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leahnardo-da-veggie · 5 days

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The Lich-Queen, pt1

I stared down at my would-be fiancé, a smirk playing on my lips. "So, this is all the little butterfly has in him? How pitiful," I murmured, dragging my sword against his chest, tearing the fine silk of his shirt.

His eyes were bloodshot, rims red with tears. He trembled like a newborn calf, ripe for the eating. “Iraela,” he hissed. “You bitch. Someday, somewhere, someone will kill you.”

“Duke Tamaris,” I said, savouring the taste of his name. It was sour and hateful, like the bile that burst forth when I sunk my teeth into liver. “I was a bitch when I undid the embroidery in Ramaeria's court dress. I think we've gone quite a bit further than that, don't you? I think I might even warrant being called a monster, or perhaps an eldritch horror. Do you mind redoing that scene again? I'll start: So, this is all the little butterfly has in him?”

When he did not respond, I snickered. “In any case, by the time I get my just deserts, you will be long dead. I will have consumed Ceredell, and all of its people. Everything and everyone you love will be lost to the eternal sleep.”

He met my gaze defiantly, biting his lip to keep from crying. I could smell the blood in his beating chest, and it excited me. “Of course,” I continued, dropping to my knees and straddling his chest, “I might let you live, if you swear fealty to me. I could always use a human manservant.” Idly, I traced his cheek with a claw.

Tamaris' weaselly face twisted into a grimace. “You piece of shit,” he snarled, jerking his head away from me. “I would rather die than bow to a necromancer like you.” He hawked up a bit of spit and tried to aim it at me. It missed entirely.

“I think you have misunderstood my meaning entirely,” I purred, running my claws down his throat, where his lifeblood pulsed. “You will be mine, whether you live or not. The only choice you have, and the last choice you will ever make, is if you wish to live under me, or undie under me.”

Understanding flashed through his eyes, and with it, despair. “You- So that's why…” He trailed off, suddenly uncertain.

I grinned at him, leaning forward, until our noses touched. “That's right, my lordling. Silly little Ram decided she'd rather throw herself and her husband into the void than watch her darling sister charm the world into submission,” I purred.

Tamaris managed a scoff. “You? Charm? A hairy octopus could be more charming,” he said.

“I'm plenty charming,” I told him, affecting affront, “Why, if I carved someone's eyes out, they'd still smile at the sight of me! Besides, you were willing to marry me, you know. That took quite a bit of charming.”

He shook his head violently, as though waving the memories away. “You want me to serve as your… What? Slave? Bodyguard? Personal plaything? What do you want, Iraela?” Tamaris' face resumed its pout.

He was rather cute like that, I thought idly. In another time, another world, perhaps I would have actually asked for his hand, rather than taking it straight off his wrist. “All three, perhaps,” I replied. “Or maybe not the bodyguard bit. You would make a terrible warrior, you know. Far too skinny and weak.”

“Give me a moment to think about it,” Tamaris said, a transparent ploy to bide for time. The man I loved would never bow to me, I thought wistfully.

Ah, what did it matter? I had already won. I could indulge his fancies a tad. “Sure,” I murmured, sliding off his chest. “I give you until sundown, my dearest duke. Then you will be mine.”

I left him there, tied down and guarded by my revenants, and walked out to the window.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Actually, that was wrong. A night that majestic deserved more than an old cliché.

Dark clouds gathered across the sky like a pillow smothering a little child, rain like the gods' tears pelting the torn-up streets. It was pain. It was power.

It was a night to reign by.

I surveyed my new territory. Revenants and ghouls were busying up the courtyard, preparing it for my coronation. It was something out of a gothic teen's wet dream, all muted reds and blues, bruises on a lover's thigh.

A ghoul hobbled up to me, carrying a letter. “Lich-Queen,” he sqwaked, “The Spirit Empress responded. She wishes to come here, directly, and witness your coronation.”

My face lit up. “Well, tell her she's more than welcome to! The more, the merrier! And do make sure to procure some fresh meat for her, then. The rotting stuff just won't do for such prestigious company,” I told him. “Run off, Death-in-me, and be quick about it.”

Death-in-me made a vague approximation of a salute, and leaped off the roof to do my bidding. I watched him go, and began my slow glide to the main gate.

I had stolen some noblewoman's court dress, a stiff-necked thing with a high, webbed collar. It was resplendent with black pearls and purple embroidery. I had made sure to compliment her corpse on her wonderful taste after reanimating her.

My coronation would be a thing of legend. Already, the whole of Ceredell had fallen to me. My silly elder sister, prophetic oracle that she was, had thought to halt my rise to the throne by splintering Ceredell, fracturing the kingdom into little city-states, but it had done nothing but speed my progress up.

I paused at the stairs, wondering if she had known I would be the one to betray her. Had she known the whole time, whilst she held me to her bosom, smiled that gentle smile? Had she known that even her last-ditch attempt to save the country would fail so spectacularly? A grim thought struck me. Had her suicide been nothing but a smokescreen, to hide her true plan for stopping my reign?

I would not put it past her. Ram was smart, for all that she looked dreamy and lost in another world. I had not thought she would be the sort to falter on her final shot. There had to be something up her sleeve.

I shook my head to clear the thoughts, and strode down the stairs. My Void-touched sister's ghost would not be allowed to haunt my coronation. It was going to be perfect, everything I had dreamed of as a lost girl running through the woods, as the young woman overshadowed by her soothsaying sister, as the budding necromancer who finally had the means to greatness.

#Been hyping this one up for a while haha #Quite pleased with Ire's inner voice #She's just the right mix of batshit evil and pleasantly funny #my stuff #writeblr #writing #my writing #creative writing #writerscommunity #writing community #spilled ink #fantasy #short story

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eebydeebyderby · 1 year

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Keep you Safe (REVISED)

In which Reader returns to field calls after a three-month recovery, and Egon struggles with past trauma.

A continuation of this one-shot, but it can be skipped without missing any context.

General info:

Egon x fem!Reader, established romantic relationship, hurt/comfort, the boys are dorks, good vibes

Part 1 of 5

Content warnings: blood mention, a spooky little guy

~5.1k words

(I was unhappy with the previous version of this chapter, but I'll leave it up so that people can see the huge improvements that two great proofreaders (@bookswinalways and @mirandamnit(derogatory) can make between drafts.)

You gasped in delight. That’s it.

You closed the book in your hands and trotted across the room to Egon, who was peering intently into his microscope. “Spengs," you said, a smile spreading across your face, "I think I’ve identified your ghost.”

He pushed his chair back and looked up at you, openly adoring. “Tell me.”

“It sounds like a revenant of Buer to me,” you said excitedly, handing him back his field book.

He furrowed his brow a bit, and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not familiar with that entity.”

“It’s a lower level demonic entity associated with healing and eternal life." You scuttled over to the bookshelf and pulled out your large, tattered copy of Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, its spine held together by several layers of yellowing clear tape. “I’ve always wanted to get my hands on a Buerian ectoplasmic sample,” you said as you flipped through the withered pages and handed Egon the textbook, “but it’s assumed they went extinct when the Shandorian cultists slaughtered the only remaining nest back in the twenties.”

Egon shrugged, reading over the text. “Perhaps we were wrong in our assumption. The description seems to fit perfectly, and this is entirely unique from cases we’ve previously had.”

“Egon.” He couldn’t suppress the small smile creeping over his face from the giddiness bubbling in your voice. “If this really is Buerian, and if we could secure a live ectoplasmic sample and construct a viable protein expression vector plasmid, it would be an absolute game changer in our research. Just imagine if we could isolate the enzyme production responsible for Buer’s regenerative properties.”

“This creature is a Class IV quasi-corporeal specter,” he said, reading over your notes written in the margins of the tattered pages. “I'm sorry to say that I don’t think it’s possible to get a fully serviceable sample back to our lab on time for it to be of any use. It would destabilize far too quickly. The site is almost eighty miles out.”

“Well,” you said a bit hesitantly, “I should be able to stabilize it in the field long enough to get it back here in workable condition, but only…but only if I go on the call with you guys.”

Egon’s head shot up from the textbook and he locked eyes with you. You saw the split second of panic on his face before he almost immediately forced it back. It took him a moment to summon his voice. “If you believe that is best.”

For just a few moments, a tense silence smothered the lab.

"Yeah. I'm coming to the next call with you guys," you said, trying and failing to sound firm. “I could show you or one of the guys how to stabilize the sample long enough to get it here, but it’d take a few weeks. The entity will disappear after Sagittarius passes tomorrow. We’d have to wait at least another year for it to come back.”

You searched his face as he kept his gaze intently on the textbook, avoiding your eye. “You don’t seem too thrilled about me going.”

He swallowed. “It’s something I’d have to get used to again,” he said. “That's all.”

You sighed. "You used to get so excited when I'd go on busts with you…"

His eyes flitted to the thick scars torn along your forearm.

You followed his gaze and yanked your sleeve down to your wrist, your face burning. “I think more than enough time has passed for me to start going on field-calls again, don’t you think?”

He stayed quiet, his gaze still on your arm. After a moment, he cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. “It’s 2:58,” he said, a bit strained. “Our debriefing for tomorrow’s call is in two minutes, so we’d better head upstairs.”

“Please don’t avoid my question.”

He fiddled with his collar and clenched his jaw, avoiding your eye. “Can we discuss this later?”

You sighed again. “Alright.”

The other boys were already seated around the kitchen table and munching on snacks when the two of you entered. The homemade rat-trap Egon designed sat ominously beneath the table, sizzling quietly.

Winston popped open a can of seltzer and leaned back in his chair. “Any updates on identifying our mystery ghostie?”

“We’re looking at a revenant of Buer,” you said. “It’s a low-level demonic entity. Pretty mellow.”

“I thought the Shandor freaks killed them all off seventy years ago,” Peter said.

“I did, too,” you said. “But I think this one may be the last of its kind. In all honesty this call can be skipped because the demon is gonna disappear once Sagittarius is over tomorrow.”

“‘But’?” Peter prodded, sensing your excitement.

A small smile crept across your lips. “But I really, really would love to get an ectoplasm sample off it. So if you decide to keep it booked, I’m gonna tag along on this one.”

Excitement exploded between the three boys, their cheers and delight deafening in the small kitchen. Peter accidentally kicked the rat trap in his excitement and yelped with the jolt of electricity that shot up his foot. Egon remained quiet, his face a bit pale. Winston cracked open another can of seltzer and forced it into Egon’s hand, somewhat concerned that Egon was about to vomit next to him.

Once the boys tired out their celebrations, Ray asked, “What sort of danger are we looking at?”

“None, really. It won’t attack unless attacked, but it’ll try to scare the crap out of you. It’s really only a two-person job, so a few of you could stay behind if you’d like." Your gaze momentarily flitted to Egon, but he averted his eyes.

“Are you kidding?!” Ray asked eagerly, practically bouncing out of his seat. “Your first bust after three months and a one-night-only one-of-a-kind ghost? We should all go! If Janine was here then we’d make her come, too!”

“Anything special with this demon?” Peter asked, rubbing his foot, “Or is it just the typical ‘trap it in a salt circle’ routine?”

“We’re just gonna trap it in a salt circle and harvest some goo,” you said. “Nothing special.”

Winston finished his seltzer. “Anything else before meeting adjourned?”

“Yes, actually,” Egon said, his voice uncharacteristically authoritative, but a bit cracked. He cleared his throat. “I want you all to re-read the first-aid protocols and be especially cognizant of emergency procedures. I myself am taking the time to do so as soon as the meeting’s over.”

Peter cocked an eyebrow. “You’re giving us homework? Don’t you think that’s being a bit—ow!” he gasped when Winston kicked him under the table.

“We’ll get it done, doc,” Winston said brightly, getting to his feet. “Good chat, everyone! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The meeting ended and all the boys went their separate ways: Winston, Ray, and Peter headed home, and Egon returned to the lab. You decided to stay in the kitchen and make yourself something to eat, both because you were hungry and because you wanted to give Egon a bit of space.

Egon had all the medical kits out on a lab table when you went back into the lab, a clipboard next to each one.

“Whatcha doing, Spengs?” you asked, placing a full plate on his desk.

“I’m double-checking the first-aid kits’ inventories to make sure everything is in-place.”

“Oh, I see. What’s that one you’ve got? I don’t recognize it.”

He tilted the ampule in his hands so it was a bit so the label was easier for you to read: Norepinephrine intramuscular injection. “This is for only the most dire of situations. It increases blood pressure in the event of severe but controlled blood loss to prevent hypoxia and subsequent organ damage. In layman's terms, it temporarily makes the remaining blood in the body more efficient at moving oxygen.”

"That’s a pretty intense little item there."

He placed it back into the kit. “There was a time where it was needed and not available. That is a scenario that must never happen again.”

The remorse of his voice made your heart sink a bit. “Makes sense,” you said, not wanting to make him pursue the topic any further. “Anyways, who’s your connection for all this kind-of-not-legal medical stuff you got a hold of?”

“My old roommate in my undergraduate dorm.”

You cocked your head a bit. “I thought Ray was your undergrad roommate.”

“Yes, he became my roommate after the first one went to jail.”

“Why?”

“Crime, presumably.”

You grabbed one of his coats off the coat rack and pulled it over your shoulders. "It's getting late. I'm gonna head home before it gets dark out."

"Alright, sweetheart." He walked over to you and pulled you in for a kiss on your brow. "I'll see you in a couple of hours."

Egon was still rummaging through the medical kits when Peter came trotting down the stairs. Egon, figuring that he was simply down there to swipe a treat from the sweets’ drawer, said, “Careful with the rat trap, Venkman. I don’t want you getting burned again.”

"Spengler." Egon turned around to see Peter standing in front of him, uncharacteristically serious. “How are you?”

The question threw Egon for a bit of a loop. “I’m doing well, thank you.”

Peter planted his hands firmly on Egon’s shoulders. “Eegs, bud, I love you,” he said in a surprisingly tender voice. “And I don’t want to sound like an ass, but I’m calling BS. You look like absolute shit. Winston is keeping emesis bags in his pocket because you look like you’re ten seconds away from throwing up. We’re worried about you.”

Egon sighed, suddenly looking very tired. He reached forward and grabbed Peter’s shoulder, returning the gesture in a rare moment of affection. “I think that, once tomorrow is over, we’ll all be better off for it.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Egon's face was stuck to the pillow in a mess of dried tears when he awakened, exhausted, his heart pounding in his chest. He instinctively reached forward to feel your warmth, but your side of the bed was empty and cold. The bedroom was bathed in the deep, rich blue of the cold early morning, illuminating its interior with a soft glow.

He stumbled into the restroom and cringed with the sharp ache that settled behind his eyes when he switched the light on, not yet fully shaken from the waves of sleep, his hands tightly gripping either side of the sink. He squeezed his eyes shut to give them a moment to adjust to the harshness of the fluorescent light and soon managed to open them without fuss. The reflection in the mirror was somewhat blurred without his glasses, but he saw the redness and swelling around his eyes, the rawness of his nose and the flush in his cheeks. He blew his nose with some toilet paper, splashed water on his face, but it did little to conceal his congestion or the discoloration on his cheeks. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He stood completely still for a moment, trying to calm the blood pounding in his ears.

He saw your silhouette sitting on the couch in the dim morning glow when he entered the living room, curled up near the armrest. You were scribbling equations in your notebook, trying to clean up the stats of your most recent experiments as your hot morning cocoa steamed on the nearby coffee table, perilously close to the portable computer. You were in pajamas, bundled up in his old coat that was far too large for you, cozy in the chilly winter morning.

It was really you this time. Warm, loving, safe.

And alive.

“You’re up early,” you said simply, switching your focus to your clunky laptop.

He came up from behind and snaked his arms around you, rested his chin on your shoulder, his flushed cheek pressed against yours. The position would very quickly grow uncomfortable for him, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to be close to you, to feel your presence pressed directly against himself, despite the muscles in his back already searing in protest.

You reached over your shoulder and ran your fingers through his plushy hair, still typing with your free hand. “Hey, Spengs.” You awkwardly craned your neck and quickly planted a few small kisses on his face, nipping a bit at the bridge of his nose, but it didn’t yield a reaction, as if he didn’t register it. You chalked it up to him still being half-asleep and resumed typing on the laptop.

"I can’t seem to get this ANOVA to run properly…” you muttered to yourself, staring intently at the laptop screen. “I’ve got the fixed effect models running. I’ve got all the means programmed in. I’ve got the confounds accounted for…” You idly flexed your wrist and stretched your arm up to relieve a bit of tension starting to build up from hours of typing. “The CSV is running. I double-checked all the data sets. Something is wrong…” you grumbled, unaware that your sleeve slipped down to your elbow, fully revealing the long, pale scars torn along your forearm.

The sight sent a harsh jolt of dread down his spine. He squeezed his eyes shut.

You were completely engrossed in your work as your fingers flashed over the keyboard, whispering obscenities at the numerous error windows popping up.

He reflexively tightened his grip around you, almost painfully. He started shaking and his breath hitched in his throat. You stopped typing. He felt the immediate change in your demeanor and he knew he'd been found out.

“Bad night?”

He didn’t answer.

You gently shut the laptop, its fans angrily whirring, and propped it up so the vents would cool. “Let’s get back to bed.”

In the bedroom, you slipped into the bed behind him and wrapped your arms around him, throwing your leg over him to pull yourself as close to him as you could, tucking his head under your chin. “Hey, Spengs.”

He grabbed one of your hands and pressed a kiss to your palm, held it against his cheek, feeling the slightest bit of the tension in his stomach unwind from the warmth of your touch.

You knew the answers to the questions you were about to ask, but you wanted to hear them said in his own words. “What are you feeling?”

A moment of silence passed.

His voice was thick and quaking when he was finally able to summon it, breaking the tremulous silence. “Dread.”

“About?”

“Tonight.” He cleared his throat. “It isn’t my decision to make for you, nor should it be,” he said, holding your hand to his chest. “And I really, really want to try and convince you to reconsider, but I shouldn’t, because objectively, your choice is perfectly rational.” He swallowed. “But, I’m terrified, and I want to want you to go, but I don’t. To be perfectly honest, I think yours is the best idea for putting a new foot forward, but I’m absolutely dreading it with every fiber of my being.”

"Maybe you should sit it out."

He shook his head. “I think I need this call much more than you do.”

You were inclined to agree, but you kept that to yourself. “I think it’ll be good for both of us.” You adjusted your position to one a bit more comfortable. “Try to get some sleep, Spengs.”

He stayed quiet, holding your hand tightly to his chest. He trembled from the tension radiating across his body.

“I’ll stay here for a while, if you’d like.”

He took a breath and sighed deeply, and you felt some of his tension relax.

“Thank you.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The Ecto-One was parked just outside the large tunnel of a decayed storm drain covered in layers of faded graffiti, with sickly pale yellow weeds growing in its numerous cracks. The day was just passing into evening, the sun sat swollen and red on the horizon as everyone readied their gear. The smog caused the glowing skyline to flicker, blurring the boundary between the city and the darkening sky.

All the boys now had their own emergency medical kit strapped to their proton pack, which added an additional five pounds to its heavy bulk. You opted to skip carrying a proton pack, instead carrying a large bag with refrigerated canisters and numerous tools for sample collecting. You stuffed a freshly harvested rabbit from the butcher into one of your oversized jumpsuit pockets, along with a few stones of Aztec turquoise.

Winston finished strapping on his equipment and looked around. “It’s exactly as we left it,” he said brightly. “Disgusting.”

“Oh, hey!” Peter trotted to the front of the tunnel and pointed to a large scorch mark. “This is where I blew up that one cult lady!” He put his hands on his hips. “Can’t believe it’s still here three years later,” he mused.

“Do you mean a ghost?” you asked as you prepped your streptolysin solutions. “Or did you blow up a live person?”

“Oh, I absolutely blew up a person. Oh!” He trotted over to another, much larger scorch mark. “And here’s where Egon nailed two at once!”

You snickered and glanced at Egon. Ray was muttering to him as the two readied their gear. Egon's hands were violently shaking as he struggled to secure the straps of his proton pack around his chest. Ray gently put his hands over Egon’s and held them steady until each strap was buckled into place. You turned away, providing them a bit of discretion.

“Why do I have to be the one to lure it out?” Peter whined.

“You volunteered for it,” Winston said. “But I’ll do it instead if you’d like.”

“No,” Peter said. “I want to do it.”

You held up the PKE meter, and it started glowing. “It’s resting in the tunnel.”

Peter poured out a half-circle of blessed salt with about a ten-foot radius, and stood just behind it, with its open end facing the tunnel.

“You remember how to lure it out?” she asked.

Peter nodded, rubbed his hands together, and cupped them over his mouth. “Oh, boy!” he hollered. “I would sure love to make a deal to acquire some supernatural knowledge in exchange for my delicious, tender Kosher-friendly flesh!”

You cocked an eyebrow at his crass phrasing, but now was not the time to acknowledge it.

The PKE meter flared in your hand just as the scent of rancid meat flooded the clearing.

Something began stirring from within the tunnel. Slowly, the demon uncurled from its sleeping position and stood up. Its flesh was partially rotted away and hanging from its skeleton, wet and gangrenous; it stood on gangly lion-like paws, emaciated; its arms dragged on the ground as it moved forward, painful and slow, very hesitant to put weight on one of its legs. The creature was grotesque, deformed and decaying as it slowly limped towards Peter, walked into the center of the circle and halted a few feet from him.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said pleasantly. “You don’t really look like the picture you placed in the Singles Newspaper ads.”

“Reddite carnem vestram, desertam a pastore vestro te ducere cognitionis deo,” the creature growled at Peter, its breathing labored and ragged between its words, unaware that you were rapidly pouring salt on the ground and closing the circle.

"Oh, I'm very flattered. But, I'm married. Dana already has claim to my flesh. You’ll need to take it up with her before we go through with anything."

You gave him a thumbs-up and he nodded back at you. “She’s trapped in there, right? No way to get out?”

“She could decorporealize her form and remanifest in her home realm,” Egon piped up, his deep voice somewhat strained. “But, in our world, she’s limited to the perimeter of the salt circle.”

“Good. I wanna see what will happen if I say something Christian-y to her.”

“Don’t say something Christian-y to her!” you, Ray, Egon, and Winston all exclaimed at once.

Peter stood at the edge of the salt circle and locked eyes with the beast, his mouth twisted into a devious sneer. “Bless you.”

The creature shrieked in outrage and Peter yelped as he was showered with a harsh downpour of ectoplasm. He stood rigid for a moment with his head ducked, absolutely drenched in thick, hot goo as the creature paced in the salt circle, shaking its head. “You never mentioned that she could slime the hell out of us,” he said, dripping ectoplasm on the ground. “Would’ve been useful info to have. Thanks.”

“I didn’t know Buerian entities could do that!” You couldn’t hide the excitement in your voice. “This is going to be the first documented report of it ever happening.”

“Guys, I’m gonna tap out on this one,” Peter said flatly. He walked a few paces, every movement accompanied by a wet squelch, and laid down on his back with his arms outstretched. “Goodnight.”

You started walking towards the salt circle. The creature snarled at your approach and Egon instinctively seized your forearm with an iron grip, but immediately let go when you gasped, “Ow!”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered quickly, struggling to keep the quiver in his chest from reaching his voice.

The beast cackled in delight. “Ab hoste maligno defende me, Anima Christi,” it croaked jeeringly, baring several rows of filthy human teeth.

“We don’t mean you harm,” you said, walking up to the edge of the salt circle and bowing. “Do you speak English?”

The PKE meter in your hand whirred excitedly and rapidly flashed through different color signals, jerking back and forth in your hand like a captured fish and almost jumping out of your grip.

The creature hissed again and backed itself as far as it could within the confines of the salt circle. "What is that?!"

"Spectrometer. It helps us find spirits." You silenced the PKE meter and stuck it in your back pocket, your head still bowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m actually very excited to meet you.”

After warily eying you for a moment, the creature lowered its hackles and bowed its head in return.

“I brought you some gifts, and I have some questions if it’s okay with you,” you said, stepping into the salt circle. The creature cocked its head as you laid the rabbit and turquoise on the ground. “Who is your master?”

“I serve my Lord and Shepherd Buer, master of knowledge and power,” it growled, lifting the rabbit up by one foot and looking it over. “Commander of The Fifty Legions and the greatest of Kings. Praise be to Him.”

“Are you the last of his legion in our world?” you asked.

The creature hungrily sank its teeth into the rabbit’s belly with a sickening squelch and tore out a mouthful of innards, swallowing them without chewing. “Yes. Until my Lord ascends from the depths and lays claim to this world as an expansion of His kingdom.”

“Thanks for the heads up!” Ray piped up from behind the salt circle. “That is incredibly foreboding.”

The creature cackled in amusement, its teeth and chin filthy with gore. “It is upon the nature of your shepherd to keep you sheep ignorant of your impending slaughter. My ilk is that of knowledge, which you so scornfully cast away as the original sin for fear of what it may unearth.”

“How many languages do you know?” Ray asked.

“My good and generous Lord blesses me and my brethren with knowledge of all tongues of Man. Can you truthfully say the same for your Lord your kind so desperately grovels to?” It bit the head off the rabbit with a swift crunch and swallowed it whole. “Can you even guarantee the merit of your beliefs?”

“That’s a pretty loaded question,” Ray said. “We vacuumed up a chumbo out of a Caribbean restaurant last month, and an oni at the Shinto temple four days ago, so I don’t know what the heck is happening on your guys’ side of the realm. You should consider unionizing.”

“The sun is due soon," you said to the beast as it gnawed on its rabbit, "and you can't stay here. I don't want to leave you trapped here to cook at dawn, and I don't want to lock you away in a box to decay for your last few hours. Sagittarius will be over today. You should go home."

“Did she just tell it to go to hell?” Peter muttered to himself.

The beast chuckled at Peter's remark, but kept its attention on you. "You are the most cordial of exorcists. Perhaps the fearful grip of your Lord is slipping? Why does He so jealousy forbid knowledge in His domain?” It bowed its head again. “For your generous gift of flesh, I shall take my leave per your request back to the domain of mine Lord Father upon this dying breath of the sigil.” The beast quickly devoured the rest of the rabbit and crossed its arms over its chest.

“Nearer mine God to thee, oh great Lord of Buer. May it serve thee well.”

A pop, a flash of black flames, and the creature was gone, leaving behind a scorched mark in the dirt.

You pulled the PKE meter out of your back pocket and switched it back on, but it remained silent. “It's gone.”

"Woo!" Ray hollered, pumping his fist in the air. "A bust can't go any more perfectly than that!"

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard as much blasphemy as I did tonight,” Winston mused. “But she was very polite.”

You bent over and pocketed the turquoise, now colored black. “Oh, yeah. Higher intelligence demons are pretty affable. It’s easier to sway people by being friendly.”

“Yeah, I found her to be incredibly friendly, YN," Peter said bitingly. "Just like you said."

You walked over to Peter, who was still lying flat on his back with his arms outstretched, absolutely filthy with ectoplasm, and crouched down next to him. “How are you doing, Pete?”

"She slimed me…" he said flatly.

“That’s great!” Winston and Ray said in unison.

"Stay still," you said, pulling out a field sample kit from your bag.

"You and Janine are the experts," he said as you swiped a swab across his forehead. "How can I get this stuff out of my hair in time for our dinner tomorrow?"

"Let it soak in unrefined coconut oil for about two hours, then wash it out twice with lukewarm water and a shampoo with sodium laureth sulfate as its main surfactant. Don't use hot water because the slime will cook in your hair like scrambled eggs and be a nightmare to wash out."

Peter sat up. "Do you swear by this method?"

"Yeah." You snapped off the swab inside the collection tube and screwed on its lid. "It works pretty w—”

Plap.

“Ah!" you yelped when Peter slapped a handful of ectoplasm on top of your head. "My hair!" you whined. You ran your hand through your hair and pulled away a handful of hot, stringy slime, absolutely disgusted. "Peter!"

"You're a Ghostbuster again, girlie. Get used to—AAAAH!" he yowled when you tackled him over with a vicious snarl, spattering slime all over the place as you wrestled him to the ground.

“Alrighty, kids. Break it up before I have to call your parents.” Winston tapped your heel with his boot and you released Peter.

“Second time this month I’ve had to rescue you from your own sister, Venkman,” Winston said as you got to your feet, completely covered in a thick, mucousy layer of slime from head to toe and smiling like a goon.

You turned to Egon, who no longer looked like he was seconds away from becoming violently ill, and handed him back the PKE meter, now absolutely drenched in filth. He was still trembling a bit from residual nervousness, but the familiar gleam that had been missing for the past few months had partly returned to his tired eyes. "I'm proud of you. You did well."

You grinned at him with absolute delight, globs of fluorescent ectoplasm dripping off her head like raw egg whites. “I got my Buerian ectoplasmic sample.”

“Yes, I see. You’ve got about a gallon of it dripping off your head.”

“I think you need a hug, Spengs.”

"That won't be necessary. I feel much more reassured and my stress will greatly decrease in the coming hours once the cortisol in my blood is metabolized an—Oh…" Egon muttered in defeat as you pulled him into a tight hug with a sickening squelch, trying to get as much ectoplasm on him as you could. A smile slowly crept across his lips. "Oh, yes. Thank you, sweetheart. Yes, I love you, too."

"I also love you, Eegs," Peter said as he approached Egon with open arms.

"I love you as long as you stay at least five feet away from me right now, Venkman."

Peter put his arms down. "Yeah, alright. That's fair."

Part 2

#egon x reader #egon spengler x reader #ghostbusters fanfiction #ghostbusters x reader #ghostbusters #egon spengler #ray stantz #winston zeddemore #peter venkman #Reader is Peter's sister because that's an absolute recipe for chaos #reader insert #ghostbusters angst #ghostbuster x reader #keep you safe

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rosewaterandivy · 10 months

Text

psychopomp

Summary: psychopomp - a conductor of souls to the afterworld.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader, if you squint (it's really more of a study in grief/writing exercise)

WC: 972

Warnings/Themes: violence, general sad times, grief, etc.

A/N: Happy Friday! This has been rattling around my brain for a minute. Maybe it's something, maybe it's nothing. Regardless, have at it.

Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.

Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not.

Enjoy! 💜

series masterlist | playlist | currently spinning:

He makes sure Robin gets out, and the kids too.

But not him.

Beaten black and blue, his luck could only go so far.

Months go by, and Dustin never stops listening. Turning the dial as if it’s a clock to be wound, running through the frequencies desperate for a sign.

It never comes.

Yet hope remains eternal.

Cold. Damp.

Belly to the concrete on the roof as the mark and his wife walk the streets of Stockholm.

Crackling and then, “инициировать цель.”

Eye to the scope, trained on the man’s back. A pulse of the trigger, a bloom of blood as he falls to the ground.

Another pull to the trigger, his wife stumbles.

“цель завершена.”

The headlines the next day will read: Prime Minister of Sweden, Olof Palme, Assassinated & Wife Injured. Suspect Still At Large.

Spring bleeds into summer. Hopper’s miraculous return from beyond the grave.

The first thing Robin says to this revenant of a man is,

“Steve?”

A slow shake of his head, pity evident in his gaze. Watches as she wilts like a hot-house flower, eyes glassy with tears.

Robin swallows a sob, nods briefly and turns toe before he can attempt to comfort her.

A year passes, slower than he’d like.

Dustin gets on well enough, Hellfire and Suzie to keep him occupied.

Occasionally, he’ll zone out for a moment or two. Dip back into the recesses of his memory and recall walks along the train tracks, well-intended advice, and pep talks in the car.

A can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray sits on the bathroom counter.

He can’t bring himself to use it.

“Hey Henderson,” Eddie nudges him with an elbow. “We lost you there for a minute, you good?”

Dustin nods, turning his attention back to the campaign. Attempts a reassuring smile.

It doesn't reach his eyes.

Muggy. Urban.

Vaguely familiar.

He sits in the dark as directed, and waits. Time passes, as it always does.

The jangling of keys, the door creaking open.

His hand wrapped around the grip, finger poised on the trigger.

Tick. Thunk.

A strangled gasp as the body falls to the floor.

He rises from the chair, steps easily over the man as he wheezes out shallow breaths.

Aims the pistol to the back of his head, pulls the trigger once more for good measure.

Wipes a bead of blood from his boot and walks out the door to disappear in the night.

Dustin’s running out the door when the phone rings from the kitchen.

He answers it with thinly veiled annoyance, “What.”

“You’ll want to be sitting down for this,” Robin says, voice tremulous.

“Rob, I don’t have time for—-"

“Dustin,” She pleads, emotion thick in her voice. “Please.”

Reluctantly, he sits.

And then his world is turned upside down, yet again.

Robin speaks in a stuttering staccato, because her brain is moving faster than her mouth, rewiring itself with newly gleaned information.

In California, Jonathan swears he saw someone who looked exactly like Steve— his mirror image, truly, but vacant behind the eyes. He attempted a wave, a greeting, but a hand clamped down on Steve’s shoulder like a vice and turned him down a side street.

He tried to follow, but when he got there, it was vacant. As if no one had ever stepped foot in that alley. Jonathan is adamant that he wasn’t high at the time, and was in such a panic that he called Nancy immediately from his house.

Who then, in turn, called Robin. Who was now speaking to Dustin in a frantic tone.

“And you know what’s spooky?” She says, voice falling to a hush, “When he called Steve’s name, he turned or was about to until that guy moved him away.”

Dustin can barely breathe.

It’s his senior year and Steve’s been gone since ‘85. He doesn’t have the time for this, there’s a gravestone in the cemetery declaring that Steven Michael Harrington was a loving son and friend, that’s he’s dearly missed.

Oh god, is he missed.

Dustin should know, the only people who visit it more than him are Robin and Max. Fresh seasonal flowers and the gray marble polished to a high sheen. Momentos and notes from the party, monthly check-ins where they tell him about what’s new in their lives.

“Robin,” Dustin says, brows tilting together. “He’s gone, you know he is.”

She sighs, “I don’t— I don’t want to know that Dustin.”

“I get it, I want to believe he’s out there too.” He shakily stands up from the kitchen table. "But if he was alive, Steve would’ve made his way back to us by now.”

“You’re right.” She eeks out, “I just wanted it to be him,” A wet laugh of disbelief. “I wanted to hope so badly, kid.”

“I know,” Dustin rasps, wicking a tear from his eye. “Me too.”

Hot. Cloying.

Dilapidated houses and ramshackle fences.

The grip on his shoulder remains, an echo to remind him.

Obey.

He stops in front of the house, loads the gun.

The man is paranoid, as he should be.

“You can kill my body, and you can take my life but you can never kill my soul. My soul will live forever!” He shouts into the early morning light.

Mechanically, he raises the gun and squeezes off two rounds into the man’s face.

The headlines the next day read: Huey Newton Killed; Was a Co-Founder Of Black Panthers.

Mission completed.

The metallic flavor of copper in his nose. The sweet humming from a raspy voice. The notches of a spine pressing against this skin.

Hard angles. Soft curves. A ruby red tongue brushing over a protruding bottom lip. Bloodlust sated and smiling at him like he’s finally come home.

But still, a sound haunts him. The man on the crowded street, pale in the sunlight, eyes blown wide.

“Steve!”

Who the hell is Steve?

#steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x you #steve harrington angst #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington x reader #crawl til dawn #Spotify

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blackjackkent · 3 months

Text

"You gaze upon Murder's progeny, child..."

The man's voice is a low basso growl, a rumble like distant ominous thunder. Hector feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle to hear it.

The three blood-soaked women in the smaller thrones all swivel their heads to look at Hector at once, three sets of eyes burning into him.

"His most ill-trusted zealots," murmurs the human in the center.

"HIS FAITHFUL DEPARTED," crows the drow on the left.

"Prodigal servants," growls the elf on the right, "each returned to do his bidding eternally."

Narrator: This man is known to all Baldurians, and his presence sparks dread in the pit of your stomach.

Narrator: Before you is Sarevok Anchev - a Bhaalist who almost brought Baldur's Gate to ruin a century ago.

Hector feels his gut twist with anxiety. As if this whole business was not mad enough, he is now staring into the eyes of a face out of history, a face matching a name he read about in countless texts in the safety of the monastery. A face that was responsible for the worst wave of bloodshed Baldur's Gate had ever seen... at least before the Absolute.

Moonmaiden, guide me. I am deep in the black heart of this place...

"This is the court of the Dread Lord's tribunal," Sarevok rumbles. "I am its custodian. Here come those who seek to transcend. Aspirants of his most profane order - the would-be Unholy Assasins of Bhaal."

Thus far he has clearly been speaking in ritual text-- but now he pauses, and then his lip curls as he looks over the group. His eyes pass over Hector and Karlach almost without seeing them... but linger on Minsc, and then fix on Jaheira.

"But these are not aspirants..." he snarls softly. "You have brought traitors of Bhaal into our midst." His golden, glowing eyes narrow to slits. "Harper worm - the abdicating hero... your keen sense for this city has withered in your absence." His gaze shifts back to Minsc. "And you, Man of Stone. As you stood a statue, a helpless ornament, your city warped. Changed. Became ripe for the plucking."

Hector glances sideways to Jaheira and sees that she has gone ramrod straight and still, her expression cold as ice. At her side, Minsc has both fists clenched and his eyes are wide; Boo is scurrying back and forth on his shoulders with soft chitters of agitation.

"Sarevok," Jaheira says mockingly, though Hector can hear the tension in the tone strained almost to the breaking point. A muscle is working in her jaw, betraying fury that has been buried for a century. "Bhaal's least favorite son. Still tied to daddy's apron strings, I see."

Narrator: The history they share may be long gone, but the threat of violence between them is as fresh as newly spilled blood. Neither party will let the other walk out of here alive.

Sarevok's eyes remain fixed on Jaheira for a long moment, then return to Hector. "What purpose do you have in bringing these heretics to the court of Bhaal?" he asks disdainfully. "Speak, or death will be your final word."

Hector can feel the tension vibrating in the air like the aftermath of a plucked lute string. This situation is making his skin crawl - the presence of this man, the staring blank eyes of the Bhaalspawn revenants in front of him, the unmistakable fury of his companions.

They came here for Orin - to find a way to the temple, close the deal, rescue Lae'zel. Sarevok's presence here is an unexpected threat, one he was not prepared to deal with.

But it is one that has to be dealt with, nevertheless. He does not know how long Sarevok has been down here passing judgment on new acolytes of the murder god... but one thing is clear - Jaheira and Minsc will no longer settle for a quiet passage through this terrible place, even if one is available.

There will be blood here, with or without Hector's agreement. So he will stand with his friends.

He meets Jaheira's eyes; she looks back steadily; her hands are on the hilts of her scimitars, but she does not move. She respects him too much to strike without giving him the chance to speak. Perhaps she knows that he will do her the same respect in return and ready his fists.

(It is not like fighting alongside Caden, or Rasaad, not really, but there are shades of both of them looking out of his eyes, and standing there with Hector, with Minsc, even with Karlach who carries some of Khalid's kindness and Imoen's spirit and a ferocity that would do both of them proud...

Just for a moment she feels a hundred years younger, staring down Sarevok once again deep beneath the city they have all sworn to protect...)

A slight, humorless smile tugs the edges of Hector's mouth. "Would you two like to kill the old man or shall I?" he says softly.

Jaheira's eyes flash with satisfaction at the words, and she gives a sudden savage smile in return. "You get to my age," she says dryly, "you have already done everything. Be my guest."

Minsc's fists clench at his sides and his grin spreads from ear to ear. "We have already smashed Sarevok's soul from his body once. Boo says it is your turn!"

Sarevok smiles as well, a cold expression heavy with malice. "And so the Harper and the idiot ranger raise their weapons against Sarevok once more." He stands slowly, deliberately, drawing a heavy blade from its sheath at his side.

"Your hubris will be your undoing, as it once was mine. Only this time *you* will fall. And Bhaal will have his offering... by my hand."

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #GET. HIS. ASSSSSSSS.#oh boy this is going to be a hard fight help #ahhhhhhhh this game continues to be completely wild #also casual reminder that i love jaheira forever

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bunnybitsy · 11 months

Text

Made a 3D print of Revenant’s Gaze Eternal skin

#revenant #apex legends #digital art #Revenant #apex legends revenant #<3

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stesierra · 7 months

Text

@winterandwords tagged me! Sorry to be so slow to get to this! I'm just getting my brain back in gear after some med changes.

You visit your own grave and someone asks "did you know them?"

What's your answer? Tell us what your OC/s would say to this, bonus points if it's in their voice/a mini snippet

I'll tag @anonymousfoz and @teacupsandstarlight and @dyrewrites.

You guys ready for this? I have a lot of OCs. I'm going to interpret this a bit loosely. Hope that's ok.

Antea from Stitches and Memories

"That's Antea's grave," the stranger said. "Did you know her?"

It was an impossible statement, or should have been, but the truth screamed in Antea's head, in the little space her headache left free. She was buried there, three feet down in a shallow hole made by someone who couldn't be bothered, and her skin was already degloving from her hands as she rotted and became one with the dirt. She was dead, some version of her, and Jadan had died with her. He was curled around her in that pit, for eternity.

Behind her, Jadan was telling the stranger that he was wrong, that she was alive. But Antea said nothing. She fell to her knees and threw up.

Nelone from As Immortality Fades

"Nelone's grave?" I said, gazing up at the elaborate mausoleum that had been added to the City of the Dead. It certainly looked like the grave of a beloved queen, one that her subjects had spared no expense to honor. There was one problem: I wasn't dead.

"Did you ever meet her?" the stranger asked. "They say she ruled for five hundred years as a teenager before her age caught up with her all in one day."

I laughed and touched the lines on my face. "It was bound to happen eventually. And yes. I knew her."

Zisha from Cast Out

I stared down at the plain, unmarked stone. I wanted to ask, are you sure? Is this really me? But instead I signed, "A little" and sat down in the loose dirt where someone (me?) had just been buried. The stone needed a painting. A face, immortalized forever. But I didn't know if I would paint myself there or a stranger.

Elise from the Bone Queen

I stared at the grave for a long moment. And then, without thinking about it much, I started to laugh.

Mausart put a hand on my shoulder. He murmured in my ear, "It can't be true, love. You're not in there."

I giggled, utterly delighted. "But if I AM, I'm peaceful and in a grave. Idony didn't chain my ghost to my bones. She didn't lock me in servitude forever! And do you know what that means?"

"What?"

I spun towards him. "She lost."

Adam from Triangle Park

Adam stared down at the gravestone. It was carved with angels and his name and dated to a year ago. The birth date had been left blank completely. It looked like a human grave, except no human was just named Adam, of no last name in particular. But faeries didn't carve gravestones.

Lizzy shuffled her Birkenstocks beside him and said, "Sorry. I thought you were dead. I thought... I just wanted something nice. To commemorate you. You know?"

"That's, ah, very thoughtful," Adam managed.

Rabbit tugged on his hand and leaned her head against his side. "What's this? Why's there a big rock?"

Adam crouched beside her. "To remember the dead. It's a grave."

Rabbit wrinkled up her nose. "But it's got your name on it!"

He cast a glance up at Lizzy. "Yes, well..."

Rabbit stuck out her lower lip. "Maybe it's a different Adam. Because you're not dead. Not like Sniffer."

"Maybe it is," Adam agreed.

She beamed up at him, her face full of relief. "Did you know him?"

"I can't say I did."

Mindral from the Halfway Revenant

"We dug you a grave," the man said, gesturing down at the open pit. "A grave for Mindral Thideet, who destroyed her family."

Mindral's fingernails cut into her palms. "How kind of you."

"A grave for Mindral, who is dead. Go on. Climb in."

She snapped, "I'm not dead. Do I smell like a woman who died a month ago?"

He leered at her, perfect teeth bared. "There's an unbinding symbol carved into your brow. That body's heart may beat, but Mindral Thideet's soul is with the gods. You're nothing but a filthy godkin."

"Would a godkin do this?" Mindral asked. And she shoved him into the grave.

Kerra from Court Phoenix

I cradled Hes against my chest and looked at Chujulan through the curtain of flame that danced across the phoenix's back. "What do you mean, I died?"

The sister of my heart stared at me, her shoulders rigid and feet set as though she expected to weather a charge. "You died, Kerra. That's your grave. I lowered your body into it. Mounded up the dirt with my own hands. I wept. I haven't wept since Cherin died." Her voice was a raw, wounded thing, the cry of an animal dying in a corner.

My blood rushed in my ears, whum whum whum. "But--"

Her green eyes flashed. "You died, and I've spent my whole life refusing to believe in ghosts. I've mocked all the lordly who hide from them by sleeping through their days. I've walked outside of the city wards and laughed. So how dare you come back."

Hes screamed, a mournful wail that didn't even sound like it came from a bird's throat.

I wanted to say something. But the words didn't come.

Juniper from School of Souls

I stood in front of my grave. And the worst thing, the thing that made me want to run through the streets until someone ran a red light and put me out of my misery, was that it really WAS my grave. My aunt had stuffed my body into a pretty, sterile coffin and laid it to rest next to Mom and Dad. The school had so helpfully sent my corpse to my next of kin. And now I could never go home.

Besides me, Ophelia smiled like a shark and said, "Oh, look at that! Little dead Juniper Fellows. Rotting in a pit in the ground. How sad. Do you need me to help you forget? I can make you think you've never heard the name."

Franklin, on my other side, balled his hands into fists. "Fuck you, Ophelia. Shut up."

Ameryi from the Many-faced Princess

I didn't need him to defend me. I found my voice. "Like you forgot your name? It wasn't Ophelia, was it? You just stole Ophelia's body and her life and forgot everything that came before."

Ophelia laughed joyfully. "And why not? Why shouldn't I forget?"

"Because you're a murderer? Because you're a thief? Because you're DEAD, like we're all dead?" I was shouting by now, and my voice should have echoed off the manicured cemetery lawn and rows of polished stones. But instead they swallowed it. Franklin put a hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged him off. "We shouldn't be here. None of us. We don't deserve it."

I was crying now. But not for me and my dead body. For the girl whose body I wore. Because she was dead, too, only no one would ever give her a grave.

Rebeka from Mud-Child

Ameryi stared down at the little mound of dirt. "Princess Ameryi is buried here? There isn't even a marker."

The gravekeeper spat. "She was a face-shifter. She worshipped Akihel. She's lucky they didn't feed her to the dogs."

Ameryi kept a pleasant smile on her borrowed face. "What did she look like when she was buried? Herself?"

He spat again, this time right on the grave. "Does it matter? Dead's dead."

It didn't. Ameryi already knew the answer. She knew who had died in her name, who she would never be able to repay. And she would blame herself forever.

Rebeka said, "Fuck that. I ain't dead."

Tag list for everything

@anonymousfoz

@moremysteriesthantragedies

@elizababie

@sm-writes-chaos

@bellascarousel

@macabremoons

@the-dragon-chronicler

@teacupsandstarlight

@vorskra

@wrenofthewords

@amostdelectablescribbler

@mysticstarlightduck

@phantommill

@gracewritesbooks

@aziz-reads

@owlsandwich

@symbioticsimplicity

@squarebracket-trick

@fishythewriter

@koala2all

@rmgrey-author

@atomatowriter

Just chapters and snippets

@da-na-hae

#tag game

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kendrene · 1 year

Text

It’s shocking what she finds. A frozen tableau where she expected a whirlwind of activity. Her gaze flits over everything quickly, and she tries to not get stuck on any details. It’s useless in the end — so much of the room is different, so much of it the same.

The tapestries have changed — myrtle green in lieu of red and black — the bed is the one her mother used to sleep in. The armchair by the fire is something new, the fur draped across its back the wolf pelt her mother wrapped them both in whilst reading bedtime stories to Rhaenyra. Every separate object is a ghost, and the rooms themselves a haunting.

Rhaenyra’s mother is present too — pale revenant, relentless and unceasing.

Her eyes find the gaggle of midwives in the far corner, and the anger that’s been a constant smoulder under her skin for the whole day supplants the fear. Rhaenyra brandishes it blindly. Lashes out with it, unthinking.

“What are you doing?” She barks, advancing on them. “Why aren’t you—” A flicker of motion from the bed reminds her to keep her voice down, and the rest comes out a hiss. Lower in volume, no less venomous. “--- doing your job?”

“We tried, Princess.” The one that speaks is the oldest, her hair more gray than youthful black. Rhaenyra remembers her from somewhere. “The Queen won’t let us. She — she sent everyone away. She ordered us—”

“Nonsense.” Rhaenyra interrupts. A tiny voice at the back of her head reminds her that she, too, is here on the Queen’s orders. She clenches her jaw. “She doesn’t know what she wants at this time.” It must be why Alicent called for her. Afraid, delirious, she isn’t in full command of her own mind. “You must make her—”

“Rhaenyra.” A rasp that’s as effective as a scream. Rhaenyra forgets the rest of her tirade, and is pulled forward again, stumbling, to the bedside.

“You came.” Alicent’s martyred fingers stain the blankets red. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I didn’t want to.” For once honest, Rhaenyra reaches out to still the frantic twitch, the endless picking. Her shoulders lift a fraction in dismissal of her reasons. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now.”

"I am glad." A beat of silence. "I wish — ah!"

There’s nothing human about the sound Alicent lets out, nothing natural about the way her body twists under the covers, spine arched, shoulders digging into the bedding for the duration of the spasm. It lasts — Rhaenyra cannot say how long it does — but after what feels like an eternity of pain, the contraction eases and Alicent falls back onto the pillows as though a string within her body — once pulled taut — has now been cut.

“You must walk.” Rhaenyra tries not to think about what her childhood friend had meant to say. She wants to ask. She doesn’t. No amount of words will fix what’s gone awry between them anyway.

“I can’t.” Alicent pleads as the blankets are peeled away. In its roundness, her belly looks obscene. “I can’t. Please.”

“You can.” Rhaenyra is used to Syrax’s immense strength and Alicent’s hands, clawing weakly at her chest, are nothing. “I’ll help, but you have to.”

“I can’t.” Another contraction has Alicent go rigid in her arms. “I just want it to end. I just—”

“Princess.” A throat clears, and Rhaenyra’s eyes snap up, away from Alicent’s contorting face and toward the originator of the sound. Her father is a dark shadow at the door, and flanking him are a group of men in gray. Of course. Her mouth thins into a line. The Maester and his cronies, flocking down from Oldtown like a bunch of vultures. And behind the lot, taller than them all, the Lord Hightower.

“If the child is not delivered soon, we will have to act.” The Maester’s tone is soothing. Apologetic. The ample sleeves of his tunic hide his clasped hands, hide all manner of things. Rhaenyra knows, because when she was a child he’d conjure pieces of hard candy out of the myriad pockets sewn into his robes as a reward after her lessons, or pieces of waxed string for the toy bow she terrorized the castle with at the age of seven. She wonders what he’s clutching now, if his fingers are seeking the worn handle of a scalpel or going for the carving knife.

The arm she’s thrown around Alicent’s shoulders tightens.

“She will walk.”

“Princess—”

“She will. Won’t you gevie?” The last is pitched as low as it can still be heard, and Alicent’s head jerks, her eyes widen. She nods without speaking, and allows Rhaenyra to finally extricate her from her sickbed.

“Princess, please. Any delay and they could both die.”

“No delays and one surely will.”

“The child—”

“They will come into this world without your help. Get out.”

“You can’t just—”

A half-full glass of wine sits within reach on the low table to their left. Rhaenyra grabs it, aims for the proximity of the Maester’s head and sends it flying across the bedroom. It explodes there upon impact and in the stunned silence that follows, a peal of thunder echoes.

"Get. Out." Rhaenyra growls when nobody moves, and in the uncertain light cast by the storm the splash of wine is the patter of rain against window sill is the trickle of blood down Alicent's calf. “Now.”

#if we survive the great war #rhaenyra x alicent #rhaenicent #house of the dragon #dren writes

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the-consortium · 1 month

Note

Geophagia walked though her halls, making sure to pass through her wax museum of primarchs. To be honest, she had all 18, with the loyalists and traitors... but no matter. She would get that little xeno very soon.

She walked over to a private poker room in her casino and sat down in her traditional place, while waiting on Duco and hopefully his feathered companions to come. This was shaping up to be an interesting night.

After ordering her guards to leave, she turned to introduce the members of the current party. There were at least 4 people at the table with one of them being that Inquisitor whom seemed to fawn over Marines.

"Dont worry sir, the newcomer, will be betting the rare little xeno with him. That will be his prize."

Duco is quite a way behind Geophagia and her entourage, still with Kornelia under his arm like a revenant of an old Terran fairy tale. Behind him strolls Herik. The Emperor's Children Marine has the slightly glazed, satiated look that Fulgrim's sons sometimes get when they've overstimulated themselves.

Behind them, the heavy doors with their opulent gold fittings close and the noise of the casino is abruptly cut off. Just their footsteps, muffled by the thick carpet.

Duco concentrates on holding Kornelia gently but firmly, but pauses because he feels he is being watched. Only to be almost swept to the ground when Herik lets out a furious, angry bird call and suddenly spreads his wings.

"Herik! You bloody idiot! What-" And then Duco sees it too and rolls away, holding Kornelia protectively beneath him and reaching for a weapon that isn't there. The two Astartes instinctively stay back to back and stare at what seems to be coming towards them out of the semi-darkness. It takes them almost a second - an eternity by Space Marine standards - to realise that nothing is moving. And why.

Both stare. At the life-size, lifelike painted figures. In heroic poses.

Duco detaches himself from Herik, strolls over to the figure in midnight blue, who is only illuminated by subtle lighting, lurking in front of a pillar, his bladed fingers outstretched. He looks at the image of his father.

Disbelief, anger and then amusement flicker in his gaze.

Herik has also approached the wax figure of his Gene-Sire, his purple eyes full of mistrust and longing as he stands before Fulgrim before his apotheosis. With Fireblade and Firebrand, as before Laer. Before Isstvan. Before the black plain and before the dead world.

And around them, the silent band of divine brothers.

Herik shakes his head. Looks at Duco. His voice is unusually gentle and human: "Let's move on. This is far too old."

Duco nods and the two walk towards the illuminated high door at the far end.

As they pass Geophagia's guards and enter the room, the silence of the gallery has slipped away from them, leaving them behind as their fathers did.

#warhammer #the consortium #Duco #Herik Stymphalos

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paintedscales · 7 months

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FFXIV Write 2023 :: Day 14

Prompt :: Clear Characters :: Nomin tal Kheeriin, Estinien Varlineau Word Count :: 1,275

FFXIV Write 2023 Master List

Night hung over Eorzea -- just as it had so many nights before. Nomin, however, kept her gaze pointed up at the stars and inky black and purple of their eternal backdrop. She would have never thought to take the cover of night for granted -- it had always been assured in her years of traversing the star.

Time on the First and dealing with the Light that had plagued it really made her appreciate the cool night that she basked in at that very moment. Granted, she had a wool blanket wrapped around her, though with such a clear night to gaze upon the stars, dealing with some night chill had been more than worth it.

"I would think you would be more inclined to spend time with everyone now that we have returned from Ul’dah." The voice was familiar, and Nomin tensed briefly before she looked back behind her. Sure enough, Estinien had been approaching the spot she had claimed for herself on the stone walkway not far from Rowena's café.

Like herself, he was dressed down into something less bulky and more for leisurely comfort. Or…leisurely comfort as either of them had really come to make the definition fit themselves.

Nomin scoffed and turned her attention back toward the sky.

“Well…” Nomin started, lacing her fingers together. “I can’t really say I’ve been too keen to keep myself in the company of others late as it is. All the excitement in recent time, everyone needs to rest, or at least take time to tend to whatever business they have. I would only serve as a distraction, I feel.”

Though her words seemed to indicate that she would have preferred to have been alone, Nomin’s tone seemed to indicate a sense of relief that she did have someone to talk to at the very least. All things considered, Estinien may have been the best person to have a conversation with that lacked the monotony of recounting her experience and others knowing by virtue of having been there and lived through it themselves.

“Shall I take my leave, then?” Estinien asked.

Silence for a moment.

“... You can stay, if you’d like…” Nomin replied. There was a fleeting flutter in her stomach, and that nagging sense in her mind that did not want Estinien to leave. Despite their past with one another, despite the disdain she felt for him before…part of her could only think of the Ghimlyt Dark and her fuzzy memories. The feeling of Estinien carrying her to safety. The sound of his voice as he told her he was bringing her to Aymeric.

Nomin saw Estinien enter her peripheral view as he approached the half-wall and leaned forward.

“So… What are you doing up so late? Here of all places?” Nomin asked, turning slightly so that she was facing Estinien and giving him more of her attention.

“Like you, I decided to get away for myself.” Estinien glanced in Nomin’s direction. There had been something strange about how even her Echo reacted and tugged at her -- there was something there that she felt that she had not felt in the past with it when it came to Estinien. Warmth. Relief. Familiarity. Comfort?

“Only so long can I spend underground, surrounded by stone and idle conversation.” Estinien huffed a silent sigh, eyes scanning over what they could see of both Revenant’s Toll and the rest of Mor Dhona past its walls. “Besides, my time is better spent standing vigil. Ensuring that nothing comes to harm those here. You have enough to deal with, surely.”

“You should take the opportunity to rest…” Nomin said, turning back so that she was leaning on the wall again.

“Aye…as should you. Yet here we are.”

“Mm… Here we are.”

Silence once more, only broken up by the song of the occasional vilekin singing its nightly tune.

Moments passed, and Nomin slowly looked back at Estinien. She noted how he kept his gaze pointed forward, continuing to ensure that the lands below were bereft of enemies or other nasties. She then slowly reached over and poked his wrist gently with the tip of her finger.

“You can speak. There is no need for such acts in want of attention. ‘Tis only us here, after all,” Estinien said, not looking back at Nomin.

Nomin flinched slightly. Swallowing, she let out a breath and said, “... Aymeric told me that you saw me safely to him and some chirurgeons during the battle at Ghimlyt…”

“Aye. I did.”

That flutter came back, and Nomin’s heart skipped a beat with his affirmation. To have been so utterly defenseless and vulnerable within Estinien’s care had been something that left her with conflicted feelings -- even back when Aymeric had told her briefly of the events that had transpired.

Tapping her hand lightly on the stone surface of the wall, Nomin pursed her lips and slowly nodded as she collected both her thoughts and her feelings. This was the first time she had really had the time to really speak with Estinien since being whisked away to the First. She had nearly constantly thought about what Aymeric told her about how Estinien made sure she was safe and cared for.

“Um…well… Thank you. Really. I…I imagine we wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t brought me back so that I might be aided and cared for.”

“‘Tis the least I could do, all things considered.” Estinien finally looked over at Nomin, his form looming over her as he stood back up and straightened his posture to some degree. “I could not very well leave you there as fires licked the field of battle. You were all but helpless when I chanced saw you. I would not -- will not -- stand idly by and allow you to be cut down like you were about to be when I intervened.”

Nomin’s lips twitched into being partially pursed as she looked up at Estinien. Part of her hated how she felt in that moment -- like a victim of a purbol’s paralytic poison. Part of her hated how her skin prickled and her face warmed at the sentiment. And then…there was a greater part of her that wanted to lean into those feelings, those emotions.

“I…see…” Nomin managed, doing her best to stonewall those emotions and keep them only in her mind. “If…if that was repayment for mine and Alphinaud’s removing you from Nidhogg’s grasp, consider it repaid.”

“Nay. ‘Twas not a debt I wished to repay.” Estinien’s gaze narrowed, his arms coming up to be folded over his chest. “I would do it again. Over and over. We have lost enough, Nomin, I shall lose no more and ensure no one loses any more if it is within my power to prevent it. With my mantle of Azure Dragoon retired and my mind and vision cleared, I would see myself aiding you and yours.”

What were these words?

Nomin’s lips parted in surprise more than anything. She was also at a loss for words. How was she to respond to that? She had no idea, for her mind had been blank with only the slightest trickle of words that barely formed any kind of proper sentence of phrase.

“Mm…” Nomin then furrowed her brow and steeled her gaze as she looked out toward the landscape. Though there were no towers nor beacons within sight, she had to remember that they were there, and that they were a threat. “With everything we’ve learned so far…we’ll need you and that lance of yours. So keep it and yourself sharpened.”

“Aye, ‘tis the plan. Likewise, I would see you keep your aim sharp and your aether abundant.”

#ffxivwrite2023 #ffxiv #ffxiv writing #my writing #ffxiv oc #oc: nomin tal kheeriin #estinien varlineau #cinnamon lite #hints of cinnamon #shb spoilers #takes place shortly after paglth'an and they're back in mor dhona

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comet160 · 8 months

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Smash or Pass

Revenant edition

Please don’t come for me

Mail Order Monster: pass

Love the top hat. Not feeling the faceplate

Any variation of the unholy beast: smash

Its the horns

Any variation for Bird of Prey

Pass. I think the claws are cool tho

Former Glory

Absolute smash. Got me in a grip fr

Deadly relic

Pass. Stay away from me

A gaze eternal

Pass. I have a restraining order against anyone who uses this skin /j

Revelations

Smash. I still need it

Necro nightmare

Pass. Don’t like the face plate splitting open

Deathproof

Smash. Love the colors and the hood

Sacred Divinity

Pass. Face plate looks soulless

Synthetic Shinobi

Pass. Not a fan of the face

Burial at Sea

Smash only because I like pirates

Seeing Red

Pass. I CANNOT TAKE THE POKEBALL SHOULDERS SERIOUSLY

Necromancy

Hella smash

No Chill

Smash. Love the snow boots

Penumbra

Pass. Bro is not withered foxy 💀

Definitely missed some lmao

#apex legends #apex revenant #revenant #smash or pass #down bad #someone sedate me #i can take him #not in a fight

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casualjacobwrites · 8 months

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FFXIV Write 2023 Prompt #2 - Bark

Uh, I have no idea what this is. It got away from me and is...well, I wrote a thing. It's a meandering piece that doesn't really have much of a plot and is more of a character focus.

It's centered around G'raha Tia and takes place after patch 5.3 of Shadowbringers. One italicized line from the end is a direct quote from the quest: A Breath of Respite in Kholusia. M'ruxa is one of my many alts and one I pair with G'raha. Nothing spicy here, though.

Word count: 1,389 (Like I said, it got away from me.)

---

Transitioning to life on the Source came more easily than G'raha expected. Perhaps it helped that he returned to a body that was both youthful and wholly his. No longer did he have to rely on the strength of the Crystal Tower to sustain him, and he could venture malms away without fear of collapsing at a crucial moment. The novelty of being able to ascend a flight of stairs without any aches in his joints or the weight of crystalline limbs had yet to wear off, and he was thrilled the first time M'ruxa challenged him to race back to the gates of Revenant's Toll after an excursion to Lake Silvertear. He lost, of course, but the sheer joy he felt from the burning in his lungs and the pounding of his heart was beyond anything he had ever dreamed of over the long decades spent in The First.

There were times, however, when he found himself out of sorts. One moment he'd be going about his business, but a stray thought or memory would seize him and he'd have to take a few minutes to remember who and where he was. The first time he saw his reflection was one such moment. He didn't know how long he'd been standing in front of a full-length mirror before M'ruxa came into the room to ask if he was all right. It wasn't until his beloved Warrior of Light wiped at the tears on his cheek that he realized he'd been crying. When he tried to explain himself, he couldn't find the words. How could he? The man he saw in the reflection was him and yet at the same time it wasn't. His body was the young, headstrong Archon who went to sleep in the Crystal Tower while his mind was the Crystal Exarch, an almost ancient man who had suffered countless losses with only the tiniest light of hope to sustain him for a century.

That night he quietly wept in M'ruxa's arms for hours with neither man speaking a single word. Though there had been much to celebrate, there was still much to grieve. The many men and women G'raha had known since awakening from his slumber the first time would never exist as he knew them, but he still carried their loss within his heart.

As the dawn's rays illuminated the window the following morning, G'raha murmured an apology for keeping him awake. M'ruxa cradled G'raha's head to his chest and said, “You asked me to bring darkness to The First, but I am happy to bring you back to the light.”

In the Shroud, G'raha forgot himself again. Leaning against a tree for support, he felt the bark scrape at his palm and he found his mind thrust back into The First. Underneath a canopy of violet leaves he hugged a small viis child against his chest while he told her what he knew of the sunless sea. Her long white ears tickled his chin as she listened to him describe the twinkling lights of stars cast against a black sky. Together they gazed skyward and shielded their eyes from the eternal light.

“One day,” he said, “the Warrior of Darkness will come and rekindle the flame of hope within all our hearts.”

“Raha?”

Blinking rapidly, G'raha saw the leaves above him were green and through the small spaces he could see a cloudy blue sky. Next to him a diminutive woman with a yellow cat-eared hood waved her hand at his face.

“Where'd you go?” Krile tilted her head slightly as she smiled up at him. Among all the Scions, she had known him the longest and was used to his tendency to daydream in quiet moments.

G'raha looked at his hand on the tree's trunk and shook his head. “The trees feel the same,” he replied without elaborating.

Her brow furrowed for a few seconds in confusion then relaxed. “Ah, I think I understand.” She looked up at the trees. “It must be strange to be both young and old at the same moment. To at once know what it is to face your twilight years and yet still have a future full of possibility laid out before you.”

“That is...quite possibly the best way to describe it. I'm still not quite used to it, and there are moments when I wonder if I should have come back at all.” A sharp pain hit his thigh from Krile's elbow. He rubbed at the spot and recalled how much it had stung when Alisae flicked his forehead in The First for such fatalistic thinking.

“As I recall from Ruxa's reports, you were very pointedly ordered by your citizens to live a happy life full of all the adventures you dreamed of as a boy.” Krile wagged her finger at him. “Do I need to have a word with our dear friend to remind you?”

G'raha had the decency to look ashamed. He scratched the back of his head and murmured a half-hearted, “No.”

“Good. Now, about those crystal samples you gathered...”

Hours later he staggered back into camp bone-weary with a head full of theories on what constituted natural aetheric levels for The Shroud. Krile waved to him with a yawn and all but fell face first through the flaps of her tent onto her bedroll while he plopped down next to the remains of a campfire. Gazing skyward again he saw the light of stars peeking through the leaves.

To be both old and young in the same moment? To have lived for over a century and yet not have seen my third decade? To remember dear friends who will never exist? What a strange conundrum.

“Long day?” M'ruxa strolled into camp with Alisae trailing at his heels. The young elezen greeted him with a nod before digging into her pack in search of rations to eat.

“Quite long,” G'raha replied with a growing smile as M'ruxa sat down beside him. Without hesitation, he leaned to one side to rest his head on the other miqo'te's shoulder. Soon after he felt M'ruxa's tail brush against his own and they each draped their tails around the other's waist.

“Did you want to stay under the stars tonight?”

“Mm,” G'raha nodded, his eyes half closed.

From across the the unlit campfire he heard Alisae snort. “If only the rest of the world could see the Champion of Eorzea and the powerful Crystal Exarch behave as lovesick adolescents.”

“I think it's cute.” Krile's weary voice carried from her tent.

“It's enough to make my teeth ache.” Alisae snickered after dodging a twig thrown at her by M'ruxa. She stuck her tongue out and then ducked into her tent.

“I should grab our bedrolls.” M'ruxa shifted to get up, but G'raha pulled at his arm to stop him.

“In a moment.” He rubbed his cheek against the other man's shoulder. “I want to enjoy this for just a little longer.”

Though he couldn't see his face, he could picture M'ruxa's smile as he turned to kiss the top of the Archon's head. “Whatever you desire.”

The words warmed G'raha's chest and he breathed in deep to fill his lungs with the sweet air of the Shroud. He thought back to The First and recalled sitting against a rock in Kholusia as he told his friend of his dream to go on an adventure.

“Then...I would ask him about his next adventure. And if he should wish me to be a part of it, oh...how happy it would make me.”

Scholars and philosophers alike might one day read of his adventures with the Warrior of Light and question every aspect of his life. Was he right to change the course of history even if the world ended? Is it possible for a man's soul to join a different version of himself? Did he deserve a chance at a second life?

“If I don't go now, you're going to fall asleep on my arm.” G'raha opened his eyes and raised his head to see M'ruxa gazing back at him in amusement.

“Fine,” he relented and watched his lover get up to go to their tent.

Do I deserve it? Perhaps or perhaps not. Either way, I'm not going to waste my second chance for a life of adventure.

#ffxivwrite2023 #ffxivwrite #CasualJacob's writing

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