#the light source is a raging inferno

[incorrect-guild-codex-quotes]

Kai: Don't worry, I've got a few knives up my sleeves Ezra: I think you meant 'cards' Aaron: He did not Kai, pulling out knives: I did not

[a-leg-without-fear]

Flooded Red (pt.2) 🩸🌧️

get ready for some ANGST babes

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader 🩸

Rating: 16+

Wordcount: 2.3k

Warnings: torture, experimentation, gore, violence, cursing, electrocuting, drugging, mind control, medical equipment, implied child endangerment, ANGST

Series: Flooded Red

Groggy. You felt groggy. Tendrils of fog clouded around the edges of your mind. Swirling amongst the slow thoughts that had gathered, blurring words and images. Flashes of red, hot blood and bright lights shot through your dazed mind. A dull ache gathered at the base of your skull.

The next thing that registered was the biting cold of the metal table beneath you. Chills shook along your sore spine. You tried to adjust your cramped muscles, tried to stretch out your stiff joints.

But you couldn’t.

Your hands were fully encompassed in metal spheres. Thick iron wrapped around your wrists and encasing your fingers. You pulled at the restraints, desperation leaking into your veins. Rough metal chafed along the skin at your wrists. Rubbing and scratching and leaving the flesh raw.

Panic gripped at your racing heart. Your eyes flew open to gauge your situation. All you could see was black. Like someone had left the lights off in the middle of the night. Your gaze darted around in the darkness. Searching for something, anything. 

You couldn’t breathe. Terror spilled into the edges of your mind like ink in water. Sharp talons raked through any coherent thoughts still bouncing around in your head. Primal fear choked you. You pulled and squirmed, a wild animal struggling to be free.

Latex gloves smoothed down your bare arm. The powdered rubber pulled at your skin as thin fingers prodded at the inside of your elbow. Like five daggers stabbing into you and spurring on the feral beast clawing at your throat.

Your consciousness slipped beneath the appalling gloves, mind tracing along the miniscule veins running under twitching skin. You followed the veins through this attacker’s arm. The pointed taste of norepinephrine and acetylcholine coated your tongue. This person was focused, relaxed.

You zeroed-in on the flow of acetylcholine through this person’s veins. Tracing the chemical back to its source. The hypothalamus. That small, ever important part in the center of one’s brain. The main coordinator of the nervous system and bodily cravings.

Like squishing a grape between your fingers, you crushed this person’s hypothalamus with a single thought. You could taste fresh blood leaking into the air, the coppery scent filling your sinuses and satiating the gnawing dread in your gut. The gloves running along your skin disappeared.

Pride licked up your throat, satisfaction seeping into your pores at the absence of latex on your skin.

Torturous electric pulses zipped along your skin. Shocks emanating from the metal table below you and the iron clasped on your hands. Excruciating lightning coursed through your body and made your back arch. Your arms tugged at their restraints, legs scrambling for leverage, head shaking back and forth.

As instantaneous as the shocks had started, the pain ceased. Gulping breaths filled your strained lungs. Sparks of the remaining electricity under your skin made you wince.

“Let’s not kill the techs, shall we? Each corpse garners a mountain of paperwork and a devastated family.”

Your unseeing eyes searched in the void for the source of the voice. It sounded familiar, masculine. A slight southern drawl laced in each word.

“There we are. Calmed down?” 

Recognition hit you in the chest like a freight train. Your lips curled, a feral snarl seeping through your bared teeth.

“You,” you growled, malice and pure hatred filled your mind like sand in an hourglass. This man attacked your home. Hurt your kids. Threatened your Logan. Anger like you had never known washed over you like a raging inferno.

“Yes, me. Now that we are familiar, are we in agreement?” he asked. His voice was loud, projected, crackling. Like it came from a large speaker somewhere to your right. 

“Fuck you,” you hissed. You tugged furiously at your restraints. Bestial rage burned away at all cognition. Flames scorched your mind and sent you into a fucking frenzy. Your teeth gnashed, chest heaved, muscles tightened.

“And here I was, thinking you’d be more cordial than the Wolverine. No matter. Nothing a little behavioral management won’t solve.”

Your body jolted as electricity streaked through your bones. You cried out, jaw clenching and fists tightening in their iron coffins.

This round of electrocution was blessedly short. You heaved, stomach lurching and heart thumping rapidly behind your ribcage, when the shocks had stopped.

“Are. We. In. Agreement?” the man asked again, annunciating every word. You panted, skin glistening in sweat, throat constricting and nearly choking you. The man sighed, “Bleeder, I’ll need an answer. Will you kill any more of my employees?”

You snarled at your old moniker, then thunked your head down on the table in defeat, “No.”

“Good. Now, since that’s settled, I’m going to have Maria draw your blood. Do your best to refrain from killing her. She has two sons at home.”

Powdered latex rubbed at your elbow again. You gritted your teeth, molars grinding against one another, as you tried to restrain the whirling rage inside you. Shaking fingers felt along your skin. Pressing deep into the flesh now and then, looking for that prominent vein that ran through the crook of your arm.

Cool liquid brushed across your skin. A smooth cloth doused in alcohol rubbing and sanitizing your arm. The acrid scent filled your sinuses, making you flinch. Every nerve ending in your body was ringing alarms. Constant fear flooded your mind as the seconds ticked by.

A tight pinch pierced your skin and you nearly went back on your word. Almost lashing out like a cornered, rabid animal. The needle pushed under your skin and settled in your vein. Foreign, metal, cold, bad. It shouldn’t be in your arm. You should remove it, kill whoever stuck it in you.

No. This wasn’t you. You didn’t mindlessly kill people. No matter how angry you were, you would always try to find a solution. Pushing down your own feelings for the sake of peace. The fiery hatred burning inside was a feeling you often tried to ignore, tried to suppress, if not for you then for those you cared about.

Memories floated through your mind like leaves on the surface of a pond. Logan laughing at something stupid you said, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Charles giving you a scathing review of a book he’d recently read. Jean and Scott cuddled together, tucked away behind a corner in the foyer.

Your friends. Your colleagues. Your family.

A trembling breath passed between your lips. The feral rage churning inside you had simmered down to a low heat. Just barely warming the edges of your mind in anger. You swallowed a grief-covered lump that had gathered in your throat.

~~~~

Colonel William Stryker watched your blood being drawn with mild curiosity. Like watching an animal in a vet’s office have their blood work done. You were restrained, arms bound and eyes covered, with a terrified Maria standing over you. Her trembling hands clutched at your arm as the red liquid flowed through the rubber tube.

A thick pane of glass separated William from you. Elevated by at least a story, Stryker stood in the observation deck. He adjusted how his dark jacket fell across his midriff. Bright lights hanging from the ceiling reflected white circles on his glasses. 

The control panel sitting before him glowed and quietly hummed. Switches connected to the electric interface of your restraints. Red button to shock you, blue button to sedate you, green button to release you. Ingenious design, if you asked him.

Sharp heels clicked on the concrete floor next to him. Yuriko, black suited and hair slicked back, moved to stand next to William. Her hands were clutched behind her back, chrome nails just barely shimmering in the light. Silver eyes looked between William and your writhing body below.

“Is Xavier ready?” he asked, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. Yuriko, ever the silent one, gave him a quick nod. William took one last glance down at you, a spot of pity bubbling in his stomach, then turned away from the glass.

Soldiers with varying degrees of combat armor and armaments lined the halls of the dam. Each giving William a polite nod as the colonel breezed past. Stryker barely acknowledged the formal greetings, periphery only just catching glimpses of their faces. They were unimportant.

A hiss sprouted from the metal door as it slid open. Chrome, unpolished, with a clouded window near the top. He grimaced in disgust. Everything in this accursed dam was filthy. Not a place for a man of his repute to continue his work, and certainly not structurally sound enough to house the several mutants he now possessed.

The room he stepped into was much like every other room in the Alkali Lake Dam. Concrete entombing him on all sides, bright lights hanging from the ceiling, spots of equipment and machinery placed near the doors for easy access.

Green light glowed from sconces set low on the curved walls. Wires and tools suspended from the ceiling hung in alcoves like swinging corpses. A steel table and chair sat in front of one of those alcoves. Stryker moved to the table, double checking his pen was still in his breast pocket, then turned to face the current object of his desire.

Charles Francis Xavier. In all of his bald, old, crippled glory. His posh blue suit and silk gold tie reflected the white spotlight directed at him. A chrome device sat on the mutant’s wrinkled brow. Steel, magnetization, and electricity working together to cage his mind inside that thick skull of his.

Stryker chuckled under his breath at the sight. The great Professor X. All powerful telepath who could control the entire world with a single thought. Reduced to a hunched man in a wheelchair.

Xavier stirred, head beginning to raise from its lowered position. Stryker kept an air of indifference on his face while clutching at the pen in his jacket. When the mutant’s eyes met the colonel’s, William threw the professor a proud smile. Understanding passed through Xavier’s perplexed expression.

“William…”

“Please, Xavier, don’t get up,” Stryker said, cutting the mutant off. A chuckle threatened to leave his chest at his own quip.

Quiet whirring surrounded Xavier as the man folded in on himself. Eyes squeezing shut, shoulders twitching. 

“I call it the neural inhibitor,” William explained. He watched the mutant struggle under the steel cap, then continued while tapping his forehead, “It keeps you out of here.”

The whirring stopped as Xavier’s eyes opened. Beady blues took in the space around the cripple. Wrists bound in leather straps, suit roughed up at the edges, Stryker and Yuriko standing before him.

“What have you done with Scott?” Xavier asked, voice thin and edged in pain.

“Don’t worry. I’m just giving him a little re-education. Him and that little pet project of yours,” Stryker replied. Xavier tensed in the seat of his wheelchair.

“You don’t mean-”

“Why yes, I do. The little weapon of mass destruction y’all have taken to calling ‘Vampire,’” William said with undeniable confidence. He leaned back on the concrete wall next to him as he said, “Of course, we both know she’ll never truly leave behind her old name. What was it?”

“William-”

“No, that’s not it. ‘Bleeder.’ Yeah, that’s the one,” Stryker mused. Xavier’s jaw clenched, withered hands curling into fists. The mutant eyed the colonel with sparking anger burning in his blue eyes.

“She hasn’t used that calling card in quite some time,” Xavier said slowly, voice coming out measured and restrained. Stryker huffed an incredulous laugh.

“Just because the lion is trapped in a zoo doesn’t change its nature. Savagery can’t be swayed by giving the lion a cushy home and ample playmates. Sooner or later, professor, she will snap again. And from the way she mosied up to me in that mansion of yours, I’d say she’s one breath away from tearing the whole country to pieces.”

~~~~

Logan silently followed the group of teenagers in front of him up the driveway. Early morning sun rippled through the trees and onto Bobby’s family home. Gentle breezes made the grass sway, the sounds of cars starting down the road echoed across damp asphalt, freshly-mowed grass a few doors down floated through the air.

His mind was a fucking hurricane. Spinning and twisting and raging to where it was hard to tell which way was up. Glimpses of the events from the night before rolled through his head like peals of thunder.

You were gone. You were right fucking in front of him, scared eyes meeting his, and then you were gone. Obscured by the frosted blue ice Bobby had conjured. Logan had pounded on that ice until his hands bled, desperate to reach you, desperate to see your eyes again, desperate to get you away from that man.

Stryker.

Wrath boiled in his chest when the name crossed his mind. Logan had no memory to connect to the name, no instance of ill-intent, nothing that would link this deep-seated hatred.

Well, other than the fact that the guy had raided the fucking mansion and took you from Logan. Severed from his life like a missing limb.

He barely registered the climb up the front porch steps. Nor the conversation passing between Rogue, John, and Bobby. Logan’s mind swirled with the agony of losing you, the confusion surrounding this whole scenario, the unbridled fury licking at that primal part of his mind.

His hand subconsciously slipped the front door shut behind his group. White-suburban walls and decorations hit Logan’s downturned vision like he’d wandered into a Target. He brushed away his racing thoughts to verify that the door was locked.

Logan would get you back. He’d stop Stryker, free the kidnapped mutants, and get you back. Even if he had to climb fucking Mount Everest. He wouldn’t rest until you were safe, held against his chest and tucked under the covers in your bed.

thoughts? comments? concerns? theories? let me know!!!

leg's taglist: @hazydespair @spideybv28 @fantasticalartist @autisticnutcase @captainwans @ayamenimthiriel @tsukiko26 @up-l4te-4t-n1ght

[swordoffrivolousthings]

Thoughts about Heroes of Olympus and how it could have been better. pt 2

This time I will get so nitpicky that I will change too much for this series to be considered a reworking of the original. More like a HOO as a source material / hopefully.

So, to the next 9 points! part 1

Diversity in the Camp Half-Blood cabin archetypes, because humans aren't a monolith

Aphrodite cabin? pff, just a bunch of boy-obsessed girlies, am I right? (no, go jump in a lake)

But seriously, humans are not the same. Why has Riordan been stereotyping a lot of the cabins at camp by one (1) characteristic? I don't know.

Cabin 10 (Aphrodite's Cabin): People can be interested in make up, clothes and dating people. But this is a series about demigods whose parents are Greek Gods. Utilise that in your favour. Bring forth Aphrodite Ourania (Heavenly) kids that are morbidly interested (or not) in love in all its forms as a concept, knowing what fulfillment romantic love can bring but not being interested in persuing it. Just the philosophy of it all. Bring Pandemos (common) Aphrodite kids that like people, seeing them go about their day. That gather in public spaces and people watch. Aphrodite Androphonos (Killer of Men) or Aphrodite Tymborychos (Gravedigger) kids that are just as bloodthirsty as some of the Ares kids, violent and petty in their rage, like their mother.

Cabin 5 (Ares' Cabin): (an older gripe of mine, I'll admit) Not all Ares kids need to be violent killing machines. Give me kids of Ares that despite however much they try, they can't seem to come out victorious (because Ares has a track record for getting absolutely obliterated). Bring forth kids that are all bark, no bite, that make so much noise with their arrogance, but it is mostly a front. ("Magnanimous, unconquered, boisterous Ares, in darts rejoicing, and in bloody wars", Orphic Hymn 65 to Ares (trans. Taylor) ) Ares kids that lead wars more on the political, intangible side of things. Slippery little shits that are just about invincible when turning a situation in their favour with their words.

Cabin 11 (Hermes' Cabin): Trickster archetype characters can be fun and enjoyable, but when you have a cabin full of them it gets boring. Hermes kids that are intersted in animals, specificly cattle, and that help in the CHB stables. Camp Half-Blood has milk now, too! Hermes kids that interested in death, the way to the Underworld, whose souls follow in the steps of their father and guide people when lost in the realm of Hades. Hermes kids that are honorable merchants, that trade without stealing. They are the ones that try to bring their more kleptomaniac siblings into line, but rarely succeed.

2. Bring the war with Gaia on a larger scale, magnify it by 1000 times over

Gaia wants to rid the world of humans so nature could heal. Let her bring upon cities terribly powerful earthquakes (magnitude 6.8 and higher). Make them frequent, frighteningly so. Let a horrifying amount of magnitude 8.0 or greater hit major cities all around the world.

Have Gaia fuck around with tectonic plates in the oceans, make her start tsunamis. Have those be frighteningly big, too. Drive the people into the mountains, further inland, make them evacuate islands or peninsulas and drive up population in the cities. Than hit those cities with earthquakes.

Forest fires. A lot of them. Dry places around the world exist. Start a fire. See how fast it becomes an inferno. Light California and Florida and Texas on fire. Let the characters that are from there (i.e. Jason, Hazel and Frank who care about Camp Jupiter, Will Solace) be horrified at what is happening. Have them react.

Another hit, because humanity can bare some more punches, would be to introduce a plague to the main crops like seeds, rice, potatoes, and drive the production of food down. Let food be a concern, see how long the billions of people can go without food being produced all the time.

Volcanoes. Just, active volcanoes. Spitting, gurgling, bubbling, always on the edge of eruption.

Have agrarian gods ally with Gaia. See how much they can fuck up with humans: Aristaeus (bee-keeping, cheese-making, herding), Britomartis (nets made for hunting, fishing, fowling).

Do not be afraid to put the fear of nature in people. Make the main seven (7) realise just how much power and influence Gaia has. Raise the stakes.

3. The gods have gone mad with pain, what are the effects

It is established that the gods kept the Greeks and Romans apart because of many things. One of them is because the two parts that compose the gods attack each other.

Now there are mad gods roaming the world. Nature would be even more affected than what Gaia is already doing.

Zeus/Jupiter would make storms and thunderstorms out of the blue, ravage the world. Tornadoes, erratic air flow, no air flow, so much rain the earth can't absorb it. Ozone layer? something is certainly happening to it.

Poseidon/Neptune would mess up the currents, fuck over the tides and create tides so big that they rival tsunamis. Coral reefs, they start to die, powerful surface currents, too many riptides, the salinity drops. Small scale earthquakes.

Artemis/Diana and Apollo/Phoebus, moon and sun? Well, imagine just how fucked up would it be for the day to suddenly last eight (8) hours and the rest of sixteen (16) to be night, or go even further. One (1) hour of daylight, twenty three (23) of night. Or change from one minute to another. Guess we have a problem huh.

The worst of it. There is no safe space. Apollo and Artemis can't retreat to Delos because half of them is repulsed by that place. No retirement and riding out the chaos until the Greeks and Romans work it out.

That means no godly help, but also no godly trouble, from anyone. The demigods are sailing blind into the unknown. Have the world border apocalyptic.

4. Tartarus and worldbuilding hellish landscapes

The Pit is the place where the monsters get reborn. The body of a literal god. Have the threat of him waking be there from the beginning. The way the ground moves with his every breath, the veins running deep with an almost ichor, but black and molten.

Make the air, beside being toxic, give other side effects. Damaged lungs, weakened bones, infections from the smallest cut. Not only it smells like the worst memories of whoever is unlucky enough to fall, but it preys on hem. Kind of like with Melinoe. Percy sees Gabe out of the corner of his eye, feels Luke's heavy gaze on his back. He turns around but there is nothing.

Have Annabeth feel the blood on her knees from when she knelt beside Luke's dying form/corpse. Let her hear Thalia's last yell towards the monsters that were hunting them when she died, echoing with Tartarus' every breath.

There is no water down there, and if there is, it is not safe. Have them suffer from dehydration, hunger, lack of sleep. Indulging in such things could mean death, so they don't.

Have the monsters, even half formed, emerge from their bubble of remaking and hunt them down.

Nico hadn't been safe either, but for him it was only a few days, not weeks. But he still hears Bianca's voice in his mind, even when escaped, that maybe he should have gone on the quest in TTC and have died. Because he had always been the annoying, pestering little brother and the world would've been better off without him.

Tartarus is weakness and pain and poison. It will haunt everyone that survives it, long after they've escaped.

5. Camp Half-Blood vs Camp Jupiter

The start of the conflict is dumb, and its resolution is even dumber. For this war to start, a minor, needless war, lets change some things. After the quest to find Thanatos/Mors in SON, a year goes by. Let Percy become integrated in the Camp Jupiter dynamics, have him learn the ins and outs of the place. Build trust and respect. Hell, have Octavian come to respect Percy.

Then the Argo II lands. Annabeth, instead of staying put and listening to the introductions Reyna makes, (which means being respectful to the leaders of the place you are currently in, those who are more important than you and your feelings) jumps at Percy. She judo-flips him when he is not expecting that. In what way could this be perceived by people that are wary of battle (the veterans) and kids that are out for blood, as kids are? As assault.

This sets the Romans from the start on the wrong side of the conflict. It does not matter they have a larger objective to achieve. Their pride, their praetors, both of them, were disregarded from their positions of power. One of them was assaulted. (and please do think of this situation objectively here, please) (According to legends among the Romans, every civil war between the Greeks and the Romans was started by children of Athena / from the Athena Parthenos PJO wiki <- just found this. wouldn't this be funny if it's true? Well, I'm making it true.)

This is a very strong basis for mistrust for the Greeks. It doesn't matter in that moment that Percy is Greek too, because he was practically adopted as a honorary Roman.

Annabeth continues to try and gaslight Octavian. And this time the Romans (Reyna and the rest) don't fall for it. It is manipulation, however small or seemingly insignificant. That can't be trusted.

But Percy's reaction, his endorsement doesn't help either. He may love Annabeth, but him also gaslighting Octavian to cover for her prophecy, is not ok. This is the stepping stone for the Romans losing their faith in him.

Jason? Well, he was taken from them and made Greek, which translates to do not trust, now. This is a logical conclusion to add to the fact that Leo's body is stolen and used to set fire to New Rome, potentially harming civilians, innocents.

And then, the anger would naturally translate to seeing Camp Half-Blood as a threat and wanting to eliminate that threat before it bites them in the ass. So the Romans do what Romans do best: preventive defense/warfare, what they used to conquer half the known world.

I'll admit that I've not read the finale of Blood of Olympus recently, but the Athena Parthenos helps with nothing. more about it in n. 8.

6. Death is chained, but death still affects things

Death is the finale. So why can people come back from the dead without something having changed about them? Especially when they need to make their own way back, which doesn't make sense but ok. (like, how would they find the places that lead back to the surface?)

So, have those that have come back to life be uncanny, or too canny.

Example a) Hazel - she is a daughter of Pluto. Have her appearance be just a little off, more god than human. More corpse than alive. Riordan gave her gold eyes? Ok, so have them not be natural, but a result of being dead for 70(?) years. She has adopted some gold in her time as dead, maybe because she is a daughter of Pluto and his domain is also wealth.

Example b) Jason - he is killed by Hera's true form, but comes back soon after. Have him see just a little too much, a bite too well. Things that the Mist covers even for other demigods. Have his eyes emit a low glow in the dark. Or when it becomes dark, have his eyes spark like lightning, quick, than disappear.

Just, make dying important, because it changes you. Otherwise it is just cheap.

7. Roman on Roman, Greek on Greek, Greek on Roman, Roman on Greek

Gaia's conflict is more than just black and white. Have demigods and humans that can see through the Mist want to help her. A majority of Satyrs and dryads and nymphs would join her.

Have demigods become spies for Gaia (she doesn't want then, nor need them but she will allow them to exist, for now) to learn how the others plan to retaliate. What they think that they can do against a primordial goddess.

This happens in both camps. And the spies are not subtle about it, because it is a cause worth dying for. This leads to paranoia in both camps.

It makes the conflict not only Greek vs Roman, demigods vs Gaia, but also family against family, friend against friend.

Drive the fact that people are willing to do what they think is right, and die for it, as deep as bone. Make the theme of the conflict (which I hope is clear that is governments/associations/powerful individuals that don't believe in climate change vs. what the fuck is actually going on, especially with this inner conflict in both camps)

8. Athena Parthenos and the inefficacy of it all

Why is the Athena Parthenos, a single statue that is tied to Athena only, the catalyst that offers the gods peace, rids away the madness.

The Athena Parthenos is a symbol of Athena's pride, and the fact that the Romans where smart enough to hit where it hurts most. Why would it be the thing that heals the rift between the gods? After all, the Greek and Roman gods are two being that share the same 'body'/spirit/are tied together inexplicably. And the two (2) parts hate each other.

I just don't see why it would affect the other gods. Or even Athena. This is what the wiki has to say: "[...]  the capture of the Parthenos was seen as an act of belittlement to Athena, and the source of the seemingly eternal conflict between Greek and Roman demigods" from the Athena Parthenos wiki. Why is it the source?? The Romans and the Greeks have been fighting for other reasons, not some statue. That was just a war prize for the Romans, if we were to take this logically.

The Romans emulated Greek culture and religion, which I guess is why the Greek gods started to become Roman. It doesn't explain why it heals the gods.

Why would the gods even need to be healed? They seem to be aware that it is the way it is. They tried to keep the Greeks and Romans apart because they knew this would happen to them. (or my guess, in other words)(don't get me started on the fact that Riordan chose to ignore that Minerva also has warfare and strategy domains in Roman mythology, all for a subplot badly executed, in my opinion)

9. War ends, but scars remain

I will admit now, I don't know how to work out a satisfactory conclusion to the original HOO and the version I've been cooking. I don't. I think that BOO was badly plotted and it would take a total remake for me to get something useful out of it.

But this isn't about how I would tie together the ending. I want to talk about the aftermath of war, taking into consideration, this time, both the original and what I've been working up to.

Aftermath in the original HOO - the Romans just leave? Like there is no meeting that I can remember that the leaders had. Just Reyna and Piper talking about feelings (not judging, but not the feelings I wanted discussed) and then it's Leo's funeral. I say that some animosity should have still remained, because these guys had killed some enemy soldiers. Lives had been lost, even if the 'rift ' is healed, there should still be some hard feelings. I would suggest the Romans not opening up New Rome, and subsequently the university they have there. Because they can be petty while still not actively at war with the Greeks. Like, this is the best I can do in terms of scars and consequences.

Aftermath in this HOO thought experiment - Well, the world is shit. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions of humans, have died horrifically. Society will need to deal with this trauma, that is for sure. But focusing on the demigod side of things; most demigods would be dead, lets be serious. Killed by the civil war or by each other because of paranoia. They still need to be separated, because the hatred is still there, and the gods can't help. So who would need to do some damage control? Our Six, of which, preferably, only three (3) are still alive. The pain is deep and the wounds are raw, and Percy, whom I think we all know has the luck and wits to survive despite it all will, be fed with the entire situation. Meaning that he would most likely abandon the godly world and go back to his family. Try to live a normal life, or not. Hazel and Frank will not be allowed back in New Rome, because they are traitors, and the Greeks will not have them because they are Roman. The same will go for Percy, also - Romans will not take him back, and the Greeks see him as too Roman. Maybe only Piper, if she survives, will be allowed back in Camp Half-Blood, but that depends. And maybe the shit with Gaia isn't done, because you can't kill gods.

So, uh, 18 points of what I would change in HOO later, I find that I haven't run out. Which is either terrifying or absolutely insane seeing how well the original series was written and just how half-assed this one is. Like, Riordan, HOO was clearly a way to keep making money and not a passion project. And I don't mean it in the mean way, because it had good moments and interesting ideas, but they were poorly executed. Or I needed to read between the lines to see the subtext he was to cowardly to include outright. (not that I'm saying I could do better beside a published author)

Hope you enjoyed my ramblings.

[who-is-muses]

@hopecerulean | Memeless Starter [ ALWAYS ACCEPTING ]

There were few people in this universe that Blaize Barone could say she fully hated. Disagreed with, disliked, rubbed wrong with... but not hate.

Blaize hated Sinestro.

Everything that he stood for, the progenitor Yellow Lantern. The plague of fear and terror that spread across the universe at his beck and call... there was little more Blaize hated than the Yellow Lantern Corps.

So how did she end up with Sinestro himself in her care?

💙;; "Hold still." Her voice was kept level, almost cold, but not abrasive. It would almost sound gentle, to the untrained ear. "I can only heal you so much. Without a Green Lantern to assist, my healing powers are... minimal. But I'm sure you already knew that."

Pain. That's all he can register, all there is to register at first. Not the familiar, grounding ache in his bones more faithful than any supposed ally- but burning agony which fights to wrest his consciousness away from him again. His arms, his legs, his ribs-

His eyes. Collecting enough focus to will his eyes open, he's rewarded by a stab of bright light, prompting a wet hiss and jerking loll of his head away from the source.

A voice- quiet and unimpressive but no less patronizing, though he struggles to make sense of what it says. He's content to ignore it and instead focus on getting his traitorous body to obey him, forcing himself through the pain- until those damn words instantly cut through his daze, stoking the fire ever burning within him to an inferno. Pushing himself upright with one hand on the ground, he blindly swipes the other at where he thinks the voice came from, instinct and rage rather than thought directing his ring to enhance the motion with a construct.

But he doesn't register if he hit anything, if his ring reacted- if he even has his ring- when an undescribable sensation scalds through his nervous system and boils his mind in an instant. After the back of his head collides with the ground once again and he shakes off enough of the new wave of spinning fog, he brings a tremoring hand up to the epicenter of that horrific feeling. His palm alone finds a cavity in his chest that most certainly shouldn't be there, a cavernous gash far deeper than it is wide. It's with abject horror he realizes this must have hit something vital, but he doesn't have the wherewithal to even begin hypothosizing what.

Lolling his head back towards the source of the voice, he wants to command an answer from this unidentified party. All he manages is a slight cracking open of one eye and a wheezing rattle.

[rooksmoor-manor]

The Founder; or, A Restless Autumnal Dream!

«There was I, once again, wandering through the hallways of that sinister, damned building—trapped in a maze of closed doors. I had lost track of how much time I had spent dragging my feet across a succession of the same frigid, unfamiliar rooms until I finally found a welcome change in the scenery: a flickering light shining through a panelled door left ajar. Never before had such an opportunity been presented to me, so I crept through the door, desperate to finally escape this madness.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I found there. On the other side of the door was a crowded room of people I did not recognise, yet with whom I perceived I shared a strange veiled familiarity. It was like observing the blurred faces of an acquaintance someone introduced to you but once or a distant cousin you once met in your now faraway childhood. They moved slowly and mechanically, paying no heed to my presence there as I walked among them, almost like ghosts or automatons—shadows suspended in time. I finally came face to face with the source of light that initially had drawn me into the room: a majestic fireplace, almost as tall as I, with a fire that raged with the terrifying fury of seven hells. But there was something even more astounding than that, a sight that sent shivers down my spine. Over that inferno hung an immense portrait of myself.

There was no doubt that man was I, yet I could not recognise myself in him. He looked older, with several tufts of ashen hair and quite a respectable number of wrinkles I lacked. A triumphant, complacent expression crowned his face, armed with a fierce, piercing gaze. The attire was also unusual, offensively outdated clothing that no one in their right mind would want even to be caught dead in. At the bottom of the frame were two words engraved; not a name, not mine at least: "The Founder". Yet deep inside, I knew that man was I, but not me. Out of this jarring feeling of myself slowly crumbling, I was overtaken by a sudden, more dreadful realisation: even though the fire raged in the chimney, inches apart from me, I was still cold.

Cold, yes—freezing! Standing in front of an inferno that had not warmed my body, and even less my soul. I tried to scream, yet no air left my lungs. I could not feel my breath or mouth, nothing besides that wretched coldness of the grave. Was I a ghost? Had I perished and found myself in a torturous afterlife? I closed my eyes, still screaming in an agonic silence. When I opened them again, the cold was still there—yet the room was not.

It was now a different kind of cold, the chilly air of a foggy autumn morning before a warm day. The cold of the metal lamppost I was leaning on against my trembling cheek. I tried to straighten myself, stumbling to my feet as I examined the clothing I was wearing, not sure if they were indeed mine at all. I sighed with relief—it was but a dream. Yet my solace was short-lived as I inspected my surroundings: I had been sleepwalking again, this time worse than ever before. Somehow, I had managed to get fully dressed, bow tie and everything, unlock the door of my lodgings and walk for almost a mile, meandering through the narrow streets of London. Hurriedly, I tried to return to my accommodations, hopeful that, in my condition, I had remembered to lock the door yet still bracing for the worst. I grumbled all along the way, complaining about how everything was turning the worst way possible: I could not rest without being plagued by those terrible, and my noctambulism did nothing but deteriorate my health. I was at my wits' end.

I stopped right in my tracks as I passed a large window. I might sound like a madman, but I know what I saw: for a split second, on that window, it was not my reflection that looked back at me—but the man from that portrait, myself. And I laughed. Oh, I laughed and cried and shrieked, yes, as if some unknown force had possessed me, as something inside me snapped. "I will!" I shouted at the skies, roaring with laughter. "I will become that Founder, whatever that means, and do what I must, whatever you, whoever you are, expect from me! Just one night, one night of peaceful slumber, and I will fulfil my duty!". Passerbys kept staring at me, but I did not care, for you cannot comprehend how verily desperate I was.

The following night, I slept undisturbed for the first time in years.»

Brief excerpt preserved from one of the unexpurgated diaries of the Founder.

[gffa]

My thoughts about it are a bit disconnected, but I was going through your dark side tag & came across a post wondering why fire was sometimes associated with the dark aide, & came to the realisation that the headquarters of dark side users tend to reflect the reason they turned in the first place.

Vader'a Castle is on mustafar, a planet of intense heat, because the warmth & passion of love drove him to commit atrocities

The Inquisitorious base is underwater, a place that's generally seen as dark and cold and suffocating. But they were all tortured into the role, and are kept there by fear. They can't leave the base or the dark aide without risk to their life

For me, I think the association with fire is because that's what authors and creators think should be associated with Vader's Force presence in the dark side, that we're primed to think of anger and hate as raging infernos. But even Vader is cold on the dark side--like in that episode of Rebels, when Kanan and Ezra feel Vader's presence, they specifically describe it as cold when they feel Vader. And I think that goes all the way back to Empire Strikes Back, where Luke feels the cold of the dark side on Dagobah, that that's what higher canon (Lucas + Disney) show the dark side as feeling like. So, what happens when a book or comic describes Vader's dark side as fiery? Eh, do what you want with it! If you like that view better, then that's what you should view it as. For me, I tend to acknowledge it but disregard it because it's one of those things where Disney canon contradicts itself and I chalk it up to authors either liking the idea better or they just disagree with that view or they just didn't do the same deep dive into this kind of thing. There's no single answer to this, it depends on what you prioritize as your source material and what you want to see as the answer and what you think makes for the best story. For me, I think making Vader fiery in the dark side takes away from the loneliness and cold, empty of warmth and light space that the dark side is. I think making Vader cold on the inside, even while he lives on a planet of fire and lava, never to be warm again until he climbs out of the dark and embraces the light again, is exactly the kind of thematic stuff I love about the character. I can see where you're coming from and how much awesome stuff can be done with it! But I definitely like the idea of Vader as cold better because the cold is empty and lonely no matter how much warmth you try to fill it up with, it can never chase away the chill. Vader can never be warmed by the light again until he leaves the dark, what an awful but poetic fate for a boy from Tatooine.

[sercphs]

@astrxlfinale asked:

Shame had no place in the melted dams they've made. Searing through normalized convention, tripping upon customs that should've developed some ornate sense of trust. Yet all that burns within such moments would be that vitriol that spirals into a new brand of bloom. Vigor that allows a very human heat to tear between the manner of concepts, allowing this very incarnate of All's End to keep the cosmic threat known as Cradle pinned to a nearby wall.

Except, so much of what made them annihilators simply fell to the wayside. For it'd be Caelus who found himself sweeping away some of those bangs, teetering once more upon that line of thriving spite and a feverish desire, leading to the proximity that's rendered null between them. "Cradle--" Her name intoned was all that would follow, alongside the very pressure of keeping him braced and off of her feet, keeping her steadied with a leg braced between her thighs as a gluttonous claim was made anew.

The Trailblazer was reckless passion fortified. Drinking deep from Despair, ensuring the heat of a source that intends to unweave the void itself would be her boon, so ceaselessly rough against her lips as some of that flowing hair found itself fixed into his demanding grip. This time, the borders were torn further, the hot lash of his tongue indulging in a taste that would bring anyone upon a lethal brink.

Yet here he was, savoring her for what she was.

Allowing the fervor of their tongues to clash, locked between the sweet, wet heat of contact, igniting that pleasurable friction through their bodies. The intent found itself clear that he was intending to get her immersed, to cast her far into the wellspring of this greed that's been built in her name. Emptiness would once again find a lethal light trying to pervade it, the echoes of his brutish delight echoing with the growl escaping into her mouth. Unlike before, there would be no short lived intent.

He remains. He wants to etch a curse of his very own upon her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Last time, he'd taken her by surprise when he answered he question the way he had, that tender but fervent passion he'd indulged with in that single kiss. This time, however, things are different - this time she's ready for it, she sees his approach, the look in those molten irises of his - and she knows what is to come.

⠀⠀⠀⠀No resistance is offered to his actions, for what reason is there to resist him willingly walking the path she wants him to? Why would she push him away when it is the very thing she has been seeking?

"Caelus."

⠀⠀⠀⠀It's a rarity for her to permit a more tangible presence of her physical form, to let herself be more truly corporeal than ethereal - but for this moment, this passionate exchange where her name is like a honeyed want on his tongue, she will satisfy what it is that he craves most.

⠀⠀⠀⠀A hand rises, despite her pinned position, to find its place upon his cheek, her other upon his chest to feel that beating calamity within his chest. The time he takes is fine, any length is satisfactory, for the deeper he drinks from the unending well, the more thoroughly it permeates through the catastrophe he himself personifies. That very beating heart of his sings to her own ambitions, it answers a call that could not be contextualized in the words she knows.

⠀⠀⠀⠀So it is that she permits this to continue, to let her partner greedily indulge in her and what she embodies without a care in the world. It is in this joining of calamities, the raging inferno of Destruction and the endless abyss of Despair, that she sees a path forward to her penultimate goal.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He will serve fine in creating a universe devoid of both.

⠀⠀⠀⠀For now, however, she will indulge in this intimacy, indulge in the way his greed for her lays itself bare. The way that she feels a satisfaction at his efforts, at his goal to claim her in whatever way he sees fit. Truly, he has already fallen deep into despair in the only way that matters to her.

[sphylor]

hi its almost 3am i was feeling sad so i made Dewdrop feel sad instead enjoy:

It's such a natural part of life, the comings and goings of others. Even in the pit, the realm of eternal damnation, eternity can be very fleeting. Dewdrop knew this. He was well aware that not everyone would stick by his side forever. The thought used to bring him comfort. He used to hold that idea in his chest like a glowing flicker of hope. Hope that the people who tormented and hurt him would someday pass through and out of his life forever and would never be able to reach him again. Just as a river flows from source to mouth and then out into the sea. 

It didn't matter then that he was being left behind because it was in his best interests. It didn't matter that the concept of impermanence brought about other comings and goings that caused him more pain as they moved on than when they came through. He knew the pain would pass in time too. Just like everything else. Even when the day came for him to move on, it still felt like he was standing still whilst everything moved around him. And he told himself he took comfort in that. It was familiar, all he had ever known, and so clearly he should be taking comfort in it. 

For a while, though, Dewdrop’s tumultuous existence was graced with a fragile permanence. Suddenly, there was nothing he wished would pass through his life. He wanted things to stay the same. He found himself clinging to the people around him, his new home, his very essence and being. Clearly not tight enough… The first time in his life he had ever dreaded change led to the most upheaval and hurt inflicted upon him yet. An uncontrollable storm surge of misery that flung brackish water and daggers of debris back up the river channel, bursting its banks and flooding the surrounding land. 

Everything changed for Dewdrop. 

He soon found himself lighting the flame in his chest once more. He hadn't even noticed it going out, he hadn't needed it at the time. But now he needed something familiar again. Something safe. And though the flame was no longer a candle, though it was now a raging inferno that burned him inside out and left nothing but charred flesh and agony in its wake, it was still a flame. It was still familiar, he told himself as he felt his skin burning up with fever. He found comfort in expecting the things he dreaded the most, he whispered to himself on those dark nights where all he felt was searing pain. He didn't care if he got left behind. He lied to himself as he lay alone in his bed.

Of course, since then people have come into his life and stayed for a while. They doused his fire and healed his wounds. Grew flowers over the scars and wafted away the memory of smoke and ash on the gentle breeze. But a flame still burns in Dewdrop's chest. It is smaller, granted, smaller than it has ever been. But he hasn't forgotten it. He still curls himself around it and tries to find safety in its dark light and cold warmth. Everyone and everything will pass through his life, he reminds himself, there's no good in wishing for things to stay as they are. It is inevitable that he will be left behind. 

Sometimes, though, he snuffs the flame and sits by the lake pooled in his heart. He'll stare at the still surface of the water, how it ripples and laps at the shore but the water never truly moves anywhere or changes. And sometimes he'll wish that someone would sit by him just a while longer. And when he looks up into the endless oceans in the eyes of the water ghoul who sits beside him, he wonders if finally he has been the one to flow down the river and come to rest in the sea. And sometimes that thought is enough to forget about the flame reigniting itself once again in his chest. If just for a while longer.

[ifyouwaltzwiththewildthings]

You can never predict what you may find when wandering Neverland at night. Things always seem so peaceful... But there was something in the air tonight. A disgustingly familiar feeling, a faint warmth...

Smoke.

If anything could take Fletcher's eyes off the ground, snap them out of their whimsy, it was the smell of smoke. It only had to be a faint whiff for them to feel the horrible acrid feeling in their throat. Suddenly, they were far too aware of their surroundings. Eyes held wide open by fear rapidly move, searching... This has happened before, when Fletcher had gone out on nights during the bonfires the Lost Boys would light. They avoid those at all costs... But some part of Fletcher attempted to calm themself - "It's probably just a little campfire."

That was swiftly disproven, much to their dismay. A long line of smoke reaches up for the stars, embers flickering almost akin to fireflies against the night. The source... Was that right? Could it be?

Perhaps Fletcher should have just flown away, minded their business. That ship burning, well... It's only fitting, isn't it? Yet no matter how much it might be deserved... There are people on that ship, people who don't deserve to be engulfed death's hellish claw. What were they going to do? They had no idea, but their wings were already carrying them toward the Jolly Roger.

Stopping just short of the beach where the Jolly Roger sits, hiding in this kind tree's leaves...

Just in time.

Shouting and crying vaguely registered in their ears. Several silhouettes in action... But Fletcher was quick to narrow their sights on just one, the smallest that hovers in the air, surrounded by fury. Fletcher felt their horror suffocating them as they watched, paralysed.

Until...

It only took one clean cut. That's all. One dexterous movement from the wrist.

That small silhouette... Became two, separating from each other as they plummeted out of the air.

Fletcher didn't realise they had begun to scream until they felt their throat strain.

Everything was blurred as Fletcher lurched forward onto the deck of the Jolly Roger. They didn't care - he could do the same to them, could end them with far less trouble. Small puddles of blood were pooling in two separate places, and Fletcher didn't know what to do, looking between the two halves of Thorn.

Beloved Thorn...

Fletcher's knees would bruise quickly from how brutally they dropped onto the wood. Thorn, his eyes still carried that rage, that fire... Fletcher witnessed it as it ever so slightly left with each passing moment. Both their hands cupped Thorn's face tightly as they pleaded, begged. It all just turned to choked sobs before any of it could reach their lips.

For a moment, Fletcher could have sworn Thorn's eyes turned to meet theirs. Could have sworn... That they softened.

" Don't leave me! Don't leave me! Please! "

...

He's gone.

Oh, Thorn.

Gone. All gone. Lost. The world robbed.

Fletcher's sobs become muffled as they hold Thorn's torso so, so close, tears staining his clothes, burning through the fabric. Blood has utterly soaked their lap. They aren't paying any attention to that, not one bit, the pounding in their head and their heart drowned out anything else but the utter despair of holding half of a friend.

No part of Fletcher wants to move, it's a gamble on whether they even can move, but... They need to take him away from this wretched ship. But how? Tears continue to splash against Thorn as Fletcher looks between... Him, and him. How? Would they have to just take half... No, no, the pirates won't have any of him. They can't. They don't deserve him, any part of him.

The inferno alight in Fletcher's chest. Thorn's last fire.

Hands slick with red, Fletcher struggles in anguish as they find a way to make it work. It's ugly, it was always going to be, but they feel as if they could crumble away as they hold both halves of Thorn desperately in their arms. Their poor wings struggle, flight erratic and slow, leaving a thin trail of Thorn's blood - off the ship, across the sand, in the dirt...

By the time they reach their tree, there isn't much blood left for Thorn to bleed. His face has gone completely white, expression has settled into a chilling, thousand mile stare.

Is he seeing anything? Stars, the moon, the world...

Fletcher's hands shake violently as they place his legs on the lower half of their bed, then his upper half. They so gently rest his head onto their pillow before a futile attempt try nudge the two halves together. Just... Close enough. When they bring the blanket up to his shoulders, you can't tell... Then, finally, Fletcher brings two slender fingers over Thorn's eyelids, carefully bringing them down over his glazed eyes.

And now he... He's at rest. Right? He looks like he's sleeping. Very still, very peaceful... Fletcher harshly collapses back onto their legs, positioned beside the bed.

" Thorn... You can rest now, finally, you can... Say hello to her for me... "

Fletcher leans forward, burying their face into Thorn's arm. No amount of grip on Thorn's hand will ever bring anything in return.

[general-gt]

Less a thought and more a snippet of writing but here’s a chunk of something I’m working on.

Warnings for fearplay, arguments, possessive behaviour. Let me know if I missed any.

“Optimus…?” Elias watched the Cybertronian cautiously, taking in his tensed plating and the thin curls of smoke pouring from his smokestacks. They’d never seen him look so tense. Was this argument getting to him that much?

Glaring azure optics looked down at them and they shivered. There was a burning rage in his optics and they involuntarily stepped back.

“Elias.” His tone was cold, iced over with hostility somehow seeping from that single word.

“Optimus, I had to-���

Between one moment and the next there was the slam of metal on metal, the sound vibrating through their body, reverberating across the vast room.

There was a fresh dent in the table, something Elias didn’t need to see to understand as they watched Optimus pull back his fist. The paint across his knuckles was scuffed from the sheer strength of the blow, revealing the gunmetal grey metal underneath.

Elias barely had to chance to choke out a single syllable before they were fixed under the gaze that began to blaze into a raging inferno. “You didn’t have to do anything. Our war is not yours to get involved in!” he snapped, an underlying growl to his words.

Their own temper flared, frustrated by the cresting of the argument they’d already been having for an hour. “We’ve had this argument a million times, you can’t stop me!”

“Can’t I?” All the boiling rage turned stone cold in a split second and a thud shook Elias’ world as their perception narrowed to focus completely on the towering Cybertronian. Optimus’s knees hit the floor and despite the change in height, he still loomed, faceplates shadowed, Elias’ only source of light the eerie glow of his optics. “It would be so easy to keep you here with me. To keep you safe.”

The realisation clicked and Elias was aware for the first time in months of how large Optimus was. His entire being was incomprehensibly vast, his chassis an expanse of metal and glass like staring across a field, only able to see a fraction of what was before them, his height capable of eclipsing buildings. The hands splayed on either side of them caged them in effortlessly and they knew that if Optimus wanted, he could crush them effortlessly.

Or, in the case of the overprotective giant, grab them and lock them in a cage, safe behind bars.

“Y-you wouldn’t!” They tried to maintain their confidence in their friend, the mech that had fought for the freedom of all sentient life. He wouldn’t lock them away. He couldn’t.

“If it keeps you safe, I would.” There was no hesitation as Optimus’ hands closed around them. The grasp that had always seemed so comforting was devoid of any familiarity. It was bordering crushing, the kind of grasp a particularly well loved glass figure would be put under if the owner felt it was at risk of shattering. “Maybe I will.”

[thepilgrimbetweenworlds]

Antiverse Revised Character Profile: Meltdown

Meltdown

Donor Name: Fyro-klese Pūlmo

Age: 27

Species: Pyronite

Birthplace: Pyros (Antiverse)

Hair: Plasma infused Mohawk

Eyes: Pitch black with sickly yellow iris

Height: 6ft 1in

Weight: 232 lbs.

Powers/Abilities:

-Napalm Bombs: Here comes the boom. Meltdown can produce a napalm-like explosive from his hands. These bombs are coated in a thin plasma membrane, allowing them to stick to surfaces, and the flames they produce are difficult to put out.

-Self-Ignition: Rage burns like fire, and consumes the soul. Meltdown can set himself ablaze by expending energy from his fiery core, becoming a walking inferno. This technique is highly dangerous if not properly controlled, as it drains him of energy the more often it is used.

-Plasma Breath: “Scream warrior! Let them hear you!” By concentrating his energy into a single attack, Meltdown can fire a beam of pure plasma. This beam can melt most objects instantaneously, but drains Meltdown’s energy very quickly. If used too long, it can even cool him to the point of death.

-Heat Absorption: Cling to that warm spot, for it might not last. Meltdown draws life from heat, and can drain it to replenish himself and boost his power. Gain enough, and Meltdown can enter a super mode and unleash and explosion of monumental proportions.

-Innate Melee Expertise: In a battle to the death, everything is a weapon. Kevin’s innate combat awareness is amplified as Meltdown by drawing on his countless years of combat experience. Though he seems to have a special preference for spears and tridents.

Physical Description: Fyro-klese’s appearance is best described as Mad Max meets Ghost Rider. His body is composed of two parts: his igneous outer shell, which contains and regulates his energy, and his inner core, the source of his life and power. His oddly trapezoid shaped head rests upon a thick neck that is always hunched over. His stocky upper half slightly outgrows his waist and legs. Fyro-klese is covered in gladiator style armor over much of his body and legs. His shoulders carry spaulders that channel his flame through specialized ports, and spikes line the front and back of his chest. His outer hide is pitch black, save for the cool yet lively red shine of his inner core. The armor is colored in several shades of grey and yellow. The Antitrix symbol is located on his chest.

Backstory: The Antiverse is filled with violence and death. To its dwindling denizens, death is a common occurrence. But for Fyro-klese Pūlmo, death became entertainment. When Pyros was ejected from its orbit, civilization collapsed. In the aftermath, a dictatorship was formed, and horded the last active sources of geothermic energy to keep the populace in line. After centuries of despotic rule, a resistance movement was created to overthrow the emperor. But like all light on cold Pyros, the heat of rebellion soon flickered and began to wane. Desperate, the resistance launched a final assault on the emperor’s palace but were swiftly captured. The ringleaders were imprisoned and sentenced to fight in Pyros’ infamous gladiatorial arena. But a far more deplorable fate awaited their wives and lovers: They would be used to breed warriors for the arena… Fyro-klese was one of those children.

From birth he was already a warrior. Displaying a fierce personality and ferociousness at a young age, he was handpicked to be a part of the emperor’s personal gladiators. But Fyro-klese hoped for something beyond the confines of the arena dungeon. Hope that he would one day he would find freedom for his mother and siblings. But the emperor was not about to lose his newest toy. He had the young Pyronite taken from his mother, and for many long and grueling years “trained” him in his private arena. The light of hope was soon snuffed out, and from the broken shell of Fyro-klese came an animal, burning with rage. His pet ready, the emperor unleashed him on the public. Fyro-klese had become a spectacle of carnage and destruction, slaying many innocent gladiators. His deathmatches were recorded and sent to black markets across the Antiverse, where one managed to find its way to a special traveler, far, far away…

Personality: Fyro-klese is consumed by rage and hate. As he was born into a life of death and gruesome entertainment, he views all living things as potential opponents. He is near feral, bloodthirsty, and feels no peace until all who oppose him are bloody stains. Yet buried deep beneath his burning exterior lies a poor boy, hiding from death under the masque of wrath.

Influence on Kevin: Kevin becomes consumed by rage whenever he transforms into Meltdown.

Trivia:

-Fyro-klese is easily the most vulgar of Kevin’s aliens, and he'll often swear in the Pyronite language.

[kanisema-blog]

The salty breeze whipped through my hair, the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore a constant lullaby. Boracay was a kaleidoscope of colors - the turquoise water, the pristine white sand, the vibrant flora that lined the beach. But for 10-year-old Babe Bayola, the most captivating sight was the man building a sandcastle with my little brother, Enzo.

His name was Rafael. Tanned and with a mop of unruly black hair, he was a year older than me, the son of our family friends. We spent the entire vacation inseparable, constructing elaborate sandcastles, chasing hermit crabs along the shore, and giggling as we buried each other in the warm sand. It was a childhood friendship, innocent and pure, but it sparked a flame within me, a tiny ember that flickered to life every time our families vacationed together.

Years flew by in a flurry of school plays, awkward teenage phases, and stolen glances across crowded rooms. Rafael, ever the athlete, excelled in basketball, his name synonymous with every victory our school team achieved. I, on the other hand, found my passion in fashion. My room became a haven of fabrics, sketches, and discarded patterns. I dreamt of becoming a designer, of dressing women in clothes that made them feel powerful and beautiful.

One summer, the ember within me flared into a raging inferno. We were both 18, on the cusp of adulthood. Our families rented a beach house in Batangas, a place that seemed to exist outside of time. One starlit night, a shared bonfire crackled between us, casting flickering shadows on our faces. We talked for hours, about dreams and fears, hopes and aspirations. As the fire died down to embers, Rafael took my hand, his touch sending shivers down my spine. We leaned in, and our first kiss was a revelation, a collision of unspoken emotions held captive for years.

The following years were a whirlwind of stolen moments, late-night phone calls, and furtive glances across crowded college hallways. Rafael, ever the charmer, pursued basketball professionally, his name lighting up the national leagues. I, fueled by love and ambition, launched my own fashion line, "Babe." My designs, a fusion of elegance and comfort, resonated with women, and my brand took off.

Distance, however, tested the strength of our bond. Rafael's grueling schedule kept him on the road, while my burgeoning business demanded my constant attention. We snatched moments of happiness whenever we could, stolen weekends and late-night video calls. Yet, a silent fear gnawed at me - could our love survive the relentless pursuit of our dreams?

The turning point came on the eve of my biggest fashion show. The pressure was immense, and self-doubt gnawed at me. As I sat backstage, overwhelmed by the chaos, a familiar hand squeezed mine. It was Rafael, his presence a balm to my anxieties. He whispered words of encouragement, his unwavering belief in me a source of immense strength. That night, the show was a triumph. The models glided down the runway, my creations coming alive under the spotlight. But the most rewarding moment was seeing Rafael in the front row, his eyes filled with pride and love.

In the years that followed, our love story unfolded like a well-crafted garment, beautifully woven with threads of success, challenges, and unwavering commitment. Rafael retired from basketball, his fame transitioning into a successful sports apparel brand. My fashion line flourished, gracing the wardrobes of celebrities and socialites alike. We built a life together, a testament to the enduring power of our childhood connection.

Today, as I stand on the balcony of our beachfront home in Boracay, the same place where it all began, I glance at Rafael, his hair now streaked with silver, but his eyes still holding the same warmth from our youth. We've weathered storms, celebrated victories, and grown together. And as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, I know that our love story, like the tide, will ebb and flow, forever drawn to the shore of each other's hearts.

[silenceofpetals]

Sailing Away

The flame crackled and danced on the sandy beach, sending plumes of dark smoke into the sky. The slender figure stood firmly with her feet planted in the burning sand, her gaze fixed on the raging inferno. It cast an eerie glow on her features, highlighting the pain and sadness etched in her expression.

She slowly lifted her head, her eyes shifting to the gloomy clouds above. Despite the chaos around her, she found solace in the stillness of the sky. It was a reminder that even when everything below was in turmoil, the heavens remained constant.

Her hair whipped violently around her face, tangled and wild like her thoughts. The wind was relentless, blowing away any semblance of normalcy from her life. She closed her eyes and allowed the gusts to ravage her, as if hoping it would take away the hurt and darkness consuming her soul.

But the fire continued to rage, a symbol of destruction and chaos. Long shadows danced across the beach, menacing and foreboding. The flames leapt higher, reaching desperately towards the sky as if begging for salvation.

The fire crackled nearby, its flames dancing wildly in the dark night. To anyone else, it was just a mere campfire, providing warmth and light. But to her, it was a reflection of her own heart - ablaze with emotions she couldn't control.

Holding onto a simple silver ring in her palm, she watched as its glimmer flickered in the light of the fire. Just like her heart, its shine was wavering and uncertain. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, finally giving in to the overwhelming weight of emotion.

As she stared into the fire, lost in her thoughts, a strange peace swept over her. The dancing flames seemed to understand her pain, turning from orange to red to blue in a beautiful and melancholy display. The smoke rose into the dark sky, as if carrying her troubles away with it. In that moment, she realized that the campfire was more than just a source of warmth. It was a symbol of her inner turmoil, a reflection of the turmoil that ignited within her.

She stood by the shore, her emotions raging, as a wave of despair crashed over her. The salty air burnt her nostrils, matching the sting of her unshed tears. Expelling all her pain, she lets out a piercing scream, the sound echoing against the vast, empty night sky.

With trembling hands, she picks up two handfuls of sand and slams them ferociously against the ground. The grains scatter around her, a befitting representation of the pieces of her shattered heart. Her fists ache, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the ache inside her soul.

Her sobs choke her, raw and untamed, blending in with the symphony of anguished screams that fill the night air. In this moment, she needs the world to know the depth of her sorrow, to hear her cries and acknowledge her brokenness.

Just when she thought the night couldn't get any darker, a beam of light jars her from her despair. The distant hum of a cruise ship sails by, completely unaware of the tragedy that has unfolded on the shore. In a moment of poetic irony, she suddenly remembers the ring that once meant everything to her, now nothing more than a weight to be discarded.

With a last burst of strength, she flings the ring as far as she can, watching it glisten in the moonlight before sinking into the dark, infinite vastness of the ocean.

The woman knew she never stood a chance of becoming his bride. She was just a placeholder, easily replaced by someone more suitable. She felt her heart drop as she watched the man she thought she loved marry another woman. The wedding cruise sailed away, taking with it the joyful melodies and hopeful promises of a new life together. But for her, it was like the echo of their love fading into nothingness.

As the reality sunk in, she realized she had been foolish to even dream of being with him. Her heart ached at the thought of his happiness with another, while she was left behind, cast aside like a discarded object. She knew that no matter how much she had cared for him, she could never be the one he chose to spend eternity with.

The sounds of the wedding cruise grew fainter and fainter, until they were nothing but a distant memory. Just as her own heart slowly succumbed to the numbing pain and loneliness she felt inside.

She couldn't help but wonder, was she ever really meant to love him, or was she just a temporary blip in his journey to find his true happily ever after?

[sinvulkt]

Angstpril: 27. HEATED Argument -scel & sin?

@whumpril - Day. 27. Forced To Kneel | Grabbed by Collar

I flew and I flew, leaving the Temple behind.  The Council had given me orders to stay put, but slipping away was all too easy. The Jedi would regret these ‘extra Shadow lessons’ they made me take.

Scel had gone too far. He had hurt Pat, and I’d make sure he regretted this. It was time he remembered he wasn’t the only one with teeth.

✯ ✯ ✯ ꒰ঌ ⚔ ໒꒱ 𓆩⚔𓆪 ꒰ঌ ⚔ ໒꒱ ✯ ✯ ✯

Tracking down Scélérat was eerily easy. He hadn’t gone back underground yet, too occupied to tie up the loose ends left by his last mission debacle. As soon as the theelin entered my sight, I dove, not leaving him the time to react as I closed my grip around his throat.

“You went too far!” I shouted as we both collapsed on the ground.

“I went light on him," Scélérat snapped back. He pushed me away and stood back up, dusting himself with a scowl. "With his past on the street, it should have been nothing.”

My tail lashed. Thoughts scrambled in my head, inarticulately, struggling to make sense. By the tunneling of my vision and the pulse in my head, I knew I was angry.

Nothing good ever came out of anger. The sparks had already ignited the fire however, and there was a whole inferno burning in my mind. And it was all too eager to be spread. 

“Pat doesn’t have the same past as you!" I shouted as I charged the source of my ire. "He never suffered that way.”

“As if you’d know,” Scélérat scoffed, easily side-stepping the blow. “The way I remember it, you never suffered that way either.”

“Nor would you, had you been more clever,” I retorted.

“If I had been a coward,” Scélérat sneered.

The fight felt good. Both the physical and verbal sparring. It was as if venom filled my throat, as if lava filled my veins, and both wanted to get out. Something in me whispered that it was wrong, that I was attacking Scélérat for the wrong reasons… but the fire raged on, and worse, I didn’t want to stop it.

The fight felt good.

At some point, either me or Scélérat had lit on their lightsabers, and the other had followed suit. Bystanders gawked and gossiped, but never for long- most people knew better than to interfere in a Force Sensitive fight. The plasma blades added a dangerous edge to our spar, a lethality nothing else could quite achieve; and it sent adrenaline roaring through my heart.

“Who do you think ends up laying half dead on the street?" I taunted. "The brave dog or the cowardly rat?”

Scélérat’s retort was a rageous move, and I almost released my shoto as my arm erupted in pain. A simple graze, if painful. I smirked, knowing the recklessness meant my words had struck true. “For all your bravado," I mocked, "I don’t see you at the top of the food chain." A powerful flap from my wings took me out of reach. "Tell me Scel, how does it feel to be beneath Dooku’s leash?"

“I’m higher than you’ll ever be, traitor.”

Debatable, as I currently held the higher ground. The beast in me was purring like a cat who had gotten its cream. It urged me to continue to play, to spit more of the ignited venom that burned my lungs, but the low rumble of army shuttles alerted me that Separatist reinforcements had arrived. It was time to end the game.

“Perhaps," I amended. After all, far from me to deny I was also on a tight leash- albeit from the opposite side. "But I’ll fly longer.”

I smirked and flew away, knowing the Separatists would be far too slow to catch me. The Force twirled around me like wisps of smoke of the fire I had unleashed. It spoke to me, about unnecessary hurt and rage, about devastation. It whispered about false freedom and release, about chains made and unmade by the very person who wore them.

Soon, I’d listen to it. Soon, I’d be forced to kneel; I’d tuck my chin and deferentially bow my head to the world, as it wrapped me back in used chains that vainly pulled and clicked at every misstep. Soon, I’d wear my sentient skin again, step back onto the stage and put a smile on my face as I gave my audience a good show. 

Right now, though?

Right now, I was a beast.

(And worse, I didn’t want to stop it.)

[our-flag-means-death-ao3feed]

Steal Your Heart

by unencryptid

“Say we believe you,” Ed says.

And fuck. Izzy can already tell Edward has six half-formed plans and a dozen fuckeries in his damn head thanks to Jackie’s newlywed bliss.

“Say we buy the whole ‘partner’ thing; where the fuck would we find one? Most of us are more likely to kill one another than be vulnerable.”

Jackie’s smile does not bode well for Izzy’s future. He makes a mental note to have Buttons curse the woman on the off chance that the nonsense he spouts is real.

She exhales a plume of smoke towards the ceiling, teeth gleaming like the point of a blade. “Same way you get everything else. Take it.”

---------

A Shamelessly Self-Indulgent Alternate Meeting AU™ in which our favorite pirates take “steal your girl” way too seriously.

Words: 3793, Chapters: 1/10, Language: English

Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Stede Bonnet, Mary Allamby Bonnet, Frenchie (Our Flag Means Death), Lucius Spriggs, Nigel Badminton, Chauncey Badminton, Blackbeard | Edward Teach, "Calico" Jack Rackham, Spanish Jackie (Our Flag Means Death), Original Characters, Crew of the Revenge (Our Flag Means Death), Fang (Our Flag Means Death), Ivan (Our Flag Means Death)

Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet, Frenchie (Our Flag Means Death)/Israel Hands, Black Pete/Lucius Spriggs, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Light Angst, Mildly Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent, Arson, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, light primal kink, Restraints, Abduction, Slow Burn to Raging Inferno, Pet Names, Threats of Violence, Frenchie Has the Braincell, He Doesn't Want It, Extended Metaphors, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Nipple Play, Like So Much Nipple Play, Frottage, Choking, Spanking, Just One Little Swat, Light Knifeplay, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Invasion of Privacy, Recreational Drug Use, Marijuana, Explicit Language, Mary Allamby Bonnet & Stede Bonnet are Best Friends, Israel Hands & Edward Teach are Best Friends, Izzy & Ed Actually Talk to One Another, Calico Jack is a Mess, Spanish Jackie's 21st Husband, Alcohol, Bad Advice but Good Results, Fast & Loose with Cannon, Historical Inaccuracy, Author is Open to Hearing about Dead Batteries, Power Imbalance, POV Multiple, Less Dysfunctional Relationship Between Ed and Izzy, Class Differences, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, First Time, Top Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Bottom Stede Bonnet, Top Israel Hands, bottom frenchie

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/44122645

[teethingpains]

When Sephiroth had awoken and found his mind his own again. He'd been alone.

The world was still there. But it didn't resemble the world he'd known. He'd just watched it for a wile. It's people going about living their lives. Friendships, jobs, lovers, families. He watched them until he could force himself to move.

Sephiroth changed his appearance to fit in with the people around him. Silver hair became black, cats eyes became round.

They had rockets that went into space now, star charts of their galaxy and thebones next to it. He buried himself in research. The learning comforted the emptiness inside of him. Filling his mind with facts about the stars helped him ignore the things that were missing everywhere else.

Within a few years he'd learned everything he could from books, their computers and digital libraries. He attended conferences and learned their new theories in person. Eventually he joined them in their exploration.

This new world was strange. Different races from different planets all working together. He looked at the other creatures around him, in all their diversity, none of them looked like him. He wondered if they knew of Jenova. The calamity of worlds. He doubted it would do him any good if they did. They accepted the form he presented to them, praised him for his intelligence and successes, unknowing of his origins, of what he already knew.

Some tried to get closer to him but he held them at arms length. They wouldn't accept him, not the real him. They had only lived a fraction of his life. They didn't know him. Couldn't know him. You don't know all the things I've done.

Sephiroth preferred the logical beings. They didn't ask personal questions, their questions had logical answers, and in turn their answers were strait forward. Others joked he was secretly one of them, or perhaps a child of both worlds. He didn't tell them how close they were to the truth. It would have been nice if he had been one of them.

He awoke one night with a sense if urgency. It had no obvious source. He checked all he obligations, nothing he'd forgotten, nothing he needed to do. Sephiroth sat on his bed in the dark. He let his hair become silver strands in the moonlight. He didn't need the light to see.

He allowed himself to just be. The urgency felt familiar, almost like it wasn't his, like it belonged to someone else. But there was no one else.

At work he took on extra jobs. A bad habit. A friend had said that once. All he had left were bad habits and memories he wanted to forget. He just had to wait for this to pass.

The night feelings didn't pass. Instead they became more regular. Like a radio signal repeating until someone intercepted it. Good thing he had practice hiding bad sleep. No one noticed. They would have noticed. Don't think about them. Don't think. Don't think.

It was 3am and he was lying awake again. The urgency was a pounding headache. Desperate, pleading, help me.

Help me?

Help me. 

"How?" 

Sephiroth spoke into the darkness.

Help me

I'm burning

He sat up clutching his head. He tried to phocus on the voice. It came to him distorted. As if they were either side of a raging inferno.

At work someone made a joke about him getting a gray hair. It wasn't gray. It was silver. He could see it in the bathroom mirror. His concentration must be slipping. Sephiroth couldn't afford that. They all thought he was human. 

He called in sick the next day. Hoping he could catch up on some sleep. 

He managed to keep up appearances for the most part. That was until an exploration crew returned. They were talking about a strange star. Something seemed to be alive at its core. A new entity of some kind?

Help me…I'm burning.

Sephiroth recalled the distorted words. Was there Something, someone, in that star? Was it better to just walk away?

Please.

His head snapped up from the monitor. Everyone around him seemed undisturbed. The word had come from inside his head, but this time it had been clear, he'd recognised that voice. 

Sephiroth repressed the sting in his eyes. Instead he used the feeling to drive him to his feet. He found the captain leading the exploration crew.

"Will you be going back to that star?"

"Yes, I expect so. We need to learn more about it." 

"I want to accompany the next mission." 

The captain seemed surprised. They didn't really need anyone else, why did he want to come? Stars were his speciality. 'Seth's' credentials backed this up. He could be of use. 

To his surprise the science officer also backed him up, saying they could use the extra knowledge. The captain looked between them, sighed, then agreed. He could come.

The star was smaller than Gaia's, or Earth's as they now called it, Sephiroth wasn't sure it was even a real star. But he'd have to get closer to prove or disprove that. Which would be the hard part. He doubted they'd just let him suit up and go out there.

Old habits, old patterns, the ability to make a 6 foot 3 body walk with no sound. The difference was that this time, this time, he would save him.

"One of the air locks has been opened Captain." 

"Who? That damned rookie! He's going to get himself killed!" 

"Should we try and retrieve him Captain?" 

Sephiroth switched off the built-in radio. 

Are you there?

The roar of the star filled his ears. The suit wouldn't hold up against this heat for long. He knew he could, but then they'd know, did it even matter now? His mind reached out to the center of the supernova. The the one thing that did matter right now.

Genesis? 

Can you hear me? 

He could feel the stunned silence. 

Seph?

He sounded exhausted.

Yes. I'm here. 

The flares around him seemed to pull back. The great receding slightly. He was aware of the ship behind him. The captain wouldn't want to get too close. Good. Sephiroth pushed forwards, dropping the mask, redirecting the energy to sustaining the suit. 

Can you control this? 

I don't know…where are you? 

A flare kicked off to his left.

I'm right here. I'm trying to get closer.

The heat and flames withdrew again. He was certain this wasn't any star now, but a ball of magma and flames that surrounded Genesis. If he could get him to reign it in…

When he reached out the others mind was full of fear, panic, guilt and pain.

Focus.

The star pulsed but remained. Sephiroth could smell burnt plastics. The suit wouldn't hold up much longer. Was he being a fool? Was Genesis too far gone? What is he reached the center of the star and all he found was more fire? 

No. He had to try. He owed him that. 

Sephiroth teached within his own mind. Bones and muscle that hadn't been used in decades shifted underneath his skin. It ripped through the suits fabric as if it were paper. This body was meant for the vaccine of space. He leaned into it. 

A silhouette was appearing the further in he got. A bright glowing form curled in on itself. 

From the outside they could now see that the 'star' wasn't a star at all. Seth seemed to have disappeared, replaced with a being with one huge black wing. 

Sephiroth reached for Genesis. His eyes were closed, streaks of magma tears cooled into black at the edges. Red glowing cracks ran over his skin as if it barely contained the being within it. A halo of fiery red hair billows around his naked body. He pulled him towards himself, wrapping strong arms around his slim frame.

I've got you.

Genesis reached for him. For a moment their bodies blended together as the ball of flames receded. They looked like one glowing creature with a pair of mismatched black wings. 

"We're going home" 

The captain met them at the air lock. He looked livid, but whatever words he was going to say died in his throat. The being called Seth didn't look like Seth anymore. His face was the same, but he seemed taller, his long hair wasn't black, it was silver, and his green eyes stared down at him with slotted pupils. 

"I'm taking him to the medical bay."

"..Now just wait here a minute!" 

He did not wait.

All his focus was on the red haired being in his arms.

The star.