#that this is still a pale imitation of what war looks like

[sashi-ya]

𝐓𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐂//𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 Jugram x Arrancar! F! Reader x Virgin! Adult! Uryu. [+18]

⋆ au: some years after the war, where the Quincy have won. Uryu is +20 y/o ⋆ tw: mdni. threesome. virgin Uryu gets a lesson from Jugram. oral. cum swallowing. humilliation. cream pie. fingering. ⋆ taglist: @hohoooowhy @cyberdazetragedy @stygianoir @tsuukichan

“Haschwalt, Uryuu… when will you two cooperate to make me a little bit happier?” “ Your majesty, I am always open to do so”

White capes blowing against the sordid winds of the Silbern. Purest black strands and blonde ones, imitating the motions. Your image reflected on those glasses, and the shine of a sword that seems to balance the weight of the world on its edge.

The hollow in your chest, so dark as the void you feel in what once represented your heart. Who are these people? Why are they here? Why did they do the things they do to your people? What do they want from such arid lands, where the sun is never up and a moon shines eternally on a dry sky?

“What is this woman doing here?” the glasses wearing man asks. Your muffled gasp still audible gets to his ears.

That young adult has eyes as blue as a deep sea, and the finest face expressions you ever seen.

“Your Majesty has brought her to you as a gift, appreciate it. A true King needs to have fun sometimes too” the blonde one says, his face is barely visible underneath the Sternritter hat and the long strands popping.  

“Is not just for Uryu, Haschwalt. Share her, get along. I need you two cooperating for the greater good of the new world” the man that has brought only pain and destruction to your endless lands of sand says. And those words make you shiver, the way the blonde man gasps and how he takes off his hat… showing underneath a beautiful masculine depiction of perfection.

It won’t be admitted, until that king looking man leaves, that none of the guys standing in front of you wanna hurt you. However, you can see it in their eyes.

But your work there was, in order to have your fracciones and your life forgiven, to please the Quincy…

And just about two or three seconds after the maroon caped old man flew out of the place, both men came closer to you.

“Don’t worry, we don’t need you to do anything” the one, apparently named Uryuu, says. He assures you, in all honesty that nothing will happen to you as long as you keep it quiet.

However, the blonde one, refuses to follow Uryuu’s sayings.

“Your Majesty said we have to use her” he categorically says, so impassively it’s almost scary.

“Use her? What do you think she is, Jugram?” the dark-haired youngster says, almost bumping heads with the blonde one.

Jugram’s turquoise eyes fix on the deep blue ones that so morally are judging him, and sighs.

“You are gonna be the king, aren’t you? Why are you afraid, Ishida Uryu? Do you regret taking our Majesty’s blood? Are you sure you are on this side?”

The hate in between both men grows stronger every second it passes, and it feels like your knees will collapse soon. You need to stop them, but most importantly, make sure you will do your work… if not, there is a lot involved that you might lose.

“Jugram-sama! Uryu-sama! I’m here, willingly offering my body for you both to take as many bites as you desire from it!”

Silence takes over, their noses almost touching and their frowning so very serious now takes a glimpse of your subduing posture on the ground.

On your knees, covered by white clothes that you slowly unzip to reveal the purest form of your Arrancar body.

“Please, use me. I wanna please you both” you purr, in hopes of luring them into your trap of honey and lust.

Uryu swallows; pale cheeks blushed, sprinkled with reddish shame. Jugram tilts his head, slowly to the right. His blonde bangs softly caress the bridge of his straight nose, and an almost visible smirk garnishes his lips.

“Go ahead, future King… dig in” he murmurs, pushing Uryuu to be the one to take the first taste. Out of pure courtesy, perhaps. Or who knows why.

You nod, fixing into the deep blue eyes of the future ruler of the Quincies. “Come… sir, please” you whisper, stretching your right hand to him.

Wary steps are taken towards your submissive persona; is not that Uryuu isn’t interested in the bouncing motion of your breasts, or the fresh flesh displayed for his only enjoyment, but right now? This way? He is already an adult, but he has never… not after winning the war.

“May I ask, future King… you wish to be guided?” Jugram asks, as keen as always, when noticing Uryuu’s doubts come from inexperience.

The dark-haired man isn’t able to look you nor him in the eyes, but rather to the side. His lips semi open, the accelerated breathing, the warmth on his lips and in between his legs… a body so desperate, a mind so confused, a soul so naïve.

“Yes…” he sighs.

“Very well, then. Should I show you how to please a woman?” Jugram asks, lifting you in one swift swing up from your hand.

Uryuu fixes his glasses, using his left index to move the frame upwards. “Hnn…” he nods, this time adopting a position of a younger brother. What it takes for him to finally be taught something so basic, instead of being required to rule a new world with the blood of his friends still dripping all around.

Jugram takes a good look at your body proportions with squinting eyes. He is probably calculating where and how to touch for his motions to be the most effective. He still needs to show the future king the perfect way this is done.

When he finally positions himself behind you, a shiver runs through your back. You were there because of different reasons, but you couldn’t blame yourself for experiencing real desire for those two men. The experienced teacher, and the virginal pupil, both about to enjoy a new lesson based in your body…

When the cold hand of the blonde comes from behind, and places it over your breast, you squirm a little.

“Stay still, we are here to show our future king how to please a piece of meat like you” he murmurs, right in your ear. It makes you bite your lip; it makes you moan when he finally pulls from your hardened nipple.

Jugram shows his pupil how rock and erect your pleasure points are in between his slender delicate fingers. You look to the side, but still, you are able to see how Uryuu fixes his eyes into the turgor of your chest.  “I’m sure you know about erogenous zones; you’ve been studying the human body. This is one of them. You need to pull, touch, and if you feel fancy enough… use your mouth to do it. In fact, you could use your mouth all over… even your teeth”

The blonde, turns you to the side with no mercy. And with no mercy he also sits you over the huge white table in the centre of that cerulean lights room.  

“Never, ever you should kneel. Is the woman who should be lifted if it’s small enough for your lips not to reach her breasts” Jugram sentences; he takes it very seriously; he is raising a true king.

He cups your chest with one of his hands as his pale lips reaches for your nipple. First, the tip of his tongue. Then, the wet sensation of it, dampening your hardness. And ultimately, the sharp surface of his teeth, nibbling on them, making your head to be thrown back in total pleasure.

“See? She likes it. Now, if you want it to be faster so that you can use her insides you need to prep her” Jugram says, as if you were non-existent, like a piece of meat, like a doll to use…

And you couldn’t care less; as Jugram’s fingers open its way inside your sex. He didn’t take much to undress you, the white skirt wouldn’t cover much either way.

The pumping motions start slowly and from there the rhythm increases. Reflected on Uryuu’s glasses is the image of your body reaction to such blissful movements, going in and out, always hitting up so that you feel like you are about to burst.

“See how she retorts? It is exactly because she wants more… right, you slut? As a Quincy we should kill you, but first this hole should be useful” the blonde spits, so indecently fingering you while he does nothing but degrade you.

Uryu, who fights a moral battle inside himself, focuses on the way his white pants are now tightly crushing his erection. Why is he hard to such humiliation… when did he become the way he did? Why he is moving on his own, right now?

You whine louder as the glasses boy is also all over you in a blink of an eye. His delicate hand grab you by your cheeks, pressing hard with violence he never knew he had.

He swallows, letting his cape fall to the ground while cracking his neck. Your pleading eyes, and your opened lips are like a beautiful trap in which he had fallen.

Jugram has now added uncountable number of fingers inside you while pulls from your hair back to show your neck to his friend. Like the Devil presenting temptation to the young apprentice, he invites him to carve his teeth on your body.

And that’s exactly what Uryu does. He bites, as if he was trying to retrieve blood from your carotid, leaving marks in your skin. He takes the time, next, to smell the scent of your sweating sex flesh.

His soft lips travel up and down, the tip of his tongue too.

Jugram finds it fascinating; it doesn’t matter how much of a virgin Uryu could be, a man’s instinct can lead the way perfectly fine. And he notices, also, the way his pupil slowly kisses down your belly towards your already about to burst sex.

The blonde stops the masturbating pumps and allows Uryu to reach your folds as he can see his avid need to drink from it.

“Guess I don’t have to explain how to do that, huh?” he kinda laughs, something weird coming from the balanced man. And while Uryu gets lost in the perfume of your dripping core, he makes sure you spread your legs as it is proper.

And after slapping your inner thighs Jugram enjoys the way your eyes turn white when the tip of his next king’s tongue reaches for your salty taste.

Your belly spasms, your back arches but even if you wish you could lay on it over the table, Jugram won’t let you. His hand hasn’t stop pulling from your hair, and it’s both painful and pleasant.

“Do you think we are here just to please you? Open your mouth” he commands, moving your head towards him while he lets his zipper down.

You swallow, knowing that saliva will be the last thing you will have before his hardness hits your throat. And indeed, he lifts one of his legs over the table so that his crotch could reach your mouth, and guiding his sex inside your mouth, he makes you gag.

The frame of Uryu’s glasses carve into your thighs, as you involuntarily close your legs. He is not worried; he is actually enjoying the warmth of your skin against his blushed cheeks.

Your juices drip from the lips that once were tinted in blood, to his chin as if he was devouring a fruit. Uryu eats you out desperately; his senses have been overly stimulated and he swears he could cum by just this.

His eyes sometimes scan the way his blonde teacher makes you gag, with all of his length buried in your throat. He can only think of doing the same next. The tears running through your cheeks, the way you run out of oxygen, the protrusion of Jugram’s dick showing on your throat… why is he enjoying this? why the more you plead for mercy the more he gets harder, and harder?

In any case, the sudden explosion of your breathless climax amazes him. Uryu can feel your inner walls clenching to his fingers, and your orgasm invading his tongue.

Drop by drop, he feeds well off you. While Jugram grunts, because your mouth tries to close on its own as you come.

“Don’t bite, you bitch!” he protests, slapping your cheek hard enough to feel it but still soft enough not to hurt you. He might speak that way, but he is indeed very delicate on its own. He won’t go deeper for an inch more; he knows how not to cause you damage.

Uryu stands up, watching Jugram about to reach his own orgasm with the wetness of your mouth around his dick. He looks at his glasses wearing “little brother” with a smirk.

“I know you wanna fuck her, go ahead. Fill her cunt, I will stuff his stomach with my cum” he says, in between breathy pants. Words that surprise Uryu to no extent, where is the sophisticated Jugram he knows?

You give him a look, with blurry vision and a needy broken sight. You wanna tell him to do it, you want Uryu to fuck you and fill you up as Jugram said. You hope that your looks will be enough for him to understand, because you can’t use your mouth as it begins to get flooded with warm, sticky, white release.

He gets the message, clearly. But he is still inexpert; he thinks he knows what to do, but he doesn’t really.

Haschwalt sticks his dick out, pumping with his hands the last drops of his orgasm onto your lips. His seed drips from your lips to your neck and into your breasts, and it’s ok.

“Come on, fuck her… or should I show you that too?” he mocks his dark-haired companion while coming closer to him.

Jugram stands behind Uryu, grabbing a fistful of his straight hair. In other situation he could have been killed for doing so to the future king, but Uryu didn’t mind; he was too lost in pleasure to even think about it.

The blonde Quincy whispers on his ear, pushing him against you slowly and dominantly. “remember what our majesty told us… use her, now”

Reddish cheeks and warm breathe kissing Uryu’s lips, his eyelids sloppily falling down as he fixes his eyes in yours. His white pants fall to the ground, and the wet spot on his underwear grows bigger as his hardness does to.

You can only wait for his intrusion, eagerly to be penetrated, panting, and cleaning the still rests of Jugram’s cum off your lips and chin.

Uryu’s pale hand pump his never used sex, getting him ready to slide right in as Jugram spreads your legs surrounding Uryu from behind, leaving him in between you and him.

“Go…” he murmurs, ordering so sweetly. “Ye-yes” Uryu stutters, getting ready to fix all the time lost.

He is delicate, but it feels amazingly well. He slides in, resting, as Jugram grab him by his hip for a moment, right by your entrance. “Calm down, do it slower at first”

It’s so perverse to see Jugram believe he is the right of taking the lead, but it’s even more depraved that Uryu seems to be enjoying it even more than both you and Jugram.

“Now, begin moving… fuck her rough” the blonde finally says, while smiling so corruptly towards you as if he wanted to warn you of something. Perhaps, he was happy to find the perfect hollow to use on and on.

Like a total slave of desire, with no humanity left whatsoever, his glasses get foggy, and you take them off his beautiful face. Jugram allows you to close your legs, trapping Uryu with them around the waist.

You lift your hips up, allowing for him to go even deeper in that steady rhythm he has so easily learned to maintain. Carving nails like claws into his soft back, allowing for him to moan into your mouth, as you do the same.

Sometimes you take a look at the man who taught him; Jugram is sitting on one of the couches, ready to continue once his pupil is over.

But the one who is almost over, is you. And the grunts and moans become louder and faster. Your insides clench, milk your lover desperately. Uryu can feel it, he shakes, he bites your lip pulling with no mercy from them. You fix your eyes into his deep blue ones, mumbling something similar to an “I’m coming” and “please don’t stop”.

Of course he won’t stop, he can’t even if he wanted to. And soon after you carve your heel into the small of his back as you climax, he does to.

Uryu slams the table right next to you, as he is sweating and filling you up. What a beautiful façade of pure extasy and delicious desire…

More, I want more. From the regret to the need. Hollows might be toxic to Quincy, but Quincy aren’t toxic to Hollows… only deadly.

[dccomicsimagines]

Babysitting on Halloween - Damian Wayne x Reader

Requested by Anon - CAn I have older!Dami celebrating Halloween with the fem!reader?!

Requested by Anon - So could you do a older damian(many 16 idk your the writer) where he's helping his s/o baby sit her five year old stepsister.

Requested by Anon - Could you do an imagine of older!damian Wayne where his girlfriend or s/o gets hit on by another guy and he become very jealous and protective of her?

Author’s Note - I put all these requests together. Hope you all don’t mind. Also Smiley is the stepsister. Now that can be her nickname or actual name, up to you.

***

“Absolutely not.” Damian crossed his arms, his face dropping into his batman glare. You ignored it and kept looking through the racks of costumes. 

“I’m watching Smiley on Halloween since our parents have to work and she wants to go trick or treating.” You spared him a glance to find his expression hadn’t change. An older woman further down the aisle looked at him nervously. You sent her a smile to reassure her. Damian still didn’t understand how his height and build changed things when he glared around in public. 

Damian’s gaze softened. “Beloved, this is Gotham.”

“Yes and?” You pulled out skeleton costume and held it up to your body. Damian shook his head. 

“People don’t trick or treat in Gotham, (Y/N). It’s not safe here.” Damian wrinkled his nose as you pulled out a skimpy skeleton costume next. He reached out, taking it from you and hanging it back up. You laughed and moved on. 

“No, they do trick or treat.” You rolled your eyes. “My parents’ neighborhood has a trick or treat party to keep things safe. They live in the suburbs. It will be fun.” 

Damian grumbled and narrowed his eyes at an employee that was lingering nearby. The employee paled and ran off. 

“Stop scaring people.” You took his hand. “If you are so concerned, then come along. It will be fun.” You smiled, tracing a finger down his chest. Damian’s eyes followed your finger like a hawk watching his prey. “And once Smiley is in bed, we can be alone and do whatever we want.” You sighed, looking up at him with doe eyes. 

World war three played upon Damian’s face. His mouth twitched. Eyes narrowed, than widened. His hand tightened around yours. You just kept your eyes on his, smiling rather innocently. 

“Fine.” He held up a hand, pursing his lips. “But I’m not wearing a costume.”

“Really?” You frowned, turning away from him. “I mean it doesn’t have to be something you’re uncomfortable with...” You grabbed a ninja costume and held it up to him. “What do you think?”

The tip of Damian’s ears turned bright red. You bit your lip to keep from laughing at the bewilderment on his face. “Perhaps, I could find something to wear that is not this polyester imitation of a uniform.” He took it from you, sneering when he felt the cheap fabric. 

“Whatever you want, dear.” You kissed his cheek. “It will be fun.” You turned back to the racks as Damian put the ninja costume away with a huff. “Now, what should I wear?” You tapped your chin, looking at all the costumes. 

“TT, anything you wear will be beautiful,” Damian said softly. You turned to hide your blush. “But it will be chilly, so you’ll need something warm.”

You snorted at hearing Damian say ‘chilly’. “That’s true.” Damian’s arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close as you kept up your search. 

***

Bruce rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he was staring at the batcomputer for too long. “Damian, could you come back here please?” The batcave was quiet except for the bats screeching.

“TT, what is wrong?” Damian marched back into Bruce’s line of sight. Bruce hummed, taking in the old League of Assassins’ training outfit that fit Damian almost perfectly. 

“Why are you wearing that?” Bruce crossed his arms. It looked good on Damian, but that didn’t help Bruce’s concern.

Damian scoffed. A slight blush on his cheeks. “It’s Halloween, Father.” 

“Yes, I’m aware.” Bruce stood up and stretched. “But why are you wearing that?”

Damian stiffened, shifting from foot to foot. “(Y/N) wanted me to dress up. I couldn’t force myself to wear the ridiculous excuses of costumes at the store, so I thought I could wear something here.” He sneaked a glance at Bruce. “Obviously, our normal uniforms are out of the question.”

Bruce hummed. He studied Damian carefully. “So if someone asks about what you’re dressed as?”

“I’m (Y/N)’s bodyguard and by extension, her sister’s.” Damian smiled rather smugly. Bruce swallowed back a laugh. Did Damian know how charming he was being? Probably not. You were a lucky girl. 

“Have fun and stay out of trouble.” Bruce clapped a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Use protection.” Damian’s ears turned red. Bruce had to swallow a laugh. He let his hand drop from Damian’s shoulder as he moved to grab a cup of coffee from the cave’s machine. 

“TT.” Damian hurried away before Bruce could say another word. Bruce shook his head and admitted he was proud of the man his son had become.

***

“Smiley, don’t move,” you whispered, gently added the glitter gel to her face. Smiley stilled her body, but, to live up to her nickname, she had a big grin on her face. 

“Can we take a picture when you’re done?” she asked. Her eyes sparkled in excitement. The two of you were in your parents’ bathroom. Smiley sat on the counter as you tried to make the picture of unicorn makeup she found online come to life on her face. 

Damian stepped in the doorway. He watched you work. “It looks...pretty,” he said slowly when you sent him a warning look. 

“Really?” Smiley practically glowed. You suspected she had a little crush on Damian. 

“All done.” You grinned, wiping your hands on a towel before holding up a hand mirror. Smiley gasped, clapping her hands at the rainbow glitter makeup on her face. “I think you’re going to be a fabulous unicorn. Now go get your costume on and we’ll have a photo shoot before we go.” You helped her down and she ran off giggling.

“You did a good job, beloved.” Damian stepped in to kiss your cheek. 

You smiled, heart fluttering at the praise. “Thanks, it’s harder than you think.” You took in his outfit. “I got to say, you look good in this. A lot better than the one we would have gotten at the store.”

Damian huffed. A faint blush grew on his cheeks. “You look good, beloved. I never thought you would be such a good-looking pirate.” He adjusted the pirate hat on your head. You bit your lip, holding in the giggles that wanted to spill out. 

“And the jacket’s warm so I won’t get chilly,” you added, tapping his nose. Damian smirked and leaned down to kiss your lips.

“Damian and (Y/N) sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage!” Smiley’s singing broke you and Damian apart. Damian’s eyes widened in horror while you just laughed and peeked around to see Smiley in the hallway in her unicorn costume. 

“Now you’re going to get it, Miss Unicorn!” You chased after her, laughing at her giggles. Damian was behind you, a rare chuckle escaping him.

***

Damian frowned when a little hand touched his pant’s leg. He glanced down to find Smiley looking up at him. “Dami, could you take me to the next house? (Y/N)’s taking too long and I want to get the candy.”

You had stepped away to answer a call from your parents. Damian glanced at you before letting Smiley take his hand and walked her up to the next house. A group of older girls dressed like some cartoon show characters passed them, taking about how much candy the house gave out. 

“Ooo, I think we hit the motherlode,” Smiley said. She ran ahead and knocked on the door. Damian stayed back. He was close enough to run and grab her if anything were to happen. Much to his disbelief, everything felt safe for the most part. The neighborhood was doing a very good job keeping it that way.

However, this wouldn’t stop Damian from replacing all the candy Smiley got tonight with candy he had pre-purchased. It was Gotham after all. 

The door opened and a lady cooed over Smiley’s costume. She glanced up at Damian and flinched, frowning worriedly. Damian relaxed his stance and forced himself to smile. The lady relaxed and dumped two handfuls into Smiley’s bag. “Thank you,” Smiley said, skipping back to Damian.��“Look at the goods.”

Damian peeked inside the bag. He almost got a sugar high at the sight alone. “Yes, you did...well.”

Smiley beamed. Damian let her take his hand again as he looked around for you. 

He froze when he saw you shifting uncomfortably as two men stood rather close to you. Damian took a deep breath. He scooped up Smiley in one arm and marched to your side.

“I’m actually busy, so I can’t come to your party,” you said. Your voice cracked. Damian frowned, seeing the tension in your body. You weren’t afraid, but nervous. He lengthened his stride to get to you faster. Smiley just giggled, unware of the situation.

“Are you sure baby? Because it will be a lot of fun and you’re dressed so...yummy,” one of the men said, smiling like he owned the world. Damian clenched his fist. 

You shook your head, grinning when you caught Damian approaching. “Actually, there’s my boyfriend now. Bye and thanks for the invite.” You waved and slipped past the men to meet Damian halfway. 

“Are you alright, beloved?” Damian demanded. He almost kept walking toward the men, but you stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“I’m fine, they were just hitting on me.” You smiled and took Smiley out of his arm. She laughed, chatting away about her candy to no one in particular. You patted her head, but focused on Damian. “It’s okay. You don’t need to go over there.”

Damian pursed his lips. He glared at the men causing them to run off. “TT, I should.” His hand trembled. You took it, squeezing it gently in yours.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” you whispered to Damian as Smiley kept talking, not caring that neither of you were listening to her. 

“They shouldn’t make you uncomfortable.” Damian growled, glaring at a group of children. They gave you all a wide berth. 

“I know, but this isn’t the time or place.” You kissed Damian’s cheek. “Relax. My parents just checked in and said to limit Smiley’s candy intake.”

Damian hummed. Smiley grabbed Damian’s other hand and tugged him along. Damian in turn tugged you. “Next house. I need more candy. My bag is only half full,” Smiley said, pouting slightly.

You laughed and shook your head. “We’ll do our best to fill your bag, but I don’t think there are enough houses in the neighborhood.” 

Damian snorted, but a smile tugged at his lips as your sister protested. He vowed not to leave your side again until you were safely home. 

***

“Is she asleep?” Damian asked as you walked in and collapsed on the living room couch beside him. Your sister had a bit of a sugar high and it resulted in a hour long chase around the house to burn it off. Damian had thought he had seen it all. Apparently not.

“Finally.” You let out a long sigh and snuggling into his side. “Thank you for tonight. It was fun.”

Damian kissed your temple, resting his arm around your shoulders. “It was...an experience.”

You giggled. “Yes, it was. I’m glad you were here with me.” You closed your eyes and relaxed. Damian hummed. It pleased him to no end that you felt so safe near him. Most people felt frightened. 

“It was my pleasure, beloved.” He grabbed the remote without moving and turned on the tv. You opened your eyes. “When will your parents be returning?”

“Probably around two.” You rested your hand on his knee. Damian’s knee burned at the pressure. “I told them to go out and have some fun since they ended up working so late and we were here anyway.”

Damian hummed. “So...what should we do?”

You looked at him with care. Damian blushed as you pulled your hand away from his knee. “We could watch some scary movies? I could make popcorn?”

Damian bit his lip, glancing at the tv then back at you. “I would enjoy that.” He let you get up and walk out of the room. Damian smiled as a sense of peace filled him. He let himself imagine what it would be like to have a home and a family with you some day. His smile widened. It would be something to look forward to.

[tyrantisterror]

One thing that’s interesting when comparing Beast Wars to G1 Transformers is how often the later gets wildly reinterpreted in adaptation while the former stays relatively the same.

The G1 characters and conflict have been adapted so many times.  There are dozens of Optimus Primes and Megatrons and Starscreams and Shockwaves and Soundwaves and so fucking many Bumblebees, so many iterations of the Autobots vs. Decepticons, and either out of necessity or sheer creative boredom there have been some wild reinterpretations of them as a result, sometimes even from the same writer.  One of my favorite examples is Ultra Magnus, who in the Marvel comics was written as a very uncertain character who constantly second guessed himself and his ability to lead, but in the IDW comics was written to be this hard-lined rules-obsessed character who was always certain what he was doing was right, specifically because Simon Furman, a writer for both comics, wanted to keep from repeating himself and decided to invert Magnus’s characterization to force different stories out of him.

G1 has a ridiculously huge cast of toys characters to pick and choose from, and because of all these adaptations, almost all of them have juicy personalities and character arcs to play with.  You’ve got the A-Listers, of course, but even z-listers like Ironfist and Swerve have at least one story where they get to shine.

Beast Wars, by contrast, is almost always focused on the original main cast when it’s brought back.  Beast Megatron, Optimus Primal, Dinobot, Cheetor, etc.  Where G1 adaptations will play with new settings and conflict wrinkles (Animated puts it in the somewhat distant future, the Unicron Trilogy really emphasizes the Cosmic Horror of Unicron, etc.), Beast Wars always (with one exception) takes place on prehistoric Earth.

And I theorize this is because of the different between their first cartoons.  Both are character focused - because the whole point of a toyline-based cartoon is to get kids emotionally invested in the toys their buying, and you do that by making those toys interesting characters - but because 90′s CGI animation was a SHITLOAD more expensive than 80′s traditional animation, G1 Transformers could make the cast ENORMOUS while Beast Wars had to kill off a cast member before they could afford to bring another on, and as such the cast remained pretty damn small - which in turn meant that those characters were even more focused on, given more development, and defined in a depth that the original cartoon iterations of the G1 cast weren’t.  G1 Megatron is a defined character, yes, but that definition is loose enough that he can be wildly reinterpreted while still feeling like Megatron.  Beast Wars Megatron, though, is cemented.  He must be a schemer, he must be theatrical, he must be gleefully beyond redemption yet still charming as hell.  The characterizations and plot twists of Beast Wars are so iconic that they almost loom too large, with re-adaptations often ending up feeling like just pale imitations of the original.

Except Beast Wars Uprising, which is creative as Hell and it’s kind of a shame that the only way to read it requires you to look at an eye-searing website.

Anyway, it’s kind of fun to think of how Beast Wars could be reinterpreted.  It technically has a huge cast like G1 - there were SO many Beast Wars toys, which means there are a lot more characters than those in the original show, and as the recent-ish IDW comics show, nothing’s to stop you from adding new characters to the mix (I mean, they only added two and still stuck to a lot of the same beats as the cartoon, but still).  You could do some big shakeups.

And hell, even among that core cast, there are characters that could use some more love.  Tigatron and Airrazor got screwed by Hasbro’s requiring new toys on the screen, their arcs cut abruptly short to make way for new product.  Terrorsaur and Scorponok were similarly eliminated but also had the problem of never really defining themselves in an interesting way, they could do with entirely new characterizations.  And as Beast Wars Uprising showed, there’s  a LOT of potential in Transmutate, a character written to die in her debut episode.

Here’s hoping 90′s nostalgia will do for Beast Wars what decades of 80′s nostalgia have done for the G1 cast.  I think it’d be fun to see the franchise get weird with these beasts.

[logicheartsoul]

the room (where you live in)

Summary: Inspired by the just-shower-thoughts post: "Every building can be a museum if you keep it the same long enough."

In which Bucky finds out the Smithsonian has added to its exhibit a recreation of one of the places Bucky lived in before becoming a soldier. A somewhat character study with some subtly hinted sambucky.

Author's Notes:Saw this post and then, I had this thought — we see SOME of the museum exhibit of Captain America but not all of it and I thought if Steve and the Howlies were so important, what if people took pictures of the rooms/houses they lived in before they “died” and did that museum thing where they recreate the room so people can look in or step inside? We kinda get a glimpse of that at the end of TFA to acclimate Steve to 2010 but what if they did that to a room Bucky lived in? And Bucky seeing it for himself? That's this fic lol

Kind of surprised I finished and wrote this in an hour considering how random it was but I hope you enjoy it! It’s a miracle I wrote another completed fic within the span of a week after 2 years. 

(One of these days I'll actually finish the Sam character study I wrote but it's a bajillion words longer than this one)

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This is a tribute to the dead; the ghost of their life. Lingering in the shadows, in the dust.

A mausoleum.

Like trampling over the living grave of who he used to be.

This is not his home; this is not his life, at least the life he occupies now. This has not been his life in decades.

This facsimile of his home, his room — one of many rooms he left himself behind — is a pale imitation. It brings memories of the remaining impressions, not of his own reality.

The curve of the bed frame, the thin fabric of the window drapes — these are the same but not his. The hidden history behind all of the details, of the walls, the furniture, even the common household items — it doesn’t exist. Not with these things.

It is all imitation, a living simulation. An exhibit, except he’s not caged in.

(Not anymore.)

But perhaps for all that it is, the details based on the real, like the photos in the frames, the bed linens and the wallpaper and the curtains—

It is the closest thing he can get to touching his past. To the thing that ties him to those memories. The closest he can get to touching those that are gone.

Gone.

His past self is gone, nearly erased: by time, by war, by trauma and torture.

He cannot visit his old home anymore.

He cannot visit the places that were his.

He cannot visit the people who are now long gone. From time, death, disease. Can only touch those they left behind, their remnants: children, grandchildren, cousins, nieces and nephews and niblings.

Their traces of his mother, his father, his sister — live on in their eyes, their smiles, their laughter. The color of their hair, the curve of their chin, the height of their bodies.

And the ache lessens.

It doesn’t go away.

But his life here, this snapshot taken in time:

It’s a memory, not his own but another. Of an observer looking into the glimpse of his former world.

He cannot step back into it as if he’d merely paused.

Time does not stand still, even for those who can defy it.

He was made to stand time, but it went on around him.

And he understands and gets it, truly, standing at this exhibit of his life. People want to know a glimpse of the truth, want context for his life, for Steve’s and the Howling Commandos. Want people to know where he came from, from how heroic people can rise from any circumstance.

Especially with a symbol as powerful as Steve Rogers.

It’s still disquieting.

It’s like he’s the ghost and he’s haunting himself.

This—this life, it’s only a part of who he is, but it’s not him. Not now.

Missing pieces of the puzzle that comprise his whole, messy life.

Doesn’t show the spaces he’s made now, in a far different environment. The spaces made in a new community, in a new home. The room where he lives in now.

One tidy but filled with a life before him and hopefully a life after him. Of furniture sturdy and handmade with a dark, lacquered finish. With pictures of a family that originally wasn’t his but is now. With fuzzy blankets for the cold nights, with quilted bed covers. Decor of a university he never went to but the other occupant did.

And the difference true in his new room—

It is not originally his room.

But it’s a room he shares, one he lives with its first occupant.

Where their clothes line the closet and the dresser together. Where they swap and share shirts and jackets and other clothes. Tight pants and loose jeans and different types of shoes: boots and tennis shoes and flip flops.

But this room, it’s not a museum. It’s not an exhibit.

It’s part of a home.

A home, where many of its pieces and rooms have remained virtually the same. If it is a museum, it is a museum for the testament of a home, of family, of belonging and feeling. Happiness and lows lie among the walls but it’s a place for living.

For the living.

The memories here…

Here, he can touch them and know its history, know its touch is true. The faded, bleached color of the paper behind one of the framed posters in one of the living spaces. The messy scrawl and coloring of a child’s love for their mother. Post it notes for mundane reminders and drawings made of planes, the paper thin and wrinkled, taped on.

And more, much more.

This, this is his place now. His reality, his truth.

Here he is not walking among the dead, he is among the living. The ancestors that remain, do so with loving care, protecting, blessing. They live vivaciously, vibrant. Their remnants are honored and passed on to new descendants and occupants.

And he is fortunate, blessed, to be in such a space. To be invited in, to live in it, to allow it to make a home for him. For him to add to this rich space that existed before him and perhaps will after he is long gone.

It’s a legacy.

A legacy that doesn’t start with him and doesn’t end with him, but one he hopes to protect and help guide on.

In the room where he lives, he is not alone, not like he has been forced to for so long.

No, not alone.

And as he looks down on the other, in the low, morning light, he knows this is where he is meant to be.

Meant to be holding him close, meant to watch over him, the sun’s early rays softening the angles of his face: the slope of his nose, his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Imbuing his dark skin with a glow.

Meant to be loving him with all his heart.

If he is to be remembered, if he is to have another exhibit based on his life, of a room he has lived in—

He wants the world to know of him.

Of the man in his arms. Of his childhood home the man and his sister have allowed him to stay. Of the quilted bed cover they’re under, of the pictures in frames that contain the man’s face, young and older, of family and friends smiling and happy. Of the watch he wears on his wrist when he goes out. The color of the walls.

His memory, how important he is.

And he is important on his own, on his own rights and merits, but he’s important to him. Important to who he is now.

To his heart, his soul, his life. There is no part of him that hasn’t been changed, touched, transformed without the other.

Perhaps, when time has taken them both, if this room becomes a museum of their life, of their love, of the transmutation of their better selves—

That is a legacy worth leaving behind.

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If you like my writing, feel free to check out my writing tag!

[kilannad]

A Court of Decay and Growth

Masterlist

With Amarantha dead and the Hybern War over, Prythian is left to pick up the pieces. For no one is this more apparent than Nesta Archeron and Eris Vanserra. Forced to contend with Court politics, old magic, and another brewing conflict, both must figure out what they truly value--and what they're willing to do for it.

Shout out to @ladyofbloodshed and everyone else posting for @nerisweek who gave me the courage to post this.

Prologue

Ianuarius 7th, 10 years Before Wall, Summer and Autumn Border

It wasn't the first time he'd seen a body.

That was the only thought that Eris focused on, could focus on, as he stepped towards the slumped form, blood so thick in the air it overpowered the wet soil and dying leaves. He might've only been seventeen, but being a Vanserra meant a certain degree of familiarity with such things. The Autumn Court breathed decay; trickling blood watering the great ancient oaks, bones snapping with every crunch of a fallen leaf, flesh and sinew fertilizing the thick rich dirt.

Eris often wondered which had come first: the all-encompassing death of Autumn or the sadistic nature of the High Lord which ruled it. Did the land reflect its master, or did the magic consume who Beron once was until only a creature of fire and misery remained?

Would Eris, when the day came and the flames of his home seeped into his flesh and marrow, turn into just another embodiment of eternal death, a pale imitation of his father?

Niall, one of the five guards accompanying him on this border patrol, swore as he got closer to the body. Only then did Eris register the long golden hair, the young body with its still moving chest, and rasping wet breath. The group spread a little, stepping closer. Nero, technically there to advise Eris though they all knew he was little more than Beron's spy, had a slow grin spreading across his face at what they all beheld. He stepped forward and Eris barely thought to modulate his voice as he ordered;

“Don't touch her.”

One of Nero's slim brown brows raised on his slim narrow face. A weasel, Eris had always thought. Nothing but a conniving weasel. Niall looked about to protest, but Cian, Eris's oldest friend and the only one of this lot he truly trusted, grabbed his shoulder and yanked him out of the way as Eris took slow, deliberate steps forward.

It wasn't a surprise he'd thought her a body. Not with the blood pouring from too many wounds to count. Not with the too-long pauses between her breaths, as if her body had to consider whether it could take another one or not. Not with the three nails spiked into her torso, a curling courtier's cursive declaring her to be Autumn's problem.

Nausea spread through him, his stomach heaving. He recognized some of the wounds and knew what instruments were required to leave marks like that. Had had them used on him, when he was too slow to pick them up himself.

He hadn't wanted a marriage to her, for many reasons. He would've done it though, and tried his best to protect her from his father. Maybe even found some kind of contentment, if not true love or joy. But when he'd heard how she'd gone to an Illyrian to take her maidenhead--when his spies in the Hewn City had passed certain information to him--he'd known she had wanted the marriage even less than him. He'd faced his own consequences for the collapsed engagement; he hadn't considered what her punishment would be. Had assumed that, as the distant niece of the High Lord, she would've had some protection. A fool's thought, and one he should've known better than, considering his own position.

“No one touches her,” he made himself say, cold and unfeeling as the Forest House that made him. “The moment we do, she's our responsibility.” And that, more than anything, terrified him. Eris didn't know all the details of what Beron had planned with Morrigan, but knew it couldn't be good. A female of that much power, leashed to Beron with nowhere to go, would only end badly.

“But--they nailed-” Niall began.

“No one touches her.” Cold, he reminded himself. As cold and unfeeling as the dead. Nero was watching him, would report every word and breath to Beron. He was already on thin ice after publicly turning down the engagement in a way that Beron couldn't go against without acknowledging either Illyrians as full Fae or admitting that a female's value didn't lie in her maidenhead.

Niall's face twisted with disgust, dark eyes near burning, but he kept his mouth shut and let Cian pull him back. Despite himself, despite all the reasons why it was a stupid idea, Eris stepped even closer and looked at Morrigan. At the female that, while he never would've chosen, he once thought he could've found some semblance of peace with.

That beautiful face, covered in blood and poorly healing injuries, stared up bleakly. Something in him twisted as he looked down on her. She'd been desperate to get out of the engagement, and he'd thought he'd been doing her a favor. Eris was many things, but he would never be able to force a female to live with him, in this court of decay that he loved so much. So he asked, in that arrogant drawl that had made her sneer the one and only time they'd met before this, the only way he knew how to speak, “I take it you do not wish to live here, Morrigan.” An honest offer, and one he knew she'd sense the truth of.

Fury and hatred spread across her face, burning in her eyes as brightly as any Autumn flame, tended by each rattling breath. She believed the rumors about him, he knew, each one worse than the last. The whispers that called him his father's heir in all things, a protege of cruelty and pain. For the Morrigan, whose gift was truth, to believe them--

He tucked away the twist in his chest. He did what he had to, to survive. To protect his mother as much as he could. To keep Beron's hands as far away from his little brothers as he could, for as long as he could. It was too late for Calum, but Finnegan, barely more than a toddler--there was hope, if Eris could find a way to protect him. And if that meant Eris becoming his father's creature... well. Let the rumors be true, then.

He made himself smile, made the magic in his veins rise up until he knew his eyes danced with it. “I thought so.” He turned on his heel and forced himself into the picture of casual grace and arrogance that everyone expected of him. Cian's face was perfectly bland, not a sign of what his thoughts were. Good. Niall however--

“We can't just--”

“We can and we will,” Eris insisted. Nero watched closely, eyes flickering between them all, the rest of the males silent. How many of them whispered in his father's ear? How many did Calum, only two years younger but already playing the game so well, pay to stand aside if something or someone attacked Eris?

Beron would be furious at Eris for not bringing her back, for letting a female of such breeding potential go for a second time. There'd be hell to pay for this, but he didn't care. He'd been a fool to think that breaking off the engagement would protect her without consequence, but he could do this one last thing as an apology. Could make sure she'd never fall into Beron's hands. Eris added, “She chose to sully herself; her family chose to deal with her like garbage. I have already told them my decision in this matter.” Nero stared him down, watching and waiting. The pause drew on, and Eris realized he'd been too fair in his words. Too much logic and not enough cruelty. So he looked at Nero as he said, “And I'm not in the habit of fucking Illyrian leftovers.”

Niall tried to protest once more but Cian dragged him into movement, away from Morrigan as Eris ordered them to move. Eris would be made to punish him for his disobedience and would hate himself for being part of stamping down one of the few good males that Autumn had. But he'd do it, as expected.

Nero, with his long weasel face and tight cruel eyes, gave a slow, approving smile.

Quintilis 10th, the day before the Wall falls, High Lord Summit Meeting

It'd been nine days since Eris's secret meeting with the Night Court and in that time none of them had improved their uptight, holier-than-thou attitude. Of course, if they had, Eris would've taken it as a sign that the world was ending.

Autumn was the last delegation to arrive, dismissing Spring, as Beron had intended. He'd contemplated not coming at all, but Eris had advised that it'd be better to know what was said than make a statement by not showing up. Beron had agreed, in the end, but had decided that if they were to make a statement then they should all make an appearance. Eris's mother included, no matter what Eris said against it. Likely the latest in a long line of attempts to see if she had really cuckolded him and if so, with who.

As they neared, Eris could just make out the discussion about Feyre being High Lady and Winter's new Lady making a comment to Kallias. Eris couldn't fathom what had possessed Rhysand to go and break tradition and name himself an equal before magic and law. A human Made fae at that. Kier, in the meeting they'd had privately after the one with the Inner Circle, had spoken plenty about what he called the 'human harlot' and how she'd been introduced to the Hewn City. Why Rhysand, who hadn't managed to command respect from his own capital city in centuries, thought his people would be willing to obey Feyre boggled the mind. Of course, Rhysand had always been too much like his father Llyr in all the worse ways--and too blind to see it.

Eris kept perfectly two steps behind his father and mother as they entered the wide, round meeting room. He gave a sneer at large, careful not to note how his mother's eyes lingered near Helion before twisting away. Careful not to show how badly he wanted to light the golden asshole on fire. Eris hated Helion almost as much as he hated Beron.

Calum, Cormac, and Killian flowed in behind him, each practically vibrating in the hope of violence. Beron hadn't made a secret of how little he respected being called to this meeting like a dog, on how he looked down on the other six High Lords, each younger than him by a century or more. He'd practically told them that he wanted them to cause trouble. Cormac and Killian would act as expected, true feelings damned, though only Killian would feel any guilt over it. Calum, however, had too much of Beron and too little of their mother to be anything but a monster.

When Eris saw him leering at the princess of Summer, her younger brother bristling, the whole room prepared to break out in a brawl before the meeting even started and his father more than willing to let it happen, Eris breathed a sharp, “Enough.”

His brothers fell into line, settling as they always did when Eris gave an order, even Calum. They knew that if Beron disapproved Eris would be the one to get the brunt of the punishment, and that if they disobeyed Eris, he would find his own ways to punish them. Either now or when he ascended the throne.

With lives as long as theirs, they'd learned how to be patient.

He scanned the whole room, marking each face, who spoke with whom. Kallias looked tense as an ice statue, watching Rhysand with barely restrained hatred in his cold eyes. Eris didn't blame him, though his wife and mate seemed more than pleased to ignore the tension and jump back into her friendship with Morrigan. Tarquin, young and untested, wore his curiosity and distaste for Night as openly as Kallias. Of the High Lords, only Helion seemed inclined to seek out Rhysand and his court, but that was as likely as to fuck one of them than for any other reason. Thesan, Eris's personal favorite High Lord, and the only one here that Eris had a working relationship with, remained neutral and calm. Eris gave it all of five minutes before someone started a fight, however.

“It's no surprise that you're tardy, given that your own sons were too slow to catch my mate,” Rhysand drawled. Eris fought the urge to roll his eyes. Make that five seconds instead. “I suppose it runs in the family.”

Eris wished he could be surprised that Rhysand went through all the effort of calling this meeting, of trying to form a coalition of all seven courts and couldn't even be bothered to be polite while asking for them to agree. Llyr, who Eris had met several times in the decades after the Slave War and charitably thought made a brutal--but decent--High Lord, was likely dying a second time from shame in the eternal lands.

“Mate,” Beron drawled, staring intently at Feyre. “And High Lady.”

Feyre's eyes flicked to Eris--stupidly obvious, did she have no sense of how to keep a secret?--but he only gave a slow smile in response. He'd agreed to keep quiet on the topic of her powers, but her rank was an easy tidbit to hand over to his father. He let his eyes drag over the rest of the Inner Circle, trying his damndest not to reveal how much distaste he had for the sham of a government. Cassian, a general their armies didn't respect; Morrigan, a governess in title only who, according to Kier, rarely even bothered to be in the city she nominally ruled; Feyre, the human Made Fae who now had full power over a territory she hadn't even lived in for more than a handful of months. From what his spies had reported, she hadn't ever made an effort to understand Spring or its gentry, and Eris sincerely doubted she'd put in the effort for Night. Of them all, only Azriel had any true qualifications and ability in his duties as Spymaster, though his obsession with Morrigan made him easy to manipulate.

It was the last member of their entourage that caught Eris's eye though. She looked like Feyre, with the same gold-brown hair braided into a coronet, her eyes a similar gray-blue. One of the sisters he'd heard rumors about, though how she'd become High Fae he couldn't guess. Something in her burned though, and he couldn't help the way his eyes caught hers. She didn't flinch from him, didn't lower her imperious gaze a single fraction. If she knew who he was, what he'd done, she didn't let it show. She wore only a simple, elegant blue gown, with no decoration or ornamentation, unlike her sister who dripped with such things. It was no contest, though, on which of them commanded more attention.

He let a flicker of his power rise up, a flaming taunt in his eyes, just to see if she would back down. To his utter delight, her own eyes blazed a flicker of silver, there and gone before anyone else could feel the ancient, powerful magic.

And to his utter horror, Eris felt something behind his ribs--something soul-deep and unshakable--pull taunt.

A few servants offered refreshments and Eris let them serve as a distraction. Anything to look away from the Made female, to hide the tug in his chest.

If Beron knew--

Eris didn't finish the thought. He locked down his mind, let the fire of his mental shields blaze high and refused to let so much as a muscle twitch. He couldn't--wouldn't--let anyone know, refused to have that target end up on her back. The same way he refused Morrigan to protect her, no matter what the Night Court thought, Eris would stay away from this blazing, imperious female to keep her out of his father's hands.

Not like it would be hard, to stay away. The Night Court, despite their new deal, made no secret that they didn't want Eris anywhere near their lands.

“Rhysand,” Thesan began, diplomatic and easy as everyone finished taking their seats. “You called this meeting, pushed us to gather sooner than we intended. Now would be the time to explain what is so urgent.”

Rhysand had the audacity to give a slow blink, as if he couldn't believe Thesan would want clarification on the situation. “Surely the invading armies on our shores explain enough.”

Our shores, Eris noted. Already Rhysand wanted them all to consider Prythian unified, as if everyone in this room didn't have centuries of animosity to hold against each other. As if they didn't have fifty years worth of grievances towards Rhysand specifically.

“So you have called us to do what, exactly?” Helion challenged. “Raise a unified army?”

“Among other things. We--”

Whatever other nonsense Rhysand had planned to spout cut off abruptly as Tamlin, alone and looking half wild, winnowed into the meeting with a bang.

Eris had a shield around his mother in half a second, his brothers following suit for themselves, Beron looking absolutely delighted by the tension snapping around the room. Tamlin ended up settling between Helion and Killian, and Eris shifted his body to be between the last High Lord and his mother, in case Rhysand chose to act on the hatred burning in his too-bright violet eyes.

Eris sat back as they all spat at each other, a room full of the most powerful people in Prythian becoming nothing more than a bunch of bickering children. Eris couldn't honestly say he blamed Tamlin for hating Feyre for what she did to Spring--a stupid, shortsighted decision that would come back to bite Night in the ass in a few years. He did blame him for being so stupid as to make a bargain with Hybern all for the sake of a female that had left him, but what did Eris know of love.

Sitting back did let Eris make note of every word said, every glare and insult exchanged. All information was useful, and knowing what made Prythian's rulers operate would let him make headway in coming years as he tried to rebuild connections in the wake of Amarantha's decimation of the ruling class. So he sat back and didn't let anything show--not as Feyre revealed what happened to her sisters, not as Tamlin implied what said sister did with Cassian or the absolute violence promised in his answering snarl. Not even when Rhysand ripped the very sounds from Tamlin.

Another show of power, another brutal way of playing politics. To show that he could force their hands but chose not to, as if that somehow made him benevolent.

Always with the self-righteous sanctimonious bullshit, Eris thought. He didn't say it though, only angled himself to better guard his mother, reinforcing his shield. Too much was happening, too many ways this could descend into violence. And it would, undoubtedly. The tension had been built too high not to have an outlet, too many old grudges brought up in such a small room with too big personalities. So when Beron asked after Lucien, Eris took his chance and did what he did best: pissed people off.

And Morrigan and Azriel, as always, made it so very easy.

“Good to know after five hundred years,” he said to her, shifting his weight again, away from his mother this time. This would hurt like a bitch. “You still dress like a slut.”

Even quicker than expected, Azriel was on him. Eris lost his breath with the first slam into the ground, and never got it back. Not with the shadowsinger's full weight on him, his rough, scarred hands wrapped tight around Eris's throat. Spots danced in his vision, and he had a brief moment of wondering if he'd finally miscalculated, if this was how Calum became heir, when the hands loosened just enough for him to drag in a gasp of air.

“You're mine,” Azriel hissed in his ear and Eris felt all his blood drain.

Eris got up with as much dignity as he could, and forced the apology past his lips for the sake of this meeting. Everyone settled, slightly, and it seemed that the tension had broken at last, actual strategizing beginning in earnest. Of course, it meant that Eris's least favorite barrier once again came into play--convincing his father to do anything.

Still, Eris didn't dare push too much, not with so many witnesses. He'd pay for the incident with Azriel when they returned home. He could convince his father to take the faebane antidote in the coming days when Beron wasn't so set on playing politics and pretending like the Vanserras were untouchable.

“I don't take orders from the bastards of lesser fae whores,” Beron spat at Cassian. The entire Night Court's attention hyper-focused on Beron, their wrath building in the room so thick that Eris could taste the fire of it on the back of his tongue. Smartly, the rest of the delegations shifted back, Tamlin alone looking delighted at this shift.

“That bastard,” Nesta drawled, utterly cold and more put together than the rest combined, even as her eyes blazed silver once more, “may wind up being the only person standing in the way of Hybern's forces and your people.”

Cassian shifted to look at her, something uncomfortably like awe and desire on his face. Eris didn't consider the implications, not as Beron sneered and Feyre ordered him out. Eris assumed that if Autumn didn't join this alliance that Rhysand would consider their deal void--might even be so petty and short-sided as to tell Beron about it as a way to finally get Eris dead.

Beron, over twelve hundred years old and ill-inclined to listen to females, much less once-human females, ignored her. “Did you know that while your mate was warming Amarantha's bed, most of our people were locked beneath that mountain?” Eris blocked out the memories, the forty-nine years of trying desperately to keep his mother and brothers on the sidelines. The politics and cruelty necessary to earn even a handful of mercies towards Autumn. The towns and farmlands gone, the people dead and buried in a final insult to their cremation practices. He blocked out whatever insults Beron spat, desperately hoping that the Night Court would keep their cool, wouldn't take his taunting as an invitation. Hybern was on their shores and they needed unity if they were to win, surely Feyre and Rhysand knew that--

Eris knew about her powers, but even so, the white-hot flames shocked him, so quick and hot it shattered through his shield with all the power of a High Lady. He didn't care about his own burn, familiar as the feeling was, though at seeing his mother's pale arm red and welted, powers struggling to heal an injury from such powerful magic, he felt his rage climb. He pulled her up and back, closer to his brothers. He didn't bother trying to break the bind Feyre had on Beron, knew that for all his power he'd never break through it, and instead pushed all his magic into a sizzling shield around the rest of his family. His brothers joined, Calum snarling and Cormac looking half ready for a second go at Feyre. Killian hovered over their mother, ready to winnow at a moment's notice.

The Vanserra brothers might all be willing to kill each other, but they could agree that their mother's safety came first.

Eris tried to hide his fury as in a few short seconds the Night Court completely ruined any chance at a united Prythian. It was one thing to argue and mock another High Lord--stupid and arrogant, but nothing that hadn't happened at passed Summits--but to publicly attacked and embarrass, to injure their Lady and Heir, was going too far. Beron would never ally with them now, and would likely strike a deal with Hybern out of sheer spite. Worse, Feyre had revealed her powers.

Beron would demand to know why Eris hadn't told him, and if he claimed ignorance then the punishment would be for his inability to discover them. Rhysand would use this as a chance to back out of his deal with Eris. Assuming Hybern was eventually defeated, all the other High Lords would remember that Autumn didn't help and would hold it against them for the next millennia. Night would delight in the chance to impose new tariffs or to cancel trade with Autumn completely, and Helion and Beron already hated each other. Thesan, while generally neutral, would bend to the other solar courts. Kallias and Tarquin were too new for Eris to guess at their level of pettiness, but with Spring in shambles, he wouldn't be surprised if they used the chance to force renegotiation on their current trade deals.

In a single short-sighted, petty act of revenge, the Night Court had threatened the entire stability of Prythian and--more importantly to Eris--the future of Autumn.

“This meeting is over,” Beron hissed. “I hope Hybern butchers you all.”

“This meeting is not over,” Nesta responded, voice hard as she stood and stared him down. Eris blinked, half worried and half hopeful she'd cross the few feet and strike Beron with that strange silver fire. “You are all there is,” she said, sweeping that burning gaze across all of them. “You are all there is between Hybern and the end of all that is good and decent.” She looked to Beron, gaze sharp and demanding, tall and imperious as she stared down the oldest High Lord as if he were a child. Eris had to force himself to keep breathing, to stay neutral even though something behind his ribs tugged and tugged towards her. “You fought against Hybern in the last war. Why do you refuse to do so now?”

Beron didn't respond, as Eris knew he wouldn't. It'd taken Eris centuries to realize that Llyr had blackmailed Beron into committing to the Rebels, and he doubted anyone else knew the real reason, the secret that Beron killed to keep quiet.

In the silence that followed, Eris gestured his brothers down, retaking his own seat when his mother settled next to him. Nesta caught the movement, silver banking in her eyes. He stared her down, tilting his head only a fraction. You've caught our attention, he tried to tell her, now make it count.

“You may hate us,” she started. Us, Eris noted. She still thought of herself as human. “I don't care if you do. But I do care if you let innocents suffer and die. At least stand for them. Your people. For Hybern will make an example of them. Of all of us.” She gave it a moment, to let her words sink in, before turning to the Winter Court. “I am sorry for the loss of those children. The loss of one is abhorrent. But beneath the wall, I witnessed children--entire families--starving to death. Were it not for my sister, I'd be among them.” Eris hadn't been south of the wall since it went up, and he couldn't imagine life with magic. Knew it would be hard, near impossible. “If you fight for anything--fight now, to protect those you forgot. Let them know they're not forgotten. Just this once.”

“While a noble sentiment,” Thesan offered, “The Treaty did not demand we provide for our human neighbors. We were to leave them alone, and we obeyed.”

“The past is the past,” she said. “What I care about is the road ahead. What I care about is making sure no children--human or fae--are harmed. You have been entrusted with protecting this land.” Nesta stared each High Lord down, Tamlin and even Rhysand included. Not a single court unrepresented. “How can you not fight for it?”

For a long, drawn-out moment no one spoke. Nesta did not buckle under the weight of it, stood tall and proud as any ancient tree, the power in her veins pale in comparison to the power of her presence. A queen, Eris thought. More deserving of a crown and kingdom than any Lord or Lady in the room.

“I will consider it,” Beron finally said, and winnowed away with his family. Eris stayed though, allowed himself two heartbeats to stare at the imposing figure Nesta Archeron made. He wondered, brief and fleeting, what she'd look like crowned and enthroned in autumn red and gold. A future he'd never see, Eris knew, because he'd never force her into his pit of vipers, as his mother had been.

But he could fight, he thought, as she'd demanded. Would rally Autumn's forces quietly until Beron could be convinced to see sense. She'd already paid for this war with her humanity--he could offer blood and fire for her in return. A courting gift she'd never know about.

He kept his eyes on her for the full two heartbeats he allowed himself, meeting her stare unflinchingly.

Then Eris offered his mate the slightest dip of his chin and winnowed away.

December 22nd, Year 0 After Wall, Band of Exiles' Manor

Eris Vanserra stretched himself across the overly stuffed, pink couch and sipped daintily at the poorly brewed tea Lucien had shoved into his hands. In the months since the wall had fallen and Hybern's king had been killed, Eris had found quite a few things in his life changing, but having both an excuse and the ability to visit his youngest brother was something to be grateful for. Not that Lucien seemed to think so.

Each time Eris visited the 'Band of Exiles', Lucien offered only the bare minimum courtesy in the most passive-aggressive ways he could come up with. Which, for a court-trained, centuries-old courtier, were quite numerous. Bad tea, however, was not enough to get Eris to leave Lucien alone.

“You know, if you need me to bring you some supplies Lulu--”

“Don't call me that,” Lucien snapped, the fire in the hearth crackling merrily in time with the snap of his teeth. “Drink your tea and get out Eris.”

“Tsk tsk, what manners.” Eris took a pointed sip at the tea which had barely been brewed enough to be considered such. Mostly it was just tepid water with what might have been finely shredded lettuce in it. Eris considered using his powers to heat it up so at least it'd be warm water with shredded lettuce in it, but that was considered insulting in the Autumn Court.

Eris, unlike some people, had manners.

“Go choke on your manners,” Lucien muttered. Upstairs, Queen Vassa moaned obscenely loudly at whatever Jurian was doing to her. Lucien, having gone feral apparently, didn't so much as blink.

“Found a better use for his finger, did he?” Eris drawled.

Lucien narrowed his eye, the other whirling in its socket as it scanned him. Looking for spells or glamors or anything else to hold against Eris. When he found nothing, for there was nothing to find, he demanded, “Why are you here, Eris?”

“Can't I check up on my baby brother after the Winter Solstice?” he purred. Lucien only stared, silent, so with a put-upon sigh, Eris pulled a folded letter out of his jacket pocket. Lucien didn't touch it, so Eris placed it on the low table between them and slid it over. “From mother.”

That got a reaction, as he knew it would. Much as Lucien might pretend he had no more connections to Autumn, any mention of Niamh Vanserra was sure to get his attention. His golden eye clicked and spun as he leaned forward, unfolding the paper only long enough to recognize the handwriting before tucking it away again.

With his own sigh, Lucien disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a steaming pot of chai--Eris's favorite.

“Is he allowing her letters?” Lucien asked.

“No,” Eris responded shortly, letting Lucien pour. He didn't need to say more for Lucien to understand how difficult it had been for Eris to smuggle a letter from their mother to him and how impossible a response would be.

“Tell her I love her,” he murmured, and Eris offered only a nod in response. It wouldn't be hard to slip such a message into idle conversation with her. They were all used to double talk.

They settled into silence, as much of a truce as they could manage. Already though it was a thousand times better than the first time Eris had visited, a month after the war which had devolved into a fist fight followed by an evening of drunken bonding. It hadn't fixed their relationship by any means, and they hadn't talked about Jesminda. Still, Eris took it as an invitation to stop by when he liked and Lucien did nothing to stop him but be a terrible host.

Eris thought this might be how normal siblings interacted.

“How was your Solstice?” Eris asked after some time.

“Fine,” he responded tightly. “And before you ask, no, I will not be telling you all of the Night Court's secrets. Nothing is discussed much with me anyway.”

“I don't understand why you're working for them anyway. Spring needs to be pulled back together before Calanmai.”

“No one in Spring trusts me. With General Adair dead during the war, there's no one to champion Tamlin except the Lieutenants and they're all too busy fighting amongst themselves over fixing damages and finding homes for the displaced to be worried about uniting the Court. They all see me as a Night Court spy these days, and have started realizing what Feyre did and rightfully hate her for it.”

“Then make them see sense,” Eris insisted. Lucien snorted so he pushed on. “Beron's taken notice of Tamlin's refusal to enforce borders and he's started taking it as an invitation. He's about to make Spring a dependent of Autumn if not absorb it completely.”

“The other Courts would never allow it,” Lucien pointed out. “He'd be bringing war from all sides.”

“Would he? I've been sent to discuss trade deals with Kallias, and he's willing to do quite a bit if it means securing fair prices for food for his people.” That at least had been a blessing. Kallias cared too much about feeding his citizens to hold Autumns role--or lack thereof--against them.

Lucien had the brains to look concerned, brow furrowing as he considered the implications. “He wouldn't stand with Autumn if it meant defending you from the solar courts. He cares about his people too much to turn his land into a war zone. Besides, even if he did, Summer would still be on this side of his borders.”

“Summer's High Lord hasn't seen a century yet and has several distant cousins that would make fantastic puppets on the throne,” Eris pointed out.

“You can't be serious,” Lucien laughed. When Eris didn't join in he only laughed harder. “Beron doesn't seriously think he could assassinate Tarquin--and Varian by the way--without drawing attention to himself.”

“He was more than willing to kill for his throne,” Eris reminded Lucien. “What makes you think he won't kill for someone else's?”

Beron Vanserra's rise to the throne was still told as a cautionary tale in Autumn, though Eris had heard it from the cradle, phrased as something to aspire to.

The only son from High Lord Aymer's short and tragic first marriage to a commoner high fae whose name was no longer remembered, Beron killed his three half-siblings, two uncles, aunt, and six cousins in various assassinations before killing Aymer himself to get the throne. Of all the Vanserra family tree, only the Vanka branch was allowed to live, being removed by four generations and having produced only females in the most recent two generations. When Beron decided he needed a wife to secure an heir, several hundred years after murdering his way to the throne, he took the youngest Vanka daughter in order to 'make amends'.

As far as Eris knew, only three people had ever found out the truth of why Beron had needed to marry Niamh. He happened to be one of them, the very dead Llyr another.

“Systematically poisoning and slaughtering relatives through a Blood Duel is a little different than targetting foreign dignitaries,” Lucien pointed out, but he sounded doubtful. “Still, I get your worry. I just don't know what you want me to do about it.”

“What does Night have you doing?”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “What point of I'm not going to reveal Night's secrets don't you get?”

“This isn't revealing Night's secrets,” Eris drawled. “This is sharing vital intelligence with an ally for the good of Prythian.”

Lucien sneezed loudly, once, twice. “Sorry,” he finished with a deep breath. “My bullshit allergy seems to be acting up.”

Despite himself, Eris felt his lips twitch. Every now and again he was reminded why Lucien had always been his favorite. “Come now, Lulu. At least tell me you've visited.”

“I was there yesterday if it'll get you to shut up. To celebrate the Solstice.”

“I hope Feyre didn't attack you for whatever gift you got that pretty mate of yours.”

Hurt flickered across his face, there and gone, and Eris fought the urge to scowl. Elain Archeron, despite all reports to the contrary, was a cruel bitch for leaving Lucien out to dry. If she found herself unable to love Lucien, then Eris wouldn't have said a word against her if she'd simply rejected the bond and been done with it. He would've mourned that chance for his brother but could've understood that the mating instinct was a flawed system. The fact that she refused to give Lucien the time of day but wouldn't break the bond--to constantly dangle the possibility without any intent to truly give mating a consideration--that Eris found unforgivable.

“Please,” Lucien said with a snort after a short moment. “Nesta's the violent one of the sisters, and she's in no mindset for such things.”

“What do you mean?” Eris demanded, attention caught. The female from the Summit had seemed unbreakable, the sort of person that could always get vicious and violent and would delight in it.

“She's been quieter since the war. Got her own apartment in the poor part of town, only comes to dinners when Feyre drags her.” Lucien frowned, scars pulling tight with the movement. “She's thinner, now that I think about it. And near constantly drinking.”

“She sounds like she has battle shock,” Eris pointed out, placing his cup down.

He tried not to think about Nesta, though he was about as successful with that as he was with killing his father. He felt little from the rope of flame attached to his ribs--mostly just cold, with the occasional spike of pleasure which told him her bed was staying warm at least. Eris tried not to care about it, since he preferred her alive and fucking someone else than fucking him and dead at Beron's hands for it. As long as she was happy, he told himself, than it didn't matter that he'd take the secret of his mate to his grave.

“I hadn't considered it,” Lucien murmured slowly. “When Feyre came out from that mountain, she was--not loud, that's the wrong word. She had days when she'd sleep until noon and wouldn't speak a word, but it was clear what she needed. She told us what she needed, though to my shame I never managed to get it for her. Nesta hasn't been like that though.”

“Has it occurred to you that they're different people,” Eris snapped. Lucien's brow raised and he took a small breath to regain control. He'd been barely twenty when the Slave War started, young enough not to be taken seriously, but old enough to be put on the battlefield. Especially with two little brothers to take his place as heir. It'd taken nearly a decade to get past the horrors he'd seen, to be able to wake up without wondering where he was and whose blood coated his hands. Even now, he sometimes still woke up remembering the Xian Masacre.

What was it like for Nesta, who'd been raised the eldest daughter of a human merchant, and never expected to see more than a monthly cycle's worth of blood?

“It's occurred to me that it's none of my business,” Lucien said finally. “If anyone should be helping Nesta, it's Cassian.”

“The bastard?” Eris had heard the rumors about Nesta and Cassian. After half a battlefield had watched him abandon his legion for her, everyone had something to say about the Lord of Bloodshed and the Made female. Eris had always comforted himself with knowing that, whatever else happened, it couldn't be as serious or romantic as everyone whispered about.

Never mind that another female had, once more, chosen Cassian over Eris.

“She's his mate.”

“Bullshit,” Eris spat before he could stop himself. Lucien's eyebrow climbed higher, metal eye focusing on him further. Eris added, “A lesser faerie bastard with a female like her? Cauldron Made and burning with power? I don't believe it.”

“Well everyone else does,” Lucien said. “They don't say it, since I don't know if the bond has snapped for her, but it's heavily implied. Cassian is certain of it, though he doesn't go near her. Trying to give her space, I think.”

Eris didn't believe it. Not that he'd doubt Lucien, but he'd never heard of someone having two mates. Then again, no one knew the last time the Cauldron Made a human into fae, either.

If Nesta had Cassian as a mate--it was safer. Rhysand had already proved he'd do anything for his mate and family. Besides, Beron would never even think to guess that she was Eris's mate if the world knew her as Cassian's. She'd be taken care of, near her sisters, safe for the rest of her immortal life from Beron and Autumn Court politics.

If this was true--and a big fucking if--then it seemed to answer all of Eris's problems. She deserved a hell of a lot more than Cassian, and Eris hoped she'd make the bastard crawl before she accepted the bond, but she could be happy. Surely, surrounded as she was with a functional family, self-righteous assholes they might be, she'd get the help to overcome her battle shock.

Eris should leave her alone, to live her life as he'd planned. Ignore the flares of passion that tugged at his chest. Forget everything Lucien had just said about her, about her becoming thin and quiet. He had no right to involve himself in her life.

He wouldn't turn into Beron, keeping a female on such a tight leash they couldn't even receive letters.

Eris lasted two seconds before he summoned pen and paper with a flicker of power.

“What are you doing?” Lucien asked warily.

“Can't you tell, brother dearest? I'm writing a letter,” Eris responded pleasantly.

Lucien, the clever little fox, looked worried.

[unknownjpegs]

cute

He finds the wounded soldier in the thin alley of a downtown city turned war zone. There is the steady firework like sound of guns in the distance, his fingers swiftly turning down the crackling comm at his shoulder—mingled with the unstoppable and terrifying atmosphere of radianites somewhere, fighting. Smoke makes the otherwise bright mid afternoon sun a dull, lifeless corpse in the sky. No clouds. Just the smear of two universes colliding for one resource that is worth the scattered destruction.

Xavier stands at the mouth of the alleyway as the soldiers stares at him. His hand is sealed over a wound at his hip. There isn’t enough blood that it’s lethal—maybe. Unless he can’t get up, find cover, or be rescued by whatever team he might have left when Xavier’s unit is done. He’s not injured, but the evidence of fighting is still there. Dusty rubble on his all black gear. There’s a rip over the side of his black balaclava, red hair poking out like an outburst of fire. His arms are sore, but the sledgehammer is tied neatly to his back again.

Jesus, he thinks. I want to go home.

“Fuck you,” the solider barks, surprisingly sturdy with it. He’s aiming an empty handgun at Xavier. He only knows it’s empty because he’s been staring at this soldier for a long minute, watching as he fumbles out an empty medic bag, as he checks the slide on his handgun, as he slaps the heel of his palm to his forehead and swears under his breath. His accent is muddied and rough. For a while, Xavier’s been trying to place it—he’s pretty good at that. He likes geography.

Glass from a broken window crunches underneath his heavy boots as he walks down the alley. There is a distant sssss like a smoke grenade has been released. The sky lights up briefly green, but the smoke is downwind. Avoids them. The soldier twists a bit, raises the gun more—he’d have an accurate shot. He’d get Xavier right in the head—he has to respect that. Not useless then, just abandoned. Bloody in an alley. Medic used all his medic supplies on others.

Xavier stops only a few footsteps away, his own rifle in his hands. Not aimed yet.

“Well? Fuckin’ do it then—coward. Dickhead,” the wounded one snaps and throws the gun. It hits Xavier in the shoulder, clattering against the ground. In the hazy smoked out sunlight, the enemy looks washed out and exhausted. Sweat makes black curly hair cling to dark brown skin. There are deep bruises underneath big, pretty eyes. The cement beneath him is dark red, smudged, with the way he’d sunk down. He doesn’t look small, even though Xavier is standing at his full height and the enemy is sitting. Injured.

“Need help figurin’ it out, arsehole? The little trigger there, you just aim up that stupid fuckin’ rifle—”

“Do you ever shut up?” Xavier asks, his gloved hand tearing off his balaclava. His sweaty, messy hair sticks up in all directions. His skin is wet with the perspiration, so he wipes a palm across his face. He’s smiling too, that big, nasty wolf like grin that has earned him so much of a reputation. It’s too wide on his long face, shows too much of his teeth.

“Your mum,” the downed soldier snips coldly. His eyes narrow suspiciously, his hand briefly unsealing from his hip wound. He turns pale at that—which makes Xavier wonder what his skin might look like flush and full of life and blood and energy. The hand presses down again.

“Mum,” Xavier imitates as he rips the pack from his side. He approaches and kneels swiftly. There’s a distinct shhhhhk sound and he feels the cold press of a blade to his exposed throat. For a brief moment, the survival instinct pressing inside his skull from some ancient, never lost caveman era has him thinking of violence. Slamming the man forward, wrenching the knife, breaking a wrist.

Instead, he continues to unzip his pack. The knife doesn’t move. His eyes glance up briefly and his smile curls wider. The soldier is staring at him, pupils dilated so wide he looks drugged. Xavier tilts his head to the side somewhat, clicks his tongue.

“You know,” he pulls materials out the bag. “I’m shitty at this.”

“Yeah? You look it, mate. Why are you—”

Xavier wraps a hand around the others wrist, slowly pulls it away from the injury to his hip. He can’t see too well with the gear, plastered to the skin, glued by the tacky, drying blood. He scoots closer and feels the knife slowly slide away. He doesn’t pay it any attention as he gently (he hasn’t been gentle in a long time) peels up the under shirt to reveal a deep and unfortunate knife wound.

“Oh,” he says. “Wow. That fucking sucks.”

“It’s missed the important bits.”

“You don’t say,” Xavier says with a lurid, sarcastic drag of his eyes south of the wound. He wiggles his brows a bit—and is stunned when the soldier laughs. It’s a bitten off sound accompanied by a groan, a hand moving back to the wound. Xavier gets closer still. The smell of sweat and blood and gunpowder is overwhelming, when he should be all too used to it. The distant fighting seems to die away at the sound of the man breathing. He uses his teeth to rip into an alcohol pad and start cleaning at the wound.

Silence falls for a moment. Silence except their breathing. Then—

“Xavier,” he says, tearing open the fancy skin-like pad that covers wounds, keeps them clean. Promotes healing; this level of advancement has always unnerved Xavier. He slowly uses his palm to cup and squeeze it over the soldiers hip. His hand stays there for a moment. Maybe longer than a moment. If he didn’t have his glove on, they’d be skin to skin like that.

“Benji.”

“Really?” Xavier smiles again, brows turned upward.

“What?” His hands are suddenly shoved away, the enemy soldier trying to adjust himself against the wall. His cheeks have more color to them then, a little pinch of a dark red, splotchy and high on his cheekbones. His dark brows tuck together and the menacing sit of his lips is a sneer—but he’s pretty. He’s very pretty, even when he’s staring at Xavier like that. He has eyelashes too long and full. A dark curl sticks to his cheek.

“Just—it’s a cute name. I guess. Wasn’t expecting it.”

He stands then. Xavier is willowy tall, all legs. He puts a hand to the wall, leaning his weight there a bit. He casts a shadow down on the soldier, the sun behind him. He stares down as Benji stares up.

“Guess I’ll see you around, Benji,” he says, with a cocky wink.

“We probably shouldn’t,” the soldier replies.

“No, I got a feeling, you know?” Xavier walks backward as he talks, unslings his rifle from his shoulder. He checks it, inspects the chamber, glances out the end of the alley. More green has appeared in the sky, smearing the view. “Plus, I’m recognizable now. No one forgets a ginger.” He points to the mess of red, sweat damp hair.

“Red heads aren’t my type, mate.”

“Man, bullshit. Red heads are everyones type.”

The crash sound of something big and heavy has Xavier retreating without another word. All fun depleted as he sets himself to running toward the rest of the fighting, at a savage and hard pace. His hand, shaky and awkward turning his comms back on.

That was the last of his supplies.

[skxrbrand]

As with most of her missions that turn this bloody, she is alone — or at least not immediately accompanied by Revenant forces. It is an absolute bloodbath; the Hyena has carved a trail of gore straight through the facility’s would-be security team to the loading bay. They’d evidently known there would be trouble and had deployed some unspecified Tyrant variant to guard the trucks…for what good that had done them. The BOW, too, is left in a bloody heap. Hawker is too fast and too quick with a knife (and Uroboros’s caustic hunger) for a large, lumbering adversary, and departs the fallen and twitching corpse to finish her massacre.

The blood-rage fades enough, eventually, for her to realize she isn’t alone. It isn’t the sort of presence she’s used to, but it does elicit a deep growl inappropriate for something mostly human-shaped (mostly, because the oily black biomass of her mutation still coat her right shoulder and side like jagged and slithering armor, tendrils deployed deep into the nourishing guts of a corpse whose wriggling and whimpering is probably mostly dying neurotransmitters.

She detects motion and the rumble rises into a warning snarl, razor teeth on display.

Tyrants. Man-made creatures, supposedly made for war. But to the Architect, they are nothing but pale imitations of true chaotic violence assembled by fat-fingered children. Bio-weapons. Ha! What are the mutants of man to the those spawned haphazardly by chaos?

The Daemonic presence is both familiar and foreign, aura and scent both. Surely, it is a monster come to bear down on Hawke but not one of the brothers. Red of flesh, hulking and misshapen, shambling forth with an almost obscene swell of muscular arms and legs. The head, though certainly there, is hard to make out: a hellish mish-mash of man and bovine and beast that tormented the eye to look upon.

But worse yet, the creature isn't alone. Several more of them, equally disgusting in their own unique ways, seem to detect her through whatever senses managed to survive in their ravaged bodies. It would appear so much bloodshed in the presence of so much Khornate Corruption has it's consequences.

Consequences that surge hungrily towards Hawke, muscles bulged and clawed fingers at the end of trunk-like arms outstretched...

[light-miracles]

Loppy babysitting newborn lin and suyin after their births bc i have loppy and momma!toph brainrot

!!!! The brainrot is real!!!

When Lin was born, Toph was totally prepared for the fact that she'd have to hire a babysitter to take care of her when she was at work. And it wasn't a big deal, Katara had even recommended a couple of nannies.

Four days later her father is on her doorstep (how the hell did he get here so fast Gaoling is on the other side of the continent) saying things like 'Oh Earthen Fire needed me here I guess I'll have to spend more time in Republic City' or something like that. He's talking very fast and Toph isn't very good at paying attention to him (old habits die hard) but then her dad says something like 'If you have to go to work, don't worry, I will take care of my granddaughter' 'Actually I was going to hire a babysitter' and Toph can swear she heard the moment her father *went pale*. After fifteen long minutes listening to a thesis about the downsides of babysitters, which included arguments like 'You can't trust babysitters because they're basically strangers', 'Would you trust a complete stranger with all your savings? Then why would you trust them with your baby?' 'You didn't have babysitters and turned out pretty well', 'Spies from Ba Sing Se', 'Inflation on the rise', Toph is ready to give up and let her father take care of Lin for a few hours. Anything to shut him up.

But oh boy Toph didn't expect him to be the perfect babysitter. Lao laid his eyes on baby Lin once and *fell in love*. He has what Katara calls *baby fever*. To Lao, Lin looks like if someone had shrunk Poppy and he can't help but adore this tiny human who has Poppy's beauty and his last name. He hasn't felt like this since Toph was a baby, but this time there's no war out there and he's older and wiser. He's not afraid and he can enjoy the wonder and the warmth of having a baby in his arms.

Toph thinks he's senile, but Poppy tells her that he's just Like That™ with babies. He has always liked children much more than adults.

So Lin's birth marks a new beginning for the family, the happiest they will ever be. Lin is loved by everyone, and having the help and support of her parents and her friends makes being a single mother not as difficult as Toph first feared. Lin is a happy baby and then she becomes a happy child. She likes to play with Tenzin, study with her grandfather, practice Earthbending with her mommy and have them tell her stories or sing to her at night.

When Suyin is born, the family has to make a little adjustment and organize better, because since the city is growing, and that means that both the police and Earthen Fire have more to do, Toph and Lao have less free time. But since some of them are still strongly nannyphobic (*Lao*) then Poppy is the one who helps Toph take care of Suyin when she has to go out to chase down dangerous criminals.

Unlike Lin, Suyin is a difficult baby, who cries a lot and doesn't eat things she doesn't like. She doesn't sleep easily either, and many times Poppy has to rock her for hours before she falls asleep. Yet she loves every second of it. Nobody ever talks about it, but before Toph was born she suffered some miscarriages, and her trauma over it affected her relationship with Toph for most of her childhood. Somehow, holding Suyin in her arms had finally healed that wound that she had insistently ignored for nearly forty years. And when Suyin smiles *that* way for the first time (Toph's smile, Lao's smile), Poppy realizes that her granddaughter has probably become her favorite person. That Suyin later turns into such a fun and charming girl is a direct result of imitating her grandmother's negotiating skills. Suyin loves Grandma Poppy and Grandma Poppy loves Suyin.

Bonus: Toph is also spoiled more often, despite being almost forty years old. Her father invites her to lunch on Mondays because their schedules coincide (and if he always buys her favorite desserts, Toph doesn't complain). Poppy likes fashion and is always buying her new clothes. Toph doesn't complain either.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

coward

wc: 1286 au: valorant au ch: xavier, benji

He finds the wounded soldier in the thin alley of a downtown city turned war zone. There is the steady firework like sound of guns in the distance, his fingers swiftly turning down the crackling comm at his shoulder—mingled with the unstoppable and terrifying atmosphere of radianites somewhere, fighting. Smoke makes the otherwise bright mid afternoon sun a dull, lifeless corpse in the sky. No clouds. Just the smear of two universes colliding for one resource that is worth the scattered destruction.

Xavier stands at the mouth of the alleyway as the soldiers stares at him. His hand is sealed over a wound at his hip. There isn’t enough blood that it’s lethal—maybe. Unless he can’t get up, find cover, or be rescued by whatever team he might have left when Xavier’s unit is done. He’s not injured, but the evidence of fighting is still there. Dusty rubble on his all black gear. There’s a rip over the side of his black balaclava, red hair poking out like an outburst of fire. His arms are sore, but the sledgehammer is tied neatly to his back again.

Jesus, he thinks. I want to go home.

“Fuck you,” the solider barks, surprisingly sturdy with it. He’s aiming an empty handgun at Xavier. He only knows it’s empty because he’s been staring at this soldier for a long minute, watching as he fumbles out an empty medic bag, as he checks the slide on his handgun, as he slaps the heel of his palm to his forehead and swears under his breath. His accent is muddied and rough. For a while, Xavier’s been trying to place it—he’s pretty good at that. He likes geography.

Glass from a broken window crunches underneath his heavy boots as he walks down the alley. There is a distant sssss like a smoke grenade has been released. The sky lights up briefly green, but the smoke is downwind. Avoids them. The soldier twists a bit, raises the gun more—he’d have an accurate shot. He’d get Xavier right in the head—he has to respect that. Not useless then, just abandoned. Bloody in an alley. Medic used all his medic supplies on others.

Xavier stops only a few footsteps away, his own rifle in his hands. Not aimed yet.

“Well? Fuckin’ do it then—coward. Dickhead,” the wounded one snaps and throws the gun. It hits Xavier in the shoulder, clattering against the ground. In the hazy smoked out sunlight, the enemy looks washed out and exhausted. Sweat makes black curly hair cling to dark brown skin. There are deep bruises underneath big, pretty eyes. The cement beneath him is dark red, smudged, with the way he’d sunk down. He doesn’t look small, even though Xavier is standing at his full height and the enemy is sitting. Injured.

“Need help figurin’ it out, arsehole? The little trigger there, you just aim up that stupid fuckin’ rifle—”

“Do you ever shut up?” Xavier asks, his gloved hand tearing off his balaclava. His sweaty, messy hair sticks up in all directions. His skin is wet with the perspiration, so he wipes a palm across his face. He’s smiling too, that big, nasty wolf like grin that has earned him so much of a reputation. It’s too wide on his long face, shows too much of his teeth.

“Your mum,” the downed soldier snips coldly. His eyes narrow suspiciously, his hand briefly unsealing from his hip wound. He turns pale at that—which makes Xavier wonder what his skin might look like flush and full of life and blood and energy. The hand presses down again.

“Mum,” Xavier imitates as he rips the pack from his side. He approaches and kneels swiftly. There’s a distinct shhhhhk sound and he feels the cold press of a blade to his exposed throat. For a brief moment, the survival instinct pressing inside his skull from some ancient, never lost caveman era has him thinking of violence. Slamming the man forward, wrenching the knife, breaking a wrist.

Instead, he continues to unzip his pack. The knife doesn’t move. His eyes glance up briefly and his smile curls wider. The soldier is staring at him, pupils dilated so wide he looks drugged. Xavier tilts his head to the side somewhat, clicks his tongue.

“You know,” he pulls materials out the bag. “I’m shitty at this.”

“Yeah? You look it, mate. Why are you—”

Xavier wraps a hand around the others wrist, slowly pulls it away from the injury to his hip. He can’t see too well with the gear, plastered to the skin, glued by the tacky, drying blood. He scoots closer and feels the knife slowly slide away. He doesn’t pay it any attention as he gently (he hasn’t been gentle in a long time) peels up the under shirt to reveal a deep and unfortunate knife wound.

“Oh,” he says. “Wow. That fucking sucks.”

“It’s missed the important bits.”

“You don’t say,” Xavier says with a lurid, sarcastic drag of his eyes south of the wound. He wiggles his brows a bit—and is stunned when the soldier laughs. It’s a bitten off sound accompanied by a groan, a hand moving back to the wound. Xavier gets closer still. The smell of sweat and blood and gunpowder is overwhelming, when he should be all too used to it. The distant fighting seems to die away at the sound of the man breathing. He uses his teeth to rip into an alcohol pad and start cleaning at the wound.

Silence falls for a moment. Silence except their breathing. Then—

“Xavier,” he says, tearing open the fancy skin-like pad that covers wounds, keeps them clean. Promotes healing; this level of advancement has always unnerved Xavier. He slowly uses his palm to cup and squeeze it over the soldiers hip. His hand stays there for a moment. Maybe longer than a moment. If he didn’t have his glove on, they’d be skin to skin like that.

“Benji.”

“Really?” Xavier smiles again, brows turned upward.

“What?” His hands are suddenly shoved away, the enemy soldier trying to adjust himself against the wall. His cheeks have more color to them then, a little pinch of a dark red, splotchy and high on his cheekbones. His dark brows tuck together and the menacing sit of his lips is a sneer—but he’s pretty. He’s very pretty, even when he’s staring at Xavier like that. He has eyelashes too long and full. A dark curl sticks to his cheek.

“Just—it’s a cute name. I guess. Wasn’t expecting it.”

He stands then. Xavier is willowy tall, all legs. He puts a hand to the wall, leaning his weight there a bit. He casts a shadow down on the soldier, the sun behind him. He stares down as Benji stares up.

“Guess I’ll see you around, Benji,” he says, with a cocky wink.

“We probably shouldn’t,” the soldier replies.

“No, I got a feeling, you know?” Xavier walks backward as he talks, unslings his rifle from his shoulder. He checks it, inspects the chamber, glances out the end of the alley. More green has appeared in the sky, smearing the view. “Plus, I’m recognizable now. No one forgets a ginger.” He points to the mess of red, sweat damp hair.

“Red heads aren’t my type, mate.”

“Man, bullshit. Red heads are everyones type.”

The crash sound of something big and heavy has Xavier retreating without another word. All fun depleted as he sets himself to running toward the rest of the fighting, at a savage and hard pace. His hand, shaky and awkward turning his comms back on.

That was the last of his supplies.

[mirrorofliterature]

ron & percy: some sunday evening thoughts

brought to you by your local percy weasley lover who is fond of all the weasley siblings and regards their parents with a healthy dose of scepticism who is currently in italy.

okay, italy aside, let’s get into some rambly thoughts.

so I’ve mentioned a few times ron & percy’s similarities and parallels: their tempers, appearances.

and well, admittedly the only time I’ve substantially written ron in my writing has not been in the most flattering light.

and I want to explain myself, as I do genuinely love ron. he’s not my favourite character, but he is a character I quite like + an interesting and lovable character who gets way too much hate. it’s a bit of a long scene, but not that long, so I’m going to extract it in fall under the read more to save people’s dashes.

A fortnight after Fred’s funeral, sparks fly between Ron and Percy, barely not literally.

Percy had come for lunch, after firmly refusing their mother’s requests to move back in, and he had offhandedly mentioned Harry.

How is he?

Ron, who has been an unlit tank of gasoline lately, took that as a challenge.

Why would you care? Wasn’t he a ‘bad influence’ who was ‘clearly deranged’?

Percy snaps back: don’t be so immature, Ronald.

The full name, the belittlement, cracks Ron’s composure completely, and he decides to come, claws out, for his brother.

It’s a thought that flits across Ginny’s mind less than some people may think: my brother is an asshole .

But it does occur, and often it’s flippant, meaningless, yet now -

“What do you know about the war,” Ron says, with an ugly sneer, “you didn’t fight in it.”

Here, this is deliberately meant to be misplaced insecurity (well, even if I left harry and hermione, at least I did more than percy, who I was told was a thousands time better than me for most of my adolosence [don’t compare your kids, not healthy]).

Percy’s face is bright, furious, as his ears redden. “I fought in the battle.”

Ron scoffs, crossing his arms. “And what else?”

Ginny loves Ron, but he has been so isolated this past year, barely peeking into the horror of Hogwarts or the shitstorm at the Ministry.

Ron forgets, sometimes, that he is not the only one deeply, irredeemably traumatised by the last year in his family.

“More than you know,” Percy retorts, tight-lipped, before spinning on the spot, the resounding crack loud.

The following silence is even louder.

Ron has quietened, now pale-faced. Percy gone, his rage dies, and remorse dawns on his face. He pulls at his already dishevelled hair. “Shit,” he says, a wild look in his blue eyes, “what did I just do?”

Ginny rolls her eyes, in a way that tries and fails to imitate only annoyance at her brother’s careless words, not fear.

So this scene was written quite early on in the drafting process.

Ron struggles to deal with negative emotions productively and this is just after the war - his brother just died, he was on the run for one year - he’s a live wire, basically. Very traumatised, a mild touch of survivor’s guilt and guilt from abandoning Harry and Hermione for a while, and he’s not getting the help he needs. Ron is grieving and angry and hurt - and I decided to write that as Ron with his temper very reactive, very quick to respond and fight, and still struggling with his own perceived abandonment by Percy - because although Ron may have tried to hide it, he was deeply hurt by Percy’s betrayal.

I think, ultimately, that Percy and Ron would repair their relationship, but it would take time. I closed their interactions off with this:

He peers at her, suspiciously. “Oliver told Ron to fuck off, so I didn’t get to speak with him, not really.”

Because Oliver is deeply protective of Percy, who probably came home a little mess from his brother (accidentally or not) targeting his biggest insecurities.

And then another mention here:

Repairing her relationship with Percy is tentative, but Percy is earnest, much more willing to take steps towards intimacy with her than he is even with Ron.

Even with Ron suggests a certain closeness or intimacy between the two - and I think that as much Ron griped about Percy, I do think that it’s pretty typical sibling stuff and that Percy was probably one of the most reliable people in Ron’s life for years - who may not have been the most fun, yes, but who would stick up for and support Ron, and when he stopped that, Ron was deeply hurt. He takes things very personally (see Harry and the Goblet of Fire situation). And, of course, in Ron’s eyes, Percy didn’t trust/believe Harry. (I’ve discussed previously how I view Percy’s break from his family ultimately stemming from a deep distrust for Dumbledore and broken interpersonal dynamics and Harry was just the convenient explanation, but I digress.) And Harry was Ron’s best friend, ride-or-die. Of course it cut deeply and their relationship is probably going to take a while to repair, but I think they have the potential for a close relationship after the war.

A lot of their friction - as seen in the fight above - is that they are too similar. Similar tempers, particularly, similar insecurities, but they express themselves differently.

Final interaction, at Ginny’s graduation ceremony, is this:

Percy, ever the courteous one, reprimands Ron with a stern yet fond look

Percy is Ron’s true older brother, and they love each other, but it is messy. By true older brother, I mean the age gap between Bill and Charlie and Ron is so substantial that they are more like fun cousins, whereas Percy had to do the hard work of actually being an older brother. Anyway. Maybe one day I will write more deeply on the subject instead of my messy evening rambles.

[n7viper]

Warframe Asks

I saw this ask game from derelicthorror earlier this morning and wanted to run through it. I don't know that I have any Warframe players that follow me, but I thought this would be a fun thing to answer anyway. I am not actively playing right now, but I've been around for about 9 years now.

There are a lot of questions, so they're under the cut.

1. Which primary weapon is your favorite? Secondary? Melee weapon?

Tenet Arca Plasmor has been a recent favourite for me. As far as being fun to use, I used to main with a Kohm, lol. I have not found a Kuva Kohm yet, unfortunately.  I am still a big fan of the Synoid Gammacor, despite being nerfed many years ago. I also like the chain secondaries - kuva nukor and tenet cycron. My old main used to also be the rakta ballistica! I do not have a ballistica prime, sadly :(  Melee weapon has always been the tonbo <3 I love it so so much and was lucky enough to get a riven from my friend.  I tend to skew towards weapons that are fun to use, rather than being meta. Sometimes there is overlap, but not always.

2. Do you prefer long-range combat or are you a frontliner?

Oh baby, I still spin-to-win even if it’s not the meta anymore. I prefer melee combat by far. 

3. If you could naturally inflict any kind of damage, what kind would it be (i.e. heat, radiation, cold, magnetic)?

Radiation is just fun, but that might be the Mesa Main speaking. I do enjoy murdering my friends with friendly fire. 

4. Who was your starter frame?

Mag!! My baby

5. Favorite NPC?

Teshin Teshin Teshin Teshin

6. Least favorite NPC?

Simaris, lol H U N T E R R R R R R R R R

7. Which faction has your favorite aesthetic/architectural design?

I am a Corpus hoe, though obviously orokin stuff looks cool as hell with the gold. 

8. What’s your favorite piece of Warframe lore?

I don't really know that I have one. I feel like the lore is a bit confusing most of the time. Things get retconned, etc. I play the game with blinders on when it comes to the lore and always have.

9. What’s your favorite Operator accessory?

I love the umbra scarf when it’s open. I still use my operator because of the accessories tbh

10. Favorite ephemera?

Gloriana or Peach Blossom

11. Least favorite ephemera?

Out of the ones I own, either the Nyctalus or Eros Wings. Just too big. And the disappearing thing never works as well as I'd like, so I just avoid them.

12. Who is your favorite Cephalon?

Cy

13. What volume do you have Ordis set to?

Zero. I have personally not ever loved Ordis. After 8 years, I just cannot anymore. It did make doing New War a little funny though because his volume slider, of course, works for quests too. I think I did temporarily turn up his volume for the quest. 

14. Which quest is your favorite?

The Second Dream will always hold a special place in my heart. 

15. Which syndicate(s) are you allied with?

PERRIN SEQUENCE BABY Also Red Veil and New Loka

16. What is your Railjack named?

SSV Normandy, of course :) 

17. Kubrow or kavat?

MOAs, even if they’re just a pale imitation of true MOAs.  But to answer the actual question, Kavats if the DNA wasn’t a pain in the ass to get. I used to heavily breed kubrows so I’m burnt out on them. 

18. What’s your favorite track in the OST?

March of the MOA of course. I was super stuck on For Narmer after New War, though. 

19. Who comes to mind first at the phrase “Space Dad”?

Teshin, because apparently that’s what people call him? He can’t be my dad, though, I wanna do him nasty. 

20. Which faction do you hate fighting the most?

Orokin, because you get the worst of all the factions. Ancients, bombards, nullifiers, etc. 

21. What was your first Prime build?

Jeez, it’s been too long. I’m almost sure my first prime was Mag though. 

22. Do your operator and Warframe wear matching colors?

It depends! Mostly, yes. All of my frames and my operator have a pink/white/black/gold default. I have a few other “default” palettes I use for some frames, like neon pink/green/blue and black. When I use the alternates, I don’t change my operator. 

23. Which Warframe would you take grocery shopping?

Mag because I love her. 

24. Are you Sun, Moon, or neutrally aligned?

I think I’m Moon? I don’t even remember what this shit does. Have they fully explained it? All I know is that you can’t change it. I logged in earlier to look at my crew members but forgot to look at this.

25. Which planet is your favorite to run missions on?

Anything but Europa lol

26. Cetus, Fortuna, or the Necralisk?

Fortuna, hands down. I don’t like the melt though :( give me back the snow

27. What are your Railjack crewmembers’ names?

Xapp Fahkk (my first Lich, who I accidentally converted), Aeloeth, and Orukk Jiss lol I also have some cool friends like Naz Ner, Spelm, and Probate Akitiorikaidoj.  I actually logged in just to see what their names were, and while I was already online, figured I’d go see what Ticker had today. Which means I adopted Brian for the low low price of a million credits (worth it).

28. Which Warframe is the most attractive?

I have always been hot for Mag. And Mesa Prime, of course. 

29. What’s a Warframe headcanon you have?

I'm not sure I have anything super thrilling, I've been out too long. I do remember that my clanmates and I used to make jokes about us all living in our dojo with our pet MOAs. Which was before pet MOAs were actually a thing and before operator reveals.

30. Do you play public or solo?

SOLO. I hate pubs. 

31. Which color palette is your favorite?

Metisse, of course. 

32. What’s your favorite floof?

The ostia vasca kavat floofs and their little red eyes. Adorable!

33. Business, Son, or Master Teasonai?

None, tbh, but I can deal with Biz most. 

34. What’s a line of dialogue that stuck with you?

They come to this place when they know they are not pure. Tenno use the keys, but they are mere trespassers. Only I, Vor, know the true power of the Void. I was cut in half, destroyed, but through its Janus Key, the Void called to me. It brought me here and here I was reborn. We cannot blame these creatures, they are being led by a false prophet, an impostor who knows not the secrets of the Void. Behold the Tenno, come to scavenge and desecrate this sacred realm. My brothers, did I not tell of this day? Did I not prophesize this moment? Now, I will stop them. Now I am changed, reborn through the energy of the Janus Key. Forever bound to the Void. Let it be known, if the Tenno want true salvation, they will lay down their arms, and wait for the baptism of my Janus key. It is time. I will teach these trespassers the redemptive power of my Janus key. They will learn its simple truth. The Tenno are lost, and they will resist. But I, Vor, will cleanse this place of their impurity.

35. Does your Operator have a name? What is it?

I hadn’t ever considered, tbh. I suppose just ‘Viper’!

36. Who is your comfort Warframe?

Mag Mag Mag

[belial-ex-tenebrae]

"The sun must set in order for the moon to rise. For the sun's brightness outshines her more gentle soft glow.

But The Sun in his magnificence refused to set.

So Powerful was he that he choked out the stars and the Moon that he loved so much twisted within his burning gaze under the pyre of his growing obsession.

Too eagar was the sun to ever release the hold he had on the moon's thin neck. He held tighter still no matter how she thrashed in his grip, draining from her, her precious light.

The sun would not let the light die completely, and so he released the pressure of his desire to allow for her to do no more than be a breath away from him.

Bruised, Battered, the Moon's tears stained the corner of her eyes, the fingerprints creators upon her flesh. She faded, wained, hiding away in the vastness of the cosmos.

The moon sat in the illuminated caged sky, swallowed by the shadows cast on her pretty face, thin bruises darkened around her throat.

The sun’s leaving her short of breath, she asked “Can we not inhabit the same sky, not on opposite sides but in our own spaces. The world should not suffer endlessly, needlessly. I concede the right to the day and so should you concede the right to the night. It is always day somewhere and always night elsewhere. We need not touch, we need not war against one another.”

The sun laughed at her then, the small little pearl shook as he did.

“My dear Lunar I shall never concede the sky, nor shall I ever set. Can you not see how things flourish under me?”

The warmth of his fingers, against her surface, the lick of flames that would consume the world if she let it. For the sun was ambition untamed, no limit, and the moon was the one to control the tides.

And so the Moon stood close to the Sun. In the times that followed, the slow rotations.

She came to see him, to know him. The deepened anger, the restless pull of burning flame. For all that stared too long wilted, for all that gripped onto him returned with singed hands.

She lifted up trembling fingers and traced his face, the first time she has ever caressed him, showing him anything but animosity, tolerance. She watches his eyes, shift, the stillness to him, the way he leans almost into her.

“You have created much, done much. How lonely must it be to stand alone? I think I finally understand what you can not express.”

The lightness of her eyes, blinks sadness for him away, for her own sadness that he has caused shines through and the prideful sun for once is silent.

The moon turns from him, takes her small affection away.

“If you loved me, truly loved me, you would trust me and understand that this is never going to work. Those caught between us will never be happy.”

Her robes of black and blue spread across the cosmos. More bright, confident has she become, if not still sad and still a pale imitation of his light.

“And if I care nothing about their happiness only my own and yours?” He speaks though he feels it in the solar wind, the sparks of being, cracks in his fury, a different type of heat. Wishing that it would not be what he knows to be true.

"Then you already have your answer on what you must do."

Even if the Sun knew what he should do, needed to do, that did not make the idea any easier, more palatable. For she has become something that he can not afford to lose.

Bright as her stars around her, holy as a saintess, caring like no other. Something that brings nothing but ashes, dust, dryness to his mouth at the thought of letting her go. He has started to crave her soft kisses, they took away a thirst he had not known.

To have her against him, flesh with his would destroy her, but deny the need would destroy him.

The sun stared at the moon that trembled in his arms, hissed against his skin, for a thing he could never truly have, yet craved.

They would and could only hurt each other.

Those eyes looked at him with kindness, and he held tighter for a second more and then let go. For she could never truly be his if he smothered her with his flames.

The moon was free of her shackles, to roam the skies. But with her newfound freedom came the binding of his heart, for it beat slowly, shallowly without her.

Though it hurt to think her happy without him, though each breath stung his eyes, and dulled his fires. He contented himself with the thought that she loved him. If but a short time, and he could endure for her to realize that she still loved him and return as promised.

The freedom that the moon so craved, she embraced it. Wrapped her arms around all the stars she missed and sank into the clouds, but as grand as her euphoria was. It called to her, in the lonely silence of the night, where there wasn't the sun's warmth to hold her close.

The words from the other stars faded, echoed around her, and she realized that she needed to see him, if not one last time, to say a proper goodbye.

She runs to him, and he to her, separated by the skies, the earth, a space that cannot be crossed by time, nor just by love, for the two must exist on opposite ends, like two sides of the same coin.

One can’t be without the other for each has their roles.

No matter how he longed to keep her, the Sun could not without drowning her completely out, and nor could the Moon, no matter how she wished it, save him and change him.

Somewhere in their limbo was a dance, of back and forward, a sway spinning like that of a flicked coin where it could catch the light where both sides could almost touch.

They could exist, if not for that moment in time, frozen, where dark and light met, in an eternal eclipse. Known as death.

The sun set for the moon to rise to her place in the sky."

[farlynthordens]

rambling about gen and his similarities to the characteristics of a proper “yamato nadeshiko”

Part 1 (clothing) Part 2 (speech patterns)

In the previous 2 parts, I already talked a lot about how Gen’s clothing and speech are very feminine-coded, so it honestly doesn’t surprise me that he fits into this other feminine category.

A lot of this meta will probably sound like me being like

but hopefully you can find something interesting or helpful in this lol

What is Yamato Nadeshiko?

This name/term refers to a classically “ideal” Japanese woman. Yamato is an old name for Japan, and Nadeshiko is a delicate-looking, pink flower that is surprisingly hardy. Thus, a “Yamato Nadeshiko” exemplifies both the beauty and strength of the Japanese spirit. [EN wikipedia page for more general info]

Traits of one include:

beautiful both inside and outside

gentle/refined in behavior and facial expressions

supports the men in their life

inner strength -- resilience, mental fortitude, and/or being trained in weapons and self defense

generally of higher status (thus the ability to have nice clothing, be trained in weapons, etc)

Some of the first recorded instances of referring to people as a “nadeshiko” are in the poems of the [Manyoushuu] in 759 AD. In many of these instances, it’s believed the writers were referring to men rather than women. So, at least in the past, men could also be a nadeshiko. The current concept of a specifically female Yamato Nadeshiko didn’t appear until around the time of the world wars [JA ref].

Gen’s Related Traits/Moments

-Beauty and refinement

The classic Japanese standard for beauty includes long black hair and pale skin. A proper Nadeshiko also wears clothes that look nice and are tidy, but aren’t too flashy (aka wearing more subdued colors and subtle patterns). Gen does have pale skin and some long hair, but the long part is white ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

His stone world clothes do stand out among the characters because of them being very recognizably Japanese with a mix of modern elements (see Part 1 for more on this), but in terms of what kimonos CAN look like, his clothes are definitely subdued. Especially if we go by his original manga colors, he’s supposed to be wearing basic colors of tan, green, and white (until the timeskip outfit change).

He also has a habit of tucking his hands in his sleeves, which is likely based on ancient Chinese mannerisms? From what I’ve looked up, Japanese people haven’t really used the type of pose seen below. There are descriptions of [courtesans] hiding their hands in their sleeves as well as [women in the Meiji era], but you can see from the photos that they aren’t quite the same.

It’s much more similar to this:

(source in chinese)

Regardless, it still gives off the vibe of being “proper.” A lot of traditional mannerisms and styles of clothing, hair, makeup in Japan did originally come from China, so I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to think that someone trying to be “proper” would imitate Chinese trends. (This could also be lowkey stereotypical, but that’s a different conversation...) Speaking of which, his tiny eyebrows are also likely inspired by hikimayu ( 引眉 ), which were also a style brought from China.

(source)

 Men and women did hikimayu. The above photo shows what a Heian era ruler would have looked like, with heavily plucked eyebrows and fake ones drawn high on the forehead. It seems like the size of fake eyebrows varied greatly, from tiny dots to large, thick ovals. This was one of THE trends of the time especially for women, and was considered very beautiful (esp. when combined with artificially blackened teeth).

One of the main ideas behind hikimayu was that getting rid of your real eyebrows made you much less susceptible to accidentally leaking your emotions to others via your facial movements. Gen does a lot of comedic reactions, but in more serious moments, he tries to cover up what he’s feeling. Hmm...

-Supporting men

Gen’s primary role is being a support for Senku (and originally Tsukasa as well). He reads Senku’s behavior and emotions, and acts accordingly. He always stays close to Senku’s side. The two of them scheme together. Gen often thinks about what Senku would want him to do or what would be best for the KOS. When Gen does something that benefits Senku and/or the whole team, he often downplays his role in its success.

For these reasons, Gen more than fulfills the support criteria. He can read those he’s supporting, is always close by, and makes decisions based on what’s best for others rather than just himself.

-Inner strength

This is another point Gen hits on really well. He looks weak and fragile, but is actually quite strong -- this is the core of a Yamato Nadeshiko.

We know he has a lot of stamina since he’s able to run extremely long distances, and over the course of the series there are subtle moments where you can see him building upper body strength as well lol.

But more than that, being a mentalist, he also has a lot of mental fortitude in both good and bad ways. He’s stared death in the face multiple times, but either used his own wit to escape or worked with others to come up with a plan to save everyone. However, he tends to keep his own emotions bottled up, despite helping others let theirs out and work through old trauma (like with Sai). There are very few moments where he lets genuine strong, negative emotions show. He wants to help others, but ignores his own need for help.

(ch 207 vs 214) please tell us your trauma

Other less common traits I’ve seen listed are things such as communication skills, enjoying simplicity, appreciating the beauty in ordinary things.

Communication skills fits well because well, you know. That’s what he does.

The other points make me think back to when he first asked for a bottle of cola. It’s something any modern person would think is so simple and commonplace, but in the early stone world it was like a treasure. Since then, Gen really hasn’t asked for anything. He’s received new things, like clothes or the deck of cards, but not because we saw him ask for them. Even in ch 222 when Senku specifically asks people to request things they want, Gen says nothing.

(ch 222) i’m still crying over this tbh

Anyway, hope this was interesting. Let me know if you have any thoughts!

Other References

https://biz.trans-suite.jp/20002 (JA) kinarino (JA)

[otonymous]

Glutton For Your Flavour (Obey Me: Beelzebub - NSFW)

Description: You’re about to become Beel’s next meal Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised.  Spoilers for Lesson 5 of MS (hard).  Please note potential trigger warnings: dub-con (as an inadvertent result of somnambulism), cunnilingus in two flavours (soft and rough), squirting and overstimulation, slight size kink, very faint hints of tetraphilia, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it blasphemy, slight fear (monstrous descriptions) Word Count: ~2900 words (~14 mins of smut & shenanigans) Author’s Notes:  My very first fic for the Obey Me fandom!  I know I’m late to the party, but I’ve recently started playing this game and the story and its characters are so amusing I had to write about it.  This piece may not be to everyone’s taste, so please, please, please note the potential trigger warnings listed above and skip if it’s not your cup of tea.  That being said, hope you all enjoy the read! 💕😆

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“Bad luck to be sharing a room with Beel, but what can ya do after he destroyed yours while destroying the kitchen, and all for a dumb custard!  Be careful — he might mistake you for a snack and eat ya in the middle of the night, hahaha!”

Mmm.

The scene fragments, Mammon’s face wavering as his voice grows faint, consciousness seeping into dark corners like sunlight cutting through fog.  And when you open your eyes, you can’t quite place where you are for a moment, straddling the line between dreamscape and reality.

Ahh…

You sigh.  There it was again, the sensation so pleasant it had roused you from the deepest slumber.

Further blinking off the haze of sleep, you take in your surroundings: a large bed lying empty across from yours in a room almost cavernous in size and just as dark save for a candle burning low on a desk, the glow of its flame orange like the hair that was currently brushing soft against your inner thighs—

“BEEL?!  WHAT THE HELL?!”  

“So tasty…not…enough…need more…want to…eat…zzz….”

Eyes still closed, the demon’s face is shiny even in the dark, slick from cheek to chin with what must’ve been a copious amount of his saliva and your arousal, you blush to realize.  And when he doesn’t budge even after a swift kick to the face, you are ashamed to find the Lord of Flies’ show of strength sending yet another throb to your already pulsing clit.

He does wake though, Beelzebub’s amethyst eyes opening wide before he falls backwards onto the cold stone floor to realize what he had inadvertently done in his sleep.  And as the always-famished sixth born looks from the shredded remnants of your panties to the pool of wetness on the sheets where his chin had rested, he becomes even more tongue-tied than usual.

“I…uh…I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to…I dreamt I smelled something delicious and I was so hungry…and somehow I’m here, on the floor…I don’t even know…I-I’m so sorry!”

His cheeks grow so flushed they remind you of the red spider sandwiches he packed away during dinner, stuffing them two by two into his mouth until Satan smacked his hand away for trying to take more from his plate.  The expression on his face is so full of remorse that even if you were angry, you’d be inclined to forgive the demon who was currently grovelling at the foot of your bed, swearing he would hand himself over to Lucifer and Diavolo first thing in the morning to be strung up and hung upside down for a fortnight, even (gulp) forgoing food for a day or two.

“Beelzebub…Beel…BEEL!”  You shout, interrupting his self-inflicted tirade.  “It’s okay, you didn’t mean it.  You were sleepwalking.  You don’t have to go to Lucifer and Diavolo about this.”

“No, I have to.  My behaviour was inexcusable—”

“BEEL!  Let’s…just…try to go back to sleep, okay?  We have our midterm in Devildom law tomorrow morning and I really don’t feel like failing just because I didn’t get enough shut eye.  So please, can we just pretend like this didn’t happen?”

Those orange brows are still furrowed when Beel finally lifts his head and nods.  But then his gaze is falling again on the wet sheets and the shiver than runs through that larger-than-life body seems to send another wave of anxiety through the demon.  He makes a mad dash for the door, murmuring something about getting a snack from the kitchen and “you can have the room tonight” before it slams shut behind him.

He doesn’t return for the rest of the night.

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The exam was so disastrous even Mammon didn’t bother sneaking another peek at your paper after the first two questions.  And even if you had somehow managed to get back to sleep after last night’s ordeal, it wouldn’t have changed the fact that you were still distracted by the memory of Beel’s mouth on your pussy:

His long tongue, serpentine as it delved deep between swollen folds to taste you with gusto.  

The way he rolled your clit between those plush, soft lips before sucking it into his hot mouth, over and over again.  

The throbbing between your legs that refused to cease long after the Avatar of Gluttony had left the room you were temporarily sharing, sleep only forthcoming once you had succumbed and reached beneath the sheets to finish the job he had started, your moans licentious even to your ears as you pretended your fingers were his.

It was a pale imitation, of course.  That much you could see for yourself, stealing a glance at Beel seated two rows down — quill twirling between long, dexterous digits when he wasn’t putting ink to parchment.

But those gigantic hands were just a small part of what made Beel demonically attractive, as if the word “small” could be applied to him at all: tall and built, there were times when even you envied the ease with which he maintained that perfect physique despite his penchant for shovelling enough food to feed all three realms into his mouth on the regular.

The same mouth which brought you so much pleasure the night before.

Ahem.

Clearing your throat, you pretend not to see the smirk that spreads across Asmo’s delicate face, hoping the lusty demon sitting just to your left wouldn’t pick up on the very secret thoughts you were having about his brother.

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[Private Chatroom]: Satan, Levi, Mammon, Asmo

Satan: This is going to sound crazy, but doesn’t it seem like Beel’s…hungrier than usual?  Is that even possible?

Levi: OMFG!  You should’ve seen the state of the kitchen this morning after Beel decided to camp out there overnight!  It was a total war zone, like that epic battle scene in Vol. 5 of TSL lololol.  Soooo good XDDDDD

Mammon:  Hey!  He’s gonna eat us outta house and home at this rate!  Shouldn’t we stop him?

Satan: You do it, Mammon.  Aren’t you always saying that there’s nothing The Great Mammon can’t do?

Mammon: …..

Asmo: Please, as if anyone — angel or demon — could come between Beel and a meal.  

Satan: Why was he camping out there in the first place?  Was there something wrong with his room?  I don’t remember him complaining about anything since he got shacked up with the exchange student.

Levi: Not like he could, seeing as it was his fault to begin with and a direct order from Lucifer.

Asmo: Maybe we should ask her.  I’m sure she knows something about what’s inciting his hunger judging by the way she kept staring at him in class today fufufu 😏  She almost failed her midterm because of it, isn’t that right, Mammon?

Mammon: ‼️‼️

[Mammon has left the chat]

Levi: He is sooooo transparent LMFAOOOO

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Gasp!

Pressing a hand to your mouth, you try to contain your shock at the sight that greets you when you peek around the corner into the kitchen:

Curved, ebony horns sitting majestically atop a head of disheveled orange hair.  Thick, corded muscles that ripple across a broad back — readily apparently because the creature bent over a mountain of food on the ground was wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms, loose and slung so low over narrow hips that the sharp V defining his groin is visible even from the distance at which you stood.  

Because this wasn’t quite what you were expecting to find when you made your way to the kitchen in the middle of the night to search for Beel, thinking to approach him about the peculiarity of his recent behaviour: the way he now ate constantly and was less satiated than before, the fact that he seemed to be going out of his way to avoid you even though you shared a room.

In fact, he hadn’t said so much as another word to you after he gave you two dozen of his prized custards the morning after the incident, apologizing again until you had to be the one to make him swear he wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Lucifer.  The demon even made a beeline for the door as soon as he saw you emerge from the bathroom tonight, fresh from a shower.

It wasn’t hard to guess where he was headed.

Even still, you tried to focus on your textbook, reading the same line over and over again as you waited for Beel to return so you could have a proper conversation with the demon you made a pact with.  And when you could wait no longer, you made your way towards his favourite room in the House of Lamentation — silently, so as not to draw the attention of the eldest sibling.

But the growls coming from the direction of the open fridge this time sounded like Cerberus himself, enough so that you find yourself rooted to the ground, unable to take another step forwards or back.  

You had never seen Beel like this before, tearing into whatever he could get his hands on with a savagery that made your heart stop.  Teeth, lips and tongue devoured without second thought in a way that was simultaneously terrifying and…

Throb.

…arousing.

Suddenly, he stills, throwing his head back to sniff the air once…twice…and in a flash, he is upon you, towering over your head as he rises to full height — bigger and taller and much more intimidating than you’ve ever seen him before.

You should have been scared.  Any person in their right mind would have if they found themselves cornered by a demon of Beelzebub’s calibre.  But the hands that balled into trembling fists at his sides made you feel oddly secure, your deepest instincts telling you that not all was as it seemed.

“You need to leave.  Now…please.”

“What’s going on with you, Beel?  I just want to help—”  You reach for his arm.  He jumps back as if burned.

“I SAID YOU NEED TO LEAVE!  I-I…can’t hold back…for…much longer!”

Handsome face screwed up as if in pain, Beel turns to put as much distance as possible between the two of you, squatting on his haunches with his head in his hands when he murmurs:

“I…I don’t know what’s going on with me.  This has never happened before.  I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been.  I eat and eat and eat and it still isn't enough.  The last time I felt satisfied was when…when…”

His voice dies down to a whisper.

“…when I tasted you.”

Throb.

Putting out a hand, you steady yourself against the wall, knees suddenly weak at Beelzebub’s admission.  Or perhaps it was due to relief, the tension that had been steadily building in your strained relationship with the demon released to know that you weren’t the only one who desired to revisit that night’s events.

So you gather your courage, stepping softly towards the demon who crouched on the ground next to the lit fireplace, the heat radiating from the hearth warming the flesh you had deliberately left bare when you lift the hem of your night gown to expose yourself to Beel.

“What are you doing?!  I told you, I can barely hold back—”

“Then don’t.  I don’t mind, Beel.  I…I like it too.”

Amethyst eyes darken as they look up into yours, orange flames reflecting off pupils blown wide.  And when he speaks next, the deepness of his voice echoes in your body, as if its source were to be found within your own soul.

“Ask and ye shall receive.  I won’t touch you until you do.”

Nipples hardening beneath your gown, the rush of heat that floods your core makes you shudder when you say,

“Please, Beelzebub…I want you to eat my pussy.”

Back hitting solid wood, you barely have time to gasp before you are pulled to the edge of a long table in the centre of the kitchen, a long tongue running up the insides of each thigh in turn before they’re propped up onto broad shoulders, Beel’s breath blowing hot on the space in between.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can hold back.  I’m just…so famished, so desperate to taste you again—”

His words cut off in a low growl as he presses his lips to your folds, saliva dripping from his mouth mixing with the juices that already painted a glistening sheen on pink flesh.  You fight to bite back a moan at the vehemence of his hunger, the sheer greed of his tongue — flicking at your clit until your back arched off the table, heralding the arrival of the cream that leaked only to be swept up by Beel licking from end to end of that swollen seam.  And when that still wasn’t enough, you nearly swooned to feel that serpentine tongue penetrate, reaching depths that surely only a demon would be able to achieve as Beel sought out more of your flavour.

He buries his face deeper into your pussy, nose nudging your clit as arousal smeared over the entirely of his visage.  The vibrations of his voice further stimulates your locus of pleasure, punctuating the lewd, wet sounds when he says:

“You smell so delicious.  All the time.  And tonight, when you stepped out of the shower…I couldn’t take it, not with the way your scent flooded my senses.  I had to leave or else…this would happen.”

“Oh Beel…you should’ve told me sooner.”  

Mind lost in a haze of lust and body boneless from riding out wave after climatic wave, you reach down a trembling hand without thinking, fingers innocently tracing along the smooth ridges of the onyx horns that lay against your abdomen.

Suddenly, his breath hitches at your touch and the Sixth Prince of Hell is throwing his head back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a moan loud and deep enough to reverberate off stone walls, clattering stacks of dishes in cupboards and making you come once more — legs convulsing upon his shoulders as you feel a preponderance of fluid gush forth from your body right into Beel’s waiting mouth.

The pleasure was such that you’ve never known before, so good that surely, it must be bad in some way, shape or form.  But you hadn’t the energy to ponder further.  

No, the only thing you’re aware of when your vision goes black is that Beel’s mouth is still on you, feasting upon a pussy that continued to respond to the teasing movements of his lips and tongue even as you ceased to think.

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Cheddar.  Pickles.  Ketchup and mustard.

The smell is what rouses you, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what you saw when you awoke in your own bed: mountains of cheeseburgers arranged on platters filling up every available surface in the room you shared with Beel.

“You can sleep for longer if you want.  I told Lucifer you’d be skipping class today because you’re not feeling well.  Are you…feeling well?”

Beelzebub lifts his head from where it’d been resting at the side of your bed, the rest of his body laid out on the floor as if he were guarding you like an oversized dog.  Those puppy dog eyes, full of concern, didn’t help his case either.

“I’m fine, Beel.  Better than fine, actually.  I feel fantastic!”  You smile, moving to sit up in bed.  The demon springs from the ground, putting an arm around your shoulders to help prop you up, and your heart can’t help but warm at how protective he was being.

He breathes, relief flooding those handsome features.  “I’m glad.  I was afraid I lost control last night and had to carry you back.  You were just…so tasty and…satisfying…”  

Those amethyst eyes glint as they travel to the apex of your thighs, and all of a sudden, he is grabbing at those human world cheeseburgers, shoving them into his mouth two at a time.

“Have some,” he says between bites.  “They’re my favourite and I thought you might like them too.  Besides, you need to eat if you’re gonna keep up your energy.”

You reach towards the nearest platter, taking one for yourself.  “Energy for what?”

Beel looks at you, expression completely serious when he says, “For the next round tonight.”

Throb.

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Thank you so much for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📚

[dr3amofagame]

the amount of angst in the post-prison writing you did just gave me massive post-prison dream brainrot and i'm just. sitting here thinking about how sam dealt with the curious looks and glances and having to face what's he's done as a warden. and everyone else's reaction to everything because hey, maybe the prison WAS a torture chamber that nobody deserves to be locked in to be treated like utter trash.

(btw i love your writing and analysis! they give me so much life :DD)

thank you anon!! this universe is ,, Fun ,, im ngl -> have this continuation of it, w/ sapnap and sam!! it’s a bit messy but oh well

(edit: i added these two asks as well bc they fit and i thought it’d be a bit redundant to rewrite this scene lmao -> the implication that dream’s admissions abt exile mightve been the result of ,, torture is. uh. yikes.) 

(This one is DARK, please heed the warnings)

TW: PHYSICAL/EMOTIONAL ABUSE (heavy warning for this one), starvation, toxic relationship, manipulation, references to the prison and exile, c!sam/warden!sam critical, violence, blood, dark themes, emotional distress, child abuse, torture

“Be honest,” Sapnap starts, quiet. “What did you do?”

Sam opens his mouth - hesitates, looks away. He should’ve known that his vague words and half-explanations that had been enough to push away most of the crowd - or at least, postpone the conversation for later - wouldn’t have been nearly enough to convince the man standing in front of him, but a part of him must’ve hoped, anyway. He’s not ready to speak, not ready to admit anything to himself, never mind someone else entirely - but ‘ready’ doesn’t matter, not when Sapnap is right here, waiting.

(He ignores how ‘ready’ didn’t matter for Dream when Sam had gone in, that first time, pick in hand and nothing but questions and rage spinning in an endless cycle in his mind, whirling together into something incomprehensible, insatiable, vicious - he’s not thinking about it.

He can’t think about it.)

“Well?” Sapnap’s voice raises, impatience coloring his tone, and it’s almost enough to draw a chuckle to Sam’s lips - he’d always been a little overeager, not doing well with silence, waiting, even as a kid. It’s part of the reason why he got along with Dream so well, Dream jumping at the chance to spend time with someone that didn’t shut him down for rambling and Sapnap simply excited at the chance to have someone that would join him on his hare-brained schemes instead of dismissing him as a dumb kid- and oh. Right.

The scrunch of his face is the same, Sam realizes, absently, as the expression Sapnap had when he was little; it’s the same crease between his eyebrows, the same slight jut to his bottom lip. Even with a new scar decorating his left jaw and the shadows under his eyes and collection of faint wrinkles belying his stress, he doesn’t look all that different - still looks young, a kid playing dress up in armor too big and too war-torn to belong to him. It’s easy to forget, but even after all the wars they’ve fought, even with all of the combat experience he’s had, Sapnap’s still barely twenty - only a few weeks out of being a teenager.

(He crushes the thought of what that makes Dream - he’s not. Thinking. About. It.)

“Hello? Earth to Sam?” Sapnap snaps his fingers in front of his face, and Sam blinks away the memories, the guilt, boxing it up and filing it neatly away to deal with - later. Never, ideally.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

Only later is now, there’s no escaping this conversation, and Sam. Really doesn’t want to be talking about this, right now. Sapnap fidgets, leaning on his right foot and then his left and then rocking back again - the feeling is mutual, then, but he knows the look in the younger’s eye well enough to know that neither of them are leaving without an explanation leaving Sam’s lips.

(Netherite and iron and smoke, bloodstained pickaxe tipping up a gaunt face, hand reaching around a too-prominent jawline with bruising force - are you going to answer my question, prisoner? Or are we going to have to do this again?

He’s not-

He can’t-)

“I-,” guilt, thick and heavy, circles his throat, chokes the words rising in his mouth. What can he even say? Can words really capture the sweat-slick desperation, the bubbling lava and heat and smoke stealing away all breath and thought, leaving nothing but a humming buzz of rage burning, hissing, begging for release? Can he really describe the endless darkness and weight settling on his shoulders, the hard edges and jagged fear taking anything soft, anything kind? Words swim in the back of his throat, try to reach his teeth, fall short; bloodstained memories haunt the back of his eyelids every time he blinks; there is so much, too much, to say, and yet nothing at all.

How does he even start?

There is no sympathy on Sapnap’s face when Sam looks, but there isn’t any cruelty either, just dark, watching eyes, lips thin and pressed together, jaw clamped shut, tense. Indifference, or a pale imitation of it, meant to hide the mess of his hair, the tremble in his hands, the helpless, desperate thing growing in his pupils. Sam understands and wishes he doesn’t; regrets, and wonders if he has the right, anymore.

“It- started, as an interrogation,” Sam stumbles over his words, stares at his hands because looking at Sapnap’s face will be too much, is too much. “I was angry. The prisoner- Dream- was desperate. That cell-” he shakes his head, remembers obsidian in his hands, remembers tearing away carpet, paintings, plants, remembers leaving the box bareboned, desolate, a cage and nothing more, “It messes with you. Screws with your head. I knew it, he knew it, but I guess we didn’t realize- I guess I didn’t realize-”

(Blood and crunching bone and shrill screams - tell me what you did to him-)

“I needed information. He wasn’t talking. I got- heated, and he laughed, and something- snapped, I guess.”

(I’ll tell you I’m sorry please please sam stop please)

“All I had on me was a pickaxe. He wasn’t talking, I was desperate - angry - I needed to know. I didn’t-”

(I just knew I needed to drag him away, he was ruining everything, he was destroying everything, I just needed him to leave before he brought down the whole damn server with him - the tnt was supposed to be a one time thing)

“It was supposed to be- one time. Was never supposed to happen, at all. But I guess I got mad - for me? For Tommy? I don’t- I don’t know, and it was- easy, you know? Take away the clock, one day. Give him less potatoes the next.”

(It was easy to do it again, I guess, mess with his invitations a little, take some of his stuff. There was nobody around but me and him and he’d ruined so much, he’d messed everything up - I thought that maybe if I took away his armor enough, he wouldn’t be able to go back. He wouldn’t ruin everything.)

“He’d done- so much. He was so awful to Tommy, to everyone- I thought I could prevent that. I thought maybe if I broke him enough, he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone again. I renamed the pickaxe Will Breaker, to remind me, to remind him, I don’t know. I-”

Sam laughs, tired, poisonous, ignoring the way Sapnap whispers, stricken, looking at his hands and seeing nothing but red. Dream’s face, bruised, bloody, but glimmering with something almost like satisfaction comes to mind - and oh. Oh.

(Bloodstained teeth twisted in a bitter smile - Sam, I thought I had to.)

He gets it now. He wishes he didn't.

“I thought- ha-” His hand comes up to his face - he’s crying. When did he start crying? ”I thought I had to.”

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Fire and Darkness Chapter 9

The Darkling x reader

Word Count: 1253

Summary: The Alina Situation.

“She’s real.”

Even moments after hearing those words, you knew that they would haunt you. “What?”

Aleksander had returned to your shared tent just moments after having the apparent Sun Summoner packed into a carriage with Ivan and Fedyor to be shipped to the Little Palace, only to immediately start changing into clothes more suitable for hard riding. “Alina Starkov, the Sun Summoner, she’s the real thing. We can finally move our plans into effect.”

You crossed your arms. “Which version?”

His hands stilled on the laces to his pants, those dark eyes drifted up to yours. “She’s young.” There was a pause. “And alone, now that we’ve taken her away from her unit.”

“You’ll be making her fall in love with you, then,” you stated, displeasure clear in your tone.

“It’ll likely be the easiest course, yes.”

“I once told you that if you ever tried to woo another, I would kill you.”

His eyes softened in the face of the undisguised jealousy coloring your features. As soon as his pants were properly fastened, he swept over to you to hold your face in his palms. “I could never replace you, dearheart. This will not change that.”

Your fingers came up to trace the shape of the ring he’d used to cut Alina just minutes earlier. Your wedding gift to him when you’d married hundreds of years ago under starry skies, the match to the one around your own thumb. “It had better not, Sasha, or I will ruin everything we’ve worked to build.” A tongue of flame danced at your fingertips, the fact that it didn’t burn him was a testament to the fine control you’d developed. “Remember that you aren’t the only one who can use merzost.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth. “As if I could ever forget.” He kissed your forehead then your lips. “You’ll be travelling back by carriage tonight; I’ve already arranged it. I’ll see you back home tomorrow.”

You nodded. “Go. Make sure the little Sun Summoner doesn’t die in transit.”

~

You woke alone. Not an uncommon occurrence, but it was something you’d never come to enjoy. Reaching over to his side of the bed, you found it still warm; you’d just missed him. Blearily, you lifted your head and saw the telling glow of a lamp lit out in the war room.

Then you heard the voices. Soft, murmuring voices drifting in through the open door that could only belong to Aleksander and Alina. Instantly, your mood soured. You’d expected to at least hear rumors of their fictitious relationship spreading around the palace, but you hadn’t thought about the fact that you might be forced to listen to it. Quietly, you slunk to your feet, tugging a black robe around your shoulders as you neared the door,--one of Sasha’s, he’d always gotten a rise when seeing you in his clothes--and lurked there in the shadows.

They were standing close. Far closer than you’d ever be comfortable with. He had a hand on her cheek as he told her about some of the hardship he’d been through as a boy. They were pale imitations of the truth since grisha wouldn’t have been actively hunted in the boyhood of a man that looked as young as Aleksander; you’d held him through the nightmares about the real instances.

Then his grey eyes flicked over to you, acknowledging your presence. That was when you could see how guarded his expression was; it soothed you to see the lack of emotion in his gaze. You hadn’t doubted him, but it was still a balm to your frayed nerves to know that this was, indeed, a farce. It was just a split second of reassurance yet it made all the difference. Moments later, the little spell between he and Alina was over, the play concluded for one more night, and she slipped back out the door.

Your feet carried you to where she’d just been standing without your conscious decision to move there.

“I’m--”

“Don’t,” you shushed him as you tugged him down into a heated kiss. You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to acknowledge that you had witnessed the man you love make another woman fall for him. Right now, you just wanted to feel him and nothing more.

~

“You’re insane!” Alina accused in the face of Baghra’s accusations of Aleksander.

“Am I?” With a wave of the old woman’s hand, the room was briefly plunged into darkness.

Alina’s heart stuttered. Horrible realization dawned on her. “You’re his mother.”

She nodded solemnly. “And he is not the man you believe him to be.”

“But--” But he loves me, her heart longed for her to protest. But if he lied about being ancient, about being the Black Heretic of all people, how could she know if what she’d felt was real.

The old woman swept around her to yank off the blanket that’d been covering a painting that looked like Aleksander’s ancestor. The eye color, hair color, and regal appearance were all the same, but things like the shape of those eyes, the hair cut, and the structure of his jaw were all different enough in the painting that it could have been someone else. Then again, he’d have to have himself tailored if he expected to be able to pretend to be someone else.

“This is him as he looked three hundred years ago,” Baghra informed her. “Unfortunately for you, I doubt you’ve received the worst news yet--at least as far as a child would be concerned, it wouldn’t be the worst.” 

“He’s a monster! What else could there be?!”

“He and I separated because of a girl during what was still his first life; he was young and impulsive not unlike yourself. It was centuries before he found me and moved me here to keep an eye on me yet she was still with him. Married in one life or another some life along the way.”

“Married?” She gasped, realizing the implication. “You mean . . .”

“He never harbored any affection for you, child. All of it, absolutely all of it, was a ploy.”

Alina felt like her heart was tearing in half. “How could this girl still be alive?”

“Our power is what keeps my son and I from aging. She is an inferni, something that would not let her live this long as you’ve seen. Merzost is what he used to create the Fold.” She hesitated. “Somehow, he has used merzost to link her life to his.”

“Then where is she? Why have I never seen her?”

“You have. The housekeeper. The only one he lets near him when he’s vulnerable. The only one that is allowed in his bedchamber.”

Alina stared, mind busy trying to conjure what exactly this woman had looked like since she’d only laid eyes on her in passing. Distantly, she recalled thinking she saw a feminine shape in his bedroom doorway the night she’d spoken to him.

“I am sorry, girl; I thought I would have more time to prepare you. You must go before he realizes you are gone,” Baghra hurried her along.

As soon as their forms were gone from the little underground room, you stepped out from the shadows. You lifted a hand so you could better see the old painting. “Well,” you muttered, “he’s certainly not going to be happy about this.” Then you were gone, disappearing in the tunnels to warn your husband about the meeting you’d just witnessed.