#traced back millenia

[ride-a-dromedary]

The brain is cooking and the wheels are turning

[kakushino]

The Queen

Ryomen Sukuna x F! Reader

He never orders you around - rather, he requests.

Tags: slight gore, suggestive, fem reader, true form Sukuna Word count: 1,7k

Masterlist

AN: Fanart used in banner made by the amazing @innaillus - be sure to check out their divine fanart Written as a Secret Santa's gift for @zoyakuna - Merry (early) Christmas! (and pls stop slandering Giyuu, it's causing me undue stress)

There was little to amuse you in your secluded throne room underground. 

Correction - there had been little to amuse you out of your throne room, so you had retreated back into your palace - and even then, was it a palace, when there were no servants, no great halls, no music, and no consort?

Just you - the Supreme Sovereign - and your throne made of roots and vines. 

Which made it odd to hear a sound echo in your chamber. You feared nothing, no one, and your heart remained steady, not a beat out of place, your eyes closed as you rested from lifetimes of exhaustion.

“Who goes there?” you called out, not moving from your reclined position. 

You were it to him, the holy grail of his searching - the Queen of Curses. Your name was feared enough that it had been scratched out from all written sources, the feats accredited to you terrifying… yet thrilling to Sukuna. He had needed to meet you, though he knew not why… A deep hunger for companionship, another who could stand at his level, who could reign with him from his Shrine, a craving so consuming he nearly went mad with his searching. 

And he did find you, though hardly in the condition he thought he would.

“This is what You have become? The cynosure of all mortals reduced to a wretch.” 

The voice was rough, forceful - distinctly male - though the tone held a hint of remorse and confusion. “All beauty is short-lived,” was all you said, a slight irritation churning your stomach for the first time in - decades, centuries, millenia? Who knows?

“Not for curses. We are eternal.” You felt the way cursed energy swirled around him - violent, and intense. It lashed out at your own, but like water parting around a blade, yours did too, accepting and redirecting the angry force, dispersing it, and eventually absorbing it. It was like taking a deep breath of fresh air after being suffocated under the weight of the world, a drop of water quenching a soul-deep thirst in the desert of life.

You opened your eyes and sat up properly as you studied him.

The man - curse - was tall, broad, and regal. A king would be a title befitting his posture. His hair was a light color you could hardly make out in the darkness of your abode. The dark marks adorning his face stood out starkly against his skin, as did the shape of the disfigured flesh on the right side of his face. Four gleaming eyes were focused on you, four arms relaxed at his sides.

This man was fascinating, and beautiful; he could easily sway the hearts of humans, bring them to their knees. Too bad you were not human.

“Join me, your Majesty.” Despite the wording, it was a plea. How odd. 

“Who are you to ask anything of me?” You blinked slowly. You felt the way cursed energy swirled around him - violent, intense, … defensive, lonely. It enticed you, spoke to you in a language you understood all too well. It wasn’t in your nature to deny an honest request.

“Ryomen Sukuna, your Majesty,” he introduced himself. There was a sense of pride in the way he spoke, as if his existence was created, carved out, into the world by his own hands.

Perhaps Ryomen Sukuna would be the cure to your continued boredom. 

You stood up from your throne, your figure hardly atrophied as your cursed energy kept you in peak form. The roots and vines retreated into the cave walls, leaving no trace of your royal seat, the chamber empty again for centuries to come.

“Very well.”

Living with Sukuna was hardly boring. Each day, you felt your apathy falling away as you spent time with the King of Curses, until you smiled freely in his presence. The day you realized he softened you to this degree came all too suddenly.

His cruelty to humans who sought to undermine him was but a flimsy curtain of who he truly was. Like a displeased cat, claws exposed, he scratched up those daring to approach him, but with you -

With you he was as playful and borderline affectionate as the tabby you used to feed back in your human days. It warmed your heart, and your cheeks, to feel his eyes on your figure. It made you feel unsteady on your feet. It made you question who was the ruler of the other, who held the power over the other; the power imbalance slowly became a balance - your energy dimmed by the way he could play you like a puppet.

All these feelings weaved together and knotted around your heart, snaring you in a complex web too tight to escape, exposing your throat to him like a delicacy to be gorged upon.

Only if you let him know, that is.

You somehow felt that a man like him wouldn’t settle, and more importantly, he was a man; just another one of the hordes who wanted a demure consort, you could bet. You were not a dainty flower he likely sought; you were a weed - growing strong despite the harshest of conditions, clawing out a place for your existence where there had been none before. The Curse of Curses.

So you buried those feelings like a female buried herself under layers of junihitoe - though you refused to wear that monstrosity despite the latest fashion in Japan, as all the fabric was too heavy for comfort. You made do with the yukata you stole from Sukuna’s wardrobe. It was definitely not because it smelled like him. 

You kept away from the humans and the ruling in his Shrine, spending time with Uraume, him, or alone in the gardens - until you could not. He’d left you in charge of his Kingdom when he had business to do. 

Human men were deplorable, thinking you were just a weak curse to be manipulated and slandered. You didn’t raise your voice at all, yet it shut everyone up in the hall - save for one local lord thinking himself too mighty to listen. No amount of flattery would have kept him alive after that. A wave of your hand made vines grow out of his guts - burrowing through his flesh as easily as tearing paper apart; sweet-smelling white flowers bloomed from the mess of red-coated plant matter in the middle of the chamber. 

You sat in Sukuna’s throne of bones, regal and untouchable.

That was how he found you - presiding over his subjects like the Goddess you were, and bloody Spring sprouted in front of him, rubies glinting upon the stone floors like a grotesque decoration. 

At first, he had wanted to study you - the Queen of Curses, the Supreme Sovereign, older than him, wiser, more powerful. Forgotten, yet not forgotten enough for him not to find any sources mentioning your title. He had been curious about you, and then he became curious about the feelings you evoked in him. Your presence in his home converted from an adornment into an emollient to him, smoothing the rough edges and softening the spikes of his defenses against you, yet you remained the centerpiece of his attention, even when you weren’t in his presence. He found himself thinking about you in all his waking moments.

“Everyone, out.”

He could not hide his devotion to you if he tried now - it had grown roots in his soul and fed off of his life-force, yet strengthened it twice as much. His heart was set ablaze every time he laid eyes upon your form, the blood in his veins searing hot, branding him from the inside - a slave to you forevermore.

And so he knelt at your feet, the bottom two of his arms supporting him as he leaned forward, his top pair carefully reaching for your foot and raising it to his face.

The King of Curses kissed your ankle, closing his eyes in silent worship to his Goddess, his World. 

“Your Majesty,” he greeted you in a whisper, his lips caressing your skin.

Your eyes grew soft as you studied him, your posture proud but your expression fond. “Sukuna.”

Wet, hot tongue darted out to taste your skin, making you jolt and tear your leg from his grasp with pursed lips. The tabby was particularly impertinent today.

“You have no respect for your Queen, do you?” 

“On the contrary, I hold all the respect for you.” His smirk was mischievous, he knew as well as you did neither of you were serious about this. Just a harmless teasing, if a bit skewed. 

You used your foot to lightly push against his chest to tip him over onto his back - which he let you do, for he could have as easily resisted. Even falling down, he looked graceful. It made you feel warm inside your ribcage as you pushed a joyous smile down.

Sukuna turned the fall into a backwards roll, ending up on his knees again.

“At least you know your place - on your knees before me…”

“I-” he licked his lips, “I would gladly be on my knees for you all day, Your Majesty.”

Oh? It was your turn to give him a smile full of mischief as he slowly moved back to you. You remained silent.

“Has a cat got your tongue?” 

Sukuna shuffled forward on his knees, his top pair of arms resting on the bones of his throne as he came even closer. Palms trailing to your thighs and covering them with his hands - an easy feat with his size. 

You could do naught but marvel at the contrast of your limbs and his - each powerful and deadly in their own right, each in a different way. There was no tremor of fear in your muscles, only anticipation, even while he lightly spread your legs to fit his torso between them as you lounged on his throne.

“Let me feast on your nectar.” His voice, smooth like silk, a plea rather than an order, the nuance of his tone telling all you needed to know. He appeared unreadable to others, but he was as exposed and vulnerable as a newborn babe to you at this moment.

Even so, your lips parted in surprise at his request for you didn’t expect him to say it out loud at last. “Forward, aren’t you?”

His carmine eyes - all four of them - focused on yours with an intensity you were only just getting used to with him. Sukuna said nothing as he waited for your response.

The devil didn’t bargain, after all.

“Very well… Show me how you would worship your Queen, my King.”

dividers by the divine @benkeibear

network: @enchantedforest-network

[obey-me-rot]

please please please come back you are possibly one of the best obm writers and trust me i have gone through ALL ao3, tumblr and wattpad. i know what i am talking about trust me 😭😭😭🙏🙏

Strangely enough I am working on something anon! So I am coming back I just need...ideas... In the meanwhile though please do check out @books-and-catears! I've been getting back into OM and they are half responsible for bringing me back !

God maybe I should open up requests...is anybody even in this fandom anymore? But because you are so sweet I'm gonna leave this! Have you ever had a little cut? Well not to fear, your prideful demon Lucifer has got his special disinfectant right here~

You sigh and put your hand over your neck once again, Lucifer coming up behind you as you sigh and lean forward so you can look at your face in the mirror.

“…I don’t know why I’m being a klutz all of a sudden.”

Lucifer wouldn’t call you a klutz, you were just distracted. You had looked rather lovely tucked in with your head stuck in a book that you had most likely not measured the amount of strength you were putting into your hand. So no, not a klutz–but certainly one step away from getting into yet another tiny accident. He smiles when he sees your pout and reaches for the hand around the back of your neck.

“Surely you shouldn’t be feeling down over a little scratch. Here, let me see–”

Your hand remains firm on your neck, even if his fingers were tucking inside so that he could start pulling it away.

“No no it’s fine--you have a lot of work. I’ll go grab a bandaid or something.”

He can feel you jump when his hand goes to your waist, keeping you in place as his other hand starts tugging down the small barrier you had made for yourself.

“MC. Let me see.”

You knew better than to argue with that voice, Lucifer had made it a priority to condition you and the rest of his brothers to always listen to this tone. It meant that if he had to repeat himself again, it would come with a very harsh punishment. With a sigh, you let him pull your hand away from your neck as your eyes look down at your feet, letting Lucifer see whatever damage you had unconsciously made

And it was–-mild.

The cut was most likely from the RAD badge that they needed to wear on the school uniform, Lucifer had seen you toss your jacket on rather haphazardly whenever you needed to run out of the House of Lamentation when you were late…it was most likely caused by that. Yet what had his attention wasn’t the cut–it was the little indentation of blood that had begun to pool up on the back of your neck.

“…Is...Is it bad?”

When was the last time he had seen human blood? He could probably count the time in millenia. It wasn’t necessarily new to him either–human blood was just human blood, after all. It was used in demon summoning rituals a long time ago. Whoever had wished to make a deal would offer up a hefty amount of their blood just to conjure their presence. No, what made this little sliver of blood so delici–special–was that it was yours. Human blood tastes metallic to your fellow kin, but demon’s had a different sort of palate.

“Not bad no…”

He pulls your hand by the wrist so your fingers go to his lips, letting his tongue trace the single drop of blood that was threatening to roll down your finger, greedily tasting the flavor of his Master's blood. There's no hesitation in his steps when he opens his mouth, pressing your finger against his tongue and closing his lips around it before you could even react. Another greedy suck, a cheeky smile and a hand that refused to let go of your wrist.

“But it should be disinfected right away.”

[agoodomenssideblogiguess]

What if Aziraphale wasn't on earth between 1941 and 1967?

What if, the same way Crowley was brought back to Hell in 1827 Aziraphale was recalled to Heaven in 1941?

Hear me out: Aziraphale has been making slow but steady progress within his character arc right? In 1941 at the end of the night, sharing drinks with Crowley in the bookshop, Aziraphale was willing to accept that things are not always black and white and sometimes there is room for shades of grey (albeit very light grey). Compare this to his thinking concerning Elspeth. Aziraphale kept flip flopping back and forth over whether Elspeth's actions were good or bad. He didn't seem to consider her actions were ethically complicated. In his mind they could either be good or bad depending on whatever information came to light in the moment.

It also seems that after the church, the magic trick, and the shades of grey discussion, Crowley and Aziraphale are back on good terms with one another. At the very least, talking and willing to spend time together again. Other than the mention of how easily accessible the holy water is in the church, Crowley doesn't seem to mention or allude to his request again. However, in 1967, it feels like their interactions are strained again. Aside from the awkwardness and tension in their conversation, it's also strange that Crowley is surprised to see Aziraphale in the Bentley (despite being PARKED IN FRONT OF THE BOOKSHOP) and that Aziraphale is only aware of what Crowley is up to through second-hand means “I work in Soho, I hear things." (You don't need to 'hear things' when Crowley is conducting those things IN FRONT OF THE BOOKSHOP)

So what happened? My theory: Aziraphale has been serving out a punishment in Heaven since 1941.

Fandom consensus seems to be that there is a 1941 pt. 3 coming next season and many are hoping for a kiss or something undeniably romantic (I am too ngl). But what if it's actually a scene where Aziraphale gets dragged back up to heaven?

Shax said that 80-90 years ago was the first time that she heard about Crowley and Aziraphale being an item. We can assume that this 80-90 years ago was during Furfur’s failed evidence presentation to Dagon and F(r)iends.

A lot of demons were hanging around in that scene. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of them (or Shax herself) got in touch with an angel in Heaven and let them know about the rumor downstairs of Crowley working with an angel on Earth.

Obviously, Heaven can’t allow that, and who else could it be other than Aziraphale? He’s the only angel down there, so they recall him. Without evidence though, and given that (1) it's a demon's word against an angel's; (2) less than a century and a half ago, Gabriel awarded Aziraphale a medal for his work on earth (bookstore opening cut scene); and (3) as far as we know, Aziraphale hasn’t had any major offenses other than frivolous use of miracles, I don’t think Heaven can really do much. That doesn’t mean they don’t do anything, I just don’t think they do anything like use hellfire on him or make him fall.

Despite the lack of evidence, Heaven still has to make an example out of Aziraphale for getting caught working with a demon. I think whatever punishment Heaven doles out, keeps Aziraphale up in Heaven for a long time.

(Small tangent: If it can be traced back to one event rather than a slow progression over millenia, this rumor is also probably what makes all the archangels be so cruel to Aziraphale (or at least finally gives them permission to act on what they’ve been wanting to do for ages). Maybe this is when they start looking into Aziraphale’s past endeavors and notice Crowley everywhere.)

It could be worse, if there had been evidence, it would have been worse. Still (Aziraphale might think), this is Heaven, 'the side of good', they wouldn't take it too far. He probably received a trial before his punishment began. And yeah the trial is more for show than anything else, but it's not like Hell would have bothered with any of that. Hell would probably delve right into whatever torture they'd decided for punishment. His time spent in Heaven, no matter how intense the punishment, would have been a breeze to tolerate compared to what Hell would do to Crowley. Speaking of which...

By the time Heaven lets Aziraphale back down to Earth, I think he would be a mess of mindless worry. He had just come to terms with his feelings for Crowley after all. Maybe this is why Aziraphale decides to give Crowley the holy water after all. He's had more than enough time in Heaven to realize that as much as he wants to protect Crowley and keep him safe, all that intent means nothing if he's stuck in Heaven because of his own carelessness. In Aziraphale's absence (or destruction), holy water could keep Crowley safe, at least from Hell, even if it is dangerous. Once Aziraphale is back on Earth, when he hears what Crowley was plotting, it probably further cements his decision to give it to him.

If Aziraphale got taken up to Heaven right after the magic show, he probably has no idea if his palming of the polaroid worked for sure. The bookshop is a safe place for Crowley to be away from Hell, but how long will that last? Is it still an embassy with Aziraphale up here in heaven? Is Crowley defenseless against the other demons down there? Did Hell come for Crowley after all even without evidence?

So how long is Aziraphale gone for? We already know that after Crowley got sent back to hell in 1827 and Aziraphale didn’t see him again for “a very long time.” The next meeting we, as an audience, see between them is the holy water request in 1862. So at worst, Crowley's been in Hell for ~30 years. Heaven probably would have taken Aziraphale back for a similar amount of time. And wow look at that, 26 years ago by between 1941 and 1967.

There’s enough ambiguity in the set and dialogue to allow for this length of absence as well. I already wrote a post about how ridiculous Aziraphale is for saying 'I work in Soho I hear things' in 1967 when the whole scene takes place outside the bookshop and how equally ridiculous Crowley is for seeming to think Aziraphale wouldn't notice him prancing around the block plotting to steal from a church. But maybe Crowley conducting his holy water heist business all over Aziraphale's corner of Soho is because as far as he knows Aziraphale isn't around anymore. In my post, I point out that the bookshop is blocked off by the "Striptease" and "Love Shop Cinema" signs but that you can tell it’s the bookshop because of its pillars.

I admitted that it was weird to cover up half the windows, but didn't really have any diegetic explanation for it. Maybe the explanation is that Aziraphale’s bookshop has been abandoned for years. In which case, I think Crowley might be hanging around Soho caring for it and the books, making sure it doesn't get vandalized, protecting it from snooping humans, etc. (tangent: this could also be why Aziraphale says that the bookshop is both of theirs. Maybe the "plenty of use" he said Crowley got out of it was while Aziraphale was away. Maybe Crowley used it as a pseudo base of operations.)

Aziraphale being gone would also explain why, suddenly, 105 years after his initial request, Crowley is plotting to steal holy water from a church. Aziraphale has been gone a long enough time that Crowley is starting to get antsy. Maybe he’s starting to think that Aziraphale is gone for good (not dead, he is an OPTIMIST DAMMIT). I think Crowley is spurred to start the holy water heist because he thinks Aziraphale isn’t going to be assigned to earth any more and whoever they're sending down next is going to be more of a smitey kind of angel. And if Aziraphale isn’t around anymore, then the demon-proof-except-for-Crowley-bookshop/embassy is also likely not going to stop any demons from getting to Crowley whenever they want. If Aziraphale is really not coming back, then Crowley is alone again, on his own side, for the first time since they saved Job's kids. He's gonna really need that insurance now more than ever and unfortunately, he has no one else to rely on. He’s gonna have to procure it himself, even if it’s dangerous and dumb.

Aziraphale's absence (as much as I am loathe to let go of the theory that Aziraphale and Crowley are just being incredibly dramatic idiots) can also explain some of the dialogue from the 1967 scene.

“What are you doing here?” might seem a silly thing to say when Crowley is parked outside of the bookshop, but makes sense if he's reacting to seeing Aziraphale for the first time in years, so damn close it can’t be a dream, right inside the Bentley.

“I work in Soho, I hear things,” is not just a way to give the audience exposition that Crowley wouldn’t need but a way for Aziraphale to explain why he’s there.

The barely concealed desperation in Crowley's voice when wanting to give Aziraphale a lift home (despite being LITERALLY OUTSIDE THE BOOKSHOP), or to take him anywhere he wants, makes a little more sense if he hasn’t seen him in years, wants to catch up, and doesn’t even know where Aziraphale would be staying if not the bookshop.

If this theory is true and Aziraphale has been absent between 1941 and 1967, it could explain why we don't see the bookshop in the 1967 scene even though everything else in the scene points to it taking place on that corner, it would give Aziraphale a reason for deciding to give Crowley the holy water after all even though hes been stubbornly opposed to it for more than a century, and it could also explain why even though he was making a lot of progress character wise to, it felt like he was regressing again.

[exactlycleverpirate]

Wholehearted

Apparently today I woke and chose pain.

Rafayel x F MC fanfic. Angst. Hurt, no comfort (I lied, there is a little comfort at the end, should you desire it.) Spoilers for myth and possibly other Rafayel content. Short (660 words).

This is what I wrote instead of finishing the Abysswalker x MC nfsw fluffy fic I am over 3k words into.

“Amund! No! What have you done?!”

Rafayel ran to catch his lovely bride as she fell, but too late. Much too late. The wicked dagger jutted from her chest, just where he'd indicated a fatal blow could be struck when they had flirted and teased as he'd trained her so many months ago. Now the jest had turned to brutal reality.

“It was her request, Your Quintessence,” Amund insisted, sounding satisfied, perhaps even smug.

Rafayel felt sick as the blood seeped around the wound and stained her dress. The dagger was ironically preserving her life, stemming the flow, but he knew it couldn't be for long. She was dying, and he could do nothing to prevent it.

He pressed his forehead to her, tears coming in choking gasps, turning to pearls before they hit the sand. Her eyes fluttered open to look at him, barely clinging to consciousness.

“Why?” He sobbed, brokenly. “You told me not to give up. You told me there was still hope.”

“You were running out of time,” she whispered, fingers shaking as they lightly traced his cheek. “If I waited, it could be too late.”

It was true, and he knew it. His fire had grown dimmer and dimmer by the day. But he never thought…

“It was supposed to be me,” he cried, hugging her gently, feeling her warmth bleeding away. “I don't want it back. My heart belongs to you. Please, please, don't leave me.”

“I love you,” she whispered. Then the light of her eyes dimmed, her hand fell, and she was gone.

“No! No, don't go! Please, don't go!” But his screams fell on deaf ears. 

Power surged from her body in a flash of light, before rushing into his own chest. He could feel a vitality he hadn't felt in millenia surging through his veins.

Winds whipped across the sands, and with a great rumble, waters sprung up in mighty fountains. Distantly, he could hear a roar of jubilation as his people realized what was happening.

The God of the Sea was whole. The oceans were returning to Philos. No more would the Lemurians watch helpless as humans plundered their treasures.

The waters soon swallowed Rafayel and his lifeless bride. She looked ethereal as she floated in the blue, red fanning out in a deep stain around her.

“What a liar.” He whispered, fingers caressing her cool cheek.

For the first time in well over 30,000 years, Rafayel was whole, his flame reborn. 

He had never felt more empty, more cold. 

There would be no next life to get it right. The heart that had brought her back to him time and again had been returned, just as the prophecy demanded. There would be no more waiting for her. No more looking into lovely eyes that saw him as a stranger. Not even death would be a respite for him, for the seas would bring him mercilessly back, life after life, devoid of the only one who made it worth living.

In one swift move, the God of the Sea had regained his heart…and lost it forever.

***

“Rafayel!”

He woke with a gasp, eyes burning, cheeks stained. He looked around wildly, trying to understand what was happening. His skin felt clammy and sticky, his chest heaving for air. 

“Rafayel! I’m here. You're safe.”

That gentle voice, that beloved voice, and her soft hand against his cheek, stroking over the tear tracks. He pulled her forcefully into his arms, burying his head in her neck and inhaling deeply. Warm. Whole. Alive.

“I’m here, love,” she cooed, running her fingers soothingly through his hair. “I’m here. You’re safe. It was just a bad dream.”

He placed his hand against her chest, and but for a gasp of surprise, she didn't protest, cradling his hand against her. He felt the thrumming of his heart in her chest. He released a shaky breath.

Surely, she was right. Surely, it was just a dream.

[wisepuma23]

Knives and forks clink against the dinner plates, metal scraping and laughter, their base drips with water from above. Drip, drip, drip. Impulse watches. It seeps into the center of the table, a growing patch on the wooden grain. Right between the steaks and loaves of warm bread. Nobody pays it any mind. Drip, drip.

(…Nobody but him.)

Etho says something he doesn’t catch, a bark of laughter from Tango. Beads of water splash onto the surrounding food.

Impulse’s hold on his fork goes tight. 

He needs to fix that. 

“Impulse buddy, you with us?” Skizz shakes his arm, “You agree Scar’s acting weird right?”

“Yeah yeah,” Impulse answers on auto-pilot, “I heard rumors he’s been trying to get kills. Yellow Scar, man.”

Tango cackles and the conversation cycles on. Impulse steels his jaw, he can’t zone out again. Keep pretending, he reminds himself. It wouldn’t be good to stab his teammates at the dinner table. He’d have to clean the table out. Maybe pull out the entrails from the cracks in the grain of wood.

(Drip, drip.) 

No, focus. 

Focus.

(A faint, metallic scent permeates his senses– gone in a moment.) 

Impulse bites into a piece of steak. Buttery juice slides over his tongue and between his teeth. The taste of blood makes his grip on the fork creak. For what feels like the first time in millenia, his glamor itches at his skin. The careful control over his form twitches and squirms like a coiled snake poised to strike. 

Show them what you really are, hums in his mind. The dripping echoes like a wardrum. Show them your true face.

 Impulse licks at his lips, “You did a nice job, Tango. It’s delicious!” 

“Aww!” Tango coos, his flames crackling a soft orange-red, “Etho lent me some seasoning but he won’t tell me where he got the happy happy sauce.” 

Impulse takes another bite, canines digging into flesh and bone, and the rip is loud. Or is it loud for him? Again, infernal magic bubbles at the back of his throat. He swallows, appraising the flavor. It doesn’t drown out the sickly sulfur like he hoped. 

“Bdubs?” Impulse guesses with a tease.

“Oh come on,” Etho groans, “Ah I guess that was way too easy.”

“He married me too, remember?” Impulse laughs at Etho’s expression, “Can’t blame me for forgetting the best meals I’ve ever had! Bet he’s feeding his family around now.” 

Etho waves him off as they cackle at the blush rushing up past the mask. Impulse cuts another piece off the bone. Rip, snrk, clink. Idly, he wonders if human skin still made the same noise. 

The clink of metal against the plates, the dull pounding of water. The snap-crackle of Tango’s fire. Buttery-sweet blood coats his tongue.

He remembers the musky smell of Etho's burning hair and flesh, his screams turned into bloody gurgles as he flailed in lava in the first game. Just minutes before everything ended. 

Impulse tears off a chunk of meat.

(Snrrk, clink.)

People die in so many ways. It’s why he loves the variety poison provides— stomachs twisting and lungs seizing— and yet he wonders if anybody’s tried skinning someone, if the server would even allow it.

Impulse swallows a dark laugh, is vivisection on the table? His glamor shivers.

Metal catches the light, the smooth shimmer taking him back. To sharp arrowheads and snapping magma, to a castle reaching into the sky.

He remembers a golden clock.

(Rip, snrk, clink.) 

Impulse remembers the way Bdubs’ flesh bubbled and blistered from the Wither. The way his Red bloodlust sang at the way his corpse crumpled to the ground. Bdubs’ skin growing dark, mottled with blackened streaks and bruised from the Withering and regular battle. 

The worst of it healed over, scars stitched into flesh. But he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t revel in it, the stained canvas left on Bdubs’ face and arms. 

He kissed that face. Peppering them along wither-cracked ribs and arms, tracing every dark and poisoned line with a smile. I’m sorry, he had said. I’m sorry.

He meant it. (Yes, really.)

Impulse hadn’t meant to curse Bdubs with chronic pain and scars, especially since he had to feel the echoes of it through the soulmate bond. He loved Bdubs. Loved him since the beginning.

And he remembers the rip-schk! of the ax in his back. 

The way his blood pooled on the grass as everything went dark.

The phantom feeling of Pearl’s wolves tearing flesh from bone in long strips and bites. Riiiip-snrk-crunch.

Blood dripping from between their teeth.

(Drip, drip.)

Impulse stabs his fork a little harder into the next cut, picturing a handsome face with a cute and crooked grin. Damn him. He glares down at his plate. No, focus. Pretend, he tells himself, you’re good at that, aren’t you?

There’s a hand over his, warmer than it should be. He looks up.

Tango has cocked an eyebrow up with a cute little nose crinkle, “You in?”

Impulse blinks, the words registering in his head.

“Yeah, sure,” He grins, “A walk sounds great. I think I’m tired of Skizz’s stink overpowering the place. We really need to install some ventilation.”

“Hey!” 

And they laugh, bright and loud as Skizz pouts, checking his armpits. The glasses shake as Tango rattles the table with a smack, a cackle on his lips. Etho’s eyes twinkle with amusement.

Impulse’s focus drifts. Back to the present, away from the blood.

(Drip, drip.)

And yet.

(Rip, snrrk, clink.)

…The hunger prevails.  

[bugbump]

They had been cold for millenia, held deep in the earth; but now it was warm… so warm, and soft…

Cradled in flesh, the fossilised trilobites began to twitch and shudder. Their rough surfaces cracked and crumbled, eons of mineral deposit falling away like the shell of an egg. Chitin glimmered, antenna waved, gills breathed - until at long last, the creatures swam once more!

His belly rolled slow and heavy with their movements, its shape subtly changing as they swam and crawled en mass. Each trilobite moved on its own looping path, seeming content to trace endless circuits around the tiny ocean of his womb; but every now and then, that rhythm would be broken by the shock of an antenna probing at his cervix, and the resultant clenching of his uterus would send its inhabitants into a frenzied scurry.

What began as another uterine twinge had intensified into a persistant squeeze. The weight in his pelvis had grown so heavy that it could not be lifted, no matter how much he tossed and turned, or how hard he kneaded at his taut skin. The only hope now was to surrender his body to the next contraction. Without resistance, flesh billowed into his tunnel, filling him from the inside out, his heavy womb and its many occupants tumbling down, down, down… ᴘᴏᴘ The bulge in his boxers throbbed and tented, straining against its fabric confines. His everted ovipositor was seeking a suitable place to deposit his brood. And so, after wrangling the writhing organ into a loose-fitting pair of trousers, its instinctive twitching became his guide.

The tide pools. Several of them already overflowed with trilobites, and his restless ovipositor was eagerly pumping more into the shallow water behind him. Here he could finally admire them, until the waves came in and took them back home. And then... Well, perhaps the oceans were overdue for another Cambrian Explosion.

[gothhabiba]

Not to suggest you don’t know this but to add on to your tags with people using “Indigenous” for Jewish people re: Palestine, like that’s just not what Indigenous means. Indigenous is used around the world to refer to the people who were on a land *directly* prior to a current colonial project, like Aboriginal people in Australia or the Māori in Aotearoa/New Zealand or the Sami in far northern Europe, or, funnily enough, Palestinians in Palestine!!!

The Zionist talking point of co-opting “Indigenous” to mean “we can trace our lineage back over millenia to this place” is both just incorrect, and also a gross appropriation of the rights of Indigenous peoples around the world for the *purpose of* colonisation, when the definition of Indigenous is basically “this group has been and is being *subject to* colonisation”. That’s just beyond fucked.

Like, there were Palestinian Jews prior to Israel’s occupation who you can definitely argue were/are Indigenous, but of course Israel assimilated them, another favoured tool of colonialism alongside mass displacement and genocide, and has worked hard to erase their separate identity and instead claim their Indigeneity for all Jews because that serves Zionist purposes much better. Fucked.

yeah, I talk about this a little bit here (the post the responses to which that tag is referencing!)

[betasuppe]

It occurred to me just yesterday that I still only have a sad ending with Flint & Rinzler & still haven't conceived of how they could have a happily ever after.

A lot of it came from how most people want Rinzler to revert fully back to Tron post-Legacy & like, that's fine and all, but because Rinz has always been my fave guy, I got all sore at it & decided to say FUCK IT, WE ALL HAVE A BAD TIME HERE THEN!!

[long exhausted ramble... otherwise Flint's life sucks, nothing new here lol. feel free to ignore]

Anyways, the not very happy ending I've had in place for ages is that, just like how Tron helped Flint escape the Grid before Clu took over.... in the very last seconds of the human world before rolling over into the new millenia, Rinzler holds up the Grid from caving in as Flint is eked out just before y2k drops & the Grid undergoes a hard reset.

Anyways. When Flint finally leaps back the next day into the digital fantasy world to find even the smallest trace of Rinzler & yo ensure everything is ok & that the Grid survived smashing into the year 2000... Flint quickly runs into Clu & Tron & quite a few other familiar faces who are all in cheery good moods, happy to celebrate the new user year & see Flint too but... no one has any memory whatsoever of anything that took place from far before Clu's regime ever took over, all looking at the user all wild-eyed & in a panic with definite concern.

Considering Flint had started to feel like this world was the closest to home he'd ever known, & now not a single part of the adventure he'd been on, the bonds he'd formed & the times he'd shared were remembered by a single other soul... it's like the rug was completely yanked out from under his feet & Flint finds himself in some unknown Twlight Zone-esque version of the Grid that he had once called home... basically standing around strangers with familiar faces.

So like. Flint tries to spur on some memories with Tron, with no success of recalling anything of his time as Rinzler, & Flint has to come to grips with the fact that YEAH, he really did lose Tron once & now Rinzler too &... it hurts too much to realize that the Tron Flint's left standing in front of is neither parts of the program he'd loved. As is, they're just pals at this point again & Flint feels like he can't run the risk of going through this all once more, just to lose Tron again.

So Flint quickly wraps up everything by wishing his fellow programs a happy new year before dipping out... & a bunch of Flint's digital pals all wondering worriedly if the user is alright, but like that's it.

Flint goes back to the real world & hopes to find some archived Rinzler data hidden elsewhere, but the y2k bs messed everything up & kinda. It's just done. Flint leaves the programming & computer based world behind. He becomes a photographer since he'd always been interested in environmental storytelling & then like. Otherwise he feels the need to make sure he has full proof of what he's seen & done after feeling like years of his life were dumped down the drains in the Grid 😬

Anyways, I feel like it'd be easy enough to have Flint wind up with one of Rinzler's identity discs before he escapes the Grid during it's y2k refresh, but would it even work to restore memories on Tron? Would it even sort of be the same? I feel like that's a jerk move, letting a messed up copy of Rinz parasite onto this poor unsuspecting Tron & it's just. Pretty sucky.

Would Flint just hold onto it as the last memory of the greatest bond he ever had in his life?? Hard to say.

If nothing else, may need to rethink the full ending? Maybe it's possible Rinzler gets dragged out with Flint before the y2k restart? But otherwise, Flint having all the memories & no one to share them with... he could try to rekindle things with Tron from the start button that point, there's no guarantee anything would even happen, I guess. I dunno.

Either way, the only version of Flint & Tron/Rinzler that actually has a happy ending is with evil Flint & Rinz, since they get digitally bonded for life & lock themselves up in the Grid forever & live happily for eternity in their little digital paradise bit otherwise like.

Most every version of Flint & Rinz but one does not end on a happy note... usually with Flint lying face down on his bed, praying to disintegrate & stop existing & all because he gave his whole heart to the same guy TWICE & ruined his life BOTH times & feels like he himself is the one who's ruined Tron/Rinzler's life. It's confusing & awful & dreadful, but. There it is.

Sorry about that, buddy...

[In which Flint ends up sad & alone because he's too tired to give his heart to anyone else after losing his first loves... & at least Flynn gets out of the Grid way earlier than 2010 but still, all sorts of things suck here... I'd like if somehow rinzler could remember but hOWWW]

[mortuarywriting]

Wip Wednesday! I can offer uhhhh

Academically it was widely acknowledged that dagons, by their nature, generally lend themselves to be solitary creatures when under ideal conditions. They had a predisposition to spread themselves out to not compete for resources and to avoid disputes over their ideal territories.

This was also, within the draconic community, a longrunning bit that every dragon outed within society played up.

Generally speaking it was better for dragon populations to be underestimated. For those who were in the know, it was far more likely to find dragons living in tight-knit communities with a potentially wide variety of dragon subspecies (not including the varied cousin species of drakes, wyrms, wyverns, and so forth that more often than not shacked up in dragon communities as opposed to setting their own up).

Staunch traditionalists might be more inclined to stick to only forming weyrs within their family ties, but even those in modern days are more likely to have a handful of subspecies involved- when you're a species with long lives and longer memories? True "species purists" among dragonkind are seen as particularly concerning outliers given the oldest dragons (with the proper time, prompting, and inclination) can probably trace bloodlines back to the advent of a subspecies and all those slain before their branch could fork out. The year in question is largely contested as some of the eldest dragons are still on scattered calendar systems that largely predate the gregorian calendar (and some will argue the finer points between the Huángdì and Xiuhnelpilli systems. Please do not encourage this unless you have the stamina to keep up with dragons that have been napping for centuries. Do encourage this if you have insomnia), but its been a few millenia since that was largely considered acceptable.

Where was this going? Right right, dragons and commitment.

While they as a general rule commit to the bit, that doesn't mean all dragons are in hiding. Some people in positions of power have thrived letting people know that they're dragons. They they can, will, and have considered something to wholly and completely theirs that the concept of hiding their existence from their hoard is unconscionable.

This is also an exaggeration, but it keeps the more mundane population feel safe so eh. Let them keep their blinders on and feel safe somewhere in this world.

'Cause that's at the end of the day what dragon-run areas are- ridiculously safe. Modern day analytics have all the data mapped out, barring an increase in lower-stakes firefighter activity and the odd five alarm fire? Dragon-run areas are some of the safest you can find, little to no crimes recorded.

This is largely in part because dragons take care of their own messes. And heaven wouldn't recognize the fool that tried to harm a hatchling in a dragon's domain.

Given hatchling status is generally a polite umbrella status for anything under 150 years old? Humans tend to do just fine in dragon domains as well.

But, again, humans don't like to know the nitty-gritty details and tend to be partial to their blinders so. Discretion is the better part of valor and all that.

The thing about the data, though, is unless you're being paid to look at the it? You rarely will. Every so often an "unidentified dragon" is in the news for some questionable disappearances or high traces of suspicious ash when, in reality, the wrong circles tried to move into a protected neighborhood. Tried being the operative word.

Given most well connected circles run with at least some non-mundane members can give you a warning a mile away when you're edging into dragon country, it's probably for the best that the swift and decisive action was taken. After all, it's very rare that dragons settle an area so thoroughly that it hadn't been a long-standing claim by an elder of their community.

No, multiple dragons don't usually claim a certain swath of land as the same hoard. Sure, there may be times where a dragon may have a claim to the land and another wants something contained on it, that's a common enough circumstance. Politeness states you discuss with the dragon who owns the land. The risky option is to take it regardless, and hope it wasn't significant enough to provoke the dragon to come after it. The dumb option is to try to kill the other dragon for it.

That's not to say some dragons don't try to make their hoard out of pilfered pieces of others' hoards. There are. It just happens that those contrarian bastards tend to run out their welcome and, once again, as a species with long lives and longer memories? Some fights aren't worth dying for.

But that does bring us politely back to where we were going with this. Dragons dying for causes.

They're bad at doing this.

Any dragonslayer throughout time would tell you it takes time, meticulous planning, and opportunity for you to get ahead enough on a dragon so you can properly take care of the issue. This is true.

It is also true that a dragon will outweigh you, has very sharp teeth and talons, and- most importantly- have some abilities you may or may not have taken into account properly. Dragons get very crafty when they feel so inclined, and when someone is trying to take out your eye you find craftiness far more compelling

If you ask any of the dragons about the lineages of noted dragonslayers they'd probably be able to answer for the ones who hung up the lance, cast aside the sword, and followed a more mundane path that allowed themselves to fade into anonymity or legend. Their lineages flow down through time and while the dragons will always know, Steve who works in HR is about as qualified to slay the average dragon as you'd expect anyone you meet in the clearance section.

Its the ones who claim to descend from famous dragonslayers that you start having problems.

Let's start with "the lineages you want to look for either died to their hubris ages ago, fell prey to a plague, were taken by the fey, or are now politicians," it's a solid foundation and explains that you just need a little sugar-coated lie to make someone think they're invincible and pay the ultimate price for it.

[tisiphonewolfe]

Naenia, Through Murder: WIP Intro

Original Fiction - Standalone Novella

Pitch: A homicide detective on the trail of a serial killer doesn’t realise that her girlfriend is the grim reaper, who has a mystery of her own to solve.

Genre: Urban/Paranormal Fantasy

Word Count: 46k

Staus: First Draft Complete

Naenia, the Death responsible for murder victims, is summoned to escort homicide detective Carina Choudhry at the hour of her passing, and is shocked when Carina fails to die. She is even more shocked to find that Carina can see her, thinks that she’s human, and wants to go on a date with her. Carina was supposed to die from a stab wound while investigating a serial killer. When a witness abruptly passes away with no apparent cause of death, Naenia realises that the killer is being assisted by one of her colleagues. She must conceal Carina’s botched death from the other reapers and track down the killer’s accomplice, all while trying to navigate a romance with a living human.

Features

🪦 Supernatural murder-mystery

🪦 Cute dates

🪦 Nine major personifications of Death

🪦 Dramatic hidden identity romance

🪦 A car chase with a skeleton

🪦 Espionage, investigations, and interrogations

🪦 That damnable bird!

Content Warnings (CW): Body horror, gore, death, violence.

Character Intros

Watch this space . . .

Setting

In 'Naenia, Through Murder' the power of human imagination has, over the millenia, brought beings such as the Deaths into existence. They escort the spirits of the dead through the halls of bone and flesh and into the ashen forest. The Deaths reside in a spire of bone which looms into the perpetual moonlit night of the world beyond.

The living world is much like our own, but a bit to the left. The city looks like Victorian London, the fashion comes from Columbo, and technology is all mechanical. The country is ruled by the Lord Minister and his parliament.

Taglist (DM to be added or removed): No-one yet . . .

Prologue below the cut

Naenia stalked the halls of bone and flesh, the twisted veins that pulsed below the ashen forest, seeking her next passenger.

She always stalked; for there was no need to sprint, and to sidle lacked gravitas. The halls would deliver her precisely where and when she was called. The rest was merely professional image - the passengers expected her to be a huntress, and so she was.

The endless ticking in the corridors was too loud today; she laid her hand upon the wall, resting it upon a displaced ulnar between undulating, fleshy membranes, and listened.

Ca-clang! Ca-clang!

The distorted and wavering knell seemed close; she felt it shudder below her ghostly-pale fingertips, her skin - or approximation thereof - so tissue-paper thin that one could see every green vein below it. She traced her fingers along the wall, following the ringing bell through the gloom by touch towards her archway.

Three twists, a fork, and a bend later, the ringing now hit her ears with force; at the tapering end of this hall, tucked between a bellowing pair of lungs, stood a tall, obsidian clock.

Its pendulum hung still; the pointing finger-bones of the clock’s hands jerked in their effort to tick forward. Naenia tapped a knuckle against the glass covering the clock-face to see if it might spring back into movement - the hands twitched miserably.

Atop the clock was a raven, tugging on a ragged rope of twined intestine with its beak. As Naenia withdrew her hand, it let go of the rope and hopped onto her wrist; the great bell’s ringing ceased. The raven croaked at her expectantly, and she brushed the crown of its head with her thumb. “Good work,” she muttered. The bird ruffled its feathers indignantly, then flew away - clearly Aurelia had been feeding it, despite having been told a thousand times not to.

She called to her scythe, and it appeared, singing in her hand. Others among the nine deaths had made their weapons elegant, ominous, elaborate - Naenia found this extravagant. Passengers expected to see a simple farming implement; a lengthy wooden snath to hold it by, and a gleaming steel blade. There was no need to trouble the dead with unexpected golden spikes, silver inlay, or an onyx-black blade that curved nearly three-quarters around the head. She thought of Aurelia again and snorted.

Hefting the scythe, she examined the pulsating crevice that terminated the hallway - finding the appropriate angle, she stepped smartly into a slice that sheared the skin apart. It curled and withered away, letting in the muted orange glow of streetlamps and permitting her to step through into the living world.

Pattering rain soaked her permanently-damp hair. She brushed aside a dark lock, and tucked it behind her ear, and looked around for her passenger.

She had arrived in a gloomy city backstreet. Industrial, red-brick buildings stained with soot loomed into the smog  over the narrow sett-paved road, broken drainpipes pouring their deluge into the gutters. Flowers wilted in hanging-baskets; shutters were boarded over; no lights flickered at the cracked windows. The hem of Naenia’s midnight gown had already grown heavy as she stepped barefoot into the stream, through which the unmistakable trickle of blood was flowing.

She approached the sodden, balled-up figure that lay in the middle of the road, curious to see which unfortunate human had met their end this night. It was a woman - neat, straight-cut dark hair, brown skin, and runner’s muscles, wearing a heavy woollen coat. Below it, she was dressed smartly. Her shirt was adorned with a golden pin and she clutched a snub-nosed revolver to her chest - a chest that bore a deep, gaping wound, from which her heart’s blood spattering into the street. Like many of Naenia’s passengers, her wide, kind face was not set peacefully; it was scrunched up in an expression of agony and despair. Naenia stood beside her, respectfully waiting for the spirit to rise from the body, readying her scythe for the moment she would cut the cord connecting the two - that’s when she heard the moan.

This woman was still alive.

Naenia was not quite sure what to do with this fact. The clock had stopped - she had made certain of that. The woman’s time was over. She could see the spirit breaking free - glassy reflections of the woman’s limbs rose from her prone form, flailing their way out of her stilled body. “It is alright,” she assured the spirit. “Please be calm. It is over now.”

“No,” the spirit said weakly. “I need to catch him. I need to-“

“Shh, shh.” Naenia gripped the woman’s shoulder, gently lifting her from her prison.

“I won’t go!”

The woman’s spirit floated a little above her body, flailing at the air, swimming through the ether - Naenia readied her practised stance, preparing to cut the thread with a swift swing of her scythe - but the spirit struggled still. It looked at her with wide, baleful eyes. Naenia clicked her tongue. Rarely did she have one so difficult as this - she would not be pleased if she found herself battling a phantom tonight.

She had an angle - it was narrow, but she was more than confident that she could cut the cord without harming the spirit. She set her scythe carefully - then watched in wonderment as the spirit began to claw its way back into its body.

“No, no, no, no, no,” the spirit gasped out. “I have to tell them - I have to. We have to get him.”

With a sharp breath and a gurgling cough, the woman’s body convulsed and turned over. Stunned, Naenia watched the woman claw at the wound on her chest, pressing against it with a balled-up fist. “Get help!” the woman pleaded with her hoarsely.

Naenia had existed since the first person thought to bash in another’s head with a rock; as a thought, then a dream, then a god - and now, as a reaper, as Death through Murder. She had never been called to escort anyone who was fated yet to live. She gripped the woman’s hand - the woman stared at her as though she could see her, even though Naenia knew this to be impossible. “It is okay. It will be okay. I will help you.”

[lostelfwriting]

I took a mid-day nap and either had a fever dream or a brilliant idea; judge for yourself. It's Hobrintheus and probably not an original take but you know. Fever dream.

Hob and Cori have been husbands for 50 years when Dream finally gets out of the fishbowl. Hob ran into Corinthian during one of his murder crazes, intending to kill the serial killer, but it figures that his arch nemesis of choice for this century is another immortal. So instead, he tries to capture Cori, but Cori is inhuman and still powerful enough to escape from an impossible situation.

Cori is intrigued by the human (presumed mortal) so he decides that he would have his eyes, but when they next meet, Hob bests him again. Cori's intrigue grows, so the next time they run into each another, he doesn't instantly try to kill Hob but instead they just talk. And somehow, Hob talks him out of killing random people. There are so many criminals Cori can do whatever to, but killing innocent people is bad taste and makes Hob try to capture him.

And to his own surprise, Corinthian begins to behave. Maybe Hob said something like, "Whoever you're working for, whoever you're doing this for, is it working? Are they pleased?" and Cori has a little private cry because no, it never worked, he has become invisible to Dream a couple millenia ago.

So, Cori and Hob fall in love and Cori changes. He tells Hob that he's a Nightmare and that he's bound to be terrible but even as he says so, it doesn't sound right. He's not really a Nightmare anymore, and he's making a choice to not be terrible. It's insignificant at first but it grows within him. He's eaten so many human eyes in the last few decades that he knows better than some humans what it means to be human. He's neither human nor Nightmare now. But he is leaning towards humanity. It even kind of changes him physically.

So, in the present day, when Dream escapes, it's not at night in the US but during the day in London that Cori gasps and realises that his happy life of half a century is over. He panics and tells Hob that he has to run, but Hob doesn't understand. Cori is insisting that his so far not present creator is out for his blood for the lives that he had taken, but Hob thinks that would make the creator a shitty god and convinces Cori to stay.

The first time, Dream doesn't come for him, so Cori grows some hope. But he has basically a breakdown about it every night, scared that his creator will come for him and unmake him without thinking twice, and maybe he won't even get to tell his husband goodbye.

Hob notices that Cori has stopped sleeping and tries to convince him to go to bed, because the bags under Cori's eyes are growing by the day. But Corie argues. "I'm a Nightmare, love, where else do you think I have the highest chance to run into my creator than in my sleep?" "You'll just collapse anyway," Hob argues. "Better do it before you lose your sanity to insomnia."

Nightmares don't need to sleep, until it is an important part of their specific function. The corinthian was supposed to be unstoppable, never tiring, always hunting, yet here he is almost too exhausted to keep his eyes open. It is the dame with hunger - the past 50 years humanised him. The more he viewed himself as a human, the more human he became, his essence reshaping itself.

Hob thinks that they have it under control until he comes back from work the next day to an empty apartment. There is a note on the fridge that says: "I RAN. HE'S IN LONDON. LOOK AT OUR FIRST KISS." It is a riddle. Hob carefully and completley destroys the note, because okay, if Cori insists he's in danger, he will protect his husband to the very end, and that means destroying all traces. The riddle leads him to a photo frame from their "wedding day" - they had a little vow renewal in this lifetime. At the back of the frame, a date, too old for either one of them to be alive back then. Which they, of course, both were, and it's the date of when they first lived together, back then still frenemies and not lovers. Hob knows where Cori is.

He is tempted to follow immediately but knows that would be reckless, alloving this "creator" to track Cori down if he already knows about Hob. And it is Thursday, so he would have to take Friday off. It'll be less conspicious if he leaves on the weekend, so he forces himself to go about his day normally and takes his work to the New Inn, because he can't handle the emptiness of their home.

To his great surprise, his Stranger shows up. For a moment, the happiness overshadows his worry. Hob wasn't really working - the papers were laying in front of him but he was scribbling a list of stuff to pack on a small note instead of focusing on work. Now he forgets both, having the lil "You're late..." moment.

The Stranger sits down opposite to him, and it is still amahzing and he feels like everything will be alright, but then he breaks eye contact to order a pint for his friend and his eyes catch the list he had been writing. He remembers the danger his husband is in. Maybe he could ask the Strangr for help?

The Stranger notices his worry and inquires, and Hob almost tells him everything right then, but then... Wait. His firend says that he had been held back, that he couldn't find him sooner. Were you captured? Wehn were you released? The Stranger is uncomfortable talking about it but you know what? Hob doesn't care.

"What is your name, Stranger?" he asks sharply. "You owe me that much."

Dream of the Endless. You don't happen to also rule Nightmares, do you?

Hob can't believe it. This generous god who gave him immortality is the same one who is hunting down his husband to kill him. No. No no no, over his dead body.

Hob would do better pretending that nothing happened but he can't, he's still human and driven by emotion and blows up at Dream. You're looking for someone, aren't you? You aren't planning on asking questions; youo rearely do. Will you kill him as soon as you see him?

Dream catches up and goes on this spiel that whatever The Corinthian has told Hob, he is not what he says he is. ("He's not a Nightmare?" "Oh, he is.") He is manipulating Hob. (Actually, Hob sometimes feels like he's the one manipulating Cori, with the way his husband is always trying to make him happy.) He needs to be stopped. (He's literally not doing anything!)

It's a kind of a stale-mate. They are connected by an old friendship and don't want to lose one another. But they are also both fighting for what is important to them - Hob for his love and Dream for the good of humanity. If Dream kills Cori, he will lose his friend. If Hob tries to fights Dream (and probably loses) he will lose them both (most likely). If they don't do anything, the issue will forever hang between them.

Hob proposes a deal - Dream will wait for a bit and if nobody dies, he will agree not to kill the Corinthian or whatever on spot. If even one person is killed by the Nightmare, Hob will take accoutability (though, he thinks, he will not let Dream kill Cori). The deal is sealed with a handshake and Dream disappears to attend to his other duties. Hob joins his husband in the countryside to tell him the news and to tell him that, apparently, his benefactor and Cori's creator are one person.

So, months go by, and Cori feels that he is the last runaway. All of the remaining Arcana returned to the Dreaming and he is alone here. He waits patiently and sleeps carefully in short bursts, but Dream doesn't hunt him down, bound by his pact with Hob.

When Dream visits them a year later, Hob feels confident enough for the three of them to meet at once. Cori is nervous about it but if Hob has managed to root Dream into a Pact once, maybe he is not as human and powerless as he seems. Dream is mostly stunned because it takes one look at his Nightmare to see that he is changed. Like Gault but even more - he used his own power up to be who he wanted to be. He can barelly walk through shadows anymore - a cost that he, apparently, paid for the ability to feel hunger and exhaustion and... love.

So, they talk civilly. Soon, all those previously unaddressed feelings between the three of them become suffocating. Hob knew Cori had a strange relationship with his creator, and Cori knew Hob was pining after his patron, and Dream is starting to realise that there is not much difference between what he feels for Hob and what he feels for his Nightmare, but hell if he knows what that feeling is called. (He is Dumb of the Endless.)

Something something, emotion-filled threesome and a three-way relationship!

[faefaye]

Locus Minoris Resistentiae

So I have this WIP fic for Azik and Klein that I don't think I'm ever going to finish and thought it'd be better to post the two snippets I do have here on Tumblr :p.

I haven't really canon-checked it like I do with my posted fics, feel free to leave concrit.

-

Summary:

Sia Palenque Eggers is devoted to the cause. Which is why, no matter how confused "She" is, "She" won’t ask about the man who appears around Death Consul Azik. "She" definitely won’t ask why the Death Consul behaves so– so warmly around him.

(or: the AU where Azik fuses with the other half of his soul after all, Klein is his anchor to humanity and the Numinous Episcopate has no clue what’s going on.)

i.

If one thought back, the first sign of oddity was probably the letter.

Sia remembered it with crystal clarity.

It had been two weeks since Death Consul Azik Eggers had returned. There had been rumours of "His" appearance in the high seas a few months before that, alongside a crazy adventurer, and it was followed by events like the calming of the Berserk Sea and the breakdown of the Artificial Death project, but nothing had come of it.

Then one day, the Death Consul had returned to the Southern Continent.

Even if “He” was a Sequence 2, making “Him” technically on the same level as Sia, “He” was the direct descendant of Death. “He” was the figure around whom the remains of the Balam Empire would rally without question.

Sia didn’t even need to think about giving up “Her” position as the head of the royal family faction. As a mark of “Her” devotion, “She” had even – if somewhat reluctantly, no one else needed to know – handed over the Grade 1 Sealed Artifact in “Her” possession. The Sequence 1 Beyonder characteristic it held would no doubt serve better in the hands of the Consul.

“He” had called for a meeting with the other descendants of their family, to discuss what "He" had missed in “His” millenia away.

They were halfway through their reports when there was a change in the air. Being members of the Death pathway, they had a spiritual intuition even before a fountain of bones had sprung from the ground next to the Consul and arranged itself into the form of a four-metre tall skeleton.

It respectfully knelt and handed over a folded piece of paper.

The Consul took it and, without giving a look to the rest of them, "He" started reading it.

Sia couldn’t see the contents nor would “She” dare to peek, but “She” could clearly see the Consul’s face. The cold emotionless stare flickered with a change that was too subtle to be grasped.

Then “He” took a fountain pen and spare paper, penned down a short note of “His” own–pausing after a few lines with that same flicker of expression again–and handed it over to the messenger who promptly vanished.

None of them asked any questions. The Consul gave no answers.

-

ii.

While that may have been the first sign, the next was undoubtedly the most notable.

Sia knocked on the office door, having a report to make on the handful of rogue factions that still refused to yield to them.

There was a silence that stretched for a dozen seconds before the Consul’s clear voice rang with, “Enter”.

“She” stepped in.

The first thing “She” noticed was that the room was dark. One would imagine that to be the aesthetic of an inverted mausoleum, but they actually had gas lamps in almost all the rooms, and the Consul’s office was no exception. In fact, it probably had a few more than the rest.

The second thing was probably what “She” should have noticed first, but one could forgive "Her" for completely skipping it, because there was no way “She” was actually seeing someone curled up on the couch, right?

“She” opened "Her" mouth on instinct, then forced it shut, instead shifting "Her" gaze to the Consul in wariness of causing offense. “He” had already caught what "She" was looking at – it was impossible not to.

Before “He” could say anything though, the person on the couch sat up and asked with the barest traces of sleepiness, “Mr. Azik?”

Sia startled. Mr. Azik? Who did he think he was talking to, his friend? Did he want to be turned into a corpse? "She" awaited how the Consul would deal with such insolence.

…except “He” didn’t bat an eye at it. In fact, “He”...

Sia wasn’t sure “She” could trust “Her” own eyes. If “She” didn’t know better… the Consul was smiling? It was like watching snow melt under a beam of sunlight or, to be more accurate to the person, a corpse rot under the sudden influence of heat. The Consul was a being only a step below Death. "He" didn’t smile.

“It’s been almost three hours. Have the negative effects dissipated?” “He” asked.

The man nodded. “The effects last just two, actually. I should get going. Thank you for letting me stay.”

The Consul shook "His" head… fondly? “It's nothing. I’ll temporarily lift the protections against the spirit world here.”

The man nodded, then pulled at the air, retrieving a skin-like glove. He wore it and vanished.

Sia was half-tempted to hurt “Herself” and check if “She” had just experienced a dream or an illusion.

“She” didn’t, because the Consul turned “His” gaze on “Her”, back to its usual dispassionate state. “He” lit the lamp on “His” table and asked, “What do you have to say?”

“She” forced herself to put aside all thoughts of what "She" had just seen.

[oh-for-fic-sake-library]

A Sires Bond Chapter 2

Masterlist

Summary: The dark sire isnt one to waste time, when he makes a deal he intends to fullfill his end immediately.

Warnings : Smut! A/B/O, Adult themes, Werewolves/shifters au, Dark magic,Fluff?, Angst, swearing

A/N: so here is the second part, i promise im trying to keep writing but my hard work for my shop has paid off and im currently getting orders in for custom dolls/animals. Its good news but my dolls are time consuming to make 🥲 16-20 hours each if im lucky hence i havent had much spare time to write and update things.

You both gasped at the first touch. The cracked barrier felt like thickened air as your palm passed through it, his warm skin burning against yours. He didn't hesitate as you did. His fingers slotted between yours and he held you firmly. A strange pulsing came from the barrier. Intermittent thrumming echoing through the air soundlessly. Your hair flicked, jumping with the movment.

Just when you thought nothing more would happen you saw it. Magic. It seemed to creep below you skin. Your veins glowed, a strange dark light emitting from them. Along with it came a strange feeling. Something between pins and needles and feather light touches gliding across your skin. You looked to him seeing his eyes alight with orange golden fire.

A quick sense of panic flared inside of you as the magic crawled up your arm. Reaching ever closer to your body. But you refused to deny this. You will not become a victim of someone elses decision. Just as the tingling hit your chest you relaxed. The ever constant pain of your loss ebbed away, as if it was being chased by him.

Once reaching your chest there seemed to be one quick flicker of light. Your entire body shuddered, trembled with the same odd feeling. And then it stopped. Every trace of magic dispersed and he suddenly lurched forward. Eagerly passing through the barrier as if remaining on the other sode was the worst fate imaginable.

You squeeked as he was suddenly upon you. Falling forward jn his eagerness, landing over you. Yet his reflexes kicked in and a huge hand captured the back of your head. He grunted heavily as his knuckles took the weight of your fall. But quickly bit off the pained grunt and hummed down at you seductively. Eyes taking in your wide eyes, red cheeks and full lips parted in shock as you yelped. An adorable high pitch sound that he had no doubt he could draw from you again. Next time it would be breathy and sweeter. A cry of unexpected passion as he claimed you. He was sure of it.

"So cute~ i could just eat you up" he mused with a smirk. Enjoying the way your cheeks glowed. He was sure you were a fair maiden. Untouched. He could not wait to sink his fangs into you. Nip and kiss his way across your supple flesh, tainting and awakening you all at once. Before gifting you what you craved, letting you take hold of him and create a new life.

He almost felt sorry for his new naive female. He would grow to love you, of that he was most certain. But he was under no false pretenses. For the moment you were both each others means to an end.

You will use him for pups,family and security. Even use him for your own passive revenge on those who wronged you by proving them to be the fools they are, making them regret casting you aside when you could bare more then one pup.

But he was useing you. Not only to escape his prison, but also to sire a new generation of perfected wolves. His hope was that his pups would gain notoriety and draw others to them. To become the male to have sired a renownd pack alphas. That his lineage will rule over these inferior wolves. Ultimatly proving that devious bitch goddess she was wrong to forsake him. That he can and will create something better, something lasting. His children will be the fiercest of all and will rule the entire race he helped create. He had a millenia of meddling to catch up on.

And he also wanted to prove that he could love another? He wants to show the gods that he can be worthy. That he would be a perfect mate! He wanted to show luna what she had missed out on. He hated thinking that luna belived he was pining for her. He was not. He despised her. Any affection he had left for her had died when she threatened to harm their unborn.

"Eat me?! But you... you promised? Please dont hurt me" you cried panicked once more. And tried to shuffle from beneath him in fright. He chuckled blinking slowly, before scratchingmyour scalp gently with the hand that cradled your crown. You relaxed slightly into the gentle touch, unable to deny the pleasurable feeling on your head being for lack ofa better word petted.

"Hush morsel. I would not devour you in a beastly sense of blood and sacrifice. I have bonded you already. My magic has krept inside of you, has seeped into your very being and tied us together." He purred out in delight, eyes flashing their godly orange before dimming to the blue you were comingnto love already. At the mention of magic you shivered, you could still feel it. Working its way deep into your very being, soaking you through with a delirious sense of want and need.

He hummed at you raising a perfect brow as you shuddered once more laying in the cool wwater did nothing to help you as your heat began to drift into your blood once more. He smirked as he caught the scent of a needy omega again. The flames of desire were quickly igniting as his spell reawakend you.

"Though i may feast on you when the mood strikes, i will never harm such a delicate mate. You are to be treasured, you are my light. My freedom and my future" he teased pressing forward ghosting your mouth with his, sinful lips kissin your as he spoke the heated words. You whined up at him pressing your thighs together as the liquid fire in your veins pooled in your loins. This was different to before, your desire was incomprehensible. Though it may have been dampened because of mikhail's swift refusal.

"Shh shh your fine, omega. Your perfectly safe with me. My sweet ripe little pup~ i have you. Its dofferent isnt it?" He breathed out senseig you slight panic. Many omega's were frigtened on their first true experience of heat. It was unpleasant to be tormented with such frenzied arousal you could bearly speak.

Your eyes watered and your hands gripped him tight, tiny fingers clutching mercilessly at his robes. You were confused and frightened.

"Oh i know child, its difficult hm? This is what your supposed to feel, this is a true mating bond my sweet;fuck you are soo sweet! Like honeyed ambrosia!" He grunted out through clenched teeth as the scent of his new found mate washed over him. He couldnt wait to defile you. He shifted holding himself over you before dragging you to him.

You could do little more then moan as he finally kissed you, his lips pressed hard against yours teasing your own. You somehow found a rhythm and fell into a delicious needy kiss. He licked and nipped along your bottom lip. He pulled the swelling flesh into his mouth, biting lightly before suckling at it like a pup on a breast. You panted mewling following his mouth trying to entice him to deepenthe kiss once more, al, the while arching your hips in uncontrollable movements. Your center seeking him out.

He shifted once more, rewarding your attempts with a single thick thigh. You moaned into his mouth as you found the hard muscle and began grinding onto it, whining and moaning for him aloud with little care. Your insides tensed, your walls pulsing with a need unlike any other youd felt. This was what mating really was? The undeniable hunger for your mate. Your body willingly tearing itself apart just so he would fulfill your needs. You quivered as you began to saturate your leggings.

Your hips jolted against him as he tensed his leg, and you sped up, rocking back and forth tending to your own need. Stoking your own fire useing him like a tool, as if his only purpose for being was to satisfy your own pleasure.

He grunted when you arched higher, brushing against his own need and released your mouth with a wet pop grinning down at you.

"I am your servant, your gaurdian. You shall never know pain again. Never endure torment, or need to worry or fear anything." He spoke with clarity, pledging himself to you in a flurry of sweet words. But the sentimentality was muted as he made sure to start tugging on the leggings you wore, his fingers finding the thick elastic quickly before curling them inside and peeling them off of you. You yelled in need before wriggleing your hips trying to help him rid you of them.

He chuckled dipping down once more at your insistence, you hands tugging on him trying to bring him closer. He locked lips again, this time pundering your mouth drinking in the cries and whimpers as you spiralled into a dazed heat, craving nothing but him.

You grunted at him as he pulled his thigh free from your own and quickly pulled your leggings to your knees.and in a swift movement you were rolled over below him.

You dropped your chest low, hissing as the position submerged your breast into the cool stream but quickly found a love for the temperature. Your body was boiling, your pussy wept a molten heat of longing. He groaned loud into the glen, the trees trembled at the beastly primal sound. You moaned as his hands captured your hips and urged you to rock back towards him.

"I am your protector and your might. If you give the word I will prowl this land and bring your enimies to a brutal bloody end." He spoke in a strained voice. His hot hands storking over your lower back, down your ass and squeezed. It had been a long time since a female presented for him, he'd not rush ahead befpre commiting the sight to memory. And you were a cute little thing.

"And me? What am i?" You breathed out desperately trying to press against him, searching for him. Willing him to finally take you and claim you for himself.

"You my dear? You are about to become and impossibility. An exception to every constraint placed upon your kind. You my little love are about to birth an entirely new era." His words were overshadowed by the howl like cry you belowed as he impaled you. He coildnt help smirk victoriously as your body wrapped aroundnhim so tightly. Your insides squeezing him with no complaints.

You moaned into the open air as his cock pressed jnto you. The thick rod prying you open, pressing you to your limits as he invaded you. It was a sweet pajn, the stretch and light burn form him making you feel cold. You grunted when he pressed further, you could almost imagine him protuding in your stomach. The thought made you wail louder tensing around him as if fighting for room in you own body.no. not yours, it was his now.

He grunted holding still as your heat suckled on him, pulling him urging him deeper. Fuck yes. He growled as you squirmed, turning to look back at him and tried rockingmon your knees. No. You were uis, and youd take what he gave.

He moved, slowly at first hands on your hips tugging you back to wards him, meeting the light tilts of his hips. You cried rung out around you. The mewling sobs of pained pleasure echoing around the glen as he toyed with you. He couldnt help it, he wanted to tease his new mate. But you were driving him mad.

You moaned as the male mounting you began to fuck you, the arching hips became harde and harder as he worked himself inside of you. Each thrust forceing the breath from you. And then like something inside of og him snapped he grasped your wasit tightly, fingers threatening to bruise as he jerked your body faster, harder and deeper.

Each pull made you more desperate, you needed him, needed something more! The trembling in your legs seemed to spread further. Crawling across your spine and tummy leaving tinggling in its wake. You couldnt describe it, the sensation of being one with your intended. It was all encompassesing and muted. Like you were trapped inside a bubble of unyeilding lust and heat.

He growled, curseing out loud fucking you in harsheder strokes. His thighs slping yours in scalding stinging swats, only adding to your heady ecstasy. And then he stopped, p,undging himself as far as he could. You yelped eyes wideneing as you felt something else. A foreign feeling, a swelling. But not y9ur own?

A stinging pain tugged at you unlike anything youd felt before. You cried out in fear turning to him, but a hand caught your hair, tilting your head back. You made to ask what was going on but could only let out silent scream when you felt teeth imbed into your neck. Fangs shooting down locking themselves into your flesh.

The pain coupled with the seering heat in your hea made you tense, your body twisting tightly befor relaxing in a mind numbing pleasure. You trembled and quivered finding your end cumming in one frighteningly powerful wave leaving blackspkts in your vision.

You whined almost collapsing below him, completely spent. But our mate was quick to capture you, one thick arm crossing your abdomen supporting your weight, whislt holding you still as he rooted himself deep inside of you. His cock pulsing, tickling your insides with his seed as he came inside of you.

You moaned when his jaw pulled free of your neck as he felt you coming down from your high. With a gentle kiss he parted from your bitten flesh.

"Shh shh thats me, my knot. We are one. I will release you soon my love" he panted trying to sooth you as you cried out and tugged, trying to pull yourself from him. Your mate sighed, It was always painfull the first time, omega needed to learn to appreciate the knot. For now you would weep as the sensation of being knotted, the burn was a knife edge of pleasure and pain, for the moment youd only focus on the latter.

You whined arching forward again trying to escape the pain, ignoring the warmth of his seed coating your insides with a hope of taking root. But not even the promise of pups could ease the full painfull feeling. He hushed you, pressing his hands into your back warming them, rubbing circles and long lengths up and down your tight muscles easing them. Encouraging you to relax for him.

"Together we will gift this world our pups. Pups that will grow into feirce rulers, and they will bring about a new dawn to this dismal supernatural world. Your species will not be mocked. They will be feared" he spoke, trying to draw your mind away from the present uncomfortable sensation of your first knot. It worked somewhat, he felt your excit en and hope spark through the bond. His heart leapt in his chest, it has been to long since he had shared this kind of bond. The way he felt you, the way your emotions pulled at him as you unknowingly broadcast them like a beacon for him. He closed his eyes swearing a silent oath to keep this bond, this union sacred and safe.

"We will be feared" he ended, the tone dark and foreboding as he finished his silent promise out loud. You'llbe feared, loved and cherished. Your pups will be worshipped . Your bloodline revered.

"So... whats your name?" You pondered flushing as you realised youd given youraelf to the dark sire without even knowing his true name. It was... demeaning in a way? You felt embarrassed, ashamed almost that you even had to ask in this postion.

"You know i have never given it much thought. I do not really have one, only titles. The dark sire, the shroud, hound of hell, hell beast, deciver;"

"Thats... actually really sad everyone should have an actual name" you interrupted him as his tone began to grow more acidic. It would seem even he held offence to the mamy blighted names he had been gifted over the millenia. You also felt sorry for him, you couldnt imagine never having something so important. A name was? Personal, it was identity being. It was acceptance and civil. To not have one was, it was unthinkable.

"Augustus? I was named Augustus a few hundred years ago" he spoke again quietly, his voice a purring hum. Thoughtful and deep, he sounded lost, adrift somewhere in his own mind. You faltered. Oh. Augustus? Like the boy from Charlie and the chocolate factory? The fat one who couldnt swim. You were pulled from your thoughts by a deep laugh from behinde.

"You are not fond of it? Me neither of course you can always help me find a new one. I am but a humble servant for my rescuer" he cooed, leaning down once more to nuzzle your neck unable to resist. You preened at the attention.

"How about August? Just shorten it? Its fancy but not old we dont want people to know who you really are... right?"you offered weakly, trying to avoid the old aristocratic name that made you cringe.

"August. I like it. And you are?" You felt a wave of relief flush through you. Thank the gods! But then paused your name? Oh! He doesnt know either... oops?

"Willow. My name is willow" his face lit up as he tested your name, letting it roll off the tongue in a languid purr.

"Willow. My perfect mate has such a unique name, it really does suit you my love." He added gently before taking your legs into his hands slowy and lowered you to the ground following your movements as not to tug on your joining. You hissed but managed to remain still for him only releasing a huge breath when the larger then life male smothered your back. Warming you instantly with his own body heat.

"Well willow, you should try and rest for. While, the next few days are going to be very busy" he uttered coaxing you to relax further, his kingstache tickled your neck and shoulder as his lips fou d your skin again gently littering it with kisses and gentl licks. Everything about he did was to keep you calm, docile and relaxed around him. Praying each and every moment that natrue would take its course and youd be pupped by the time you were released from beneath him.

[moltz23]

When the Darkness gets Miscasted - An Essay about Three Houses' "those who slither in the dark"

As someone that joined the FE fandom with Sacred Stones, I gotta say, “Those who slither in the dark” are an interesting experiment as far as antagonistic factions go. In spite of being the most alien-like group featured in the franchise (as of Engage), regardless of the 3H story branch picked, TWSITD in the long-term serves as an villainous third wheel of sorts, going from being very active late into Part 1, to vanishing almost entirely by Part 2, not even getting an proper send-off in half of the routes. So what happened?

Well, after pondering about it for a while, I believe the reason TWSITD fell into this situation is because their unique traits don’t mesh well with the broader purpose the story gave them. In other words, I’m saying “those who slither in the dark” were miscasted.

To explain what exactly I mean by this, a brief recap of the group is in order:

Part 1: The Nitty-Gritty of the Slitherers.

This concept art of Shambhala is so cool.

In Three Houses (and Three Hopes by proxy), “Those who slither in the dark” is an organization that causes strife in Fódlan anonymously:

“In the long history of the Church of Seiros... No, long before even that… There have been an endless number of threats to the peace of Fódlan. Yet, those who oppose us still operate in the shadows, their identities a mystery.” - Rhea in Report: Red Wolf Moon

Their origins can be traced back to remnants of Agartha: an ancient human civilization of Fódlan once that waged war against Sothis and her kids - trying to seize control of the continent from them -, but got themselves wiped out when Sothis retaliated. The remaining survivors then retreated underground, bowing revenge against Sothis, her spawn, and those spared by her wrath. And from then on, this remnant cut contact with the outside world for over a millenia, thus becoming - as far as everyone else is concerned - “those who slither in the dark”.

The ones who call themselves Agarthans want mainly 2 things: Payback against Sothis’ surviving kin ie. Rhea, Seteth, Flayn and Byleth (once they know they’re Sothis reborn); and

obtain what Sothis denied Agartha: dominion over the surface.

“Let no crisis go to waste” is the group’s core motto, as whenever something bad happens in Fodlan, they will likely be there to reap the benefits, usually by:

Acting as benefactors, providing resources (or the means/knowledge) others would normally be never able to gain normally.

Doing Crests experiments once the avenue is open.

And body-snatching, letting them act in the open without giving themselves away, all while opening a new pool of resources and connections to draw from.

As for their Modus Operandi, their general plan is to get involved in a major conflict where they gain something by their chosen side coming out on top (which is known as a proxy war). Given their track record, their MO looks like this:

Find a pawn who could gain enough followers (or already has them) to kickstart a large-scale conflict, and offer your services.

Once the fighting starts, provide support to show your pawn how much of an asset you are to their cause.

If your pawn gets killed or the conflict ends with the opposition alive, then retreat underground, and let the years pass by.

Go back to step 1.

The group’s identity - as in, what differentiates them from other villainous groups - is comprised by the following:

Design-wise, save for one exception, all non-disguised Agarthans have ghastly white skin and dress in black.

Resource-wise, they have access to giant automatons, electric turrets, kinetic orbital missiles (called “javelins of light”), demonic beasts, and more.

Character-wise, regardless of each member’s individual personality, every one of them always showcases hubris and xenophobia. In a related note, every member is also portrayed unsympathetically.

Soundtrack-wise, the group’s heavily associated with dubstep.

Finally, when it comes to TWSITD’s narrative purpose in the main stories:

Their general objective is to serve as the puppeteers behind the scenes, trying to manipulate events behind the scenes and their pawn of choice (ie. the Empire/Edelgard) to achieve their ends.

Meanwhile, as far specific objectives go, they:

Kill Jeralt, and thus, force Byleth to fuse with Sothis before Rhea can have them sit on Sothis’ throne, thus unintentionally foiling the Archbishop’s agenda.

Give Edelgard the means to remove Rhea from the story at the end of Part 1 (used only outside CF) through their Demonic Beasts.

Set up the Final Boss of Part 2 of Verdant Wind and Silver Snow by the story having Byleth’s party reach Shambhala, their HQ.

Help Azure Moon’s story explore the Tragedy of Duscur subplot.

Help Crimson Flower’s story explore the TWSITD alliance subplot.

Part 2: Those Who Experiment In The Dark.

As alluded early, the Slitherers stand out from other major villainous factions in FE due to being the very definition of experimental. I use this term because no major villainous faction in Fire Emblem prior to them has had to contend with the following factors:

1. Access to Modern/Sci-Fi Technology:

While everyone else in the setting - including the Agarthans to an extent - use medieval western-inspired resources, only they get exclusive access to modern/sci-fi weapons like giant robots, turrets, and orbital missiles.

2. Deal with Multiple Handicaps:

I previously covered this in a past-article (that can be found here), but for those unaware: the manner the plot in Three Houses is written ensures the Slitherers' path towards their goal isn’t a straight one:

In spite of initially having Edelgard be just a puppet in someone else’s plans, they end up working for her thanks to some deals both parties make behind the scenes, thus leading TWSITD to backstab their former collaborator once Edelgard makes her move and becomes Emperor. Once that happens-

They take a backseat from the plot midway through the story, relinquishing their spotlight to Edelgard while she drives the story onwards. Meaning-

They rely on Edelgard winning to get anywhere, which would normally not be an issue if it wasn’t for how-

Edelgard plans to get rid of them once they’re no longer needed. Not only that, but she also screws the group over in every route in some form.

And that’s not even going into the other two problems they have to deal with:

A. Their orbital/kinetic missiles being impractical: I also did an analysis on those things, but long story short: two routes imply they can’t abuse the weapon at their leisure; their most desired target (Garreg Mach) is protected by a jamming spell/device; and if we go by the evidence at hand, not only the missiles were crafted back when Agartha was still a thing 1000 years before the main plot, we have no evidence they have the means to replenish their stock due to the javelins being orbital missiles (aka dropped from space).

B. Nemesis being unreliable: So, here an interesting fact about Nemesis: dude never died in the introductory movie (perhaps he just went into sleep, not unlike how most Nabateans & Byleth do when wounded enough?), and had to be sealed because, to indirectly quote Rhea’s words in Verdant Wind, no one really knows how the Crest of Flames works.

The known credit the Slitherers get with Nemesis’ return in Verdant Wind is that they were definitely prepared in case he woke up. After Shambhala has been destroyed, the story shows that not only they held him in a coffin somewhere in their catacombs, multiple flavor texts allude they are the reason Nemesis has the reanimated corpses of his old allies for Verdant Wind’s final battle. Beyond that, no one really knows why Nemesis returns at the very end only in Claude’s route, and how much TWSITD may be behind it. He just… returns.

3. They Lose Their Original Purpose (in 2/4 of the Post-Timeskip).

Quick development trivia for y’all: Silver Snow was the story branch of Three Houses that started it all, laying the foundation of every other route that came after. And in it, plus Verdant Wind - for sharing similar story beats - “those who slither in the dark” fulfill a specific purpose in Part 2’s story: setting up the scenario for the final battle to happen though having the player’s party going to Shambhala (their HQ), whether it’s by: wounding Rhea lethally, thus playing a part in her sudden dragon degeneration (Silver Snow); or by having an army prepared for Nemesis once he wakes up in Shambhala after their defeat (Verdant Wind).

But then, Crimson Flower and Azure Moon changed everything. Because both stories deviate from Silver Snow by using Chapter 11 to set up their own Final Boss in advance (Rhea in CF, Edelgard in AM), the writing team behind those routes was forced to solve the following issue:

“What happens when the story doesn’t need to go to Shambhala? As in, when the story has no need for the Slitherers to set up the final battle?”

The solution found was simple: TWSITD would blend-in with the Empire, and be forced to stick with Edelgard to reach the end of the road they crave. In turn, each path would show how well that situation ends for them.

(As a quick tangent: 3H’s The Cutting Room Floor page having unused unit data for a playable Edelgard and Dimitri in the Shambhala map - and nothing else - does very little to corroborate the idea that both CF and AM ever intended to visit the place in the stories beyond the planning stages).

No major antagonistic group in the series before the Agarthans has been ever given such a mixed bag to work with. And I believe it’s no coincidence either, as it very much appears most of these handicaps were placed to ensure TWSITD doesn’t have enough control of the plot to allow a “Golden Ending” to happen just by defeating them early. Still, this doesn’t change their unique situation as it causes unfortunate problems for them, and it’s precisely this what I want to address to finally explain why this group of antagonists were miscasted in the stories 3H tells.

Part 3: The Bad, Good, and Nasty side of the Agarthan.

Let’s get the bad out of the way first: even though their general objective in the story is to act as the puppeteers behind the scenes, in a twist of irony, the Agarthans are at their weakest when trying to manipulate their way into victory. The reasons are twofold:

A. Their handicaps limit their level of threat and control imposed. And…

B. Due to their anonymity shtick, they straight up don’t appear unless the plot calls for it.

These two details explain why they fall out of relevance by the time the timeskip takes place (and for the Three Hopes spinoff, this too goes for Azure Gleam’s second timeskip), and when they finally reappear, their performance ultimately falls flat despite all the spectacle provided. For all their efforts, the Slitherers unfortunately have a lot going against them that stops them from accomplishing the main objective the writers set out for them (and worse of all, this is by design).

Incidentally, another problem that quickly springs up for TWSITD is that, once they are forced to fight outside the darkness and can no longer count on their surprise/shock factor, they’re

taken care of in a pretty swift fashion (see AM Chapter 19 and VW/SS Chapter 21/20). And this is because, at the end of the day, they are just an organization of people that has historically relied on other nations’ armies to put up a fight vs the Church after the fall of Agartha. As trying to foolishly fight regardless, just exposes them for what they all are, warts included.

“[those who slither in the dark] are looking down on us. They think we cannot touch them. But the closer we get to them, the less true that becomes.” - Hubert, in Darkness Beneath the Water.

But enough negativity! Let's get to what the Slitherers are truly good at. My reasoning behind why TWSITD were miscasted, given a role they would never be able to fill its shoes comfortably, is because Three Houses’s stories not only show them at their worst, but also at their best. And what is what they excel at, you might wonder?

It is Terrorism. Just, flat out terrorism at its finest.

In execution, by the Agarthans using their anonymity shtick as a strength, they are allowed to:

A. Appear out of nowhere to cause havoc and quickly vanish once the job’s done. And-

B. Confuse and worry the hell out of the enemy.

Arguably the stand out examples of this is Part 1 of White Clouds, and Part 2 of Three Hopes’ Scarlet Blaze route. Whether it is to test out and perfect their “experimental assets” intended to be used by the Empire once Edelgard declares war on Garreg Mach in the former’s case, or by providing the perfect stage for Ferdinand’s father, Duke Aegir, to attempt a coup against Edelgard’s Empire in the latter, TWSITD’s surprise appearance completely disrupts the direction the plot was going for, and forces the characters to handle them directly in the hopes of - somehow - foiling their end goal, just for the group to vanish soon after, leaving everyone with a sense of unease, worry, and fear, upon witnessing they are not dealing with just some random group of villains anymore.

Simply put, “those who slither in the dark” are at the top of the game when they are causing terrorism and exploiting their enigmatic aura of theirs. So it’s a shame that Three Houses still ultimately decided to have the organization stick to their “puppeteers” shtick no matter what, even if it is for the sake of deconstructing the idea or in an attempt to try to make them work somehow.

Finally, while I feel the point this article’s been trying to make has already been made, I still wanna wrap things up by addressing the nasty side of TWSITD: their one-dimensional malice.

While Fire Emblem as a franchise is no stranger to cartoonishly evil antagonists, never before the Agarthans have we gotten an entire major faction with not even a trace of nuance. In a series where major villainous factions have done stuff like human sacrifices and child hunts, there has been always someone that either: can display basic decency; can be recruited and allowed work off their bad karma; or had long since defected the group, and might try to help the playable characters in some way. Heck, archetypes like the Camus exist because people have noticed some conventions are used a lot for the sake of giving the enemy-side some nuance, with varying degrees of success and reception.

The Slitherers by comparison, get none of that. And in spite of it… I feel it may be on purpose.

Let me remind everyone for one last time, what the Slitherers' backstory and shared character traits are:

Their background can be summed up as a “millennial legacy of hate which willingly isolates from society as a whole”. Also-

Displaying hubris and xenophobic tendencies appears to be an unwritten rule for every one of its members.

Considering these two facets, I just can’t help but wonder if the 3H writers drew the line with the TWSITD as far as nuance goes simply because, as far they themselves were concerned, those who hurt others due to a sense of entitlement, superiority, and hate, are beyond saving. And I say this because ever since last year, this exchange from Azure Gleam has been in my mind a lot as of late:

Cornelia: As for your loyal knight and the former Duke Fraldarius… They're certainly giving it all they have, but a paltry force that size will hardly buy them any time. And once we've wrung the life from them, you'll be next. How tragic it'll be, facing your beloved citizens for the final time with a noose around your neck. Dimitri: You know, I almost appreciate seeing such bold-faced sadism. There's not a hint of nuance to it. Cornelia: Is that a compliment I hear? You'll make a lady blush if you're not careful. - Event: Behind the Mask

I’ve been figuring out how to complete this whole thing for over a month now and oh man I am so glad I can finally move on from it. Now the only thing that remains is to thank y’all who checked and read this huge wall of text to the end.

To finally close things off, I have a few last questions for everyone: What are your honest thoughts on “those who slither in the dark”? What did you expect of them? Did they surprise you? And would you improve on them if given the chance (and how)?

[stinkypossumblogs]

a Morning Routine with Bad Reception

every morning the same thing

i wake up to a layer of plexiglass between me and the world

i struggle to move my body enough

to get enough momentum

to sit up

then stand

then step

then step

then step

then step

all the way to the toilet to relieve the pressure

one I've been feeling for nearly an hour now as I've been struggling

desperately

to connect my mind to my body

just enough

to twitch a finger

to cause that cascade of movement

until I have come to rest again

and risk facing that struggle once more, once the need arises

to pilot my body to another location

the connection between my controller and my console seems to be faulty.

it resets without warning.

minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, decades, millenia pass.

like radio static, filling my skull.

like the buzzing of thousands upon thousands of bees.

the vibrations become heat that liquefies the grey matter.

there is no sound but the universe is So Loud

there is only sound, inescapable

the pounding heart in my chest sounding so far away

but sounding nonetheless

distant drums from across a dark abyss

is this droning in my ears that is drowning out the world

the call of the Nothing that I feel that it is?

or is this sound simply Everything

All At Once

every thought I've ever had, am having, will ever have

all playing on top of each other

like standing in the center of a crowd of voices

all saying different things

but all of them directed at Me.

and then

I

am

aware again.

how much time has passed?

when did I lose track of it?

I open my phone to check if I sent any messages during the time I spent in the static of the Noverything.

I look for any evidence I have left from before and compare the time stamps to the present clock.

when i find out that the centuries I spent in the static were only

a handful

of minutes

the plexiglass thickens.

I muster up the strength to relocate.

I stand

I step

I go to wash the cats' bowls

to feed them their breakfast

a meal they are pestering me for

with meows and purrs and rubbing their fur against my ankles

making me have to focus more of my attention

on each step

by step

by step

to the sink

and as the water makes contact with my hands

I realize, abruptly

that while I was lost in the echoing garbled gibberish from earlier

I neglected to piss.

and I must return to step one

of my morning

and hope

my perception and reception on reality remain

just stable enough

to make it to another hour

another moment

another chance

for the plexiglass to thin

perhaps even lift

even if for a moment

and even though the memory of those moments

however recent they may be

may feel as though it was experienced lifetimes ago

once on the other side

the moments can still replay, however distantly

reminding me that even though reality may seem to

skip

and repeat

and jump

like a faulty CD

the continuity of my life can be traced

to a single being

a human one

a human being now increasingly aware of the burden of the task of self-maintenance

until it abruptly isn't aware anymore

the fog

the static

the abyss of nothingeverything

the body going limp

catatonic

only aware of itself enough to know it has done so

but with no power to change anything about it

nothing left but the whirling wheels of thoughtless thinking to taunt me

the knowledge of my state of being driving me further into it

until I can grasp at just enough of a thought

to follow its trail

back up to reality

somehow finding myself only minutes ahead of where I was before

once again

and now must continue the burst of whatever task needs doing.

tasks always need doing.

what task was I doing?

the plexiglass thickens again.

I think I have to pee.