Percy’s trip to the Pit led to and what it will mean for the hero. Or Percy finally reckons with the consequences of challenging Akhlys with a little help from his immortal family, who he might be around for a lot longer than he thought.

Of Gods and Men by plottingalong

T | 40k | Complete

Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Paul Blofis/Sally Jackson, Paul Blofis & Percy Jackson

Post-Tartarus, Immortal Percy Jackson, Sad Percy Jackson

The order of things are changing. Old rules are shifting, old gods awakening. Percy Jackson must come to terms with his own mortality, or rather, the lack of it.

Trading Tomorrow by Darkmagyk, loosingletters

T | 44k | Complete

Luke Castellan/Percy Jackson, Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Annabeth Chase & Percy Jackson

Time travel fix it, Luke Castellan Redemption, Childhood Trauma

Percy Jackson arrives at Camp Half-Blood bruised and bleeding, with the knowledge that he's the son of a god and his mother is dead. His little display with the Minotaur has caught the attention of the camp. But he’s not sure it is good attention, yet. Only the Hermes Cabin's not-quite Co-counselor Theseus, ‘call me Theo,’ doesn't treat him like a fascinating zoo exhibit. Which would be a relief, except he looks exactly like Percy: same green eyes, same trouble making smile, same black hair. The only differences are the fact that Theo is six years older, covered in battle scars, and the black tattoo on his arm. A trident and the letters SPQR. Theo is eighteen, powerful, and unclaimed. And his resemblance to Percy could set a dangerous precedent.

We shall meet again in the morning sun by iwillpassthis

T | 55k | Complete

Percy Jackson, Chiron, Gods and Goddesses (Percy Jackson)

Time Travel, Ancient Greece, Post-Canon

Percy is eighteen when the gods disappear. Percy is not even born when he has to save them. OR Of Percy's journey to Ancient Greece. Saving the world is a trial and error process isn't it?

Bloodlines by peachsocks

T | 61k | Complete

Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Nico di Angelo & Thalia Grace & Percy Jackson, Nico di Angelo/Will Solace

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-The Blood of Olympus (Heroes of Olympus), Angst with a Happy Ending

After a year of avoiding Camp Half-Blood (and his friends, and everyone, and everything) in the aftermath the Giant War, Percy returns. He quickly realizes that the gods never change, running from the past never works, and family is the one thing that might make all of the nonsense worth it.

Camera Shutters by nlpiersee

T | 66k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Apollo, Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Post Trials of Apollo, Coping, Moving on, Percy opens up

Percy is working in a cafe, living that demi-god college life. Or trying to. He's still not certain what he's going to school for just yet, but he's enjoying the swim team and being able to see his friends in a place he doesn't really have to worry about monsters. But he catches the attention of a photographer who thinks that Percy is what the world needs to see. And since Percy is impulsive, he decides, why not?

Fishing in Alaska by CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

G | 112k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Triton, Percy Jackson & Poseidon

Family Feels, PTSD, Triton is a Good Sibling

[Note: fic was deleted from ao3. Link is to a google drive copy. The hassle is worth it].

"This... this would qualify as a mental breakdown right?" Triton asked, frowning over his shoulder to where Percy was still fuming gin the corner. The lady at the counter curiously glanced over before lifting a questioning brow. "My brother - half brother, technically, I have much better breeding - decided to run away from home to where our father can't reach him and now he won't leave. And now I can't leave unless he leaves," Triton continued. Percy opened his mouth to object that wasn't what happened at all, but the tyrant only waved a hand to silence him. "He's seen war or whatever, so if you could maybe just drug him and I'll throw him into a suitcase and we can be out of here by the Summer Solstice!" Silence. Finally, the woman cleared her throat and turned to Percy. "I'm guessing he's the one you want checked into the metal hospital?" She asked. Triton gasped as Percy punched the air in victory. "Aha!" Or Getting in trouble works a little differently when your parent is an all-powerful god. Sometimes you have to escape to the land beyond gods and get your immortal brother turned human to drag you back so you can be exploded into a million pieces. You know, normal teenage stuff.

Hold Tight and Pretend It's a Plan by Rynna_Aurelius

M | 112k | Complete

Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson (Past), Annabeth Chase & Percy Jackson, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Triton

Time Travel fix it, Dysfunctional Family, BAMF Percy Jackson

Olympus has fallen. The second Gigantomachy has ended far differently than the first, and in Gaea's triumph, the world has been torn apart. But the Fates have seen what ends their failed meddling have brought, look on at the dead—and undo what should never have happened the only way they possibly can. Perseus Jackson, son of Poseidon, is returned to his twelve-year-old self, memories intact and determined to save everyone he can. But he is not alone. The Moirai underestimated the strength of the Lord of Time when stealing his power, and there is something about this particular demigod brat that intrigues him. . . Perseus Jackson came roaring to life with a violent gasp, green eyes wild. After a moment of panicked flailing and struggling to breathe, his fear-filled gaze settled upon a girl with blonde hair and stormy grey eyes, her face stern and unimpressed. "You drool in your sleep."

Stars on the Water by liketolaugh

T | 116k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Thalia Grace, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase & Grover Underwood

Percy Jackson Goes to Therapy, Past Child Abuse, Percy Jackson Needs a Hug

"I dunno, I just think it would make a lot of things easier for a lot of people," Percy said to Thalia, when she just stared at him. His cheek rested in his hand, a rare pensive look leaving his eyes distant and unfocused. "Mom has Paul now, so it’ll be easier on her if she doesn’t have to worry about me mucking things up. Dad won’t have to keep threatening war every time Zeus gets his toga twisted. The prophecy’s done, so I won’t be bringing it down on Nico. And no one will have to worry about me blowing up another volcano."

Who Would Dare? by PunkFlame

T | 120k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Triton, Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Poseidon & Triton, Amphitrite & Percy Jackson

Extreme Medical Trauma, Prince Percy, Seafam

"Listen." Triton's voice cut through Percy’s haze "We both know you're hurt, but you don’t have to play the hero. Now let me see your damn wound." Percy nodded, opening up his stance and allowing Triton to approach him. He lifted the hem of Percy’s shirt carefully, to reveal an inch deep gash that stretched from the top of his shoulder to his upper thigh. Triton froze, eyes widening in disbelief, but he remained silent. He reached out but stopped himself just short of touching the wound. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and grave. "Tell me who did this to you... Now." ________ Triton, at Poseidon's request, goes to seek out Percy; however, he finds him on the brink of death, and brings him back to Atlantis in an attempt to save his life. What will this mean for them, what will this mean for the royal family as a whole, and who would dare to have done this in the first place?

Green Day, Aerosmith, Vitamin C (and other cliches): Stories from Senior Year by No2Ticonderoga

M | 200k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

Post Heroes of Olympus, High School, Sally Jackson is a Good Parent

Percy and Annabeth navigate the second half of their senior year, sweating out their grades, avoiding hallway hoodlums and the occasional monster. And there's that constant worry that something's gone wrong out west, since nobody seems to be able to communicate with them from out there. But it's not all bad. They finally get to do some normal high school-ly things. Like prom! And graduation! Still, they've got a lot on their minds. And nosy parents. Of both the mortal and the godly variety. A mostly fluffy look at their post-BOO relationship. Cameos by lots of folks. Rated mature, because high schoolers use bad language in real life. Shocking I know. *fans self like Hazel* And they get up to things when they're alone. Also, some nightmares and post-Tartarus trauma to deal with, in later chapters. See chapters for specific content warnings.

Nothing to make a song about but kings by iwillpassthis

T | 201k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Amphitrite, Percy Jackson & Poseidon

King!Percy, Undersea politics, Atlantis

Percy knelt before Atlantis’ throne, feeling the ancient power of the sea run through his veins in an uncoordinated dance. You are the sea now, it whispered, and the sea is you. A crown of gold and emeralds was placed on his head. Long live the king. Long live the king. . It’s a fortune that Poseidon has a mortal son, because when an ancient curse hits his kingdom and all the sea gods disappear… well, someone must rule.

alone at the edge of a universe by Sarcastic_Metaphor

M | 281k | Complete

Annabeth Chase & Percy Jackson, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood, Nico di Angelo & Percy Jackson

Chaos!Percy, Powerful Percy Jackson, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

The sea is not unlike the abyss; it is deadly, destructive. It hides secrets in its depths and threatens even those that know it well. The sea easily swallows life with no trace left behind. The sea can be quite similar to oblivion. But when the mood strikes them, both the oceans and the abyss can be tempted to create life instead. Or, a complete AU rewrite from pre-canon through all five PJO books: Percy is born a little less human and a little more otherworldly than healthy. With powers he was never meant to have, and a third parent he never wanted, the plans that the Fates originally made for him will be torn asunder.

[dandylovesturtles]

For the ask game! :)

LMNSTU

L: How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

Usually as I'm writing it (assuming I don't just do it all in one sitting), I'll come back and give it a read over and edit before I start back to work, and then I read over it once more before I post it. that's usually it though. I'm lazy when it comes to editing lol. pretty much all my fics are first drafts.

M: Got any premises on the back burner that you’d care to share?

well, I do still want to write the fic about Splinter's son (that he didn't know he had) stumbling into their lives post-movie. I have a post about it on here somewhere.

the fic I MEANT to write after I was done with IMBI (before a different AU plagued my brain, which I've been actively working on) is a fic whose working title is "Mikey and Donnie's Step-by-Step Guide for Saving Your Doomed Family," which is the obligatory peepaw fic. It follows Mikey and Donnie, post-movie, building a cross-dimensional time machine to try and save the bad future Hamatos and bring them to the saved present. It's told from Mikey and Donnie's POVs and has a heavy focus on their relationship, both pre- and post-Krang invasion.

I do still really want to write it, it's just that this other thing completely consumed my creative energy. oops.

N: Is there a fic you wish someone else would write (or finish) for you?

uhhh idk. I have lots of ideas all the time that I'll probably never write just because, you know, time and labor lol, but not really any I can think of to put here.

this is the nice thing about fandom kinkmemes (or whatever you would call a SFW kinkmeme), if you have an idea you don't want to write yourself you can just go drop it in a comment and let someone else write it.

I have already answered S

T: Any fandom tropes you can’t stand?

uhhhh I think my biggest thing that is Popular In Fandom but I Don't Like is AUs that bring fantastical canons into our reality and like, have the characters going to college or working office jobs or whatever. so "modern AUs," except it bums me out that that's the name we settled on because actual modern times in the setting of a fantasy canon could be really fun! Like, I don't want the "modern AU" Dragon Age to have Hawke working at a coffee shop and taking writing classes at the local uni, I want it to have them fighting darkspawn on top of a skyscraper. or like, you can have the Gaang going to college, but why can't they bend anymore! just let them have it!

FFXV is one of my favorite canons purely because it actually shows some of the thought behind like, what if a world had normal modern technology (they're driving around in modern cars and using smartphones) but also monsters and gods and magic. but so many fantasy settings in fiction are either medieval or do the bullshit where you have the "magic world" hidden from the "normal world". no! boring! I want to know how legislative proceedings are affected when congressmen can challenge each other to wizard duels. expand your mind!

U: Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

this is list is not in any particular order:

taizi is an amazingly talented writer, there are so many lines in their fics that make me go "wow", and they have such a grasp on character and emotion. they also have some great One Piece fics!

MagicalSpaceDragon is another absolutely incredible writer. their "theseus, and" series is particularly good, but I actually have them in my bookmarks for one of my favorite ROTTMNT fics of all time, "i guess we've really been out of touch (but can it really be so serious)"

and reccing my friend Kiaxet, who is also an amazing writer who mixes hilarity, angst, and heartwarming moments with a deft hand. I'm so excited for the rest of her "Siblingquest 20XX" fic, but all her fics are amazing!

and while they aren't a TMNT writer, I wanna shout out Asidian, who has written several of my favorite FFXV fics (including and especially "Running Behind", which is one of the best MT!Prompto fics, right up there with "poor wayfaring stranger"), and also has some amazing Rise of the Guardians fics (I especially love "Bits and Pieces", which has my favorite trope of "hungry character gets fed", but "Every Boy And Girl" also makes me cry everytime).

thanks for the ask!

[soratapia]

SHIP OF THESEUS de GallaPlacidia

Título en Español: EL BARCO DE TESEO

Traducido por Sora Tapia

Idioma: Español

Capítulo Único

Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling.

Clasificación: T (13+) o PG-13.

Advertencias: SLASH (Relación Homosexual), El Epílogo de Harry Potter No Existe, Angustia con Final feliz, Angustia, Relación Establecida, Amnesia, Mucho anhelo, Un toque de infidelidad pero, no entre Harry y Draco, Dolor/Confort, Draco y Ginny son mejores amigos, Capítulo único.

Relaciones: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter.

Personajes: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, OC.

Resumen: 

Cuando Harry tiene amnesia y olvida que él y Draco alguna vez estuvieron casados, se niega a recibir tratamiento para recordar.

Inspirado en un EXCELENTE fic de Hupsoonheng llamado “Remember Me”. No es necesario que lo hayas leído para entender esto, pero para ser sincera, deberías hacerte un favor y leerlo de todos modos.

Enlace: AO3 & Fanfiction

La Portada utilizada en esta historia es una edición hecha por mi, utilizando una variedad de imágenes de internet.

LA UTILIZACIÓN DE CADA IMAGEN ES SIN FINES DE LUCRO.

[thesteriuswife]

Some background info about Theseus' family while I'm thinking about it 💞 half based in mythology half personal HCs. TWs for death / murder / attempted cannibalism and ah... coercion / a sexual situation where there's consent issues literally on every side of it.

Extra background info copy pasted from my Theseus doc:

Tantalus, Theseus' ancient ancestor, is born to the nymph Pluto and the mortal king Tmolus of Lydia. Pluto is also a consort of Zeus; as thanks for her company, Zeus watches over Tantalus as he grows up. When he himself becomes king Tantalus is blessed by Zeus, and given a divine shield and spear. However, Tantalus is distrustful of the gods… To test if they are really all-knowing, Tantalus slaughters his son, Pelops, and disguises his remains as a meal for the gods. However, they realize almost immediately what he has done. Tantalus is punished for his crime by being trapped within the underworld, similarly to sisyphus. The goddess Demeter herself is EXTRA pissed off about it, and accidentally crushes Pelops shoulder bone in anger. However, when she revives Pelops using a mix of ambrosia and his remains, Hephaestus is kind enough to weld a new shoulder bone for him. Poseidon gives Pelops his blessing. He returns to the surface world, and after reaching adulthood he travels to Greece where he learns of a contest for the hand of the Princess Hippodameia. Pelops enters the contest, and with the help of Myrtilus, son of Hermes, wins her hand. However… Pelops makes the VERY stupid decision of throwing Myrtilus off a cliff (out of fear he may want Hippodameia too), and with his dying breath Myrtilus curses Pelops and his bloodline. And so the suffering begins…

Theseus' grandfather is a man named Pittheus, and he is a son of Pelops. He'd traveled to an unified area of the northern Peloponnese alongside his brother, Troezen. This area was once ruled by two brother, but they both passed. Only one of them had a child, a daughter named Arsema. Later, Pittheus takes Arsema for his wife... sometime along the line Troezen dies (I'm undecided on exactly How he dies though), and when Pittheus unifies this area, he renames it to Troezen in honour of his brother. Later, Pittheus and Arsema have a daughter, Aethra. Arsema herself unfortunately dies while Aethra is still fairly young, so for many years it's just Aethra and her father. When Aethra is an adult, King Aegeus of Athens travels to Troezen to seek out Pittheus' wisdom. He has been desperately trying to have a son to no avail, and asked an oracle for advice. The oracle told him something along the lines of "don't loosen the wineskine's jutting neck until you have returned to athens," meaning, "don't have sex until you're in athens again." Aegeus did not understand this, and so he asked Pittheus for advice.... Pittheus did understand. He also saw this as an opportunity....

He got Aegeus drunk, then "convinced" Aethra to sleep with the guy (he did not allow her to have a choice in the matter; he sucks and basically told her "It would have been very easy for me to not come to you first, and the fact that i did is a courtesy." ). ...I'm starting to lose interest in typing this. basically in the dark of the night, athena appeared to aethra and told her to pray to an altar of poseidon; if anyone asked, theseus' was poseidon's son, a rumor pittheus himself would come to spread later as welll. Aegeus did not want to put up with everything that happened; he left behind his sword and a pair of sandals, beneath a rock, so that if theseus was 1. a Man and 2. strong enough, he would be able to find them upon reaching adulthood.

aegeus later returns to athens and marries medea, and he has a son named medus with her. aethra only married when theseus is an adult, to a man named connidas who had tutored theseus when he was a child and sorta acted like a secondary guardian to the young prince (he would gladly act as buffer so aethra did not have to interact with her father directly at times). with connidas, aethra has a daughter, clymene.

[uefb]

Final chapter of The Riot Act link

Summary: In which the Scamanders write a lot of letters; Uncle Hesiod is effectively blackmailed by every single member of Newt’s family (including Newt himself); Theseus shows every shade of who he is and who he will become; and Newt and his father have a bit of a “glow-up”, as the kids say in the year of our lord 2023. (Click for relatable Newt & Theseus meme.)

Also, 11-year-old Newt dropping truths: “I know I annoy people, Uncle Hesiod, but I think all creatures must be met with a baseline level of compassion, and I wonder if I am sometimes not afforded that because I am different.”

Gifs by @whumpypepsigal

Excerpt (opening letters):

7AM

Floo Telegram (extra charge for weight)

Helios Scamander to Rowan Scamander

Dear Rowan,

Wanted to let you know that Newt’s day at the Ministry was rather awful. It sounds like he comported himself reasonably well, while Hesiod—on the other hand—behaved beastly. I expect we’ll be dealing with the damage for a week or so. No “fairies”, per se, but he’s gone a bit more quiet than usual, so I’m giving him the day with Theseus and his projects to see if that helps.

All that being said, Newt is—strictly speaking—physically all right, so there’s absolutely no need to worry on that front. (No doxy disasters or broken limbs, thank Merlin.) However, you and I will need to have a good long talk, I’m afraid. Make some decisions about the nature of our own relationship with Hesiod and my family generally, as well as revisit more realistic plans for Newt’s future. And then also, on quite a more basic level, we must contend with the now (while somehow not reinforcing the mess Hesiod has dumped into our laps—he planted some rather upsetting ideas in Mud’s fertile little head). Nevertheless, our son went on a bit of a solitary nighttime wander after, more or less, lying to me by omission… So that’s obviously behaviour that must be addressed. I’ve just absolutely no clue how to do it.

Anyway - I’ll be bringing him home tomorrow after work. (And yes — Theseus and I have both enchanted him to within an inch of his life. If he so much as sneezes before we’re back in Derbyshire, we’ll know it.) T has requested to come along. I shall tell you all the details in person, as I’ve got my hands surprisingly full on the one with an enraged 19-year-old who still thinks I can’t tell when he’s scheming; and, on the other, with an 11-year-old, who apparently requires magnificently compelling evidence just to convince him to eat his damn breakfast.

With love,

Helios

7:20AM

Floo Telegram

Rowan Scamander to Helios Scamander

Helios — So sorry to hear it went horribly but happy to know he mostly behaved(?). Unsurprised he fled the flat if upset, though still unacceptable. (How in the world did he get past you, though?) Must admit, am quite worried without details, esp. if T is concerned enough to leave training. Floo chat, please? Or at least summarise? Regarding breakfast: If you move whatever N is working on to left of his plate and then push plate twd him, he’ll typically eat w/out realising he’s doing it. (But thank him when he finishes, so he notices he’s done the routine—we don’t want him starving at Hogwarts…!) Please give both our boys my love.

8AM

Letter

Helios Scamander to Hesiod Scamander

Dearest brother,

I’ve been made aware that Newt’s visit to the Ministry yesterday did not go the way either of you had hoped. Certainly, I heard the tale from Theseus who had had to wrangle it from Newt in fits and starts, but the boy keeps incredibly detailed notes about creatures or interactions that fascinate, inspire, or confound him; and I’d assume he’s classed yours as confounding. I’ll be sending him to the grocer at some point, during which time I plan to unashamedly steal his journal and read all about it myself. So you may rest assured the truth shan’t be twisted by the party line. (That’s a Muggle invention, Hesiod. Quite novel. Not that you would know.)

So, here is the heart of it, brother:

I did not think I needed to make this clear as I’ve already done so in the past… But I do not need your assistance in rearing my son. I have appreciated your efforts to show interest and befriend him this past year, but I’m afraid I will be putting a stop to that, as well. You will not lay hand or wand on him. You will not reprimand him. You will not disclose information—to him or anyone else—that Rowan and I have kept to ourselves for a reason. You will bring any and all concerns directly to me instead of breaking the heart of a child. Furthermore, Newt will be doing any future career preparation with myself or with Rowan; and you are not to even speak to him without one of us present.

Finally… Newt has requested he be allowed to write you an apology for his behaviour—he is a far better man than me, because I didn’t intend to make him do that—as well as “tell [you] some thoughts”. As Newt’s not typically one for telling anyone thoughts of any sort if they’re not specifically about animals, I’m hardly going to discourage him... However, because we will be using this as an opportunity to practice letter-writing and grammatics, I expect it may take a few days, as his Mum and I are both busy through Saturday.

A word of warning: Theseus has just left the flat with a look on his face that usually means trouble, so I do hope you enjoy the visit.

Your loving brother,

Helios

P.S. - Please send any mail beginning tomorrow evening to the Derbyshire address.

8:20AM

Floo Telegram

Helios Scamander to Rowan Scamander

Rowan — Thanks for suggestion. Breakfast eaten. (Who knew earthworm digestive systems were so compelling.) Regarding floo: Can’t while N’s around. But he’s more chipper now, so I’ll try to have T take him out for chips at tea.

The summary is that N repeatedly spoke out of turn + H rather severely punished him. Please don’t discuss in detail w N until home. T + I are handling it delicately and T’s off to MOM right now so there may be nothing of H left for you to worry about, anyway

[letthewhumpbegin]

Who / what fandoms I write for

Here's a list of the fandoms and the characters within said fandom I write about.

The characters listed will be the whumpees in the imagines I write. The caretaker does not specifically have to be on this list, but can be anyone from the same fandom (if you have a preference, please specify with your request).

Want to send in your request? I am currently only taking requests from my prompts list, which you can find here and you can also send in your request through there.

A

A-Team (movie): Face, Murdock

Aladdin (live action movie): Aladdin

American Assassin: Mitch Rapp

Avengers / Marvel: Ant-Man/Scott Lang, Captain America/Steve Rogers, Doctor Strange/Stephen Strange, Hawkeye/Clint Barton, Loki, Thor

B

The Batman (2022): Bruce Wayne

The Blacklist: Donald Ressler

Bullet Train: Tangerine

C

Criminal Minds: Spencer Reid

CSI: Greg Sanders, Nick Stokes

CSI NY: Danny Messer, Don Flack, Adam Ross

D

Dune: Paul Atreides

F

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them: Newt Scamander, Theseus Scamander

G

Game of Thrones: Jon Snow, Robb Stark

Guardians of the Galaxy: Peter Quill

H

Hannibal (tv series): Will Graham

The Hobbit: Fili, Kili, Thorin, Thranduil

I

Inception: Arthur

J

James Bond (Daniel Craig era): James Bond, Q

Jurassic World: Owen Grady

Justified: Raylan Givens, Tim Gutterson

K

Kingsman: Eggsy Unwin

L

The Last of Us: Joel Miller

Lie to Me: Cal Lightman, Eli Loker

Lord of the Rings: Aragorn, Faramir, Legolas

M

MacGyver: Angus MacGyver

Maze Runner: Newt, Thomas

N

Now You See Me: Daniel Atlas

O

Olympus Has Fallen / London Has Fallen: Mike Banning

Our Flag Means Death: Ed Teach/Blackbeard

P

Pride + Prejudice + Zombies: Mr. Darcy

Prodigal Son: Malcolm Bright

The Purge (movies): Leo Barnes

S

Shadow & Bone / Six of Crow: Kaz Brekker, Jesper Fahey, Wylan van Eck

Sherlock (BBC): Sherlock Holmes

Star Trek (2009): Jim Kirk, Spock

Spiderman (Tom Holland era): Peter Parker

Star Wars: Poe Dameron

Supernatural: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

T

Top Gun Maverick: Rooster/Bradley Bradshaw, Hangman/Jake Seresin

U

Uncharted (movie): Nathan Drake

W

Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon, Rick Grimes

Wonka: Willy Wonka

X

X-Men: Charles Xavier, Hank McCoy

[smallraindrops-blog]

Can I have some Fem!Sargent teaching Zagreus the art of quick wits as they told him while having time off and went adventuring she ran to Theseus and told him " He a fucking prick and his dick is small for that ego of his, shrewd his ass a new one Zagreus "

To add in she didn't know there was an orical of it and the rewards is two Titan blood

Twice shy

Word count:700

Gen/no ship

Warnings: Cursing, no beta

Notes: Hey! Thank you for waiting and I hope you enjoy this! 

~

Sergeant bit a laugh, as Zagreus cleared his throat. The house was oddly peaceful today. Even the lounge which was normally bustling was quiet and she thought maybe she had overheard the cook talking about trying out new recipes.

The ever classy Lady Nyx was gone, leaving only her roses in her stead. 

Lucky Sergeant hadn't any to chase off any daring shades who hoped to pluck one of them. Yet.

“Try again, my friend.” She told Zagreus. She had a soft spot for the boy, wishing that she had taken more time to learn her Ma’s cooking. There was something about Zagreus that made her want to put some meat on his bones. 

But if nothing else she could help him deal with a bully.  “Trust me, nothing can cut a small man down like insulting his pecker can.”

It took him a few times to say it without stumbling then she had him do it faster. Over and over until ‘dick’ no longer sounded like a word.

“Mother Nyx would wash out my mouth right now, if she heard what I said.” Zagreus said, shooting an uneasy glance over his shoulder. 

You hummed, not disagreeing. She wouldn’t be wrong to do so. Sergeant’s normally sweet Ma had used the bar of soap on her plenty of times. Not that it did any good. 

“Then best get along before she comes back.” Sergeant told him, tipping up her helmet. “Tell me it goes.” 

Later, Zagreus came back, frustration on his face. “I need to practice. Gods, I just take one look at his face and I lose my cool a bit.”

Sergeant gave a yawn, “Understandable. Alrightie, from the top.”

~

Sergeant wasn’t planning on coming along, really. The one boat ride had been all she needed to see of the underworld. 

Yet when Zagreus had turned those puppy dog eyes on her, she was incapable of saying no. So here she was eyeing Charon’ wares in the beautiful Elysium while Zagreus hum and haw over the glowing boons. 

She wasn’t entirely sure of the wisdom of infusing a glowing thing with one’s body but hey what did she know? 

Eventually they made their way to fight. And she got the dubious honor of a front row seat.

“Wait two against one?” Sergeant blinked as the announcer called out the names of Zagreus’ opponents. She couldn’t curl of distaste of her mouth when she saw Theseus for the first time. He looked like every little spoon fed rich boy Sergeant ever met that thought she would drop to her knees for them just because they were bankrolled by their granpappy’ dirty money. 

Sergeant took a deep breath then in her bootcamp voice, she yelled out over the crowd. “Come one Zagreus! Teach him what asswhooping feels like!” 

It caught Blondie’ attention and he scoffed, “Oh does the little hellspawn needed to pay someone to cheer for him? Gods knows your father never will in his disappointment of a son.”

And oooh, that shouldn’t pissed her off as much as it did. No wonder even a sweet boy like Zagreus couldn't keep his mouth shut.

“Hey, blondie. Yeah you little worm! Theseus, he is a fucking prick and his dick is small for that ego of his, shrewd his ass a new one Zagreus!”

Theseus’ mouth dropped in stock as he stared at Sergeant. His bull was just quiet, his head slowly turning to look at his companion. The nearby shades were stunned into silence, then a giggle broke followed by loud laughter. Sergeant bit back a smirk, jetting out her chin to him. 

Then with a grin, Zagreus charged.

~

“Here you go.” Zagreus handed over the prize and Sergeant tried not to grimace. “My friend, why are you giving me blood?”

“It is titan blood. Use it on your weapons and it makes them more powerful. And it is my thanks for shutting Theseus up for once.” Zagreus said with a laugh, oblivious to Sergeant’ looks of distaste. It might be useful, she told herself. If just a little gross

“Got any more insult you could teach me?” Zagreus asked.

“That,” Sergeant repiled as she tucked the prize away, “I can do, my friend.”

[greektravelblog]

Day 4

Today was the day I finally had the "holy crap, I'm in Greece" moment. At 12:30, a small group of us (thank god) departed and made our way to Cape Sounion. Cape Sounion is well known for the Temple of Poseidon that stands on the top of the hill, greeting incoming boats. It is involved in two famous myths. The creation of the olive tree, and the journey of Theseus.

The first one goes like this:

When trying to determine who would be the patron god of the city of Athens, Poseidon and Athena both stood out. They began to fight for the patronage, and when she realized that fighting was futile, Athena suggested a competition. Her and Poseidon would create something for the city, and the inhabitants would select the best one. Poseidon, struck his trident to the ground, and salt water began to flow. His gift to the inhabitants was a salt water fountain. Athena, created the very first olive tree. The inhabitants recognized that they could use every bit of the olive tree for fuel, food, and trade so they named the city after her. However, Athens was a very naval central power. They needed to stay on good terms with the god of the seas if they wished to survive. So to appease him, they built the Temple of Poseidon at Cape Sounion and would travel before every voyage to receive his blessing.

The second is a bit more complex.

In the myth, there is a creature called a Minotaur. The king of Crete held it in a Labyrinth beneath the city, and would hold a blood tax every five years. Since Crete was the power at the time, he would call seven Athenian boys and seven Athenian girls to be brought to Crete to be thrown into the Labyrinth to die. Each boat that left Athens with children held black sails. Tired of the death of children, Theseus, the prince of Athens asked his father to be allowed to travel to Crete with the children in order to kill the Minotaur. Aegeus, his father, was reluctant as Theseus was his only child, but he relented when Theseus promised to return on a ship with white sails, symbolizing his success. Theseus did in fact slaughter the beast with the help of the Cretan princess Ariadne whoh gifted him a magic ball of thread to guide him out of the maze. Taking her home as his wife, they stopped at another small island along the way. When Theseus discovered her flirting with the god of wine, Dionysus, he left quietly, abandoning her there. She was so furious, she cursed him. It wasn't anything seemingly gorey, but her curse of forgetfulness caused Theseus to return with black sails, not white. When Aegeus saw the sails from the cliff at Cape Sounion, he believed his only son dead. In despair, he flung himself off the cliff, killing himself. The sea is now called the Aegean Sea, in honor of him.

While these stories aren't very happy-go-lucky they make sense when you're standing in the same spot. It really feels as if these things could have happened. It seems magical almost. I sat on an ancient piece of marble and I struggled to respond to M as she talked to me about something. I am in Greece. I'm sitting on a chunk of rock that was mined, shaped, and placed thousands of years ago by people who were so technologically and emotionally advanced that they created my favorite thing in the world: theatre. I mean, it doesn't get much cooler than that.

After we left, we drove a bit before stopping at a beach. We got some swimming in before having an amazing lunch that had 6 courses, including zucchini fries and the best calamari I've ever eaten. On the way back, once the ocean is out of sight, I promptly fell asleep. Currently, I'm sitting with my roommate R and eating some chicken kabobs with tzatzikis sauce and that rocking lemonade. Over all, best day so far. And hopefully, you'll see me again Cape Sounion.

Things I've taken away from today:

Yes, the water is that clear.

Don't bike in Greece, you'll die.

No food goes to waste, which is why the strays are so well fed/taken care of/

Greek gelato is the best I've had so far.

The water is really salty, so floating is easy in the Aegean.

I'm in love with this place.

[unbrydledfury]

                             - UNCUT -

( Hey everyone. For better readability, here's the entirety of Sons of Theseus in a single post. Please note this is enormous, clocking in at over 7300 words, so brace for a mountain of text under the Read More. If you'd like a TL;DR version, click here, though it contains spoilers, naturally.

The icons indicate separate posts. Snakes = Bryan's POV, owls = Dragunov's.

As far as content warnings go, please be aware this contains, in no particular order: canon-typical violence, brief gory depictions, lots of foul language, war, pain, and death.

Likes and comments are very appreciated! Thank you for reading! )

                                   - 𓆚 -

    The world's largest celebration of an ex-corpse turned Hollywood Boulevard into a teeming sea of cheering crowds. Countless arms pumped and snatched at the rainbow of confetti snowing from the flawless blue sky. Excited screams punctuated the trumpets blaring from mariachi musicians stationed on rooftops like heralding angels. The day was seventy-five degrees with forty percent humidity.

    The doors of the Chinese Theatre burst open and Bryan Fury stepped out into Southern Californian paradise. His audience roared with praise as he tugged the lapels of his suit jacket, his grin gleaming like the sun off his designer shades. Flanked by a cadre of slim supermodels in slim dresses, the cyborg descended amongst his adoring fans.

    Arms spread wide, hands brushing and being brushed by jittering, shrieking devotees, he approached the blank concrete square in the sidewalk. Kneeling before it, he thought about what to inscribe. Simple was best. With a finger he drew his name, all caps, bigger and bolder than life with underlines like missile trails.

    The crowd exploded, bodies bobbing in seismic waves as the music swelled to a crescendo. Bryan rose to his feet and thrust his fist skyward, a triumphant cry tearing from him that hundreds echoed back. Cameras flashed like starbursts while cannons cascaded streamers and silver glitter and a glowing warmth he hadn't felt in ages filled his mind. He was seen. He was known.

    A pair of arms curled under his own, hands resting on his sternum. Bryan could recognize their scars anywhere. A face pressed briefly, affectionately, into the back of his shoulder, and lips softly brushed his ear.

    "Well done, darling," Dragunov murmured.

    Despite the postcard weather and rock concert crowd, the pit of Bryan's stomach turned to frost. Never once had he heard Sergei speak. That was not the soldier's voice. That was his own.

    Pale fingers trailed over his throat.

    Fury swung a punch behind him, and the vague shape there broke apart into streams of navy mist. The sounds and smells of the Walk of Fame felt as distant as his plummeting mood. What the fuck was that? He tried for steadying breaths, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

    A heartbeat he did not have.

    He looked to his entourage. They were nothing but smears of peach and tan, brushstrokes emulating hourglass figures and beehive wigs. Whirling back around, he saw his audience was a wall of faceless blotches and stains, an endless LSD trip projected on suffocating wildfire smoke. The music stuttered and skipped. Impossible. Wasn't it playing live?

    Trying to blink the insane mirage from his eyes -- no use, it was still there, its cheers warped long and low into funerary wailing -- Bryan reached to remove his shades. Something larger than lenses stopped his fingers. Bulkier. Pulling on it, he felt it press against the back of his head. He grabbed the crown of his head, arms straining to rip his skull apart.

    CRUN--

                    -

                        --nch.

    Still breathing hard, it took Fury a moment to gather himself. He was in a small white room, standing on some sort of small round treadmill. Mechanical arms attached to the machine and hanging from tracks on the ceiling lashed cuffs around his ankles and wrists. In his hands were two pieces of some sort of helmet, cracked down the middle with technicolor wiring exposed.

    Two men and a woman in white coats stared from an observation window, eyes wide and mouths agape with fear. A fourth researcher stood in the room with him, frozen in place, laptop clutched to her breast.

    Bryan looked himself over. Left arm and right leg devoid of synthetic skin, check. Camo pants, check. Ocular HUD reporting normalizing respiration rate, adrenaline levels, and latency between brain and limbs, check, check, check.

    He couldn't help but chuckle.

    It had been a whirlwind, even by his standards. Receiving word from a Hollywood studio that wanted to tell his story was unexpected but interesting. He remembered walking into their office and shaking hands with the director -- yeah, that was him in the observation room, wearing a nametag from a private military company. They wanted to try a new technique, he said, a type of VR AI that captured and generated visuals from memories. Always willing to play my greatest hits, Bryan recalls saying. They'd strapped him in and turned it on. The next week had been a tour de force, carnage reimagined: gunning down insurgents in Middle Eastern deserts, plowing through waves of Zaibatsu even as his flesh tore like fishnets, a second extinction of the Manji clan.

    Grinning, he loosed a nostalgic sigh. The little black box between his lungs was worth its weight in diamonds. He sent it a kind, simple query: where would I be without you?

    He interpreted its response as followed: here, where you've been for the past one year, four months, and eleven days.

    The researcher inched toward a door in the corner.

    Still smiling, Bryan craned his head toward her. "Oh, you clever bastards," he muttered, and threw the broken helmet through the window, impacting the director's face with a spray of blood.

    As he slumped to the ground, the others bolted. Seconds later the room was shrouded in red as an alarm blared. The woman with the laptop had her hand on the doorknob.

    Pain exploded down her side as Bryan grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her close. She could feel his breath, hot and humid, on her neck. "No you don't," he snarled, "You have some explaining to do. Looks like I've been out of the loop for a while."

    Guards are coming, she thought, trying to contain her panic and her bladder, It's okay, it'll be okay. The guards had guns. They'd take him out.

    Yet he held her in front of him, his grip like iron. She had seen for herself Bryan's opinion on collateral damage.

    Jackboots thundered closer.

    His words were beetles in her ear: "Start talking."

                                   - 𓅓 -

    The Tattered Blackbird was one of many pubs in Kensington, yet as it came into view, Polya Dragunova's heart wedged itself in her throat. She cut across a gap in traffic and maneuvered past the businesspeople finished with work and waiting out rush hour milling on the sidewalk outside. The interior was worse, a veritable sardine can of twentysomething professionals reluctant to return to flats they shared with half a dozen of their peers. White collar gaggles blocked the typical pub decor from sight and a chorus of weekly gripes drowned the news on the TV over the bar. Polya didn't care about any of it. All that mattered to her was the man taking an entire booth to himself in the corner, sipping a pint like nothing was wrong.

    Her brother.

    Polya bowled her purse into the seat across from him hard enough to hit the wall with a heavy thud, and threw herself down right after. "Make it quick."

    Sergei Dragunov steeled himself in the bottom of his glass. This was never going to be painless, but she needn't start swinging right off the bat. Fine. Very well. He could do quick. He tossed a yellow envelope onto the table, trying to ignore how his sister flinched.

    She stared at it for a moment, then tore it open. The card inside was black, bordered in gold stars, YOU DID IT! printed under a paper mortarboard. Within were four salmon pink notes -- two hundred British pounds. She picked them up, watched their watermarks appear and hide in the light.

    "What the fuck is this," she said.

    Here we go, Sergei thought.

    "No, really, what the fuck is this." Polya's features darkened to an apocalyptic scowl. "Is this a bribe? Are you fucking bribing me to talk to you? You could rob a fucking bank for me and I still wouldn't give you the time of day, you fucking fascist!"

    Her volume was steadily rising. Dragunov could feel perplexed looks pointed toward their table.

    She kept going. "I don't want your blood money. I don't want you in my life. I feel fucking stupid for even looking at your text. My graduation was really nice, you know? Going out with normal people, people who aren't war criminals. But then you drop out of the blue and my whole fucking week is ruined."

    Sergei rubbed his brow, eyes squeezed shut, his other hand clutching his elbow. He had hoped otherwise, but couldn't deny the truth: this was a terrible mistake.

    She was on her feet now, face livid, tossing the pounds at him. "No contact means no contact. How fucking dumb do you have to be to not get that?" Her voice was a bitter screech, every word a needle. "You're a drone. An ant. Disgusting. All you do is destroy -- innocent lives, my peace of mind, Mom's heart--"

    "ENOUGH!"

    The shout ripped from Dragunov's soul like a malfunctioning rocket, propelling him onto his feet and his fists onto the table. His throat immediately protested, nicotine-scented phlegm knotting in his windpipe. He couldn't breathe. What little air he could reach was spent on muddy, racking coughs until he was bent double, hacking black mucus into his palm.

    A few pub patrons inched toward him, unsure about the situation but unwilling to watch him suffer. Sergei waved them off. Through blurred vision and blood pounding in his ears, he saw all eyes on him and Polya, stunned yet still trembling with rage.

    It didn't matter. It didn't matter that he was protecting his home -- protecting her -- the only way he knew how, skimming money he could have easily spent on anything else for months to wish her the best. For someone who had spent four years mastering artistic expression, she refused to see an olive branch.

    A long, loud tone blared from the TV. Breaking news. The general gaze turned toward the screen. Murmurs went up, hands clasped over mouths, cheeks drained of color.

    Across an ocean, a city burned, and a demon proclaimed the end of the world.

    Polya glanced between the broadcast and her brother. A curious paradox: he was right there, and so was the rest of the pub, yet seemed separated by lightyears. The thing on the television, the warning crawl about falling satellite debris, on the other hand, was as close as a dangling guillotine blade. And as her worldview sat on the chopping block, more than anything else, she felt very, very alone.

    She looked for Sergei. The front door slammed, and he was gone.

                                   - 𓆚 -

    The Colosseum was an apt place to hold the Tournament. No amount of time could cleanse it from a history of bloodshed. Built to commemorate imperial power, a new emperor now sat at its head, eking judgements on nations from the fists and feet of their finest gladiators.

    Not like Bryan cared. What the Colosseum needed, in his humble opinion, was some extra defacing.

    Any wall would do, really. The one he was walking past now? Perfect. Ocular lenses flaring to compensate for the low light in the hypogeum tunnels, a smirk turned his lip as he pressed his finger against the stone. Simple was best. His name, a permanent mark on the world wonder, all caps, bigger and bolder than...

    --shit.

    The cyborg dropped his hand, his amusement extinguished like a match. He'd just done that. The memory of Hollywood was still fresh in his mind, even though it'd been a dream. Right? He'd felt the sun on his face. Smelled the perfume of his entourage. Reaching out, he stroked the wall. The rock was rough under his touch. He heard the spectators in the stands above calling for the next fight. This -- this was real. This was the King of Iron Fist Tournament! This was as real as it got! Combat against the best of the best for the highest stakes imaginable!

    --which meant this very well could be an illusion too. If he could think it, there was a real possibility it was not real.

    Bryan groaned, leaving the wall to its own devices. Life was better when I just killed people, he thought, I am never dealing with those fucks at Netflix again.

    Turning a corner, he saw a group of men in military fatigues ahead. He heard the language they spoke, saw the flag patch on their shoulders. In their midst, leaning on his knees in a folding chair, uniform blue as an arctic sea, was Dragunov.

    Fury froze. If this was all scripted, Sergei was the exact person who would make an entrance at this time. What was the next play? Approaching him fell right in line with whatever virtual plot was unfolding, if there even was one, but Bryan couldn't ignore him either. Breaking this chain of events would only cause new ones to form...

    --if he was still being force-fed lies. Or was life simply chugging on?

    --shit.

    This was ridiculous. Why did it disturb him so much? Ultimately, there was no correct choice.

    But there was a fun one.

    Swaggering up to the convoy, Bryan grinned as chitchat died and hands flew to holstered guns. "Hey there, sunshine," he said, "Hah. You look like hell."

    With the weight and chill of icebergs, Dragunov levelled a narrow stare at him. Bryan didn't remember him being so pale. Perhaps it was the contrast with the dirt on his clothes, the bruises on his face.

    "Bet Shaheen looks worse," Fury continued, "Beat him half to death, didn't you. I'm sure he'll be fine. His country, though? You opened it up to the Zaibatsu's nasty little claws. A lot of people are going to die, Drag."

    Expression unchanging, the Russian picked up a canteen, took a swig of water. The justification for his indifference was obvious: better them than us.

    "Psch. Don't tell me you get your rocks off saving lives now. Wasn't that long ago you had the time of your life completely thrashing some of the very meat-bags in this ugly, old ruin. I know. I was there. Or did the thing in Vegas change your tune?"

    The canteen paused halfway to the floor. Looking back, Sergei's gaze turned to a glare aflame with acrid cold.

    That's it, Bryan thought, teeth bared in an ear-to-ear smile, There he is. "Y'know, between you and me, we could nip this whole fuckin' thing in the bud. C'mon. Kazuya is a purple people-eater, but you're an expert in that sorta shit and I'm me." He slowly shook his head. "There's gonna be no better time, Drag. We stopped a disaster before. Let's do it again."

    Deliberately, as if facing down a prehistoric python coiled to strike, Dragunov rose to his feet.

    The explosion tore down the tunnel in a shockwave of dust and pressure, knocking them all to the ground. Under the echoing roar of the blast and the rumble of ancient stone breaking came panicked screams from the crowd above.

    Sprawled on his back, covered in grit, Bryan barely acknowledged the diagnostics crawling in his eyes. His body was fine. His grip on reality, however, felt as unstable as the fissures in the ceiling.

                                   - 𓅓 -

    Dragunov, meanwhile, scrambling to his feet, had other things in mind. Survival, first and foremost, and the well-being of his men. They had taken up positions with guns out and ready, but they were clearly scared out of their wits. These were not hardened operatives. These were boys fresh from basic, a scant few the Russian Army could spare, assigned simply to escort him to Italy to represent and defend the lives of his people. A relatively easy mission, until someone or something decided they could not leave well enough alone.

    Creaking noises from above. It wasn't safe here. Grabbing his own sidearm, Sergei pointed into the tunnel in the direction of the blast and ran to take lead.

    Behind them, moaning, Bryan began to rise.

    Sounds of a stampede grew louder as they drew closer to the surface. They raced the cracks in the walls up a flight of stairs into an aboveground passageway. Despite the evacuation broadcast directing where to escape, a handful of panicked, bleeding spectators stumbled past them. Dragunov caught one, a man in a bright red Hawaiian shirt, by the shoulder, shoved him aside, and paid no heed as he plunged out of sight. For treating the fate of millions of innocents as primetime viewing, there was no salvation.

    Another shockwave rocked the Colosseum. The floor rippled under his feet and fresh dust stung his face.

    New voices ahead, shouting over the din. Sergei lifted a fist beside his face, calling his men to halt. An armed squadron corralled escaping civilians toward refuge. He could recognize their baby blue berets anywhere. They were UN.

    Ravens.

    Outrage smothered self-preservation. This went miles beyond meddling. This was escalation. The state of affairs was far from ideal, but in ruining the Saudi champion, Dragunov secured a measure of safety for Russia. Now these scavengers, these carcass eaters, jeopardized it all.

    He raised his gun. His men aimed their rifles.

    The next trickle of seconds lasted years.

    A thunderclap from on high slammed them all to the ground once more. Dropped weapons scattered in every direction.

    Horror speared his insides as the world went dark, but he was not blinded -- hellish clouds blotted out the sun and turned the air frigid.

    Footfalls and terrified cries hammered around him as peacekeepers and his own soldiers fled.

    Hauling himself to one knee, Dragunov caught glimpse of two glowing eyes. Bryan, standing at the top of the stairs, staring at him with uncertainty.

    Outside, Azazel roared its rebirth--

    --and the Colosseum finally gave up its ghost. The ceiling buckled, pouring an avalanche of stone, concrete, and steel.

    Sergei had time for one, last thought: his family.

    And he was overrun.

                                   - 𓆚 -

    "DRAG!"

    Bryan ran towards the collapse before the dust had time to settle. A nova of light made him flinch, eyes overwhelmed by brilliance and turning the world even darker. His ears clocked the accompanying snarls as louder than jet engines. Whatever was happening in the arena, he didn't care. It didn't matter. A desperate mantra dominated his mind.

    No. No. No.

    Throwing pieces of rubble was too slow. His fists smashed stone and steel asunder.

    No. No. No.

    The knuckles of his right hand frayed, revealing black alloy underneath. He kept going.

    No. No. NO.

    His tether to normalcy couldn't leave him. He couldn't.

    "DRAG!"

    There. A line of a blue sleeve amidst heaps of gray. All of Bryan's CPUs cycled faster as he tore through the last pile of rock. They would laugh about this later over drinks in a dive bar, how Fury dug him up like buried treasure--

    --sudden realization turned Bryan motionless.

    He freed Dragunov, all right, but those insides were not supposed to be outsides.

    The cyborg sank to his knees. It did not compute. It was unthinkable.

    And because it was, it was real. This was not a dream--     --this was nightmare.

    Time became unmoored this far north. The sky, full of chrome clouds, concealed the position of the sun. It could be noon, it could be half past midnight. The harbor jutting into the Barents Sea was bathed in a nondescript un-light, the snow tinged gray with the various drippings of loitering military vehicles. Two men, bundled head-to-toe against the numbing cold and carrying automatic rifles, stood at attention on either side of an enormous, circular blast door embedded in the rocky cliffside. When Bryan Fury crested the other side of the harbor, their thick snow goggles hid any reaction.

    The cyborg, for his part, felt nothing. Had felt nothing since the Colosseum. A hurricane inhabited his head. There were no thoughts, no foresight -- just a Category 5 maelstrom of barbed wire, sheared metal, and whipping winds. A complex of commands kicked on from somewhere in the bowels of his machinery and roared in animal defiance for the past twenty-four hundred miles and forty hours. He had paused only to hijack another car or truck when his latest ride fell apart, overworked and riddled with ammunition.

    His trek crossed seven countries, and all mobilized against him. It was a blur of battlefields, the stink of burning explosive clinging to what remained of his skin. His black and red endoskeleton was littered in chips and tears and coated in layers of dust, ash, and dried blood. Some part of him dripped inky fluid, forming a dark trail as he approached the door.

    Behind him dragged a rope tied to a wood crate.

    The guards remained still as he drew within twenty paces. It was possible they were robots. Bryan had faced enough of those crossing most of Eastern Europe, both Zaibatsu and G Corp made. Not even a glance as Fury wrenched the rope around, flinging the crate forward in a dizzying spin across the slush until it slid to a halt.

    His voice, with ballistic volume: "FIX HIM."

    Utter silence. Finally, in unison, the guards stepped away from the door. Locks disengaged with bangs and groans like breaking sea ice, and it sluggishly swung open.

    Bryan grabbed the rope and entered the Gold Raptors base.

    The ramp was a steady decline illuminated by florescent lamps, their bumblebee hum the only sound aside the rumble of circulated air and the scrrrrp of wood on concrete, leading to a massive hangar. All that moved were motes of dust. A single light over an elevator gleamed in the otherwise cavernous shadows.

    Had Fury still the capacity for nuance, he would have been offended at the blatant instruction, but that was long discarded back in Italy. The prime directive came closer with every step. Nothing else mattered.

    The elevator opened on its own. Bryan stepped in, crate in tow, and descended one thousand feet into the earth.

    It delivered him to a hallway. The layout was familiar -- he'd been in a containment wing before. As he walked down the empty corridor, he spared the briefest glances through the viewports on various doors. This was where they housed the horrors. A rust red boar the size of an elephant -- a ballerina in arabesque, perpetually aflame -- clumpy smoke with yellow eyes orbiting an antique stove--

    One door unlocked with an electronic buzz and click. He went in.

    Tubes and cables, some as wide as Bryan's torso, ran like entrails across the floor, snaked up the walls, and hung from the ceiling. Monitoring equipment sat in powerless consoles. Something on the other end of the cell glowed a sunset halo. Fury approached.

    At first, he couldn't tell what it was. It resembled a giant steel fennel seed, seven feet long and cherry red. It sat embedded in a nest of metal spines that seemed to grow out of the wall itself, a lattice of iron urchins dark as interstellar space. Its upper half was transparent, revealing a hollow interior full of raw chicken pink fluid.

    Suspended within was Dragunov.

    For the first time in hours, miles, and devastated countries, the storm in Bryan's mind dissipated, and clarity returned to him. The journey, his wounds, all were forgotten.

    A gentle crack, and the cradle unhinged open. Looking in, Fury noted the soldier was nude, hair floating around his face, eyes closed, breathing. Fast asleep, not a trace of tension in his body. Covered in scars.

    Beautiful, Bryan thought.

    Distant rumbling came closer, building into an electric roar. Arcs of lightning tore through the cell, bounding off the tubes and cables. Bryan barely had time to brace himself, but the surge danced around him and drove directly into the cradle itself with a deafening bellow.

    Sergei opened his eyes.

    An instant later, he wrenched himself upright, shouting in pain, pink fluid sloshing onto the floor. He clung to the side of the cradle, knuckles white, wheezing as his lungs filled with air.

    Bryan knelt so they were face-to-face. Dragunov, wet, naked, and trembling, was exquisite. More importantly: he was alive. The nightmare was over, and the world was finally, undeniably real.

    Eyes and smile glowing, Fury cocked his head playfully, chin resting on his hand. "First time?"

    Dragunov punched him in the jaw.

                                   - 𓅓 -

    Chaos. Utter disarray. There was no other way to describe it. Dragunov felt his mind had melted and he was scrambling for handholds in a titanic whirlpool of impossibilities. The Colosseum. He remembered that -- remembered an instant of crushing pressure, the familiar sound of bones cracking deafening in his ears. What happened? Why was he drenched? Why the fuck was Bryan here?

    "Welcome back."

    A single screen on an otherwise dark console burst on. The grainy picture displayed the silhouette of a man, his details obscured by the brilliant spotlights behind him. He sat in a chair, one leg across the other, hands folded in his lap.

    Sergei knew him by his voice and, despite his tremors, saluted. The man was the Major, the head of the Gold Raptors.

    "At ease," he said.

    Dragunov dropped his hand. Better to keep hold of the cradle. It was more grounded than he felt himself.

    Moaning, rubbing the pain from his face, Fury hauled himself to a seat on a wooden crate. Why was that there?

    "You have many questions," the Major continued, "I shall answer the most pertinent, as time is of the essence. At 13:44 hours CET, forty-one hours and three minutes ago, you were killed by traumatic asphyxia. Through anomalous methods at our disposal, you have been resurrected, your self duplicated from a remote biotic snapshot taken at the moment of your death. We have made some minor adjustments to your overall physical condition, including removal of the stage three tumors in your lungs and trachea."

    Oh. That explained the perfluorocarbon bath. Sweeping loose hair out of his eyes, Sergei peered over the edge of the cradle. Yes, he recognized the spines now. They'd been extracted from the bottom of the sea not far from here, come to think of it. There had been some chatter about potential cross-testing with other specimens in the past.

    -- wait, what was that last par--

    "You will be deployed immediately to Yakushima in Japan to represent Gold Raptors' interests in the area," the Major said. He leaned closer, voice graveyard cold. "Your reconstruction goes against the core tenets of our organization. That you are our best option, even in death, for combatting this threat to global security is the only reason we did so. Do not squander the gifts we have given you, Admiral Dragunov." He settled back. "You are dismissed."

    The screen blinked to black.

    Sergei's throat was tight -- with emotion. The plug was pulled on the vortex, flushing it down the proverbial drain and leaving an unfamiliar residue: fear. He palmed his heart, its two-step steady. My God, he thought. They scrubbed him out like an old iron pot.

    God, my God.

    Two men in white coats entered the room. One carried a blanket.

    What choice did he have? His mission, and he had to accept it, was abundantly clear. Once spetsnaz, always spetsnaz. Death would have him when he was no longer needed.

    Resolving himself, Dragunov climbed out of the cradle. He had a job to do.

    He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and departed the room, white-coats in tow. He wished he had a hair tie.

    With little option himself, Bryan followed, scowling as he processed what just happened. This reality was weird.

    The twinkle of moon blue grit in the cradle water went unnoticed.

                                   - 𓆚 -

    International borders again, this time on fast forward. Bryan had last been on a military aircraft that had willingly carried him two lifetimes ago. Looking out a window at the approaching island made his pistons clench in excitement.

    Dragunov, not so much. He looked fantastic in tactical armor, that was a given. Kevlar suited him, and the red beret a no-brainer. It was the scowl, heavier than usual, that soured the atmosphere of the entire cargo hold. Didn't he care about the morale of his men?

    Crossing the belly of the beast towards him, Bryan patted a pallet bristling with weaponry, gun barrels poking out at random. "Couldn't decide what to get from your boys, so I ordered one of everything."

    Nothing. Not so much as a wayward glance.

    Dragunov had no one but himself to blame for his terrible mood. Back at base, while being patched up with new synthetic skin, Fury caught him investigating the wood crate. "I wouldn't look in there if I were you," Bryan had hollered.

    Sergei gave two seconds consideration. A pointed finger dropped with sledgehammer finality. A crowbar made quick work of the lid.

    The green stench of decay bloomed over the entire medical bay. To the Raptors' credit, there had been less revulsion than Bryan expected, their doctors and nurses hardened by routine treatment of anomalous illness and injury, but heads still turned away, lunches still fought down.

    Sergei stared into the contents of the crate for a long time. The pulped tangle inside stared back.

    He waved his hand once. The lid was replaced, the crate taken away.

    There was the gurgle of a flamethrower. Barbeque scents.

    Fury looked around the hold. Somber faces on every soldier. Being a complete sad-sack had to be a prerequisite for joining the Gold Raptors. At least they all perked up when he kicked the pallet closer to the cargo hatch. "C'mon, boys and girls," he cried, "Who hasn't wanted to visit Japan? I hear there's a chance of hail. Bullet hail, courtesy of yours truly. Hey, everyone strapped in?"

    Yanking a lever on the wall bathed the hold in red warning light and drilling klaxons as the hatch bowed open. Howling wind threatened to suction out anything not battened down. The pallet spilled over the edge and out of sight.

    Bryan turned back to Dragunov. Sergei still sneered, but there was a new glint in his eye -- a let's get this done hardened resolve. Fury knew it well. He'd seen it before every fight they'd had, with or against each other. It meant someone or something was in for a world of pain. It meant Dragunov was feeling better. Feeling himself.

    He'd be fine.

    Grinning, Bryan bowed like a Hollywood actor, and jumped from the plane.

    An instant of freezing freefall, synthetic muscles bracing, then impact -- jarring, dirt and debris flying, barely tickled. Brushing off his pants -- the leather scuffed, but oh well, plenty of alligators in the sea -- he approached the pallet. It hadn't survived the drop, guns strewn like a popped pimple. No problem, it just meant he could fine tune his selection. He thought he wouldn't be thinking again soon. The storm was already blowing.

    Zaibatsu forces already took up position in a valley. G Corp had the high ground. Oh, this was going to be good. A real two-for-one deal, with Tournament morons sprinkled on top.

    Bryan lifted the Gatling gun. It was time to make new memories.

                                   - 𓅓 -

    Back in the saddle again. Dragunov could do this in his sleep. He could do this dead.

    No. No, don't think about that. Don't think about being alive for just over twelve hours. That doesn't help anyone. That doesn't keep his people safe. Focus.

    It's hard when it's this easy though. The Raptors had hardly been deployed yet. Sergei and his squad watched the battle unfold from their vantage point halfway up a mountainside. This was not their fight. At the first sign of anomalous behavior, it would be.

    He let one or two of his soldiers pick off a target every so often. Someone who looked important. Someone who would make the course of events more entertaining if they died. Dragunov spotted them through binoculars, relayed positions through gesture. These were veteran Raptors. They understood.

    A sniper rifle blasted. In the valley, a head popped. Business as usual.

    It was almost boring.

    A flash of yellow in Sergei's sights caught him off-guard. Frowning, he looked again. It was King, complete with full feathered regalia. King. Really? Was G Corp that strapped for combatants, they had to send in a Mexican wrestler? This wasn't a battlefield, this was a goddamn three-ring circus.

    It would be mildly interesting to see what kind of skull lay under that stupid mask. Dragunov pointed into the valley. It wasn't hard to determine who he wanted killed. Shifting her stance, the Raptor sniper took aim. Crosshairs centered on golden fur and black rosettes. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

    The Doppler effect broke open overhead, crashing waves of sound down upon them. A plane, black as night, Zaibatsu emblem on its sides, crested the mountaintop then dipped downward. A bombing run. Its payload hung one-handed underneath, over seven feet tall with veins of electric red.

    Sergei's pulse quickened. They had no intel on a new Jack model. Despite superior numbers, Zaibatsu forces were losing ground. That they chose to utilize it now made his hair stand on end. If this was their ace in the hole, what made it so?

    The possibility of anomalous enhancement could not be ignored. Dragunov swung his arm ahead. The Raptors moved.

    The terrain was steep and rocky, a combination that required careful planning of every footfall. By the time they had descended, the war had advanced to meet them. Blood, dirt, and gunpowder hung heavy in the air. Dragunov didn't remember combat smelling this way, itchy on his skin.

    The difference a new windpipe makes, he thought, and before that train could start rolling, something slammed hard into his side. He lost balance, fell end-over-end down the slope.

    His brain kept going after his body rolled to a stop. Until now, all he had experience had been discomfort compared to this. This hurt, and his factory settings flesh had no idea how to deal with it. Groaning, he crawled to all fours, looked up.

    Who wore a white suit to a combat zone?

                                   - 𓆚 -

    Wholesale slaughter -- now that was living. Biopics? Overrated. Celebrity? Not when you had infamy. The movie studio thing had been a novelty, sure, but the killing fields was where Bryan shone.

    He'd long lost track of his body count.

    It was incredible, really. From his perspective behind the Gat, deep amidst the torrents of bullets and bodies, the Zaibatsu and G Corp forces were schools of minnows, and he a shark. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The gun mowed them down like grass, blood spraying, severed limbs flying, their death screams music to his ears.

    He might have been laughing. He could not hear himself over the storm's hellish shrieking in his mind.

    A flash of lightning blue caught the corner of his eye. A pink-haired pixie, darting between volleys of shots.

    Fury grinned, his targeting reticules locked onto her every movement. Could this day get any better? Boots on the ground, tank shells in the air, destruction and agony and he in the thick of it, pushing the world order into a whirling blender of meat hooks and razor winds, and now this, the chance to forever exterminate a challenge to his throne of Doctor Bosconovitch's Greatest Contribution to Mankind. Forget seedy Chinese alleyways, downing fighter jets in flight with just a girder -- fuck, forget Yoshimitsu. This was going to top the charts.

    He swung the Gat around, aimed slightly ahead of her. The barrel spun up with an eager squeal.

    --then there, below her, an un-color that did not belong to nature, distracting him. Radioactive bubblegum. In the sheath of a sword. That was slashing Dragunov in two.

    No.

    Bryan froze. A beam of light burst through his tempest, rooting him to the ground. He could only watch as the old stranger's blade left a deep, steaming gouge in Sergei's chest armor. Dragunov raised his arms to block the next two cleaves only to catch the handle on the backswing with his face. He collapsed to his knees.

    Bryan dropped the Gat.

    No. No.

    Sergei craned his head up. Wiping his knuckles across his cheek left a comet tail of blood. Resurrection had placed him right back in meat. Fallible meat, as Fury knew too well.

    Dragunov tried to stand. His face twisted in agony as a leg failed to respond, stiff as a board. As rigor mortis.

    He was not fine.

    No. No. NO.

    Bryan grabbed the reins of his mental storm, willed it to his feet to fly him the twenty paces between himself and the injured Russian. Each step echoed like a hammer. A heartbeat. The sea of bodies around him dissolved their details into bruised, sickly smog. Reality was soup, and he fought time's quagmire with every carbon fiber of his being.

    The stranger lifted his sword for the killing blow.

    NO NO NO NO--

    Impact. A millisecond's awareness to brace Sergei's neck as momentum raced them onward and gravity tore them down. A dozen jolts and blows as the ground got its licks in. One last tumble before the world came to a halt.

    He'd ended up on top of Sergei. Grabbing him by the bulletproof vest, Bryan yanked him close, eyes burning with crazed desperation.

    "You fucking moron," Fury cried, shaking him, "I can't lose you again!"

    Under him, Dragunov's mouth was slack with shock, then confusion. Bryan gave him a once-over, hunting for wounds. They put him in meat, how cruel was--

    --there was a combat knife in his fist.

    Oh. OH.

    Sergei was a spetsnaz super-agent with enough CQC tactics to massacre an army, and playing possum was well within his repertoire. Just because it was the oldest trick in the book did not make it inviable. Hell, Bryan had seen him do it before. There was that time in Barcelona against father and son Laws. He'd laid on the floor of the -- bar? restaurant? dance club? Fury didn't remember -- feigning unconsciousness, and when Law the Younger went to investigate, he'd surged forward and toppled him, kind of like what'd just happened, and the look on Dragunov's face turned volcanic with rage, and then Bryan had eleven inches of sharpened steel embedded in his thigh.

    Fury howled as white-hot pain lanced up his side. Sergei shoved him off, scrambled to his feet. Bryan winced as he yanked the knife free.

    The emotions bristling on Dragunov's face were fascinating. Anger, volatile, ready to explode at any moment, lined with disbelief. He had the man in the white suit right where he wanted, doing exactly what he wanted. Now he still lived. A Raven, if the anomalous weapon proved anything, one of Sergei's killers, still lived. 

    "Oh, ex-fucking-scuse me," Fury bellowed, tossing the knife away, "If you didn't look like such a bitch--"

    Dragunov ran at the cyborg, throwing his entire body behind his fist.

    To an observer, the fight was initially any other slugfest. But as it progressed, something changed. A cadence emerged -- punches and kicks dealt with surgical finesse, energy conserved or spent with atomic accuracy, bodies moving with dancer's grace. Sergei and Bryan had done this before, helpless to resist the primordial hatred burning in their veins and cables. Neither man wanted to. It felt right. All of spacetime could crunch down to their bubble of violence; they wouldn't care. In their grimaces, their spilled blood, they were singing.

    I hate you, I loathe you, I could do this forever.

    But good things had to come to an end.

    Bryan saw it first -- a purple thorn hanging in the sky. "The hell is tha--"

    Flames rained from above, dousing everything in eldritch plasma.

                                   - 𓅓 -

    It was eerily quiet. Nature abhorred a vacuum, and soon the air would prickle with the moans of the pained and dying, but Dragunov, armor smoldering, took the opportunity to lie on the dirt. Just for a moment. There was peace amongst the pebbles.

    Behind him, Bryan coughed a cloud of dust. Time to get up.

    He wrenched himself onto an elbow, giving himself enough of a vantage point to see the aftermath. Huge, steaming fissures stretched from one side of the valley to the other. Half-melted tanks sat in piles of useless slag. Smoke billowed like parades of pallbearers into the ashen expanse. Beneath, those who remained clung to their last ounces of strength.

    A thought occurred to him: who was he kidding?

    In less than an instant, hundreds had been vaporized. How was he meant not only to compete with that, but triumph? An ant would have a better chance leveling a mountain. Once upon a time, there had been a man who could do that, his faith his shield against the devil. That man was dead. The thing that bore his name, ordered his soldiers, and defended the fate of his nation was a pale imitation in comparison. A cracked, oozing egg, rotting from the inside out.

    Sergei sank back to the earth.

    Blessed silence.

    Behind him, again: thop-shff, thop-shff. Bryan, pulling himself over by one arm. Judging himself close enough, the cyborg rolled onto his back, loosed a harsh breath. "Hey, Drag?"

    Muffled against the soil: "Nnm?"

    "That fuckin' hurt."

    Yes. It did.

    More quiet, infiltrated by a breeze. Sergei raised his face to catch its freshness.

    "Like...how did you do that? I've been in a lot of knife fights, but that's a first."

    --what?

    Strangling the protests of his aching flesh, Dragunov heaved himself to his knees. Bryan himself sat up, pulling apart the gash in his pants to stare at the deep puncture in his leg. "You stabbed me between the muscles," he said, "Muscles that can stop bullets. If I had a femoral, I'd be bleeding like a stuck pig." He looked at the Russian, face slack with sincere awe. "You weren't even trying. You just did it. I mean, you have past experience with my thighs, but...whole armies have wanted me dead for years. You killed me two minutes ago with no effort."

    Yes. Yes, he did that. Sergei alone had accomplished something no one else on the planet could, not even the man he used to be. And as realization sank in, heat like molten iron blossomed from his chest, spreading to his fingertips and pooling in his toes. He was not damaged, he was hatching, even if he did not know what form the wings within him would take.

    It didn't matter. He was seen. He was known.

    It must have shown on his face because Bryan's expression lit up, a grin crawling from ear to ear. Just like old times, baby, that grin said, The world lies at our feet.

    A tremor tore through the ground. In the distance, a stadium-sized chunk of rock blasted into the sky, shrouded in a veil of supersonic flight. It tore past the clouds for a destination in the upper atmosphere.

    "Oh, get over yourselves," Bryan yelled. Grunting with pain, he threw a stone after it. It clattered far short of its mark.

    Dragunov, meanwhile, watched as his Raptors emerged from cover. They seemed no worse for wear, shedding their combat gear for hazmat suits. Using modified Geiger counters, they fanned out across the battlefield, searching for anomalous particles left in the wake of the purple flames, pausing only to execute anyone dying in their paths. By the number of samples they took, the results were promising.

    "So...now what?"

    Sergei didn't bother glancing at Fury as the cyborg scooted next to him. He was not actually asking for advice. He was testing the waters. Once he knew where Dragunov's mood lay--

    "Got it!" Bryan leveled a finger between Sergei's eyes. "You need a vacation. That's what I did last time I cheated death. It's good for you, y'know. Do some soul searching. Figure out what's real to you." A beat. "Uh, I'm going with you, of course. If you want."

    Dragunov let his lip curl in a small smile. Yes. He did want.

    Somewhere on the steaming wastes, welcoming the dawn of a new age, someone was whistling.

                               - FIN -

[agrumina]

T: Let's see, this might convince you. What about a pact? You allow me and your mother to rest a little, and in exchange you might get a little brother or sister! Wonderful, isn't it?

T: Not as friendly as your father, uh?

Have some Child!Demophon MS thingie I subjected my friends to (feat. Theseus trying to get some alone time, Baby!Acamas and Pirithous trying - and failing - to bond with his companion's son)

[rhianna]

Bacchus

Bacchus (Bac′chus), the god of wine, was the son of Jupiter and Semele. He is said to have married Ariadne, daughter of Minos, King of Crete, after she was deserted by Theseus. The most distinguished of his children is Hymen, the god of marriage. Bacchus is sometimes referred to under the names of Dionysius, Biformis, Brisaeus, Iacchus, Lenaeus, Lyceus, Liber, and Liber Pater, the symbol of liberty. The god of wine is usually represented as crowned with vine and ivy leaves. In his left hand is a thyrsus, a kind of javelin, having a fir cone for the head, and being encircled with ivy or vine. His chariot is drawn by lions, tigers, or panthers.

“Jolly Bacchus, god of pleasure,Charmed the world with drink and dances.”T. Parnell, 1700.

1000 Mythological Characters Briefly Described by Edward Sylvester Ellis

[godsofhumanity]

Theseus: Ariadne, it's been too long! Are you still drunk and beautiful?

Ariadne: Are you still a parasite suckling off the scum of the earth?

Theseus:

[love-toxin]

HADES ????? NY GOD ELLIE i need your yan zagreus hcs !!

gladly >:3c

☆ Zagreus, first of all, is a charmer. He really is as smooth as he thinks he is, so it won't be a big deal if you're not into him at first. Either you're playing hard to get, or you'll loosen up with time and effort. Besides, if you're in the Underworld together, then you have an eternity and more to warm up to him.

☆ If you think a friends with benefits arrangement will work, you're painfully wrong. If you like him but not enough to want a relationship, he'd be happy to share his bed with you instead--but it won't have an end. If you want to stop or if you fall in love with someone else, you'd better hope you can get to Olympus or further, because he won't let you go otherwise.

☆ Speaking of which, being in the Underworld with him will be easier for him, and much more difficult for you. Each time he's sent back when he tries to escape won't hurt as bad, because at least he'll get to see you again--he's doing it all for you, after all, because once he makes it to the surface he swears he'll get the gods to help him take you up too, because it's too dangerous for him to try and bring you with him on every attempt.

☆ However, if you're on Olympus, then he will suffer so much to make you his. The first meeting when you offer your help to him will ensnare his heart completely, and he'll promise you that he's going to make you his bride/groom/spouse when he reaches the end of the Underworld. You might find it cute, funny even, that a little godling like himself is so determined to marry one of the great immortals of Olympus, but you'll have no idea how serious he is until he shows up at the summit. Bloodied, half-dead, reeking of the Underworld, and ready to either join you on your circle of thrones or steal you and take you down to the depths with him, just like his father with Persephone.

☆ He also doesn't get jealous easily, but he does get possessive. Jealousy isn't as bad because he's confident enough that you won't go searching for anyone else, not when he's got you satisfied in every way. But being around potential suitors will bring him closer to you, it'll cause him to hold you by the waist and stand menacingly over anyone who casts a pining glance in your direction. Shades, gods, humans, monsters, it doesn't matter--he will show that you're his when he has the opportunity, even if it means marking your skin with his tongue and teeth before he leaves for his next escape attempt, so nobody will even think about seducing you when they see the brands he's left in his stead.

☆ The only one he'll trust you in the company with is Achilles, because he truly believes that the fallen hero is the only one who would never disgrace you or his pupil. Achilles has always held you in high esteem, whether you're Zagreus' darling or not, and if it comes to it then Zagreus knows that Achilles would protect you in battle with his life, even against Hades himself. Besides, as much as he wouldn't speak it aloud, he knows that the wound of losing Patroclus still burns at Achilles' heart, and he won't allow his ego to result in another person suffering because of him.

☆ To say Zagreus would die for you is a complete understatement. Dying for you is how he shows his love for you, over and over and over again--every time he emerges from the river Styx and sees you standing at Hypnos' side, listening to him chatter on about the son of Hades' latest death, he smiles. Because you must realize more with each one just how much he suffers for you, whether you reciprocate his love or not. He can't be a hero worthy of the gods' praise or to be immortalized in legend, he's not an Odysseus or Theseus or Hercules--but he can be your hero, and that's more than worth as many painful deaths as it takes to save you from your fate.

☆ Speaking of which, he'll hound you for comfort after his attempts. If you're not already waiting for him in his room, then he'll pull you along by the arm to bring you there, if he doesn't insist on a warm bath together first. Either way, you'll end up in his arms and pressed up against his warm body, his voice low in your ear as he breathes soft praises against your skin. He wouldn't have the energy or the will to keep going if you weren't there to encourage him to succeed, in whatever way you please, whether it be affectionate encouragement or something a little more intimate.

(spicy under cut!)

♡ And when it comes to intimacy, Zagreus is fierce. He may be gentle and soft after a long trial, preferring you to take the lead and get on top if you like--but in other circumstances, when he's less drained and not recovering after a fight, he's a lot more motivated.

♡ He loves to make you say his name. It doesn't matter what form it's in, if you like to add some kind of title to it that gets you going--as long as you're moaning out for him it strokes his ego quite nicely, and he loves seeing you come undone while still begging him not to stop. Remind him that you're all for him, and he'll make sure you don't regret it--or, even better, that he's all yours. If you ever threatened to cut someone if they tried to seduce him, then he would absolutely lose all self-control and would have to drag you to bed right then and there.

♡ If he's not cumming inside you, then Zagreus insists on cumming somewhere that's going to take some time to wipe off. Your face, your chest, your mouth, your hands, anywhere that makes his breath hitch in his throat when he sits back and watches it stick to your skin like he's marking his property. Plus, if it makes you smell like him, then that's a bonus too.

♡ Almost every time he bathes, he just has to jerk off. The heat just ignites something within him that he can't control, and if you aren't together or especially if you're a god on Olympus in this scenario, then it's the perfect opportunity for him to fantasize about you while he still hasn't got you in his reach. He conjures up the filthiest scenarios without even meaning to, and whenever he makes contact with you after one of those sessions, he just won't be able to stop imagining the expression on your face if you ever found out what a hellion like him was daydreaming about. The mortals on the surface might revere and adore you, but he wants to worship you in a much more carnal way--and, of course, have you worship him back whether he deserves it or not, because he'll have your love one day either way.

♡♀️And actually, if you were a human that he had fallen in love with, and a female at that, then he would take advantage of every attempt where he actually makes it to the surface. As soon as he reaches the end, he'll rush towards your home not far from the gates, and spend the few hours that you have together in your bed. He's desperate to spend any amount of time that he can with you while he has it, since he can't even contact you while in the Underworld--and so every time is just as important as the last. Because if he can also get you pregnant while he's there, then there might actually be a chance of him convincing Nyx to help him get to the surface and stay there for good, and if not that, then he might be able to take you down to the Underworld alive. If his father can do so, then so can he, and there's no moving on for Zagreus. He doesn't care if you're too different as god and mortal, he'll breed you if it takes every last breath he has, just so he can finally make you his forever. And, of course, so he'll never have to rush to the end of your lovemaking again--he'll spend hours bringing you to your end again and again, to make up for all the time he hasn't satisfied you as your husband should.

♡♂️ Also, if you're a male lover of his, he'll be so protective over you. Somehow his possessiveness comes out even more, maybe because he's surrounded by so many females, and he's so fixated on your beauty that he's sure you're as popular as Narcissus with the ladies. So, due to that, you might be walking with a limp every so often because of his jealousy. Zagreus doesn't like being rough to excess because he likes to spoil you, but he might just sink you down on his lap as far as you can take it, just so that when you squirm and insist that he's too big, he can let a smirk tweak his lips when he knows that you'll be shaky and unsteady on your feet when he's done. For someone who was a virgin before you got together, he's pretty incredible at giving head, too--he'll blow you whenever he needs to let off steam or right after he's finished training in the yard, or if you're doing it together, he might glance around to make sure Skelly is gone before he takes you to the ground and shoves his head between your legs. But really, who cares if someone sees him sucking you off? They'll just know that nobody will ever have you like he does.

[dodo-begone]

See's Dodo and anons reaction to last ask.

Me: externally blushing like crazy. Internally AAAAAAAHHAHAHAHAHA *squealing noise s*

Well you know what they say the show must go on.

Wilbur was the first of the royals to really notice, after all most of his time with you was spent inside in the library since he had convinced his father to allow him to teach you instead of hiring teachers, but you never had less than two layers of clothing on even when indoors you had a large shirt and coat on. Even if it was winter now you were first brought to the castle in summer but you attire remained the same a shirt two sizes too big and a coat also large on you it was a small wonder you didn't suffer form heat stroke, maybe it was a case of those being the only clothes you owned well that wouldn't do it would be a poor showing if visiting diplomats thought they treated their (new sibling) guests with such little care and honesty buying you a new wardrobe didn't even make a dent in his personal finances. Still it was strange that both you and Tommy insisted on your new clothes being a size or two too big and also made of lighter cloth not the wool that was so common for winter attire but at the very least your and Tommy's insistence meant that he got to choose the colours of the outfits in return. Of course the main colours were white and a navy blue you were a member of the Royal (family) Court now it was only right you wore their colours, still the insistence on lighter materials for your clothes did worry him a little the winters were harsh he didn't want his (sibling) little brothers friend getting sick maybe he should bring this up with the others maybe they would know why you never took off that coat.

Techno hadn't noticed the whole coat issue until his twin pointed it out but now that Wilbur had he couldn't stop noticing it. Even when you spared with him you didn't take off the coat heck you never wore armour saying that armour only slowed you down, you had even balked, gone pale when he offered you enchanted iron armour turning down the gift and walking swiftly away. At first he and chat had felt rather rejected (sibling rejection arc, pog, e, e, Technosad) after all you had even if reluctantly accepted Wilbur gift of a new wardrobe but you were rejecting his gift, he had wanted to give you armour so he could teach you his style of fighting but you didn't want that apparently. Though now he thought about it your and theseus's apparent insistence on lighter fabrics and the rejection of the iron armour might not be as coinsidental as he might have thought, after all he had seen you shivering a few times when you thought he wasn't looking but you had refused the much warmer wool for cloth so it wasn't just you being stubborn did, did you have some sort of skin problem or other ailment that caused you pain or irritation if you wore heavy clothes or armour. Oh of course you would go pale at the idea of wearing iron armour if that was the case plus it would explain the constantly wearing a coat since you probably didn't want them to know out of misguided fear of their reaction after all he had seen how superstitious some peasants could be about such conditions from his time training new soldiers. Theseus would know you did have such a condition after all you were practically joined at the hip, but it was getting very late, tomorrow he would find Theseus and ask if he knew the reason why now he needed to find his father.

Tommy most certainly did know the reason why you never wore armour and always had a coat on. He was currently sat on your bed, both of your backs to the door, preening the reasons why you letting out quiet chirps as he helped straighten and re-aligh your feathers, after all your wings didn't exactly appreciate being covered by your coat the whole day he couldn't even imagine how much worse your wings would have been if Wilbur hadn't listened and just gotten a heavy wool coat. He remembered when your wings first came through a few years ago when your friendship was still new, you had been complaining about a rash that had suddenly appeared on your back a few days prior only to fall to the ground in pain mid sentence, he was honestly grateful that his family didn't keep track of their potion supply considering how many regen potion you needed when your wings came out leaving rather large exit wounds on your back, if he wasn't able to get those potions he didn't even want to think about what could have happened to you. Now you were here though and he couldn't let anyone know about your wings if even a servant or stable boy saw it would trickle back to his brother and his dad if Philza found out he would never let you leave, you would become as trapped as him maybe even more so due to his dad's instincts. Unfortunately since both of your backs were to the door neither of you spotted the winged watcher peering through the cracked open door.

Philza was on his way to his newest (child) guests chambers after his eldest two had come to him with worrying news about their newest ( family member) permanent. Wilbur told tales of light clothing even in winter while Techno quiet shared his own worries of them being ill and hiding it from them but to him those weren't the signs of illness no they were signs that you were like... no he should get excited it was probably an illness after all his investigations had shown that it wasn't just bandits that ravaged his nation but hybrid hunters a particularly disgusting breed of bandit that targeted hybrids to sell as pets or in the case of winged hybrids to harvest their wings as decorations. That infuriated him after all he had founded this nation to be a safe haven for hybrids but due to his own negligence they were hunted down, if you were like... him it would be a small miracle that you hadn't been taken by those hunters. Reaching the room in question open a crack he went to knock when he heard a soft chirping pausing he looked through the crack to see his youngest preening his (baby bird) guest's wings, rushing back to his own chambers he could just hear chat cawing ( baby bird, dadza, dadza, protect, keep, baby bird) he couldn't keep the massive grin off of his face as it all came together. Of course you didn't wear heavy clothing you had been hiding your wings it would mangle your feathers if you wore heavier clothing over them, the iron armour was rejected because you couldn't wear it full stop even with your wings out your bones wouldn't be able to take the weight since they were partly hollow, oh he had a little bird to teach flying and how to properly preen. His emotional high crashed though as he realised that you ran your farm alone, were you alone when your wings came through, its was the worst pain on could feel wings slowly ripping their way out of your back plus you could easily bleed out or get an infection if the open wounds weren't taken care of properly, oh you poor dear no wonder you were so attached to Tommy he was the only flock member you had. No longer though he would look after you he knew his sons had grown to care for you as much as they had Tommy, his more bird like instincts rejoiced at the thought of a fledgling joining his little flock.

Ender-anon

This is quite a bit longer than I thought it would be also first time writing hybrid reader.

sorry i took so long to answer this!! This just rlly intimidated me and anxiety went brrrr- but anyways lemmie get into this ask!!!

YOU FUCKING DESERVE THE RECOGNITION MAN UR STUFF IS SO FUCKING POG

god i rlly love royalty aus, did i ever mention that??? i just lOVE- ANYWAYS

So Wilbur's curiosity about your clothing choice only lead him to believing that what you wore was all you could afford in your previous life. He wasn't exactly wrong. And even with the new clothes you got when you moved into the castle, you refused to wear them. It was rather peculiar. Wouldn't you want to get out of those nasty and worn rags you called clothes? But you were new to the castle. He went with the presumption that the shock from the change was frightening. You must've kept your previous clothes as a safety blanket of sorts. Though after a few nasty looks sent your way over your apparel and your very obvious discomfort about it, he decided to take the executive decision to give you clothes that fit your taste and the taste of the court. Your choice to have oversized clothing confused him, but Tommy's insistence just made him presume you were self conscious of your body. To be fair, he wasn't half wrong but he was.

At the rejection of his gift, his and chat's disappointment were more than evident. Was his twin better or something? Like you accepted his gift, although reluctantly. But you still accepted it. And yet you didn't accept him. Looking back on your fear of the armor, he thought more into it. Yes the skin issues was definitely something to consider, but maybe trauma? No, trauma of armor would be strange, right? Maybe you had a family member who wore armor yet died in front of you despite their armor being worn to protect them. Or some other fear. Yea, the skin issue would be much more reasonable, actually. He'll just bring it up with father, let him know of the possible issues with their new family member.

One of the activities you two did on the daily was straighten out your feathers at the end of the day or when they were bothering you. Though the latter only happened when you two were in private. Nobody could know your secret, after all. It was for your protection and to preserve your freedom. At first, when your wings were coming in, he was absolutely terrified for you. What the fuck was going on? This isn't normal! Oh god oh fuck what is he suppose to do?! With an oversupply of potions thanks to the paranoia of attacks on the family and accidents during training, it was beyond easy to take what he needed for you. If anyone was questioned about it, he could easily say that some trainees took some.

OMG ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE ME FUCKING CRY WITH THIS PHILZA PART?! BEACUSE I WILL CRY THIS IS SO MF CUTE- I JUST CAN'T I LOVE SO MUCH- I CAN'T ADD ANYTHING TO THAT PERFECT- I COULDN'T RLLY ADD ANYTHING TO WHAT YOU SENT ME AND I APOLOGIZE. I JUST LOVE AAAALLL OF THIS

[sitp-recs]

OOH OHOH OH OH FUCK I remembered. Do you know anything for like draco not realising people ACTUALLY care for him? Thanks, love. (like, I remember a fic where he realised Harry wanted him sexually but didnt get that someone for love him romantically and was thinking of that fic but forgot about it because i dont remember the name and uh it comes and goes) but thanks. it can even be like platonic (like how in harry potter gives a shit he didnt realise he and hermione were ACTUALLY friends). thanks

Hi again! Hmm I’m probably forgetting a bunch here, but these came to mind right now - maybe my followers can help with more recs!

Ship of Theseus by GallaPlacidia (2020, T, 18k)

When Harry gets amnesia and forgets he and Draco were ever married, he refuses treatment to remember.

you've got the antidote for me by Kandakicksass (2018, M, 20k)

When Harry Potter unintentionally severs their soulbond before it can fully form, Draco Malfoy resigns himself to a slow death and decides not to burden Harry with a soulmate he's made it very clear he doesn't want.

the strength to stay by violetclarity (2018, E, 29k)

Draco and Harry are the best Senior Aurors in the DMLE, which is why they’re working the case about Wings – a dangerous new potion that sends users into a dreamscape from which they may never return.

Come A Little Closer by maraudersaffair (2019, E, 37k)

A few years after the war, Draco Malfoy works the service desk at King’s Cross and does his best to avoid his parents. He is also desperate to lose his virginity. Enter Harry Potter.

"Dad says" by GallaPlacidia (2019, NR, 39k)

Eleven-year-old Scorpius starts writing to Harry. Harry starts to fall in love with Draco through his portrayal in his son's letters.

At Your Service by Faith Wood (2012, E, 95k)

Hogwarts students are in danger; Harry is determined to save them all. There's only one thing he knows for certain: Draco Malfoy is somehow involved.