#asteraex

[cryptidsncurios]

In honor of @perditos and our latest werewolf au thread I have no choice but to make this viewable to the public

#they came up with the idea I just made it an awful reality #perditos #asteraex #relevant: the fatal marksman #au: are you lycan my style #and now i crawl back to work

[thefatalmarksman]

@litoredeem replied to [ X ] :

too late i do what i want :)))

@asteraex replied :

#mun draws #go ahead.. just try and kill him #asteraex #litoredeem #and there's my contribution to the dash for the night

[brothersgrim]

DRABBLE REQUESTS || ALWAYS ACCEPTING

@asteraex​ asked:

Fuck it, let ‘Taker kill Xemnas  

The old church is dark, oppressive, but not empty. The shadows stir with– not life. Not entirely. Not everyone within its blasphemous walls can lay claim to such a term. Some, but not all. 

Certainly not the tenebrous man seated on the throne. Elevated above those who served him, deceptive in the way he reclines, danger concealed under an air of detachment. Almost entirely out of place is the girl who stands at his side. Waifish, thin, scruffed through with desert dust and the grime of neglect, bags under her eyes and dirt under her nails, she stands out among the collection of towering men who populate the great Hall. Aside from a few curious - perhaps judgemental - gazes, they pay her no mind. They've been assembled long enough that the initial buzz has worn down. To the throne's other side sits another man, smaller than the first but still larger than most, with haunted eyes and a brand carved into his forehead. He speaks first. 

“Soon,” he says. “Soon, the doors will open. Burning, burning, a grey puppet burning the strings…” He stares at nothing, rocks his weight back and forth. Antsy, fidgeting, watching currents that nobody else could see and gleaning the garbled information as it swirled by. The Undertaker shifts his gaze from Mideon to Xion, one brow raised in silent question.

“Axel.” She says, crossing her arms over her chest. “If it’s fire, it’ll be Axel.” The Undertaker snorts. 

“We can deal with a fire-starter.” He says, crossing his arms as the other members snicker. 

“Done it before.” Bradshaw says. The Undertaker nods his assent, then turns his gaze back to Mideon. 

“Who else?” 

“More.” Mideon nods, tugging at the ends of his own hair. “Tik, tok, tik, tok… The flow of time is dammed around him, tik, tok…” He shudders. “Two together. More to follow, many more.”

“How many?” The Undertaker asks. Mideon rocks back and forth, back and forth. “All. All of them, all of them. One, two…” He mumbles to himself, seemingly oblivious to the range of expressions on his colleagues’ faces. “Seven. Seven more. Seven after the two, my lord.” 

“So, nine of them?” It’s Christian who speaks next. He shares the same look of smug incredulity that crosses his brother’s face, their sire’s face. “That’s it?” There’s a wave of amusement that passes over the Ministry. 

“They won’t be ordinary men.” The Undertaker arches a brow. 

“Neither are we.” Edge replies. Some nods, rumbles of agreement, before Edge shrugs. “Well, most of us aren’t.” He shoots a sidelong glance at the Acolytes and Viscera. They glare back. 

“I dare you to find someone we can’t beat!” Bradshaw turns to face the vampires, shoulders squared.

“Yeah, we’ll show you ordinary!” Farooq adds. Tension bristles between them.

“You aren’t listening!” Xion cuts them off. They look over as though suddenly remembering she’s there. The Undertaker shifts his weight on the throne, keeping a watchful eye; ready to intervene, but not moving to do anything yet. Just waiting. “If you underestimate them, they will kill you. They won’t hesitate, and I assure you, they’re more powerful than anyone you’ve fought before.” A ripple of murmuring washes over the group. It’s a mixture of emotions. None of them dare speak louder, though, when they catch the look on the Undertaker’s face. 

They know better. 

“What else can you tell us?” The Deadman asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Xion takes in a breath, then looks up at him. 

"We might not have to fight all of them." She says. That brings about pause. The Undertaker cocks his head. 

“What do you mean?” He asks, pushing himself to sit straighter. 

“Not all of us- Them, believe in Xemnas enough to die for him. We might be able to talk them down.” 

“Boring.” Edge grumbles. He stops talking - but keeps the grimace - when the Undertaker glares. 

“If it gets them out of my yard faster,” the reaper leans back in his throne, “then it’s fine. We have better things to do.” 

“But we’re hungry!” That’s Gangrel, this time. The Undertaker rolls his eyes, exhaling his frustration as he stands. 

“Fine.” He steps down from the dias, stopping in front of Gangrel’s face. “Anyone you catch, you can drain.” The vampires all grin, wide and predatory, even as Gangrel nods his agreement. 

“Your will be done, my lord.” 

It’s a strange thing, when the vanguard of the interlopers finally arrive. The smell hit first. It’s foetid and sweet, like caramelised rot. Sugar and sickness. It would be subtle, if the Undertaker hadn’t spent the majority of his life and afterlife breathing in the air of the Yard. Judging by the way the Vampires screw up their faces, it’s worse for them.

“Eugh.” Edge wrinkles his nose and exaggerates a gag. 

“Wasn’t me.” Viscera quips from his place leaning against a tomb. That prompts a series of snickers from the underlings. The Deadman rolls his eyes, but doesn’t take his eyes off of the space before them. Watching, waiting. 

“They aren’t taking this seriously.” Xion fidgets at his side, agitated and on edge. “They’re going to get themselves killed.”

“Any of you boys who’re afraid of death,” the Undertaker calls over his shoulder, “leave now.” The underlying threat in his words brings about silence, just as the first corridor opened. A swirling mass of shadow made solid; the voice of the first interloper passes through before their form does. 

“So this is where you’ve–” The cocky tone shifts into guarded surprise as the smoke dissipates around the strangers. “... Run off to.” The two strangers look relatively similar in build, though one is lankier than the other (or, so he seems, under those black coats of theirs). That’s the one that speaks. He sounds young; Younger, most likely, than the Undertaker. The reaper snorts his derision. At his side, Xion is tense, a tripwire held tight across a bear trap; ready to set off lethal steel at any second. A growl from his back suggests a similar distaste shared by the rest of the Ministry. 

“Huh.” The lanky one relaxes his pose, letting his head loll to the side. The Undertaker tilts his head in the other direction and raised an eyebrow. “Who’re you supposed to be?” 

"You'll have to forgive my associate." The other figure cuts in before the first can speak. Judging by the emphasis he put on 'associate', he was trying to run damage control. He had a hand up in front of the lanky one's chest. The lanky one looked down at the hand, then over at the speaking figure. "We're just here for the girl." At the Undertaker’s side, Xion lets out a sound closer to a growl than anything else. 

“We weren’t expecting…” The figure waves his hand vaguely in the air, before gesturing, palm up, at the Ministry. “... Guests.” The Undertaker snorts, uncrossing his arms as he steps forward. 

“I don’t see any guests.” He says, as the sky echoes his ire in a dark blanket of clouds, a low, guttural rumble. “Just a couple of trespassers.” The figures look at each other, then step back once, shoulders squared. 

“I hate to correct you, master,” Gangrel says, “but I don’t see trespassers. I only see lunch.” 

That’s all that it takes. 

It’s a blur of motion. The Vampires lunge past him, streaks of blonde hair and black leather and pale skin. They hiss like the inhuman things they are. It morphs into an offended shriek when flaming metal comes too close for comfort. Not a surprise, though. Xion had already filled them in. That’s why the second chakram is intercepted by a hurled tombstone. 

“What the-?” The lanky one’s startled shout mingles with the Undertaker’s curse, Viscera’s triumphant yell. Edge pounces again. It’s the rage of a protective older brother, and it’s accompanied by a flash of steel as Xion joins him, the rest of the Brood not far behind. They can handle themselves. 

The Undertaker turns his attention to the other one. Luxord, Xion had told them, back at the church. A chronomancer. A gambler. And, from the Undertaker’s point of view, an asshole. Mideon and the Acolytes already have him engaged. The Undertaker studies their movements for what, for most people, would be a heartbeat. Waits for an opening. These trespassers move so strangely–

There. 

A wall of giant cards spring up. A gambler, she’d said. The sky roars. Lightning claws down. Lances through the cards closest. He moves through the vapour they leave behind. His hand finds the back of the intruder’s neck and yanks. There’s a gasp, a curse. A ripple in the air. A strange feeling. Not a lack of momentum, but a shift. A change in reality. The stranger almost seems- Faster. Or maybe he’s-? 

The stranger writhes against the grip on his neck. It's when the Undertaker catches Mideon out of the corner of his eye that he realises. 

It's not that the stranger got faster. 

It’s that the Undertaker got slower. 

Huh. That’s interesting. If by ‘interesting’ you mean ‘a pain in the ass’. The good news is, even if he’s been forced into a lower gear, the Undertaker is still stronger than the stranger. He forces his grip to tighten. The stranger writhes. Yes, he has made himself faster than the Undertaker. 

He has not made himself faster than lightning. 

The sky rips white at the same time as Mideon moves. The lightning hits first. A crack, a pop. (Food cooking for too long in the microwave. Moisture in a piece of wood as it superheats in the incinerator.) A flash of blinding light. 

A scream. 

The world snaps back into its usual pace like a taut rubber band being released. It’s disorienting. The Undertaker shoves back, staggering as he lets go of the stranger’s neck just in time for Mideon to make impact. The stranger hadn’t caught his breath from the lightning. The Undertaker shakes his head to clear the daze. 

“Deadman!” That’s Bradshaw. The Deadman looks up. Catches the tossed shovel. Lets its momentum continue in an arc until the blade connects with the stranger’s face. There’s a sickening, wet, familiar crunch. 

The sugary-rot scent comes back. 

The stranger dissolves into a tar-like slime, curling black smoke - then even that vanishes. 

“That’s nasty.” Farooq comes to stand beside the Undertaker, looking down at where the stranger had just laid and wrinkling his nose. The Undertaker huffs his agreement. 

“God damnit.” Edge’s voice; the Undertaker looks up to see Edge beside him, hands on his hips and a disappointed frown on his face. “What are we supposed to eat now?” There’s a snort of amusement from the Deadman before he arches a brow. 

“Weren’t you supposed to be helping with the other one?” 

“We dealt with it.” Edge said, gesturing with his head over his shoulder. The Undertaker casts a glance in that direction. He’s not surprised by what he sees. The other stranger has been disarmed, and is on his knees with Xion’s sword aimed at his throat. They’re staring at each other, seemingly oblivious to the rest of their surroundings. 

“He doesn’t look ‘dead’ to me.” The Undertaker grunts. Edge shrugs.

“The kid said to leave him.” He stays there for a moment, then wanders over to his brother. The Undertaker elects to ignore them both, instead moving to stand beside Xion. She doesn’t look away from the stranger. 

“Axel.” She says, keeping her grip on her weapon unwavering. “You don’t have to do this.” Beside her, the Undertaker crosses his arms. The stranger narrows his eyes, flicks them to the Deadman, then back to Xion. "I don't want to fight you." 

"You don't understand." The stranger - Axel - says, finally dropping his eyes. "He told me–" 

“I know what he told you.” Xion’s grip tightens until her hand is visibly shaking.”I know. And it’s not true.” There’s a strain in her voice that makes the Undertaker’s brow furrow. It’s familiar. “They can’t bring him back. Roxas is gone!”

The Undertaker isn’t sure what happens first. The pain in Xion’s voice makes the air feel colder. The stranger moves like he’s about to stand. The Undertaker moves to intercept. The sugary-rot smell comes back. There’s a flash of purple. A sharp tug of magic. 

And then the stranger is on the ground.

And then the stranger is gone. 

Time seems to slow for just a moment. (It does not, of course. That stranger is dead, too.) And then it all snaps into focus as the gathered oddities all snap their heads in the direction of the shot.

“Whoopsie.” It’s a slow, lazy drawl. Deceptively casual. "My bad. Itchy trigger finger - you know how it is, right, Poppet?" The dying light of the sun made the figure look like he was carved out of shadow. The silhouette told enough. The same robe as the others wore. Some kind of weapon slung over his–

Movement. 

The Undertaker’s head snaps around again. Clouds of smoke, of shadow, billowing up. More figures. One, two, three–

“Damn.” Farooq’s voice interrupted the Undertaker’s counting. “Doesn’t anybody ever knock?” 

“Xion.” The figure in the middle speaks, gesturing with palms up. It’s a deep voice, languid. For some reason, it makes the Undertaker think of tranquillisers. His hands tense. “Has this not gone on long enough? It’s time that you came home–”

“Shove it up your ass!” Xion snaps. In spite of the situation, a proud grin flickers across the Undertaker’s face. The outburst earns mixed reactions from the intruders. The one with the rifle lets out a bark of laughter. Another, one of the taller ones, seems almost indignant. 

“Well, I never–!” Never finished that sentence. Lightning rended the sky. A hunk of stone flew. The Undertaker didn’t know who threw it. Didn’t see. Only saw the indignant stranger call up a shield from nothing. Saw the stranger buckle as the rock shattered. Didn’t have time to say that BETTER had not come from one of his headstones. More movement. More shots. The ground exploded. Dirt flew. The Undertaker jumped back with a curse. A laugh. 

“Faster than you look, big guy!” The stranger crows. The Undertaker snarls. The sky roars in return. A flash of light. The bolt strikes; the stranger is gone. More laughter. “Over here!” Fury paints itself across the Undertaker’s face. He turns– 

“Me too.” Edge sounds smug. It’s a sharp contrast to the stranger’s startled curse. Teleportation was common among the Ministry. The Deadman is about to join Edge in his fight when another shout draws his attention. 

“Jesus Christ!” Bradshaw. The Undertaker turns. Bradshaw and Viscera are squared off against a hulking figure. Still hooded, but somehow familiar. A huge axe braced across his shoulders - back turned - the Deadman lunged. 

Collided.

The giant twisted, knocked off balance. A grunt as they hit the ground. The hood fell away.

Even with the first of the strangers dead, time slowed. Those blue, blue eyes looked up at him. He stared back down. The shock on their faces was near identical. 

“Hey, Deadman!” Viscera yelled. At the same time, one of the strangers shouted, “Lexaeus!” 

“No!” The Reaper and the Stalwart say at once. 

“Help the others!” The Reaper snapped. 

"Stand down!" Lexaeus' voice was equally as frayed. Bradshaw, Viscera, and the smaller stranger hesitated. 

"Now!" The Undertaker's tone is echoed by another crack of thunder. Bradshaw and Viscera flinch, but obey. The smaller stranger hangs back, but doesn’t quite leave - uncertain, afraid, perhaps. The chaos surrounding them swallows any protests he might have. The Reaper pushes himself off of Lexaeus, shaking dust out of his hair. 

“I didn’t-”

“Quiet.” The Undertaker cuts him off. Lexaeus obeys. He always obeys. Such a good boy. Lexaeus moves to stand, but the Undertaker grabs his jaw and he stops moving. The smaller stranger still hovers nearby. The Undertaker’s eyes flick over to him, then back to Lexaeus. 

Ah.

Alright then. 

“Take your boy,” the Undertaker nods in the direction of the smaller stranger, “and go. We’ll talk later.” Lexaeus swallowed, nodded. There was a flush to his face that the Undertaker would have enjoyed, had the context been different. Not now. The Undertaker steps back and Lexaeus stands up. 

“We’re leaving.” Lexaeus’ words make the smaller stranger recoil. 

“What-?” He begins, but Lexaeus cuts him off. 

“Let’s go, Zexion.” The sickly sweet rot comes back. One of those dark, smoking portals opens up behind them. Lexeus takes a few steps back, his eyes once again fixed on the Undertaker. 

“I’ll–” He begins. Cuts himself off. Shakes his head. The shorter one - Zexion - looks between Lexaeus and the Undertaker. 

Then they are gone. Two more down. 

“What was THAT?” Xion landed on her feet beside him. The Undertaker glances over but does not respond. “You didn’t tell me you had mind control! Do that to the rest of them!” The Undertaker decided not to comment on that. Not important. (Not something he wanted to explain to a child.) 

An unholy screech rips through the air. The world spasms. That’s the best word for it. In an instant, the Undertaker is on top of the church. Then the town square. The living room. The dunes. And then he’s back in the graveyard. He blinks, staggers. Steps back and shakes his head. 

“What the hell-?” His eyes find the roof of the church. Christian, red blooming through his shirt at his right shoulder, being hauled off the ledge by Gangrel. The stranger’s rifle, clattering to the ground. And, moving like a blur, the stranger and Edge. The Undertaker didn’t have to guess who the noise had come from. Edge had always been viciously protective of his brother. 

They seem like they have things handled. 

It doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t have time to help anyway. A wave rises from out of nowhere and crashes into him. Catches him off-guard. He collides hard with a crucifix, bracing against the granite to avoid toppling over. He sputtered out a curse, blinking water from his eyes. Another wave charges in. He gets his arms up this time. The wave hits him, but he is ready. His hair hangs slick and matted in front of his face, partially obscuring his vision. He can still make out the new obstacle in his way. Sandy hair. Blue-green eyes, one of which had a trickle of red dripping over it. A cocky smirk. 

The Undertaker decides, even if they weren’t on opposing sides of a fight, he’d hate this guy. The punk laughs. 

“You like that show, dude?” The punk says in an almost sing-song, hoisting up whatever-the-fuck that was he was holding. “Well then, how about an- En-core…?” His voice trails off and he falters. The water on the reaper’s skin crackles as it freezes, spiderwebbing white frost that bleeds onto the black of his clothing. Lightning arcs between his fingers. 

“Uhoh.” The punk shrinks back. The Undertaker growls low in his chest. “Time to dance!” The punk strums his instrument. The water swelled around him. Another crack of thunder overhead. The water took form-

Not fast enough. The Undertaker lunges. The water barely has time to look surprised (what?) before his fist collides. It's only after lighting shoots through the water that he realises it has been shaped like the punk. And there were more. 

The Undertaker cracked his neck. 

"Guess we're doing this." He said. He swings; the first water-clone collapses. The second and third meet the same fate. Another strum–

Cut short.

There’s a shout that dies in the punk’s throat when the reaper’s hand encircles it. The Undertaker lifts him up with ease. Slams him down with force. The crunch of impact is not enough. The Undertaker grabs a handful of hair, stiff with styling product, and crashes his fist down. Once, twice, three times, he stops counting. 

“How disappointing.” The words are languid, sonorous. The Undertaker looks up with a scowl. 

The yard is a wreck. Rubble from graves litters the ground. Bolts stick out from stone and earth alike. Scarlet splatters paint the landscape, contrasted with scorched-black stains. Bodies everywhere. This was going to be hell to clean up afterwards. To his left, the vampires had clambered down from the church, standing with Viscera. Edge had a protective arm around Christian's shoulders. His younger brother was slumped, but still standing, baring his fangs in defiance. Gangrel bristled beside them. 

On his right, Bradshaw and Farooq were breathing heavily. Behind them, Mideon is coughing up what looks like a gallon of water. Must have had a run in with the punk. And beside them, Xion. Run down but standing firm, the green glow of some sort of magic fading from her palms. 

"They can't stay." Xion says quietly. The Undertaker nods, returning his gaze to the two remaining strangers. She was right. They were hurt, bad. Yes, his Ministry was powerful, and yes, very few of them were ordinary humans, but going up against so many sorcerers, for lack of a better word, had taken too much out of them for them to be of any use. They’d only get in the way. 

“Leave.” He says, keeping his eyes on the last two strangers. He doesn’t need to look to pick up on the incredulity from the rest of his Ministry, but they don’t argue. They just leave. The stranger with the massive sword slung over his shoulder steps forward. The stranger with the chloroform voice stops him by raising a hand. 

“Why must you prolong this senseless conflict?” The stranger asks, gesturing with his hands palms up. The Undertaker ignores the water that still soaks his clothes in favour of glaring at the stranger. The stranger either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. It’s probably the latter. “So much blood shed, all over one single replica.” Xion growls. The blue-haired stranger crouches in his stance. 

“If you’re saying you surender,” the Undertaker spits, “I don’t take prisoners.” The stranger who’s in charge sighs deeply and shakes his head. 

“What a shame.” A blur. The blue-haired stranger had lunged. A clang. S shower of sparks as the stranger’s claymore collided with Xion’s sword. The Undertaker shifted his focus. 

Motion behind him. Lightning flashed. Dark then light. The stranger - Xemnas - cuts through empty air with a red… Something. A blade that isn’t a blade. Red, glowing, brutal. The Undertaker studies it from his new position a few feet away. The stranger flicks his other wrist, and the weapon’s twin appears. Another lunge. The Undertaker parries. The blade hums past. The stranger grins. His grin vanishes as the Undertaker grabs his arm. He pivots, drags the stranger with him. Slams his arm into their chest. The stranger gasps, crumples, glares. The Undertaker swings again. This one misses. The world flashes dark before returning to focus. 

“What the hell-?!” The reaper spits. A blast of stone went whizzing by his head. The second one skims his shoulder. The third makes contact. He finds himself on the ground, an ache in his gut from the impact. He doesn’t give himself time to curse. Even as breath escapes him, he rolls to the side. A good move. Another rock slammed down where he’d just been. An explosion of rubble. A cloud of dust. Lightning sparks around the Deadman’s fist. His knuckles collide with and shatter the next rock. A growl builds in his throat. A wave of force flies out, shooting the rocks away. The stranger moves between them at speed. They all miss. The clothesline doesn't. The Undertaker collides full-force with his quarry, feet leaving the ground as he launched himself. The ground rushes to meet them both. The Undertaker's ribs ached from the debris, but he ignores it. Not important. It’s more important to take a fistful of the stranger’s hair and rain fists down. One, two, three, four, five– The stranger grabs his wrist. The stranger’s teeth were red when he snarled. 

That was satisfying. 

The grip on his arm tightens. Twists. There’s the beginning of a snap. A lance of pain. The Undertaker brings his other palm down to connect with the stranger’s face. Finds a grip again even as the snapping in his other wrist intensifies. He drives the stranger’s head into the ground. Again, again, again. After the fourth time, the grip on his wrist slackens. The damage is done. He might actually need to get that looked at. His breath is ragged, but he works to control it, keeping his eyes on the stranger beneath him. He sits back, ignoring the aches that will only be worse in the morning. Sweat and blood mingle with the rivulets of ice-cold water that run down equally chilled skin. He was about to straighten, to turn to help Xion when– 

A blur of movement. A flash of red. Searing pain in his face. It’s instinct alone that had him move in time to avoid losing an eye, but scorched flesh and steam obstruct his vision on that side enough that it hardly matters. The hiss that exits the Undertaker’s throat is far from human. That same instinct drives him to yank the stranger off of the ground. 

He’s light. Easy to lift up. Easy to turn over. And when the Undertaker slams him down in a tombstone, the visceral hatred makes the stranger feel like a feather. 

He barely notices the wet, sickening crunch of the stranger’s skull. This time, the Undertaker stays down until the stranger fades and evaporates into that sickly-sweet, choking black smoke. The Undertaker stands, weighted heavily as the rush of the fight leaves him, and he turns to see where Xion ended up. The clatter of something heavy and metal alerts him, and he turns just in time to see her opponent’s claymore clattering to the ground. It, too, fades quickly enough. Xion stands, bruised, battered, a scarlet streak running down one side of her face. Judging by the expression on her face, he doesn’t look much better. He decides he doesn’t give a shit. Instead he glances around at the destruction the battle left, grimaces when he thinks how long it’s going to take, looks back to her. She’s already moving to his side when he sniffs and scratches at his jaw, ignoring how slippery his fingers feel.

“So - now that them sons of bitches are dead, you want a sandwich?”

#i was going to edit this and then i Didnt #but <3 #asteraex #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& quoth the ravens three; deadman drabbles #&& the purity of evil; ministry undertaker #&& tombstone; undertaker and aeleus

[fortunegambled]

It is basically blog canon for me that Luxord teaches Xion to play cards, not just so she can enjoy it, but because of the skills that come with it. A poker face, strategy, reading an opponent... but also how to cheat, play underhand. Even use time magic to her advantage. In a way, it's a small way to help her subvert the control of the Organization by equipping her with the tools to recognize manipulation -- and counter it.

i love this and definitely am inclined to agree, even if canon has something to say about it. canon can square up over this one. he definitely has a fondness for roxas and xion, but xion seems a bit more... quick-witted, to be blunt. roxas doesn't quite give as much in his earlier days in the organization, and by time he's at all receptive it's certainly too late to really impart any true wisdom onto him.

unfortunately, luxord isn't aware of the ways he's helping her and to what end, and he doesn't remember doing so after the memories of her disappear. but he did impart what wisdom he could in the subtle ways he could, and that's what matters.

#ooc. ☓ #asteraex #anyway i'm late to reply to this bc i forgot to check my inbox again KSJDHFJHSDKJFHSD but yes. it's true and real.

[bladestormed]

@asteraex​   ⚡   asked:    ❝ ah, you’ve remembered how to mock me. ❞

Taken aback by the response,  the Nymph’s expression froze for a moment.   Rare it was to see Larxene ACTUALLY STUNNED.   She wasn’t aware that this new replica was MEANT TO HAVE MUCH TO IT,  no personality,  certainly NO MEMORY OF HER.   She shouldn’t let herself be too surprised,  though.   Vexen fucking up wasn’t anything NEW TO HER.   Her countenanced hardened and soured,  nose wrinkling before her jaw set and eyebrows narrowed.   “   You should be VERY CAREFUL how you speak to me.  You only have your limited uses for ONE battle and then I can do whatever I see fit.   ”

#asteraex #╳ . │ V: SEEKER OF DARKNESS │ . ╳ #╳ . │ ANSWERED │ . ╳ #larxene vc i am CONFUSION #ty for sending bb i smooch u

[startgamc]

@asteraex ☆

"Oh Xion. Will you be joining today's training?"

Aqua smiled at the young Keyblade Wielder. Kairi had recently asked her to help her with getting stronger, to prepare herself for helping Riku and Sora however she could. But that didn't mean Aqua would turn away a potential sparring partner. And from what she knew and had seen during the battle against Xehanort, Xion was more than capable of holding her own.

#asteraex #{ ☆ Aqua ; The Misguided Master } #{ Queue } #I hope this works for you! I got really excited at the prospect of Aqua and Xion interacting since they're both favorites of mine

[kyberled]

FRUIT HEADCANONS!

@asteraex​ asked:

🥝 

🥝  :    does my muse have any  ‘  unusual  ’  habits,  interests,  and  /  or talents?  do they hide it,  or are they proud of it?   

It’s hard to define ‘unusual’ for a Jedi. They’re all a bunch of weirdos. It’s kind of their thing. But, if I had to pick… 

He really likes stargazing. That’s not weird for a Jedi, but it might be pretty weird for a Coruscanti. This is because there are no stars visible on Coruscant. The light pollution, smog, all of that, is too dense. Nothing gets through. In most cases, if Braig wants to see the stars, he has to be off-world in some capacity - whether that’s on a different planet, or just up in a star ship. Even as an adult, he never gets tired of how the stars look. I guess that’s probably a bit strange for someone in a society where going to another planet is comparable to driving to the next town over, but, that’s how he is. Even when he’s old, you can probably find him most nights before bed sitting outside and watching the stars (since in canon, he ends up retiring on Inusagi, and doesn’t make many - if any - trips back to Coruscant). 

When he is living in the Temple, if he can’t get above Coruscant’s thick atmosphere, he uses star charts as a surrogate. They’re not really the same, but they’re better than nothing, and the Archives have tons of them. They’re nice. 

He isn’t ashamed of this at all. Like I said, the Jedi are a bunch of weirdos. They’re nerds with psychic powers. All of them have a special interest or five of some sort. If you seem even remotely interested, he might offer to show you his favourite constellations.

#asteraex #&& give the sun a head start; ooc #&& temple archives; headcanons #&& as best i can; answers

[madeimpact]

Dad application (gender neutral)

Name: Age: Height: Preferred Dad Title: Dad Credentials: Best Dad Joke:

Submit a photo with your application and specify the muse you're dad-ing😇 (stolen with gracious permission from @asteraex)

#an alternative to the valentine's application for the child muses here #❛ general: prompts. #feel free to change dad to whatever gendered term ur muse prefers

[bravewielder]

This was from a conversation I had while plotting with @asteraex about why Riku had stopped being able to use the Corridors of Darkness in KH2.

Well, Xion and to an extent the other Nobodies are entities of neither Light nor Darkness. They lie in between. Riku isn't a Nobody/hasn't become a Nobody and is essentially a person born of Light. He is TAINTED by Darkness, but he isn't made of it.... if that makes sense???

Essentially on a molecular level, Riku is a being of Light that was tainted by Darkness because he was possessed by Ansem SOD. Being free from that possession, he fails to tune into that power that enables him to conjure Darkness at will. I guess this also applies to Terra.

Also on another note, we can recall young!Xehanort saying that Riku has grown immune to Darkness. He now has body resistance towards it. So I guess Ansem is a kind of... vaccine???

#┊ I'm me. | Headcanons; ┈ ✧ #┊ lucky charms | keepsakes; ┈ ✧ #putting this here so I can remember it in the future

[cryptidsncurios]

@perditos continued from [ X ]

He would have been able to lift her up without a single iota of effort, he knew, the smallness of her form but a feather within the cradle of his arms. However, he imagined she wouldn’t have it---being treated like some kind of dainty princess---so instead he shifted her weight against his side and offered her support for each wiggly step she made. Only a few passers-by meandered around at this time of night, and likely imagined Xion’s unsteadiness caused by one too many drinks---as they themselves were, he knew by their stench.

No one said anything, though---except for Xigbar, in response to her threat:

“Save the decapitation for after ya make ‘em eat their intestines. Lot more effective if you’re wantin’ to really make ‘em suffer.”

And once they’d made it to the correct floor, and entered the correct door, Xigbar wasted little time in guiding Xion towards the couch, easing her onto the cushions---heedless of the mess. It wouldn’t be the first time this couch took this sort of dirty, bloody punishment, and it certainly would not be the last.

First things first, he checked for any obvious, actually dangerous wounds, other than what he had already seen on the back of her head. Admittedly, his first aid knowledge was rusty, as centuries of licking his own wounds into healing kept him from keeping those skills sharp. However, he knew enough to blow the dust off an old kit left over from the previous tenants on top of the bathroom cabinets and return to his assessment.

Thankfully, it seemed nothing of her neck, torso, or major arteries had taken any damage, but the fall forward that had ripped through the knees of her jeans had created fairly brutal gashes all along each patella, in definite need of disinfecting and bandaging. He bet she’d probably have quite a few bruises he couldn’t see to boot, but they would likely heal up of their own accord.

She was tough---she had his genes, after all.

All the while, there nagged at him this scent that lingered upon Xion that clearly did not belong to her---an odor that he recognized but could not fully pinpoint.

…Or, perhaps, he could, but didn’t dare allow himself to consider the possibility.

At last, as he completed disinfection of her knees and the back of her head, satisfied that any other injuries were minor enough to mend of their own accord, he took a heavy seat upon the floor, rolling so his back rested against the side of the couch, and instinctively fished around for a Newport.

“I’d say next ya clean yourself up, then lemme know if anythin’ else major needs lookin’ at.”

He lit up---took a grateful drag. This was supposed to be a non-smoking apartment, but exceptions had to be made.

“Or, if ya remember anything.”

While he sat here---thinking. Brooding, more like.

It had been some time since he’d done a bit of that.

#perditos #asteraex #ic: the fatal marksman #au: are you lycan my style #[[ yes i am keeping the same tag names for verses and aus they're too GOOD to change ]]

[thefatalmarksman]

@asteraex

[[ continued from X ]]

Jokes at the expense of his perceived age were nothing new to Xigbar, given the appearance of his current vessel---and it wasn’t as though he could exactly combat them with a truthful defense, given the actual age of his spirit. Ultimately, however, his response typically boiled down to some flippant, offhand response and a laughter of amusement---yet, at the moment, he had what he felt to be far more pressing concerns than summoning up an appropriately witty barb.

This kid---whoever she might actually be---seemed to definitely be serious about raiding that palatial estate. And while Xigbar had no protective instincts to speak of---at least, none that he would presently allow to surface without being tamped down with extreme severity---he had the distinct, subconscious impression that this kid needed some kind of accompaniment, and that he should provide it.

Time for an adventure of inexplicable reasons, he supposed.

Cradling his chin with a gloved hand while leaning against the nearest wall, Xigbar ho-hummed as he verbally meandered, “So, rumors of treasures, princesses, and secrets, y’say…?” accompanied by nodding, a grin stretching his features---brilliantly alight, suddenly, with a cascade of orange as he popped from his position, the creases of his expression making obvious the impishness of his delight.

“Well, I guess I could tag along, if only to make sure ya don’t turn into an itty lil smear on that pristine marble floor when the guards inevitably show on up to gouge ya through.”

#asteraex #rp #v: nothin any old about me

[brothersgrim]

FRUIT HEADCANON ASKS

@asteraex​ asked:

🍐- Taker

🍐  :    how intelligent is my muse overall?  are they smarter than the average person,  or less than?  are they primarily self-taught,  or did they acquire most of their knowledge in school?  are they more street smart or book smart?  

Oh, he’s a smart guy. He's had to be. He was fourteen when he stopped receiving any kind of formal education, mostly because he was dead. Also because he was a slave. That didn’t help. 

But he’s smart. 

Like, let’s just look at all the things he, canonically, knows how to do. First off, he’s a carpenter. Yes, he makes coffins and caskets, but there were other projects in the workshop WWE gave him, including wagon wheels and furniture. Given that that’s HIS workshop, those are also HIS projects, so it stands to reason he just makes all sorts of things. I like to think he handles most of the carpentry/repair jobs in the Valley. (This actually has historical basis, too. Most carpenters were also undertakers back in the day, and vice versa. That was the case in my home town, anyway.) He’s also a blacksmith. A lot of people forget this one, but he is - he works a forge in some of the late 90s promos. He makes most of the hardware for the caskets and his other projects himself. He also repairs his own tools. 

Speaking of repairs, he fixes bikes. He has a wide collection of them, and he’ll repair them, or even sometimes build them from scratch, on his own. It’s his favourite hobby, outside of working out and fighting, and he considers it almost a form of meditation. His bikes are his babies. 

He can also draw, and, from the brief glimpses of his work we see, he’s a pretty talented artist. We mostly just see the blueprints he makes, but the anatomy is clean, the lines are crisp, and it seems to have a slightly cartoon-y style, which is oddly cute to me. I dunno. 

Anyway, he's also a practising mortician. He does the whole embalming, dressing, and clean up process on his own, especially when Paul's not around. That requires a lot of knowledge of human anatomy, chemistry, and colour theory, among a lot of other things. It takes a LOT.

He’s canonically at least bilingual, speaking both English and Ancient Gaelige. (The second is mostly in his Ministry Era, but he does speak it on multiple occasions - including the chants in the Ministry theme song.) 

He’s a great fighter, which requires strategy, problem-solving, and a knack for quick thinking. If you can’t make plans, you can’t fight, simple as. If your opponent can outthink you, you’re going to lose. And he’s a damn good fighter. 

He’s also pretty people-smart, which surprises a lot of those who know him. There are a few examples of this. First off, again, he’s a funeral director. He has to know how to talk to grieving families, and if he does a bad job of that, the home goes under. Second, he’s really good at handling Kane. Yes, he loves his brother, but there’s more to it than just that. The way he talks to Kane - and I know I’ve said this before - is actually exactly how therapists recommend talking to people in abusive relationships. It’s not your fault, it’s okay, you’re safe, I’ll be here for you no matter what, you don’t have to choose between us, so on and so forth. When Kane messes up the Last Ride in their match against Kai and Tai, instead of getting mad at him, Taker pauses the match, shows him how to do it properly, and makes a point of expressing pride and approval when Kane gets it right, because he knows that’s what his little brother needs. Even outside of Kane, the other guys in the locker room have a tendency to listen to and respect Taker, and even go to him for advice. This is most obvious during the American Badass era, and even more so during the Invasion era. Vince, Chris Jericho, and a bunch of other guys say that they need Taker in meetings for anyone to take them seriously. This even extends to other eras - in the mid 2010s, Team Smackdown can’t agree to work together, so, after Edge and Jerry Lawler fail to get them to play nice, they call in Taker to make people behave. 

It works. 

Yes, he threatens to murder them, but it works. He deals with different people different ways. 

The last example I can give of this is how he deals with Shawn during the feud with Triple H that lead up to the infamous cage match. This is a brutal thing that mostly involves Hunter gaslighting the fuck out of Shawn to pit him against Taker. Interestingly, Taker in this feud mostly retaliates by trying to build Shawn back up. Hunter convinces Shawn that Taker is shit-talking Shawn behind his back. This drives Shawn to yell at Taker, retaliate to how he thinks Taker is talking about him, and Taker doesn’t yell back. You can tell he’s annoyed by the whole thing, but he keeps it pretty reeled in, all things considered, and tells Shawn that Shawn should know him well enough by now to know he would never talk behind anyone’s back - but Hunter would. This culminates later in a face-off between Hunter and Taker, with Shawn standing by. Hunter was trying to get in Shawn’s head again, Taker comes out, and gives one of my favourite lines of his  - “Remember when I said that Shawn was better than you? … He is.” And leaves at that. It’s great on both ends, because he knows that’s what Hunter hates most, he knows Hunter’s insecure as hell behind the front he puts on, and more than that, he also knows it’s what Shawn needs to hear - and saying it in front of Shawn means Hunter can’t say it didn’t happen. 

He’s a manipulative bastard when he wants to be, that deadman. 

But, yeah. All this to say, he’s clearly demonstrated high intelligence in a number of different areas. As for where he learned it all, in most fields, he’s largely self-taught. Mortuary sciences, carpentry, smithing, he started to learn that from his parents, yeah, but he was twelve when they died. He got a lot of hands-on experience, he watched them his entire life, but again, he was twelve. He only had so much time, and there was only so much his parents would let him do at that age. Motorcycle repair, that’s self-taught. The Gaelige, he started learning that from his mother, picked it up later from some residents of the Yard (and the Morrigan, who is only there sometimes and doesn’t fully count). The fight smarts, that’s self-taught. It had to be. You either learn to fight, or you wake up in the crypt again. And his people smarts, I think it’s a mix of self-taught and learned. Some of what he’s working with, you can’t be taught, you have to just be the right person for it. Some of the kinder aspects, again, he learned from watching his parents. He learned from watching them with each other, with him and Kane, with the grieving families the home served before the fire. Some of it is, again, just who he is under all the emotional armour. The mean stuff… Well, that’s the same way. Except he learned it from Paul. He learned it from Paul, and Ted, and even Vince to some degree, and the people they dealt with. 

He learned a lot from them. 

#&& reburied; ooc #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& necronimcon; deadman headcanon #asteraex

[bladestormed]

@asteraex ⚡ cont'd

Perched on the rock, leg hooked under her, Xion actually laughed. A full-throated giggle, grin splitting her face as she barred her teeth. It’d been a long time, almost two years, since Xion last saw Larxene. She was as fun as ever. There had been something so frightening and powerful about Larxene. She set Xion’s teeth on edge like the static of a thunderstorm.

But that was two years ago. 

This was now. 

“Yeah, you can do whatever you want to me after.. but that depends on you surviving ,” Xion remarked. “But c’mon, Larxene, you’re just fodder, and you know it. Sora’s gonna kill you again and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

Her jaw clenched, some of her SIGNATURE LIGHTNING crackling at her fingertips and rolling up her forearm. She was not something to be used. But as strong of a reaction as the newcomer got out of her, Larxene knew she was set off so easily because she KNEW that it was true. Xehanort lined them all up to die for HIS CAUSE and there wasn't anything she could do about it now.

But this child didn't have to throw that in her face.

" You don't know ANYTHING. Maybe I should let someone know you've already given up. "

#asteraex #╳ . │ V: SEEKER OF DARKNESS │ . ╳ #╳ . │ THREAD #│ . ╳ #woooo the girls are fighting continued

[kyberled]

MUSE  SURVEY :   BATTLE  EDITION

BOLD  what  consistently  applies,  italicize  situational  /  not  always. (  ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ,  ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ  ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢ!  )

fight honorably  / fight dirty / prefer close - quarters / prefer range /  chat during / go silent / low pain tolerance / high pain tolerance / attack in bursts  / attack steadily  /  go for the kill  / aim to disarm / fight defensively / strike first  / provoked easily   /  provoke their opponent /  tease /  get visibly frustrated /  shout while attacking  / use strategy  /  focus on their battle /  experience conflicting thoughts during battle / rush in recklessly / try to read their opponent before fighting  / fight wildly /  fight calmly and/or apathetically / fight with anger  /  fight with excitement /  fight because they have to  /  fight because they want to  / fight without regard to wounds  /  run away when wounded  / hide wounds  / take a blow to protect another /   prefer a blade  /  prefer a gun  / prefer to use their ability / prefer a bow / prefer a shield  /  prefer a pole arm  /  prefer a personalized weapon  /  prefer magic or spells  /  prefer brawling  / their greatest weakness is physical  / their greatest weakness is mental  / their greatest weakness is emotional  /  transform for battle  /  fight as they appear  /  rely on strength / rely on speed  / use everything they have  /  hide their full potential /  exhaust quickly  /  high stamina  / doubt their strength  / proceed with caution  / behave arrogantly  / brag after landing a hit  /  belittle their abilities  /  use psychological tactics  / use brute strength  / avoid civilians  / strike down civilians  /  damage surroundings  / avoid damaging surroundings  /  signature fighting style / making it up as they go / mastered skillset  /  learning their skillset  /  fancy footwork /  sloppy footwork /  messy fighter / elegant fighter /  accept defeat  / refuse defeat /  beg for mercy  /  compliment their opponent  / insult their opponent / use unnecessary movements  ( flips,  twirls )  / move efficiently / barely move  / prefer to dodge  / prefer to block  / defend their blindside  / has no blindside  / use all available advantages  ( ex :  use a gun but also throw punches,  kick out while blades clash,  etc. ) / strictly use one main method  /  play around  / hold back / fight ruthlessly  / show mercy  /  wait for opponent to be ready  / strike when opponent isn’t ready / fear death  /  fear pain  /  fear killing / has ptsd / avoid fighting  / has lost a fight /  has won a fight / has killed  / refuses to kill  / want to die standing  /  would succumb slowly

tagged by: @mpiremoff thank you!!  tagging: @teardownheaven (for ael, but anyone else), @asteraex (could be for xion, could be for ben, you pick) @drkroots (for nat), @pyreshe , @hopegained , @exhunter , @bountyborn , @naboocrowned , @gwiazdowe , @mandogold , @fulcrcm ,  @hamadaxfighter and @galaxycrxss (for echo),  @honorhunt , @commandsir , @conlink

#&& give the sun a head start; ooc #&& temple archives; headcanons