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theanonymousfoxsimp · 2 years

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(M)Yautja x satyr!reader(half human half goat) headcanons

What if a yaujta had a mate that wasn't entierly human?

For the sake of this post,you aren't going to be murdered by the yautja

The first time you meet,he does think you're some kind of funky special human. Whatever he deems special,he would take back to his ship,which included you

If you put up a fight,he ties you up but minds your goatish legs and hooves

He keeps you in a cage in some sort of trophy room in the ship full of skulls and otherworldy trophies. The biggest was a xenomorph warrior head he had mounted next to a few other heads. If you ask,he would tell you where he got them from and be proud that he achieved it

You'd be kept in that cage unless you were let out,he'd practically have you on a collar and leash then would walk you around the ship and avoided other yautja that were there

He'd notice that sometimes,your gaze would linger just a bit longer than normal but when he would turn to look at you,your gaze would snap back to something different

Eventually he began to feel the warmth of some sort of feelings whenever he was around you,he dismissed it as a late stage of pride that he managed to capture you.

One day,when he came back from a particularly hard hunt,he had forgotten to lock your cage after feeding you. He only noticed when he was sitting at his table,head in hand and grumbling about the latest rather unsuccessful hunt. He heard your soft hoofsteps then froze in his seat when he felt your arms wrap around him. He froze,unsure of what would happeb but then relaxed when he felt your hands start to squeeze at his tense shoulders

He's a bit foreign to this kind of attention so bare with him for the moment.

He's not entierly sure what to do until a small whispered word next to him told him what he should do. Your kind gentle words soothed him to relax atleast enough so you can work your magical hands. He practically purred when your hands worked out a particularly rough knot in his back that he didn't notice

After that,he wouldn't keep you in your cage or on a leash anymore but strickly made sure you'd avoid any other occupied chambers. He'd be more lentiant whenever you would come and relax him from stressful scenarios

He would eventually come to terms with his feelings and begin to court you. It starts out with small gifts such as food offerings and clothing offerings,when you would accecpt those with glee,he'd evolve into giving more bigger and complex gifts such as intricately carved skulls and armour.

However,what he didn't know was that you also had a form of courting...a vastly different one than his but it still counted.

He would purr happily whenever you would gift him food or instruments he would eventually try to learn if it wasn't too difficult. You knew what he was doing long before he started courting,your mind and body bursting with glee that he accepted your gifts

He would want to take it a few steps further to a more physical level when you acknowledged his gifts. Though he didn't start until he walked in on you laying there in his massive bed,naked as the day you were born.

Needy would be an understatement for your mate

He'd make sure youd want this as much as him,eventually taking the hint and finally giving in to his desires. He'd be gentle at first because he didn't know exactly how your body would react,until he found out you were very much into this

After the whole thing was over,he'd finally acknowledge his feelings and give in easily whenever you were around

Eventually he would want to learn what you were,finding out that what you were-was not human but mythical in a sense that humans don't beleive but yes you do exist. He'd do reaserch into "satyrs",finding out they'd usually go naked and took that information happily since yautja's care very little for clothing

He'd start giving you more gifts that are made for yautja's, small clothing that didn't cover much. Jewlerly hand crafted by him that made his chest soar whenever he saw you wear it. He'd evolve into shining your horns and crafting jewelry for you to put on your (insert size) horns.

He'd also quickly come to the conclusion you weren't weak and frail as some stories told. This happening because of a rouge xenomorph making it onto the ship and targeted you out of any of them. However,the xenomorph quickly got a violent hoofkick to the head and a few more before it succumbed to its injuries.

He'd be incredibly worried because xenomorph blood is acidic and could eat through anything. Though when you showed that it really had zero affect on you,like it just came off easily like running water,your mate would be less worried and more prideful you had the courage to go against his species most hunted creature

He would do more research after this to better adapt to what you were,eventually being stopped when you gleefully explain what your mythological species was and did. He'd quickly soak in all the information and in return,helped you learn his species language and more information about his culture

#yautja x reader #yautja #yaujta headcanons #man I'm down bad for these guys

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obeymefanatic · 4 years

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Just started following you (really love your art ❤️) and I feel the same way with how uncomfortable the way the boys are projecting onto MC as a replacement for Lilith. When the main story is updated again, I really want it to focus on them learning how to work through their trauma of losing their sister, realizing how obsessing over the past is unhealthy and recognize that MC is their own person. What do you think? What other content do you want to see in the main story?

Hehe, thank you very much! I appreciate it.

Right, right! I would've loved for something like that as well. But they've lived for so long and not all of them are as hung up on Lilith as Beelzebub and Belphegor, imo.

Out of all the brothers, the twins are the ones, actually---Beelzebub is the MOST affected by her death. While the others weren't happy about her death, I'm sure, they seemed to have moved on enough to at least not remember her every waking day of their life. Meanwhile, Beel kept having nightmares, and his regret really ate him up from the inside. It didn't help that Belphie was kept away from him for a long time as well. Out of the bro's, he was the one who's always thinking about it, always reminiscing so sadly.

Mammon and Levi are always occupied by their money and games respectively, it's all they talk about. Asmodeus is as cheerful as ever, we all know this one goes clubbing a lot. He has a lot of distractions. Satan on the other hand isn't even acquainted with her, she's practically a stranger, and the only memories of her that she knows is not even his. They're Lucifer's. When MC was brought up as Lilith's descendant, Satan said he felt happy, but he was confused. He doesn't know why he was happy and relieved--but it's because he was once part of Lucifer.

Lucifer can also be argued as the one affected most, but he hid it so damn well, I'm sure that even though he was also hung up over her as somebody who knew she lived on as a human, he had to suppress his desire to watch over her. And in suppressing so, he had to have numbed himself and told himself that she's living a happy life now, and there is no room for him---someone who is now simply just a part of her past---to interfere and intrude in her life.

Compared to Beel, whose sadness always seemed to show, Luci handled it a little too well, and was still able to go through his daily activities without looking down out of the blue. He was still Lucifer, working hard, scolding his brothers, keeping up with Diavolo's whims and getting along with Simeon and Barbatos.

Meanwhile, Beel's "arc" revolved around her. And he was actually the one who seemed to be overjoyed by the fact that MC is Lilith's descendant. I remember it all too well. But I'm not confident actually,??, but I just remember it by feeling! He's really the one who misses Lilith the most, and he's always the one who's bringing her up. I doubt Belphie's feelings because he got over her too quickly and was quick to apologize to MC, even though he could've been more confused about how he's supposed to feel. It was because she fell in love with a human that he started hating humans. It's a bummer that his hatred was looked over, and he quickly reverted back to being gentle.

Still, I'm sure they were all affected deeply. It's just a question of who showed it the most, and that was Beel and Belphie. (Beel, who couldn't forget about her even in his unconscious. And Belphie, who started hating humans because of her reason for dying.)

It would be nice if every brother was given a time to think about the revelation. They just accepted it straight! So questionable and mysterious. If we want them to get over their tendency to link MC with Lilith, especially Beel, this would have to be addressed and brought back to the story, which is a little too late, I think.

So I'd like for them to have a one-on-one bonding time with MC, and actually give MC more options to be themselves! Which means more questions for them, and more options to choose. I want to see the brothers ponder, and just realize that MC is an entirely different person, and while they cannot replace the hole left in their hearts with Lilith's passing, I want them to realize how important the MC is to them, not to their family, but to them, as an individual.

And meanwhile, I want this kinda arc of bonding to be about moving on and letting go. But really, with how old they already are, how long are the lives they've lived, it shouldn't take much. I just also want to see a speck of immortality woes on the way they act. I want to feel that they're beings that have already lived this long! We don't feel that very often, actually.

And I'd also like to see a lot of action and plot conflicts in the future, instead of the dang family drama. Maybe if they focused on the present this time and the troubles that could befall their peaceful times, many things may be realized and could help them get over their past!

For example, MC's life might be threatened. Instead of how they glossed over that in favor of the joy the revelation brought in the last plot, this time, I want them to get scared, to actually think about it, and to act upon it.

The last plot concentrated too much on the brother's troubles. The MC was pre-occupied tryna fix their family instead of worrying about themselves. And with how the game's narrative ran, we were also only given chances to talk or "choose an option" whenever it's to move the scene forward (m not even sure about that) or when the brothers or the other people ask for our opinion. (I think the only time we get to do an action without it being a response is when we're tryna kiss or get in the brother's pants HSBSHSH--)

What I'm tryna say is, we really don't get to speak up or talk in the most crucial of moments where we want to have a say in! There are times when I wish I could've said something or said no in the game. When I could've DONE something instead of getting swept up with whatever the MC was getting into in the game!

That sneaking in in the past so that MC wouldn't be found out and accomplish their mission of tryna find out who let Belphie out! It was a little too forced how they were found out when we could've PREVENTED it from happening by being SMART and EXTREMELY CAUTIOUS about it!!!

But we weren't given an option to be like that. T'was like the odds were stacked against us so unfairly. I was so eager to accomplish that mission, because MC's pride was also riding on how well they'll be able to do it after challenging THE Lord Diavolo! It was the moment I was waiting for---MC's moment to shine!!! But no. We weren't given much of an option to succeed. We crashed and burned and witnessed our death, and because of that, the original timeline was erased. Like. Damn. But then everything quickly went back to normal and we didn't GET to give a DAMN!

....Anyway (god this is getting so long im so sorryHSHSHDBDVDG)

In the future stories, I want it to finally dawn upon the MC that the Devildom is a terrifying place full of demons with conflicting ideas, and not everything can and will be solved through the brothers and Diavolo alone.

In stepping unto Devildom and getting to know creatures from two other realms you didn't even know existed until you were dragged into their worlds, there are bound to be otherworldy things that can happen that would be far from the boring happenings in the daily life of a human. I want to feel that in the next stories to come!!

(So basically, I want them to focus on the MC's feelings more now!!! And show how important they are to the brothers---and I want more action! More magical battles and shows of power and all that stuff!! I want serious conflicts against the brothers and the MC--and how it will affect them and their peaceful lives!! I want to see how they will handle such troubles, and how their relationship with the MC will grow!! G I V E S E P A R A T E R O U T E S / E N D I N G S D E P E N D I N G O N O U R F I R S T C H O I C E S)

It's fun that we can go back and choose another option, but I'd like for the initial option to have an impact on where the story will lead us. That'll make it more interesting and fun!!

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redrobin-detective · 5 years

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in the middle with you, along the seashore

After the events of Apocalypse gone wrong, or right depending on your point of view, Heaven and Hell never again speak to Aziraphale and Crowley. The Angel and Demon in question privately sighed in relief, believing they’ve narrowly avoided divine or demonic punishment. But that wasn’t the case at all. Their respective organizations had separately declared them lost causes; Aziraphale too reckless and scheming and Crowley too earnest and a bit of a softie underneath it all. This, the greater powers that be, decided, would be their punishment. They wanted the Earth and so they would have it. And so, every day after the almost-could-have-been Apocalypse, bit by bit, they became a little less ethereal.

It happened piece by piece, so slowly that no one even noticed at first, not even themselves. They had, by this point, given up any pretense of doing their job or even being mortal enemies. The Dastardly Angel and the Kindly Demon simply continued on as they chose, miracling whatever they desired without worrying about forms or appearances or fitting into the molds they’d been stuck in for millennia. For the first time, they felt free to spread their metaphorical wings even as their literal wings became a little less perfect, a little more corporeal with each passing day. Time marched on is always was wont to but for the first time it left little marks on the otherworldy beings, like early morning dew dripping down a curved blade of grass.

It started with the little things. Crowley’s forked tongue flicked a little less, became less demonically sharp and a little more humanly round. Aziraphale’s almost imperceptible heavenly light dimmed until humans no longer unconsciously shied away from looking directly at him. Crowley’s slit pupils widened until they were simple circles, his bright yellow eyes fading to a warm burnt brown. He hardly even noticed when one day he put down his sunglasses and never put them on again. Aziraphale’s glasses went from being a fashion statement to an necessity, his wrinkles had a weight to them they’d never had before. One day, hundreds of years later, they took a look at one another and realized that they were almost unrecognizable, more closely resembling the humans they risked everything for than the divine creatures, always one step apart from humanity, they had once been.

It was both a surprise and completely expected, they’d felt a touch less spry than before. Aziraphale slept a little more often these days, Crowley’s back ached if he spent too long hunched over the Bentley. They handled the loss of their divinity about as well as they handled the literal end of the world: they drank heartily and heavily, dismayed when they found it difficult to sober up like they had a century or two ago. Mortality pressed against them like a pressed flower tucked in-between pages: something to be seen and felt for a brief moment only to fade despite attempts to preserve it. Crowley disappeared for a solid year and never spoke of what he did in that time. Aziraphale closed up his shop and sat staring at his collection of books as if they would disappear before his eyes. Death had always been a constant companion but never had it been so close, breathing down their necks. However could they manage?

And yet they did, finding faith, as they always did, in humanity and in each other. These little humans went about their lives every day, risking life or limb every time they stepped outside and still they lived. They watered their flowers, drank their tea, loved, lost, lamented and laughed and one day, went on to the greater reward or their final punishment. And if those simple, tiny, insignificant people could do it then so could they. A long time ago, a brave little boy had decided that humans were worth more than divine power; that leap of faith was what got them into this mess and it would be the only thing to save them now. They grasped hands, warm human hands with no scales or feathers in sight, and swore they would remain together until the end as they have been since the beginning. They made it official with a little ceremony in St James Park and set about for the rest of their lives.

Aziraphale reopened his shop, forced now to occasionally part with one of his books in order to afford such frivolous luxuries such as food and home repair and toilet paper. His gut expanded a little bit and he was told he needed to jog a bit to keep himself in shape. He slept at night and woke early in the mornings, careful not to disturb his partner, to fix his hair and face to angelic standards always falling a bit short. An accident while cooking left him with a scar on his left thumb that had bled outrageously at the time, scaring the living daylights out of both of them. He looked at it sometimes to remind himself that somethings were permanent even if life was not. Sunrise was his favorite time of day; he sat there with his tea and watched from their small, cramped apartment and thanked God for this beautiful world and his chance to be a part of it with the man he loved.

Crowley did a little bit of everything, from car repair to office work to working at a little corner side floral stand with the occasional scam here and there for old times’ sake. There often wasn’t enough money but he always made sure his angel had his favorite expensive teas and biscuits. He’d formally enjoyed smoking but now found the toxin in his lung suffocating, now very aware of how fragile his human lungs were. Crowley rolled his eyes as his partner kept up with heavenly worship but allowed it; one day he spilled a bit of collected holy water on the former demon. He screamed in imagined agony only to open one eye to see a pale faced former angel and water dripping harmlessly off his uninjured hand. No one said God didn’t love a little irony. He felt too small and too big all at once, feeling properly unrestrained but also painfully limited by mortal circumstances. Sunset was his favorite part of the day, it was a reminder that the sun had almost set on the Earth for good but always left the promise of a new day tomorrow, one day closer to dying but also another day with his angel so that made it alright.

Years past, not quite the same way they did for humans but soon those years wore away at the pair. Aziraphale’s white gold hair became grayer and listless no matter how much he fussed with it. Crowley’s knees creaked painfully when he stood up, always trying and failing to hide the subtle wince from his partner. They never quite forgot that they were once divine but soon it became harder and harder to remember that they had once been anything but people, muddling about in the world. Aziraphale asked one day over the telly when was the last time they had miracled something or pulled out their wings. Crowley wiggled his back against the sofa, having long since lost the familiar weight of wings on his soul. There might have been a sense of loss once upon a time but something equally as important had replaced those once important powers. Instead he asked what his angel would care for dinner that night.

So they had been there for the beginning and almost end of the world, the world was there for them when their time came. They were lying in bed, old, gray and nothing more magical about them than their memories. Aziraphale woke up from sleep and knew that, for the first time since Eden, he was alone. His demon was peaceful, his newly acquired wrinkles smoothed out, finally free of the pain and suffering that had burdened him the last decade or so. He ran his scarred thumb over his friend, his enemy, his partner in everything’s soft, human skin and kissed his forehead for the last time. He called the authorities to inform them of the death and laid his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He prayed until he was breathless for Crowley’s soul. His love had lost heaven once, the only hope Aziraphale had now was that he would find it again. By the time people arrived to take the body, Aziraphale had given into his love’s final temptation and followed him willingly into the dark.

It is not the duty of this humble narrator to decide what became of that wily pair. Did they return to their shared heaven or sink back to the depths of hell? Or did they merely settle into a mixed up heaven and hell of their own making, for where else could a demon and angel make a home but somewhere in between? Someone once asked if a bird fell in love with a fish then where would they live? The obvious answer is along the shore, in the middle between land and sea. This is a story of ineffability, of the Apocalypse only not really, of bookshops and motorcars, fishes and birds and maybe even a little bit of love if you look between the lines. This is a story of an Angel who fell a little bit downwards and a Demon who rose a little bit upwards and on the Earth, on the middle ground between heaven and hell, they found their home with each other.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #i'm a little emotional don't look at me #this was going to be a simple headcanon of crowlyphale becoming more and more human and became *vague gesturing* this #guess the spot where I teared up and had to walk away for 10 minutes and sit outside #I don't write romance but when I do it is fucking tender and sappy af and tears at my heart a little #death mention

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rufousnmacska · 5 years

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Ahhh just read the fic u reblog and i love it so here's another prompt: dorian thinks manon gets seriously injured in the battle with erawan and maeve and unleashes all of his magic in anger

YESSS!! I love this idea!

I used this prompt to cover a few little things I always wondered about. Also, I don’t know how to end things in an non-cheesy way. So, I hope you like it!!

***

It had been naïve. Naïve and foolish to hope that the valg would be simple soldiers just going through the motions to follow the orders of their evil king and princes. These former men were mindless, but they were still killing machines. Desperate to slaughter and rid the world of human, fae, witch… anyone who stood in their way. Dorian sucked in a ragged breath before pushing on to the next body in a never ending sea of enemies.

Chaol was somewhere nearby, but he had no idea what had become of Aelin and her cadre. And gods damn him, he refused to look up into the sky.

Blue blood rained down onto the field with a constancy that almost made him sick. The thought that any of it might belong to Manon pushed him towards the edge of a panic that seemed to feed from his magic. His magic, which had always protected her, with or without his intent, was growing ever more insistent.

Dorian allowed himself one quick scan of the sky, only one. Seeing nothing but a chaos of wings and teeth and talons, he returned to the valg, slicing one through the chest with Damaris. The Wild Men, living up to their reputations, had managed to clear a small area, giving him a moment to catch his breath. Dorian spotted Chaol and nudged his horse in his direction.

“I’m trying to decide if this is better or worse than your early morning training sessions,” Dorian said, wiping Damaris along his leg to clean off some of the filth.

Chaol laughed as he stretched in his saddle. “At least I let you take longer breaks,” he said, nodding to the valg charging towards them. Their brief respite was about to end.

As the enemy crashed into the Wild Men who still circled them, Dorian forgot his earlier pledge and glanced skyward. In the midst of the fighting, a pair of shimmering wings caught his eye and his heart stuttered. He was about to smile when out of nowhere, Abraxos was overtaken by an enormous wyvern. The giant beast’s talons grabbed hold of the smaller animal and threw him into the forest lining the battlefield.

A flash of red cloak and white hair fell with her mount.

“NOOOO!!”

Ignoring the oncoming valg, Chaol had followed Dorian’s eyes. Needing no explanation, he turned to Dorian and simply said, “Go!”

Without thought, Dorian shifted into a raven and sped towards the forest. There were valg everywhere, along with Erawan’s witches hovering just above the canopy. So many enemies converging on one point, as if Manon had been targeted.

She was the Witch Queen, and their hated enemy. It made sense for her to be a target. But as he watched more and more valg pour into the trees, he knew there was something else going on. And that’s when he sensed it.

Carried in by an ilken, Erawan dropped to the ground and strolled slowly into the pine trees, shouting directions to his soldiers to find the witch.

Unbidden, Maeve’s voice sounded in Dorian’s head.

Was she your intended queen? Or merely a prize breeding mare?

A dread more sickening than the bloody rain claimed him and he almost tumbled from the sky. Regaining his balance, he darted into the woods, only to realize he had no idea where she was in the thick forest. But as he blocked out the shouts of valg and screams of wyverns, a strange sensation filled him. Surrendering to it, he felt a pull to the left and followed it, letting his magic lead the way.

***

“Manon? Can you hear me?”

The raven’s small shape had given him an advantage in speed over the enemy. And when combined with his guiding magic, he’d found her quickly.

Abraxos had her hidden beneath a wing. As well as behind his lethal fangs and iron-spiked tail that swished through the air like a mountain cat. The moment he saw Dorian shift back to his human form, some of the tension in him eased. But not all. It still took some convincing before the wyvern revealed his unconscious rider.

An arrow jutted through her shoulder, another through her leg. Blue blood leaked from each wound and from her parted mouth. He had to fight the urge to grab her and flee. Not knowing how far she’d fallen, he decided it would be better to try and get her to move on her own.

Dorian brushed his hand softly against her face. “Witchling?”

Her chest rose and sank, but the movement was so slow, so slight, that he started to panic again. With the valg and Erawan combing the forest floor, and witches overhead, they didn’t have much time.

Just before he was about to give in and pick her up, Manon’s eyes opened. It took her a moment to recognize him, but after several blinks, she said, “Dorian? You survived Morath.”

The relief in her voice was no match to what he felt at seeing her golden eyes.

Smiling back tears, Dorian said, “Lucky for you that I did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here to rescue you.”

The words did their job and Manon frowned as she tried to push herself up.

“Hold on,” Dorian said. “The arrows.” Hoping to distract her from the pain, he spoke quickly and filled her in on who was combing the forest for her. But Manon barely winced as he broke the ends off the two arrows and pulled them out. As he searched for something to bind the wounds, he asked, “Can you get into the saddle?”

Before she could answer, Abraxos released a low, menacing growl. Men’s voices sounded from nearby.

Not men. Valg.

Abraxos crouched between them and a group of soldiers emerging from the trees.

The valg parted and Erawan walked out, ignoring the wyvern as his soldiers surrounded them. Dorian had half a thought to throw Manon on top of the wyvern and send them away. But some of the soldiers’ crossbows were pointed at Abraxos, precluding any hope of escape. Helping her walk, they moved out from behind the wyvern.

“Well, I was not expecting to find my predecessor here. But I am pleased. What with our unsettled business.” The creature grinned at Dorian. “It seems I have the opportunity to… what is it you humans say? Kill two birds with one stone?” His voice dripped with venom. When his foul stare fell on Manon, Erawan said, “Although I have no plans to kill you, my crowned rider.” His menace took on a disturbing, covetous edge that made Manon bare her iron teeth.

Dorian’s magic writhed within him, begging to be unleashed, but he tamped it down. After the creation of the lock, his well of power had a distinct bottom. He was already much to close to reaching it.

The valg around them crept closer while the wyverns above filled the sky. There truly was no way out. Erawan laughed as Dorian drew Damaris from its sheath. Manon pushed herself away and reached for Wind Cleaver with her good arm. She was unsteady on her injured leg, but through sheer will she stood straight.

“Whatever you came here for,” she said, “it won’t end the way you plan.” She glanced at Dorian, a promise in her gaze, and a plea for one in return.

She’d once told him she would kill him before they could put another valg collar around his neck. He’d been grateful then. But he’d also been resigned to the fact that he wasn’t worth saving. Dorian wasn’t so sure he felt that way anymore. Too many things had happened. To him, to them. He was probably being naïve again, but he wanted to live. He wanted her to live. Both of them, together.

Dorian looked to Erawan and said, “I made a mistake letting you survive the destruction of Morath.” The creature’s eyes narrowed and he clenched a fist, confirming what Dorian suspected. Even if Maeve told Erawan all that had happened in Morath, she wasn’t exactly trustworthy, and Dorian was someone the king would likely brush off as weak.

The valg king smiled again, making Dorian uneasy. “Are you infatuated with my witch? Stupid boy. Your betrothed will not be happy to hear that. Maeve was so looking forward to being your queen.”

Dorian winced at the sharp intake of breath beside him. Gods damn him.

“Oh, wasn’t she aware?” Erawan asked, reveling in their reactions.

Dorian didn’t dare turn to look at Manon. He could imagine the hurt and betrayal she felt, he didn’t need to see it.

Ignoring him, Manon addressed Erawan. “I’ll slit my own throat before you touch me.”

The conviction in her voice brought an end to Erawan’s enjoyment of this game. He looked between the two of them, frowning. “You truly prefer death then?”

Manon said nothing, her knuckles turning white where she gripped her sword.

Erawan growled, an otherworldy sound that sent a chill down Dorian’s spine. “So be it,” he said, slashing an empty hand through the air in Manon’s direction.

Dorian’s magic reacted, but not fast enough to keep her from being flung backwards against a tree. His entire body trembled as Erawan laughed and called for his men to take Dorian alive. But what Erawan mistook for fear became clear to the valg soldiers, who stopped short as they neared Dorian.

Rage.

Dorian pulsed with it. His magic roared with it, having always reacted most strongly to this emotion in its host. This time, he made no effort to contain it, had no care about a burn-out and all that might entail. Instead, Dorian let the raw power burst forth and take what it wanted. What he wanted.

A blast of air, followed by an ear-splitting boom, rushed through the woods, spreading out from him in a perfect circle and leaving nothing but death in its wake. Valg soldiers, witches and their mounts, even the trees couldn’t stand against it.

The last glimpse he had of Erawan was of the valg king’s sneer morphing to wide-eyed shock as he was thrown aside and impaled on a tree limb. With black blood oozing from his chest, Erawan stared in confusion at the King of Adarlan, unable to fathom what had just happened, unable to connect this power to the one that had brought down Morath. And before he had a chance to make sense of it, Damaris rang through the air and through his neck.

When the wave of magic crested, Dorian fell to his knees.

All was silent around him, and he wasn’t sure if it was because his ears were damaged from the blast, or if he’d killed every living thing in Erilea. A part of him, the part that remembered another severed head, hoped for the latter and wished he’d been taken too.

When the distant shouts and screams of battle drifted back, he slumped over, cursing himself for failing yet again. A gruff moan from behind caught his attention and Dorian turned.

Abraxos was nudging Manon with his snout, willing her to move. A tiny noise escaped her lips.

Too exhausted to stand, Dorian crawled, moving as quickly as he could. This time when he reached her, he wasn’t gentle. Blood seeped out from under her breastplate. He tore off her armor and leathers to reveal a gash in her abdomen. It crossed over the scar she’d received from her grandmother, though it appeared less severe. But, she’d found them off the Eyllwe coast long after that wound had been inflicted, giving it time to deteriorate into an infected mess. Maybe this one was worse.

Ripping strips of material from Manon’s shirt, he tried desperately to staunch the flow of blood, all the while remembering those first days after she’d arrived on the ship.

Rowan had led the healing, with assistance from Aelin, while Dorian had refused to take part. They thought he was too squeamish to help. On the face of it they were right. But the real reason he’d sat back was because he didn’t trust himself. His healing ability worked without a thought on his own injuries. But he was untested using it on others. Too unsure of his magic and too aware of the chance he might hurt her, he watched and learned. And wished he was the one saving her.

Now, even with the sense that his magic was incapable of harming her, he hesitated. But, there was no one else around. No time to find a healer. No time to worry about whether he even had any magic left.

Abraxos moaned again, louder and more desperate. A plea, to do something, anything.

Dorian brushed the tears from his eyes and then squeezed them shut. Gritting his teeth, he dipped down into himself, hoping against hope to find enough power to heal her.

There was a seed, a spark. Perhaps just enough to stabilize Manon in order to get her to a healer.

With his hands hovering over the slash, he directed his magic through little tugs and pulls. Phantom healing instruments instead of hands. The farther along he went, the more certain he became that the Matron’s attack had been worse. By the time he closed the wound and wiped away as much blood as he could, he felt confident she would live.

Only then did Dorian dare to touch her. Laying one hand over the wound and another over her heart, he poured what little magic he had left into her, unclear what it might actually do. There was no logical explanation for it. It just felt right.

When he felt the spark of magic snuff out, Dorian sat back, surprised to feel Abraxos against him, propping him up.

“Thank you,” Dorian said, the exhaustion of burn-out already closing over him.

They could hear the battle still raging, but neither he nor Abraxos looked away from Manon. Though it felt like hours, it was only a few minutes before her eyes slowly opened.

Sighing with relief, Dorian leaned over and kissed her. “Hello witchling.”

Manon smiled as Abraxos twisted his head under her hand, forcing her to rub his snout. When she realized it was the hand of her injured arm, and that it no longer hurt, she pushed herself up. Seeing Dorian’s state, she quickly surmised what he’d done. And just as he was about to fall over, she grabbed him and rested him gently on his back.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gravelly and his eyes fluttering shut. He sighed again as she touched him, brushing the hair off his face.

“No, I’m not,” she replied. If she hadn’t kept her hand on his cheek, he would have been more worried about her bitter tone. “So. You’re betrothed?”

Dorian laughed, then pulled her hand over to kiss it. “Only to you,” he said, suddenly feeling as if he’d had a bottle or two of strong wine.

It must be the burn-out, he thought. Or did he say that out loud?

Manon didn’t sound amused. “What of Maeve?”

“Maeve?” The name was familiar. He couldn’t concentrate long enough to remember though.

“The female you are to marry?”

“Oh,” he said, as a flash of clarity hit him. “She’s a valg queen actually. And I took her powers after tricking her into helping me steal the wyrdkey.” He finally opened his eyes to find her staring at him, a quirk to her lips that made him grin. “She may have been under the impression that I was looking for a queen. But I made it clear to her before I left…”

Dorian didn’t finish the thought as sleep began to pull him under.

“Made it clear?” Manon prodded. “How?”

Just before he passed out, Dorian mumbled, “There is only one witch who will be my queen.”

***

Manon was glad he wasn’t able to see the smile that spread across her face. Erawan’s words had been a punch that landed closer than the valg king could have imagined. But as Dorian fell asleep in her lap, the pain of it was fading quickly. She’d make him explain in more detail later. For now, she was just relieved to have him here, alive and able to explain.

With one look from her, Abraxos was up and ready. Manon lifted Dorian and threw him over her shoulder. She’d have to find a way to get him through the battle and back to the castle. After strapping him in to the saddle, she collected their swords and her discarded armor. Settling in behind him, she examined her stomach and the new scar stretching across it. He’d healed her in mere minutes. After bringing down Erawan and his minions.

She turned her gaze back to Dorian, marveling over his power. And wondering how long she should make him suffer over his “betrothal”.

“A good long while,” she said, another smile forming. Abraxos huffed in agreement just before he bounded into the air.

***

Tagging people who requested it and others I thought might enjoy this– @geekygirlinthetardis @clockworkgraystairs @itach-i @nestasbucket @manontrashbeak

If you’d like to be tagged in other manorian fics, or want to be untagged (I won’t be offended!), let me know :)

#manorian #manon blackbeak #dorian havilliard #kingdom of ash #throne of glass #abraxos #my writing #anon ask #idk if the formatting is still screwed up on the app #if so i apologize

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sigil-stone · 5 years

Text

in the garden

(day 17 of inktober! a misguided dwemer realizes she’s got it Bad. i had to take a few liberties with the dwemer language, apologies in advance!)

Tazril wasn’t good with… emotions. She’d proved that much when she took one look at that Falmer mage and decided that she’d dedicate herself to saving as many as she could (which, unfortunately, wasn’t many - she led a few into hiding spots, and others to friendly cities, but in all, only a few dozen could be brought to safety… though, there were rumors of hidden cities).

As for the mage, Tazril had given her the offer to come with her to the border of Resdaynia. To her immense surprise, the mage had accepted. The only issue was that she tended to go above ground…

A lot.

See, it was less of an issue and more of an annoyance. Tazril would need her assistance, and go all the way to the surface to fetch her, and she’d have to endure those sad eyes as the mage went with her back under, making Tazril feel all… Guilty.

The mage missed her home. She missed the surface. That much was obvious. She needed to go to the surface occasionally - from what she knew, Falmer had a connection to the god of the sun - but Tazril also needed her above ground.

Tazril watched as the mage gloomily worked on translating a Nordic spellbook she’d somehow found. The Dwemer sighed.

“Why don’t you go to the surface for a while, E- E…”

“Eltys,” The mage said.

“Right,” Tazril cursed herself silently. That damn second letter - she just couldn’t get her tongue to make such a sound. “There’s something I’d like to work on, but I need some time alone to do so.”

“…I suppose.” The mage eyed her with those striking, pure-silver eyes. It was a bit disconcerting. It made Tazril all fluttery and jittery. “I can hunt for a few days and return.”

Tazril focused on everything besides how nice Dwemeris sounded when spoken by the mage. “That sounds good. The project shouldn’t be long.”

“Very well.”

Well, it was done. It had taken days of pouring over Falmer books, collecting and inspecting various flora, and learning ice magic of all things to create the garden. But it was done.

The Garden would be Tazril’s masterpiece. She’d realized that early on. She’d never create something quite as beautiful. She’d turned an empty but spacious courtyard of the city into a thriving, nearly-living garden. A babbling brook sang its song nearby, mechanical birds chatting and flitting about artificial trees. A few of her kinsmen idly walked through the garden, entertained by the replicated deer and mice and even a mammoth. Perhaps the biggest - and most complicated - piece was the Aetherium ‘sun’ that hung from the ceiling, covered in delicate patterns and giving the entire city an otherworldy blueish tint.

Tazril watched as her friend gasped, standing in the archway into the garden. The Falmer’s hands flew to cover her mouth at the sight. “Auri-El be praised,” she heard her whisper. She bristled a bit at her work being credited to Auri-El, but then -

Then the mage turned to her. “It’s beautiful, Emaratis.” Her voice was so soft - so… So -

“Really, it’s no problem.” Tazril glanced away from the mage, her face burning red hot at the name. Emaratis. Whatever it meant, it sounded… Magical. And it turned her stomach the temperature of her forge.

The mage placed a cold, gentle hand on Tazril’s cheek, turning her head so she’d meet her eyes. The mage’s snow-white skin that seemed to sparkle when the sun hit her just right, and her platinum hair, pale pink lips and flushed cheeks tinted blue by the Aetherium lamp - “Thank you.”

“Anything, chua chal.” Tazril’s voice was barely above a whisper, filled with admiration and devotion and other disgustingly sappy things. The mage’s lips parted for a moment, before she laughed softly.

“Ch- Chua chal?” She asked, stumbling over the words. It made Tazril feel another burst of horrid affection.

“It - it’s a name.” Tazril spoke quickly, pulling away from the mage’s cold caress. “It fits you. Like how you call me Emaratis.”

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Oh,” Chuachal said, smiling still as she took in another sweeping gaze of the garden. “I like it. I think. The name, I mean.”

“It suits you,” Tazril said, looking softly at Chuachal. My desire.

#tes inktober #day 17 #prompt: dwemer garden

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janusharley-blog · 6 years

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Wands by Violetta & New York Ghost

an experience your character had with dark magic

About two years into his self-imposed undercover mission, Janus found himself in New Orleans posing as a smuggler of dark artifacts. He’d started working for a dealer there who needed competent people that could be trusted enough to deliver these items to their intended destinations, and handle them without cursing themself in the process. On one such job, he and another wix (an ex-cursebreaker named Olaf) were tasked with picking up a set of cursed runes from one of his contacts who had smuggled them up from Havana. It seemed like a simple enough task, but when they arrived, they were presented with a shriveled blind woman who looked impossibly old.

Despite their suspicions and doubts, the importer insisted that the runes and the old woman were a package deal. They decided to continue, but their trip was somewhat delayed by her frail condition, causing them to have to camp out that evening deep in the swamps along their intended path of travel (which involved the use of several hidden portkeys). Around the fire, the woman offered to read the runes for each of them. Olaf refused outright, and furthermore wanted no part in the reading at all, offering to gather more firewood from nearby instead. When they were alone, she asked Janus again and for whatever reason, this time he felt compelled to say yes.

She cautioned him before they began that once he touched the runes, they would remember him forever, that they would be able to sniff out his blood to track him down if they so chose. He nodded in acceptance of this fact without thinking about it too hard. She also warned that if he tried in any way to back out of the reading once it began, they would get angry. Despite this, and perhaps because he pitied the crone in a way for her servitude to the runes, he consented a third time to a reading. When he slipped his hand into the bag to draw them, however, they bit him hard enough to draw blood… wouldn’t unlatch from his fingers until he’d pulled them out and scattered them. And then the reading began. The blood runes painted a shockingly detailed picture of his past for her… and despite her blindness she implicitly knew the name and position of each one. Unfortunately, he had made the mistake of asking them who his enemies were, with the traitor from Blue Ridge in mind.

What followed then was chaotic, the old woman overtaken by what seemed to be some otherworldy force, shadows peeling off of her body like flames and dancing around them, melding into different forms among them some smear of recognizable features amalgamating into some unholy creature dripping in darkness. The air began to reek of death, and baying dogs sounded on the air as loud as if the beasts were already upon him again, tearing him down at the ankles. Knowing he couldn’t leave the reading until it was done, Janus fought back his survival instincts and forced himself to stay seated despite the deathly chill that overtook him. Sooner or later, it all subsided… the runes were swept back into the bag, the nearby fire seemed to be building to life again, and the warmth was beginning to seep into the air around them. The last thing she said on the matter was with the touch of a leathery hand and a toothless smile- “You’ll be with him soon.”

By the following morning, Olaf had yet to return to camp, and so Janus and the old woman were forced to press on without him. Along the way, he offered to try and help save her what seemed to be a terrible circumstance… Instead of delivering her to the doorstep of someone who had essentially bought and paid for her like a trinket, he could help her find somewhere safe to go. She politely refused, explaining that her fate was tied to that of the runes, and that they dictated their own path. And so, after her insistence, he completed his assignment and took his leave. Later, Olaf’s shriveled corpse was discovered in the bayou not far from where they had camped, pale and small as if he had been entirely drained of blood. To this day, Janus still isn’t sure if it was his consent to the reading, or his kindness to the old woman that saved him from the same gruesome fate. Needless to say, that’s the story that sticks out most often in his mind when it comes to dark magic. Sometimes, he still has nightmares that one day he’ll wake up with the dark dragonskin bag of them on his night table…

what kind of gossip has been spread about your character.

Lots of gossip has been spread about Janus, both before and after the ambush. It’s something he’s dealt with since his days at Ilvermorny, in fact, and it’s always been a blend of unfortunate facts, and straight-up lies… The story of who his mother is and how she died has somehow followed him throughout his life, and so everywhere he’s gone, he’s faced all kinds of nasty twisted versions of the same horrible story. For a while, it was almost worse than having to relive it again and again in his own mind. It was his potions professor that ultimately taught him how to shrug off the vicious rumors and keep his focus forward, on his own life & goals. And in his childhood, it was enough to focus on his studies and the dreams of what he wanted his life to be.

But of course as he grew older, the voices that bullied and insulted him only grew louder and more political, especially after he became an auror. He still catches pro-Rappaport sentiments in the office every day, and not-so-subtle slights and jabs towards his bloodstatus, and no-majs in general, and more than that, he’s expected to tolerate it all without a word.

Since returning to Eastern Squad after his significant leave of absence, his colleagues have come up with more unique gossip, undoubtedly inspired by the various criminal activities he got up to while he was away. Some of the stories are so ridiculous, and are supported by such flimsy ’evidence’ that Janus finds it hard to believe they were concocted by a room full of detectives. Those, at least, give him a bit of a laugh when he hears them. But there are others that aren’t so pleasant… He’s been catching more and more whispers of the ‘traitor’ variety lately, and beyond taking personal insult to the title, his well-developed survival instinct is telling him that everything he’s tried so carefully to build is crumbling around him. If his fellow aurors don’t trust him anymore, he’s knows it’s only a matter of time before they throw him to the dogs.

#mirablackwood #( can it be as real as it seems? // ask. )#( the years keep on slipping away // past. )

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